Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  “The caves are treacherous to a stranger,” he said. “They cut in and out of the cliffs for many, many leagues—well beyond Orleans—no one has ever charted all their paths and byways. You must never come here alone.”

  “Pooh!” she said, annoyed at his tone. It was easy to feel brave once again with the lantern shining brightly and Pasquier close at hand to lead them out of the caves. “I should have found my way, even without your help!”

  “I beg of you…give me your promise.”

  She tossed her curls at him in disdain. “I do as I please!” she said, more sharply than she had intended, and was dismayed to see him redden slightly, while Pasquier fidgeted in embarrassment that anyone should speak thus to his master. Without a word, Jean-Auguste turned on his heel and rapidly followed Pasquier from the cave. Skipping to keep up with them, Lysette was filled with remorse; when they were once again in the sunshine she put her gloved hand upon his sleeve and smiled sweetly up at him, her violet eyes soft and apologetic.

  “Pray do not be angry with me. I am…used to doing as I please!”

  Her contrite expression made his own stern glance waver, and he sighed resignedly as he helped her onto her horse. “Perhaps, someday,” he said, regaining his own saddle, “it will please you to please others.” He led her up to the top of the cliffs, where the land gave way to rolling plateaus that stretched into the distance, patchworked with rows of vines, broken occasionally by a small grove or a vigneron’s hut. They rode through the vineyards and past green meadows where sheep grazed in contentment; they skirted dense woodland, and fields of ripened wheat and corn that would feed all of Chimère during the long winter. At first Lysette was dazzled by the breadth and wealth of Chimère; but after she had mentally conjured up half a dozen gowns with the profit from this vineyard, that stand of oak, she began to tire of the game and, indeed, the whole tour of the estate. Mon Dieu! Was she expected to share Jean-Auguste’s enthusiasm as he pointed out yet another field or stream? It was enough that there would be coins to spend when she wished, that every grove and meadow meant crowns and livres for her indulgence.

  They had been lolling in the saddle, stopped near the edge of a leafy wood, while Jean-Auguste explained how Vacher and his men thinned out the forests and burned the excess wood for charcoal that could then be sold; with an impatient cry, Lysette spurred her horse and plunged headlong through the trees. She had had her fill of explanations and show; she needed the challenge of a difficult ride through the woods to keep from dying of boredom. Taken aback, Jean-Auguste hesitated for a moment; then he urged on his own mount and followed her. She led him on a merry chase through the dense underbrush, relying on her considerable skills as a horsewoman to keep her mare from stumbling or herself from crashing into an overhanging tree limb, and once a stray branch brushed against her and swept her hat from her head. But nothing could stop her, not the difficult way nor Jean-Auguste’s shouts from behind; only a small pond, that loomed up suddenly before her, forced her to rein in sharply, mischievous eyes sparkling in pleasure. Laughing, Jean-Auguste drew up alongside her.

  “By my faith, you are the devil’s own spawn!” He leaped from his horse and held his arms up to her.

  She smiled wickedly down at him. “Had you forgot so soon what you said that night at the crossroads? That you did not trust me?”

  “I forget at my peril that you are as changeable as the phases of the moon! I shall be on my guard, Madame! But come, let us rest here for a while.” He lifted her down from her horse, strong hands about her waist, and set her on her feet, but instead of releasing her, he pulled her closer and smiled warmly, his gray eyes glowing with desire.

  Lysette was aware suddenly of the isolation of the woods, the strength of his arms about her, the way he towered above her. She cast down her eyes and moved uneasily within his embrace.

  “Pray do not look at me thus,” she murmured uncomfortably.

  “Nay. It is one of the pleasures of marriage, methinks, that I may look at you thus and dream of further delights!” She glanced up at him sharply and received a crooked grin for answer. “A mistress is a chancy thing,” he continued, “but a wife…”

  She felt anger begin to boil within her breast. He had not truly wished to marry her, but now, the deed concluded, he was willing to solace himself with the pleasures of the bedchamber, whether she willed it or no! She thought again of her grievances of the morning. Even now she might be carrying his unwelcome seed because his intrusion into her room had precluded her bath. Petulantly, she wriggled free from his grasp and turned her back to him.

  “A wife…even as a mistress…is not to be treated lightly! I do not enjoy being wakened so roughly in the morning. Kindly do not come to my room unannounced again! There is no pleasure for me to be disturbed thus!”

  He turned and gathered up the reins of his horse. “As you wish.” His voice was cool, distant. “We can ride back through the woods. Mayhap we will recover your hat. I must see to the vineyards this afternoon. Bricole will show you about the rooms of Chimère, if you but ask him.”

  They rode slowly and silently back toward the château, retracing their path through the woods and finding Lysette’s hat still dangling from the branch; but the talk of Bricole had set Lysette’s mind to whirling yet again.

  “Is Bricole then in charge of Chimère?” she asked, an edge of belligerence in her voice.

  Jean-Auguste turned in his saddle, his eyes searching and perceptive. “The household is yours, to run as you wish—naturellement—but Bricole has been chief steward for many years. He can be of service to you, if you will but defer to his wisdom in some matters.”

  “But has he been instructed to obey my wishes?” she snapped.

  “Of course!”

  “I will not be crossed, nor treated with disrespect!”

  “Only you have the power to be less the mistress than you should be,” he said gently, but his eyes bored into her as though he had searched her soul and found her wanting. “Chimère is large, and complex to manage…let Bricole be a friend as well as a trusted servant. You will not regret it.”

  The wisdom of his advice only increased her ire. “Do you think me a child?” she said defiantly. “I have been mistress of a household ere now! I have been a wife!” Wife. With a pang she recalled her indifference to him the night before—his wedding night—and turned away in consternation. That had scarcely been proper behavior for a wife, more especially one who had had a husband before. Curse Jean-Auguste! Why could he not be cruel and indifferent and thoughtless as Guy had been? She had always pleased herself and thought it right and natural; why, with those serious gray eyes bent to her, did her every action seem suddenly tinged with childlike selfishness?

  They rode back to Chimère in silence. At the château Bricole appeared and handed Jean-Auguste a small packet of food; he murmured his thanks to the steward and, with a brief nod to Lysette, turned his horse about and made his way back toward the vineyards. Lysette dismounted and went indoors. Bricole’s solicitude, urging Madame to take a bite of food, only exacerbated her mood and she refused him sharply. At her haughty command he showed her about the château, from the large stone kitchens below to the stately apartments and the small chapel glowing with stained glass, but she found no joy in any of it. He was too polite, too proper, too obsequious—surely his manner was pretense and he was laughing at her for presuming to think she could ever rule here! She longed for a reason to dominate, to take command, to prove her superiority.

  At length they passed a door near the ground-floor staircase.

  “Wait!” she said, pointing. “That room!”

  “A small library, Madame.”

  “Show me.”

  Bricole shook his snowy head. “I cannot, Madame. It is locked.”

  “Then unlock it,” she said, her voice rising shrilly.

  His kind eyes did not waver. “Monsieur le Vicomte has forbidden it.”

  She stamped her small foot in annoyance. “Madame la Vi
comtesse insists upon it! I shall explain it to Monsieur…open the door!”

  “Monsieur de Narbaux has the key,” he said gently.

  There was no quarreling with him. “Have I seen all the rooms then? Save for this one?”

  “Yes, Madame. Have I your leave to retire?”

  “Yes. No! There is the matter of my maid Dominique.”

  “Given to idleness, my lady, when she is not serving you. But I shall find chores for her when she is not occupied, if you wish it, Madame.”

  “I do not wish it! She is answerable to my authority alone. I shall not have you ordering her about!”

  “Forgive me, my lady, if I have presumed too much. It is my fervent wish to serve you as I have served the Narbaux all of my life. You must not hesitate to chide me if I overstep my bounds.” He bowed low, his thin frame bent stiffly, his eyes filled with genuine humility that nevertheless, did not rob him of his natural dignity and bearing. Lysette stirred uneasily. His courtesy only added to her sense of unworthiness. Bricole straightened up and went on smoothly. “Monsieur is in the habit of taking supper at six by the clock, in the small salon. Do you wish the cook to prepare a special dish?”

  “No.”

  “And the arrangements suit you, Madame?”

  “Yes.”

  Bricole bowed again and turned to leave. On an impulse, Lysette called him back.

  “Wait! We shall dine at seven!”

  “Seven, Madame?”

  “Seven!” she said with some asperity.

  Silently, he nodded and left the room, but she could almost hear the words echoing in the quiet corridor. As you wish. Jean-Auguste would have said it: as you wish. Well, by le bon Dieu, it was what she wished! To make them know that she was mistress here, that she expected to be treated like a grand lady, not a child!

  She looked about her: the arched hallway, with its high-set windows and imposing tapestries seemed suddenly to dwarf her. With a heavy sigh that rose from a wellspring of discontent deep within her, she made for the cozy safety of her sitting room.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jean-Auguste smiled gently at the portrait of his mother in the small salon; she grinned back at him as though they were exchanging secrets. Seated within a window alcove, her fingers drumming nervously on the lute she had had Dominique search out for her, Lysette cursed her own foolishness.

  Jean-Auguste had come in from the vineyards at six, expecting supper; when Lysette had explained in a small, cajoling voice that she preferred to dine at seven, he had not even bothered to say “as you wish,” but had agreed with a good-natured nod and seated himself in a comfortable chair, passing the time in reading. It was she, Lysette, who suffered. Bored, restless, her poor stomach crying out for lack of food (what had ever possessed her to refuse lunch when Bricole had offered it?), she watched the hands of the clock on the mantel tick out the hour in agonizing slowness. Did he know? she wondered. Was he laughing at her, glancing up from his book to smile cheerfully at the picture of his mother?

  Supper came at last; Lysette was so hungry she scarcely bothered with idle conversation, but fell to the food with gusto. At length, sated, she heaved a prodigious sigh and smiled across the table at Jean-Auguste. He returned her smile, his eyes filled with warmth and pleasure.

  “You have a healthy appetite! One would think you had worked in the vineyards all the afternoon! Did Bricole show you the château?”

  “Yes. It is lovely. There are so many rooms. So much to see. Oh!” She frowned suddenly. “But one room…”

  “One room?”

  “The library.”

  “Ah…yes. The library. Do you know that your hair curls most charmingly about your ears?”

  “Of course I know!” she said impatiently, too piqued by curiosity to be coy.

  He laughed aloud at her frankness, then relented his teasing. “Ah, well, I suppose you must see the library. Come along.” He picked up a small candelabra from the table and led her across the hall to the library door. Taking a key from his pocket, he turned it in the lock, then paused and turned to her. “You must not be disappointed. It is only a library, after all, and the few rare volumes in it are almost too dull to be read, but…”

  “But…?” Lysette thought she must surely scream at him in another moment.

  He grinned in self-satisfaction. “But there is a gift for you…”

  So saying, he swung open the door. It was a small room, its walls lined with book-filled shelves, and a few comfortable chairs placed near the windows. But what caught Lysette’s eye was a writing table, placed awkwardly in the center of the room, as though it scarcely belonged there. It was a handsome piece, a large closed cabinet resting on a beautifully inlaid table, intricately set with strips of gold and mother-of-pearl, and swirls of ivory and ebony. Still, it was hardly the kind of gift that thrilled Lysette to any great degree.

  “Oh, how lovely,” she said, trying to keep the regret out of her voice.

  “Wait.” He reached out and opened the cabinet doors, swinging them wide to reveal the interior. Lysette gasped in genuine pleasure. The inside of the cabinet was like the miniature facade of a two-storied building, with rounded arches and paneled doors, and tiny niches set with diminutive statues. There were ebony columns, finely fluted, their Roman capitals overlaid with gold, and delicate friezes of carved ivory, creamy white against the dark mahogany wood.

  Lysette dropped to one knee in front of the cabinet, exclaiming in delight as her fingers traveled every pediment and archway. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled up at Jean-Auguste. It was like having a writing desk and a toy all at the same time!

  “Now, watch carefully,” he said. He grasped one of the tiny statues and gave it a sharp twist; to Lysette’s surprise, it turned under his fingers until it was facing the rear of the niche. Next he reached out and pushed a column on the second story, sliding it gently to the right until it had moved a scant inch. Finally he pressed the inlaid pediment above the main archway; there was a soft click from somewhere within the cabinet. He pulled at the center archway and it glided out of the cabinet proving to be a drawer already filled with quills and ink and writing paper.

  Lysette clapped her hands in joy and jumped to her feet. “Show me! I must do it for myself!”

  Jean-Auguste laughed and replaced the drawer, reversing the steps that had released the secret spring. He scarcely had to show Lysette how it was done; in a moment she was unlocking the drawer then closing it, locking and releasing, over and over again, and squealing in delight each time the small catch clicked.

  “Oh, thank you!” she said at last, her eyes shining. “It is the finest gift I have ever had!”

  “It was made in Florence,” he said. “In Italy they seem to have a need to hide things. There are more drawers, you know. Perhaps you should see what they hold.”

  Lysette gasped in surprise and touched the statue, the column, the pediment this time, when she removed the center archway, she examined the cabinet more carefully. Sure enough, surrounding the space where the drawer had been were the fronts of half a dozen more drawers, buried deep within the cabinet. She pulled at them excitedly; five of them were empty, but the sixth held two large ribbon shoe roses, each centered with a cluster of diamonds. Clutching them tightly, she threw her arms about Jean-Auguste’s neck, bubbling with happiness.

  He grinned in satisfaction, enjoying her pleasure as much as if the gift had been his. “But there is more inside,” he said.

  Dazzled, she bent once again to the cabinet, discovering, to her wonderment that every door opened up and every tiny window swung wide to reveal a hidden space. At last, when she had found every secret hiding place, she sighed deeply and leaned happily against the cabinet, surveying her treasures laid out on the writing table.

  Besides the shoe roses, there were two pearl tassels to grace the band strings of a lace collar, a jeweled clasp of rubies and diamonds, and a dozen buttons of gold filigree set with emeralds, as well as a pair of large pearl drop earring
s.

  “How kind you are to me,” she said, choking back tears.

  “What…weeping? I shall not have it! They were my mother’s things. It pleases me that you should have them.” He smiled warmly down at her and tweaked the tip of her nose. “Now put away your booty and lock up your cabinet—in the morning you can have it placed in your rooms where you wish it.”

  Reluctantly she stored the jewels and closed up the writing desk, looking uneasily over her shoulder as he shut the library door without locking it. “They will be safe, n’est-ce pas?”

  He laughed gently. “Of course. Only you and I know the secret.” He took a step toward her, his face suddenly serious, and laid his hand on her arm. “Shall you sleep directly tonight?”

  “No,” she said kindly, filled with warmth and gratitude.

  “I shall come to you when you have dismissed Dominique.”

  Her eyes were still shining when he entered her bedchamber, and she danced merrily about the room. “By my faith, I cannot decide where I may put my lovely gift! Here?” She indicated a spot near a window. “In my sitting room? There? Beside that chair?”

  “Enough!”

  “Forgive my chatter tonight! It is such a splendid gift…” She smiled sheepishly at him, then pressed a finger to her lips in a promise of silence. Unself-consciously, she released her peignoir and nightgown and allowed them to fall to the floor at her feet, as she had done the night before, then waited for him to cross the room to her. He took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, then lifted her and carried her to the bed. He really is a very agreeable man, she thought, as she lay passive, enjoying the sweetness of his gentle kisses and caresses. To have given her such fine gifts, then added to her pleasure by hiding them in that magical cabinet…those beautiful jewels…she paraded them before her mind’s eye once again. The ruby clasp cried out for a velvet cape lined with fur, and the emerald buttons would need a dress with an overgown that buttoned on to either side of the bodice—not green, it did not suit her—perhaps white—would André admire her in white? Perhaps she would give a party—in the great hall of Chimère—and she, dazzling in white, dancing with André…