Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Nor at what cost, mon Dieu!” Lysette shook her head in amazement. All week long Vilmorin had been filled with tradesmen, sent by Narbaux—silk merchants, seamstresses, bootmakers. She had started by ordering only what she might need; as the parade of shopkeepers had continued, she had indulged herself more and more, giving in to the smallest urges for this pair of embroidered stockings, those satin shoes balanced precariously on high cork heels. Marielle had suggested and advised, apprising her of the current fashions of the Court, the proper outfits for dancing at Fontainebleau, hunting at Versailles. Lysette was dazzled. Though her father had held the title of Baron, he had not enjoyed life at Court and they had lived simply in the château near Chartres; the few times that Guy had taken her to Fontainebleau she had been self-consciously aware of the shabby plainness of her gowns, and had urged him to refuse as many invitations as possible, that she might not suffer in humiliation.

  But Jean-Auguste was favored at Court; at his side, and dressed thus, what social heights might she not scale! She danced about the room, preening herself in the mirror, remarking how the color of the silk exactly matched her eyes. How thoughtful of Jean-Auguste! Though Lysette had had her choice of dozens of fabrics, Narbaux had personally selected the violet taffeta, and had sent it along to her with a note requesting she have it made into her wedding gown. It was a brief note, casual and noncommittal, the only word she had had from him all week. Still, it had been kind of him, and unexpected. As if in echo to her thoughts, Marielle spoke.

  “How thoughtful of Jean-Auguste to have chosen that color for you! He must care for you greatly!”

  Lysette smiled tightly. “It is only that he…notices much—the color of a woman’s eyes…the secrets of a woman’s heart.” She tossed her curls airily. “I have no doubt he knew that I should have chosen the color myself, without his prompting! And as for caring—his heart was given long ago, I think!”

  Marielle’s head snapped up sharply at the tone in Lysette’s voice. “Given, perhaps…but not taken,” she said softly. “Never taken. And long since recalled.” As Lysette squirmed uneasily at her words, Marielle stood up and placed a gentle hand on the violet sleeve. “I would be as a sister to you, as he has been like a brother to me—only a brother. What might have happened—and did not—was long ago, and of no importance anymore.”

  “Of course!” Lysette’s voice trilled gaily. “How wise you are…sister!” And laughed at her own foolishness. What nonsense! To feel even a moment’s pang of jealousy. Ridiculous! If Jean-Auguste had loved Marielle once—or loved her still!—what did it matter? It was André she wanted, and she did not feel jealousy toward Marielle for that—only hatred, and the nibblings of an uneasy conscience.

  Marielle moved toward the door. “I shall leave you to dress for supper. There are things that need my attention.” She paused, hand poised on the doorknob. “André is my whole life…as I am his.” Then she was gone.

  Lysette frowned at the closed door and tugged viciously at the lacings of her gown. The maid Dominique, who had been waiting quietly in a corner of the large bedchamber, rushed to her assistance. Lysette stood patiently as Dominique worked, but her brain seethed in turmoil. What had Marielle meant? She was gentle and sweet, and her soft green eyes smiled kindly, but Lysette had begun to suspect that they hid a discerning mind, an intuitive understanding every bit as sharp and piercing as Jean-Auguste’s.

  André had been busy in the vineyards all week, in preparation for the harvest; Marielle, ever the efficient chatelaine, had run the household, and cared for the children, and arranged for the wedding and the small party that would follow. Yet it seemed to Lysette, upon reflection, that there had not been a moment throughout all the days when she had been alone with André. Now she began to wonder: had Marielle intended it thus? Lysette had hoped to meet him on one of his early morning rides, but this week he had never been alone: Marielle was often with him, and once or twice he took along the young François, perched happily in front of his father’s saddle. She had even climbed the bluffs to the vineyards, thinking to accost him in the fields; no sooner had she greeted him warmly than Louise puffed into view, carrying a jug of ale and a savory meat tart.

  And now she was to be married upon the morrow. Narbaux would arrive in the morning for the noon wedding; there would be food and wine and dancing, and enough daylight left to see them safely home to Chimère before dark. If she did not declare her love to André this night, there might be scant opportunity in the months ahead. She smiled determinedly at her reflection as Dominique helped her on with a pale pink gown, one of her favorite choices because it made her look helpless and fragile. And André had not yet seen it. After supper, when they had all retired for the night, she would knock softly at his door, and play the soft bride, all blushing and fearful, a sister needing the strong comfort of her brother. She would cry on his shoulder and tell him of her doubts; with his arms around her, it was a small step from sister to lover.

  André and Marielle were already seated at the ends of a long oak table, facing one another, when she entered the salon. André rose easily to greet Lysette and lead her to her place at the center of the table; as always, her heart caught in her throat at sight of him. She danced prettily away from the proffered chair and pirouetted about in a swirl of pink, carefully avoiding Marielle’s eyes.

  “Well, monsieur?”

  His handsome face beamed approval, and she felt herself tingle down to her toes.

  “Charming!” he said. “Jean-Auguste will quite spoil you before the marriage has yet begun! Marielle, ma chère, I wonder you do not often wear that shade of pink—it is most becoming!”

  Marielle smiled tensely, but said nothing.

  Lysette seated herself and sipped the wine that André poured, shrugging off his compliment as though she had not inveigled him into it in the first place.

  “It would be so much more becoming had I one jewel to wear with it! I feel quite naked without a single pearl or locket!” Her slim fingers touched lightly at her bodice, the delicate movement catching André’s eye and leading his glance—almost involuntarily—to the creamy perfection of her bosom.

  “I have no doubt that Jean-Auguste will have thought of that I am minded of the fine jewels his mother wore when we were yet lads.” André grinned as Lysette’s eyes sparkled. “Never fear! You shall be adorned as befits a Vicomtesse!”

  Lysette smiled shyly. “I scarcely can believe my good fortune. To have found an amiable husband…and gracious friends”—her sweeping arm took in André and included Marielle at the last moment—“who would have thought, when I left Soligne, that the bon Dieu would smile so kindly upon me? And I have not thanked you yet for your gift!”

  “I had thought to give Lysette the mare and saddle that brought her through the long journey,” said André, as Marielle looked up in surprise. “She rides well, and the mare is a spirited mount.”

  “Yes, it is a fine gift,” said Marielle. “I only wish I could have matched it. Lysette will need a personal maid at Chimère—I have agreed to let Dominique serve her.”

  “But Dominique will suit me well!”

  “Nay! She is lazy and troublesome—perhaps it is her youth. She has just turned seventeen. At any event, you must ride her hard. I should have preferred to send Suzanne to you.” Marielle shook her head, mystified. “But when I suggested it to Jean-Auguste before he left, he was adamant. He would have none of her!”

  “Suzanne?” asked André. “The lass who is scarred by the smallpox?” Marielle nodded. “Mayhap it is because of Gabriel.”

  “His brother.”

  “Yes.”

  “But…he died of the smallpox!” exclaimed Lysette suddenly. “I remember that Jean-Auguste spoke of him once.”

  “Yes. They were very close,” said André. “Gabriel was nearer my age…we grew up together. He was master at Chimère long before my father died. It was not until I had inherited Vilmorin, and Gabriel was in his grave, that Jean-Auguste and I became
fast friends.”

  Lysette shivered. “Must we speak of such terrible things? If I am to be married tomorrow, I wish to be gay tonight!” She smiled brightly at them both, saving her tenderest glance for André. How she ached for him! Would this tedious supper never end? She scarcely took note of what she ate or drank, or what she said; her mind rehearsed again and again the scene in his bedchamber, the moment when she would be in his arms, and he unable to resist the lure of her passion. As the evening wore on, she made less and less of an effort to notice Marielle, or include her in her conversations, so rooted was she upon André and her fantasy.

  “Mon Dieu!” André leaped to his feet, his face wreathed in smiles. “But what a surprise!” Lysette, still focused upon him alone, reluctantly dragged her eyes away and turned to the doorway that seemed to hold his attention.

  Jean-Auguste stepped out of the dim corridor into the salon. The light of the chandelier shone full upon his open face; his countenance was pleasant enough, but his eyes glittered in a way that made Lysette fidget in her chair. Had he seen the way she looked at André—standing hidden there in the shadows of the doorway for who knew how long? She felt a hot flush creep up from her bosom and burn her cheeks. To cover her embarrassment, she rose quickly from her chair and hurried to greet Jean-Auguste at the door, noting as she did so that, while André gaped in surprise, Marielle seemed hardly ruffled by Narbaux’s sudden appearance.

  “But…what brings you to Vilmorin tonight?” Lysette stammered.

  His mouth twitched in a crooked smile. “I thought, mayhap, my bride might be restless…or bored. Besides, Chimère is waiting and ready—there is no more to be done. I thought I might spend my last night as a bachelor with my comrade in arms, drinking to the future…and the past!”

  “And welcome you are!” boomed André. “Did you ride over alone?”

  “No. I took one of my grooms with me, and several horses. I shall send him back tomorrow with Lysette’s maid and her baggage.”

  “Will you take supper?”

  “Indeed, yes.” He doffed his wide-brimmed hat and swept his mantle from his shoulders, laying them across a chair. “But I crave your pardon for a few moments.”

  Saying thus he took Lysette firmly by the elbow and steered her out into the corridor, leading her to a candlelit alcove and swinging her around to face him. He put one hand on her shoulder and tipped up her chin with a long forefinger; thinking he was about to kiss her, she closed her eyes and waited dutifully. When nothing happened she opened her eyes again to see him smiling down at her, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

  “I assume, my love, that your sensitivity and shyness at seeing your bridegroom was what brought the roses to your cheeks a moment ago.” While she yet gasped in fury, he crushed her in his arms and took the kiss she would have given grudgingly. She struggled in his embrace, angry that he had once again taken command, stung because his words made it clear that he had watched her with André. She felt like a thief caught red-handed, which only increased her wrath. At length he released her and stepped back, laughing gently at her discomfiture.

  “Mon Dieu, Lysette, what a transparent child you are!”

  Sulking, she would have turned away, but he gripped her hands firmly and held her at arm’s length while his glance took in her costume.

  “Come, come,” he said good-naturedly, “let me have a look at you. I scarcely need to ask how you have amused yourself these past days—the boxes and packets have been arriving from Vouvray all week!”

  She thrust out her chin belligerently. “I could only suppose that you wished me to have all that I needed!”

  “Of course. I hardly thought that you would deny yourself! Rest content,” he added more kindly, as her lip began to tremble. “It was my pleasure to indulge your vanity, and truly, ma petite, it was worth the cost.” His gray eyes swept her appreciatively. “If every gown you chose becomes you as well as this one, I shall consider my coins well spent.”

  “You have been more than generous,” she said, “and I thank you.” Why did she find the words so hard to speak? Was it her conscience that nagged at her—that she took his gifts and contrived to betray him with his friend? She smiled uneasily. “I vow it must have cost you dear to buy this bride!”

  “Do you really wish to know?”

  “No!” No, by le bon Dieu! It had cost her a dowry to get Guy as a husband; she was entitled now to marry for whatever Jean-Auguste could afford!

  He laughed aloud at her intensity. “Eh bien, since I am to be prized as a husband only so long as my purse jingles, methinks I had better take pains to lavish you with gifts! Before we rejoin Marielle and André…” He reached into his pocket and drew forth a small oilskin packet that he unwrapped carefully. Within lay a necklace of pearls, two strands of large, luminous spheres joined by an intricate filigree clasp of fine gold. Lysette’s eyes opened wide in surprise and pleasure; when he lifted it from its wrappings she turned quickly and offered her nape to him. But as he clasped it around her throat and she felt the soft coolness of the pearls against her skin, she was glad he could not see her face. She bit her lip in sudden consternation and dismay. If only he were not so kind!

  “They are lovely,” she murmured. “I can scarce find the words to thank you.” No, she thought. I know the words, but cannot utter them. I hate him. For being good, and kind, and thoughtful. For treating her well…for marrying her, though he did not truly wish it. She felt a pang of guilt, half tempted to release him from his obligation. But…why should she? He had chosen to dishonor her, and then to offer marriage…it was hardly her concern if he had not expected her to accept! She turned about and smiled prettily, executing a slow circle before him as he beamed his approval. After all, only a fool would refuse marriage to such a generous cavalier!

  It was a strange quartet that finished supper around the large table. André, boisterous, expansive, pleased with his life and the marriage of his friend, poured out the wine and laughed and joked. Marielle sat quietly, her lovely face radiating a serenity that had been absent all the week—until Lysette swore to herself that there must have been a message sent to Narbaux, to bring him to Vilmorin so unexpectedly. As for Jean-Auguste, he drank a great deal of wine, growing more and more morose as the evening wore on. He glanced repeatedly from Lysette to André and back again, and each glance deepened the lines of doubt and misery that creased his face.

  Lysette smiled bitterly to herself, reflecting on the irony of her situation. She had trapped Guy with charm—but surely Jean-Auguste was equally trapped, betrayed by a momentary weakness and his own sense of honor, and only she held the key that might release him from his pledge. As for André…as much as he might secretly care for her, he would never openly declare himself because of Marielle; sooner or later she would have to trap him into an admission of his affection. Always traps. Always guile. She felt suddenly old, tired, unworthy.

  It was clear that the men were content to sit and drink for half the night, and Marielle did not seem inclined to leave Lysette alone with them. With a weary sigh, Lysette arose and excused herself, motioning the men back to their chairs.

  The corridor was dim and cool, lit by a large torch set high up in the wall. She had just crossed the vestibule toward the marble staircase when footsteps behind her made her turn around. Jean-Auguste hurried toward her. His face wore an odd expression in the flickering light, a look of indecision, unsettled, wrestling with some deep torment. Silently he stood before her, his gray eyes searching her face, and once or twice he opened his mouth as though he were about to speak, then he said nothing. Ah, Dieu! she thought, already he is filled with regret. She waited for the words—half hoping, half dreading—that would tell her he had changed his mind. Instead he raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed her fingertips.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night,” she choked, and fled to her room, consumed by remorse.

  Chapter Ten

  Lysette sipped daintily from the small cup that
Jean-Auguste had handed up to her. She settled herself more comfortably in the saddle and returned the empty cup, feeling somehow that she ought to nod graciously or dismiss him with an airy wave of her hand. Was she not a queen today, adored and admired, entitled to his homage? She watched him kneel once again at the small stream and refill the cup; when he had drunk his fill, he stowed the goblet in his saddlebag and swung easily into the saddle. She smiled regally at him—noblesse oblige—enveloped still by the aura of happiness and well-being that had filled the whole day.

  Her day. Queen Lysette. Madame la Vicomtesse de Narbaux.

  She had slept late, waking at last to the sounds of Dominique bustling about the room, and had breakfasted leisurely on bread and cheese and a fine apple comfiture. While she downed a large goblet of honey-sweetened wine thinned with warm water, she had watched the maid pack all but her violet wedding gown and the handsome riding outfit in which she would travel to Chimère. By the time she arrived at Narbaux’s château, all her beautiful things would be unpacked and waiting for her.

  She had bathed and dressed with care, pleased with the image that smiled back at her from the mirror—the violet silk that showed off her voluptuous figure, the pearls opalescent against her fair skin. Marielle had sent in two small nosegays of purple asters and pale pink rosebuds that she tucked above each ear, nestled among the black ringlets. When Marielle herself had appeared, looking almost plain in a deep green velvet, Lysette had felt positively beautiful.

  And so it had gone all the day. Lysette the fair, Lysette the beautiful. She had seen admiration in every eye—André, Jean-Auguste, the wedding guests, all the young lieutenants from Vouvray whom Marielle had invited. They had praised her with their eyes and their words…and their lips. After the ceremony, Jean-Auguste had kissed her gently, and André as well—a sweet kiss that had set the ground to spinning beneath her feet. The lieutenants had been less gentle, while Jean-Auguste looked uncomfortable and André chided him good-naturedly. She had danced with them all in the long gallery, and held court, drinking in their flattery and approbation, gratified particularly by the obvious misery of the lieutenant who had been so attentive on their journey from Soligne. She had almost felt sorry for Marielle, so quiet, so unobtrusive, seeming incapable of catching any man’s eye.