The Angel’s Mistake: The Angel

She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

She Walks In Beauty by George Gordon, Lord Byron

Henri Martin watched the ginger-haired beauty with her hordes of admirers flocking after her. Her long tumbling red curls, her sparkling green eyes, her rosebud lips curved into a smile… She was always wearing a mask, but he could recognise those vivid green eyes of her anywhere. All in all, he thought her to be the perfect epitome of an angel.

Gold trimmings of lace were hanging from the ceiling. While the ceiling, being magnificently painted with the illustrations of angels dancing in the white masses of clouds was meticulously adorned with intricate golden webs. The aureate silk curtains billowed gently in the breeze as the dancers swayed in time to the tranquil beats of the music.

Even amidst the resplendent decorations, Henri felt that the mysterious beautiful lady stood out above them all. With high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, she had claimed to carry a strain of the Royal blood in her – and it was certainly no wonder that everyone found it easy to believe her.

He almost made it to the doorway before he felt a delicate hand on his arm. A sweet fragrance floated to his nose, one that he recognised almost immediately.

“Leaving so soon, Monsieur?” Her voice was calm, soothing and yet it reminded him of the joyous chorus of bells tinkering in the slight breeze. “Perhaps one dance, before you leave?”

Her green eyes were dancing and not for the first time, he longed for her to remove her mask so he could gaze upon her lovely face. Nodding at her, he took the angel’s proffered hand and led her to the dance floor.

“How is your evening so far, Monsieur?” She gave him a pretty smile, one that held him dazed for a moment.

“Perfect,” Henri murmured, after he recovered momentarily.

“That is good to know,” she said, her eyes gleaming.

She continued to make conversation throughout the dance, for which he was immensely glad – as for some unfathomable reason, in the presence of this lady, he was lost for words. Something in her, something in her beauty, her grace, clutched at his throat and left him wordless.

When the dance was over, she curtseyed and bid him good evening, gliding away towards the doorway. He stood at the edge of the dance floor, perplexed by the sudden anticlimax. Then, making his mind up, he strode towards her resolutely. Henri greeted her, and she turned, a questioning look in her eyes – but underneath the curious glance, there seemed to be another emotion flickering beneath, one that of… impatient expectancy? Ignoring his sudden burst of intuition and determined that he was wrong, he took her hand and placed a velvet box in her palm.

“It’s a gift for you, Mademoiselle. Take it.” Henri smiled at her as she inclined her head gracefully and accepted his gift with thanks. Henri felt no guilt at giving away his mother’s necklace; after all, she was to become his wife soon. He was sure of it!

Thanking him once again, she excused herself, leaving him there standing mutely, as if lost in a daydream.

It was then Henri realised that he did not even know her name.

-

Danielle Dumoulin stood before the ornate mirror, admiring her gleaming emerald. It was the loveliest thing she had ever set her eyes on in her life and the gifts from the rest of her admirers was nothing compared to this. Its deep green brought out the colour of her eyes and reflected the golden sunlight with each twirl of her graceful fingers.

Last night had been a breeze. Henri was so enamored by her charms he could barely speak in her presence. Stuttering fool. She was well aware that the jewel she was wearing now was meant for his mother. Madame Madeleine, on her deathbed, had requested to see her beloved treasure for the last time. The jewel was a gift to her from her late husband and it was most dear to her. It made almost Danielle feel guilty. Almost.

She sighed. She shuddered, thinking of what her mother might say if she had known what Danielle were doing – being merely under the impression that she was a maidservant. But then again, they had no right to reprimand her, for she had done her duty as the oldest of her five siblings by frequently sending some money back.

It was a beautiful day outside. The sun was shining brightly and the birds could be heard singing their jovial tunes melodiously in the distance.

She appraised herself in the mirror. Even though Richard was sick and unable to leave the bed, it would not do for him to see her in anything that was less than perfect. As she readied herself to make an appearance in Richard’s bedchambers, a maidservant came bustling in.

“There is someone at the door, Mademoiselle.” The maidservant curtseyed. “He wants to see Monsieur Richard immediately. I have informed him that Monsieur Richard is not feeling well but the gentleman insists and will not –”

“All right. I will take care of it.” Danielle said, curiosity piqued. The maidservants knew people who usually came around, and seeing the maidservant fretting so much, she had to wonder if it were someone important… like someone of Royalty, perhaps…?

“My apologies, Mademoiselle. I truly did not–”

“Thank you, Margaret.” Danielle said firmly. “Now, if you please.” She followed the maidservant down the stairs.

The gentleman had brown hair that seemed to shine and exude a golden light in the sunshine, like the halo of an angel. His eyes were the deepest brown, and there was something alluring and mesmerising about them. He had the rather sharp features of an aristocrat, although his lips were currently curved into a gleaming smile.

“May I ask what I can do for you, Monsieur?” Danielle curtseyed. Though her tone was polite, her sharp eyes appraised him carefully. She did not remember seeing him before. Since she always made it a point to attend every social gathering, she was certain that this gentleman had just arrived there and was new to the country.

“I would like to see Monsieur Richard please.” He gave a quick bow. “It is a matter of great urgency.”

“Monsieur Richard is not feeling particularly well. Would you like me to help you with whatever it is you need?”

The gentleman hesitated. “There is going to be a ball at the palace and I personally came to see if Monsieur Richard would attend it. Would you be so kind as to pass this message on to Monsieur Richard, Madame? I would loathe it if he did not turn up.”

“I am only his sister!” Danielle lied smoothly, indignant at his assumption that she was married to Richard. “And may I ask, who are you, Monsieur?”

“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle.” He said apologetically. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for my abominable mistake. Do call me Philippe.”

Philippe? That did not ring any bells at all. There was something she could not quite place. It was almost as if she were looking into her own reflection; she could see the charming smile she always wore to get whatever she wanted, mirrored on his face. “I am Danielle.” Danielle had always been adept at keeping her face expressionless, but this time she had trouble trying to keep the alarm out of her face. What in the world possessed her to give her real name?

“Danielle,” Philippe repeated, a winsome smile on his face. “I would loathe not to see you at the ball as well.”

“Do not flatter me, Monsieur,” Danielle laughed.

“It is Philippe, I am afraid I must insist.”

“All right, Philippe.” She smiled back. “I will try my utmost best to be there.”

“Good.” He seemed to be rather satisfied. “And now I must leave – my job here is done. Goodbye, Danielle.” Philippe gave a courtly bow and swung up onto the saddle of his chestnut stallion and galloping away, dust billowing in the wind.

“Goodbye, Philippe.”

-

Danielle lay in the field of green, lush grass; hands spread wide open and eyes closed against the soft glare of the setting sun. She sighed, drinking in all the smells and sounds of the spectacular scenery. The fragrance of the ripe apples pervaded the air. She could hear the birds in the distance and the rushing of the waters from the river nearby. Her crimson hair splayed out against the green grass in a stunning contrast, her face was one of absolute serenity and peace.

She had met up with Philippe a few occasions after that meeting, and she found him to be a most invigorating gentleman. Most of the gentleman she knew treated her so delicately, as if she would break at the slightest comment, but Philippe on the other hand, did not. Yes, there was no doubt about his impeccable manners, but his cutting comments and icy tone sometimes left her either laughing or inconceivably livid.

All of the sudden, she frowned. Was that the gentle thudding of hooves she heard? Her peace destroyed, she sat up and searched among the masses of the green and brown trees. There was no one.

Sighing, she slipped back on the ground and closed her eyes, her body relaxing slowly. There it was again, the sounds of a horse trotting. She shifted to the side slightly and peeped through her hooded eyelids. There. Smiling at her own ingenuity, she shifted back again.

“May I request, Monsieur, that you come out of your hiding? It is not polite to spy on a lady.”

A dark hooded shadow glided into view, the horse moving silently and swiftly among the sweet-smelling grass. Just as he neared Danielle, he dismounted with an easy grace and fell into the ground next to her.

“I was not spying, merely looking for good game,” came the familiar voice, and the stranger removed the hood, revealing Philippe.

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe.” Danielle sat up and turned to look at him.

“Do you doubt my sincerity, Mademoiselle?” Again, the charming smirk surfaced.

“Not your sincerity, Monsieur.” She laughed. “Just your intentions.”

Philippe chuckled. “Mademoiselle, do I look like the sort that would persist in such deviant behaviour to you?”

Danielle pretended to consider it seriously. Tapping a finger against her chin, she answered, “Monsieur, with that hood on, I am afraid you do.”

Dramatically, his hand went to his heart and his countenance turned anguished. “You wound me, Danielle.”

“And you scared the wits out of me by sneaking on me!”

“I do not sneak!”

“You just did!”

“I was looking for game!”

“You sneaked!”

“I did not!”

“You, Monsieur, are no gentleman.” Danielle glowered at him sullenly.

“Neither are you a lady.” Philippe drawled, raising an eyebrow.

“And pray tell me how I am not?” She challenged him, glaring at him in the darkening sunset and trying in vain to focus on anything but the warm glow of his eyes.

“Ladies do not accuse gentlemen of something they did not commit,” was his prompt answer.

Insufferable fool. If she had known he was such a person, she would have never met him at the doorway at all. Fuming and at a loss for the reason as to why he so easily provoked her ire, she stood up and stepped over him haughtily, nose in the air. Danielle could sense his amusement in the air and that made her all the more infuriated. Ignoring his eyes on her back, she edged towards the forest, cursing herself for going out at such late hours. Night was starting to set in already, and she would rather die than admit it, but she found the dark rather terrifying.

Danielle made it to the outer rims of the forest, half-expecting Philippe to offer to take her back on his horse. He did not. Curse him. She was too prideful to turn around to look at him, much less request that he help her. Mustering up her courage, she suddenly at the sense of another presence close to her. It was nothing but her imagination, she insisted to herself. But there was a part of her, a small part of her that could not let go of the apprehensive feeling that someone other than Philippe that was watching her.

The dark shadow of a leaf stirred in the slight breeze.

And she was right. For a moment later, she felt a rough hand over her mouth, muffling her screams of fright and lifting her up into the air and onto a horse. At once, she heard the frantic shouts coming from Philippe as he rushed to aid her. It must be the gypsies. They had been growing braver these few years and the King could do nothing about it but send his soldiers to hunt for them – an order which was executed futilely. The King could use some help from his son – who was currently abroad – if you asked her.

“Go,” a voice hissed in the perpetual darkness and hands seized her, holding her firm as the mount started cantering away. She could hear Philippe’s mount rearing in the clearing and terror clutched at her heart. He would be too late.

Author's Note: Yes, I am very proud of this one. It actually got published! Although, when I reread it now, it makes me feel very embarrassed for some reason... Unlike 'The Road Less Travelled' this is mainly historical romance, and distinctly less horrific.