Chapter Eight: Les Doleurs de L'Amour (The Sorrows of Love)
Somehow, Henri had expected Damayaga to accompany them in their quest. The old warrior had brushed away the suggestion, however. "You three have among you all the knowledge and experience you require for this task," he told them. "I am needed elsewhere. Once you have found and destroyed the locket, your work will still only be beginning. I shall be searching for the other soul-pieces, but also I must be here to watch for the movements of Vol de Mort and his servants against our people."
"I understand," said Henri regretfully.
"But I shall send messengers when I may. We will meet sooner than you expect, I believe. In the meanwhile, trust each other. Vol de Mort has always drawn his power from dissension and distrust among those who should be friends. If you quarrel overmuch," - he looked pointedly at Ronald and Hermioniah, - "You may end up aiding him."
"Bien, we won't," said Ronald impatiently. "Hermioniah, where are the sleeping furs? You said you'd be packing them."
"You must be dreaming again. I was very clear that you would take care of that. I've been cleaning our firearms."
Ronald groaned. "I didn't give you permission to touch my musket. No one touches my musket but me, understand?"
"Oh, is that why it looked like something you found in a dung heap?" shot back Hermioniah.
Henri rolled his eyes. He had not remembered Hermioniah as so quarrelsome. But of course she'd not met Ronald Véslée back then. Ronald and Hermioniah were excellent people in their own right, friends he could not live without, but together… they caused him such a head-ache. Ronald was the more annoying of the two, since he seemed to bicker as a form of courtship. He was still infatuated with Hermioniah, and had told Henri that she looked most lovely when her cheeks were red with exasperation.
Well, Ronald and Hermioniah would get past the fighting in time, if they ever became lovers, Henri supposed. He didn't quite like the idea of that somehow. They just didn't seem right together. But, aside from that irrational gut feeling, he had to admit that theirs would be a suitable coupling. The Véslées were not the sort to scorn Hermioniah for her blood. After all, they'd all but adopted Henri into their family, even though his mother had been Iroquois. On the contrary, they'd be thrilled that Ronald had finally found a wife and could settle down.
And with Henri's upcoming marriage to Ginevere, Ronald marrying Hermioniah would make Hermioniah his sister-in-law. Then Ronald and Hermioniah would be living just down the river from him and Ginevre. He would see Hermioniah all the time.
But would that be a good thing when his stomach somehow tightened and his heartbeat quickened every time Hermioniah looked his way?
"What are you dreaming of, Henri?" a voice interrupted his thoughts. It was Hermioniah, who'd crept softly up behind him. "Dreaming of Ronald's sister?"
"Ahh… yes, yes I was," he stammered. He turned to see her, and his heart leapt up into his throat, then down again. She had unbraided her hair, letting it fall down to her waist in long, rippling, dark tresses. Not only was she exquisitely lovely, but she seemed entirely unconscious of the effect she was having on him. The beauties of New France who put so much work into maintaining their artificial looks paled in comparison.
"You… you look nice with your hair down," he managed.
She smiled. "It's not very practical, though. I'm cutting some of it off for the journey, then rebraiding it. But I'm glad it pleases you."
Inspiration suddenly struck him. "Here," he said, looking wildly around the glade. "Wait a moment. Aha, there it is." He stooped down to pluck a blue bell-like flower from the moss. "For your hair," he explained, presenting the flower. "Let me put this in place."
Her eyes sparkled and she bowed her head towards him.
Nestled in her hair, the blue of the flower took on a most amazing radiance. He was unable to speak. She misinterpreted his silence and scrunched up her forehead.
"What's wrong, Henri? Does it look silly?" she asked, her hand ready to pluck it from her hair.
"Silly? No, by all the saints! You are the loveliest woman I have ever met, Hermioniah."
"Do not flatter me," she said, laughing.
"And the one with the most wit," he added.
"What of Ginevre?" she asked.
The wave of joy that had overtaken him washed away, to be replaced by a cold, dark feeling. "Why yes," he said slowly. "Other than Ginevre, I mean."
"That's as should be," said Herrmioniah seriously. "A man should love his wife beyond all others."
"I do," said Henri, and knew in that moment what a lie that was, that he was fallen under Hermioniah's spell, and he didn't even wish to escape. And yet, he had promised Ginevre his hand. Such a promise was sacred. He said nothing and let Hermioniah go, though every inch of him yearned to embrace her.
Sitting by himself in the moss, he reflected on the future before him. To see Hermioniah every day from now would be torture. But he needed her by his side in this quested. Needed her badly. He would have to learn then to surpress his feelings, guard himself from letting her know what was in his heart. And then, when he was reunited with Ginevre, would he forget Hermioniah in Ginevre's arms?
It did seem the best course. He determined to marry Ginevre as soon as he returned to her family's house.
His resolution was only hardened by the discovery he made walking back to the village to consult some more with Damayaga. Among the birch, where they presumably thought no one could see them, he caught a glimpse of Ronald and Hermioniah, his arms twined around her body, their lips united in a long, passionate kiss.
End Notes: I'm sorry to torture you like this, dear readers. Well, actually I'm not, because you know very well this story won't end up One Big Happy Véslée Family. To quote a favourite song of mine by Sixpence None the Richer,
But tension is to be loved
When it is like a passing note
To a beautiful, beautiful chord.
Next chapter will see the trio set out on their quest and Henri will explain more of the things he's learnt about Vol de Mort.