She dressed slowly near the tree, wringing out her curls and retwisting her chignon; by the time she returned to the clearing, André and Jean-Auguste were already there, saddling their horses and ignoring the good-natured jibes directed at their dripping locks. Lysette’s appearance, wet hair freshly groomed, chemise clinging revealingly to her damp flesh, caused not a few murmurs and raised eyebrows. The young lieutenant who had taken such an interest in her sulked throughout breakfast, and when it was time to start the day’s march he did not appear at her side, as was his custom, to help her into her saddle.
“May I?” It was a nonchalant Jean-Auguste, a crooked grin on his face. “Since I seem to be partly to blame for your abandonment this morning!”
She opened her mouth to speak, to pursue her campaign with some beguiling remark, and then thought better of it. He might appreciate frankness instead. More especially because sincerity in this instance was not difficult. “It is scarcely necessary,” she said kindly. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I can hardly pretend to you, Jean-Auguste, that I am a stranger to a horse, though my young admirer yonder seems not to have noticed!”
He laughed shortly, still half skeptical at her open response. “Then let me assist you because I wish it.”
She smiled her assent and then, not waiting for his hands about her waist, reached up and rested her own hands on his shoulders, her eyes radiating warmth and gratitude. For a moment he seemed almost reluctant to hold her, and when at length he swung her up into the saddle, his grip was less than steady, as though her yielding closeness had upset his usual composure. He handed her the reins, but when she would have turned her horse about he held the bridle, unwilling to let the moment pass.
“I…trust I did not spoil your morning,” he said, genuine concern on his face. “It seemed wise to keep you from folly if you…eh bien! I could not be sure…”
She smiled brightly at him. Damn him! It had been deliberate! “How could you spoil aught? I enjoy swimming, and your company—both of you—was most welcome!”
“You swim well. It is rare to find a woman with such skill.”
She dimpled prettily at him. “Ah, my fine gallant! But could you have caught me?”
He shrugged his shoulders and shuffled the dirt at his feet. “Well…”
Twirl the silken noose and let fly. “What would you have done had you caught me?”
His head snapped up, jolted by the unexpected question, the open seduction in those hazy violet eyes. He gaped, feeling foolish, aware of her game, captivated nonetheless.
Capture the prey and bind him fast. “Perhaps, the next time, I shall let you!” She did not stay to enjoy her triumph; prodding her mare with her knee, she moved to the head of the column and André, confident she had shaken Narbaux’s peace of mind enough so that he would forget to play chaperon for a few hours.
Chapter Six
The silver orb of the moon shone down upon the crossroads: two narrow threads of dust, pale gold earth of Touraine, that bisected one another and then went their separate ways—over the rise of the hill, through the dark and leafy woods, on to some distant town—never to meet again. Like André and me, thought Lysette, her heart aching within her breast. She wrung her hands, feeling helpless and desperate.
At the junction of the two roads there was a small shrine, with a statue of the Virgin, placed there to protect and cheer the travelers and wanderers who might pass. Lysette crossed toward the blue-robed icon, half tempted to sink to her knees and offer up her own prayers; guilt and shame made her turn away at the last moment. How could she pray to the Virgin to deliver another woman’s husband to her eager embrace? And there was so little time left!
As she had hoped, her advances to Narbaux in the morning had unnerved him enough so that he had kept his distance all the day. She had ridden with André, smiled at him, flattered him shamelessly, longed for evening to fall, for the opportunity to be alone with him. At twilight they had come to the crossroads, and the men had shouted in happy exuberance. The sight of the altar, a landmark to many of them, meant that home was not far away. Their joy had been Lysette’s dismay, a warning that her chances were fast escaping. And then, tonight, as soon as they had finished their meal, André had yawned and curled up at the mossy base of a large elm tree, falling asleep almost at once; sick at heart, Lysette had tossed restlessly nearby. At length, unable to sleep, she had left the dim woods and come to stand here at the crossroads, beneath the cold uncaring eye of the moon.
A sudden movement behind the shrine, a shadow darker than the nearby bushes, made her jump, aware of the isolation of the spot.
“Forgive me, Lysette. I did not mean to startle you.” It was Narbaux’s voice, strangely subdued. He stepped from beyond the bushes, and came to stand beside her, his bright hair pale and silvery in the moonlight. “I could not sleep.”
“Nor I. Mayhap it is the night.”
“Or the place.” He turned and indicated the brambles. “There is a large rock beyond the thicket—not a velvet cushion, perhaps—but a pleasant enough spot to sit and watch the moon…” He motioned with his hand and she followed him to a large flat boulder, tucking her skirts demurely around her as she sat. The moon shone full upon his face and she was surprised by the look she saw there. Distant, distracted, a small furrow carving a line between his brows. He did not at first seem inclined to speak; only when she stirred restlessly did he rouse himself and smile in sheepish apology for his silence.
“We are very near to home now. Less than a day’s ride to Vilmorin and Chimère—though of course it will take us two days because the men are on foot.” He lapsed again into silence, his eyes straying to the bright moon, the silvered shrine.
“Have you been here before?”
He laughed mirthlessly. “Many times. Many times…” His voice was heavy with remembrance. “It was our rendezvous…my brother and me…from the time I could ride alone. I would come here to meet him after he had been away—even when he came from Paris and it would have been easier to ride directly to Chimère. He would travel an extra half day—no matter how long the detour—knowing I was waiting here. And then we would ride home together. There might be pressing business at Chimère, or a charming wench from Vouvray to usurp his days, but here at the crossroads, and on that ride…” He smiled crookedly, his voice trailing off.
“And is he yet at Chimère?”
“He is dead.”
“Oh.”
“The smallpox.”
Silence again. At length Lysette sighed, her face in the moonlight pensive and filled with regret. “They told me Guy had died because his heart burst within him. But how can that be so? How can something fail that was not there to begin with? Mon Dieu, do not pity me!” she exclaimed, as Jean-Auguste turned compassionate eyes to her. “I did not care! Have pity rather on the poor people of Soligne who were so often his victims. There was scarce a soul in all the village who would call him friend!”
“Why then, you must have been very lonely!”
His words were so unexpected, probing a wound she hardly knew existed, that she flinched and tears sprang to her eyes. She turned her head to the shadows so he would not see. Lonely. She had not allowed herself to think of it before. Lonely…there had never been a moment, in all the years since her father had died and she had gone to live with her aunt and uncle, that she had not been lonely, empty, waiting. She frowned. How dare Narbaux pry into her soul! “Lonely!” she sneered, tossing her head in contempt. “Only while Guy was alive!”
“Mon Dieu! Why did you marry him?”
She shrugged. “The years were passing. What was I to do?”
He laughed aloud at that. “And what are you now? Twenty? Twenty-one?”
She drew herself up. “Twenty-two!” she said haughtily.
“And with a face as sweet and fresh as a child’s! Fear not, my lovely, you will be breaking hearts until you are in your dotage!”
His superior tone irked her. “Are you such an old man you
rself that I must endure your condescension?”
“I have seen eleven more summers than you—for whatever it is worth in wisdom and experience.”
“And André?”
“André is thirty-eight,” he said sharply, “and sowing his oats almost before you were born!”
“Pooh!” she said, her temper rising. “Guy was near fifty!”
“Is it a husband you seek or a father?”
Furious, she jumped to her feet. “I seek a man,” she said scornfully, “though le bon Dieu knows where I shall find him!” She turned to go, but his hand, firm on her arm, stopped her.
“I beg of you,” he said earnestly, “do not seek for him at Vilmorin.”
She wavered, minded to lash at him with sharp words, then changed her mind. It was really quite foolish to argue all the time over André. She was determined to have him, Jean-Auguste equally determined to prevent it, if he could. If she only remembered to hold her temper in check, all would be well. In many ways, Narbaux was a softling, surprisingly manageable, susceptible to her charms if she put her mind to charming him. And a pleasant man besides. Until André’s name had entered their conversation, she had felt comfortable, at ease, sitting here with him in the moonlight. And though she had chafed at his intrusion this morning at the lake, she could not deny that his antics had made her laugh with a lightheartedness that was all too rare in her life.
“Must we quarrel?” she asked, eyes wide with dismay. “I should like to remember these last few days with pleasure, not the rancor of angry words!”
He ducked his head sheepishly. “Then let us be friends.”
“Will you give me your hand on it?” she asked softly.
He clasped her fingers in a firm handshake, then turned her delicate hand this way and that, examining the slender fingers, the smooth skin that caught the light of the moon on its velvet surface. Surprised, she caught her breath, thinking for a moment that he would bring it to his lips; instead he chuckled, a rumbling laugh deep in his throat. “What a lethal weapon this is! By my faith, I have suffered less in some campaigns than I did from your dainty hand! Do you always attack your adversaries thus?”
“Never!” she giggled. “Most men are far more susceptible to smiles than to blows!” She stopped, surprised at her own frankness. It was odd. Though she hated his piercing eyes that saw through her games and deceptions, she felt comfortable, relaxed in his presence, as though his very awareness relieved her of the necessity of pretense.
He laughed. “Even I am susceptible to your charming smiles!”
“Though you mistrust me?” It was more a statement than a question.
“Though I mistrust you!”
She sighed in mock dismay and fluttered her eyes at him. “Alas! And here am I, a defenseless maiden, alone, in the dark of night…”
“Beneath the full moon?”
She ignored his interruption. “In the dark of night, with a strange man who speaks to me of trust!”
“Fear not, fair maiden, I shall escort you to the safety of yon forest, where you may sleep peacefully in your leafy bower…”
“And hard ground! Mon Dieu, but I shall welcome a soft bed!”
He grimaced. “In your leafy bower, where you may sleep in peace and dream of…”
“André!”
His face went hard, eyes narrowing to harsh lines. “You are a fool!” he spat, and turning, strode angrily into the woods.
They reached the river Loire by mid-afternoon of the next day, crossing a rickety wooden bridge just below Tours. Following the course of the river, they came at evening to a flat sandbar that jutted out into the placid waters; here they decided to make camp.
Lysette and Jean-Auguste had been coldly distant all the day; now, supper finished, they sat apart, Narbaux to puff thoughtfully on his pipe, Lysette to stare morosely into the fire and curse the bright moon, the open sandbar. Tomorrow. They would be in Vilmorin tomorrow. And not a patch of privacy in this whole cursed spot! It was enough to make her cry with frustration. Sighing deeply, she arose and sauntered to the edge of the river. Tucking her knees under her, she sat upon the sand and plucked idly at the leaves of a nearby shrub, tossing them into the gentle current. The sounds of the men slowly stilled behind her as, one by one, they settled in for the night and fell asleep. She had no wish to rest, to return to the campsite, to see André asleep in the moonlight, tantalizing, splendid, unattainable.
“Is it a water nymph, then, here by the shore, washed up by the river?”
She jumped at the sound of André’s rich baritone and sprang to her feet, turning to greet him, her heart pounding wildly.
“More like a siren of the deep,” said Jean-Auguste, his voice cool and amused, “waiting to trap the unwary!”
She wondered if he could see the look of contempt on her face, but she composed herself and smiled tightly. “Neither, Messieurs. Only a weary traveler, glad to see the end of this long journey.”
André nodded in understanding. “I regret if it has caused you discomfort. I have been thinking of late that the sooner you are joined with your family at Chartres, the happier you might be. You are welcome, of course, to stay and rest at Vilmorin for as long as you wish, but whether or not I must mobilize a force and march to Corbie I will see to it that several of my men escort you to your brother at your convenience.”
“You are very kind, Monsieur, and I shall be forever in your debt.” She flashed a malicious glance at Narbaux, then smiled slyly to herself. This time she would best him! Let him try to interfere now! “But I have never thanked you properly for your goodness to me.” Her soft voice caressed Crillon, the words meant for him alone. “Please…may I…André?” Aware that Narbaux watched helplessly, she put her arms about André’s neck and stood on tiptoe, pulling his face down to hers. How tall he was! How handsome his strong face was in the moonlight! She made as though to kiss him on the cheek; at the last second she turned her face, the movement so natural it seemed an accident, and kissed him full upon the mouth, closing her eyes and swaying gently against him. He started, surprised, half convinced it had been his fault, and pushed her away, stumbling out an apology.
“Forgive me, Lysette…Madame…I had not meant…”
There was a note of mockery in Narbaux’s voice, but his words were soothing, ever the mediator. “You scarce need to apologize, André! I have no doubt that Lysette appreciated the innocence of your kiss! You were not offended, ma petite?” He bent thoughtfully to Lysette.
Relieved, André turned back to the river, his mind already on other things. “Well then…let us enjoy the beauty of the night, and the prospect of home on the morrow. Look,” he said suddenly, and pointed to a large leaf that glided gently on the placid river, swirling as it encountered small eddies, skimming across the glassy waters. “Do you suppose if Marielle were in the gardens of Vilmorin tonight, and cast a leaf into the Loire, it could reach us here?” He laughed softly at his own fancy, the sound barely hiding the aching loneliness in his voice.
Lysette heard only the pounding of her heart. He had not even noticed! He did not even care! She had trembled as she kissed him, and all he could speak about was an absurd leaf! And Narbaux knew. She could not even suffer her humiliation alone, but had only to turn her head to see his gloating grin. Murmuring a soft good night, she stumbled toward the campsite, hardly knowing whether to cry or scream, her hatred of Jean-Auguste as strong as her passion for André.
A strong hand gripped her arm and turned her about. Narbaux! She clenched her fists, tempted to strike him, but he held fast to her hands until her fury had abated. She could not even look at him.
“Perhaps it is for the best that André is blind,” he said gently, his voice so filled with warmth and sympathy that she looked up in surprise, expecting to see mockery in his eyes. He smiled his crooked grin and brought her hands to his lips, uncurling her tense fingers and planting a tender kiss on the velvet skin. “For my part, ma chère, I think that any man who would spurn your
kiss is a bit of a fool!”
Confused, unhappy, she choked back a sob of frustration and pulled her hands away, retreating to the safety of the campfire, and a night full of troubled dreams.
In the morning the young officers gathered around to bid them farewell. They were all men of Vouvray, merchants’ sons, scions of the lesser nobility, moneyed enough to afford horses. Now that they were so close to home it seemed foolish to delay their arrival because of the slow pace of the foot soldiers. André paid them their due, advising them that he might again have need of their services, and watched them gallop off down the dusty road, his impatient heart filled with envy.
The path they followed took them along the edge of the river that flowed, wide and serene, to their right. On the left of the road, and at some distance, Lysette could see the line of the chalk cliffs, their pale yellow surface pocked with the hollows and natural caves that André had described. Here and there, a cave entrance had been covered with a wooden door, a small window. Sometimes a chimney poked incongruously above the line of the bluffs. They were indeed strange houses, tucked away into unexpected angles of the limestone, and Lysette smiled to see strings of laundry emerging from the very cliffs and geese perched precariously on rocky outcroppings.
Just after noon, Narbaux rode up beside Lysette and indicated a spot some distance ahead. Above the line of the trees she could see rounded turrets and a slate roof; she did not need to be told it was Vilmorin—the sudden joy that lit up André’s face made it apparent. He quickened his horse’s pace, while Lysette and Jean-Auguste followed suit, leaving the foot soldiers behind to straggle home in their own time.
Vilmorin was a large, golden-stoned château, its two wings perpendicular to the river and embracing a neat gravel courtyard into which they now rode. To their right, the land fell away into gardens and terraces until it reached the Loire, the wide expanses of lawn broken here and there by large old trees. Midway between the château and the river was a small building, a summerhouse, perhaps, that looked like a miniature castle with stone walls and tiny turrets, the whole bedecked with climbing roses.
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