Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  “It was a lovely day,” she said softly.

  “Yes. And you were a lovely bride.”

  A breeze rippled the river for an instant and the reflected moon shattered into glittering shards. “How plain Marielle looked! It must be sad, to grow older and know one is losing one’s beauty!”

  “She is not many years your senior,” he said dryly. “Perhaps because it was your wedding day, she did not choose to…be a rival!”

  “Pooh!” She turned from the window. “No woman pretends to plainness!”

  He was about to respond, then thought better of it and shrugged. “As you wish.”

  “Were you pleased with my gown? I cautioned the seamstress to take special pains with it.”

  “I confess I scarcely noticed the gown, only your grace and loveliness in it. You looked like the goddess of the night, all purple silk and hair the color of midnight. You quite took my breath away.” He stared at her for a long moment, a gentle smile playing about his lips, then moved easily and gracefully to the large bed, holding out his hand to her in invitation. “Come to bed,” he said.

  She crossed to a small table, meaning to put down her goblet then changed her mind and picked up the gold ewer, refilling her cup yet again. As she slowly sipped the wine, she saw that he had draped himself across the bed and was waiting patiently, one eyebrow raised in quizzical amusement.

  Welladay, she thought, and finished the last of her wine. With a shrug, she loosened her peignoir and released the string of her nightdress, allowing both garments to fall to the floor at her feet.

  He sat up in surprise, taken aback by the unexpected sight of her nakedness, her lack of modesty. “But…wherefore…?” he stammered.

  She smiled, pleased to have shaken his composure for a change.

  “And wherefore not? Firstly, you are my husband. And then…shall I pretend to innocence? Shall I be coy, when you dislike it? I am beautiful, n’est-ce pas? Then let me rejoice in that beauty!”

  “Mon Dieu!” he laughed. “Were you thus with Guy?”

  She snorted in derision. “He would scarcely have noticed! It was my dowry, not my person that Guy found alluring!”

  “Then I must compensate for his neglect, and honor your beauty fully! Come!” He traced a circle in the air, indicating she was to turn about. She revolved slowly, feeling his admiring eyes upon her, his smoldering glance that ranged her body in silent praise.

  “Come to bed,” he repeated at last, his voice husky in his throat.

  The wine had begun to make her head spin. She padded about the room extinguishing the candles, feeling the soft carpet under her feet, the cozy fire that touched her naked body with its gentle warmth. She felt mellow, lulled by the wine, his admiration, the remembrance of his caresses. The room was now quite dim save for the fireplace and one small candle near the bed. Stepping onto the carpeted platform, she saw that Jean-Auguste had removed his dressing gown. A wave of unease swept through her at the sight of his naked body, so virile, so potent. She almost fled his side, but he reached up and pulled her down to the bed.

  Ah, Dieu! she thought. Why had she drunk so much wine? She could not think clearly, could not feel his kisses and caresses, could only close her eyes to him and the fear that clutched at her. Think of André. André! The fantasy had served once before: it was André’s mouth, André’s body, André’s passion! To no avail. Her brain whirled, a red mist of confusion. What was the woman’s name? The lawyer’s wife in Chartres. Mademoiselle Lysette, he loves me, my husband loves me…and the children tugged at her skirts and her eyes were haunted and filled with despair. And the screaming! Monsieur Avocat, tell me of my father’s will. What shall I have for a dowry? And his hand about her schoolgirl waist and his coarse fingers fondling her buttocks and all the while his wife upstairs screaming and screaming to bring forth another child!

  She was aware that Jean-Auguste had withdrawn from her, that her fists were clenched tight and her face was screwed up in a grimace. With a start, she opened her eyes, thrust once again into the present. He seemed spent, limp; she could only assume that he had had his way and was finished with her, although she had no recollection of the moment.

  “Perhaps you were too tired after all,” he said quietly. His face was in shadow; she could not see his eyes. He arose from the bed and donned his dressing gown, passing quickly out of the door before she had a chance to collect her thoughts.

  She breathed deeply, feeling the tenseness leave her body. The effects of the wine had begun to dissipate, and she lay quietly, aware of innumerable details that assailed her senses: the ceiling painted with roses and butterflies; the not unpleasant smell of his sweat that lingered still on the pillows; the tingling on her lips from kisses she could scarcely remember.

  Disregarding her nightdress, she crawled under the downy coverlet, pulling its warmth about her ears and smiling softly to herself.

  All would be well. She could endure. Madame la Vicomtesse de Narbaux.

  But she must remember to tell Dominique in the morning that she wished her bath to be very hot.

  Chapter Eleven

  André was standing in the meadow, beckoning to her. The warmth and love that shone in his blue eyes filled her heart until she felt she must explode with longing. She tried to run toward him, through the cloud of butterflies that seemed suddenly to have invaded the meadow, that tickled at her nose and ears, insistent, intrusive. She grunted in annoyance and brushed them away. André! Mon amour! She could no longer see him for the brightness that filtered through her closed eyelids; impatiently she flopped over onto her stomach and pressed her pillow over her head, searching to recapture the vision of André in the welcoming darkness. The butterflies had returned and were tracing a gentle line between her bare shoulder blades, distracting her, keeping her from her love, waiting in the meadow beyond the shores of dreams.

  “Go away!” she shrilled and sat up, eyes springing open, pillow clutched in both hands above her head, poised for assault.

  Jean-Auguste stood over her, his face split in a wide grin. “Slug-a-bed! Would you sleep the whole day through, when Chimère awaits your inspection?” He laughed and took the pillow from her, tucking it behind her head, his fingers grazing her bare shoulders. She pouted in annoyance, pulling up the coverlet to shield her nakedness, and settled herself sulkily against the pillows. Devil take him! Even her dreams of André were not safe from his intrusion!

  Ignoring her mood, he perched himself on the edge of the bed. She saw that he was dressed for riding: sturdy twill doublet and breeches, soft leather boots pulled well up above his knees so the heavy linen boot hose barely showed over the tops. On a chair nearby he had laid his mantle and wide-brimmed hat. He pulled off his leather gauntlets and chucked her coaxingly under the chin; he was filled with such good humor she smiled in spite of herself. “Forgive me,” he said kindly, “I could not wait for you to get up. The grapes must be harvested in a few days and there is yet much to be done, but I wished you to ride with me this morning. Will you come?”

  She smiled weakly at him, her thoughts elsewhere. Perhaps if she hurried, there might be time to take that hot bath. She beamed at him in sudden warmth. “Of course I shall ride with you! Now…begone! Out with you that I may dress and breakfast quickly.”

  “Nay! I have had no food myself today. Dominique is setting a table for us both in your sitting room.” He motioned toward the round tower room from whence emanated the clatter of dishes and glassware. “I shall await you there. If you tarry too long”—he ran one slim finger along the line of the coverlet that just covered her bosom—“I shall be less chivalrous than I was that day at the lake, and most assuredly peek!”

  She would have responded with a sharp retort, but Dominique bustled into the bedchamber and the moment passed. Lysette frowned in annoyance as Jean-Auguste ambled into the sitting room. There would be no bath this morning! She donned the shift and petticoats that Dominique held out to her, then tapped her foot impatiently as the maid fille
d a small washbasin with warm water. Dominique’s sullen face seemed to echo her mood. She raised an eyebrow questioningly, inviting the girl’s confidence; as she scrubbed her face over the basin, Dominique leaned close and hissed in her ear.

  “I hope that Madame will feel welcome here at Chimère, but…”

  “But…?” Lysette straightened, drying herself with the linen cloth the maid proffered.

  “But…I do not think that Bricole is glad for your coming!”

  “Bricole?”

  “The chief steward at Chimère. He has been here so long, you would think that he was the mistress!” She helped Lysette to slip into her soft high boots, then fetched a velvet jacket and riding skirt. Her voice rose in an aggrieved whine. “I tried to tell Bricole that I serve you, Madame, but he ordered me about this morning as though I were just a chambermaid!” She nodded her head for emphasis, then hooked up the front of Lysette’s snug jacket and tied on a lace-trimmed linen collar. “Louise is the housekeeper at Vilmorin, but Madame la Comtesse du Crillon would never allow such a lack of respect…Madame du Crillon is the mistress of Vilmorin, there is no disputing that!”

  Lysette frowned at her reflection in the mirror and adjusted her broad-brimmed plumed hat, deep red velvet to match her riding costume. What was the good of being mistress of such a fine château if she must tolerate insolence? Well, she would see to it that Bricole learned soon enough that she meant to rule here!

  Jean-Auguste grinned broadly as she entered her sitting room, his eyes filled with pleasure and admiration; in one stride he was at her side and had swept her into his arms.

  “Mon Dieu! Jean-Auguste! Mind my hat!”

  “Damn your hat!” With a swift gesture he raked it from her head and tossed it down, crushing her more determinedly to him. She submitted to his lips, finding his kiss pleasant enough (and safe, since it would scarcely lead to more serious lovemaking at this hour of the day!), but her mind was busy cataloging her many grievances. The rude awakening, the thwarted bath, Bricole’s effrontery. And now her hair would have to be recombed and the hat brushed! It was really too much!

  “If you please, Monsieur le Vicomte. There is a…person…here who says he was instructed to come to you!”

  Jean-Auguste released Lysette and smiled crookedly at her, his open face sending a message so explicit that she blushed and cast down her eyes; then he turned to Dominique waiting at the doorway. Her sour expression disapproved equally of the visitor and the behavior of Monsieur le Vicomte.

  “Ah, yes! Simon! Show him in!”

  While Dominique vanished into the bedchamber, Lysette retrieved her hat and tried to restore order to her tangled locks; Jean-Auguste commandeered a comfortable chair near the breakfast table and set to the food, busily dispatching a small partridge and a large flagon of ale. There was a sudden muffled yelp from the room beyond, then Dominique reappeared, her face blazing scarlet, and ushered in Simon, taking care to stay at some distance from him.

  He swaggered into the room, his face wreathed in a cocky grin, and bobbed politely to Jean-Auguste, a movement that was both deferential and strangely far from humble. He was not a large man, though strongly built, but his good humor filled the room, his incorporeal presence far weightier than flesh and blood. He was all in brown, from the tip of his peaked cap to the dusty and well-worn boots that had shaped themselves to the contours of his feet through years of snowy days and rain-soaked nights. His skin was as brown and tough as the leather of his boots; indeed only his white teeth and sea-green eyes encroached upon the uniform color of his person.

  “Simon Vacher,” explained Jean-Auguste, “chief forester at Chimère,” and Lysette nearly laughed aloud at that. For did not the man look like a tree, planted firmly in her sitting room, umber-breeched legs spread wide, acorn-hued arms sprouting from a dark brown leather jerkin? He grinned again and allowed his impudent gaze to sweep the still blushing Dominique before turning back to Jean-Auguste.

  “What of the new lands, Vacher?” Jean-Auguste took a final swig of ale and wiped his fingers on a large linen handkerchief.

  “Good forests, Monsieur. Oak and beech, and a small stand of pine.”

  “Enough to support more swine? Some of the new tenants have sued for grazing privileges, and are prepared to pay a goodly rent.”

  Vacher scratched a calloused finger against his chin. “There are acorns and chestnuts aplenty in the woods. It is good for the trees when the pigs root around them. Still, what is your will, Monsieur?”

  “No, no. You must speak plain to me. I scarce need the added revenue—there are a score of tenants now who pay me for grazing rights. I will be guided by you in this matter.”

  Vacher pursed his lips and frowned, his head nodding slowly up and down as though the rhythmic movement aided his concentration. “The forests themselves can support more swine, sure enough. And there is a small orchard just off the path to Vouvray—I never saw a pig that did not like a rotten apple! But pigs are peculiar creatures, my lord. Even the few farmers who are allowed to graze their animals can not always keep them under control! If you should allow more, what is to prevent them from leaving the forests and rooting among the vineyards? That would be a pretty mess, it would!” And he nodded again for emphasis.

  “Still, the farmers depend on their swine. What if I were to grant them the right to forage…to take from the ground those fruits and nuts that have fallen from the trees, in order to feed their pigs?”

  “The forests would not suffer, Monsieur.”

  “Nor would the vineyards.” Jean-Auguste stood up decisively and began to draw on his gloves. “That is what I shall do. And the other matter…?”

  “I think I have found the perfect spot, Monsieur. There is a large stand, mostly beech, with a clear stream flowing through it, and not too far from the path, if I understood your instructions aright.”

  Narbaux nodded in satisfaction. “Beech makes the best ash, I have been told. And the path can be widened, if it proves necessary. What about fuel for the furnace?”

  “All to the good, Monsieur. The new lands have been sorely neglected for many years—there are fallen logs and rotted trees at every turn. It makes for bad hunting. I would have put my woodsmen to work clearing them, whatever your designs. Even the old forests of Chimère need clearing—broken branches and uprooted trees—a heavy storm we suffered this July past. Nay, my lord, it will be many years before we must touch a living tree, for all your hungry furnace!”

  Jean-Auguste smiled in pleasure and dismissed Vacher, who walked to the door of the sitting room and then paused, waiting for Dominique to show him out. Reluctantly she led him through the bedchamber, her cheeks reddening at his brazen grin; again there was the sound of a scuffle and a muffled cry, followed this time by the sharp report of flesh striking flesh.

  Lysette had been nibbling at her breakfast; at the sound she put down her partridge bone and looked up sourly into Jean-Auguste’s twinkling eyes. “Do all the men at Chimère take what they wish?” She watched the smile fade from his face, then went on. “And what is all this about furnaces?”

  “Glass. There is a goodly supply at Chimère of all that might be necessary to make glass. Sand from the river bed, lime from the caves, trees to burn for the furnaces and the ash…”

  “And will my noble husband become an artisan?” she sneered.

  “Not I! Mon Dieu! It takes more skill than I possess! But a master glassmaker might find conditions here to his liking, and be willing to pay a good fee—as well as supplying Chimère with bottles for our wine. It would save me the cost and the trouble of bringing in bottles from outside. But you need not concern yourself with these matters. Put a smile upon your pretty face and come and ride with me!”

  They descended to the ground floor where the servants were waiting to be introduced to Madame la Vicomtesse. Gracious and dignified, Lysette greeted them all, though she scarcely bothered to listen to their names as they were presented. It sufficed to have servants aplenty; wh
en they displeased her would be time enough to know their names. She took special note of Bricole, however; as Chimère had no housekeeper, Bricole, the chief steward, ran the household. Tall and thin and stately, his snowy hair clipped neatly to his ears, he greeted her with proper deference, but she could not forget Dominique’s remark that he considered himself mistress of the château. And, truth to tell, was there not a certain superciliousness lurking just beneath his respectful manner? She acknowledged him brusquely, determined to keep a watchful eye lest his servility be merely sham.

  They rode out at last into the sunny morning, past gardens and stables and wide lawns trimly manicured. At length the flatland—the riverbed in some prehistoric eon—rose sharply before them, becoming limestone cliffs riddled with openings that, here and there, had been sealed off with rough-hewn doors and gates. Jean-Auguste dismounted and helped Lysette from her horse. A young man, blond and pink-cheeked, ran to greet them, and Jean-Auguste introduced him as Pasquier, one of the vignerons. He was a good-looking fellow: Lysette turned her most dazzling smile to him, just for the pleasure of seeing him blush.

  Pasquier lit a small lantern and led them through a door into one of the caves. It was cold and damp within, and the low ceiling, covered with a pale green mold, made their voices echo hollowly in the gloom. The small passageway opened up into a larger cavern with a high domed roof and a dozen niches and corridors carved into its walls. Each niche was piled high with casks and barrels, slime-covered like the walls, and when Lysette ventured a peek into one of the corridors, she saw that it led to another large chamber, filled with as many kegs again. Pasquier led them through the maze of caverns, occasionally stopping, at Jean-Auguste’s request, to take down a barrel and pour out a small cup of wine for them to taste. At length, feeling chilled and bored, Lysette turned about and started back, meaning to retrace their steps; the corridor before her angled suddenly and sharply, and she found herself in total darkness, cut off from the gleam of the lantern. For a moment, panic clutched at her; then the light reappeared and Jean-Auguste hurried to her side.