by Colette Gale
He’d saved her son’s life.
Had he known Albert was the son of his lover?
Why was he pretending not to know her—did he truly not know her? How could he not, when she’d recognized him instantly?
Perhaps it was amnesia, she realized. Perhaps he really didn’t know it was she.
And perhaps that was just as well. For what could she do?
She was married—albeit unhappily. She had a son, a home, a life. She couldn’t be with Edmond the way she’d want to. The way she’d promised and intended.
Would she want to?
Ah. But there was no doubt. Of course she would. She’d never stopped loving him.
She turned to look into the parlor, where Albert had just taken Monte Cristo and was offering him a drink. Yes, there was no doubt where her heart still lay. It pounded harshly in her chest, beneath the lemon-yellow gown. It broke when she looked at that strong profile, that handsome, familiar—yet unfamiliar—one. The pain in her chest was palpable, an actual squeezing and tightness of her heart and lungs.
Edmond.
Returned at last, yet still so far away.
“Mercédès.”
The soft murmur, the gentle tug at her elbow, brought her back to the present. To the trap and the puzzle that was her life. It was Georges, of course, ever-present, and now at her elbow.
Mercédès pushed her anguish and confusion away and looked at him, leaning absently into his offered arm, relishing the support. God knew how badly she needed it. “Good evening, Georges,” she said, forcing herself to look away from the figure that commanded her attention.
He smiled at her, his eyes soft like that of the pup Albert had raised when he was young. “You look ravishing tonight,” he said, his voice low. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you look so well, Mercédès. I thought my heart would fill to bursting when I saw you.”
He was sincere, and what woman would not thrill to such words—even if they were from an earnest, open man such as he. Mercédès smiled at him, turning resolutely from the tall, dark person in the parlor behind her. “Perhaps you will be my dinner partner this evening?” she asked. “I have already planned it so,” she lied, knowing she would have to change the seating arrangements before they entered the dining room.
She wouldn’t be able to eat a morsel if she were sitting next to Edmond.
Monte Cristo politely declined Albert’s offer of a drink, and instead took the opportunity to mingle with the other guests at the Morcerf home. The Danglarses and the Villeforts were present, as well as a dozen others. He knew many of them, having been out and about at dinners and the theater and even one ball in the last two weeks.
He himself had just returned from hosting a dinner party at his new home in Auteuil, at which he’d entertained the Danglars family along with the Villeforts and several others. That had gone very well, and had left the Baroness Danglars and Monsieur Villefort—who had been secret lovers many years ago whilst he was married to his first wife—more than a little nervous.
Twenty years ago, the baroness and Villefort had not only been lovers, but they had also birthed a child. Villefort had taken the child from the baroness and buried it alive on the grounds in Auteuil, which was precisely the reason Monte Cristo had purchased the home, and invited them for dinner, under the guise of ignorance of the events that had taken place many years ago.
The house party had been only the first stage of his plan for revenge, and if Baroness Danglars’ near faint and Monsieur Villefort’s pale, drawn face during the evening were any indication, all had gone well.
“Monte Cristo, would you not like to sample this fine brandy?” Morcerf asked, suddenly appearing at his elbow. Puffed up with his own importance as host, he offered a cut-crystal glass of the dark amber liquor.
Monte Cristo made a bow and replied, “No, thank you, indeed. I have no thirst at the moment. What a lovely home you have,” he added affably. “And a lovely family.” He purposely allowed his gaze to stray to Mercédès, who’d just entered the room on the elbow of an elegant young man.
She was magnificent tonight. A far cry from the simple peasant woman he’d been taken from—taken from because of this man next to him, trying to serve him and ingratiate himself to him, and two others in this very room!—so many years ago. She’d aged delicately, beautifully: Her skin was still smooth and unwrinkled, still the same rich tan of her Catalan heritage. He’d noticed none of the white or gray hairs that would show so brightly against such lush, dark hair, and it was pinned up in some intricate style that he imagined must have taken hours to arrange.
Her hair was adorned with the gold pearls from the South Seas and rare yellow diamonds he admired, for Monte Cristo was a connoisseur of gems and jewels, having so many of them in his possession. A fat, shiny curl rested over one smooth shoulder, falling onto the swell of her bosom. Her waist was pinched in, not so far as Haydée’s would be in such a gown, but well enough, and then her gown spanned out in ridiculously wide skirts of soft summer yellow, decorated with a fall of spring green lace.
She was ripe and beautiful and elegant.
As Monte Cristo intended, Morcerf noticed that his gaze was trained on Mercédès. “Indeed. Mercédès has always been a lovely woman.”
“You are a lucky man,” Monte Cristo replied carefully, and realized that his fingers were closed too tightly. He loosened them deliberately, one by one. “And that young man with her?” he asked, knowing full well it was Georges, the Count of Salieux. He knew everything there was to know about the man who’d shared Mercédès’ bed. He knew everything about everyone . . . except the details of the Morcerfs’ intimate relationship.
He’d had no interest in that information.
“That is Salieux,” Morcerf replied casually.
To Monte Cristo’s eyes, the young man in question enjoyed an intimacy that he, were he the husband, would find unacceptable. Yet Morcerf didn’t appear perturbed in the least.
Monte Cristo determined to press on. “A cousin, I presume?” he asked, making his own voice casual, dragging his attention away from Mercédès as she made her way through the room.
Yet he knew when she smiled, showing her one charming off-kilter tooth, as she paused to speak with each of the guests throughout the room. They laughed with her at something she said. She leaned in toward another cluster, and her face lit up anew. She brushed someone’s arm as if to comfort. Her eyes gleamed and sparkled as she spoke, hands gesturing elegantly.
Monte Cristo forced his attention to Morcerf.
“No, not a cousin at all,” the man said, baring faintly yellow teeth under a gray-speckled mustache. “An acquaintance of Mercédès.”
Monte Cristo raised his eyebrows. “More than an acquaintance, I would venture to say.”
Morcerf flashed a look at him. “Mercédès is my wife, Your Excellency. She does nothing without my permission.”
Indeed. Monte Cristo wondered fleetingly if that included a visit to the Isle of Monte Cristo. But he continued the conversation, for there was something there that intrigued him. “How far does your permissiveness extend?” he murmured.
Morcerf looked at him with calculation, but not surprise. No, not surprise or offense. “You are Albert’s friend. And savior.”
Monte Cristo bowed his head in acknowledgment, but remained silent. His pulse was jumping, for this development was wholly unexpected.
And rather advantageous to a man in his position.
“And we are quite indebted to you,” Morcerf added meaningfully.
But before the conversation could continue, a pleasant tinkling reached their ears. One of the servants was walking through the parlor, ringing a small gold bell that announced the imminence of dinner, and the guests began to file into the dining room.
With a precise bow, Monte Cristo left his host’s presence, quite pleased with the direction their conversation had gone.
The meal ought to be quite interesting, for as was his custom, Monte Cristo refu
sed to eat or drink at the home of his enemies.
Mercédès kept her attention well away from the dark-haired man who seemed to appear in her line of vision wherever she looked. She was relieved to be occupied, playing the perfect hostess at the table and throughout the evening. Her task was made quite simple tonight, thankfully, for the minister of the interior had made the announcement only this morning, at the National Assembly, that the ashes of Emperor Napoleon would at last be returned to his city in December.
Thus, she was able to carry on reasonable conversations— for the details were being repeated over and over again—while part of her attention was on the fat, sloppy Baron Danglars, who had known Edmond almost as well as Mercédès herself did. After all, they had sailed on the Pharaon together, long before Danglars had become obese from great wealth and rich food. She watched him for any sign of recognition, and saw none. In fact, Danglars appeared to be trying to ingratiate himself with Monte Cristo. He certainly seemed to be successful at it, if the wide smile and jovial responses he received from the count were any indication.
So neither Fernand nor Danglars recognized Edmond. Was Mercédès mad? Was she seeing something that didn’t exist, forcing something that wasn’t there?
She cast a sidewise glance down the table. No. She wasn’t wrong.
Thankfully, Mercédès was distracted by a slightly off-color remark from Monsieur Farnaugh in regard to where he thought the ashes of the emperor should be placed, and she responded with a good-natured reprimand that drew chuckles from both Farnaugh and the others in the vicinity. Mercédès was known as a mild-mannered hostess who preferred to keep the dinner conversation appropriate for the ladies as well as for the men.
Then she reluctantly allowed her attention to drift to Monsieur Villefort, who sat near Fernand. He was a dapper man of a height that was, ironically, not much greater than that of his despised Napoleon Bonaparte. The very sight of him made her head light and her stomach hurt.
Villefort had been known as a loyal Royalist during the time Napoleon was incarcerated on Elba, although it was later learned that his father, Monsieur Noirtier, had been a Nationalist in support of the little emperor. Mercédès had only known Villefort by sight when they all lived in Marseille until she visited him after Edmond’s imprisonment, begging for information about her fiancé. That was the last time she’d begged anyone for anything.
To this day, she’d wondered: had he even known who Edmond was? Had Villefort ever laid eyes upon the young man whom he so easily dismissed when Mercédès—and Monsieur Morrel too—had come to him for information?
If so, he certainly didn’t recognize him now.
Despite her wandering train of thought, Mercédès was surprised at how quickly dinner was over. Conversation had turned from the emperor’s ashes to the great floating pool on the Seine, Piscine Deligny, which would at last be open near Quai Voltaire for swimming. As they discussed the appropriate attire for such activities, the guests began to filter out of the dining room. Mercédès meant to follow as soon as she gave last-minute instructions to the servants.
She took longer than she’d intended, and when she finally was ready to rejoin the guests, Albert approached her.
“Mama, did you notice that His Excellency the count didn’t eat one bite at dinner tonight?”
She had not; she had been too busy keeping her attention away. “No, indeed,” Mercédès replied. Horror and shame filled her that a guest in her house—particularly Monte Cristo— should be left wanting. “Was the food not to his liking? Are there items that do not agree with him or make him ill?”
“He claims that is not the case, that he was simply not hungry.” Albert looked at her, his handsome face thoughtful. “It is true, the times that I have dined out with him, he eats very little, and even demurred when he came to breakfast with me, explaining that he’d eaten when the sun rose—but he does eat. And according to d’Epinay, who attended a dinner party at Monte Cristo’s house in Auteuil, he ate quite well at that meal. But tonight he ate nothing. Nor drank any wine or water or anything.”
“I will speak to him,” Mercédès said, at the same time as a prickle ran over her shoulders. She would have to seek him out, to speak with him again. Beneath the gloves, her palms became damp as anticipation and apprehension washed over her. It was a perfectly reasonable excuse. “Do you know where he is?”
“When I took his leave, he was stepping out onto the terrace with Papa, expressing an interest in the gardens. I’ll accompany you, Maman.”
The gardens. Yes, perhaps that would be best. “No, Albert, I think I shall approach him alone. In the event that there was a problem with the food or that he is ill, I’m certain he would wish fewer people to know.”
Before he could respond, Mercédès swept past him and made her way through the small clusters of people until she reached the flat-stoned terrace, bordered by fragrant lavender plants that gave way to two different pathways. The sun had set some time ago, and the last vestiges of its warmth and light gave a purple-and-indigo cast to the gardens beyond. Soon, they would fade into black, except where occasional little lanterns hung at knee height.
As she walked across the terrace, she recognized handsome young Maximilien Morrel, who’d been invited at Albert’s behest, looking up guiltily from an earnest conversation with the pretty Villefort girl, Valentine.
But Mercédès had no interest in whatever tryst might be happening between the two young people, for she was in search of a dark-haired figure that would tower above the hyacinth bushes.
She was just about to slip onto one of the darker paths when a strong hand came out of nowhere and grabbed her arm. Holding back a gasp of surprise, she turned to see her husband coming out of the shadows.
“Where are you going?” he asked. His fingers were tight on her skin.
“I must see to a guest,” she replied, jerking free. Her arm ached where his fingers had clasped her. “According to Albert, the Count of Monte Cristo ate none of our dinner this evening.”
Fernand seemed to relax. “Very good. See to the count, and stay away from Salieux tonight.” He looked at her, his dark eyes narrowed. “And might I remind you that we are in great debt to His Excellency. You will make certain he is accommodated in any manner that he requires.”
Mercédès drew herself up, her heart pounding. She did not think Fernand was speaking of the menu. “It is my intention to make certain that all of our guests are well-accommodated,” she began coolly.
“The count. See to the count—I have just left him, and you’ll find him near the gazebo where the grapevines grow.”
Mercédès looked at him closely and saw the determination in his face, and since it suited her own purposes at this time, she started off in that direction without another word to her husband. Yet her stomach roiled deep inside, making her feel nauseated and uncertain. What sort of exchange had occurred between Fernand and the count that he should say such a thing?
Uneasiness prickled down her spine, but she continued. It was inevitable that they should speak again. And she’d thought of little else since his first visit.
Brushing past a lilac bush that needed to be trimmed, Mercédès found herself at the small white gazebo. It was draped with grapevines and nasturtiums that grew so heavily they obscured the openings of the little structure. At the base of the two steps that led into the building, one small lantern glowed from a low hanger. A flickering circle of yellow-white light colored the grass and pathway beneath it and washed up on the side of the gazebo and the ripe grapes that hung there.
“Does your husband know that you venture into the dark gardens alone?”
His voice, very close, almost made her jump. She was able to keep that reaction to herself, but the pounding of her heart made her jittery. Her mouth was dry, and her stomach swirled like wine being tested in a glass.
“Albert apprised me of the fact that you did not eat this evening,” she said firmly to the darkness. “Was the meal not to your liking?�
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He stepped out of the gazebo, halting on its top step. The broad, flat leaves of the vines brushed his dark hair but he stood there, arms folded over his middle. “I am afraid I was not at all hungry this evening, Comtesse Morcerf.”
“But why attend a dinner party if you do not wish to eat?” she countered.
He was silent for a moment. “Why, indeed.” The glow of the lantern splayed over his impossibly shiny boots and up along the dark trousers he wore, but the expression on his face was mostly in shadows. “So you sought me out merely in order to ascertain whether I was hungry, madam?”
“There was certainly no other reason, Your Excellency, despite whatever you might think.” Mercédès was proud of her frosty voice.
“Ah. So devoted to your husband that you bristle at the very suggestion that you hurried into the darkness for some reason other than to ensure I was in no danger of fainting from lack of sustenance.” There was an edge to his voice. “Or is it the young Count Salieux that you do not wish to disappoint, and not your husband?”
“Apparently, you are in no danger of fainting,” Mercédès replied, resolutely ignoring his other comment. “But you did not even drink the wine at the table.”
“No, indeed. I find that I have no thirst nor appetite tonight.”
Mercédès stepped closer and reached up to pluck a bunch of the purple grapes that hung from the vine-draped gazebo. “Perhaps you would like to try one of our fresh grapes,” she asked, looking up at him. “They’re very refreshing and delicious. Certainly you could try just one.”
“Please . . . don’t hesitate. Eat them if you wish, madam. I prefer not to partake this evening.”
Mercédès couldn’t understand why he refused food and drink, and stubbornly, she decided that she wouldn’t give up without a fight. Or at least until she learned the real reason for his reticence. “They are quite delicious,” she said casually, slipping one into her mouth with gloved fingers. The juice burst over her tongue when she bit down, and it was fresh and sweet as she’d promised. “Are you certain you don’t wish to try them?”