It had rained for several days before the party; the path through the woods to Vilmorin was muddy and uneven. Aunt Marguerite, bundled into the bow of a small boat and crowded in by boxes and chests of clothing and jewels (as well as two strong oarsmen), was sent ahead on the river; Lysette and Jean-Auguste would follow on horseback, threading their way over the bumpy path.
Marielle had planned well. There were jugglers and acrobats, and a company of actors brought in from Tours who entertained the guests with lively comedies and farces. By day the men rode, or fished on the river, while the women tried their skill with bow and arrow, or passed the time at backgammon and gossip. But despite the merry times, Lysette could not help but notice the estrangement between Marielle and André: Marielle played the perfect hostess, preoccupied with every small detail; André, unhappy, restless, tried to hide his pain behind a hearty laugh.
For the last evening, there was a sumptuous supper—five different meats and fowl, half a dozen sweets, fish and soup and pudding, and, to celebrate Lysette’s birthday, a large cake in the shape of a lily, sculpted of crisp pastry and spun sugar. Radiant in her purple gown, her hair caught up with the first tender violets of spring, Lysette accepted the good wishes and toasts of the assembled company, then took her place with Jean-Auguste in the center of the long gallery, there to lead the guests in the dancing that followed. She gloried in the admiration of all, graciously dancing with one nobleman and then another, bestowing her smiles like tender favors upon all who came within her orbit. But André held back from the merriment—distracted, preoccupied. At length, when the music had stopped for a bit, and Jean-Auguste had gone to fetch a glass of wine for an elderly and out-of-breath Duchesse, Lysette approached André and slipped her hand through his arm.
“It is such a pleasant night, and the gallery is warm. Will you walk with me in the garden for a spell?”
He smiled gallantly. “Since it is your anniversary, I must do your bidding, lovely lady!”
She let him lead her through the gallery door onto the wide lawn; then, seeming to drift aimlessly, she turned toward the small secluded garden sheltered from the château by a curve of trees. She hesitated for a moment, recalling that it was here that Jean-Auguste had proposed marriage—and she was quite prepared tonight to break every vow she had ever sworn. It was not as dark as she might have wished; all the gardens and parks of Vilmorin had been lit in festive manner, and several bright torches adorned the fountain in the center of the bower. But the line of trees screened them from the château, and the sounds of the music drifted through the soft air to cloak the words of love she meant to speak this night.
“I fear me you are not yourself tonight, André. It grieves me to see you out of sorts.”
He shrugged off her concern. “I am nagged by trifles, nothing more.”
“Trifles? Nay, it is not so. For surely something has blighted your cheer. Where is my joyful companion of the journey?”
He frowned, musing. “Yes. I was joyful, was I not? Dreaming of Vilmorin and…” His words drifted off.
“And now?”
He laughed raggedly. “Can the dream be sweeter than the reality? A serpent came into the garden, and I cannot find it—nor name it even!—to cast it out! We are strangers, Marielle and I, and I know not why!” He shook his head impatiently. “But this is not your burden.”
“And wherefore not?” She pulled him over to the stone bench to sit beside her, and held his strong hand in her own two. “Was it not in this very spot that you kissed me and called me sister? Oh André. My heart is so filled with”—she hesitated—“tenderness…for you that your pain is mine. Can I be of no comfort to you?” She gazed up at him, her eyes dark as the night sky, her lips parted in warm invitation.
He cupped her chin in his hand, his eyes searching her face as though he were seeing her for the first time, the soft eyes, the tempting mouth. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to hers in a tentative kiss, hesitant, exploring. She trembled, feeling her head spin—the sweetness, the perfection, the culmination of all her dreams. She had always known it would be like this.
She reached up to encircle his neck and found herself suddenly thrust away with rough hands. With an angry growl, André jumped to his feet and turned away from her, his shoulders rigid with the effort at self-control.
“Mon Dieu! I must be mad. To betray your kindness…to hurt Jean-Auguste. Forgive me, Madame de Narbaux!”
“No, André! You must not reproach yourself!”
He spun around, shaking with fury at his own weakness. “Who, then? You? Who offered solace and comfort as a sister? Dieu! I would have dishonored you, visited my unhappiness upon you, and brought grief to Jean-Auguste!” His shoulders sagged, the fury replaced by self-loathing. “What a fool. And still Marielle and I would be strangers.” Wearily, he passed a hand over his eyes, his voice low and tormented. “If ever I am to root out the canker, and regain my wife, it shall not be by seducing the wife of my dearest comrade. Forgive me.” Then he was gone, slipping through the line of trees and vanishing into the night.
Lysette’s hand went to her breast and she stood up, meaning to call him back, then thought better of it. To do so would be to humiliate herself. He had spurned her, but at least he thought only that he was denying himself. If she called him back, he might refuse her openly, thereby shaming them both.
Through bitter tears, she looked up to see Jean-Auguste at the edge of the garden. Weeping, she threw herself into his arms, wanting the comfort of his embrace, the warm assurance that would tell her he had seen nothing. His arms held her fast, but his voice above her was quiet, filled with a weariness she had not heard before.
“I wonder, ma chère, if those are tears of contrition, or merely disappointment!”
Shocked, she pulled away, struck dumb with shame. He had seen the kiss—that was plain enough; and if he had not heard André’s words of rejection, he could not have misread the anger and haste with which André had fled her side. She was glad at least that it was too dim to see the contempt that would be in Jean-Auguste’s eyes.
“I came seeking you to give you your birthday gift,” he went on, as though nothing had happened. “I found a clever goldsmith in Vouvray.” From his pocket he drew a small gold chain and cross, a perfect replica of the necklace worn by his mother in the portrait.
Touched, Lysette began to weep again. “I shall wear it always, as she did.”
He shrugged, and dropped it carelessly into her palm. “As you wish. It matters little to me. I should like to return early to Chimère on the morrow. You will doubtless be still abed. I will take your horse with me. You can travel with Aunt Marguerite in the boat.” He turned back to the château.
“Jean-Auguste!” He swung about to face her. Ah, Dieu! Why were the words so hard to utter with those accusing gray eyes bent to her? “Thank you,” she whispered, unable to say more.
Lysette hurried up the stairs to her chambers, thankful that she was alone. Since they had returned from Vilmorin, she found herself increasingly uneasy in Jean-Auguste’s presence. He had become cold and distant, with a tenseness that was disconcerting; she had laughed a great deal, and played the coquette, hoping to jolly him into a better mood, but his eyes had snapped with impatience at her obvious guile, and she found it easier to avoid him. Besides, he had begun to look at her in a different way when he thought she was unaware of his glance—a kind of smoldering (anger? desire?) that was new and surprising in such a forebearing nature. She did her best to evade his question on the stair—slipping her arm through Marguerite’s so that they ascended together, or skipping off in a hurry after supper while he was yet sipping the last of his wine. And once, when she had started up the staircase, and he emerged unexpectedly from the library to stand staring silently up at her, she had contrived to droop and yawn and smile sheepishly. Motionless, he had watched her until she had disappeared on the landing above, his eyes never leaving her.
Now, she was glad he was nowhere about. He h
ad vanished to his rooms shortly after supper, she had stayed to play cards with Marguerite, then lingered after the elder woman had gone to bed, watching the soft spring rain patter on the river beyond the salon windows. She was tired. It was late. Chimère was still; with a pang she realized that Dominique must still be waiting for her in the passageway, unable to go to her own bed (or her husband’s! Mon Dieu! Would her conscience never give her any peace?), until her mistress was abed. Sure enough, she found Dominique fast asleep in the corridor, she shook her gently and the maid roused herself and picked up a candelabra from a small table, leading the way to Lysette’s bedchamber.
The room was dim, lit only by a candle on the dressing table; when Dominique would have lit more, she shook her off. It was hardly necessary—she would be asleep ere long. There was no fire; despite the rain, it was a warm evening. She glanced at the shadowy bed, its curtains parted slightly. There would be no need to close them against the night and the mild air. She breathed deeply, the scent of spring and warm rain sweet in her nostrils. It was lovely.
“Dominique, when you turn back the coverlet, open the bed hangings fully. The air is so fresh tonight!”
She stood motionless in the center of the room while Dominique stripped off her garments, then preened, naked, in front of her mirror, admiring her body, the firm breasts unwizened by a suckling babe, the thin belly and flawless skin. At last she allowed the maid to slip a nightdress over her head and comb out her chignon, twisting her ebony curls into a soft braid. While Dominique went to prepare her bed, she took the single candle and her jewels and entered her turret sitting room, releasing the magical catch on her writing table and tucking away her earrings and gold necklace in their drawers. She never tired of her desk; even now, weary as she was, she lingered to stroke the delicate pediments and finger the tiny columns.
When she returned to her bedchamber, she clicked her tongue in annoyance. Devil take the maid! She was nowhere about—and the draperies of the bed were still half closed! Impatiently she grasped the edges of the curtains and whipped them open, then gasped and stepped back, almost slipping on the edge of the carpeted platform. Jean-Auguste was there, lolling on the bed, a crooked smile on his face. As she watched, he sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the bed.
“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, her hand clutched to her still pounding chest. “What a start you gave me! Is this some sort of jest? Are you drunk?”
“Must I be drunk to find your games wearying?”
She frowned in anger, but an edge of unease had begun to gnaw at her. “What do you here?”
“Simply this—I do not intend to be denied tonight.”
She swirled away from him and began to pace the center of the chamber, her lip curled scornfully. “And so you come creeping in here like a thief! How long have you been there?”
He laughed mirthlessly. “I watched you admire yourself. You still have a beautiful body, though I had almost forgot what you look like!”
She cursed her own vanity, a hot blush staining her face. “And Dominique? Did you frighten her as you did me just now?”
“Poor Dominique! She could scarcely decide whether her fealty lay with the mistress—or the master who bid her go! Though I’ll wager she understands the duty of a wife far more than you do.”
“You will forgive this wife tonight,” she said sarcastically, indicating the door. “I am extremely tired.” She drew herself up proudly. There would be time for tears if her indifference did not drive him away.
“No.” The voice cold and determined. “I have been more than patient, Lysette. Henceforth I shall come to you when I wish it! You will oblige me by loosing your gown.”
“Oh-h-h!” She began to weep, her voice rising in an unhappy wail. “Am I a strumpet? Am I no better than a whore in Paris to be ordered about so?” She sobbed bitterly, covering her face with her hands. There was no response from Jean-Auguste. She sniffled loudly and looked up at him. His face was frozen, one eyebrow raised skeptically. She stamped her foot in fury at the look in his eyes, and turned her back to him, bosom heaving in anger.
“Mark me well, Lysette,” he said, the voice so low and menacing that she turned back to him uneasily, in spite of herself. “If I lay aught but loving hands on you tonight, you will have cause to rue your willfulness! By my faith, I cannot judge what would please me more—to bed you, or to pull you across my knee and mete out the whipping you have more than earned half a score of times! Now, loose your gown!” he barked.
Her eyes widened in fear, terrified suddenly of this stranger who had invaded her sanctuary. She managed at length to pull herself together, but when she responded to him she was dismayed to discover that while her words were icy and scornful, her voice was unsteady, the soft lips trembling. “You will find no joy tonight, Monsieur, I promise you that!” Quickly she dropped her nightdress, then wrapped her arms about her naked breasts and shoulders, as though she would deny him even the right to look at her. Sullenly she waited, tapping her foot in annoyance, while he rose from the bed and began to remove his own clothing, all the while circling about her, his eyes raking her body until she felt almost degraded. Damn him! she thought, her blood boiling.
He lifted her chin and kissed her firmly on the mouth. Hands still folded across her chest, she held herself stiffly, her lips tight-clamped and unyielding. He stepped back for a second, his eyes narrowing, then, suddenly, unexpectedly, he grabbed her wrists and unwrapped her protective arms, pinning them behind her back. Pulling her close, he kissed her fiercely, his mouth rough and insistent, forcing her lips apart, compelling a response. It was impossible to be cold or indifferent; she found herself shaking (from fury? fear? passion?) at his brutal assault. She struggled in his embrace, trying to loose his cruel grip, conscious all the while of his body pressing hard against hers; when he released her wrists to scoop her up in his arms, she flailed at his chest and shoulders, aware suddenly of the strong sinews beneath her pummeling fists. He tossed her onto the bed and pinioned her body with his own, his burning mouth finding her breast. Gone was the gentle lover—his hands were strong upon her, touching, fondling, exploring with passionate intensity, until her violent spasms were as much response as resistance. She could not think of André—she was enveloped by Jean-Auguste, overwhelmed by his presence, the throbbing that had begun deep within her.
For a moment she opened her eyes to see his red hair flaming in the light of the candles, then closed them again as his hot mouth took hers and he possessed her body. He was the fire, the crucible, the furnace—she the vessel, consumed by a white hot flame, burning and burning and burning. An unbearable tension rose within her and she clung to him, returning his kisses. He was the glassmaker, molding her to his will. The fire burned ever fiercer within her, behind her closed eyelids the glass shattered into myriad shards—glowing, luminous—and she was transported in wondrous iridescence to radiant bliss.
Chapter Nineteen
“Forgive me, Madame! I did not know what to do when Monsieur le Vicomte sent me away last night.” Dominique’s eyes were wide with innocence, but she could scarce prevent her lips from curving into a knowing smirk.
Lysette cursed softly and burrowed deeper under her coverlet. “Leave me!” she snapped. “And do not return until I send for you!” She closed her eyes against the bright morning sun, hearing the soft click of the door as Dominique left the room. Mon Dieu! By now half of Chimère must know that Monsieur le Vicomte had forced himself on his wife! She opened her eyes again, staring sightlessly at her bed hangings, wide awake despite the fact that she had hardly slept all night. She burned with anger and humiliation. How she hated him! How she despised herself!
Her thoughts churned within her poor brain, recalling again and again the events of the night. When at last Jean-Auguste, exhausted, had rolled away from her, she had curled up in her small corner of the bed, shaking violently, panting to recover her breath, frightened of the passionate frenzy he had awakened within her. She had lain thus f
or a long time, while her racing pulse slowed and her head ceased its spinning—an hour, perhaps two. The rain had stopped. The last of the candles had sputtered and gone out, plunging the room into darkness. She guessed that he slept, but peaceful slumber had eluded her. Then he had stirred, and his hand had slid around her waist and reached up to her breast. His touch had burned her, and she had begun to quiver again, twitching helplessly under his searching fingers. He must have taken her trembling for a rebuff; with rough hands, he had turned her to him and kissed her fervently, his mouth draining her of the last shred of will and pride. Then, with no further overtures, he had entered her abruptly, fiercely. She had cried out, a passionate moan that had escaped her lips as she felt herself yielding—helpless, enervated—to his ardor. Thinking she had cried in pain, he had begun to withdraw; with a piteous whimper (“No! Please!”) she had clutched at him, holding fast to him that they might not be parted.
She cringed now, remembering, filled with self-loathing. She had never wanted to let him go. Ah, Dieu! She would have begged him on her knees to stay if he had left at that moment! He had reduced her to helplessness—for one terrible night she had been his pawn, his plaything. She shivered, an unfamiliar edge of fear working at her. She had never thought of him as particularly strong before—surely not beyond her controlling and manipulation; she had always equated his gentle agreeableness with a kind of weakness. Though he had sometimes won a small skirmish or two, she had never doubted her ultimate mastery of him—through her guile and his own reluctance to make her unhappy. She fidgeted nervously in her bed, biting her lip in consternation. Up till now, she had felt sorry for him, because it was clear the marriage had been a mistake he regretted; now she was overwhelmed with self-pity. What was she to do, yoked to this brute of a man? She scanned her bare arms, beginning already to discolor into ugly bruises because of his cruel grasp, and nearly wept aloud.
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