“And the carpenter?”
“There was another maiden in Vouvray who did not have chores at all! Well”—she shrugged—“mayhap it is for the best. Each time I see her now, she has a swollen belly!”
Lysette giggled. “And no horse to ride!”
At length the seamstress was finished with her work and Lysette slipped into the altered skirt. She smoothed the taffeta with her hands, then tugged at the low-cut bodice, snowy with fresh lace, until her bosom peeped forth beguilingly. There was a large vase of soft pink peonies in the room; she plucked several of the blossoms and laced them into her chignon, admiring their fresh color against the midnight of her curls. Dominique offered her a small rouge pot which she declined, preferring instead the air of helpless fragility that her own coloring suggested.
By the time she was shown into the gallery, André, Marielle, and Jean-Auguste were already deep into conversation. It was a long room, with black and white parquet tiling, sumptuous tapestries on the walls, and windows to the floor that had been thrown open to the pleasant evening. On one wall was a wide brocaded settee upon which Marielle, elegant in white silk, was seated. The two men, engrossed in their discussion, stood before her; at the sight of Lysette they bowed formally. Marielle smiled a warm greeting, but her uneasy eyes took in every detail of Lysette’s costume. For her part, Lysette could hardly stop looking at André; if he was handsome in soldier’s doublet and casque, he was positively splendid in a well-cut creamy linen.
“We are discussing Corbie,” said Jean-Auguste. Lysette smiled brightly, but her heart sank. Corbie was the last thing she wished to talk of! “It seems that Louis and Richelieu and Monsieur, the King’s brother, have already formed an army to retake Corbie. Marielle tells us that the King has left Paris in the hands of the Queen and the relief forces have marched out. Unless the King sends for us, I can hardly see that our help will be necessary after all.”
“Nor can I,” said André, smiling. Lysette did not need to feign pleasure; she was already thinking of how long she could reasonably linger at Vilmorin—in André’s company. She laughed to herself. Never had she cared more about a military campaign than she did about the fate of Corbie!
“I, for one, shall be glad to be home at Chimère,” said Narbaux. “I have missed the grape harvest for the last two summers—it will be a pleasure to enjoy my lands this year!”
“Have you given any more thought to what we discussed?” asked André.
“What is that?” asked Marielle in mock alarm. “Some new deviltry that you two are planning?”
Jean-Auguste laughed. “Hardly that! You know that the wines of Chimère, though admirable in every way”—and here he bowed haughtily to André—“have never produced the revenue that your Vilmorin wines have. The land is perhaps not so well suited to vineyards—too uneven, too many caves.” He shrugged. “Whatever the reasons, I have found it impossible to increase our returns. But the new holdings that his most gracious Majesty saw fit to bestow—”
“For the price of a musketball. A fair exchange!”
“Hush, André!” cried Marielle, making a face at him. “None of your gibes! You were as proud of Jean-Auguste as I was.”
André grinned sheepishly, then turned to Narbaux. “You must pay me no mind. But tell Marielle your plans…”
“Hardly plans, as yet—ideas merely. But the new lands comprise a large wood and a goodly number of tenant farmers. The Cardinal has spoken again and again of the need to make France self-reliant—I have no doubt I could obtain a loan to establish some sort of manufacturing. Glass making, perhaps, or even cloth. The silks of Tours have begun to enjoy a wide reputation—it might be possible to employ a master craftsman from there to instruct my tenants.”
“Trade?” said Lysette with a sneer. “A nobleman in trade?”
André bristled. “There is no shame if the goods are derived from the gentleman’s own domain!”
Narbaux laughed. “No need to defend my honor, mon ami! If I found enjoyment in forging Toledo steel, I should do so, though the Court buzzed with the scandal of it!”
“It is still trade to me,” said Lysette, dismissing the subject with an airy toss of her head. She paced the gallery, hardly interested in their conversation, more concerned with how attractive she looked in the evening glow. Surely André must notice! A finely shaped lute hung on the wall, its wooden belly glistening, buffed by the hands of a loving craftsman. Looking to Marielle, who nodded her assent, Lysette lifted it down and began to pluck the strings, twisting the pegs and listening carefully to the sounds produced. She settled herself comfortably in a small armchair.
“Will you play a tune or two?” said André.
Lysette smiled, her deft fingers strumming soft chords; then with a wicked grin she began to play a raucous tune, a bawdy ballad she had heard on the streets of Soligne, piping out the words in a clear, sweet voice, the innocence of her face belying the rough verse. Jean-Auguste and André roared with laughter, Marielle’s face was frozen in a polite smile, though it was clear from the flush that stained her cheek that the song was not to her liking. The song ended, André asked for another; this time Lysette chose a soldier’s tune, an army ballad her brother had taught her—though the words were more harmless, the complex melody served to display her virtuosity, and she preened in the open admiration she saw in the eyes of both men.
‘“There is yet another verse,” said André, taking down a guitar and going to stand beside Lysette’s chair. He played and sang it for her, repeating it again as she picked up the tune on the lute and tried to follow the words.
“You play so well,” she said. “What shall we play together?”
He suggested a lively galliard, but she shook her head. “Do you know ‘My Love is Fair’?” He nodded and strummed out the first chords; she picked up the melody and began to sing, a tender love song that came as much from her heart as her throat or her skillful fingers. His rich baritone joined her soprano, and the sweetness of the sound filled the gallery and vibrated in the silent air long after the song was finished.
Marielle sat quietly, her hand to her mouth, green eyes cloudy and troubled; at last she smiled faintly and rose. “That was charming. You are very gifted, Madame. You should perhaps go to Court. The King plays the lute himself; I have no doubt he would admire your playing greatly.” She took Narbaux’s arm and nodded to André, careful to avoid his eyes. “Shall we go in to supper?”
Though Marielle sat quietly at table, seeming to retreat more and more into herself, the men, freed from the burden of Corbie and the risk of a fresh campaign, ate and drank with abandon, their cares forgotten. Lysette, luxuriating in a well-cooked meal, a succulent joint, washed it down with more wine than was her wont, and soon the three were laughing and joking, filled with lighthearted gaiety, recounting for Marielle all their experiences on the journey.
“By my faith, Marielle,” laughed André, “you should have seen Ussé’s face!”
“Ah, my fine gentleman,” said Lysette, pouting. “You may laugh now, but you scolded me most unkindly then—it was small comfort to know you were only concerned with my welfare!” She smiled a radiant smile to show him he was forgiven. Marielle bit her lip in dismay.
Jean-Auguste raised a cynical eyebrow. “I do believe, upon reflection, that Ussé was never a match for Lysette!”
She giggled. “But I thought I might be bested the day you caught me swimming alone!” She turned to Marielle, eyes wide. “Can you imagine? To think you are alone, secluded, and to come upon two such great oafs as these! They had passing sport at my expense, I can tell you!”
“It is of small matter,” cut in Narbaux hurriedly.
Lysette’s voice trilled gaily. “Small matter indeed! When I feared to leave the water lest my modesty be compromised?”
“It was a game only,” said André, smiling uneasily at Marielle. “A few moments of foolishness, nothing more!”
“Yes, of course!” agreed Lysette in bright reassurance.
And then, suddenly serious, “But I marked the number of scars you bore on your person, André. It must have been a fearful campaign!” And her soft eyes caressed him with tender concern.
“It was the campaign that won me my bride,” he said softly, remembering, turning with fondness to his wife. But Marielle had heard only the intimacy in Lysette’s voice, seen the ardor in those violet eyes; with a choking sound she fled the room, face as pale as her silk gown.
Jumping to his feet, André followed her, his forehead crumpled in a deep frown. For a moment, sounds drifted back into the salon—the angry rumble of André’s voice in counterpoint to the shrill acrimony of Marielle’s—then there was silence.
Lysette shifted uneasily in her seat, then rose and walked to the window as though nothing untoward had happened. Behind her she could hear the scrape of Narbaux’s chair, and when he spoke she knew he was standing quite close to her.
“You are either a naïve child or a heartless woman. If I were sure you had done that intentionally, I would break you over my knee like a wayward twig.”
She turned to him, her eyes wide with pained surprise. “What do you mean? Can you suppose for a moment that I could be so cruel?” She collapsed into tears, burying her face in her hands. “I had not meant anything by it,” she sobbed, her voice muffled. “It was foolish, I know…The wine…I was feeling quite giddy. How shall I forgive myself if I have hurt them?” Helpless, she looked up at him.
His jaw was set in a hard line, but at the sight of her tearful face he wavered, his fierce glance softening, filled with sympathy for her, for her childlike thoughtlessness. He muttered under his breath and turned away.
With a heavy sigh she left the room, hurrying as quickly as she might to her bedchamber. Tears had always been her ultimate weapon, and she had had little doubt that he would melt under her onslaught; still, it would have been folly to remain in his presence and risk those piercing gray eyes. No matter how skillful her art, she could not sustain a protracted campaign under his withering stare. He would see through her and know that, in her heart, she was filled with triumph at the mischief her words had caused. Poor André! Who would comfort him, now that Marielle burned with jealousy?
Laughing to herself, she hurried to her room, careful to keep from skipping along the passageway, lest that hateful Narbaux be watching her.
Chapter Eight
Lysette tossed and turned on the wide bed, unable to sleep. She had yearned for its softness for weeks, and now she could not find a comfortable spot, but lay wide-eyed and restless, watching the small candle sputter on the hearth. Perhaps it was the moon—on the wane, but still bright with autumn clarity—that flooded the room and forestalled sleep. It was a warm evening, with scarcely a breeze to disturb the soft window curtains; she felt suffocated on the big bed—the cloying closeness of the heavy velvet bed hangings, the pallet that engulfed her body. At last she rose, throwing on the blue silk peignoir, and padded barefoot about the room, jumpy and restless as a caged animal. She lit another candle and set it upon a small table next to a gilded armchair. Perhaps she might read for a bit. There were several books that had been left for her pleasure; she chose the least profound, a slim volume of verses, and tried to concentrate on the words. The sounds of the château, the night, the room, intruded on her thoughts. The ticking of the small clock on the mantel. The hoot of a distant owl. Soft footsteps that seemed to whisper in the corridor just beyond her door. It was no use. She put down the book and went to the door. Perhaps a stroll in the garden or the breezy gallery that looked out upon the terraces and the river.
The corridor was lit only by a candle or two, and the cool tiles were pleasant on her bare feet. She made her way down the polished marble staircase and searched out the long gallery. It was most agreeable here. Some of the floor-length windows had been left open to the night and the air was sweet. The black and white tiles of the floor were punctuated at regular intervals by strings of moonlight that poured from the evenly spaced casements; the shadows between soft and dark as velvet. She stepped to the nearest open window, meaning to go out into the garden, then stopped, her heart pounding in her breast.
Bathed in moonlight, his golden hair turned to silver, André paced the wide lawn, head down, hands behind his back, lost in thought. Once or twice he absently plucked a rose from the wall of the small summerhouse nearby, worrying it with his fingers until it was reduced to shreds.
Ah, Dieu! Her heart soared with longing and desire. Would there ever be a more opportune moment? She would go to him, tell him of her love, take what love he could give her, and be content. He could hardly be cold to her ardor—had he not shown his hunger, his need that day in the grove? And again when she had fallen into his arms? It was not foolish. He did love her! He did!
Trembling, she took one step toward the open window. Suddenly, from the shadows there emerged an arm—strong, sinewy, white-shirted—that blocked the doorway. She drew in her breath sharply and turned to face Jean-Auguste. No! she almost screamed aloud. Not this time! He would not stop her! He could not! She pushed with both hands against the rigid arm, implacable as the bars of a cage, that stood in her way. That kept her from Love, waiting in the soft night. They struggled silently, he with the calmness that was part of his nature, she with a fury born of desperation; when she would have slipped under his arm, he grabbed her from behind, strong hands on her shoulders, and held her fast. She sobbed in frustration and tried to turn about, to pummel him with her fists; unexpectedly he released one shoulder and pointed out into the garden.
Under the soft moonlight, Marielle’s gown shimmered and billowed, the ribbons and laces fluttering in the night air in rhythm to her flying feet. André stopped and turned, and held out his arms to receive her in welcoming embrace. Two silvered bodies merged into one; lips, arms, twined and fused, a joining that seemed to deny there had ever been separation. Stricken, Lysette watched in tormented fascination, helpless to turn away, unable even to close her eyes against the sight that tore at her vitals. Even after André had picked up Marielle in tender arms and carried her into the small summerhouse, she could not move from the window, but stood staring out on the shining lawn as though its very emptiness belied the living beings who had so recently kissed in the moonlight.
At length, with a sob she fled, grief and shame speeding her on, to the safety of her bedchamber.
“Lysette!”
Narbaux caught at her arm as she reached the door, and swung her about, his face etched with concern. His very solicitude turned her misery to fury, drying up her tears with the heat of anger.
“Nom de Dieu, Lysette,” he said gently, “will you rest content at last?”
How dare he! But for him, she might have been out there in the garden with André, and Marielle left to weep in her pillow this night! She shook his hand free, her jaw outthrust in stubborn determination. “If I can take him away from her, I shall!” she said viciously, “though a score of Jean-Augustes block the way!” She pushed past him into her room but he followed, closing the door behind him and leaning up against the paneling. By the light of the candles his gray eyes glittered like cold steel, his patience stretched thin.
“I warn you,” he said, his voice deep and firm, “if you break Marielle’s heart…”
“Marielle! Always Marielle! Do you think I am a fool? I have seen the way you look at her! Does André know, I wonder, how you look at his wife?” She smiled maliciously at his sudden discomfiture, noting with satisfaction that his iron glance had wavered, and a flush stained his cheek. “Lovely Marielle,” she purred, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Sweet Marielle. So good! So kind! The queen of Vilmorin—beloved by all her subjects!” She flounced about the room and drew herself up haughtily, holding out her hand to him in regal condescension. “How good of you to come, Jean-Auguste,” she said, in cruel mockery of Marielle’s voice. “When I tire of my husband, I shall be yours!”
“Stop it.”
She tossed her curls at him. “Were you
wounded in your last campaign, mon cher? André and I were so proud of you! I was so proud of you!”
“Stop it, Lysette.”
“You are both such brave soldiers—mayhap we could hold a tournament to see which one of you shall win my hand. The hand of the sweet, kind, good Marielle!” She danced in front of him, her face mocking Marielle’s sweet serenity, her voice shrill with scorn.
“Stop it!” he growled, shaking her by the shoulders. And then his arms were around her, his mouth on hers, crushing her lips in a fierce kiss. She struggled in his embrace, imprisoned as much by the unexpectedness of his attack as by his encircling arms, her hands pushing frantically against his chest. But his mouth, warm and insistent, seemed to drain her of all resistance; his lips were firm, sweet, young. Young. It was a new and strange sensation, to be held, to be kissed thus, to be overwhelmed by youth. How could she ever have sold herself to Guy? Her heart caught, and a hungry sadness welled up within her breast; for the wasted years with an old man, for the sweetness of a kiss on the wrong lips. It should have been André. Ah, Dieu, it should have been André! Desperately she clung to Narbaux, her arms encircling his neck, and yielded to his ardent embrace, the strong arms that held her fast and made her forget for a moment her grief and disappointment. The tension drained from her body and she swayed against him, all soft willingness; as if in response to her surrender, his mouth was of a sudden gentle, no longer ravishing, but wooing. He kissed her chin, her cheeks, her soft earlobes; when she closed her eyes and dropped her head back, his lips explored the velvet hollows of her throat and neck. It was so comforting, so soothing. She felt warmed, calmed, like a child who clings to a favored toy to ward off the terrors of the night.
His hands had been around her waist; now he reached up and disengaged her twining arms from his neck, his fingers caressing their soft contours from wrist to elbow to curved shoulders. She trembled at the unexpected sensations his touch aroused, a strange tingling that seemed to start from deep within her, the sound of her own blood pounding in her temples, a warm tide coursing through her. He stroked her breasts through the silken peignoir and the tide became a flame that took her breath away. She did not resist when he slipped the peignoir from her shoulders; even when he loosed the drawstring of her nightdress and it fell about her ankles, she welcomed his gentle hands on her naked body. She had never known it could be like this; Guy, thinking of his own pleasure, had made scant effort to please her. She had come to believe a woman endured, tolerated, no more. She had been kissed a few times by her admirers, and had been pleased to discover a certain excitement that had been lacking with Guy, but nothing so extraordinary that she even gave it a second thought. Now, with Jean-Auguste’s hands and mouth setting off rockets within her, she wanted it to go on forever.
Lysette Page 10