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Of all the things Enjolras had expected to come out of Cosette’s mouth, “I’ve fallen in love with Marius Pontmercy” was not one of them, and, in typical Enjolras fashion, he told her so.
Cosette blushed.
“He’s sweet, Enjolras. You’re too hard on everyone.” She trotted her horse ahead of him, inhaling the brisk morning air. The two were out on their customary morning ride, never mind the hunt later on in the afternoon in honor of Cosette's birthday. “He learned two languages in a year, paid for his own education, and has apparently rejected all monetary assistance from his grandfather, who’s a baron – anything he’s gotten, he’s gotten on his own. I should think you’d respect that, Enjolras, if not admit, at least, that it’s all very scandalous and exciting.”
“Scandal and excitement,” Enjolras repeated dryly. Cosette twisted around to shoot him a lofty glare.
“I like his spirit,” she informed her cousin, stroking her horse’s neck. “He’s a darling, and a dear, and you should like him, too.” Enjolras sighed.
“I will try,” he said in a tone that suggested it was a very great sacrifice on his part indeed. “For your sake, anyway. Although how you’ll convince Mother and Father to give him a chance is anyone’s guess.” His lips twitched. “Marrying the family solicitor. Only think of how shocked the village will be.”
“If the village can survive you, I daresay it can survive anything,” Cosette retorted coolly, and Enjolras conceded that yes, that was true. “Besides, I never said anything about marriage. I said I liked him, and even if I did want to marry him – and I have yet to decide, mind you – he’s not really the family solicitor, he’s assisting the family solicitor. There’s a difference.”
“Not to Father.”
“Well, he’s not my father,” Cosette said impatiently.
“He might as well be.”
“I will have you know that you are spoiling what could have been a perfectly pleasant morning.”
“Marry whomever you like, Cosette,” Enjolras told her as his horse whickered in agreement, “but if you think your husband – solicitor or not – is going to let you attend rallies and champion the vote and be political, as Father puts it, you’re deluding yourself.”
Cosette went pink.
“How did you find out?”
Enjolras rolled his eyes.
“Feuilly told me. He seems to think you and Eponine are in over your heads.”
“Hardly.” Cosette took another deep breath, tipping back her head and closing her eyes. “We only stayed for a few minutes – but it was exhilarating, Enjolras.” She shot him a somewhat baleful look. “You of all people should understand.”
“And I do understand,” Enjolras assured her. “Truly, I do. But I don’t want you getting hurt, either.” He watched her, slowing to a measured walk. His cousin sat straight-backed and proud atop in her saddle, a veritable Artemis in her mud-spattered riding attire; as with most everything, Cosette rode fearlessly. “Are you going to the counting of the votes?”
Cosette gave him a withering look that said, quite clearly, What do you think?
“Well, be careful, in any case.” Cosette opened her mouth then closed it, expression exasperated, if amused. “You’ll have a hard time convincing Feuilly to take you, though. He’s very uncomfortable with all of this.”
“Yes, he’s indicated as much,” Cosette affirmed glumly. “I can’t fathom why he’s so fussed all of a sudden. He was perfectly happy to take us before – and it’s not as though he isn’t political, too. He has the most fascinating opinions on the revolution in Russia.” She adjusted her riding veil, thoughtful. “And he’s extraordinarily intelligent. He has the mind of a politician.”
“And he drives us to garden parties,” Enjolras commented with a touch of heat.
“A shame,” Cosette agreed. “But that will change. You’ll see to that, I’m sure.” Enjolras’ face darkened.
“Not if Father has anything to say about it.”
“Yes, well, that can’t be helped – but there’s always the House of Lords.” She wheeled her horse around to return to Musain. Enjolras followed suit. “You can’t help your birth any more than poor Feuilly can. You might as well use it to your advantage.”
Enjolras glanced at her sideways, frowning.
“I don’t want any advantages,” he replied as he drew up his horse level with hers. “Not if I haven’t earned them.”
“Ah,” Cosette said innocently. “Then you and Marius should get along splendidly.” Enjolras stared at her. She laughed. “Oh, indulge me, darling. It is my birthday after all.”
“How did you manage that?” he demanded. “How did you manage to – ?”
“I am formidable,” Cosette declared by way of explanation. “And I am quite determined you warm to Mr. Pontmercy, I’m afraid. You may as well resign yourself to it now.”
“We shall see,” he replied, but he smiled at her slightly. “You might change your mind, after all. I stumbled across the revised guest list last night. Mother’s invited some of my old school friends.” Now it was Cosette’s turn to stare at him, horror dawning on her face.
“Oh, no,” she moaned. “Not again. Not on my birthday.”
“I thought you liked Courf and Ferre,” Enjolras remarked mildly. Cosette threw him an aggrieved look.
“I do like your friends,” she reproached him. “They’re funny and sweet and perfectly charming, but I have no interest in marrying any of them.”
“That’s awfully cynical of you – ”
“Duke de Courfeyrac,” Cosette interrupted. “Duke. Don’t be naïve, Enjolras.” She scowled, tucking a tendril of hair back into place. “For heaven’s sake, I’ve only just survived the Season. I love your Mamma dearly, you know I do, but I cannot stand to have all these salivating young men thrust at me at every opportunity. It’s dizzying. Dukes and earls and lords…”
“And barons,” Enjolras added nonchalantly, and Cosette nodded emphatically.
“And baro – ” She caught herself, mouth snapping shut. In great consternation, she leveled such a wounded look at him that he couldn’t help but laugh, and though she struggled mightily, her lips twitched in spite of herself. “Really, Enjolras. You’re impossible.”
“I agree with you, you know. No suitors for you. You are far too young to be married.”
“‘And barons.’ Terrible.”
They’d reached the yard, where Bossuet waited for them, hands clasped behind his back.
“Good day for a ride, m’lady,” he greeted them cheerfully as he helped Cosette to dismount.
“Indeed it is, Bossuet – oh, Bossuet, whatever did you do to your eye?”
“Achilles was feeling frisky this morning, m’lady,” he shrugged, both eyes crinkling with a smile, although one was purple and black and nearly closed shut. This was hardly unusual; Bossuet seemed to attract misfortune wherever he went, but as he was an invaluable groom with a knack for training gentle, happy horses, everyone had gradually grown accustomed to avoiding standing next to him near ladders and the like.
“Oh, dear. You must have that looked after, Bossuet,” Cosette fretted as Enjolras dismounted. Bossuet took both horses by the reins.
“’Course, m’lady,” he said with a nod of his head, adding with a genuine grin, “And a very happy birthday!” Cosette beamed.
“Thank you, Bossuet. You see?” she asked Enjolras, lightly bumping his hip with hers. “That’s how one treats a lady on her birthday.”
They took their time ambling back to the house. Musain Park was a vast estate, all lush gardens and endless walks. The house itself had been standing since the fourteenth century, Lord Corinth often declared, though it hadn’t been nearly as extensive then, of course. Some of the original structure remained – Cosette had always loved the old ruins of the tower, a pile of stones that nevertheless retained an air of romance and tragedy that plucked a chord somewhere in Cosette’s heart. Enjolras said that was foolish, but then, he hardly went outside at all unless Cosette badgered him into a stroll or a ride, as she had this morning. He had no appreciation for the truly picturesque, Cosette had decided, nor did he have any inclination toward a good bit of silliness. Lady Corinth agreed. She was always imploring him to go on a shoot or take a trip to London – all the things young men his age were wont to do. But Enjolras preferred the library to hunting parties and writing essays to the diversions of town, and nothing his mother – or Cosette, for that matter – could persuade him otherwise.
They entered the foyer just as Mr. Mabeuf and Lord Corinth exited the library. Mr. Mabeuf, the family lawyer, had a thick, woolly mustache that reminded Cosette of a walrus; Lord Corinth, in contrast, was always impeccably shaved and far too dignified to be compared to anyone or anything but Lord Corinth. Neither man looked particularly cheerful.
“Mr. Mabeuf,” Cosette exclaimed as they drew near. “How good to see you. I hope all is well at the office? Is Mr. Pontmercy settling in? Did he come with you?” Enjolras nudged her shoulder; she ignored him, instead taking off her riding hat and hoping her hair wasn’t too mussed, but there was no sign of the other solicitor.
“No, Mr. Pontmercy stayed behind today, Lady Cosette. But he’s settling in admirably – very admirably,” Mr. Mabeuf replied, twisting his hat in his hands. “He’ll soon begin running the firm himself at this rate!”
“How exciting,” Cosette beamed, continuing to very pointedly ignore her cousin. “It must be awfully daunting, being so new to the county. Why don’t we invite him to my birthday dinner tonight, Uncle? I know it’s terribly short notice, but practically the whole county will be there, and Mr. Pontmercy needs a chance to get acquainted with everyone, don’t you agree?”
“I – ” began the Earl, frowning slightly, but Cosette squealed, leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. It was an old trick, tried and true; Lord Corinth had yet to resist the sight of his ward pink-cheeked and glowing, and Cosette had always managed to stay just on this side of unscrupulous without arousing too much suspicion.
“Oh, thank you, Uncle! And Mr. Mabeuf, you must come, too, of course”
The solicitor smiled, a bit wanly.
“I’m afraid I have some business to attend to in London this afternoon” – Lord Corinth’s brows furrowed further, and Cosette filed that away as something to look into if time permitted – “but Mr. Pontmercy will no doubt prove an adequate substitute.”
“You will be missed,” Cosette said politely, but a warm flush had begun somewhere in her stomach and was now steadily flooding her chest. It was not, she thought gleefully, an entirely unpleasant sensation. “Lovely to see you, Mr. Mabeuf. Please pass on my regards to your wife.”
“Of course,” Mr. Mabeuf said with a little nod before turning to Lord Corinth. “I will have a telegram sent as soon as possible, my lord.” He left at a brisk pace, his shoes sinking into the Persian rug that led to the door. Enjolras and Cosette watched him go, then exchanged a significant look. Lord Corinth made a dissatisfied noise and started to go just as Enjolras opened his mouth, but Cosette closed a hand around his wrist, tugging him toward the stairs.
“No fighting today,” she ordered as they headed upstairs. “No matter what.” Enjolras only rolled his eyes.
“I suppose I should postpone telling him that I no longer intend to have a valet until tomorrow?”
Cosette made a face.
“Oh, Enjolras, you can’t do that,” she murmured. “You’ll hurt poor Grantaire’s feelings.”
“How?” Enjolras wanted to know. “By releasing him from dressing me? Something I am perfectly capable of doing on my own?”
“They take their jobs so seriously,” Cosette scolded him. “You ought to, too.”
“It’s demeaning,” Enjolras explained, but Cosette narrowed her eyes at him.
“For whom?” she asked pointedly. “You or him?” He glared at her. “Enjolras. You don’t want him to get in trouble with Javert, do you?”
“I’ll make it very clear it has nothing to do with him – will that satisfy you?” Enjolras said irritably. “Although he’s a walking distillery, he’s bound to get himself into trouble anyway.” Cosette pinched his arm.
“That was rude,” she informed him. “He’s new, and he seems to be doing quite well in spite of having to deal with you in the morning. And the afternoon. And the evening. You should make an effort to be kind just for that, darling. You’re not exactly smooth sailing.”
“I am making an effort to be kind,” Enjolras grumbled. “I’m freeing him from having to dress and undress a grown man when I’m sure he has a thousand and one better things to do – all of them much smoother sailing than I, as I’m sure you’ll agree.” Cosette stopped in front of her door, arms crossed.
“It is my birthday,” she announced. “Therefore I do not have to listen to this nonsense any longer than I want to. Go and take a bath and get ready to go riding again, with or without Grantaire’s assistance, but for heaven’s sake, try to be delicate about it. It’s my birthday,” she said again, as if worried Enjolras was hard of hearing or feeling particularly stupid. “Please, Enjolras.” With great effort, Enjolras refrained from rolling his eyes.
“I will do my best.”
“And that’s all one can ask for, I suppose,” Cosette sighed. Enjolras kissed her on the forehead.
“Happy birthday, Cosette.”
“Yes, yes.” She brushed him off, but couldn’t help the smile that snuck into the corners of her mouth. “Off you go.”
Cosette watched her cousin as he disappeared around the corner. He could be quite charming when he wanted to be; she could only hope that he would suffer through the day without too much sturm und drang. The business with the valet was going to be nasty. There was nothing to be done about it at the moment, though, and she had to make herself presentable again or Aunt Josephine would start to panic.
“Prepare yourself, Eponine,” she said as she entered her room. Her maid only raised her eyebrows. “Today we must be civilized.”
“The hunt is this afternoon, m’lady,” Eponine sighed. “Could you not wait until then to go riding?”
“It’s my birthday,” Cosette sniffed, and her maid shook her head, but went to prepare a bath.
She studied her reflection as Eponine bustled about, trying to see herself through someone else’s eyes – and if that someone else happened to be tall and freckly and fluent in two languages, well, no one need know, she thought with only a touch of indulgence. Enjolras was right; marriage now would definitely limit her scope in the world, but there was no reason she couldn’t fall hopelessly in love and steal kisses in the garden and shock the servants. Poor Uncle. He had so hoped that Cosette would turn out respectable where his son had very much not.
“And how is your Mr. Pontmercy?” Eponine asked, and Cosette blushed. Was she really that obvious? “Did he come with Mr. Mabeuf?”
“No,” Cosette replied, fiddling with her riding hat. “But he’s coming to dinner tonight, unless he declines, and I can’t think of a reason why he would.”
“Except his work,” Eponine said dryly, and Cosette felt her face burn even hotter.
“Naturally – only people don’t work on the weekends, do they?”
“Maids do.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point. But on the off chance that he does decide to attend…I think the blue dress would help move things along, don’t you agree?”
“Of course, milady.”
“We must be prepared for every eventuality.”
When the bath was run, Eponine helped her out of her riding clothes, and Cosette sank into the tub with a rapturous moan. Eponine sat on the edge of the bath, gently massaging her scalp.
“Enjolras says the Duke de Courfeyrac is coming today,” Cosette remarked, letting her eyes slip closed.
“Oh, yes. His valet arrived this morning with his things. You’ll have heard the rumors, of course,” Eponine added slyly. Cosette cracked an eye open then closed it again, shaking her head.
“Enjolras will only ever talk about his politics,” she explained. “Which is all well and good, of course, but one gets so awfully curious. I’ve heard he’s a bit of a flirt, and that there were some goings on at Eton that were not entirely respectable…?”
“You heard right, milady,” Eponine replied. “He’s perfectly shameless, or so says his valet. He’s showing the Turkish ambassador around – a Mr. Montparnasse.”
“A Turkish ambassador,” Cosette breathed, shifting to sit a little lower. The water rippled, sliding and lapping against her skin deliciously. “Oh, it’s something out of a novel, isn’t it? I wonder if he’ll bring this Mr. Montparnasse along.”
“He is,” Eponine whispered, lips right at Cosette’s ear. “Jehan – the Duke’s valet – says that Mr. Montparnasse is very excited to have a proper taste of the English countryside.”
“I daresay he’ll find us most accommodating,” Cosette whispered back, and they giggled together. “My darling, it is a grand thing to be nineteen and worldly,” Cosette declared and reached up to take Eponine’s face in her hands, drawing her down into an almost-chaste kiss.
They weren’t lovers, not exactly, but they’d ended up practicing kissing together one day entirely by accident, and there was a comfort and a familiarity to be found in Eponine’s arms, although Cosette suspected – no, that was untrue, she knew that what they were doing was indecent. And yet, it was hard to feel guilty when Eponine smiled at her like that, playful and affectionate and safe. Theirs was an odd bond, one even Lord Corinth had noticed; the two girls hardly behaved like maid and mistress, were closer than sisters, and together, proved a force so fearsome that everyone had long since given up on trying to stand in their way.
“Oh, Eponine, I nearly forgot,” Cosette said suddenly, reminded. “We’ll have to contrive some way to get Feuilly to drive us into Ripon for the counting of the votes – he’s apparently balked, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, dear,” Eponine murmured. “I’ll speak to him, m’lady.”
“Excellent.” Cosette smiled blissfully. “I rather think today’s going to be a success, don’t you?”
~
Downstairs, Mr. Javert surveyed the kitchen, appalled.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Mr. Bahorel, may I ask just what exactly you think you’re doing?”
“‘M cooking,” Mr. Bahorel answered, and given that he was gently folding cake batter in a bowl crooked safely in one huge arm, Joly couldn’t quite understand why the head butler was slowly but surely beginning to resemble a very large, seething lobster, because yes, obviously, the man was cooking.
“But you are not a cook,” Javert reminded Bahorel in a clipped tone. Oh. “You are a gardener. And so again, I ask: just what exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“It’s my fault,” the cook’s assistant piped up. Joly straightened up ever so slightly. The girl was short and plump; she had a smudge of flour on her nose, oddly endearing and captivating at the same time. “I’m doing the best I can, Mr. Javert, but with Mrs. Toussaint sick, I’m in sore need of an extra pair of hands. If we could just get another helper – ”
“I would remind you that Lord Corinth and I make the decisions regarding hiring. Not you,” the butler said coldly. “This is a disgrace. My apologies, Mr. Joly.” Joly opened his mouth to demur, but something in the butler’s stance let him know that it was best to just listen and nod. “This is not how I would have introduced you to the staff, but unfortunately, you must forgive us this…” His lip curled. “Disorganization.” The cook’s assistant bowed her head. Joly’s heart went out to her.
“Oh, but it’s partly my fault, too,” he remarked, and she looked up. Her eyes were astonishingly brown; Joly was not quite sure how she had managed it. “What with my train being late and all. I know you expected me to arrive this morning.”
Javert smiled tightly, but did not answer. His eyes flicked to Joly’s leg and then to his cane, as they had been doing since Joly arrived. Joly only smiled back. He could manage. They would see. If he could just get past this first day, they would see.
“Well, come along, Mr. Joly,” the butler said after a beat. “I will show you your room, and then I am afraid I must enlist your services straight away. We have a hunting party to prepare for – and a Duke among the guests, no less,” he added in a tone that suggested Joly look suitably impressed. Joly made an effort.
“Should I just keep on, Mr. Javert?” Mr. Bahorel asked cheerfully, still stirring. Unlike the cook’s assistant, he seemed entirely unaffected by the head butler’s scorn. Javert scowled.
“No, you should not,” he growled, before rounding once more on the assistant. “I am sure that Gibelotte or Matelote would have been more than willing to lend a hand, Musichetta. I cannot think what possessed you.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Javert,” Musichetta – what an extraordinary name – replied contritely, but as Javert turned his back, Joly saw her exchanging an eye roll with Bahorel. She caught him looking at her and smiled. Joly’s stomach flopped. Javert cleared his throat, gesturing toward a flight of stairs. Joly’s stomach flopped again, albeit for entirely different reasons.
“It’s the Lady Cosette’s birthday today,” the head butler explained as he led the way. Joly continued behind, cane hooked over his arm and suitcase in his hand. His leg was starting to twinge unpleasantly – the cart that had taken him to Musain Park had seemed to hit every rut in the road on the way – but he smiled, anyway, because if nothing else, he would laugh about this later. “Normally, I assure you, things run much more smoothly here, but Mrs. Toussaint’s illness came at a very inopportune time. “ Javert paused at the top of the stairs, watching Joly’s progress with perhaps more scrutiny than was warranted.
He lifted his chin ever so slightly as Joly reached him.
“I’m not sure how things were done at the, ah, hotel,” he said delicately, “but here, we have certain standards.” Joly smiled.
“Of course, sir.”
“And as much as I would like to keep you on, understand that should the work load become too much for you, we will have to let you go.” Joly nodded, still smiling.
“I completely understand, sir. I would not have applied if I didn’t think myself up to the task, sir.”
“And while you come highly recommended, Mr. Joly, do not think for a moment that your referrals will have much bearing should your behavior and your work prove less than satisfactory.”
“Of course, Mr. Javert. I understand.” Javert nodded.
“Good. Ah, Mrs. Fauchelevent – our new valet, Mr. Joly.”
“Welcome, Mr. Joly,” the housekeeper said, smiling kindly. “It’s very good to have you. And just in time, too!” To her credit, she waited until she thought Joly wasn’t looking to sneak a glance at his cane. Joly allowed himself an inward sigh. “Please forgive me – we’re all very busy today, and I must be off. Mr. Javert will see you off properly.” She nodded to the butler, but something in her smile seemed tight and a little forced. There’s a story there, Joly thought. And an interesting one at that, I bet.
“Mr. Javert – ” a young woman with curly blonde hair skidded around the corner. “Mr. Javert, the guests are starting to arrive.”
“Good heavens, is it time already?” Mrs. Fauchelevent clutched at her chest. “Quick, quick, start putting out refreshments – and you’ll need to hurry and get dressed,” she added to Joly. “Do you need any, ah, do you require assistance.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Fauchelevent,” Joly replied with a smile. “I’m quite self-sufficient, I assure you. I’ll be down directly.”
“Very good,” Javert harrumphed. “Your room is the empty one on the left.” His eyes flicked once more to Joly’s cane before he headed back downstairs, Mrs. Fauchelevent and the housemaid at his heels.
“What have I gotten myself into?” Joly wondered aloud, but he hurried to dress.
His first day at Musain Park.
And hopefully, he thought, not my last.