The alteration to Sérolène’s appearance effected by the marquise’s gowns and the attentions of Madame de Blaise’s own hair dressers and attendants had quite transformed the vicomtesse. The Baron de Salvagnac’s last vision of his niece had occurred as Sérolène had begun her fateful excursion to the Cap. In his mind’s eye, she was still the gangly, awkward and bookish young nestling he’d often indulged more as the son he’d never been able to produce, rather than a fragile doll to be pampered and coddled as his daughters were. Unlike his own children, Sérolène had always been too clever, too willful, and too exuberant to accept the standard lot of restrictions and blinders every girl had cause to experience. Sérolène had wanted to learn to ride and to swim. The baron had allowed the first request and denied the second, but only because his own daughters had complained at being excluded from the privilege. He had also encouraged his niece’s intellectual precociousness, allowing her free access to his library, and even teaching her math, how to calculate sums and how to read financial ledgers. He had always considered his niece much more clever than attractive—the kind of girl one saw in a crowd, but never really remembered, remarkable only for her height and awkward manner. But when he’d been led by his future son-in-law to Nicolas’ rooms and had seen his niece at table playing cards, wearing an elegant gown, her hair done up and her appearance enhanced by make-up and rouge, he had wondered at first glance, who the striking young lady was. As he stood gawking by the doorway, Sérolène had raised her head from her game and seen him. He knew then with certainty who she was. His mouth had gaped open in astonishment.
Never one to be shy in showing her affections for those she loved, Sérolène had bounded over at once to plant kisses on each of the baron’s ruddy cheeks. The baron realized then, that his pride in his niece’s intellect had blinded him to her many other qualities. Like cherry blossoms in the spring, she seemed to have bloomed overnight, and he found himself wholly unprepared for the stunning degree of her unveiling.
As the baron was in the midst of paying his compliments to his niece on how well she looked, he recalled his wife’s instructions to fetch the vicomtesse back with him when he returned to his own estate. When he mentioned this wish to Sérolène, however, she had pleaded with him to allow her to remain and fulfill her bedside promise to Nicolas, reminding her uncle of the obligation she and all her family owed to the chevalier.
Of course the baron didn’t know, couldn’t know, the depth of feeling at the core of Sérolène’s desire to stay where she was. How could the baron have imagined his niece already loved Nicolas with a desperation beyond reason and in her heart of hearts, hoped never to be parted from the chevalier? The baron had his own reservations, engendered in greater part by how utterly alluring his niece had suddenly become, but these qualms were eased by Julienne, who knew her cousine better than anyone and promised to be a good chaperone.
The baron was a good man, and he also wished to do the honorable thing. He was already inclined to agree to Sérolène’s request. Julienne alone suspected more than an outward transformation was taking place with her cousine. She sensed there was more behind Sérolène’s new deportment and confidence than just make-up and a new hair style. Away from her mother’s domineering presence, Julienne hoped she might be able to persuade the vicomtesse to reveal more of her true feelings.
So at the end of his call, the baron had returned home alone. Only Madame de Salvagnac found this outcome to be less than satisfactory. She wrote to Madame de Talonge, her confidante, to express her concerns, but even that once stalwart flank had already been turned.
The Comtesse de Talonge was well on her way to fulfilling her promise of redemption. She was now a somewhat frequent visitor to the estate and appeared to be getting on very well with the marquise. She often brought other ladies with her when she came to pay a call, introducing them to the society of Madame de Blaise and helping the marquise to launch a salon of her own. Both Sérolène and Julienne were delighted to see the comtesse, interpreting her appearance as a sign from the baronne, of tacit support for the new status quo.
The comtesse was always the model of charm and sociability whenever she appeared. She was full of smiles, warmth and pleasantries, which she bestowed upon everyone with as earnest an air as could be mustered or feigned. She kissed the cheeks and the hands of the marquise, embraced her too, professed newfound devotion and pledged her own friendship in so genuine a manner that even the marquis at last accepted the fact, if not the complete sincerity of the reconciliation. The comtesse swayed her friends to behave in a similar manner, and so in the end, everyone was reconciled. There was nothing else to be done, of course. Adoration of the marquise had become the fashionable thing, and nothing was more important to a Frenchman than being in fashion. Still it surprised Madame de Blaise to discover that so great a turnabout in social fortunes could arrive with such casual ease and unexpected swiftness, as if the stigma so long attached to her name and person had never even existed.
More surprises were yet in store. As the days passed, the carriages still came, joined by curiosity-seekers on foot and on horseback. There were too many now for the family to receive them. The marquis was forced to close his gates to all visitors, save the few who held a legitimate claim upon his friendship. Still the curious came in droves, standing outside the walls of the château, hoping for even a glimpse of the man of the hour. The current state of affairs should have felt like a triumph, especially to the marquise, who had been excluded for so long from the willing company of her peers. But each day toward evening, when the dust clouds of hypocrisy were thinned by the departure of the crowds, the marquise was left to gaze down on the slowly mending body of her son and question whether the approval of so many charlatans was worth so great a sacrifice.
The work of Madame de Talonge proved so effective, that the few remaining voices against Madame de Blaise soon fell completely silent. Even the Chapeaux Blancs refused to trespass on the subject, for fear of being shouted down or losing whatever clout they still retained. It was time to lay low, and lay low they did. Did anyone bother to remark upon the irony, that what time, tolerance, charity, and dignity had not been able to overcome, a singular act of valiant élan had accomplished almost overnight? Of course not.
Now, when the Marquise de Blaise went out, hats were doffed and backs were no longer turned. On the streets of Cap-Français and Port au Prince, her presence was enough to draw applause and even occasional hurrahs from well-wishers. No one was more surprised than the marquise at the dramatic turnaround of events, and none could have accepted the arrival of such a surprising reversal of fortune with more grace or humility. Though she had done nothing herself, she was considered great for bearing so noble a son. Social invitations began to pour in. In no time at all, there were more requests for the presence of the Montferrauds at Monsieur so and so’s and Madame whatever’s than could possibly be accepted. The marquise was more than surprised, but the marquis understood the crux of the lesson his youngest son had taught—that there is nothing more appealing to a Frenchman than an act of gallant, daring sacrifice. He also realized that the pleasant afterglow of the chevalier’s celebrity might be much briefer than anyone could imagine at the moment, and it was wise to make the best use of it while possible.
The surface of the marquis’ broad mahogany desk was piled high with correspondence. But forgiving the legions of slanderers and hypocrites whose correspondence now curried favor with him, proved more difficult in practice than he imagined.
The marquis’ expression took on the outlines of a scowl. “Why the very nerve of the scoundrel to ask us to tea.”
On the left of the desk were letters of congratulation he would give to his secretary to respond to. On the right were invitations to engagements awaiting his consideration and approval. He sat back in his chair, tucking his hands into the pockets of his banyan gown[vi], reflecting on the ignoble pretense of civility each response required of him, in order that no one’s feelings should be i
njured in the grand reconciliation—his mocking term to describe the current fad of his wife’s social rehabilitation.
“I suppose now we must smile and pretend all the old grudges have been overlooked or forgotten.”
The marquise’s deep green eyes peered over the edge of the book whose prose she had now abandoned for the greater pleasure of reading her husband’s mood. By nature, her temperament was gentle and accommodating. She had an easier time of engaging in the task of purposeful forgetfulness than the marquis, even though the long injury done to her name and reputation had arguably been far greater than any harm her husband had suffered.
“What ails you, my dear friend?” The marquise spoke in a soothing tone.
The marquis huffed his exasperation at the open insincerity of so many of his peers. “This is all very fine indeed, Madame. For fifteen years they’ve snubbed us, and now it seems we’re the toast of the town and every scamp and skipjack feels free to court our society! Do they think with such merry ease to erase all the affronts, the innuendo and slander we’ve endured for so long?”
Madame de Blaise remained silent as she always did when she disagreed with her husband. In this way she allowed the swift current of his temper to run its course. Only when his irritation was finally becalmed in the deeper waters of reason and reflection, did she wade in to offer her own opinion.
“You disagree?” The marquis asked at length, ever attentive to the mood and counsel of his wife.
“It’s no good dwelling on the past, my love. What’s gone is gone, and what’s done is done. These past few weeks, I often worried we might lose our son. Now he is much recovered, and none of these old quarrels seem at all important in comparison. Can we not be brave enough to accept the opportunity his valor has given us? Besides, after fifteen years, a party or two would be quite amusing, don’t you think? Even with a skipjack or scamp.”
The marquise punctuated her opinion with the broadside of a saucy smile to liven it, eliciting a hearty laugh from the marquis. He motioned her to come to him. She rose obediently to stand by his side, eager to read the name of the party who had so excited her husband’s temper. As she leaned over the desk, the agreeable line of her fine figure gave the marquis a more pleasing subject to study. He pulled the marquise onto his lap, adorning her cheeks with kisses as she giggled in pleasure, delighted she and her body still possessed the power to stir him.
“Of course you are right. I thought only of my pride, forgetting what you have also suffered for so long,” he said.
The marquise wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’ve suffered not at all, Édouard. I have the man I want and love, and two fine sons who are more precious to me than anything. There’s nothing more important.”
Blaise pressed his lips against her mouth, his hands wandering with ardent purpose over the marquise’s many delights. He caressed her thighs and waist, his right hand rising to fondle her breast through the layers of satin and muslin armor.
“Perhaps we should try to add another of our own to the brood,” he said playfully.
The marquise leaned forward to encourage his attentions, her hands working beneath the fold of the banyan gown to undo the carved ivory buttons of his waistcoat. He slipped a hand down the front of her bodice, cupping a breast as she leaned in to kiss him.
“If only it were possible my love, but you know what the doctors have said. Now dear Édouard, take me to bed. Then let’s say yes to every damned blackguard bold enough to send us an invitation. That should be enough to scandalize them all!”
Blaise picked her up and carried her toward their suite of rooms, the warmth of their laughter and love echoing throughout the house.
*
“Have you noted the degree of amity between Nicolas and Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire, my dear? They do seem to be getting on rather well, don’t you think?”
The marquis sat on the edge of the bed, feeling comfortably lethargic in the aftermath of a lazy afternoon of lovemaking with the marquise. She still lay naked atop the twisted sheets, purring contentedly as her husband stroked the lower hollow of her bare back.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to notice, Édouard.”
Ouragon rolled over, displaying the lean superb form her husband never grew tired of admiring. She watched his eyes fondle and then devour her. As a reward for the compliment of his amorous attentions, she took hold of his hand and ran it along the contours of her chest—down, slowly down past the flat of her belly and then lower still, past the little forest and across the soft cleft of her sex, which was still wet and eager for him.
“Gods, Ouragon…” he said huskily.
“Mmmm….I like it when you use my given name. It makes me feel like I truly belong to you. Every part of me. Especially here.”
She slid her sex against his fingers so he could feel how moist she was. He leaned forward to taste her mouth. Lingered in a prolonged kiss, then pulled back to admire her.
“I adore every part of you, Ouragon. Now what was it you were saying about Nicolas and the vicomtesse?”
The marquise rolled back onto her stomach, leaving her husband to content himself with caressing the soft flesh of her buttocks and thighs.
“They’re inseparable, those two, and she’s very protective of him. I guess more than one match was made on your visit to the Salvagnacs.”
The marquis paused to digest this new piece of information. He was used to arranging the affairs of his family as he saw fit, amorous and otherwise. It had not yet occurred to him that one of his sons, and particularly his youngest, might strike out independently of his guidance. In fact, it was a prospect he had never even considered.
“A second match? Is it quite as serious as all that?”
The marquise saw the calculating look in her husband’s eye and knew she had to tell him now, lest he interfere and ruin things for Nicolas and his sweet young love. The vital moment had come, and while he was still fully under her spell, his heart and his reason softened by their ardent lovemaking, he would be indulgent and open to gentle persuasion, but only for a time.
“I know how to read a woman’s heart, especially one as tender and passionate as beats in the breast of sweet La Bouhaire. There is no guile in her, Édouard. She’s as open as a book and what’s written on every page tells me she’s desperately in love with our son. Sometimes I even think she’s a mirror of myself—like I was when I first laid eyes on you.”
She watched him to gauge his reaction, but the marquis gave nothing away as he listened in calm silence.
“Be attentive of them and judge for yourself, my love, but I do believe we have another budding alliance in the making. And this one looks to be very much an affair of the heart. On both sides,” the marquise said with certainty.
Blaise lay on his back, considering the matter in silence. He folded his hands behind his head.
“You’re certain he feels the same as she?” Blaise asked.
“Quite certain.”
Ouragon pulled herself up so she could lie across her husband’s chest and listen to the thumping of his heart.
“But how can you be sure?” the marquis asked.
His brow was raised. It wasn’t an encouraging sign. Ouragon rolled over twice which took her to the opposite side of the bed. She reached into the top drawer of the nightstand and withdrew an envelope which she handed over to her husband.
“Read it. It fell from the pocket of Nicolas’ waistcoat when he was brought in from the Cap. The letter in your hand is a copy. I made it myself. I returned the original to his bedside table, so he wouldn’t suspect I knew,” Ouragon explained.
The marquis stared at his wife, who sat up on the rumpled sheets, still splendidly naked. He opened the letter and read it. It was Sérolène’s poem, copied line by line in the marquis’ fine hand.
“I see,” the marquis said, gazing across the room in thought.
Ouragon prodded him gently with her toes, strok
ing the center of his thigh, just below the hip. “What will you do, my husband, my love?”
There was so much more she wanted to say but it wasn’t her place. He was her lord and the undisputed head of the family. His word was law and whatever decision he came to would be final and his alone. She hoped he would at least give Nicolas and Sérolène the chance the power of their love deserved, but it was his right to decide. Because she loved him so dearly, so utterly, she would also have no choice but to do whatever he asked of her. She hoped he would decide wisely.
“Monsignor Arnaud wants me to commit Nicolas’ future to the Church,” the marquis said, his voice flat and without emotion.
“It would be the best decision for the family. With Francis at court to aid him, and the boy’s natural powers of intellect, there’s no telling how high Nicolas might rise. Bishop, perhaps even Cardinal. Neither office is beyond him. It is also the best way to avoid the likely unpleasantness any efforts to find him a bride of suitable pedigree would cause, were he not to enter the Church,” the marquis explained.
Ouragon sighed. So there it was. Even after all these years there was no escaping the shadow cast by her mother’s origins. The suspicion of her mother’s partial African heritage would forever linger to haunt both herself and her progeny and it seemed nothing on this earth could wash away the stain. For the first time in her marriage, she felt ashamed. Her eyes misted with tears. She wanted to cry but she was too proud to let Édouard see how much the issue of her bloodlines still affected her.
“I’m sorry you feel so ashamed of me,” she said.
It was barely a whisper and he had to lean forward to catch the end of what she said. An aching regret burned through his chest. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. She was the most precious thing of all to him. He took her up in his arms, kissed her tenderly in apology.
Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) Page 14