Pam Rosenthal

by The Bookseller's Daughter

  He’d nodded gratefully. “Yes, thank you, Madame la Duchesse, I’d hoped to get your husband’s permission—or yours, of course. Always need the cooperation of the ruling nobility when one is out of one’s local jurisdiction.” But that, he hastened to assure her, was as it should be—Inspector Lebrun had only the most profound respect for local authority.

  The Duchesse could hardly restrain herself, that night at dinner, from repeating the inspector’s story. She’d already explained it all to Nicolas, but the horrific details only got more interesting the more one dwelt on them. Being at the table, she was forced to elide the goriest parts; her enthusiasm, however, more than made up for her lack of specificity.

  “They think it was a tall, dark man.” She helped herself to the hothouse asparagus Arsène held out for her, put down the serving implements, and turned to Joseph with a smirk.

  “I hope you have a suitable alibi, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

  What was that? He looked up, startled to be dragged away from his thoughts—of the dimples below the small of Marie-Laure’s back, and of burying his tongue in one of them after slowly kissing his way along the bumps in her spine.

  He’d teased himself with images of her all through dinner, distracting himself from the decision that faced him, and paying barely a whit of attention to the conversation.

  Where were we? Oh yes, the unspeakable Baron Roque.

  Hubert turned to him. “Actually, you were in Montpellier just around the time of the murder, weren’t you? I seem to remember Madame de Rambuteau saying something like that in one of her letters.”

  Joseph shrugged. “I was delivering smuggled books, as every bookseller in Montpellier can attest. No thank you, Arsène, no more asparagus for me.”

  His father might have liked the idea of smuggling forbidden literature; a pity he’d never told him. Amélie pretended to be scandalized, but Hubert tried for a thoughtful expression.

  “I don’t approve of it. Not for the general run of people, anyway. Subversive literature erodes their respect for authority.

  “Nor,” he continued, “does it sound like the best of alibis. For if you actually ever were accused of the murder, you’d have to get those booksellers to testify for you in court. And why should they let on that they were buying illegal books?”

  Mon Dieu, it was all so boring. Still, he supposed Hubert was right.

  “Well, that would rather compromise my alibi, wouldn’t it? My only other defense, Monsieur and Madame, is that I’d had enough of the Baron years before, having once bested him quite decisively in a duel. He was a tiresome gentleman, really; I pity anyone who’d have to endure his company for the length of time it would take to dispatch him.”

  A chorus of laughter greeted this sally.

  “Then you’re clearly not the murderer.” Hubert nodded. “And your secret is safe with us.”

  Should have denied I was there, Joseph thought. My secret’s probably only safe as long as I bring in that dowry. Still, he was going to bring in the dowry so in the end it didn’t really matter. “Thank you, Monsieur, I trust that it is.”

  And rather more politely, over his shoulder, “Yes, I’m quite finished, thank you, Arsène.”

  His participation in the conversation no longer required, he retreated back into his meditations while Arsène served the fish course and Amélie complained about the state of the chateau’s carpets.

  The dimples above the swell of her buttocks. The swooping curve of her nape below her waves of hair. The weight of her legs slung over his shoulders as she lifted herself to receive him. Her eyes. Her lips.

  He moved his hand over the cut-crystal goblet. No, no more wine. And get your mind off those dimples as well, Joseph. He’d need a clear head if he were to make this all-important decision.

  His thoughts occupied him through the rest of dinner, and later as well, as he made his way back to his bedchamber through a precarious, half-demolished corridor, the walls swathed in scaffolding and drop cloths, the silvery stone soon to be hidden from sight by the Duchesse’s mirrors and molded plaster.

  Chapter Sixteen

  What a relief, he thought an hour later, finally to have made up his mind.

  And now that he had, he was astonished that it had taken him so long to do so. Absurd even to consider doing otherwise, and foolish to dither about it until the last minute. Well, almost the last minute: he, Hubert, and Amélie would be departing the day after tomorrow.

  Still, better late than never. What was important was the decision he’d made. He grinned, imagining himself telling Marie-Laure about it. But perhaps, he thought at the next moment, she wouldn’t be as surprised as all that. She knew him so well, after all; she was probably wondering why he hadn’t announced it already.

  He had Baptiste lay out the new dressing gown: satin, and of a brilliant blue the tailor had told him was called “Queen’s Eyes.” It was the sort of thing a gentleman might wear on his wedding night, to do his duty by a blushing, innocent bride. But perhaps you could consider tonight a sort of wedding night. The start of a new life for the two of them.

  We shall have to find someone for you to amuse yourself with, Jeanne had written. Of course. A gentleman needed a mistress every bit as much as he needed a valet, a tailor, an excellent glove maker…

  He’d always imagined an actress, perhaps because Jeanne knew so many of them. Or a dancer, perhaps—a performer of some sort, anyway: a high-priced courtesan who’d perform privately for him in bed and publicly when he paraded her about the city; someone who’d be recognized, and whom people would envy him for possessing.

  He’d imagined someone tall. Perhaps so that she’d be more visible on his arm, promenading at the Palais Royale. He certainly hadn’t imagined a small, bookish girl (no matter how pretty) that no one would recognize.

  But why not? He was going to be able to afford anything he wanted. Why couldn’t he have the only woman he’d ever cared about?

  He ran his hand along his jaw. Rough. Damn, he should have had Baptiste shave him. It would have been a nice, celebratory touch. She said she liked him a little bristly, but he wanted to give her all the smoothness her recent life had lacked.

  Well, she’d have it soon enough. He smiled to think of all the things he’d buy her—all the ways he’d spoil her, pamper her—as soon as he had the money to do so.

  Lace-trimmed stockings and dainty, pink velvet shoes with high, curving heels and silver buckles. Tiny diamond earrings. She’d wait for him on silken pillows, dressed in nothing but those stockings, shoes, and earrings.

  His groin tightened as the fantasy grew more detailed.

  She’d wait in a room decorated after an oriental theme. Purples, paisleys, heavy gold fringe. Tall vases for exotic flowers; squat, tooled-leather ottomans for exotic postures and positions.

  In his mind, he arranged her among pillows and draperies. He parted her legs a little and caught his breath at the picture his inner eye had painted.

  He’d send flowers every morning. Jasmine and tuberoses, gardenias and frangipani, to fill the vases and flood the house with heavy fragrance before his arrival.

  Rosemary and lavender were all very well, he told himself, but it was time to move on to something richer.

  He heard Baptiste’s key in the keyhole. And then there she was: pink dressing gown, shy smile, bare feet. Amazing how familiar, how indispensable she’d become; impossible that things could ever be any different than they’d been this last lovely month. Too bad it couldn’t be like this forever. For a moment he felt a stab of regret.

  But just for a moment. Desire chased away the regret—desire and a restless compulsion to get on with things. He peeled the dressing gown from her shoulders, picked her up and deposited her onto the bed.

  Who could blame him, he thought, if he paced things a bit precipitously tonight? He had so much to tell, so much to give. He only wanted to make her happy.

  And anyway (he happily reassured himself), it seemed that she was quite ready
for him.

  But—he wondered this sometime later—which emotion, what pained thoughts, had darkened her eyes like that?

  He told himself that he must be mistaken to suppose that he saw confusion, disappointment, even suspicion in her gaze. But that would be absurd, considering how flushed and breathless she still was, and how hot and moist and yielding she’d been just a moment before.

  Still, there was no denying that her eyes were clouded. She seemed puzzled, a bit impatient—rather as though he’d just told a riddle she’d found tiresome.

  He scanned her expression as he lifted himself off her. Ridiculous suddenly to feel so timid, after what he’d been feeling (what they’d both been feeling) just minutes before. She was only inches away and yet he couldn’t help feeling that she was scrutinizing him—critically, and from a distance.

  Not—he hastened to assure himself—that she hadn’t arched and shuddered and cried out, more than once and from a nice array of positions, too. But—oh, admit it, Joseph—the truth was that there had been something lacking. He hadn’t been able to make love to her in a way that was as special, as ceremonial as the occasion warranted.

  He frowned as he leaned back onto the pillows. She’s awfully quiet, he thought. Perhaps she’s just tired, though.

  He rolled over onto his front, lifting himself on his elbows to peer down at her.

  “So you’re not asleep,” he said, gently stroking her eyelid with a finger.

  She smiled and shook her head.

  He took courage from her smile.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “that I have not been quite myself this evening. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

  In another minute, she thought, he’s going to bid me farewell. And then he’ll say he doesn’t want me to visit tomorrow night.

  Well, she wouldn’t be able to come tomorrow anyway. Nicolas had announced that the entire household would be pressed into service for last-minute laundry, mending, and packing. Perhaps she’d be ironing his drawers, or hemming a new cravat for him.

  But if he was intending to say goodbye, she thought, he was going about it rather oddly, first with all that frenzied mechanical fucking and now by a flurry of nervous, nostalgic chatter.

  “Do you remember the day we met?” he asked.

  Only as well as I remember my own name, she almost said.

  But then he grinned and for a bereft, panic-stricken moment she could only wonder how she’d possibly get through the rest of her life without seeing that grin anymore. Her confusion and suspicions fell away. Wordlessly, helplessly, she felt herself smiling back at him.

  “I’d dealt with quite a menagerie of booksellers that day,” he said, “old ones, young ones, fat and thin, dimwits and subtle fellows like Rigaud, and I was feeling tired and ill, and wanting to get back to the inn where I’d put up, on the outskirts of Montpellier. But the most difficult bookseller of all was the last one.

  “Of course I hadn’t expected a girl bookseller, a quite wonderfully pretty, if sharp-tongued, girl bookseller. What do you think I noticed about you first, while you were endeavoring to demonstrate that I didn’t frighten you?”

  She wasn’t in the mood for a guessing game. Still, he looked so sweet and eager.

  “That’s easy. My freckles.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Oh, well then—the ink stains on my fingers.”

  “Guess again.”

  “My ‘determined mouth’?” This with a grimace.

  He shook his head, smiling. He kissed her mouth until the grimace disappeared and then he dipped his head to gently kiss each breast, before adding, “And no, not even these.”

  “Well, then what?” This could take forever. Which wouldn’t be so bad, she supposed, if he exacted a kiss for every wrong guess.

  Kisses or not—what was he trying to tell her?

  “What I noticed first was your eyes. You looked boldly up at me, to take my measure, and I looked back into your eyes, all the restless, shifting blues and grays of them…the gray tones shade just a bit to violet near the center, didn’t anybody ever tell you about the violet, mon amour? And I thought, that girl has the skies of Paris in her eyes.”

  “I’ve never seen Paris,” she whispered.

  “It’s the center of the world,” he said softly, drawing her into his arms. “Oh, parts of it are cruel and noisy and filthy. There are half a million people living there; the smells in some of the streets are indescribable. The King hates the city. He fears it, I think, and buries himself at court in Versailles, a half day’s journey away.

  “But Versailles isn’t the true capital of France. Paris is, beautiful, foulmouthed Paris, with its cafes full of scribblers and its salons full of philosophers, all that energy, art, wit, and clamorous talk. You’ll adore it, Marie-Laure. There’s possibility in the air, immense, thrilling possibility.”

  Suddenly she knew what he was going to say.

  Of course she knew. How could she not know? She’d wished for it, dreamed of it in fevered predawn reveries. She wanted it more than anything in the world, ridiculous and impossible as it was. She tried to imagine herself as a nobleman’s pampered mistress and had to suppress a most inappropriate urge to laugh. It was all wrong; she’d be dreadful at it. She’d quickly grow bored with nothing to do all day except dress—dress and undress, she supposed. And he’d become testy, defensive.

  Of course, there’d be all that lovemaking. And lots of time to read, too.

  Still, it wouldn’t work and it wouldn’t last.

  And yet, if it were the only way not to lose him?

  Could she really find the strength to refuse?

  He plunged on, oblivious to the sudden tension in her body. “And the air, Marie-Laure, the light in the air is blue. They say the east wind causes it—the light is blue and so beautiful some days that it breaks your heart.

  “I want you there with me. I’ll rent a beautiful little house. And I’ll come to see you every day, buy you anything you want, everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, and realized that she had no idea what to say.

  How sweet, he thought, that she was so grateful, so deeply touched. He’d never set up a woman before. He’d never had the money to do it properly; his lovers had come to him for pleasure while their rich, official protectors paid the bills. But how exciting to plan an entire establishment, even a modest one, and to have it all on his own terms.

  “I’ll look for a house around the rue Mouffetard. You’ll like it there, it’s an old, hilly quarter, with air and light, and not too far from the universities: there will be scholars and students and bookshops nearby. I’ll engage a chambermaid, but if you don’t like her you can dismiss her. And a cook—of course you’ll need a cook.”

  “No.”

  “All right, you can hire the cook yourself. Anyway, it’s sad, isn’t it,” he tightened one hand around her waist and moved the other to her breast, “that we’ve never made love in the afternoon. I’ll find a place where the rooms get a lot of light—several exposures, so the quality, the colors, the mood of it will change with the angle of the sun and the whim of the clouds—”

  “Please, no.”

  “…so that whatever time I come, there you’ll be, naked in the shifting lights and shadows of Paris.”

  “No. No, not like that. I won’t be your mistress, Joseph.”

  Later, he would wonder how many times she’d had to say it before he’d finally stopped his prattling. And how much more time had gone by before he’d freed himself from the quivering fury that had possessed him.

  It was as though he’d been taken prisoner by his worst self.

  No? Had she really said “no?”

  But that was impossible. Because after all (his worst self told him) it was one thing for a Madame de Rambuteau to dismiss him in favor of a pretty boy who played the clavichord. But it was quite another for this common chit of a bookseller’s daughter—a bookseller’s daughter, mind you, who
didn’t even sell books anymore, a bookseller’s daughter who washed the plates he ate from—to inform the Vicomte d’Auvers-Raimond that she’d rather not be his mistress.

  No?

  And didn’t she owe it to him, for shielding her from his father’s and brother’s predations?

  NO?

  She wouldn’t—couldn’t—refuse like this. It was an outrage, an insult.

  Forget about the insult. His better self had finally managed to break into the prison house of his thoughts. It’s worse than an insult. It’s a rejection from someone I love more than my life.

  “But…why?” he asked quietly. “Don’t you love me as much as I love you?”

  She’d been sitting up straight against the pillows, slow tears sliding down her cheeks. The air was cold tonight. She sniffled, hugging the coverlet to herself against the autumn air.

  But it wasn’t the air that made her shiver. The expression on his face was what had chilled her. The sneer of an offended aristocrat was a lot like the bared fangs of a feral cat, she thought, or the snarl of a street urchin battling that cat for food.

  And yet he’d managed to put the sneer aside; he’d risen above the spite and selfishness that he’d inherited along with his title.

  Perhaps, she thought, there was a way…

  He waved a bewildered hand at the sheets and pillows and covers tangled and strewn everywhere. “You’ve allowed me everything,” he whispered, “and we’ve been so happy. Why won’t you come with me to Paris?”

  …but first, she had to make certain things absolutely clear.

  She wiped away the last tears and sat up straighter.

  He looked at her curiously. Good, she thought.

  “I’ve allowed you no more than I’ve allowed myself,” she said. “I’ve allowed myself to have everything of you that I could possibly have in the little time I had. You will have to understand this. And you do understand it, I know you do. After all, it’s the idea behind your story, the idea of giving and taking between”—astonishing how difficult it was to actually say it—“between equals.”