He shrugged. “No matter. Do you ride?”
She had a mental picture of herself upon a large horse, and Maman laughing. “Not for many years. It was a long time ago. I think I gave it up because I fell.”
“Well, at least you’re not a stranger to the saddle. Though you can choose to ride or not. The family would hardly insist upon it. And they wouldn’t find it odd if you were awkward at it after all these years.” He pulled out the plans of Grismoulins. “Let’s go through the rooms again.”
She sighed. The snow would have to wait. “It seems a waste,” she said. “Surely after six years they’ll have moved things around. Nothing will be where you’ve described it.”
“Then you can ask what happened to that particular painting. That ottoman. That table. The more you can recognize, the more convincing your story. The clock that broke. What do you remember of it?”
She hesitated. So much to remember. Martin smiled his encouragement. “I was four. I was teasing Léonard. He knocked it off the shelf. In Uncle Simon’s library. The porcelain shepherd boy lost his hand.”
“It was the shepherdess. Damn it, the shepherdess!”
“By Saint Antoine, surely I can forget! Why must I remember everything? So many years have passed since we—since I left home. What need to remember when I was a child in leading strings? I don’t remember all that much of my own childhood!”
His expression softened. “True enough. You’re very observant, but I doubt that Véronique was. Especially when she was young. You can use that as an excuse to cover the lapses in your memory. The passage of time. The difficult years.”
“What have I been doing since I left Grismoulins?”
Martin laughed. “Even I can answer that. You’ve been living with Madame Benoîte as Topaze, her daughter. And more recently with the family Givet in Bordeaux, where the neighbors think you’re Topaze Givet. You see? You needn’t lie about any of it.”
Out in the yard, one of the stableboys tossed a snowball at the little maid as she climbed down from the barn loft with a basket of eggs. Topaze was bursting with impatience. “Is there anything more this morning? My head has begun to buzz with so much to remember.”
Lucien grinned. “Little slyboots. And of course the snow is waiting, n’est-ce pas?”
“Slyboots? I?” Topaze contrived to look innocent, which only made him laugh the more.
“A few more minutes,” he said. “And then I’ll release you. Let’s talk about the paintings again. You liked to look at all the paintings. What painting hangs over the doorway of the small salon on the first floor?”
“A picture of Grismoulins.”
“And what…”
“Wait a moment. You said I liked to look at the paintings. Did I have a favorite? Children usually do.”
He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers together. “At the bend of the stairs. Yes. An old Flemish scene. A maiden about to be attacked by a dragon. With a cavalier in silver armor and velvet—blue, as I recall—riding to save her. Curious. I never thought of it before. Though Véronique was a lively child, I shouldn’t have expected her to favor such an exciting scene, so fraught with danger.” He chuckled. “I have no doubt it will appeal to you, however.”
She ignored that. “Are there pictures of me?”
“Just one. Painted when you were about twelve.”
“Where is it? How will I know it?”
“Since Aunt Adelaïde is still grieving for you, I’d guess it’s in her appartement. But I’ll not describe it. You’ll recognize yourself in an instant. It’s what you look like now, less a few years. You look younger than nineteen, but Véronique herself was petite and small-boned. She might have retained her childlike features. I’ve told you. The resemblance is uncanny. It’s your best weapon against those who might doubt you.”
She tossed her head. “I’ll vanquish them all. Now may I go out and play in the snow?” She looked hopefully toward Lucien, who sat staring at his fingers, seeming lost in thought. She held out her hands to Martin. “Come. While he’s still trying to decide.”
Lucien roused himself. “No. Wait. I just remembered. There were portraits of my parents. I should guess that Hubert has them stored away. But if he should decide to trick you by bringing them out again, you should know them. They hung at the top of the stairs, in the place of honor, side by side. My grandfather had them painted before I was born, so the sitters are young. My father has a full-bottomed wig, glossy black. The old style, you understand. He wears pale yellow brocade and a blue sash. He holds a green book. His dogs sit at his feet.”
“And your mother?”
“She too is coiffed in the old fashion, with matched curls at her temples. Light brown hair, but powdered. And dressed with a jeweled clasp. Diamonds, with a large teardrop pearl. She’s wearing a white satin gown, with a blue velvet wrapper thrown over it and held with one hand. Her eyes are blue, her face soft and loving and serene. Her mouth is curved in a gentle smile. She…” He stopped and closed his eyes. Suddenly he began to laugh, and when he opened his eyes again, his face was twisted in a savage grimace. “Merde! Why am I bothering with all this? Hubert will have burned them long since, no doubt. Go to your snow games.”
Martin stood up and put his hand on Lucien’s shoulder. “Join us.”
“No. All this talk of the paintings has played on my memory. While my thoughts are fresh, let me put them to paper. Enjoy your games.”
Swathed in mufflers and warm gloves supplied by Madame Le Sage, Topaze and Martin ran into the farmyard. The traffic of the servants had ground the snow into the mud of the yard, churning up large, dirty patches. But on a nearby hill, the sun glinted upon pristine whiteness. “Come on!” cried Topaze in delight, and raced toward the hill.
She stopped in wonder. The snow covered the hills in gently undulating swells as far as the eye could see: giant puffs of cotton, soft cloudbanks on a summer’s day. Clean and white and beautiful. What little snow fell in Bordeaux had never been like this. “Oh, Martin,” she whispered, “isn’t it lovely?”
His eyes were on her face, not on the distant view. “It’s all joy to you, isn’t it?”
“The snow? By Saint Nicolas, of course it is! Don’t it…doesn’t it…make you laugh? Doesn’t it make your mouth curl up for happiness, without being able to stop it?”
He sighed. “I wish I had your eyes. Well, then, what shall we do first?”
They chose an untrodden patch of snow and stamped out their names in great scrolled letters. Martin had the more difficult task: Topaze insisted that he dot the “i” of his name, without connecting it to the rest. She clapped her encouragement as he leaped into the air; then gasped when he landed precariously and skidded across half the length of his name. This misadventure prompted a new game. They borrowed empty grain sacks from the barn, found a steep rise, and slid down again and again, crowing with laughter.
Tiring at last, they cleared a space on the hill and built a fortress: a fairy castle, with turrets and battlements. Topaze even managed to find a dry leaf beneath the snow. She threaded it with a slender twig and planted it for a flag on the highest tower.
She looked up. Lucien, in greatcoat and cocked hat, was trudging up the hill toward them. She waved. “Come and play!”
He reached the hill. His world-weary gaze scanned them both in disbelief and amusement. They were covered in snow, with great damp patches at their knees from kneeling before the castle. “By Satan’s horn, you must be mad. The two of you.”
Martin laughed. “Then join our madness.”
“I can think of better things to do than recapture memories of a dubious childhood by playing in the snow. Thank you, no. I’ve had my share of remembrance for today. I’m going for a walk. To clear the cobwebs of the past from my brain.”
“Rot!” said Topaze, as he turned away. “Will you be a seeksorrow on such a merry day?” She scooped up a handful of snow, packed it into a ball, and tossed it with all her might. It hit him squarely between the should
er blades.
He whirled in surprise. “Imp!” He was just fashioning a weapon to return her fire when Martin attacked him with a snowball that knocked the hat from his head. The battle began in earnest. To the accompaniment of shouts and cries and boisterous laughter, they pelted one another with snow. At the end, Topaze conspired with Lucien to attack Martin. His blond hair matted with snow—its ribbon lost in some drift—Martin at last threw up his hands and declared a truce.
“Lord,” gasped Lucien. “I haven’t laughed so much in years. I’d almost forgotten snow, living in Guadeloupe.” He brushed the whiteness from his coat and looked around for his hat. “You know, Martin, Adriane has never seen snow. I wonder if she’d like this?” He bent to retrieve his hat.
Topaze felt the joy die in her heart, to be replaced by unreasoning anger. She picked up a large handful of snow and leaped at his stooped back. She knocked him to his knees and fell on top of him, just managing to push the snow down the back of his collar before he roared and shook her off, so she landed on her back. He rolled onto her, his body pressing hers into the snow.
She looked up at him. There was no laughter in the distant blue eyes, though his mouth twisted in a wicked smile. Ave Maria, she thought. I’m afraid of him. And yet…and yet… His lips were full and soft; they curved sensuously from the perfect bow at the top to the rounded lower lip that held the hint of a pout. And his powerful body on hers—legs, hips, breast, pressing down—warmed her even as it made her tremble.
He grimaced and scraped the snow from his neck. “I’ll have my revenge, you devil.” He dipped his hand into the snow and brought it to her face.
I’ll die, she thought. It was too much to bear. The fear and the trembling and the inexplicable thrill. She wanted him to go away. She wanted him to stay forever, to keep his hard body against hers. “Martin!” she cried. “Save me.”
“Don’t do it, Lucien.” Martin’s voice was sharp.
Lucien stared at his friend, then dropped the handful of snow. “If the little chit needs to call in reinforcements…” He stood up, rubbed at the back of his neck, and reached for his hat. “I’m still going for that walk.” He stamped off across the snowy fields.
Martin leaned over and pulled Topaze to her feet. “You look frozen. And you’re shaking like a leaf.”
How could she tell him? How could she explain what she didn’t understand herself? “I’m soaked through to my chemise.”
“Come on. We’ll change into dry clothes. We’ve missed dinner, no doubt. But I’ll have Aunt Louise serve us in my room, in front of the fire. That should drive the cold away.”
But it didn’t. She sat before the fire in Martin’s room, her velvet dressing gown over a fresh chemise, and felt the cold, like a block of ice, lodged somewhere within her. The joy of the morning had faded, leaving her bewildered and strangely sad. Martin tried to draw her out, then gave up. They sat together in silence, finishing the last of the wine from their dinner, and gazed into the depths of the crackling fire. At last Topaze stirred. “By Saint Augustin, I don’t know why I should feel so strange today.”
He leaned over and put his hand on hers. “You’re tired, perhaps.”
“Tell me about Adriane de Ronceray,” she said forlornly.
He withdrew his hand. “There’s not much to tell. She’s very proud and haughty. But she has a right to be, I suppose. Her family is one of the oldest and most aristocratic on the island.”
“Is she beautiful?”
“Yes. Very beautiful. Her hair is as black as night. Her eyes are green, like the waters offshore. She’s tall, slender. Her limbs are well formed, and she has beautiful hands.” He laughed softly. “I don’t like her very much. But I seem to be in the minority.”
She bowed her head. I wish she was ugly, she thought. Sweet Virgin, why did she keep seeing Lucien’s face as he bent over her? His eyes were a cold wall that she yearned to breach. Yet why should she care? She looked up at Martin. “He wasn’t truly a pirate. Lucien.”
“Yes, he was.”
“But when? Why?” she breathed. Until now, for all of Lucien’s ferocity, she’d never really believed it could be so.
Martin blushed beneath his tan. “It’s not a story I like to tell. But it’s how we met.” He sighed. “I see by your face that I’ll have to tell it, willy-nilly.” He turned his head away and leaned toward the fire. “I wonder if you know what men on a pirate ship are apt to do. Lonely men. Without women.”
She understood everything from his tone. “I’ve heard enough stories from the old mariners,” she said gently. “I’m sure it’s no more than what honest sailors are sometimes driven to do on long voyages.”
He looked at her. His handsome features were twisted in pain. “Perhaps not with the same savagery as pirates. They’re not concerned with asking permission. It strikes at the very core of a man, to think that he’s no more than…” He blushed again and fell silent, staring into the flames. At last he roused himself. “But you asked about Lucien. You deserve an answer. I’ve lived in Guadeloupe most of my life. My father was a shopkeeper there. Very successful. Some three years ago, knowing he was dying, he sold his shop and gathered his money together. He wanted to leave me and my mother something more than a shop.”
“An indigo plantation?”
“Yes. He’d already seen the land, knew it would be on the market soon. But we needed more capital to start up properly. I was given letters to his old friends. Bankers in France. The same ones, in point of fact, that I’ve just visited. On the journey out from the Indies, the ship was attacked by pirates. The crew fought bravely, but we were boarded, ransacked, set afire. I think all the men must have perished. I never learned of a one of them again. At dawn I found myself adrift on a piece of the mast. I saw a ship in the distance and waved to it. It wasn’t until it came close that I realized to my horror that it was the very pirate ship that had destroyed us. They hauled me aboard, half dead. A terrified lad, not even twenty. And as pretty as a girl. Or so they said.”
“Martin. Don’t.” She rose from her chair to stand beside him. She put her fingers against his lips. “Don’t.”
He kissed the tips of her fingers, then took her hand away. “What a good heart you have. Never fear. It’s not as shameful as you might think. It’s just painful to tell of it. The captain was an evil man, ruthless and cruel. But it was his first mate who made my blood run cold. A man who laughed at death, who seemed to court danger. Thin and gaunt, with a wild look in his eye, a gold ring in his ear, a scar across one cheek.”
“Lucien?”
“Yes.”
“And his hair…?”
“White at the temples. Like now. I don’t know how long he’d been a pirate. And he doesn’t speak of it. But he was in a position of importance on the ship, and the men seemed to fear him. In any event, I was the prize catch of the day. There was talk of… Sweet Jesu, this is difficult. Of drawing lots. They intended to throw me into the crew’s quarters, and draw lots for their turn. I remember thinking if I rushed the captain, I’d have the mercy of a swift death. Then Lucien spoke up. ‘I want him,’ he said. I remember the rest of the pirates mocked him; he’d never wanted a man before.”
“Martin, you don’t have to tell this.”
He laughed softly. “And if I don’t, you’ll only ask questions. The pirate captain—his name was Trescot, an Englishman, I believe—stepped into the quarrel between Lucien and the crew. I think he’d begun to fear Lucien, and saw the opportunity to rid himself of a rival. He agreed that Lucien could have me to himself until morning, if he was willing to fight for the privilege. Trescot pulled from the crew a savage giant; Lucien was to fight him.” He shook his head. “My God, I’ve never seen such a fight. Knives and cutlasses. And fists and every low trick that could be employed. They must have fought for a quarter of an hour. When it was done, the giant lay bleeding on the deck, breathing his last. Lucien, triumphant, tied a rope around my neck and dragged me to his cabin.”
“By Saint Sébastien, I should have been quaking in my shoes!”
“And so I was. Until Lucien announced—very calmly for a man who’d just killed another!—that he meant me no harm. That he intended to put me into a longboat and release me as soon as night fell. He’d tell Trescot that I’d escaped.”
“You were near land, then?”
“Only two days out from the Leewards. We climbed up on deck as soon as the moon had set, and began to ready the longboat. But, as luck would have it, Trescot himself surprised us. Thanks be to God, he didn’t immediately call for help. Lucien was very glib. He said I’d been taken with a weakness and needed a breath of air. The captain asked if Lucien had…had his pleasure of me. Lucien said no. Then Trescot said—I still remember how it chilled my blood—‘Share and share alike, mate.’ Then he claimed first rights, as the captain. Lucien consented at once.”
“But surely he wouldn’t…”
“I confess I was surprised that he agreed to it. Trescot had clearly meant to provoke him, to throw down the challenge. But Lucien said he’d take his turn when the captain was finished. Very humble, he was. And the two of them marched me down to Trescot’s quarters.” He laughed softly. “I must tell you that I’d begun at this point to protest noisily. You can understand my state of mind, I think. I wasn’t sure whether Lucien intended any longer to help me. And I didn’t plan to be a willing victim. At my outcry, however, Lucien pulled out his pistol, aimed it at me, and warned me to be still. Which I did. Out of fear of the man, and curiosity as to what he had in mind. Trescot, meaning to satisfy himself, came toward me. Lucien struck him senseless. Together we bound and gagged him. Realizing that his career as a pirate had come to an unexpected close, Lucien broke open Trescot’s sea chest and took his portion of the spoils. The captain by now had regained his wits. In case we should be pursued, we took him with us into the longboat, raised sail, and made for the islands. Still bound band and foot, Trescot cursed us for the entire journey. When Lucien reckoned we must be near enough to land for the captain to swim, we cut his bonds and put him over the side.”
Louisa Rawlings Page 10