Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  But mayhap Lysette would remember the story of Gabriel that he had told her so long ago—how he and Gabriel chose this crossroads for their rendezvous. It was a fanciful thought, but it had nagged him so he could not be content unless he returned to this very place. André could join him tomorrow with the men.

  He yawned. Over the top of the hill, and at some distance, he could see a young lad, limping along. The poor chap must have been caught in the rain; his black hair, short-cropped, was still matted down about his face. But the lad might have seen Lysette and Marielle. In a moment he would come out from under the wagon and ask the boy.

  Lysette winced in pain, unable to walk another step. Her shoe had worn through, she was sure of it. Seating herself on a large rock just over the crest of the hill, she took her shoe off and examined it closely. Yes. There it was. A large spot that had rubbed as thin as a piece of gossamer, then worn away entirely. She pulled off her stocking, torn in the same spot. If she reversed the stocking, then patched the shoe with a piece of tree bark when she got to the crossroads, she might make it back to Marielle tonight without further damage to her foot. Still, the sole of her foot was red and sore. A piece of thistledown. Wasn’t that what Jean-Auguste had used to protect her blister? She looked up, scanning the fields for a thistle. Someone was standing at the crossroads—a tall man. She had not seen him there as she came over the hill, but perhaps he had been sitting behind the wagon. As she watched, he pulled his large-brimmed hat from his head. The bright orange hair was like a beacon on the rain-swept road, drawing her to him. She gasped and jumped to her feet, quite forgetting shoe, stocking, sore foot, and ran hopping, and crying, and shouting, in his direction. He hesitated for a moment, then, as recognition came, he began to run to her. She stumbled once, stubbing her bare toe, then flung herself into his outstretched arms and clung to his neck, unwilling even to push him away enough so she could kiss him. It sufficed to hold him, and be held, to feel herself safe at last, with no more to fear.

  Selfish Lysette! To think only of herself; and Marielle—dying perhaps—alone, with no one to comfort her, far from those she loved. Lysette tore herself from Jean-Auguste’s arms and cast her eyes wildly about the deserted crossroads, her brow furrowed in distress.

  “But…where is André?” she cried at last.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The wagon creaked along the road, its rusty wheels complaining of the weeks of neglect. Nestled among the pine boughs, a sleeping Marielle in her arms, Lysette stared, heart-broken, at Jean-Auguste’s implacable back. He rode his horse stiffly, turning seldom except to inquire after Marielle.

  He has not forgiven me, she thought. For a brief moment, when he held her, it had seemed as though he were glad to see her, but when she had pulled back to receive a welcoming kiss, she had seen that his gray eyes were cold and distant. They had ridden back to Marielle in near silence, she perched before him on his horse; the body she leaned against had been made of granite, and his arms were held away from her as he grasped the reins.

  The food and wine had revived the women somewhat. All three had returned to the crossroads crowded awkwardly on Jean-Auguste’s horse, Marielle in front of Jean-Auguste, lying weakly in his arms, Lysette behind, her breeched legs astride the horse’s rump, her hands clutching Jean-Auguste’s wide sash. The wagon had been righted, the wheel replaced; while Jean-Auguste hitched it to his stallion Lysette had fetched boughs from the stand of pine trees to cushion Marielle. Now they rode through the humid afternoon, still gray and overcast though the sun struggled mightily to appear. It would be warmer on the morrow, more typical of August than the past few chilly days. August. It had been August when she met him at Soligne. One whole year. She might have won his love in a year—instead of earning his hatred.

  It was twilight, the sky a pale silver where the sun should have been, when they sighted the caves and bluffs along the river, then the high roofs and peaked towers of Vilmorin. The wagon pulled into the wide courtyard amid the shouts and cries of the servants; summoned by the noise, André rushed from the château. He was in shirtsleeves, his face haggard from worry and sleeplessness, but at the sight of Marielle, smiling wanly at him, his eyes lit up with joy. He did not see Lysette in the wagon, nor Jean-Auguste, nor the happy faces around him; he saw only his love. Tenderly he picked up Marielle, cradling her in his strong arms; her trembling fingers stroked his chin, the side of his jaw, his smiling mouth. Still on her knees in the wagon, Lysette began to weep. How perfect they looked together! How deep the love shining in their eyes! Her heart near burst with misery and longing. Would Jean-Auguste ever look at her like that? She turned her tear-stained face to him, seeking a spark of warmth; with a look of disgust he wheeled around and led his horse to the stable.

  Someone helped her from the wagon and brought her into the château. There was a welcoming bedchamber, food, a hot bath—voices and hands to comfort and assist. She reveled in each sensation as though she were newborn—the taste of the food, the scented warmth of the bath, the feel of clean clothing against her skin. Drowsy, contented, she sat at last, clad in nightdress and peignoir, before her dressing table, and surveyed herself in the mirror. Ah Dieu! How awful her hair looked—chopped and hacked—she looked like a page boy in some ancient court painting! She nearly wept at the sight, not so much for the loss of her raven curls as for the loss of her beauty. How was she ever to win his love now? He would find her plain, ugly. But the maid Suzanne, with murmured words of comfort, fetched a pair of scissors and began skillfully to trim the uneven locks and curl them about her fingers, until Lysette’s face was framed by soft ringlets, and she looked sweeter and more elfin than ever. She was admiring herself in the mirror, much heartened by the transformation, when there came a knock at the door. At André’s entrance, Suzanne bobbed politely and disappeared.

  He smiled warmly at Lysette, his eyes filled with approval. “How charming your hair looks!”

  She dimpled prettily and returned his smile, surprised to discover that, though he was as handsome as ever, nothing stirred within her. Her pleasure at his admiration meant only that Jean-Auguste would see her with the same masculine eyes, and like what he saw. “How is Marielle?” she asked.

  “Resting. Louise has not stopped clucking about her all the evening, but she seems to think that, with weeks of care, Marielle will recover fully. Pray God it be so!” he added fervently.

  “Well you may say that now!” she scolded. “But you have brought her much grief of late. Many times she cried your name as she slept.”

  “Ah, Dieu,” he said with remorse. “I should die if I lost her.”

  “I wonder it took such a calamity as this for you to appreciate her worth! I have brought her back to you alive. Now you must repay me by reaffirming your love for her.”

  “How good you are. How much we owe to you, Marielle and I. She has told me of how you cared for her. Whilst I”—he turned away, unwilling to meet her eyes—“I have been unworthy of your goodness.”

  She hesitated for only a second, knowing the words must be spoken. “Nonsense! That night in the garden, I was equally to blame. More so, perhaps. I wanted you to kiss me. I contrived to have it so!” She laughed softly as his eyebrow shot up in surprise. “It was a childish fancy, a whim of the moment—no more.” She stood close to him and bent his head down to her, kissing him tenderly on the cheek. “You called me sister once. Let it be so again…and always!”

  He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “I wonder if Jean-Auguste knows how fortunate he is?”

  Jean-Auguste made his way reluctantly down the long corridor, his steps heavy. He was a fool even to seek her out tonight. Nothing had changed between them. He had been nearly mad with worry, then rejoiced to find her at the crossroads, thinking she must be as glad to see him. And her first words had been for André. She no longer bothered to hide her feelings—had she not wept unashamedly and openly at sight of André, her eyes dark with envy for Marielle? He had never felt such pain
as he had at that moment when André had lifted Marielle from the wagon and Lysette had wept with love and longing. Not even when he had found the sponges, had learned the truth of her affliction from Dr. Landelle. Even then, he had told himself there could still be children. She would return from Poitou chastened, submissive. He might not have the wife he had dreamed about, but at least there would be sons, there would be Gabriel de Narbaux to inherit the lands once again.

  But it was useless. He had lived for a whole year with her longing for André, convincing himself it was a fleeting passion; now he saw that André would haunt them forever. And he could not even hate his friend, for André had been unwittingly drawn by her enchantment until the kiss in the garden had broken the spell. No. Because of Marielle, the friendship of the two men, Lysette could never betray him in André’s bed. But how could he keep from seeing betrayal in her eyes, knowing she dreamed of André?

  He sighed heavily. He might perhaps write to Rome and seek an annulment—le bon Dieu knew there were grounds enough! He gnashed his teeth, thinking of the sponges he had found in her writing table. Deceitful little baggage! He should have sent her packing to her brothers in Chartres the moment he saw her casting moon-eyes at André in Soligne!

  Well, mayhap he would wait a few weeks before deciding what to do. They had both been away from Chimère for many months; there might still be a chance for a rapprochement. He turned down the corridor leading to Lysette’s room, then stopped as her door opened and a sudden stream of light flowed across the passageway. Lysette came to the door, her cropped hair curled beguilingly about her face, her silken peignoir barely hiding the tempting curves beneath. He shrank back into the shadows as André appeared beside her, stooped to kiss her softly on the forehead, then headed for his own room at the opposite end of the château. For long moments Jean-Auguste stood there; even after Lysette had returned to her room and closed the door he did not move. At last he turned about and retraced his steps to his own chamber, brushing aside the servant who waited upon him.

  “Leave me!” he growled. He flung himself down upon a chair and snatched up a jug of wine from a nearby table, ignoring the goblet beside it and taking a long pull from the lip of the pitcher. “And if Madame Narbaux should inquire after me this evening, tell her I have gone to bed and cannot be disturbed!”

  “You must only spend a few minutes this morning,” admonished Louise, pushing the two little boys into Marielle’s room. Watching the scene, Lysette smiled as François and Alain tiptoed close to Marielle’s bed, their eyes wide with wonder; then their mother held out her arms to them and they tripped over one another in their haste to pile onto the big bed with her. There was a great deal of giggling and whispered secrets, and hugs and kisses. Of a sudden Lysette could not see for the mist that blurred her eyes; but for the sponges, she might be carrying Jean-Auguste’s child by now. No matter what the future held, she could never still the remorse that tore at her heart. She went to the window and gazed with unseeing eyes at the sunny lawns of Vilmorin and the placid Loire beyond; she dared not trust herself to turn back into the room until Louise had led the children away.

  “I shall be forever in your debt, Lysette,” said Marielle softly. “You have given me back my life, my children. Ussé would have killed us but for you—I could have done nothing. And then, in the woods…”

  “I have given you back André as well,” said Lysette sharply. More than you know, perhaps, she thought to herself. “Do not let your children blind you to your fine husband!”

  “I shall not forget. And while we speak of husbands”—she turned to the serving girl who was throwing open the windows to the bright morning—“has Monsieur le Vicomte de Narbaux awakened yet?”

  The girl curtsied. “But yes, Madame! At dawn!”

  “And where is he now?”

  “He rode away, to Chimère I think, so soon as he had finished his morning meal.”

  Lysette gasped, her hand flying to her bosom, her violet eyes wide and stricken with dismay.

  Marielle dismissed the girl with a wave of the hand, then turned to Lysette, her eyes filled with compassion. “Mon Dieu! You love him! But, I thought…” she laughed softly, relief flooding her face. “Go to him at once! I shall send André with you for company.”

  “No. His place is here. A groom will suffice.” Lysette surveyed the nightdress and peignoir she still wore. “Dommage! I have not even riding clothes! Have you an old skirt, boots—anything! Just to see me to Chimère as soon as possible!”

  “I shall send you to Chimère with the best I have, and my wish that your happiness with Jean-Auguste be even as mine with André!”

  The ride through the leafy woods seemed interminable to Lysette, her heart pounding to the rhythm of the horses’ hooves, while the groom struggled to keep pace with her. At last the path gave way to the broad avenue that led to Chimère, and Lysette slowed her horse, wanting to savor that first heart-stopping sight of the château. How beautiful it was, seeming to float upon the river, its pale golden stones beckoning to her in welcome, the river whispering its soft greeting. Home. My home, she thought. Our home. To raise our children. She spurred her horse forward, almost choking with emotion.

  It was Dominique who first saw her as she rode into the courtyard, and rushed out to greet her, crying and laughing with happiness. Bricole came next, his thin back more stooped than she remembered it, his step less sure. Ah Dieu, he is getting old, she thought, and I have scarcely lifted the burdens from his shoulders! She slid from her horse and greeted each servant in turn, but her eyes sought the one figure that was missing, the one beloved face. At last Jean-Auguste came out of the château—reluctantly, she thought with a pang—and went to mount his horse that the stableboy had brought. Her heart stopped. Had he always been so handsome—the lean strength of him, the square jaw and wide forehead, the steady gray eyes, the mouth that she longed to kiss? How blind she had been! Even the color of his hair was beautiful, glowing copper in the sunlight! She smiled shyly at him as the servants fell back to give them privacy, and waited, timid, fearful, for him to speak. His eyes appraised her coolly, taking in the ill-fitting garments she wore. Louise had found clothing of good quality, but Lysette’s petiteness had made a good fit impossible, and she fidgeted uncomfortably, aware of how foolish she must look.

  “Have you missed all your pretty things, my vain little wife?” he sneered. “Is that what has brought you home?”

  Stung, she answered him with sarcasm, trading insult for insult as she had in the past. “How gallant you were, ever the gentleman, to leave without a word! You might at least have told me you were returning to Chimère!”

  “I assumed, with Marielle ill, you would want to take it upon yourself to keep André amused!”

  She bit her lip, struggling against her tears. He would surely think them false. She took a deep breath, forcing her voice to be light, her words unthreatening. “Are you riding out now?”

  “Yes. There are things to attend in the fields.”

  “Will you return in time for supper?” He nodded. She dimpled mischievously—perhaps she could recall the happy times. “At six? Or seven?”

  He swung himself into the saddle and stared coldly down at her. “It has always been my habit to dine at six.” Then he was gone, riding off into the sunny afternoon, and her heart with him. The joy was gone from her homecoming; she dragged wearily to her chambers, instructing Dominique to help her into her riding things and send for her own horse. She barely listened as the maid chattered gaily of her husband Simon Vacher, of their continued happiness after all these months, of her joy at submitting to his will as her lord and master. Lysette sighed at her own folly, contrasting her behavior toward Jean-Auguste with Dominique and her husband. There had not been a moment of their lives together that she had not struggled against submission, that she had not harried him and badgered him and played him false. Even when his ardor had stripped away her defenses, she had seen her response as humiliation and defeat. Mon Dieu!
As though giving herself fully was an abasement, not an act of love!

  Dressed in her own riding habit and seated upon her own horse, she rode out to survey Chimère, grateful to be home, drinking in the sights and sounds of it with a deeper thirst and hunger than the one she had slaked with good Vilmorin wine and food. She passed rolling fields of grapes soon to be ripe, mowed stretches where the wheat had already been gathered, streams, stands of oak and birch, orchards heavy with mellowing fruit. She guided her horse up to the cliffs and caves, waving amicably to the tenant farmers and vignerons, stopping to chat with a still hobbling Pasquier, smiling in pleasure (Ridiculous! Why should it matter to her?) to see his cheerful wife large with child.

  She rode down at last to the ruins of the glasshouse, overgrown now with high weeds, the crumbling dome of the furnace soft-edged and worn from the summer rains. Dismounting, she wandered about the clearing, her horse following. Rondini’s house was still intact, but the chimney was cracked and one window frame, missing a corbel, sagged woefully. The whole house had an air of neglect, save the kitchen garden, in which the widow now toiled while she hummed softly to herself. At sight of Lysette she put down her hoe and curtsied, calling to her son Honoré to fetch a jug of cool water for Madame de Narbaux. At Lysette’s inquiry, she indicated a shady spot beneath a tree where Giacopo Rondini lay sprawled fast asleep, a pouch of wine beside him, his clothing begrimed, his face filthy and unshaven. What a pang it gave Lysette to see him reduced to this! He was seldom sober, the widow explained, but sometimes, between bouts of drinking, he would hire himself out as a day laborer to toil in the fields, putting aside the few sous he earned to pay back his debt to Monsieur le Vicomte. The widow sighed, her eyes filling with tears of sympathy and affection. Poor man! At that rate, it would take him a hundred years to repay the loan! She herself had stopped taking a housekeeping wage from him; the garden was small but it fed them, and she had slaughtered one of his sheep, selling the mutton she could not put aside to buy a length of warm fabric with which she would sew him a winter doublet.