Intrigued by Bertrice Small Page B

Christmas, but come before, on St. Thomas’s Day. My sisters will probably come to see you before then, so they may begin their plotting.” He bowed to both women and then took his leave.
    “No court?” Autumn looked crestfallen.
    “Perhaps it is better that you make your debut into society here first,” the mother soothed her daughter, secretly relieved. Autumn couldn’t know it, but court was such a bother, and the French court was more formal and devious than England’s court. I don’t know if I have the patience for this sort of thing anymore, Jasmine thought.
    “I like Oncle Philippe,” Autumn said with a smile.
    “You will like his sisters too,” Jasmine promised, “and they will be most valuable in introducing you into society here. You are related by blood through your great-grandfather de Marisco, whose mother was the second wife of the Comte de Cher and great-grandmother of Oncle Philippe.”
    “I never knew I had a French family on your side, Mama. Papa would occasionally mention his uncles in France. Where are they?”
    “Nearer to Paris. Eventually we shall meet them when the young king reaches his majority and the country is safe.”
    “I will need new gowns if I am to go to Archambault,” Autumn said slyly. “You would not want me to appear a poor and unfashionable Scots cousin, Mama.”
    Jasmine laughed. “We will wait until my cousins Gaby and Antoinette arrive, which, if the weather remains pleasant, will certainly be in a day or so. They will know just what to do.”
    “May I ride this afternoon?” Autumn asked her mother.
    “Of course, ma bébé, but remember, do not stray far. You do not know your way yet,” Jasmine cautioned.
    Autumn loved the horse she now rode. He was a tall and slender black gelding she had named, simply, Noir. She had changed from her gown into dark green woolen breeches lined in silk to protect her delicate skin from chafing; a white silk shirt that tied at the neck and had full sleeves; and a dark leather jerkin with carved ivory buttons edged in silver. Her boots, which fit to the knee, were of brown leather. The afternoon, while cool, was not cold, and so she wore no cape or cloak.
    She followed a trail behind the gardens beyond the low stone wall into the woods. The trees were now bereft of their leaves, which had fallen and dried. They made a pleasant crunching noise beneath Noir’s hooves. Soon the chateau disappeared behind her. About her in the branches, the rooks chattered companionably to each other as they preened. Autumn followed the trail until she came to a brook that rushed swiftly over a rocky streambed. Stopping, she debated whether they might cross it without injury to herself or the horse.
    “It is not safe,” a voice suddenly cut into her consciousness.
    Startled, Autumn looked across the water and saw a man, dressed as casually as she was, sitting beneath a tree, while his own horse browsed nearby. “How do you know?” she demanded of him. “Have you tried?”
    “The bottom is uneven, mademoiselle. It would be a pity for such a fine animal as the one you ride to break his leg and have to be destroyed,” the gentleman said.
    “But I am curious as to what lies beyond this brook,” Autumn said, wondering who the man was. Probably a poacher who didn’t want her to know what he was up to, and so was attempting to scare her off.
    “The water is the dividing line between the lands belonging to the chateau of Belle Fleurs and the lands belonging to the Marquis de Auriville,” the man said. “You would be trespassing, mademoiselle, should you cross over,” he told her.
    “Who are you?” Autumn said boldly.
    “Who are you?” he rejoined.
    “I am Lady Autumn Rose Leslie. My mama owns Belle Fleurs, and we have come to live here, for England is not a happy place now.”
    “Neither is France, mademoiselle. You have merely exchanged one civil war for another, I fear,” he said as he arose from his place and stretched lazily. He was