Sea of Memory

The carriage was dark and a velvet black enclosed the three; Lupin, Uncle Mortimor and Lord Maximilien. It muffled the space and intensified the atmosphere. Lupin felt Uncle Moritimor's discomfort and Lord Maximilien's almost triumphant energy as if they were waves flowing and undulating throught the thick blanket of dark.
The inner lanterns had not been lit, in order to preserve Lupin's anonymity till the last possible moment. The orange and gold lights of night-time Paris slashed thorugh the carriage from time to time, however - bursting in and radiating slantingly across Lupin's enormous rouched silks, Lord Maximilen's thick, expensive stin and illuminating Uncle Mortimor's muted gold and soft gray.
She sat upon the fine velvet squabs, looking straightly across to the opposing cushions, her chin even and here eyes quiet, though tense. The moments ticked past, the rocking of the carriage making its way over the Parisien cobbles was like the intensifying silence before thunder breaks directly above. Suddenly, Lupin's history converged upon her, crashing about her like so many waves and obliterating her as if she were consumed by the deep sea of memory:
Long hours alone in the townhouse surrounded her, lost slivers in Lord Grefham's stable slashed through the dark, Graye stood before her dark and gray, then in the golden sun. The moments lit by the library fire's golden glow washed across the background, Lord Grefham handed her his ring and held her close, curled against him, as in front of this warm tapestry, she leapt from his carriage in the cold, damp London air - another carriage hurtling towards her. It was only Lord Grefham now - and the dream. Their encounter on the stairs. His explanation in the positing-house. His eyes as they watched her. Perhaps she had never realized how deeply he had looked into her when she had questioned him. The grace in his eyes. Te knowledge and the willingess to know of her pain and her past. She was viciously glad she had not told him more, that he knew only enough to love, that she had not left him with her sadness; only her deepest feeling.
Then her last moment with him. He held her hand to his lips at the supper room in the antiquated posting house. His eyes and the warmth of his hand took up her entire vision. She had longed to run to him and embrace him before departing to her chambers. But she had witheld herself. Perhaps, mayhap, it had been for the best. Certainly he might have grown more worried. His anger must have been great; his sadness had been unmistakable at the inn on the port in England.
Yet it had been two months. Surely a short romance such as she would be forgotten by a gentleman-rake such as he, her mind reasoned cruelly, defiantly. A two-week romance with a young and odd girl, it could not have compared to his dames de nuit, his impassionadas, his countless aventures. Could it have?
A frown grew between her eyes, as they also deepened a little with a strange emotion - was it worry, fear?
The carriage halted. It was the absolute halt of arrival. The carriage rocked a little as the horses settled toa stop. Lupin surfaced from her memories, or rather, they flew away from her, leaving her once again sitting still on the cold ground of consciousness. Uncle Mortimor looked rather green, and his lips were ursed. Lord Maximilien looked as if he were more amused than ever, his brows raised as if mocking the entire situation, but his eyes were too hard to mirror simple facetiousness. Lupin's hands were clasped more tightly in her lap, but her expression was urbane. Teh door opened, and the footman lowered the steps easily. They were movements so very familiar to Lupin, but now separated from her by the insupperable distance of position.
She rose slightly, and sweeping her skirts behind her in a quick, efficient twitch, she stpped from the dark of the carriage into the staring glare of the Parisien ton.

Over the Water

To keep the charade, it took Uncle Mortimor and Lord Maximilien a very few days to outfit Lupin with the finest of things. But she was kept away from the prying and hungry eyes of Parisien society, in the veriest dark, to heighten the suspense. It was to be one night - Lord Maximilien had planned it so - one night when she was to be brought out, brought out as the newest choice of Lord Maximilien, that staple of Paris ton.
Uncle Mortimor, though he tried to be in brown moods the entirety of the time, could not suppress a strange relaxation that made him less tense and more accepting of the vagaries of this strange adventure. It became clear that he loved Paris, and having once been forced by the clarity of their danger to accept Lupin's fall from her status as lady, he soon became complicit, and a willing member of their small trio.
It was a warm and balmy night, and Lupin had a terrible headache. All day, Uncle Mortimor and Lord Maximilien had simultaneously quarrelled and combined forces to put the final touches on her debut evening. She had been told to bathe, she had been plucked, powdered, scented, manicured. She stood now by the bedpost, her hair down about her chin, wrapped in a simple dressing gown of silk. The candles were burning low, having been brightly afire since the first hint of dusk to contrive the long operations.
Lupin looked dourly around the room, at the remnants of a day entirely devoted to appearance. There was no hint that a huge storm had not ransacked the room. All the maids had cleared a few moments before to fetch her dress, the wigger, and her paintist - who was to be Lord Maximilien himself. She had stood forgotten, like a doll thrown away after a day of hectic play.
She sighed and held herself up straighter. It was not the oddness of this frivolous, ungrounded commital to beauty that was bothering her (though it was nagging at her nerves). It was the fact that something was amiss. Something dark and nebulous hovered just outside her senses. She shook her head, and tried to fight off the feeling of forboding. It was no doubt her nerves. No doubt her nerves.
She crossed the room to the door, and made her way down the dark hall. She felt calmer in the dark, and her eyes were more at rest. More than anything, she had the overwhelming desire to hide, but she shook her head impatiently, and made her way down the hall to Lord Maximilien's room. Perhaps he was ready to continue the ministrations - she was impatient to leave, and begin the doubtless exhausting evening.
She stood indecisively at the door for a moment, her spine straight, but her hand not certain whether to interrupt his privacy.
She raised her hand and knocked, quietly, but firmly.
Light footfalls were heard on the other side of the portal, and the door swung open. Lord Maximilien stood on the other side, his bright eyes glittering.
"Are you ready to continue my coutume, seigneur?" queried Lupin quietly, her chin up, though there was an uncertain look in her eyes.
Lord Maximilien stepped back, allowing her into the room. "Oui, mon enfante, pas de doute," he followed her, closing the door softly behind them. It was a veritable magazine of beauty, Lord Maximilien's room. some five doors opened off of the main chamber, each with a catalog of beautifying implements and potations.
Lupin looked around her surprised, oddly.
Four large windows faced la boulevard, all open to the warming night air. The candles blazed brightly in candlabra. Lupin held herself from moving towards the window. The breeze beckoned her, but she knew it would be courting disaster to show her face in such a way.
Lord Maximilien looked at her curiously. "You think it is not convenable to be seen in my chambers?"
Lupin smiled a small smile. "It isn't the propriety, my lord. It is my own suspicions."
"There is no better disguise than the one closest to the truth. They would not suspect my - maitresse - d'etre la cherchee; to be the one for whom they search. With a wig or without, you are not where, or whom, they expect."
Lupin looked at him for a moment. Her senses tingled. She wanted so to feel the breeze, but the nebulous feeling followed her still. It was as if the whole sea were rumbling just outside her senses to feel it. She took a step to the window's side, and felt the coolness of the night run over her skin. Something else, as well. Something she recognized but could not resist. She took a step into the light. Silhouetted, she stood for a moment - long enough to see the form on the walk had seen her. The tall, graceful form of someone very familiar. She whipped herself back out of the window, closing her eyes tight, and holding every breath in. Surely not. It could not have been. Her heart beat a heavy, quick rhythm of alarm and fear. No. No.
Moving with absolute decision, she pulled the drapery pull, letting the dark velvet sweep across the window. She snuffed the candles succinctly, and then striding back to the window, pulled the edge of the curtain away and gazed out at the street. It was empty, completely void. Surely noone could have disappeared so quickly. She sighed, and though her heart beat a strange rhythm still, she shook her head. Her gentleman would not follow her to Paris. He had turned back in England. And he would not know her if he saw her. She looked down at her hands, those he had held and traced at Graye. He would not know them now - soft and trimmed, all scented and pearly.
A deep pain ached somewhere inside, but she raised her head and looked back at Lord Maximilien, who surveyed her oddly, but with a gentle sympathy.
"It is nearly time to leave," she commented straightly. "Surely we should prepare?"
He bowed elegantly, and she swept past him towards her own chamber once more.