Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  She raised herself on one elbow and looked down on him. His handsome face was sober. His eyes continued to find the ceiling beams engaging. She picked up a straw and tickled his nose with it. “Yes,” she answered. “And I want to have fun.”

  “Stop that,” he said, brushing at the straw. “Go and ask Lucien.”

  “Lucien’s no fun. You’re my jolly companion. Or were. Until you turned into an old sobersides.” She tickled his ear.

  He scowled at her. “I said, stop that.”

  She got up on her knees beside him. “You miss your home. I can understand that. But you’ll be returning soon. In the meantime, put a smile on your face and come and play with me.” She scooped up an armful of straw and dumped it on his head.

  “Damn you. Enough!” He grabbed her in a savage embrace and pushed her back onto the straw. His mouth ground down on hers. What was he doing? Her friend. She writhed beneath him, making little squeaking sounds against his cruel mouth. Abruptly he released her and turned away.

  She sat up, shaking, and stared at his back. A single tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away. It was followed by another. Below, in the farmyard, the rooster crowed. “Martin,” she whispered at last, “what have I done? Why are you vexed with me? Dieu, I think you must hate me. Is that it? Do you hate me?”

  He turned around. His eyes were dark with remorse. “No.”

  “I always thought you were my friend. The night I slept on your lap…it was so kind of you, so dear and sweet. It wouldn’t have crossed Lucien’s mind—to care that I was lonely.”

  He managed an unhappy smile. “I am your friend. And devil take Lucien.”

  She sniffled and wiped her cheeks, then stopped, remembering. “But he was kind.” She frowned. “Did you know, Martin, he did a most peculiar thing? I learned it from Henriette. He slept beside me that night. To keep me company, he said. That’s all. It wasn’t like him at all. A kindness that you’d do.” She touched her lip. It still hurt from his cruel assault. “At least I thought you would.”

  He stared at her, an odd expression on his face. Then he laughed softly. “I would if you asked. But tell me. Lucien. Didn’t you even waken?”

  “No. The last thing I remember was how nice it was, sitting on your lap. Then it was morning, and I was in my bed. I thought you’d put me there.”

  He smiled broadly. She hadn’t seen such warmth in his eyes for a week. He shook his head in wonder. “Sweet Jesu. And you never woke up.”

  “No.” She giggled. “Whatever Lucien might have done, it couldn’t have been very enthralling.” She remembered the Givets’ noisy, lusty reunions. “It’s not something a body sleeps through, I’d reckon.” She lay back again and nestled into the fragrant softness. “I like the smell of hay.”

  He leaned over and smiled down at her. “I like you.”

  She rubbed her lips. “It was mean to kiss me like that.”

  He glanced away. “I’m sorry.”

  She wasn’t sure what prompted her. Curiosity, perhaps. Or just the sweetness of the hay. The sweetness of the man. “My lip still hurts,” she said, and closed her eyes.

  He kissed her then, a soft, gentle kiss. He had a pleasant mouth; it made her feel warm, secure. He lifted his head. She opened her eyes. Again she saw the strange look cross his face. “Dear little Topaze.”

  “What a good friend you are, Martin. Will you kiss me again? For friendship’s sake?”

  He smiled. “For friendship’s sake,” and bent his head to hers.

  “I know you’re supposed to be an actress, and hence wanton. But you needn’t play the part to the life.” They looked up, startled. Lucien stood at the head of the ladder, frowning down at them. His mouth curved in disgust. “I don’t give a damn for myself, but if you mean to cuckold me, wife, at least do it where the servants won’t find you.”

  Topaze couldn’t tell what angered her more: his unpleasant tone, or his indifference at finding her in Martin’s arms. She smiled and draped a languid hand across Martin’s shoulder. “You have my leave to go, Lucien. I’m Véronique. I’m a flirt, remember? And if I choose to practice with Martin, that’s my concern. Go away.”

  “You insolent chit,” he growled, his eyes flashing at her cavalier dismissal. “Véronique may be a flirt, but she’s not a whore.”

  “You rail at an innocent kiss? Pooh! Kiss me again, Martin.” Martin smiled coldly at Lucien, and obeyed. This time the kiss was not so innocent, and his arms encircled Topaze in a passionate embrace. Topaze nearly laughed aloud. She herself couldn’t have thought of anything better to rankle Lucien.

  “Oh, for Lord’s sake.” Boredom clung to Lucien’s every word. “Do as you wish. I only came to tell you, Martin, that your Aunt Louise has found a miniature of your mother, and wants you to have it.” Cursing under his breath, he climbed down.

  Topaze sat up and smiled. “You ought to go to Madame Le Sage.”

  “I suppose so.” Martin stood up and helped her to her feet. He kissed her once again.

  “Dear Martin.” She brushed the straw from his blond hair. “Have I cheered you?”

  He grinned. “Indeed, yes.”

  Whatever had caused Martin’s unhappiness seemed to vanish after that. Once again he was her boon companion, laughing and romping with her through every foolish game that she devised. But the morning in the loft had opened the floodgates: now he tried to kiss her at every opportunity. In the name of friendship, he’d say, and, laughing, she’d offer her lips.

  The days went by. Spring came to the hills, with a hazy green that clothed the bare trees, and a warming sweetness in the air. The time was growing short, Topaze knew. There was little more for Véronique to learn. Soon they’d come to a parting of the ways. She didn’t like to think about it. It gave her a dull ache, somewhere near her heart. A hollow feeling. Ah, well. She guessed it must be fear, a little apprehension, the last lingering doubts as to the wisdom of the scheme. She forced herself to think of how pleasant life would be for the Givets, when she had her share of the money. She would buy the children little toy babies, drums, woolly animals to be dragged on a string.

  She smiled to herself, thinking of it, as she started down the stairs one afternoon. And tops and little horns. The simple toys and games were best. She stopped on the landing. Simple games. Henriette had left a tray at the top of the stairs. A large lacquered platter. She giggled softly. Dare I? she thought. She looked back up the stairs, then down to the small vestibule. No one was about. Madame Le Sage was likely in the kitchen. And she saw no one through the half-open door that led into the common room. The men must be out in the yard. By Sainte Blandine, why not? She hurried back up the stairs, picked up the tray, and carried it to the landing. She seated herself carefully on it, crossed her legs, tucked in her skirts, and guided her makeshift sled to the edge of the first step. She closed her eyes, clutched the sides of the tray, and leaned forward. The tray tipped, then went clattering down the stairs at breakneck speed and deposited her in a tumbled heap at the foot of the stairs. She laughed aloud—Ave Maria, what a ride!—and opened her eyes.

  Lucien towered above her, a bemused look on his face. She smiled uneasily, trying to gauge his mood. It was always difficult to tell. Sometimes it seemed to her that when he was the most in earnest was the time he grinned the most, his eyes flashing wickedly. He reached down and hauled her to her feet. “What the devil are you doing?”

  “I did this as a child.”

  He sighed. “Lord, will the chit never learn? You didn’t do it as a child.”

  “But of course I did! I remember…”

  His eyes were cold. “No. You didn’t do it as a child. Véronique didn’t do it as a child. You’re Véronique now. And Véronique didn’t behave like a wild hoyden.” He turned about and marched into the common room.

  Chastened, she followed him. “I’m sorry.” She curtsied grandly, then wobbled on the way up. He frowned. She tried again. “Is this better?” She smiled, a tentative smile. “Did Véroniq
ue dance? We never spoke of it. I can dance.”

  He seemed pleased at that. “Can you?” He held out his hand. “Show me.”

  “A minuet, if you don’t mind. Something slow.” She put her hand in his. His fingers were warm; she felt their heat coursing through her blood.

  They began the minuet to Lucien’s spoken count, but after a few moments they became accustomed to the rhythm, and danced in silence. She admired his lithe grace: he’d been a pirate but—lest she forget—he’d been a gentleman as well. “Did you have country dances at Grismoulins?” she asked.

  He slipped his hand around her waist and turned her about. “Yes.”

  “And country belles?”

  “A few.”

  She became more sure-footed with each new pattern of the dance. He smiled, nodded his approval. She glowed. It felt so natural, to be in his arms. And dancing the minuet. The minuet…ladies in beautiful gowns…and a tall man… Somewhere in the back of her mind was a misty memory. “I remember country dances too,” she said dreamily. “That is, Topaze remembers. When I was little. I danced with…” She pursed her lips. The tantalizing memory had faded, leaving only its warmth. She shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably one of Maman’s lovers. But I remember how grown-up I felt. To be a child, at a ball, and dancing with a handsome man.” She looked up at him. “Did you dance with your mother when you were a child? Her noble little cavalier?”

  He stared at her, his eyes blank. Then he laughed. “Always the prying chit. With your direct questions. I should think you’d have the wit to realize it isn’t ladylike to be so inquisitive.”

  It seemed like a complaint, a condemnation, for all that he still smiled at her. She pushed out her lip in sulky resentment. “I suppose Adriane de Ronceray never asks questions.”

  “Be careful, girl.” There was danger in the flare of his nostrils, the flash of his eye.

  She hated Adriane de Ronceray. “No,” she said with malice, “she doesn’t ask questions. She smiles and simpers and offers her aristocratic hand. Will you take her title—as Hubert has done—when she’s yours? Lucien de Ronceray?”

  He dropped her fingers and favored her with a frosty stare. “The dance is finished. Hold your impertinent tongue.”

  Defiantly she stuck out her tongue at him, then grasped it between her thumb and forefinger, putting a world of insolence into the gesture. “That for you, you whoring shittlebrain. And for the fair Adriane!”

  There was contempt on his face; he clearly found her tiresome. “You’ve been a ragamuffin for too long,” he said. “I’ve told you not to swear. Véronique…”

  “Rot and damnation! To hell with Véronique! Véronique this, and Véronique that! Until I’m sick of hearing about her! Well, Topaze can swear. Do you want swearing?” At this she let loose with a string of foul oaths, her anger carrying her beyond reason, beyond common sense, beyond a thought for her safety.

  She’d never thought anyone could he so angry. His eyes burned with a terrible light and he bared his teeth. “You damned chit! Will your willfulness destroy the whole scheme? Maybe a ducking in the horse trough will put a stop to your coarse language once and for all!” He lunged toward her. Trembling, she backed against the table. Her hand touched a large plate. She picked it up and hurled it at him; it grazed his forehead and smashed on the floor beside him. He stopped in his tracks and rubbed at the red welt on his brow. Then he looked at her and smiled, a grim smile that was more terrifying than his rage had been. “Now, by God,” he muttered, “you deserve more than a ducking, hellion.”

  “No!” she squeaked, reading the look in his eyes. His hand shot out and grasped her by the ear. She yelped loudly, her fear compounded by the humiliation of being treated like a child, like an unruly servant. Like an underling.

  “Lucien, let her go.” Martin stood at the door. His brows were knotted in fury. “I said, let her go!”

  “Damn it, I’ve had enough of the chit’s defiance. I intend to put a stop to it.”

  Martin strode into the room. “You’ll let her go,” he said evenly, “or you’ll have me to deal with.” He glared at Lucien.

  Still held fast by Lucien’s hand on her ear, Topaze trembled. Neither one would back down; she could see it in their faces. “Stop,” she said. “Both of you. I don’t…”

  “Oh dear! Have I interrupted a rehearsal?” Madame Le Sage bustled into the room. Lucien released his hold on Topaze’s ear, but continued to exchange venomous glances with Martin. Madame Le Sage smiled at them both. “Is it going badly?”

  “I’ve broken your pretty plate, I’m afraid.” Topaze tried to keep her voice from shaking as she knelt to the floor and began gathering up the shards.

  Lucien rubbed at his forehead again. “On your head be it, Martin, if the girl forgets—” He stopped himself and glanced at Madame Le Sage, who was straining to hear. “If she forgets her part, and swears like a fishwife at the wrong moment in the play.” He turned on his heel and left the room.

  Madame Le Sage’s eyes were filled with sympathy as Topaze stood up and put the broken pieces on the table. “Leave those, my dear. I’ll have Henriette sweep up later.” She looked from one tense face to the other. “Sometimes a play can be more serious than real life, n’est-ce pas?” For the first time Topaze wondered if they’d fooled the older woman for a moment these past weeks. Madame Le Sage nodded cheerfully. “I’ll just leave you two alone for now.”

  As the door closed behind her, Topaze moved to the window and stared out at the day. It looked like rain. The sky was as bleak as her heart. She began to cry.

  “Topaze?” Martin’s voice came from just behind her. She kept silent, feeling too overwhelmed by her woe to answer him. “Topaze, turn around and look at me.” His voice was firm and insistent. Reluctantly she turned. At sight of her tear-drenched face, he swore under his breath. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  “Damn him. He would have beaten you. A villainous thing to do.”

  She managed a small smile. “Perhaps he would have. Not that I didn’t goad him into it, and probably on purpose. I think I wanted to see if I could truly anger him.”

  He shook his head and laughed ruefully. “Well, you succeeded.”

  She sighed. “No. That’s just it. He was vexed, the Holy Mother knows! But there was no passion in it. Not really. He’s like a soldier in war who quarrels with his fellows but saves his passion for the battle. I’m a means to an end for him—the money, and the de Ronceray woman. Nothing more. And he’ll smile at me, or beat me, with the same indifference.” She sighed again. “Ah, well. What does it matter? When this is done, I’ll go back to Bordeaux and find a bad-tempered old sailor to marry.”

  “Or perhaps I’ll come back from Guadeloupe and marry you myself.”

  “You dear, foolish friend.” She started to laugh, but sobbed instead, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, Martin, why doesn’t he see me? Do you know, in all this time, he’s never called me Topaze? Only ‘girl’, or ‘that chit’. Or Véronique, when he thinks he’s being kind.”

  “Topaze.” He put his hand on her shoulder.

  She lifted her head and sniffled. “It’s his eyes, Martin. So cold, so distant. And yet…” She stared at him, bewildered. “Why do I see pain there? God knows it would be easier to take him as he seems. To give back nothing, instead of trying to please him, to touch him. What does he see with those distant eyes of his? He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at anybody. Oh, God, Martin, what does he see?”

  “Not enough.” He dabbed at her tear-stained face.

  “He’s dreaming of her, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does he love her very much?”

  “I don’t know. But he wants her. Wants the marriage.” He pulled her into his arms. “Oh, Topaze. Forget all this. Come away with me. We can talk Lucien out of the plan. We’ll go away. We can…”

  Dieu! What was he saying? “Forget it? When it m
eans so much to Lucien? When all his hopes are in this scheme?”

  He released her and stared in disbelief, as though he were seeing her for the first time. “You love him. Sweet Jesu, you love him.”

  “Love?” she whispered. It was the most astonishing thing she’d ever heard. “Love? Is that what it is? Oh, Martin, is that what I feel? The pain. Joy. Oh, such confusion. I make him laugh. I like it when he laughs. And every morning—I wait to see the look on his face. If he’s smiling, what happiness. If he frowns, dark despair; I look in vain for the sunshine.”

  “Yes, that’s love,” he said softly.

  She gave a little laugh. “But it’s absurd. It makes no sense. He’s far away from me. Beyond a wide gulf. How can I love him? When he’s a stranger? Oh, sweet Virgin.” She wrapped her arms about herself; the pain was too great to bear. “And yet I spend my days trying to please him, to make him see me, to reach out across that gulf. It makes no sense.”

  “No. Love makes no sense.” He turned about and kicked at the leg of the table.

  “Martin? What is it?”

  He turned back to her; his eyes were dark and filled with misery. “You must know I love you.”

  “Oh no. You can’t.” She felt a pang of guilt. All those kisses. Had she been blind? Or had she hoped—sweet, wild hope!—to make Lucien jealous? “That day in the loft, Martin…and all those kisses…you misunderstood, perhaps…”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said quietly. “You said it was a kiss of friendship. And so it was. But when I realized you hadn’t”—he frowned—“slept with Lucien, I still thought there was a chance for me. What a fool I was. I’ve been wooing you, these past few days. My God. Hadn’t you even noticed?”

  “Ave Maria!” she breathed. “You thought I slept with…?”

  “Henriette is a busy gossipmonger. Yes.” He stared at her, then laughed. “How the gods do mock us.”

  Love. And Lucien, through the many weeks. Lucien, watching her as she bathed. Lucien in the snow. Lucien laughing. She thought, Yes. Yes, a part of me must have loved him from the first. Love. How strange it seemed to think of it, to link the word to Lucien. But how natural. Dear Lucien, with his blind eyes. She looked at Martin. His face was as filled with despair as was her own heart. “What a pair we are.”