Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  Lucien stood up and smiled. “Has the room been prepared?”

  He held out his hand to Topaze. His desire was clear on his face. “Then come, wife.”

  “But the card game…”

  He scowled. “It’s just a game. I’m tired. Come.”

  Stung by his imperious tone she hesitated, then put down her cards and smiled sheepishly at Martin. “You would have won, in any event.”

  Lucien gave a little bow. “Good night to all. We’ll meet at ten tomorrow. In Martin’s room. Is it agreed?” Without waiting for an answer, he slipped a proprietary arm about Topaze’s waist and led her from the room.

  He was a cursory lover this evening. He seemed distracted, filled with nervous anticipation for the plan that was finally coming to fruition. And perhaps more than a little disturbed by his talk with Farigoule, which seemed to have brought back unpleasant memories. It didn’t matter to Topaze. Though her body was only briefly stirred, her lips gloried in his sweet kisses. And the warmth of him beside her as she fell asleep was joy enough.

  She let him go down to breakfast without her, and enjoyed a solitary cup of tea in her room. She heard Henriette giggling in the yard below her window. It must be ten o’clock, she thought. Henriette’s sweetheart, a rawboned farmer who lived several leagues away, always managed to come by at about that hour. She crossed the corridor and went into Martin’s room. It was empty. She moved to the table, idly studying the plan of Grismoulins, and waited for the men to arrive.

  “It didn’t take you long. Were you only waiting for me to leave?”

  She turned. Martin stood in the doorway, his handsome face dark with anger. “Don’t,” she said.

  His expression softened. “Forgive me. That was cruel.” He strode to her and took her hand in his. “Are you happy now?”

  “Dearest Martin. What does that mean? Happy. Unhappy. Life is for living. I’d be a sorry creature if I waited for it to be paradise.”

  “Damn him. He doesn’t return your love, then.”

  She laughed sadly. “He doesn’t even know I love him. What would be the point in telling him? He’s so filled with anger there’s no room in his heart for anything else. But he’s gentle and tender when he wants to be. And sometimes”—she choked back the sudden rush of tears—“when…when we’re together, I can make him forget. He loses himself in my arms for a little while. And then I can pretend, for those few brief moments, that he cares. The poor man. He’s so alone.”

  “Damn it!” he burst out. “How can you give so much and ask for so little in return? I watched him last night. He still behaves as though you’re the little chit he picked up off the street! He should be wooing you. You should demand it. Name of God, where’s your pride?”

  She stared at him in surprise. “When you’re poor, you forget to have pride. It’s a luxury you can’t afford.” She shrugged. “And I love him.”

  “Topaze…”

  “Good morning.” Monsieur Farigoule hurried into the room, followed by Lucien. Martin nodded a curt greeting, putting aside his strong emotions with difficulty. The four of them sat down at the table to discuss the scheme in earnest.

  Despite his ventures into smuggling, Monsieur Farigoule appeared to have a thriving—and quite legitimate—bank in Nantes. He lent, he borrowed, he advised his patrons on investments. But, as he told Topaze, from time to time those investments (alas!) turned sour. Since, for the most part, his advice was sound, his reputation hadn’t suffered because of the occasional loss. And if there was any real difficulty, his large personal fortune—swelled by his smuggling profits—could always be used to make up a sudden deficit.

  Farigoule beamed. “You see, my dear,” he said to Topaze, “I’ve found it simple to play upon the greed of mankind. I give advice, my ‘pigeon’ has one or two modest successes, with generous interest payments, and then he’s ripe for the plucking. One more investment. The largest yet. I warn him against it. He’s adamant. I concede. ‘If you force me to take your money, monsieur…but I’ll not be liable for the consequences.’” He smiled, a cherub’s grin, and spread his hands in the air. “And, of course, the poor man loses everything.”

  “What has that to do with me?”

  “When you leave here on Wednesday,” said Lucien, “you’ll take the public coach from Beauvoir. Monsieur Farigoule, a respected banker from Nantes, who happens to be traveling in the region, will board there as well. As you travel, he’ll engage you in conversation, extolling the merits of certain ventures to which he’s privy.”

  Farigoule smiled again. “You needn’t listen, of course, my dear. It will all be hodgepodge. Simply for the benefit of the other passengers, should they be questioned later.”

  “And then?”

  Lucien was clearly pleased with the scheme. “Véronique will go on to Grismoulins, forget about Monsieur Farigoule, and prepare to celebrate her birthday. A week or so before the event, she’ll meet Monsieur Farigoule again, by chance, in a village near Grismoulins.” He grinned wickedly. “Perhaps we’ll even have you invite him to the château. When you come into your money, you’ll insist that Monsieur Farigoule handle your investments.” Lucien clapped his hands. “Hocus-pocus. A hundred thousand livres disappears.”

  Topaze stared, open-mouthed. “Now, by Saint Marc, if you’re not the greatest pair of crackropes who ever deserved the gallows!”

  Lucien laughed. “Show me a Frenchman who doesn’t delight in his cleverness.”

  “But what if the Chalotais don’t agree to my investing my money with Monsieur Farigoule?”

  “We’re relying on Véronique’s willfulness. And the family’s delight in having her home again.”

  “I suppose I can manage a few tantrums, if I must. But what of my portion? I trust you, of course. And Monsieur Farigoule. But…” she shrugged. “Guadeloupe is very far away.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Send it by post to the Givets. Half for a gift of gratitude. Half to be held aside for me, until my return.”

  “Why can’t you ask it openly, then?” said Martin. “Surely the Chalotais would understand your desire to be kind to the Givets. And seven thousand livres. It’s such a small part of the total inheritance. Why should they object?”

  Topaze nodded. “I’ll see if I can persuade them of it.” She frowned. There was one more thing to be considered. “I trust that the investments won’t fail until after I’ve left Grismoulins.”

  “We’ve agreed on the suicide?” asked Lucien.

  She nodded reluctantly. “And the investment?”

  Monsieur Farigoule put a finger alongside his nose. “It will be very profitable. At least so long as you’re with the family. I’ll send you a small dividend or two. Perhaps one more to the Chalotais when you’ve gone. A nice touch, that, don’t you think, Lucien? After which I’ll announce the unfortunate news to the family. The enterprise has failed. The money is gone.”

  “To be invested in a tobacco plantation in Guadeloupe,” crowed Lucien.

  They spent the rest of the morning refining the scheme; in the afternoon Monsieur Farigoule left for Beauvoir. Supper was a strange affair. Their last meal together—the three of them. The appearance of Farigoule had brought home the reality of the plan. And now they were like soldiers preparing for battle: nerves stretched taut, eyes unnaturally bright with a terrible excitement. And the unspoken emotions that cast a dark pall over their anticipation: love, hatred, envy.

  Martin left the next afternoon. Because of Captain Foure at La Rochelle, he planned to sail from Bordeaux. “Will you try to see the Givet family before you go?” asked Topaze. They stood in the farmyard watching one of the boys bring up a wagon to take Martin to Beauvoir.

  He smiled down at her. “I’ll tell them you’re well.”

  “Tell them I’ll see them soon.”

  “And Lucien?”

  She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. “He’ll return to Adriane, I’m sure. As he always intended. What does it
matter?” She tried to smile. “But I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that he was mine first.”

  “Will I see you again?” His voice was low and husky.

  “Not in this life.”

  “Come to me. When this is over, come to me and be my wife.”

  “Dear, dear Martin. And spend my days watching him with her?”

  He cursed softly. “I wish to God we’d never started this.”

  “Then the days of my life would have been diminished by one dear friend.” She laughed. “I should have been a poet, not a thief.”

  “Damn the poets. They write about broken hearts far more than they should.”

  She felt the last vestiges of her composure beginning to crumble. “Don’t, Martin…” she choked.

  His brown eyes were soft with longing, regret. “For what it’s worth, you have my heart, and my love. You know that.”

  She stroked his cheek. “Dear Martin. If the world were a perfect place, I should love you in return.”

  “No,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “If the world were a perfect place, that fool would open his eyes and love you.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with all the fervor in his heart. Then he turned, leaped aboard the wagon, and signaled the boy to depart.

  Topaze leaned against the side of the farmhouse and let the bitter tears fall. God be with you, Martin, she thought.

  She looked up. Lucien stood in the doorway, watching her. Without a word he picked her up and carried her to her room. Still cradling her in his arms, he sat down. “I’ll miss him too,” he said.

  She clung to him and sobbed aloud, as much for the hopelessness of her own love as for the loss of a dear friend. As her weeping subsided, Lucien kissed her—over and over again—his lips soft on her mouth, her eyes, her tear-stained cheeks. He caressed her gently, stroking her back and shoulders with strong, warm hands. He traced the curve of one rounded hip, knee, calf. He put his hand under her skirts, felt for the top of her stockings, ran his fingers along the bare flesh of her thighs. His touch was so light that there was as much comfort as passion in his movements. She whimpered softly as his fingers penetrated, gliding and rubbing against the delicate core of her. She closed her eyes and leaned back against his other arm, giving herself up to his tender ministrations. Again and again he stroked the swelling bud of her womanhood until he’d coaxed her into a gentle release. She moaned, sighed once, and relaxed in his arms.

  He withdrew his hand and carried her to her bed. He put her down. “Try to rest,” he said.

  She opened her eyes. “Lucien. Don’t you want…?”

  “I said rest.”

  She sat up. Boldly she put her hand to his loins. She felt a hardness, the pressure of his straining member against the palm of her hand. She looked at him, bewildered. “Didn’t you plan to stay?”

  His mouth twitched in a wry smile. “I didn’t think you’d want a villainous rogue at the moment. Not when you’ve just lost your dear companion.”

  The sweetness of his sacrifice brought the tears back to her eyes. “Lucien,” she whispered.

  He looked uncomfortable, as though his unfamiliar kindness unmanned him. “I’ll see you at supper.”

  “No!” She clutched at his sleeve. “For pity’s sake, Lucien. Stay.”

  “Only for pity’s sake?”

  “No. Stay because I want you so very much at this moment.”

  He smiled and dropped to the bed beside her, gathering her in his strong embrace.

  They supped quietly that night. Madame Le Sage had left them alone for their final night together. Topaze found herself watching him, studying him. She couldn’t forget his tenderness, his sweet concern. Perhaps, she thought, he could learn to love me after all.

  Then he raised his glass and smiled at her across the table. “A toast to the morrow?”

  Dear Virgin Mother, she thought. Let him love me. She returned his smile. “To the fulfillment of all our hopes and wishes,” she said.

  His eyes glinted with a terrible light. She saw in his face the diabolical stranger she’d first met. “To vengeance,” he said softly.

  She shivered. She was afraid of him. In the deepest recesses of her heart, she still feared him. And couldn’t even tell why.

  He slept in his own room that night. She could hear his nervous pacing until long after the moon had set.

  He gave her a purse of money in the morning. In case she needed to escape Grismoulins in a hurry. They said their farewells and she climbed aboard the wagon. She smiled down at him, but her heart was breaking. What did it matter about the money? She loved him—couldn’t he see that? Oh, Lucien, she thought. Tell me not to go. Tell me it isn’t important to you, your mad vengeance. She gazed at him, all her love, all her longing, in her eyes. The wagon started to move.

  Lucien held up his hand. “Wait!”

  Her heart leaped in her breast. “Yes?” she whispered.

  He stared. His face twisted, seeming torn by a deep conflict. Then he frowned and rubbed his hand across the scar on his cheek. “Remember the signal on the windmill. I’ll see you in a month, Véronique.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The road to Grismoulins was narrow and damp from recent spring rains—deep cart tracks bordered on either side by ditches, beyond which rose up dense hedges. Hawthorn, shiny green and thick with spines, and so high that Topaze couldn’t see over the tops into the nearby fields. Only the sound of cattle lowing, or the rich scent of newly turned earth, distinguished for her the farmland from the pastures. Now and again the meandering road climbed a hill, and Topaze could see the terrain spread out below. A softly rolling great patchwork of irregular fields: green, loam brown, pale honey where they’d been allowed to lie fallow. And all enclosed by the bocage, the thickets that separated one field from another. Lucien had said he’d be close by. By Saint Claude, she thought, he could be hiding behind the nearest hedge and she’d be none the wiser!

  She really wasn’t sure what his plans were. He’d stayed behind at Madame Le Sage’s to destroy the telltale maps and lists and charts they’d used. And he promised that—should urgent circumstances warrant it—she could leave a signal on the mill as early as a fortnight from now. But she had no clue to where he was at the moment.

  True to the plan, Monsieur Farigoule had boarded the public carriage at Beauvoir, exhausted the half-dozen passengers with his incessant chatter about banking, and disembarked at Fontennay-le-Comte. Topaze had continued on into the Vendée hills, coming at last to the little village of Saint-Michel-Mont-Mercure. It looked as Lucien had described it. Sun-washed granite cottages crowded together at the top of the rise. Large crucifix in the square. And solid peasants who eyed her with suspicion. A sleepy market town where meat was more abundant than produce because of the quality of the land.

  She stopped, shifted her little bundle of spare clothes to her other arm, and pushed the hair back from her forehead. It was warm, and she’d been walking for a long time now. She giggled. Wouldn’t it be funny if she’d proved an inept pupil on her very first day, and had taken the wrong road out of Saint-Michel? She untied the lappets of her cap—far too warm on a day like this!—and pinned them onto the top of head, continuing on her way. The opening in the hedge appeared quite suddenly. A wide break, just to her left, that led into a long alley of trees. Thanks be to God, Grismoulins, she thought. At last. She followed the line of trees. Her heart had begun to thump with excitement. And a little trepidation. The Saints only knew what was waiting for her beyond the trees. A fortune, or…danger? Discovery? Prison, or worse? Ah well, she thought, what does it matter? Life’s an adventure. She took a deep breath, marched boldly to the front gate of the château, and grasped the iron ring.

  No. That was a mistake. Véronique would be a little hesitant, a little fearful of coming home. And filled with sentimental memories. She let go the ring and peered through the bars of the gate. Grismoulins was as beautiful as Lucien had said. Pale golden stones, gray-blue slate roofs, tall
windows reflecting back the late-afternoon sun. The central pavilion was a long, low building of harmonious symmetry, with gently pitched roofs and graceful turrets at either end. The two side pavilions matched it in scale and delicacy, except for the rough stone tower that adjoined the pavilion to her left—the ancient tower that Lucien had described. It seemed disconnected from the other buildings, but Topaze knew that somewhere beneath the lawn that separated them was the secret passageway. Beyond the tower, on the left, the land dropped away to a rustic garden, with clumps of trees, a running brook. The grotto, she knew, was in that direction. There were formal gardens and a park to the rear of Grismoulins, Lucien had said, though she couldn’t see them from here. To the right, the land climbed sharply to a tree-covered hill; somewhere beyond it was the old gray mill.

  My home, she reminded herself. My home. This time when she grasped the ring she did so with a little less assurance. Would she be welcome? Lucien had said that the gate was only watched and locked at night; sure enough, when she pushed at it, it swung wide. The gravel crunched under her feet. She reached the door. Lifted the knocker. She sighed. The prodigal returns.

  The door opened immediately at her summons. The footman was young. His coat looked new and uncomfortable, and his bright red hair was inexpertly powdered. She made a quick calculation in her head. He was too young to have served the child Véronique, she guessed. And he didn’t seem to match any of the servants that she knew by name. Still his hair was red…

  He eyed her serviceable—though hardly lavish—clothes. “What do you want?”

  She took a chance. “Are you Anselme’s boy?”

  He frowned. “Don’t you know your place, girl? This is Monsieur le Comte’s house! You don’t come to this door to see my father.” He pointed to a side building. “Over there.”

  She eased her way inside before he thought to slam the door on her. “No. I’ve come to the right door. I want to see…” Should she ask for her mother first? “Monsieur le Comte.”

  He snorted. “What makes you think he wants to see you?”

  She was an aristocrat. Born an aristocrat. She lifted her chin. “That’s not for you to know. Do as you’re bidden. I think that Monsieur le Comte will want to see me.”