Out of this building emerged a large and buxom woman, like a great ship in full sail, trailing in her wake two small boys. The elder one, as blond as André, began to jump up and down excitedly, and raced up the terrace toward them; the woman picked up the younger lad, a boy of two or so, with reddish brown curls, and hurried to them as fast as her large bulk would allow. André leapt from his horse and swept the elder boy into his arms; the younger one, suddenly shy and fearful, clung for a moment to the woman before letting himself be swung into the air in his turn.
Lysette watched the scene in agony, her heart filled with pain and jealousy, seeing André slip away from her. But there was more anguish to come. André by now had both boys in his arms and was chattering away to them, laughing and merry. Of a sudden he stopped, the smile frozen upon his face, his eyes drawn to the château. Lysette followed his glance. There in a doorway was a woman, the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Dear God, she thought, let her not be Marielle! even as André slid the children slowly out of his arms and strode to her side, taking her hands and smiling down into her eyes.
She was tall and slender, with a regal bearing and elegance that made Lysette painfully aware, for the first time, of her own short stature, her coarse clothes. Marielle’s hair, a rich russet, was thick and curly, and she wore it loose and full about her face, rather than pinned up in the current fashion. She was clad in a taffeta gown of pale green that served to point up the smoky depths of her hazel eyes, the creamy opalescence of her skin. When she smiled up at André her face was lit by a radiance that made her glow. He kissed her gently and she blushed, suddenly shy in the presence of others.
Jean-Auguste dismounted and turned to Lysette, his hands raised in assistance; she shook him off, feeling isolated, preferring to keep her distance from a scene in which she was so obviously superfluous. There was a flurry of hugs and kisses as Marielle and Narbaux embraced like old friends, and the buxom woman clutched André in a hearty bear hug, receiving a resounding smack to her ample bottom as reward.
“Louise, you devil!” he laughed. “Have you been keeping that husband of yours out of mischief?”
“Aah! Grisaille can look after himself! It is enough to tend these twigs of yours!” She gestured with her chin at the two little boys, running happily among the adults, scarcely aware of the why of all this gladness, but enjoying it nonetheless. “Now go and kiss your wife like a rightful husband—none of your bird pecks—and leave the children to me! Mayhap your homecoming will end in more burdens for us all!” She snickered and jabbed André in the ribs, while Marielle flamed scarlet.
“André?”
Crillon turned at the soft plea in Lysette’s voice, disconcerted at his own neglect. She smiled in forgiveness and held out her arms for his help; he swung her easily out of the saddle and led her to Marielle.
“Marielle…Lysette…Madame la Marquise de Ferrand. Lysette, my wife la Comtesse du Crillon. Lysette was caught up in the rioting at Soligne—we are escorting her to her brother at Chartres.”
Marielle smiled warmly at Lysette. If she felt uneasy, her serene face did not betray it. “And will your husband, Monsieur le Marquis, join you in Chartres?”
“Alas! I have worn widow’s weeds near to a year now—I am quite alone in the world! But for André’s kindness…” she sighed and gazed worshipfully at him, letting the eloquence of her silence complete her words.
Was there a sharp edge to Marielle’s voice? “Methinks my husband has long since found his métier as champion to unfortunate demoiselles! But you must all be weary. Louise! See to the travelers…hot water for baths…and send Dominique to attend Madame la Marquise…come, mes petits.” She picked up the younger boy and led the elder by the hand, sweeping past Crillon toward the château. “André, mon cher,” she said, as casually as though it had been only yesterday, rather than four months, since they had seen one another, “you will see to the horses, will you not?”
Chapter Seven
André found Marielle at last in the nursery with the children, crouched down, exchanging secrets with the blond François. Eyes blazing blue fire, he strode into the room, oblivious to the look of alarm on the face of the young servant girl.
“You!” he barked at her. “Attend to the children!”
The poor girl nodded in fear and curtsied quickly, hardly daring to lift her head, trembling at the anger in his voice. So this is what it would be like, now that the master was home! She took François by the hand and led him to a corner where Alain was happily playing with small blocks of wood, piling them one atop the other and gurgling with joy as he demolished them in one sweep of his pudgy hand.
Without a word, André hauled Marielle to her feet, his hand firm about her slender wrist. Despite her squeaks of protest, he pulled her out of the nursery and down the wide corridor until he came to an open door that led to an airy sitting room, bright with the afternoon sun. Marching her inside, he slammed the door behind them and swung her around to face him, his arms circling her shoulders and waist.
“Now, Madame!” he growled, and crushed her in a fierce embrace, bending her backward over his arm, his mouth possessing hers in a hungry kiss. She responded ardently, her soft body yielding to him, slender arms twined about his neck. When at last he released her, her breast was heaving and some of the anger had drained from his eyes.
“I vow, Madame, if ever you force me to seek you out again, I shall seek you with a switch from a willow tree,” he said, his tone milder than his threat.
Her green eyes flashed dangerously. “Am I to sit about forever, then, until you choose to return home? Do you think that Vilmorin needs no overseer while you are away? There are tasks to be attended to, responsibilities to be borne—shall I abjure all this and wait, like some foolish sit-by-the-fire, for that moment when you deign to return and notice me?”
He smiled sheepishly and held out his hands in conciliation. “Marielle. Love. Only remember the months I dream of your welcoming kiss; vouchsafe me that, at least—no matter how pressing your duties.”
She came in to his arms then, all supple compliance and tenderness, and when they kissed it was as equals, partners in love, each responding to the needs of the other. At length he lifted her in his arms, murmuring sweet endearments, and carried her to a little door cut into the paneling that led to his bedchamber. Pushing it open with his booted foot, he entered the room and then stopped, his handsome face twisted in annoyance. Within the room two young footmen were heatedly arguing about the placement of a large tub of steaming water. A gangly young servant, her face scarred by smallpox, was busily shaking out doublets and breeches from a large armoire. At the sight of the master, his lady in his arms, they gaped and shuffled about uncertainly. Wriggling out of André’s grasp, Marielle stood up and smoothed her skirts, determined to salvage as much dignity as she could from the situation. She dismissed the servants with an imperious nod of the head, then thought better of it and called back the young girl.
“Suzanne. A moment.” She rummaged through the armoire. “Monsieur le Vicomte de Narbaux will need fresh garments—see that he gets these.” She handed the clothing to Suzanne, who curtsied quickly and vanished from the room. Pulling forth a fine linen doublet, Marielle laid it neatly on the bed and returned to fetch breeches and hose, shoes and a snowy cambric shirt, bustling about capably from armoire to bed to cabinet, once again the orderly mistress of her home. André sighed, looking in vain for his sweet beloved of but a minute before.
“Will you shave, André?” she asked. He nodded halfheartedly, then frowned and pulled her toward him, his mouth seeking hers. She answered his kisses with her own, but when he would have urged her down upon the bed she chided him gently. “Nom de Dieu, André. Not now! You are covered with dust and the bath is waiting and hot. Besides, we have guests and I must see to them. Please, mon cher!” She smiled seductively, her rosy lips pursed in invitation. “And in exchange I promise you I shall not leave your bed until cockcrow!”
�
�Hussy!” he laughed, slapping her bottom familiarly. “I shall hold you to that promise!”
While she set about filling a small basin of water and stirring up lather for his shave, he untied the long baldrick sash slung diagonally across one shoulder and stripped off his doublet. He removed his embroidered linen cuffs and untied the separate collar, rolling up his sleeves and turning back the collarless neckline of his shirt.
“It is not a very heavy growth,” she said, stroking his raspy chin.
“No,” he agreed, contemplating his face in the small mirror set into the shaving stand. “But then I shaved often on the journey.”
“What a surprise it was to see Jean-Auguste with his mustache gone! I scarce recognized him! He has never been clean-shaven since first I met him!”
“No. It is perhaps twelve years that he has clothed his face thus.”
“And then to shave it off?”
“I confess I was surprised. It was so sudden. And unexpected.”
“Did he do it for her?”
Startled, André glanced at Marielle, mildly astonished at the question, wary of the sudden edge in her voice. “Mayhap,” he said. “I had not thought of it before.”
“And is that why you shaved so often?”
He put down his razor, minded to turn her about, to read the expression on the face she now kept hidden from him, but she stepped to the bathtub and busied herself with stirring the water. He shrugged and resumed shaving. Perhaps he had only imagined her sudden coolness.
She strolled about the room, fanning herself with dainty fingers. “It is so very warm! I can scarcely remember when September has troubled me so! But it has been good for the grapes—I think you will be pleased with the vineyards. Grisaille thinks the harvest can begin in a week or two.” She sighed and contemplated her reflection in a large Venetian mirror, its etched and faceted edges casting sparkling rainbows on the chestnut hair that curled and flowed down her back. Putting her hands behind her neck, she piled the heavy tresses on top of her head, preening this way and that in the mirror. “Think you I should wear my hair up?”
He frowned. “I have always preferred it down! Why would you wish to change it?”
“It would be cooler on these warm days. She wears her hair up.”
“What?”
“Your charming companion!”
“Nom de Dieu, Marielle! What foolishness is this?”
“She is very pretty!”
“I had not noticed.”
Marielle turned to him, eyebrow raised skeptically, but fear lurked in the hazy depths of her green eyes. “When have you not noticed a pretty woman, more especially one you have traveled with? She is more than a little fond of you!”
He put down his razor and wiped the lather from his face. “Nonsense! Jean-Auguste, perhaps. They spent a great deal of time together. Come, come, Marielle, will you frighten yourself with false imaginings? Come and help me with my boots, and let us speak no more of Lysette.” She winced at that, and he cursed himself for not using Lysette’s title. In Marielle’s present mood, even so slight a matter as names would feed her fears. Dutifully, she helped him off with his boots, and chattered idly about Vilmorin and the children as he stripped off his travel-stained clothes, but the coolness remained in her eyes. He was tempted to forget his promise and take her to bed forthwith, trusting in his lovemaking to provide the reassurance his words could not; but when he made as if to hold her, she pushed him away and reminded him of his bargain. Reluctantly he stepped into the tub, letting the soothing water ease his limbs, wishing it could as easily wash away his disquietude.
She smiled tightly at him, trying to keep her voice even, probing the wound that brought her pain, unable to leave it alone, though her heart ached within her. “And you and…Lysette…did you spend a great deal of time together…alone?”
Angry, he was about to retort, to refute such nonsense; then he remembered the kiss in the moonlight (had it been innocent?), the temptation of Lysette’s femininity in the pine grove. He harrumphed and shook his head vigorously, but he found he could not meet Marielle’s eyes.
“Well!” she said, her voice suddenly bright with forced gaiety. “I must attend to supper. I thought we might take a stroll in the long gallery before we dine; with the windows open to the garden and the river breezes, it is quite delightful on these warm evenings. Do hurry, mon cher. The children will want to see you again before they are put to bed for the night.” She blew him a kiss and swept from the room, seeming as lighthearted as a country maiden.
Damn! he cursed to himself. Holding his breath, he let himself slide down into the tub until his head was submerged, fingers rubbing vigorously at his hair. Would that his troubled spirit could be cleansed as easily as his body!
Lysette lowered herself into the tub and breathed a sigh of contentment, luxuriating in the scented waters heavy with the fragrance of lilac. She closed her eyes and leaned back, enjoying the pleasure of being pampered and waited upon. She had almost forgotten how lovely it was when one had money; the rented house at Soligne had had but one servant, a surly old hag who grumbled at the smallest chores, and Guy’s profligacy had put the luxury of perfume almost out of her grasp—she could never afford the extravagance of scented oils for the bath. She wondered how it would be in the château at Chartres, now that she was dependent on her brother and his wife.
“I trust Madame, that the water is hot enough?”
Lysette opened her eyes. The maid Dominique was leaning over the tub, an obsequious smile on her thin face. “Thank you, Dominique,” she said, “it is quite agreeable. I do not like it extremely hot.”
Dominique giggled slyly. “Except sometimes, Madame?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You know, Madame!”
Lysette shook her head, mystified.
“Why should I wish it hot—even sometimes?”
Dark eyes flashing wickedly, the girl knelt beside the tub, her voice lowering as though it were a secret. “My grandmother used to say you could tell when a lady had been…indiscreet…with a man…if she feared he had left her with more than the memory of one night’s pleasure…you understand…”—she rocked an imaginary child in her arms—“…my grandmother said the lady would take her bath as hot as she could bear it…to keep herself from bearing the other, n’est-ce pas?” And here she snickered at her own cleverness.
“Mon Dieu!” Lysette’s jaw dropped in surprise. “But are you sure?”
“Ah, Madame, everyone knows it is so!”
Lysette laughed ruefully. All those wasted prayers when she feared a child from Guy! Though her aunt had tried to teach her to be a proper wife and housekeeper, it was clear she had neglected an important part of her education. Well, it was soon remedied. “Tell me,” she asked, “is that all?”
“I scarce know everything, Madame.” She blushed. “I am still a maid myself…but my grandmother used to say that was why high-born ladies ride so much early in the morning!”
“Riding?”
“Look you, Madame. A farmer’s wife…does she ride a horse? Nay! A wagon and team, mayhap, but not a horse! And have you never seen the numbers of children that hang about her skirts? But a fine lady of quality…I tell you, Madame, it must be so!” The two women nodded their heads in agreement. “When I am married,” continued Dominique, “I shall not be such a fool as that farmer’s wife! My father says my mother is his to do with as he wishes, and she has a duty to obey, but…” She shrugged her shoulders, her thin face sly as a ferret’s.
“But if a husband knows naught of what his wife does, where is the disobedience if she does as she chooses?” They laughed together at that, maid and mistress, like two wayward schoolgirls.
There was a gentle knock on the door and a pale maidservant entered, an older woman with stooped shoulders and eyes that seemed frozen in a permanent squint.
“Louise sent me with clothing for Madame la Marquise, but I fear it will need a great deal of adjustment.” She lai
d out petticoats and chemises, and a pale blue silk nightdress and peignoir. “These will be fine, I think. They were always too short for Madame la Comtesse, but alas!” She sighed and held up a dark blue taffeta skirt and bodice, obviously fashioned for the tall and willowy Marielle. She waited patiently while Lysette finished her bath and stepped out of the tub into the warm cloth that Dominique draped about her, indicating that Louise had also sent along fine silk stockings and a dainty pair of shoes that seemed small enough for Madame. Lysette nearly wept for joy at the softness of the slippers, after the agony of the heavy shoes she had been forced to wear on the journey. Sure enough, the chemise and petticoat were not too large; surprisingly, the bodice of the gown needed only a tightening of its back lacings for, while Marielle was a good deal taller than Lysette, she was also quite slender. The skirt was another matter. While the seamstress turned up a large hem, sitting close to a bright window and hunching over the work, her nose a few scant inches from her flying needle, Lysette allowed Dominique to comb out her hair.
“You have lovely hair, Madame,” she said, her hands deftly twisting the glossy black tresses. “Prettier even than Madame la Comtesse.”
“Do you tend Madame, Dominique?”
“No. Only Louise. She has been with Madame since she was a bride—she fusses over my lady like a mother hen with her chickens!”
“Do you like Madame la Comtesse?”
Dominique glanced uneasily at the seamstress at the window, then lowered her voice. “She is kind enough, I suppose, but she is very demanding. Always there are chores to be done!” She sulked unhappily. “I should have married long since—a fine carpenter in Vouvray—but I could not see him often enough! Just when I would try to steal away for a few hours, she would find new tasks for me!”
Lysette Page 9