Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  She sighed again. “Poor man!”

  Poor man indeed! It was nearly four months since Guglielmo had died in the fire—was Giacopo content to mourn forever? It made Lysette’s blood boil, to think of the waste! Day laborer…pah! Lifting the jug of water she still held, she hurled its contents into his face. With a choking sputter, Rondini awoke and struggled upright, dragging himself to his feet at sight of her and swaying unsteadily, his fists scrubbing the water from his eyes. “Madame,” he croaked, the voice a helpless whine.

  She drew herself up, her violet eyes flashing. “Monsieur Rondini, please be so good as to come to the château tomorrow. Sober, if it please you! When I returned today, I found that the chain on my glass beads had snapped—they will have to be restrung!”

  He began to shake his head, the deep brown eyes weak and watery. “I cannot, Madame!”

  “And wherefore ‘cannot’?”

  “Look you!” He held out his hands to her. The fingers, once so sure and skillful, trembled violently. “It is hopeless.”

  She frowned and pointed an imperious finger at Honoré. “Then tell the boy how it is done, and let him be your hands! I mark that Guglielmo thought him clever and apt—he will make a fine apprentice!”

  “Guglielmo,” he said softly, and bent to retrieve his flask from the foot of the tree.

  Lifting her riding crop in fury, she struck the wine pouch from his hands. “No! Tomorrow, Monsieur! And sober!” She wheeled about and remounted her horse, glaring down at him as he stood, mouth agape in amazement. “I would have my beads again!” Unexpectedly she softened, her eyes filled with warmth. “And my dear Rondini,” she said with a gentle smile. “And my dear Rondini.”

  She returned to the château in the late afternoon and closeted herself in the library with Bricole, explaining that she meant to take over the running of Chimère herself. He was not to take it amiss, nor as a reflection of any dissatisfaction; it was only that the burden was too great for one person alone. She would need his help and advice, though she might sometimes ignore it. He must not mind that either—she had always been willful, and found it hard to change. By the end of half an hour, he was eating out of her hand, flattered at her trust in him, anxious to begin as soon as possible with books and ledgers and accountings.

  She went at last to her chambers, pleased with herself, with the afternoon’s work. And she had done it all with honesty, without games and tricks and guile. But Rondini, Bricole—they were easy. They did not have cold gray eyes that tore at her heart. It was easy to put her seal on them, to ask and request and insist that they do what she wished, because it was right for them. How was she to put her seal on a man who had married her reluctantly, whose indifference had turned to hatred, whose trust she had destroyed with lies and deception?

  Heavy-hearted, she forced herself to think of more mundane affairs. The matter of the glass beads, for instance. She had told Rondini they were broken; despite her reluctance to damage such lovely things, it were better for Rondini if it were so. She seated herself at her writing desk, forgetting for a moment the secret combination. What was it? Ah yes! Turn the tiny statue, slide the column, press the pediment. She smiled in delight as the catch was released, opening each secret drawer and admiring anew her beautiful jewels. It took a second to snap the links of the glass pearls. She replaced them and withdrew the double strand of real pearls that Jean-Auguste had given her as a wedding present. She would wear these tonight with her violet gown—she wanted to look especially beautiful for him. Devil take Dominique—what was keeping her? Lysette had dismissed her for the afternoon, while she went riding, but it must be after five, and there was no sign of the girl. It would scarcely do to be late for supper—she meant for the evening with Jean-Auguste to start on a pleasant note. She heard the door of her bedchamber click. There was the maid now. “Dominique,” she called, “I shall wear the violet silk tonight.”

  “Yes, Madame.” The voice strangely muffled.

  Lysette stepped from her sitting room into the bedchamber. Dominique was busy at the armoire, pulling out a cambric petticoat and a white satin underskirt—but she kept her face carefully turned away from Lysette. “Why, Dominique,” she said, “what is it? Have you been crying?”

  “It is nothing, Madame. Truly.”

  “But you have been crying! Come and sit by me and tell me what is troubling you!” Lysette pulled the maid by the hand, leading her to a small bench.

  “No!” Dominique pulled away and held her hand gingerly to her rump. “I should not like to…sit…down!”

  “Mon Dieu! Does he beat you then? That villain?”

  Dominique looked surprised at the anger in Lysette’s voice.

  “Only when I deserve it, Madame! He has the right! The duty to teach me my place! I was a disobedient wife—he forbade me to speak to Etienne, but I…wanted to make him jealous…just a little, you understand. I thought it would be a game…but Simon was very angry. ‘You do not play games with a man’s heart,’ he said. And he is right!”

  “And so he beat you?”

  “It will help me to remember how angry he was. Madame is fortunate that Monsieur le Vicomte is so mild-tempered—Simon is not such a man of patience!”

  Yes, she thought ruefully. Mild-tempered indeed. She had done far worse than merely talk to André; yet Jean-Auguste, though he might threaten her, was far too kind and gentle to take a switch to her. The only time he had struck her was the night of the fire, and then he had been half mad with grief, imagining what had happened with Dr. Landelle, and suffering because of the loss of Guglielmo and the glasshouse.

  Jean-Auguste was already seated at table in the small salon when she arrived for supper. He nodded stiffly, but his eyes flickered over her in admiration, almost in spite of himself. A good beginning, she thought, glad for the purple silk that reflected her eyes. She chattered gaily, telling him of her delight at seeing Chimère again, her pleasure at the well-run fields and vineyards. He responded coldly and as little as possible, until she swore he had never been so vexatious as he was this night. It would take all her forebearance to keep from striking him, as she had in the past, or bursting into unhappy tears. But if she struck him, he would grow colder still; and he did not believe her tears, even when they were genuine. She gulped back her unhappiness and smiled brightly.

  “Do you realize it is more than a year since the uprising in Soligne? I wonder what has become of Madame Gossault?” She reached across the table and put a hand softly on his arm. “So much has happened in a year.” Her eyes were almost pleading for his understanding.

  He shrugged in indifference, his eyes raking her jewels and gown, then he laughed bitterly. “It has cost me dear, of that I am certain! Oh! I near forgot”—his long fingers groped in a small pocket of his doublet—“we found this at Ussé’s château.” He held out Lysette’s golden cross and chain; with a pleased cry she took it from him and put it about her neck.

  “How glad I am! I lost it when Ussé…” She turned away, her eyes dark with remembrance, and a shudder ran through her tiny frame. “I had to…pretend…Ugh!” She closed her eyes and said no more.

  “That should have been easy for you,” he said, in a voice so ugly her eyes flew open. “You were always good at pretense!”

  She bit her lip and took another drink of wine. “Will you open the glasshouse again?” she asked, changing the subject quickly.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because it was worthwhile before the fire—and is worthwhile still!”

  “Are you a fool? Or yet a foolish child? Even if the ransom money is returned—and we cannot be sure it will be—I shall be cash-poor for a long time. There are loans to be repayed—this year’s harvest is already mortgaged—and I would not burden my tenants with further taxes! Where am I to get the money to rebuild the furnace and glasshouse?”

  “Sell my jewels.”

  He gaped in astonishment, his piercing eyes searching her face for a sign of deceit. “You cannot mean
that!” he said, still skeptical. “Your vanity would not allow it!”

  “If I may keep my gold cross and Rondini’s glass beads, I should be content.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “What will you do for admirers without all your frills and fancies?”

  Mon Dieu, how he tried her patience! “I scarcely need jewels to win admirers!” she snapped, removing her pearls and tossing them across the table at him. “Sell them, and whatever else you must to rebuild the glasshouse!”

  He frowned, contemplating the idea for the first time, then shook his head. “No. Without Rondini, how is it to be done? Even if he were sober…with his son gone, he has not the heart for it.”

  “Pooh! He has the boy Honoré! The lad is willing and skillful—and he is devoted to Rondini! Not quite a son, but still…”

  “And who is to persuade Rondini to begin again?”

  “I shall! I have spoken to him already. He has promised to mend my glass beads on the morrow. He will do this for me.”

  Jean-Auguste’s mouth twitched. “Of course! I had almost forgot how clever you are at twisting men to your will! All those months with Aunt Marguerite—and not a single man to fall under your spell! How boring it must have been—how you must have loved toying with Ussé! How far did the game go before you stabbed him?” The question was almost too nonchalant.

  “Do you really care?”

  He shrugged, bending again to his food.

  Her patience was at an end. “Damn you!” she burst out. “I need neither guile nor jewels to tempt a man, or have you forgot? I did not need them…the night…”

  His eyebrow shot up sardonically. “Yes? The night in the garden…with André?”

  She stared at him, her violet eyes frosty as a winter’s twilight. “The night you raped me.” And watched him flinch and turn away.

  They passed the rest of the meal in silence, Lysette cursing herself for her outburst. She had meant to be kind, to reach out to him—she had succeeded only in angering him further. At last they rose from the table. Jean-Auguste took a book and sat near the window to catch the last light of day. Lysette picked up her lute and strummed a few chords.

  “Shall I play?” she ventured softly.

  “As you wish. It matters not to me.”

  Sick at heart, she put down the lute. “I do not wish. I shall say good night now. It has been a long and tiring day.” He barely looked up as she left the room, and though she paused on the stairs, he did not come to her. She fled to her chamber, hurrying Dominique through her bedtime ritual, choosing her most flattering nightdress and peignoir, still half believing he would knock softly on her door. Alone at last, knowing herself abandoned, she flung herself on the wide bed and poured out her grief in heartbroken sobs.

  She must have slept. When she awoke, she found the chamber in darkness save for a small candle that Dominique had left. She sat on the edge of the bed and thought about Jean-Auguste. It was clear he would not bend, whether from hurt pride or anger—all her attempts at civility at supper had been wasted. There was nothing for it but to beard him in his den, demand his forgiveness, threaten to leave if he could not give it. She could not spend the rest of her life like this, with the pain, the hollowness that clutched at her insides, pretending that she did not want him and love him. She opened her door and peered out into the dim corridor. A string of light showed beneath his chamber door. She would go to him and pour out her feelings; about to quit her room, she recalled her conversation with Dominique. She turned back and picked up her riding crop. Jean-Auguste was kind and good, and he would not use it, of course, but it would be a nice gesture, a proof of her sincerity and contrition, if she were to offer it to him. Heart pounding, she knocked at his door, the riding crop held behind her in the folds of her dressing gown.

  He was sitting at a small writing table when she entered, closing the door behind her and leaning against the paneling. He had taken off his boots and his doublet, and was clad only in wide breeches and slippers, his linen shirt buttoned high, the lace falling band and cuffs long since removed and put away. Before him on the table was a large ledger, and his brow was still furrowed from poring over the figures.

  “Well?” he said, rising to his feet.

  She trembled, suddenly frightened. What if he should refuse her, tell her to leave Chimère? She could not bear the thought! She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, wishing her voice were steadier. “We cannot continue in this way,” she said. “It is time to start anew! You desire sons. As your wife, I am obliged to bear your children—whatever our feelings for one another. You married me out of chivalry, guilt for your rape of me. No, let me finish!” she said, as he opened his mouth to speak. “I married you to be near André. All that is past. I behaved shamelessly with your best friend—I was not unfaithful, but…I am sorry for wishing it, and for…my secret visit to Dr. Landelle. I know I hurt your pride because of André, because I used the sponges and denied you the child you wished. But I want to start afresh…and…”—she gulped, her eyes soft with love and longing—“…I would die if you sent me away again, for all my wickedness!” She held out the riding crop to him. “Punish me as you will; I am ready to be an obedient wife.”

  His face dark, he strode to her and snatched the riding crop from her trembling hand, flinging it aside. He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders; when he spoke his voice was a low growl in his throat. “I married you because I loved you! I thought in time you could come to care for me as well, that you would bear my children out of joy—not obligation! But I shall not bully you, nor force you, nor beat you into submission! It is André and Marielle you have hurt—not I!” He released her and turned away, struggling to regain his composure.

  “Oh-h-h!” she almost shrieked in fury. “You insufferable man! All these months—when my heart ached for just one word…one word! And now, when I come to you, offering peace, and a new beginning, and all my love, you turn your back to me, and tell me—as though it were of small moment—that you have always loved me! Devil take you!” She grabbed at his arm, attempting to turn him about; failing this she stormed around to face him, her lip jutting in angry defiance. In one swift movement, she stripped off her peignoir and nightdress, flaunting her nakedness before him; he turned his head aside, but a small muscle had begun to throb in his jaw. She stood on tiptoe, the better to reach the buttons of his shirt, and angrily began to work each one in turn, her fingers shaking. When one of the buttons refused to give way, she cursed and tore it from the shirt, flinging it down to the floor. The last stubborn button caught in the fabric, resisting all her efforts to loose it or rip it off. She began then to weep, the brave show collapsing, feeling humiliated by his passiveness.

  Of a sudden, his hands, cool and slim-fingered, were there to close over her trembling ones. She lifted her tear-stained face to him; his smiling mouth took hers in a kiss so sweet it left her breathless. He grinned and released the last button; she could hardly wait for him to pull off his shirt before her arms were about his neck, her bosom pressed against the hardness of his broad chest.

  “Lysette,” he breathed, and swept her into his arms, carrying her to his bed. Her hands tore at his breeches, in a frenzy to have him near her, to feel him inside her, to release the pent up hunger that had torn at her vitals for months. Her impatience was matched by his; their bodies fused, merged, moving in a dizzying rhythm until she exploded into ecstasy and he shuddered against her, inhaling sharply through his teeth.

  With a contented groan he moved away from her, propping himself on one elbow and smiling down on her where she lay. He had barely kissed her before, so eager had they both been; now he explored her mouth with his own, his tongue finding the inner edge of her lips, tracing the contours of her mouth with a tantalizing gentleness that sent shivers down her spine. She had always enjoyed his kisses; how much sweeter now, knowing they were kisses of love, not merely desire. He ruffled her chopped hair and laughed softly.

  “Mock me not,” she pouted. “I
have no doubt I look ugly.”

  “You look adorable.”

  “Pooh! I look like a boy!”

  He kissed her hungrily, his mouth hot and demanding. “How glad I am that you are not!” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse in his throat. He sat up, surprised, as she began to giggle.

  “On the journey, a young farmer…” She sat up beside him, hugging her knees to her chest and told of her adventures with the young man who had found her more attractive than Marielle. Jean-Auguste roared with laughter.

  “Two crowns,” he said, placing his hand on her bare thigh, and sliding his fingers up toward the soft juncture in imitation of the farmer in her story. “Hum! Are you worth it?”

  “Are you offering me two crowns?” The violet eyes twinkled.

  “Only if you earn it,” he said airily.

  “Oh!” She pushed him down upon his back and pounced on him. “And you speak to me of vanity! Very well, Monsieur, I accept your challenge! But when I have finished with you, you will beg me to accept a hundred times two crowns!” She straddled his body, pushing his hands away when he would have held her. “You must not touch me!” Her fingertips were soft as they roamed his body, stroking his firm shoulders, the smooth expanse of his broad chest, his flat belly ridged with hard muscles. She laughed throatily as he twitched beneath her, his eyes dark with desire, his mouth curved in a smile that was half pleasure, half agony. She bent her lips to his chest, then moved upward to blow softly in his ear, nibbling at his ear lobe, allowing the firm points of her breasts to scrape against his body. He was enraptured, murmuring her name over and over again; she was surprised to discover that, although he never touched her, the blood had begun to race in her own veins, burning like liquid flame, as though she took fire from his ardor. At last beneath her hips she could feel him growing hard again, and she grinned in triumph.