The Companion Series

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

Rachel was electric with excitement. She’d read the letter several times before e-mailing a photo to Margaret in New York. Almost immediately she’d received a congratulatory reply from across the time zones. The more than perfunctory exclamation marks assured Rachel her editor recognized the importance of the find.

Below the letter, below the red-silk-covered tray, were perhaps three or four dozen similar envelopes of correspondence and cards, plus two smaller wooden document boxes. At the very bottom of the trunk was a shawl—cashmere woven in the French style, a golden thread with emblems of empire braided throughout in the same burnished color. It was neatly folded and remained so, though Rachel did dare stroke it with the tips of her ungloved fingers.

Working through the night, she photographed, documented, and read six more of Mary’s letters. All were addressed to either Doctor John Polidori, her husband, Percy, or her sister, Claire. They covered varying aspects and descriptions of three events: an excursion to a bookshop, a lecture on Galvanism held here at Châtelard, and an extravagant luncheon she attended with Monsieur Aldini. The letters surprised and delighted Rachel—though they offered more questions than they answered. She’d never read documentation that linked Mary with Monsieur Aldini and his theories, but it made sense that a woman of her scientific thought and application should have such a connection. Perhaps the Università di Bologna could confirm the monsieur’s schedule during 1816. She’d check with the owner of Châtelard to ratify any possible conferences and lectures of the time.

But what had her intrigued more than any other intricacy of the rich shorthand was the repeated reference to a Doctor F.

Rachel’s thoughts lingered on the trunk and its documents as she slid the handful of letters back into their correct sequence and position amongst the plush, red silk.

“Doctor F.,” she mused to herself, knowing who it couldn’t possibly refer to, but wondering who it did. “I suspect even you will continue to keep some secrets from me.” She caressed the polished top of the trunk. The pungent smell of antique parchment and shawl lingered in her nostrils long after she’d closed and locked the walnut lid with its dual silver keys and placed it respectfully upon the sideboard. An unframed watercolor of Mont Blanc hung above it—appropriate and sublime—but it was the trunk and its contents that continued to arrest Rachel’s thoughts as she retired to the terrace to await the rising sun.

The first rays of light struck up the valley, filling her with exhilaration and eclipsing any need for sleep long lost. Her stomach grumbled, the fondue of the previous night forgotten as she basked in the warmth of the arriving day. The cafe Rue du Sacre du Printemps wouldn’t be open for another half hour, but she pulled on her jeans, slipped on her boots, stuffed a few francs into her pocket, locked the doors and windows of the studio, and headed toward the steps that led down to the vineyard. As she took the first step, she turned to look back at the terrace doors. Normally she’d have left them unlocked and open. The château staff were observant, the farmers and vintners surrounding the area were all aware of those who belonged and those who didn’t, and there’d been no incidence of theft in the months she’d resided in the hills above Montreux.

But now the contents of her tiny space were too important to be lax with. She strode back across the terrace to recheck and rattle the doors to ensure they were solidly locked. She peered in to reconfirm the position of the trunk upon the sideboard. It sat—almost smug—beneath the chilled blue and white painting. Maybe she should hide it under her bed, she thought, but knew the security of the door would suffice. Satisfied, she jogged across the terrace and took the ancient stone steps two at a time through the several levels of ornamental garden. She jumped onto the rich, black soil of the vineyard and took the trail between the rows of fruit-laden trees.

For the first time since Jack died, she felt some true sense of happiness and purpose.

She pulled a printout from her pocket—an image of the first letter she’d opened—and reread it with unabated enthusiasm: the magnificent copperplate, the curling serifs, the invariable slant of each letter. Her attention was glued to it as she passed through the vineyard, across pastures, and onto the cobbled laneway between two pastoral buildings that opened onto the rue directly across from the cafe. Folding the printout and pushing it into her pocket, she raised her gaze to the far side of the rue.

There he was.

Sitting at her table.

His gigantic legs spread lazily across the sidewalk.

A book held close to his face.

He reached up with his great hand to turn the page and held it down against the morning breeze.

Rachel felt suddenly naked, wishing she’d bathed and better dressed before venturing out. She pulled her hair back and attempted to brush the creases out of her pajama top. The skimpy cotton would be okay as long as the breeze remained warm and the sun shone as promised during her walk through the fields. She crossed the rue and took a seat at the table farthest from him. The cafe hadn’t opened yet, but she was comforted by the readying clatter and movement emanating from inside. She pulled the copy of the letter from her pocket once more, spread it out onto the checkered tabletop, and pretended to read it for the one-hundredth time.

He wore scuffed boots and slim-cut, dark-blue jeans. His thighs were thick with muscle and his T-shirt was tight with sleeves that nearly covered the tattoos on his immense upper arms. His solid forearms were covered by a translucent layer of golden hair, contrary to the inky hair of his head. He wore broad leather bracelets around his wrists and held his book securely in his enormous hands. Rachel turned her head to see the title: Paradise Lost.

She held the printout up off the table between herself and her true point of interest and watched as he flicked his lengthy hair over the back of his shoulder. The movement made his bicep squeeze out the end of the sleeve, exposing more of the tattoo, but he quickly pulled at the cotton and stretched it down to cover his upper arm. His face was kind, though his features were thick. Luscious was the word Rachel was searching for: generous cheeks and lips, his chin now cleanly shaven, an Adam’s apple that continually moved up and down as he read.

Above the neck of his T-shirt was a scar that crossed the top of his collarbone, pale pink against his white skin. Rachel slowly lowered her paper without realizing she now stared openly at him. She was leaning forward slightly when he turned to look at her, shifted in his chair, and pulled the neck of his T-shirt higher to cover the scarring. Again, he stretched his sleeves over his upper arms and then twisted the leather bracelet at each wrist.

“Bonjour,” Rachel said, embarrassed at her rudeness.

“Hello.” He, too, seemed hesitant. His tongue was Swiss, possibly more German-Swiss than French. Rachel had never heard a more masculine voice.

“I’m Rachel,” she said, wanting to distract herself from her own thoughts.

“Yes, I know. You’re the American.”

Rachel stiffened in her chair and looked through the windows of the cafe to ensure the chef and waiter were within earshot.

“I mean to say, I’ve heard the local providores mention your name. You are the writer who resides up in the château. You’re researching Shelley.”

“Oh.” The response barely left Rachel's lips.

They were silent for many minutes as the waiter came out to wipe down the tabletops and ensure all the chairs and tables were evenly spaced along the walk. He gave a generous smile and a high-pitched “bonjour” to Rachel and a nod to his other customer before heading back into the cafe. He soon returned with Rachel’s café latte and a bowl of muesli. Turning to the other patron, he asked, “Latte, monsieur?”

“Café express. Double. Merci.”

Rachel sipped her latte and stared up into the vine-covered hills and the Alps beyond, well aware he was facing her, his book held less than half open, as he waited for his café. She placed her cup onto the table, then dug her spoon into the muesli before daring to look directly at him.

He was staring at her; pitch-black irises set in pure, unnaturally white orbs, surrounded by dark, thick lashes—a profound contrast to the starkness of his flesh. His wide, dark brows arched across his blemish-free skin, almost meeting above the strong ridge of his nose. His hair curled and swept back vigorously from the top of a broad, creaseless forehead. His lips, full and soft, spread genially to expose a double row of perfect, straight teeth. He was more than just good-looking.

“Are you enjoying your breakfast?” he asked.

Rachel blushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that I thought I knew you from somewhere and was trying to think where.”

His smile became even more broad, though with the slightest glimmer of underlying apprehension. “Perhaps you’ll remember and let me know, huh?”

“Are you enjoying Milton?” she asked, wanting to change the subject.

“Yes, I think I am. It’s, um, teaching me something about myself and why I’m here.”

“Really?” Rachel thought perhaps she should read the manuscript again to know what he meant.

The waiter returned to the sidewalk with the double espresso, placed it on the table beside the book, and strode back into the cafe. Rachel ate her muesli in silence as he sipped his espresso and read the words of Milton. The book was enormous even in his large hands, over one-thousand lines of blank verse, the epic poem of Adam and Eve and their temptation. Rachel recalled the details of the story in her mind, attempting to determine their probable fit to the man who sat before her. Every possibility made her blush. She watched as he continued to read, his Adam’s apple jumping and his brow furrowing. Slowly, he lowered the book down onto his lap, and his attention shifted from the pages to higher reaches of the Alps that dominated the vista surrounding them.

“Do you think it’s possible?” His words were almost inaudible. “Could it be real?”

Rachel wondered if he was talking to her. She moved uneasily in her chair.

“The temptation?”

He turned to look at her, puzzled. “No.” He shook his head. “Shelley’s wretch . . . her Frankenstein’s monster.”

Rachel couldn’t suppress a truncated laugh of surprise. “Well, of course not—it’s fiction!” And then, to reinforce her academic integrity, she added, “Don’t be stupid.”

She regretted her response immediately. He tensed, their curious dialogue destroyed almost as soon as it had begun. He averted his eyes and lifted Paradise Lost before his face once more, though his attention flicked from the page to the Alps, down to his jeans, and then settled on his feet, which rested askew in the gutter. With his right hand, he rubbed at the side of his head and grimaced at what appeared to be an escalating ache.

He slammed the book shut and thudded it onto the table. His grip on its spine increased, his knuckles turning from white to red as his thumb and fingers pressed into the vellum in palpable pain. No, anger. No . . . pain. He stood, pulling at his T-shirt collar and sleeves, and threw several francs onto the table. He glared in Rachel’s direction, then left down the rue without a word.