The Frost of Springtime Read online

  The Frost of Springtime

  Rachel L. Demeter

  THE FROST OF SPRINGTIME

  Copyright © 2014 by Rachel L. Demeter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way by any means without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Please note that if you have purchased this book without a cover or in any way marked as an advance reading copy, you have purchased a stolen item, and neither the author nor the publisher has been compensated for their work.

  Our books may be ordered through your local bookstore or by visiting the publisher:

  BlackLyonPublishing.com

  Black Lyon Publishing, LLC

  PO Box 567

  Baker City, OR 97814

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, events, organizations and conversations in this novel are either the products of the author’s vivid imagination or are used in a fictitious way for the purposes of this story.

  ISBN-10: 1-934912-61-1

  ISBN-13: 978-1-934912-61-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013954503

  Published and printed in the United States of America.

  Black Lyon Historical Romance

  For my grandparents,

  who shared the most inspiring love story of all.

  PROLOGUE

  Winter of 1862

  Paris could have been mistaken for a ghost town. The night was black, oily and slick as ink. Swollen clouds spread out to the horizon, sealing the heavens off from earth. The only noise for miles around was the wind’s mournful cry. It echoed, penetrating the emptiness with an eerie howl.

  Winter’s first snowfall descended from the bruised sky and hid the cobblestones beneath a lush blanket of white. Somewhere deep in the heart of Paris, a gas lamp flickered as it fought to brave out the storm. A humble and rather inconspicuous structure stood several feet away. Withered and faded with time, Bête Noire had been carved into the planks decades earlier.

  The brothel’s insides were equally gutted and stripped of any hope for warmth. Voluptuous shades of scarlet veiled the windows, while jaded chaises allowed a gentleman to rest his legs. Splintered floorboards were poorly shrouded by the modest Persian rug. And a tarnished chandelier hovered overhead, half of its candles lit—all the teardrop crystals resemblances of human sorrow.

  On nights such as these, most gentlemen preferred the warmth of a hearth to the warmth of a whore. Regardless, one man loomed before the chipped counter.

  The glory of his body was engulfed by a black frock coat and hidden away like a dark secret. Every stitch of material had been tailored from the finest silks; every inch of flesh was a manifestation of startling male beauty. Heavy boots wrapped his calves, encasing them within a lover’s touch. Majestic and striking, the formal coat swept across the panels, equipping him with an authority that dared to be tested. But most notable was the man’s askew hat. A stiff rim of velvet crowned his head with the irony of a slanted halo—its sole purpose to shelter his identity from the world.

  After a stale moment of introspection, he pounded at the golden service bell with the heel of his palm.

  Madam Bedeau appeared almost at once. Ample breasts were drawn together, strung high and fastened tight, overflowing the bodice in ridiculous proportions. Both cheeks were finely sculpted and smothered with rogue, her lips an appropriate devil red.

  In youth, Pauline Bedeau had been positively stunning—a goddess amongst mere mortals—and known far and wide as France’s most desirable courtesan. Unfortunately, her fall from grace had marked a true descent into hell. Although she’d remained undeniably lovely, her beauty was branded by all those years of fruitless labor. And it was no great secret that Bête Noire had fallen alongside its mistress.

  Once upon a time, the brothel had existed as an elite pleasure dome, catering exclusively to society’s most precious darlings. But much like the frost of wintertime and spring’s delicate harebells, its charm had faded away with the ever-changing seasons.

  Madam Bedeau approached the man with a knowing smile and provocative sway of her hips. With a seductive grin and batting hood of sooty lashes, she proceeded to greet her most loyal patron. Indeed—she and the cloaked figure shared a partnership that outlasted many marriages.

  Like a mezzo-soprano, the tone of her voice was delightfully low, laced with a huskiness that emptied gentlemen’s purses at leisure. “Bonsoir, monsieur. How good it is to see you again.” The man responded with a sharp nod. “What do you desire tonight? The usual, I shall suspect?”

  The door burst open before he could answer. Wind wailed. Snow blew across the archway in a violent storm. Two dangling, silver bells clapped together as they announced the arrival of clientele. They tinkled in merry oblivion, filling the walls with a short-lived cheer.

  A beautiful lady donned in a beautiful gown walked across the threshold. A little girl dressed in rumpled clothing and bruises was dragged close behind; white powder caked her skin in a poor attempt to mask the injuries. She cried out in agony, struggling to match her mother’s determined steps.

  Madam Bedeau propped a hip against the counter as she watched the wretched scene unfold. Long ago, the girl’s gown had possibly graced the finest ballrooms and soirées. Now, countless seasons past its prime, it was closer to rags than riches.

  “Oh, please, Maman!” Her voice was haunting. “Please! You mustn’t! You mustn’t do this—”

  “Quiet your insolent whining, little whelp.” The mother’s face contorted into a scowl that marred all traces of beauty. Speaking through a sneered whisper, she tightened her hold on the flailing creature and hissed like a feline in heat. “You have been quite troublesome enough.”

  Drowning in tears, the child collapsed to the oak floorboards and vainly attempted to crawl away. Mother latched onto the girl’s ankles, muttered a lewd curse, and reeled her tiny body across the ground.

  The girl clawed at the worn surface, desperate and astonishingly headstrong, each breath rising in a choked pant. Then her gaze simply widened in rekindled horror. A mane of chestnut curls cascaded over her body with the elegance of a diva’s shawl. Breath caught in her chest, she perched onto her knees and stared into her mother’s vacant eyes. “Maman … Maman, please. Why must you do this? Don’t you love me?”

  The inquiry earned a solid slap to the face. Madam Bedeau winced from her viewing spot, body pulsing with barely restrained anger.

  “You best hold your tongue. Wretched bastard. You’ve brought me misery, stupid chit, nothing more.” Impossibly long fingers snatched at the girl’s chin, twisting her slim face up and back. “You hear me? I refuse my name to be ruined another instant.” The child gave a last tug for freedom. Her words were almost inaudible, which made them all the more deadly. “On my word, I shall break your other wrist. And Lord knows—you will need it from here on.”

  The next few moments flew by in a frantic and surreal blur. The girl was yanked onto her feet and lunged toward the service desk without mercy. Exhausted from her exertion, clearly unused to lifting so much as a pinky finger, Mother exhaled a melodramatic sigh and smoothed down her skirt’s slight imperfections.

  “Why, the little imp wrinkled my gown,” she said with a shaky laugh, making light of the obvious tragedy at hand. “Imagine that!”

  Madam Bedeau mutely narrowed her gaze upon the woman’s crucifix. All glitz and glitter, the thing was nestled between thick mounds of cleavage and comically out of place. “You cannot be saved.” The words weighed heavily in the air, each one uttered with the gravity of a death sentence.

  Mother abandoned her highborn pride and s
hivered at Madam Bedeau’s damnation. “Why … You shan’t be so alarmed. This is simply for the best, you see.” She peered down at her child with a poorly worn and plastered smile; it was a smile worn as badly as her faith. “Tell me, madam, how much could you offer?” She coiled a hand through the mass of curls and arranged them over the girl’s trembling shoulders. “I can assure you, she cleans up quite nicely.”

  For the first time, the full extent of the child’s suffering slipped into sight. Numberless cigar burns disfigured her malnourished right shoulder. And her left wrist was clearly broken. It hung at her side, cocked at an awkward angle. The girl had suffered unimaginable horrors. There was no mistake of that. And yet, her battered appearance did little to diminish her beauty.

  Her eyes were brilliant to behold. They were, in a word, breathtaking. Carved from a pristine sapphire, those eyes were as vast as the ocean, brimming with an unparalleled innocence. And, much like the ocean blue, a foreboding undercurrent seemed to swim through their depths.

  Many gentlemen would pay a princely fee to possess such innocence. Madam Bedeau cringed, shuddering at those unorthodox desires. They were desires she’d witnessed on far more than one occasion—desires that spoke of a twisted hunger—a hunger sated by the flesh of a child.

  Like herself, the girl would be forever ruined. Forever forgotten and cast aside. Her youth would exist as nothing more than a half-remembered dream, a delicate memory of the deep subconscious.

  Patience dwindling and blessed with all the focus of a gnat, Mother scoffed at the whore’s indignation and sought distraction. She turned her attention to the cloaked figure drenched purely in liquid black.

  “Say, what is the likes of you doing here, monsieur? Why, I could satisfy your desires far better than some sullied harlot.” Her tone changed from feline to serpent, words always an inviting purr. The opposite hand skimmed up and over the swollen rise of her breasts. As if on cue, they strained against the material of her bodice and quivered to bust free. “Mmm, indeed, monsieur. I could milk you of your deepest, most decadent desires. And I daresay you may take me free of charge. Your pleasure would be my pleasure—”

  The very target of her seduction latched onto her wrist without warning. A massive gloved hand enveloped it completely. Mother cried out, yelping in a flash of pain and anger. “Why, you despicable—”

  “Touch me again and I break your wrist with pleasure.” The menacing baritone vibrated through silk clad fingertips as he released her. Voice dark and ominous, timbre steadier than a war drum, he resumed, “On my word—utter so much as another breath and I vow it shall be your very last.” Alluring, emerald eyes shifted away to focus on Madam Bedeau. She was fishing a sum of francs from her bodice—taking the woman up on her indecent proposal, no doubt. “Not another move from either of you. Am I quite clear?”

  Pure silence followed after. It was not a question.

  Bête Noire’s walls shook as a gust of wind moaned in the distance. Soft and shameful sobs accompanied the ambiance with haunting precision. The child sank to the crutch of her knees—defeated, starved for food and warmth—as if she might escape the world in that way.

  Moved by her humiliation far more than he dared admit, the dark stranger removed his bowler hat and crouched to her level. He replaced the hat after running an unsteady hand through his hairline. His chest lurched as the child adjusted the torn tatters of her clothing. Swishing off his frock coat, he draped the material over her body like it was a security blanket.

  She grasped the wool with her good hand, plummeted onto her bottom, and pulled both legs against her chest. Her face sank from eye-line as she hid below a fortress of upright knees. Tiny and perfectly helpless, the abundance of thick folds seemed to devour her whole.

  “Cold night,” he whispered.

  “Thank you, m-monsieur.”

  The man softened at the tragic sight that lay before him; icicles, which had too long clung to his chest, deftly thawed and melted away. He felt an incredible pain, a sincere compassion and aching sympathy, which he’d believed he no longer possessed. Despite his better judgment and a lifetime of indifference, his heart broke.

  Damnation. He longed to turn his cheek in apathy and disgust. He yearned to feel numb to the girl’s pain and loneliness. He wanted to hate the child—to despise the child—for having invaded his sole sliver of peace: darkness.

  Tucked within a foreign part of his heart, only emptiness had ever existed. A terrible and twisted emptiness. And for seventeen of his twenty-seven years, he’d filled that internal void with darkness.

  Eyes of emerald locked with eyes of sapphire, each pair searching the secrets of its counterpart’s soul. He could sense the girl’s will to live, to simply survive the world and all of its cruelties, as if it was a tangible thing. And, within that lucid moment, a recollection from his own childhood emerged. The emptiness eased and lifted. His heart pounded as a montage of horrors resurrected—just barely …

  A whisper of half-sobbed words: “Life is pain. Love is a pretty lie.” Empty and burning tears. A seductive glint. Steel, cold and rusted, plunged into a slate of creamy flesh. A distorted prayer: “Do not love the world or anything in it. The world and its desires pass away. But those who do the will of God shall live forever.” A moment of silence followed by a pair of beautiful, breathless lungs—

  The jumbled tangle of memories disappeared as quickly as they’d come. Once more the emptiness returned. But one truth remained—long ago, something had happened. Something unutterable. Something his conscience and consciousness had chosen to forget.

  And then, miraculously, for the first conceivable time in the man’s life, a ray of hope shined through his darkness.

  Perhaps the girl could help him find himself.

  Perhaps two orphaned souls could unite as one.

  Consumed by his sudden revelation, the dark figure lifted his hand and attempted to brush a stray curl from her eyes. Jerking free of his touch, she flinched out of his reach—just as he’d expected she might—behaving like a mongrel who’d only known beatings. He retreated with a dejected sigh and shook his face.

  “Might I know your name, ma petit?”

  “Sofia …” Her voice was little more than a whisper and a true breath of fresh air.

  “Good to know you, my dearest Sofia.” The man inclined his head, gave a charmingly crooked grin, and clasped a palm to his heart. Aware that everything had changed, it beat against his ribcage at a rapid pace, the rhythm hard and strong. “I am Alek.”

  Aleksender scooped Sofia into his arms and embraced her bridal style. Tuned into her pain as if it was his own, he struggled not to inflict further discomfort upon her injuries. He cradled the child like one might a newborn babe, instinctively sheltering her from the world.

  A strange calm washed over him. It was miraculous. It was beautiful. Within seconds, she’d melted into his arms.

  If a moment of kindness could inspire such contentment, Aleksender caught himself marveling, what would a lifetime of love bring?

  And could he ever bring himself to love another?

  The question resolved itself as Sofia nuzzled deeper into his warmth, stretched her good arm, and curled each limb into a ball.

  Soothed like a restless pup, she listened to the melodic drumming of his heart and surrendered to an adorably large bear yawn. She inhaled his scent and committed the distinct blend to memory, locking it within the most precious corner of her soul.

  Exotic Persian spices …

  A comforting veil descended as peaceful, dreamless sleep claimed her. Aleksender whispered the eternal vow, his voice beautiful and soothing, every word spoken like a lullaby: “You are safe with me, my little Sofia. No harm shall come of you now.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Spring of 1871

  Coast of Normandy

  Luminous shafts of orange and red illuminated the limitless morning sky. The horizon was halfway hidden behind a blanket of swirling clouds and still tucked in for the nigh
t. It was a breathtaking sight to behold. The world was no more than an artistic canvas, and God had painted a masterpiece. A few stars shined overhead, their glows absorbed by the imminent sunrise. The North Star was front and center. And she curtsied in the sky.

  A ship’s massive silhouette clashed against the horizon. Cradled by the ocean’s tide, the vessel approached its port, skimming across Rouen’s leaden waters in slow and steady movements. Heroes of the Franco-Prussian war lounged among the clutter of crates, barrels, and weaponry, oblivious to their defeat … oblivious to the hell in which they were returning. They simply rested in harmonious silence, lost halfway between dreams and reality.

  Aleksender de Lefèvre and Christophe Cleef tapped their beer bottles and drank in the sunrise. A mild breeze stirred the ship’s billowing sails, carrying them ever closer to home.

  •

  Any semblance of peace quickly vanished.

  Rouen’s central railway station was packed tight that morning and an engine of pure chaos. Aleksender and Christophe shoved through the commotion, tense expressions on their faces and satchels slung over each shoulder. Mon Dieu. There was barely enough space to breathe, let alone walk.

  Thick clouds of smoke ascended into the rafters and flooded Aleksender’s lungs. Streams of light poured through the above woodwork, illuminating dust motes that danced about midair. Mourning doves roosted among those polluted ceiling beams, oblivious to the hustle and bustle, devotedly preening and nurturing their young squabs. Aleksender squared the wide expanse of his shoulders and continued his pursuit.

  The steam locomotive was hard at work and breathing heavily as it recovered from a recent round-trip. Aleksender empathized with the thing, feeling a strange sort of kindred spirit.

  Indeed—within seconds, the agony of the past year had struck him in one fell swoop. Mounting exhaustion claimed every last muscle. A film of sweat gathered above his brow and blurred his vision. Each step burned more than the one before it. And the ground below his feet was painful to the touch. It seemed to be paved with hot coals rather than stones—