Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  Landelle examined her once more; then, the bleeding having subsided, he inserted a wad of rags and helped her from the table. “A word of warning, Madame,” he said. “You must change your linens more frequently than you are accustomed to for your monthly flux. Keep to your bed until your strength returns. You will feel pain for several days—it will pass. Do you wish to rest for a while?”

  She shook her head, hating him, loathing this awful room, sick from the smell of onions that still assaulted her nostrils. “I wish to go home,” she said. “At once!” The housekeeper helped her on with her skirt, then led her to the garden where Dominique waited to throw the fur cloak about her shoulders and guide her, still tottering, down the lane to her coach. She sat dry-eyed in the carriage, but when they passed the old church in Vouvray, perched on a hill, its golden stones beginning to crumble from the centuries it had stood there, she called out to the coachman and made him stop.

  Despite Dominique’s protests, she entered the church alone, seeking comfort from its solid arches and shadowy nave. A young priest hurried toward her.

  “Madame la Vicomtesse! We are honored by your presence.”

  Father! she thought, filled with shame at what she had wanted to do. Will you hear my confession? But the walls had begun to ripple before her eyes, the floor to spin—and the words remained unspoken. Alarmed at her pallor, he helped her out the door and into her coach, cautioning the coachman to speed with all haste to Chimère, for surely Madame de Narbaux was grievously ill.

  The tears burst then, and she sobbed in Dominique’s arms for the whole of the journey home. She was too wicked. Le bon Dieu would never forgive her, however much she repented her sins. Only an evil woman would wish to destroy a child!

  She was glad at least that Jean-Auguste was still at the glasshouse when she returned. When he found her in bed, it would be soon enough to invent a reason, and her ashen face would attest to the genuineness of her illness. For how could she ever tell him of her visit to Dr. Landelle? He would know—his gray eyes probing her soul—that she did not want to bear his children.

  Dominique helped her on with her nightdress and would have urged her into bed, but she shook her head. “Bring me a basin of warm water. And the strongest soap you can find!” And stood there, swaying, in the center of her bedchamber, until Dominique returned. She picked up the soap and moistened it in the basin, scrubbing it across her mouth and cheeks until the skin was sore and red.

  But, scrub as she might, she could not expunge the ugly smell of onions.

  “Oranges! Mon Dieu, Jean-Auguste! Where did you get oranges in the middle of February?” Lysette sat up in bed, wriggling contentedly against her pillows. She smiled at him in genuine warmth. What a treasure he had been these past weeks, bringing her presents, spending long hours beside her bed, regaling her with amusing and ridiculous stories until she laughed with delight, enjoying his company, the lack of pretense between them. She did not, of course, allow herself to dwell on the fundamental lie: the dishonesty that had brought her to her bed, the falsehood—a feminine weakness, a winter fever, her inherent fragility—that explained away her condition. He had accepted it without question, concerned only with her health, almost ready to call in a doctor from Tours if her color did not improve. And now here he was, on this sunny afternoon, offering her a basket of oranges and grinning triumphantly as though he had summoned them out of thin air. He perched on the edge of her bed and watched in pleasure as she greedily peeled back the orange flesh and popped each juicy segment into her mouth.

  “My Aunt Marguerite arrived today,” he explained. “You remember I told you she had written from her château near Luçon asking if she might come and visit for a few weeks. She has an orangerie on the estate that is kept warm all the year through. I took the opportunity of writing her to ask if she would be so kind as to bring something along for you. ’Tis a pity. Another few weeks and there might have been strawberries as well.”

  “No matter,” she said, smacking her lips. “The oranges are delicious!” He laughed and took out his handkerchief, dabbing at a stray drop of juice on her chin. “May I meet your aunt soon?” she asked.

  “She is resting now. It was a tiring journey for a woman her age. I shall bring her to your room after supper, if she is so disposed.”

  “And is she as droll as your mother was?”

  He shook his head. “She was sister to my father, but…alas…without his powers of mind—or tact, as you shall soon discover. I have already endured a searching catechism on the loss of my mustache! Eh, bien! She is, however, exceedingly kind and warm-hearted, and her late husband, Monsieur le Marquis de Mersenne, was a great soldier, much honored by the King. She will be pleased to know you are enjoying her oranges.”

  About to eat another piece, Lysette stopped, a sudden thought striking her. “Oh! I have not even asked if you should like a morsel or two! How thoughtless of me!”

  He smiled. “On the contrary. There was a time when it would not have crossed your mind at all! However”—he slipped his hand behind her neck, cradling her head in his fingers and leaning close to her—“I should prefer the taste of the oranges on your lips, ma chère.” His gentle kiss roused such a confusion of emotions within her, stirring guilt and tenderness in equal measure, that she smiled thinly and turned away, anxious to change the subject.

  “How are the Rondini managing at the glasshouse?”

  “All goes well. It is slow work, training a team of men, but the bottles they have begun to produce are consistent and will hold a uniform measure of wine. I could not ask for better than that. Ah! And do you remember the young widow from Vouvray who was hired to be housekeeper to the Rondini? She has a lad—ten or eleven, I think—Honoré by name. He was to mind the Rondini’s sheep and milk their cow, but I fancy the glasshouse was more inviting. He took to hanging about so often that Guglielmo Rondini has taken him under his wing, and is teaching him how to blow and work the glass; though I suspect that Giacopo, as the master glassmaker, feels it is his place to train apprentices. I fear me we will need your peacemaking again, ere long!”

  “And do I do it well?” she asked coyly, her eyes wide and innocent.

  He shook his head, frowning at her guile. “You do it exquisitely, as well you know. But it never ceases to amaze me,” he added more kindly, as she began to pout, “that you always seem to know how vulnerable a man is to those beautiful eyes of yours! By my faith, I cannot fathom if you learned the art, or were born with it!”

  She guessed that he meant it as a compliment and smiled happily, glad to have pleased him. He penetrated her deceptions so often that a word of flattery or praise from him represented genuine approbation, not mere puffery nor the blind—and ultimately hollow—devotion she was used to receiving from her admirers.

  By evening, Aunt Marguerite had recovered from her journey and announced herself ready to meet Jean-Auguste’s bride. A stout, big-boned woman, she strode into Lysette’s bedchamber with such zest, her voice booming genially, that it was almost impossible to accept that she had needed a moment’s rest. Indeed, Lysette was quite prepared to believe that this robust female, who would never see her fiftieth summer again, had come from Poitou on foot, slaying dragons in her path! She stood at the foot of the bed, hands on hips, surveying Lysette with a thoroughness that made her squirm; then she smiled broadly and slapped Jean-Auguste on the back.

  “Mon Dieu, Jean-Auguste! What a little thing she is! You must pray that the sons she gives to you have the stature of the Narbaux! It is a fine thing to have tall sons,” she said warmly to Lysette, seating herself in a small chair next to the bed. “But it would scarcely be amiss if they had their mother’s features. You are a very beautiful woman, ma petite,” she said, patting Lysette’s hand. “Unless my nephew is a fool, there should be a child for every year of your union!” Lysette bit her lip in consternation, feeling a hot flush stain her cheek; she dared not look at Jean-Auguste, grinning sardonically at her, lest he see beyond her embarra
ssment and humiliation to the shame that gnawed at her heart. But Marguerite de Mersenne, oblivious to the effect of her words, was blithely chattering away. “It is fine to have sons. I had three, you know. Ah, well”—a deep sigh—“le bon Dieu loved them as much as I, and gathered them in for his own. I have a grandson, now—in New France—he fought with Champlaine at Quebec—a fine lad. But Jean-Auguste has been as a son to me, and more! Mon Dieu! Many are the times I have boxed his ears when he tried my patience! Have you found him so?”

  Now it was Lysette’s turn to grin as Jean-Auguste blushed and winced. She opened her eyes wide, her rosebud mouth a circle of woe. “Ah, me!” she sighed, “he is a trial! I have prayed to le bon Dieu to stay my hand that I might not strike him in unseemly anger!” Her violet eyes glittered wickedly. “And still I find him peevish and surly when I wish to have my way.”

  Marguerite clicked her tongue in sympathy. “You are fortunate, at least, that he is good and kind. For the rest, you may pay no mind to his perversity—he ofttimes has done things that others would not, because it seemed fitting to him.”

  The smile faded from Lysette’s face. Fitting to him. Like offering marriage when he did not wish it, because it seemed fitting and proper. And she had mocked him but a moment before, enjoying his discomfiture.

  Madame de Mersenne, seeing the cloud that had passed over her face, lifted her chin in one strong hand. “Jean-Auguste tells me you have not been well. In truth, I like not your color. Did you enjoy your oranges?” Lysette nodded gratefully. “Good. You must eat every single one. And I shall cook you a strong broth tomorrow—you are too thin! Send that lazy maid of yours to me in the morning—I shall give her instructions as to your food!”

  Lysette bristled. “Dominique is not lazy!”

  “Indeed she is, as well you must know if you have your wits about you! And what is more, you should see to it that that handsome young farmer keeps well away from the château!”

  Lysette gasped. “Etienne?”

  “If that is his name. He skulked about all the afternoon, waiting to catch a kiss. And she was content to take every opportunity to neglect her duties. I could hardly close my eyes for all the comings and goings in the courtyard beneath my window! You mark my words—he will find his way under her petticoats soon enough, and there will be the devil to pay!” That line of thought led her to a bit of gossip about some nobleman’s latest bastard, and from thence to a searching inquiry of Lysette’s background and heritage, her parents, her brothers, her marriage to Guy—each frank question followed by equally frank, and sometimes outrageous, commentary on Lysette’s answers. There was no time for subterfuge, or coyness, or guile—Lysette found her more exhausting to deal with than Jean-Auguste’s penetrating eyes. At last, seeing her drooping, he came to her defense, forestalling any more questions and leading his aunt to the door.

  As the weeks passed, however, Lysette found herself not merely tolerating, but beginning to like this hearty, open woman. She submitted to special diets and long hours of sitting in the sunshine at her open window, bundled in her furs against the cold. She found her strength growing daily, but she contrived to languish a bit whenever Jean-Auguste appeared, lest he take her good health as a sign to resume his conjugal visits.

  There came a day, however, when she could not bear the sight of her rooms for another moment; when Aunt Marguerite suggested that she might wish to come down to supper, she leaped at the chance. Simply to dress, to walk down the stairs, to enjoy the companionship of Jean-Auguste and Marguerite in the small salon—she had almost forgotten she was supposed to be convalescing until, with supper over, Jean-Auguste insisted on carrying her back to her room. Despite her protests, he swept her up and made for the staircase. Rendered captive, she settled into his arms, enjoying the comfort of his strong embrace, the ease with which he held her.

  “And why are you grinning, my lord?”

  He chuckled down at her. “Do you remember when I carried you from the river? And all your skirts heavy from the water? I like to have near broke my back that day!”

  She giggled in her turn, then frowned. “I am minded of the way you carried me in Angoumois! As though I were an old cloak to toss over your shoulder!”

  He snorted. “You deserved no better! Tormenting André as you did! When a man has been celibate for many weeks…” He stopped on the landing and looked at her, his eyes suddenly burning with desire. “For too many weeks!” He bent low and kissed her hungrily; she clung to his neck and returned his kiss, her heart pounding wildly despite herself. Reluctantly he pulled his lips away and continued on up the stairs, but his step seemed jauntier now. “I think I must send for a doctor from Tours!”

  Her heart stopped. Did he suspect, had he guessed her guilty secret? “But…wherefore?”

  “I must see if there is a cure for me—to still my impatience until you are well!”

  She smiled uneasily. But, after all, now that she had the sponges, carefully stowed in a secret compartment of her writing desk, what had she to fear? “Mayhap I am well now,” she offered, and watched the grin of pleasure spread across his face.

  He set her down outside her door and kissed her hand. “I shall return in a little,” he said, then stopped, his lips still on her fingertips, as the sound of weeping came from her chamber. He pushed open the door. Dominique crouched on the hearth, clutching at the tattered remnants of her chemise about her arms and shoulders. There were red marks and scratches on her bare flesh, the obvious result of rough hands. At sight of Lysette she began to weep all the louder.

  Jean-Auguste knelt beside her. “Dominique! Who has done this?”

  “He said…S-S-Simon…such terrible things.” She sobbed.

  Lysette stamped her foot in annoyance. “Vacher! Have I not asked you a thousand times, Jean-Auguste, to speak to that man? And it has come to this—that he would have the effrontery to attack my personal maid?”

  Dominique struggled to her feet, shaking her head. “Oh, no, my lady! It was not Simon! It was Etienne! I…we…had gone to one of the old barns. I thought he only wanted a kiss or two, and then he…” She gulped and could not go on.

  “Are you yet intact?” asked Jean-Auguste.

  “Oh yes, Monsieur! Indeed yes! But I should not have been without Simon! He came and gave Etienne a sound drubbing, and I was glad! And then…and then…” she began to wail again. “He said such terrible things to me—that I am a foolish girl, and he is vexed with me. And I am never to come to the glasshouse so long as Etienne is there, and I am not to flirt with anyone again or else he will…oh, I cannot tell you the hateful things he said!”

  Jean-Auguste comforted her and sent her off to her room, then he kissed Lysette gently and promised to return in a few minutes. She changed quickly into her nightclothes, then released the secret catch on her desk and removed one of the sponges that Dr. Landelle had given her. God forgive my wickedness, she thought.

  When Jean-Auguste knocked softly at her door, she was combing out her raven tresses. He sat and watched her for a few moments, but made no move to go to her. At last she rose from her dressing table and slipped off her peignoir, her hand was on the drawstring of her nightgown when she remembered one piece of unfinished business.

  “What do you intend to do about Etienne? Or Vacher, for his cruel words to poor Dominique?”

  “There is nothing to be done about Etienne. She has been a fool, encouraging his attentions. All Vouvray knows he has ruined many a lass. But I think he will leave her in peace now. As for Simon Vacher…I expect he will marry the girl in good time.”

  “What?”

  “He has been smitten by her from the first. Did you not know?” He stood up and moved easily to her, his fingers tugging at the string of her gown until it loosened and fell to the floor at her feet. “But what care I tonight for Dominique or Vacher or Etienne?” His hands caressed her rounded hips and full breasts so she trembled at his touch. He laughed softly, his voice deep in his throat. “Aunt Marguerite has se
rved you well—Love’s pillows are firmer than I remember them! You must be sure to have her receipt before she leaves!” He kissed her hungrily, impatiently—and when he made love to her it was with a haste she found disconcerting, as though he were more concerned with his own pleasure than hers. To be sure, she responded stiffly to his ardor, conscious of the presence of that pernicious barrier, fearful that he might be aware of it. Still, she did enjoy being caressed and kissed, passively accepting the praise of his hands and lips; she felt positively cheated by his selfish haste, almost sorry she had voluntarily put an end to her confinement.

  In the morning, however, she was glad. The day was fine and sunny; freed of the necessity for pretense, she strolled in the garden and rode her horse about the courtyard, under Jean-Auguste’s watchful eye. He beamed in pleasure at her rapid recovery, and, at her urging, agreed to let her ride down to the glasshouse with him in a day or two. It was so good to see her up and about again; he could not offer enough. Perhaps she would like to go to Paris in a month or so, if the spring rains did not flood the roads? And in the summer, if she wished to invite her brothers to visit—he would be pleased to receive them.

  On the following morning, having dutifully eaten the large breakfast Marguerite pressed upon her, and bundled up against the chill day, Lysette at last set out for the glasshouse with Jean-Auguste. She was astonished at the changes in the clearing since last she had been there: the path had been widened to allow for small carts and wheelbarrows, the clearing itself had been broadened and extended to include the site beyond the stream where the potash was made, and a dozen small hovels for the workers had sprung up between the Rondini’s house and the glasshouse. There were far more men than she remembered, and a great deal more bustle, but without the chaotic activity she remembered from the fall. What was it Giacopo Rondini had said—that a well-run glasshouse depended upon the closest cooperation and precision between every man and his fellows? Well she could believe that. Each man seemed to have a purpose, and few took the time to do more than nod quickly in her direction before continuing with his chore. She saw Simon Vacher directing his woodcutters as they gathered fuel; remembering Jean-Auguste’s words, she looked at him more closely, seeing for the first time beyond his brash and craggy exterior to the lovesick swain too proud and shy to declare his feelings openly.