Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  “You are tired,” he said. “Go to bed.” He poured himself another cup of cider and passed a hand across his eyes. “I have letters to write this evening. I shall be leaving Chimère tomorrow for a few weeks.”

  “But I thought we would go to Paris,” she said, crestfallen.

  “Such pleasures must await my return. If I am to lease the woods to a master glassmaker, I must obtain the necessary papers and see that a license is issued. And then, there is a loan to be secured—there are few glassmakers who can afford to start up a glasshouse without an advance of capital. Now, off to bed with you and stop your pouting. When I return, there will be gowns and parties and fawning admirers enough to satisfy even your vain little soul! I shall leave a purse with Bricole—you may go to Vouvray and spend it to your heart’s content.”

  Placated, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. She bid him good night and Godspeed on his journey, then made her way down the corridor to her own chambers, enveloped still in an aura of warmth and contentment. It had been a lovely evening—the companionship, the laughter, the flattery in his words and eyes, the pleasure of being petted and kissed (and nothing expected in return!).

  From the doorway, he watched her progress toward her room; had she turned, she might have seen that his face, illuminated by a small candelabra in the hall, was as bleak as a winter’s landscape.

  Chapter Fourteen

  With Jean-Auguste away, the weeks passed slowly. Lysette rode almost every day, and played the lute, and spent countless hours before her mirror, admiring herself in all her new finery. It was far pleasanter than her life in Soligne had been: forever pinching pennies, riding seldom, and then only when she could afford to rent a horse. But Soligne had been a bustling town, filled with gossip and handsome young men; she missed the delicious wickedness of a scandal, the zest of an innocent flirtation. And she was still a stranger here. To amuse herself, she set about charming all the servants and tenants at Chimère, noting with satisfaction how easily each one was swept into her orbit. The vigneron Pasquier, the young man who had shown her and Jean-Auguste about the caves, was particularly vulnerable, and it pleased her to manage an encounter with him as often as she could, just to see him blush to the roots of his blond hair; only when she learned he had a wife and child did she cease her thoughtless beguilement.

  Bricole was especially kind to her, tending to her every wish, treating her with a deference that almost made her uncomfortable. As the days dragged on, and her restlessness grew, a boredom that sprang from the aimless, indolent life she had always led, Bricole tried to draw her into the running of Chimère, now bustling with preparations for winter. He sought her approval on innumerable details; even as she smiled and nodded, assuring him that she trusted his judgment, she cursed herself for her irresponsible years under her aunt’s tutelage. The details were all so complex, and she scarcely had any idea of how—or what—to approve! As for money, she could hardly handle it with any wisdom. Guy had always given a fixed sum to their servant to run the household, and Lysette had had whatever she could wheedle from him on an irregular basis; after Guy had died, she had continued to give the same fixed amount to her housekeeper, neither questioning nor wondering where it went. And now, here was Bricole, eager to discuss the household accounts with her; he might as well have been talking in Greek for all it meant to her, and she was too proud and ashamed to ask him to be her tutor. At length she convinced herself that such domestic details were beneath her, and told him, with some testiness, that she no longer wished to be bothered by such trivialities.

  Accompanied by Dominique, she took several trips to Vouvray, directing her coachman through the narrow streets that meandered up and down from the valley to the limestone cliffs and caves, stopping at one shop and another to make small purchases with the coins that Jean-Auguste had left. She always spent more than she intended to, and she always journeyed back to Chimère filled with wretched remorse, while Dominique, oblivious to her mood, chattered on about her Etienne, or complained bitterly of Simon Vacher who seemed determined to bedevil the maid, snatching an insolent kiss or pinching her familiarly when she ventured out of doors.

  The weather turned unexpectedly cold, with a sharp wind that blew through the trees like a sorcerer’s spell, changing them overnight to glowing reds and golds. It was too windy for long rides; Lysette spent more and more time in the cozy antechamber, hunched up on the fur rug with her lute or a book of poetry. The room reminded her of Jean-Auguste. He had been gone for more than a month; the one brief note she had received indicated that he expected to return at the end of October. Not that she missed him, of course! Only that his company was amusing, and the days were long and tedious—that was why she looked forward to his homecoming.

  But October is peculiar. Just when it seemed that the trees, shivering in their bright raiment, would shed their leaves and surrender to winter, there came a morning at the end of the month when the sun shone brightly and the air was as sweet and mild as midsummer. A beautiful day, thought Lysette, breathing deeply at her open casement window. Surely Jean-Auguste would return on such a glorious day! So convinced of it was she, that she decided not to ride—though the blue sky and warm breezes called to her—but spent her time dressing carefully in her most becoming gown and strolling about the manicured gardens. By nightfall, when it was clear he would not come, she felt angry and cheated.

  The following morning, the weather was even more beautiful. This time—devil take Jean-Auguste!—she would ride for the whole day. Let him return and find her gone! It would do him good to cool his heels and wait on her pleasure! She had Dominique fetch her a small packet of food; there would be no reason now to return before evening. She would ride and ride, free, undirected, wherever her fancy took her.

  Dominique handed her her riding gloves, a small frown creasing her pinched features. “But Madame, if Monsieur should return today.”

  She shrugged. “I shall not be here.”

  “But if he asks where you have gone…?”

  “Tell him I have gone to the moon!” How could he have left her alone for so many weeks? She smiled maliciously. “Tell him I have gone to the wine caves.”

  She told herself she had not planned it, of course—yet she found herself, after an hour or so of aimless riding, on the path that led toward Vilmorin. Well, perhaps it would be pleasant to see Marielle and André; it had been well over a month and a half since her wedding. And they were neighbors…and friends. She spurred her horse on through the golden forest glades, ignoring her heart that had begun to thump in anticipation. André! To see André again!

  She drew up into the courtyard of Vilmorin and cast her eyes about her. On the wide lawn near the summerhouse, two men were dueling fiercely; only the sheathed tips of their rapiers indicated that it was all in sport. Even at this distance, there was no doubt that one of the men was André: the golden hair, the bronzed skin of his sword arm, shirtsleeve rolled up above his elbow, his extraordinarily broad shoulders. Lysette watched him for a moment, his lithe grace and strength, then rode down to the two figures and dismounted, waiting. Praise be to God! No children about! No Marielle! André looked toward her and saluted with his sword, then attacked his opponent in a flurry of lightning thrusts and parries until the man shouted “Touché!” and, laughing, threw down his rapier. Stripping off his fencing glove, André handed them both to his servant along with his sword, and dismissed the man. Smiling broadly, he turned toward Lysette and embraced her with the easy familiarity of a brother, his blue eyes radiating a warmth that took her breath away.

  “Has Jean-Auguste returned then?” he asked, looking beyond her toward the courtyard.

  “No,” she replied, then stopped, struck dumb by the sight of him, the spell of his sapphire eyes. “It…it is warm in the sun,” she stammered at last. “Come.” She led him into the shadowed coolness of the summerhouse. “How foolish of you,” she scolded, “to run about playing with swords on such a warm day!” She withdrew a large
handkerchief from her pocket, directing him to duck his head down that she might mop his brow. “Mon Dieu!” she said coquettishly, smiling up at him. “I had almost forgot what a handsome man you are!”

  He laughed, taking it as a joke, and shook his head in reproach. “Am I to be compromised by a married woman?”

  She pouted. “Was there ever a married woman so quickly abandoned by her bridegroom?”

  “Will it cheer you to know that Jean-Auguste was filled with misgivings to leave you so soon? He rode through Vilmorin when he left Chimère; I had letters of introduction to several merchants and moneylenders in Paris. He was not happy to leave your side, but he was anxious to see the work begun before winter sets in. You may take his remorse as proof of his affection!”

  “Pah! What need have I for his remorse? When I am neglected for all these many weeks…” She turned away, frowning. “It is clear his glassmaking means more to him than I do!”

  André laughed ruefully. “Eh bien! We all suffer from neglect! I must engage my servants in swordplay because…” He shrugged, then was silent.

  “I quite forget my manners! How is Marielle?”

  “Enjoying the pleasures of domesticity,” he said, a sharp edge in his voice.

  “On such a lovely day? When you might have gone riding together? I marked how beautiful the trees were as I came from Chimère. They quite dispelled the loneliness of my ride.”

  “You should not have come alone! I shall be your companion on the journey back.”

  “How kind you are. How I have missed you!” She smiled disarmingly as his eyes widened in surprise. “Both of you.”

  “Come,” he said. “Let us see if we can divert Marielle from her duties, if only for an hour or two!”

  They found Marielle in the kitchen, Louise at her side. The place was a beehive of activity, with the last frantic preparations before winter set in. Once the snow was on the ground, there would be no fresh meat at Vilmorin save for the occasional stag or boar run to earth in the hunt. A dozen pigs had been slaughtered, and the carcasses were being cut up and prepared in every corner of the cavernous room. Large salting tubs, filled with coarse, dry crystals, were being stocked with the various cuts of pork; in a week or so, the large hams and the lean underbelly would be taken from the salt and hung in the small smokehouse behind the kitchen, to be smoked and cured. Used sparingly, the hams would grace many a winter’s table; the savory bacon could flavor a fine stew, and its rendered fat, slathered on a slab of bread, would be a solid, warming breakfast on a cold morning. The fat-back, that layer of fat over the pig’s spine, would come out of the salting tubs to be air dried and hung in the root cellar next to the sacks of dried peas. Cooked together, they would make a hearty meal, or enhance a savory soup. The tongues and the feet of the pigs had been washed and placed in a barrel of brine, and a red-faced and robust cook was busy chopping the pork scraps to be smoked in the smokehouse and forced into the scraped intestines for sausage. Two fattened cows had been similarly slaughtered, their parts apportioned out to the various salting tubs and brine baths.

  Marielle, a large ledger book in her hands, had been making notations when Lysette entered with André. She kissed Lysette warmly on both cheeks, seeming delighted with her visit but her green eyes flicked nervously to André. “A moment,” she said. “You must forgive me. Louise”—she consulted her ledger—“we will need more grain sacks, I think. The mice…can we get another cat, do you suppose? And cook tells me the copper kettle is quite worn through. Send for a tinker from Vouvray to mend it…but get another kettle as well. I gave you a hundred crowns Wednesday last—will that be sufficient?” Louise thought a moment and then nodded. Marielle turned, frowning distractedly at André. “I wonder if we have laid in enough beef? Last winter…”

  “Nom de Dieu, Marielle!” André cut in testily. “Will you be here all the day?”

  “No, of course not, my love! It is only that…” She hesitated then pushed the ledger into Louise’s hands. “The beef was short last winter, Louise. Take a careful account. I should not like to think that someone…”—she cast an uneasy eye about the room at the score of servants—“…still, we must be wary.”

  “Come, Madame!” said André, growing annoyed.

  “Yes, yes!” Still reluctant, Marielle followed André and Lysette to the kitchen steps, then stopped and turned for one final caveat. “Louise, see that the apples and beans are stored carefully in the root cellar; there was far too much rot last winter.”

  Though she pretended casualness, Lysette was wonderstruck by Marielle’s capability. To remember so much, to direct such a complex household with ease, to have time even to consider if there was pilfering among the servants—ah, Dieu! she would never begin to be able to manage Chimère with such skill. She laughed ruefully to herself. Her housekeeper in Soligne must have taken her for a perfect fool! How many times, though the housekeeping money was generous, had the maid announced that there was no meat in the house? And fed her own family well, no doubt, on Guy’s money! She knew she could trust Bricole, of course, just as Marielle trusted Louise, but…she sighed, filled with discontent. A proper wife would run the household herself.

  They lunched together, the three of them, on the open lawn before the summerhouse, a strange and diffident trio. Lysette flirted outrageously with André—she felt joyous, alive; her eyes sparkled with the pleasure of being near him again. André seemed pleased and flattered, yet there was more than simple enjoyment in his attitude—an undercurrent, an odd tension that hung in the air between him and Marielle; it seemed to Lysette that he was inviting her coquetry out of spite to his wife. As for Marielle, she feigned indifference to their playful exchanges, her forced smile almost hiding the pain in her eyes. She chattered on about her domestic duties, the heavy responsibility of Vilmorin, the difficulties with the children, while they listened in polite sympathy. Then Lysette told of her adventures with Jean-Auguste—the feast in front of the fire, the dunking in the river, the gift of the writing desk (editing the stories carefully to include only the pleasant or humorous aspects)—until Marielle’s life seemed dull and pale in comparison.

  At length Lysette announced that it was time to leave, lest darkness overtake her before she reached Chimère.

  André turned to Marielle. “Will you return to the kitchens?”

  About to nod her head in assent, Marielle thought better of it and smiled warmly at André. “No, mon cher. You have been wishing to show me for weeks how to play the guitar—and I have been a reluctant pupil for too long. Perhaps for an hour or two this afternoon…? I vow you shall have all my attention.”

  André frowned. “I cannot. I promised Lysette I would see her safely home to Chimère.”

  Marielle’s smile seemed suddenly frozen, her green eyes glittering with a hard light. “Of course. I had quite forgot your gallantry. Naturellement, you must see to Lysette. Could we forgive ourselves if anything should happen to her? And Louise may need me after all.” With forced graciousness, she kissed Lysette on both cheeks and fled to the château.

  For a moment André hesitated, filled with unease; then, with a shrug, he summoned a servant and sent for Lysette’s horse and his own.

  They rode slowly through the leafy woods, chatting amiably, Lysette bent on prolonging the afternoon as much as she could. When they came to an open meadow, she insisted they dismount and walk, to take advantage of the warm sunshine. As they strolled, André talked of the last time he had been to Court, the latest liaisons, the beautiful courtesans anxious for a wealthy patron. Lysette pretended surprise at such scandalous behavior, but André laughed at her innocence.

  “But there is no denying they are attractive women!” They had reached the end of the meadow and he turned to help her into her saddle, grasping her firmly about the waist.

  She melted into his arms, hands clasped about his neck, and smiled coyly up at him. “And do you find me attractive?”

  His eyes scanned her face, not with the searching
glance of Jean-Auguste, but with the uncritical look of an admirer. “I find you far too attractive. You disquiet a man!” He swung her up into the saddle. He had the easy charm of a man who is used to flattering women—the words rang hollowly in her ears. What was it Jean-Auguste had said once? That André had been a rakehell in his younger days? Well she could believe that—he was attentive, smooth, charming, effortlessly so—but did his words reflect his true feelings about her? He would be a more difficult conquest than she had at first supposed—but infinitely worth the effort!

  They had come to the highroad just before Chimère’s long avenue of trees. Lysette reined in her mare. It would not do for any of the servants to see her ride up with André—there might be awkwardness in explaining it later to Jean-Auguste. “André,” she said, her voice warm with kindness, “it will soon be dark. I should not like to think of Marielle sitting alone at Vilmorin waiting for you. Do not trouble yourself to see me to the door, but turn your horse about now and speed to your lovely wife’s side!” Despite his protests, she was adamant, and bid him adieu and waved him out of sight.

  As she rode up to Chimère, she saw a groom holding a solitary horse in front of the door; with a start she recognized Jean-Auguste’s animal. She reined in and slid from her saddle, beaming in pleasure at his return, just as Jean-Auguste himself came rushing out of the château. At sight of her he stopped in his tracks, his face drained of color. A few long strides and he stood before her, his eyes probing her so penetratingly that the smile faded from her face.

  “You did not go to the wine caves!” It was almost a question.

  “Certainly not!”

  “But you told Dominique you were going?” This time it was a question.