Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  “You loved it,” she said softly.

  He shrugged. “No more than we all grow attached to the place where we were born. Mindless sentiment. Quite meaningless, really. Do you play the harpsichord?”

  “No.”

  “Pity. Véronique did. Though not very well. I don’t know how you’ll deal with it, if they ask you to play.”

  “I’m not completely lost. I’ve been in places where they had a harpsichord. I suppose I could manage to pick out a tune, then plead forgetfulness after that.” She sighed. He’d deliberately turned aside her searching questions. She was almost glad when the little maid called them to dinner. It was so lonely, to be alone with him. It made her want to cry.

  As if to punish her for prying, he was unusually sharp at dinner, responding to her simplest questions with curt replies, then smiling and passing a compliment to Madame Le Sage. Martin was no better, glaring at them all from beneath lowered brows. When the meal was finally ended, Topaze lingered in the room to help Madame Le Sage and the maid Henriette clear the table. She was relieved to be quit of both men for a little while, curse their disagreeable souls!

  “My!” chirped Madame Le Sage. “How they do sulk like children when they’re crossed! What on earth have you done?”

  “I haven’t any idea. Martin’s been moping for days. And only getting worse. He won’t walk with me, he won’t let me cheer him.”

  “And your husband?”

  “I don’t know what to do with him, either.”

  Henriette giggled. Madame Le Sage waved her away. “Go on about your work, and don’t be insolent.” She smiled benignly at Topaze as Henriette scurried from the room. “The traffic between a husband and wife is not the girl’s concern, n’est-ce pas? But she hasn’t been the same since she saw your husband leaving your room at dawn. She thought it deliciously wicked that he should have spent the entire night, and has been gossiping with the cook ever since.”

  Topaze swallowed her surprise. “Leaving my room at dawn?” she said faintly. She felt her cheeks reddening.

  Madame Le Sage patted her arm. “You must be newly wed, to blush so.” She paused, clearly hoping for a revelation, a whispered confidence. At Topaze’s continuing silence, her face fell. “Well, off to your rehearsal, before your husband begins to bellow for you, as he’s wont to do when you’re late.”

  “But…Henriette…when did she see him?”

  “The other morning. Tuesday, I think.”

  Topaze hurried from the room and raced up the stairs. A pox on the villain! She burst into Martin’s room. Lucien was already sitting at the table, with lists and plans before him. He looked up, one eyebrow peaked in annoyance. “It’s about time. Come and sit down. Martin’s gone for a walk, but we can begin without him. I…”

  “Rot and damnation!” she sputtered. “What were you doing in my room at dawn?”

  “Don’t swear. I was, as a matter of fact, sleeping with you.” He smiled wickedly, a wide grimace that accented the sharp planes of his face.

  “Now, by Sainte Catherine, you dare to tell me…?”

  “Don’t be so hotheaded. I took you from Martin’s lap and carried you to bed. You didn’t seem to want to let me go. I thought you needed a good night’s sleep, so…” He shrugged.

  The unexpected kindness of it almost made her weep. “Because I said I was lonely.” Her voice was soft. “Was that why?”

  He stood up and turned away. “It was a mad thing to do. Lord knows I didn’t sleep well. You roamed all over me. Arms and legs. I wonder anyone in your family can sleep at all.”

  “And nothing happened?”

  He looked at her with indifferent eyes. “Do you take me for a dolt? To waste time with foolishness when a greater prize awaits at Grismoulins?”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, strangely hurt by his lack of interest. “I almost forgot. A hundred thousand livres. Could anything be more important?”

  He shook his head. “Not in my world, by Satan. Now, will you sit? There’s much to discuss this afternoon.”

  “And you’re sure nothing happened?”

  He laughed softly. “Are you that innocent? Don’t you think—if I’d done anything—you’d have been aware of it?”

  She resisted the urge to make a face at him, and put the edge of mockery in her words. “Why? Why should I be aware of it? I can sleep through the antics of the little ones. And they’re far more winsome than you.” Though his expression was unchanged, something told her that she’d drawn blood. Good! She nodded in triumph and moved to the table to sit down.

  He stepped in front of her and prevented it. His hands went to her upper arms; she blanched, fearing sudden violence. But he held her gently, his thumbs making small tantalizing circles that burned her shoulders through the fabric of her gown. She lifted her head to him. His eyes were half-veiled by his dark lashes, and when he smiled, a smoldering, lazy smile, she began to tremble. Slowly his hands slid along her shoulders to her neck and parted the linen handkerchief that covered her low bodice. She held her breath, then inhaled sharply as his fingers stroked the bare flesh of her rounded bosom. He chuckled, and the devil peeped from his eyes. “You see?” he said. “You’d have been aware.”

  “You villain,” she choked. “You gallows bird. Take…”

  There was a sharp cough from the doorway, then Martin strode into the room and threw down his greatcoat. “Did you intend to work this afternoon?” he growled.

  While Topaze hurriedly straightened her linens, Lucien turned to his friend. He smiled as though nothing had happened. “Of course. We must talk of the banker, among other things.”

  Topaze still trembled; her cheeks felt hot and flushed. What must Martin be thinking? “Is it cold out?” she asked, putting on a bright face.

  He scowled at her. “No. It’s windy.”

  “There’s a scent of spring in the air, then?”

  He sighed. The anger in his face seemed to give way to sad resignation. “No. Not yet.”

  “Then, my friend,” she said, “you mustn’t mope and sigh. Melancholia is only for the spring.”

  “No,” he muttered. “Spring is for joy. For returning to Guadeloupe, praise be to God. Ah, well.” He sighed again and pulled up another chair to the table. “Talk of the banker can wait, Lucien. Our concern should be for Topaze. How do we get her in to Grismoulins? And how do we get her out again?”

  Topaze thought, No use dwelling on what just happened with Lucien. Nor on her confused feelings when she thought of herself—all unknowing—lying in her bed with him. Martin was right. They should be concerned with the business at hand. “Yes,” she said. “How is it to be done?”

  “Simple enough,” said Lucien. “The girl goes to Grismoulins—on foot, I think, though not as a beggar. We want to paint a picture of simplicity: not so poor that she’s hungry for the money, but a barren life, all the same. The life of a penitent, longing to be welcomed. She announces that she’s home to stay.”

  Topaze imagined the scene at Grismoulins. “And then what? I know where I’ve been. With Maman…Madame Benoîte and the Givets. I can tell about those years in all honesty. But why did I leave? And never return?”

  “Since the footman was already suspected, we’ll use him. Narcisse Galande. About fifteen at the time, I think. Brown hair. Somewhat stupid-looking. But he caught your fancy—Lord alone knows why—and you ran away together. He abandoned you. You were too ashamed to return.”

  Martin grunted. “A lame excuse.”

  “Why? The girl dishonored the family and herself. And the longer she stayed away, the more difficult it became to return and throw herself on their mercy.”

  Topaze shook her head. “No. I agree with Martin. It’s not a good enough reason for staying away. Six years, after all.”

  Lucien’s eyes shone with an unholy light. “Perhaps there was a bastard child. A miscarriage. An abortion. Something the Church, and Le Loup, would find unforgivable.”

  “Dieu!” breathed Topaze.

&
nbsp; “Really, Lucien…”

  “Well, it makes sense. A proper disgrace like that.” He turned to Topaze and laughed. “Has the thieving chit suddenly rediscovered her sensibilities? Is it the lie that concerns you? Or the immorality of Véronique’s behavior?”

  “You black-hearted rogue. Does nothing daunt you? It’s only that…such wickedness…”

  His face registered exquisite disgust. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that if Véronique ran away in the first place she has long since committed the sin of fornication?”

  He was right, of course. She nodded unwillingly. “Very well, then. But only a miscarriage.”

  “You can say you were desperately ill. That an actress, Madame Benoîte, found you and nursed you back to health.”

  Topaze was struck by a sudden remembrance. “I think I was sick for a long time. I remember Maman tending me all one fall or winter. I can use that story as well.”

  “All well and good,” said Martin. “But why does Véronique choose to return now?”

  “Longing for home. Yearning for her family.” Lucien drawled the words with a cynic’s scorn.

  “No.” Topaze shook her head. “I have a better reason. One I can tell with a certain ring of truth. Monsieur Givet has been missing for months now. The family has suffered woefully. If he were dead, and they knew it, it would be easier. It’s the uncertainty. The pain of not knowing. Because of it, Véronique has just become aware of the grief her own family must be enduring. That’s what has brought her…me…home.”

  “Brava!” said Lucien. “You have the mind of a true sharper.”

  Her eyes were clouded. Smoky amber. “For shame. Do you think I don’t grieve for him? I’m not blind to what we’re doing. But I’m not proud of it.”

  For a moment he looked almost embarrassed, then he laughed. “Well, by Lucifer, I don’t give a damn. So long as we can line our pockets at the end of it.”

  Martin frowned. “And what of the danger? What if they don’t believe she’s Véronique?”

  “There’s no way they can prove otherwise,” said Lucien “As long as she insists she’s the girl. She has a store of knowledge of the family. She has the right face. How can they dispute it? At the worst, they can refuse to accept her. No more danger than that.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Martin, “I don’t want her to put her safety at risk. Do you understand, Lucien? The money isn’t that important. Not to me. I’ll not have her blood on my hands. If it comes to discovery, Topaze, get out. As fast as you can.” He glared at Lucien. “Do you agree?”

  Lucien’s eyes were bored. “Of course. It was just a game to begin with. A wild scheme. It’s scarcely worth the chit’s life. But you needn’t frighten her before the game has fairly begun.”

  “My courage will hold,” she said. “So long as my memory does.”

  “I’ll be there to sustain you,” said Lucien.

  “I thought you said you wouldn’t come with me.”

  “I don’t intend to reveal myself to the family. It would give the game away. But I always planned to stay close at hand.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Martin. “What if the family tries to look into Topaze’s past?”

  “The Givets will only tell the story I’ve been telling,” said Topaze. “And as for Madame Benoîte, what can they learn? An actress. Long dead. Died a pauper. There’s no trail to follow.” She frowned. “What about you, Lucien? Wouldn’t the Chalotais have some suspicion of you? Do they know you’ve been in Guadeloupe?”

  “Pachot seemed to think they do.”

  “Then they’d learn you left Guadeloupe for France months ago.”

  Lucien nodded. “And smell a conspiracy. I see what you mean. I’ll send a letter this very night to our overseer on the plantation. If an inquiry comes, he can swear I’ve never left.”

  “When shall we meet at Grismoulins?”

  “We’ll wait a month, I think. In case you’re watched.”

  “By that time I should have found the secret passage. Shall we meet at the grotto that you spoke of?”

  “The passage could be closed off by now. Though you can come to the grotto by way of the gardens just as well. We should have a few meeting places. And a way of signaling to each other at all times.” He snapped his fingers. “The old mill. It can’t be seen from Grismoulins, but it’s close by. And it can be seen from the cover of the woods. It’s in ruins, of course. The sails are gone, and the arms don’t turn. The windshaft, no doubt, has been disconnected. If ever I want to meet you, I’ll hang a handkerchief on an arm.”

  “And if I see the handkerchief, I’ll meet you at the mill?”

  “No. Inside the mill, above the door lintel, I’ll leave a message, telling you where to meet. When you receive my message, remove the handkerchief and put it inside, above the door. With your answer. You’ll signal me in the same way. Can you remember that?”

  She smiled ruefully. “As if my life depends upon it.” She stood up and took a turn around the room, trying to see into the future, to put herself into Véronique’s life. It was funny. It was all becoming so real to her that she’d even dreamed herself in Grismoulins last night. But it was important to plan everything now. To consider every chance event. She frowned at the men. “Let’s suppose for a moment. They’ve accepted Véronique. The birthday has been celebrated. The money is mine. I arrange for you to get your share. Now what?”

  “It’s quite simple,” said Martin. “You wait a decent interval, two or three weeks, then vanish again.”

  She nodded. “Of course. And if Véronique should appear unhappy and restless those last few weeks…what’s more natural than to vanish again?”

  “No.” Lucien stood up and crossed to the mantel. He took down a pipe, filled it and lit it. “No. They’d never stop searching for you this time. Particularly with the money gone. Sooner or later they’d find you.”

  “By Sainte Clotilde, then how am I to disappear?”

  He smiled and puffed in contentment. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

  “Hellfire and damnation! Are you mad?”

  His eyes were frosty. “If you don’t learn to curb your foul tongue, I swear you’ll regret it. Now, as to your ‘suicide’…you’ll leave a note, of course. Your soul is troubled…the sins of your past. You understand. The sort of pious nonsense that should appeal to them. We’ll leave bits of clothing beside a stream. Perhaps a bloody knife, to show that you savaged yourself before embracing your watery grave.” He turned back to the table. The sunlight from the window slanted across his sharp features, angled off his prominent cheekbones, and touched his pierced ear. That had held a pirate’s hoop. He smiled again. “Rely on me. I can deal with death, or its likeness.”

  Topaze felt a thrill of fear. He was so matter-of-fact, so offhand. Talking of death. She thought, When he has his money, of what use will I be to him? “I don’t want to plan any more today,” she said. “I’d rather be drilled on the names of the neighbors. And the paintings. I’ve forgotten the group on the second landing.”

  “But what about the banker’s scheme?” asked Martin. “We’ve scarcely spoken of it to Topaze.”

  “Time enough when he gets here,” said Lucien. “When can you seek him out in Nantes, Martin?”

  “Next week.” Martin scowled. “I don’t see why you can’t go, name of God! He’s your acquaintance.”

  Lucien laughed. “It’s been a few years, but I can’t be sure of my reception in Nantes. A matter of some jewels that I sold.”

  Topaze feigned innocence. “Not stolen, monsieur!”

  “Alas, yes.”

  “Then the police are looking for you?”

  He grinned. “That’s the least of my problems. The rogue I sold them to seeks me as well.”

  “Why?” Topaze could almost swear he gloried in being thought wicked.

  “It was his misfortune that they turned out to be paste.”

  She giggled. “Now my conscience is clear. I’m just sorry that I didn’t keep
your knife.” And smiled to see him join in her laughter.

  Martin stood abruptly. “My head hurts. I think I need another walk to clear my brain.” Snatching up his coat, he stalked from the room.

  Chapter Ten

  Much to Topaze’s dismay, Martin’s black mood persisted for days. How he must long for home, she thought. Her “lessons” had now become merely repetitions of facts, hour after hour. What games did she play as a child? How many children did the old cook have? Where were the roads that led to the villages—Pouzauges, Chantonnay, les Herbiers? More and more Martin excused himself from the drills, leaving that tedium for Lucien. He sat alone in the room downstairs, reading, or disappeared for hours at a time.

  It was Henriette who finally gave her a clue. “What a bother!” she exclaimed. “Bits of straw all over Monsieur Ducellier’s floor. I’ll warrant I’ve swept away half the barn this past week!”

  It was a sunny day, with a hint of spring in the air. Topaze teased Lucien into an early release from her lessons, and left him—still chuckling—to seek out Martin. From the farmyard, noisy with its clacking ducks and yapping dogs, she climbed the ladder to one of the haylofts. It was dim, lit only by a small window and the open doorway, but she discerned Martin in the gloom. He lay on his back in the scented hay, his hands behind his head, and stared up at the beams of the ceiling. “Aha!” she crowed, flopping down beside him. “I’ve discovered your lair.”

  “Are you finished with your lessons for the morning?”