Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  “I was in the pasture. Just playing with a c-c-caterpillar. They chased me. And threw s-s-sticks.”

  “Damn it! I’ll see they’re soundly thrashed.” Hubert’s voice thundered in anger. The young man cringed. “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. Just b-b-boys. But a lot of them.”

  Hubert’s voice softened. “And they threw sticks? Is that why you’re crying?” The young man shook his head. “Why, then?” demanded Hubert.

  The young man shuffled into the room, rolling back his sleeves as he came. His arms were red with deep scratches and bristling with hedge thorns. “They ch-ch-chased me into the hedges.”

  Topaze gasped. “Oh, you poor thing! Let me.” She hurried to him and began to remove the sharp spines as carefully as she could. He winced once or twice, but kept silent. At last she was finished. One large thorn had gone deep into his forearm; the spot still bled. She was surprised when Hubert handed her a clean handkerchief to bind it. She knotted it carefully, patted it once, and smiled up at the young man. “Good day, Moucheron.”

  Léonard looked at her, his jaw going slack.

  “Won’t you greet me?” she said.

  He stared at her, then at Hubert. Then he began to cry.

  Hubert scowled. “Go to your room, Léonard. I’ll speak to you later.”

  “B-b-bu—”

  “Do as you’re told!” Cowed, Léonard turned about and ran from the room.

  “You see? Léonard recognized her.” Père François’s voice was defensive.

  Hubert still seemed distracted by his son’s intrusion. “I told you, I’m not convinced. Are you, Bonnefous?”

  “Not until I speak to some of the villagers. They might be helping her. Or what of the servants? She knows so much of Grismoulins. For money, a servant could be disloyal.”

  Hubert frowned. “Pachot was angry and vengeful when he left. I wonder…”

  “No,” said Père François. “Don’t you understand? This is Véronique. I’d swear to it. Pachot wouldn’t have known about that snowy day in the graveyard.”

  “Simon’s son,” Bonnefous said. “Is there a possibility that he’s in on it?”

  “I’ve thought of it.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “A friend in Paris said he’d seen him in Guadeloupe.”

  Véronique would be curious, thought Topaze. “Are you speaking of Cousin Lucien?” she asked.

  Hubert ignored her. “Perhaps it would be wise to send someone to Guadeloupe, to see what Simon’s bastard has been doing of late.”

  “What about the girl?” asked Bonnefous. “Have you more questions?”

  Hubert was still looking toward the door where Léonard had vanished. Topaze saw a strange expression on his face: anger, shame…but an odd tenderness as well. “My heart isn’t in it today,” he said. “She can tell lies as easily tomorrow as today. Keep her in her room until you get a few more answers from the villagers.”

  “Shall I send someone to that family in Bordeaux?”

  “I wouldn’t bother. I think we’d find that part of her story to be true. She’s too clever to lie about it.” Hubert sighed, his glance straying once again to the door. “Does it never end? Ah, well. I’m going for a ride.” He nodded curtly and strode away.

  By late afternoon, the boredom of sitting in her little room with nothing to do began to wear on Topaze. At length she gave in to her lethargy, curled up on the bed, and fell asleep. She was awakened by a burning sensation on her hand. Startled, she opened her eyes. A woman was leaning over her, holding a dripping candle. Beyond her, the room was already dim. She felt dazed, confused. “What do you want? What time is it? Where’s Madame Revin?” She rubbed at the hot tallow on her hand and sat up.

  The candle began to shake in the woman’s hand. “Oh, merciful heaven. It’s true. It’s true.”

  Topaze stared. The woman was thin and frail, her eyes deep-set in a gaunt face. Her skin was ashen, with dark rings under her eyes. Her yellow hair was lank, and streaked with gray. But there was something familiar about her features. “Fleur?” Topaze whispered. “Is that you, Mother?”

  “They wouldn’t tell me anything. But I heard them. Talking behind my back.” The candle was now quivering violently.

  Topaze smiled gently. “Put down the candle, Little Cabbage, before you burn us both.”

  Adelaïde de Chalotais set the candle on the chair. “Naughty child. Naughty Véronique.” With a sob, she clutched Topaze in her arms.

  Topaze began to laugh and cry at the same time, wrenched by emotions that weren’t feigned. She’d become Véronique, and this poor suffering creature was her mother. She wept real tears, leaning on the woman’s bosom—all the pent-up tears and griefs and disappointments of her short lifetime. They wept for a long time, clinging to each other and rocking back and forth on the bed.

  At last Adelaïde sighed, sniffled, and held Topaze away from her. “I’ve shed enough tears these past six years. No more. Let me look at you, my sweet child.” Her eyes searched Topaze’s face. “How pretty you’ve become.”

  “No, Fleur, let me look at you. Ah, Dieu, you’re so thin and pale. What is it?”

  The smile was filled with resignation. “Oh, the doctors say I’ll recover with a little rest. But I expect I’m dying.”

  “Oh no! They said you’ve been ill. Was it because of me?” For the first time Topaze cursed the real Véronique. How could she have left?

  “I was sick after you went away. It was so difficult—the agony of the search, the false rumors… I thought I wouldn’t survive.” At Topaze’s gasp of dismay, Fleur put a comforting hand on her arm. “No. I recovered. After a year or two, I was almost myself again. But the past few months have brought me low. I find it hard to eat, to sleep. Yet I’m always weary. Alas, I’m fading so fast…”

  “We’ll make you well again, Fleur. You’ll see. A pox on Beau-Père! Why didn’t he let me see you at once?”

  She snorted. “Have you met our Monsieur Bonnefous?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has a large gold Louis where his heart should be, I think. And blinders made up of francs and sous. I’m sure he had a hand in keeping us apart. I never told you, when you were a child, that you’re to come into a large inheritance.”

  “Père François told me today. I never knew.”

  “Did he also tell you it’s to be yours on your twentieth birthday?”

  Topaze feigned astonishment. “But that’s less than two months away!”

  “Exactly. Hubert, with Bonnefous’s help, has been trying to persuade me to declare you dead. Before the first of June. Perhaps they planned to keep us separated until then.”

  “But why?”

  “By the terms of the Marcigny trust, you must be here with me on your birthday. If that day should come and go, with no one to receive the money, it would become a part of my estate, and subject to my control and the terms of my will. But if you were declared dead before that day, God forgive us,”—she crossed herself with fervor—“the money would go at once to the nearest living relative.”

  “That’s you, Mother. How can Beau-Père get it, then?”

  Fleur smiled sadly. “What can I do? I’m a helpless woman. He already controls my income.”

  “Oh, Fleur. Can you forgive me for making you suffer so?” She embraced the woman again, filled with an odd sense of guilt. “I should have been here to give you strength.”

  Fleur stroked her blond hair. “Your hair has grown darker. I still have a locket with a curl. From when you were ten. Do you remember when I cut it?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, well. That’s a mother’s particular joy.” She fell silent. “You did run off with the Galande boy, didn’t you?” she asked at last.

  “I’m so ashamed, Fleur. I was young and stupid.” Perhaps she could get through this without lying. For Hubert and Le Loup she’d be prepared to make up all sorts of lurid tales about herself and the seducing Narcisse Galande. But she co
uldn’t bring herself to hurt this woman more than she’d already been hurt.

  “Was there a child?”

  “No. But…” How could she put it, without lying? “But I was sick for a long time, you understand. And a woman, an actress, took care of me. We never spoke afterwards of my illness, but…”

  “Say no more, my pet. I do understand. I forgive you, and I thank God you’ve come back to me. We’ll never speak of it again.”

  “But Beau-Père might. I should tell you, Fleur. He thinks…” She pulled Adelaïde’s hand to her lips and kissed it fervently. “Oh, Mother! He thinks I’m an impostor.”

  “Now, damn him. Is he so greedy for the money? Would he have denied you, and never told me of it? The villain. He goes behind my back all the time now.”

  “Why do you let him?”

  “My dear Poupée. When you were little, I suppose you saw me with a child’s eyes. But now you must see me as I am.” She sighed. “Have you met his…woman?”

  “His whore, you mean. How can you bear it?”

  “He was always very difficult. But when he became master of Grismoulins, he became a tyrant. I’m not very strong. I never was. Not even when my health was good.” She smiled, an unexpected smile that creased the corners of her eyes. “But I’ll have the last laugh.”

  “Oh, Fleur. How happy I am to be home.”

  Adelaïde laughed. “You’re the medicine I needed. Do you remember the day, coming back from les Herbiers in the carriage, that we gorged ourselves on marzipan until we were sick, and never told anyone?”

  Topaze giggled. Lucien, of course, wouldn’t have known that story. “Yes,” she lied. “And I remember you used to sing to me, when there was thunder outside and I was afraid.” That, Lucien had known.

  “And I’d call you a silly goose, and you’d waddle about and quack, and we’d laugh.”

  “I remember a tea party on the lawn.” By Saint Barnabé, she thought, why did I say that? But it seemed natural to assume there had been parties on the lawn.

  Adelaïde nodded. “Yes. Yes. Your birthday.”

  “Which one?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Nor can I. I just remember baskets of roses and peonies.” A misty picture rose up in her mind. Dreamy. Far away. “And a tall, handsome man. I don’t think it was Beau-Père.” She shivered. Somewhere in her mind she actually saw it. What nonsense! She shook off the ghost. “It must have been Uncle Simon.”

  “Yes. He was there, that day.”

  They sat on the bed together, hugging, exchanging remembrances, laughing a great deal, crying at times. The candle began to flicker. For the first time Topaze was aware that the room had become quite dark. “But it’s night,” she said. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly eight o’clock, I think. You must be hungry for supper, my sweet child. Come.”

  “I can’t leave the room. Beau-Père wants me locked in.”

  “I defy him. Come.” She looked up as Madame Revin came into the room, bearing a candle and a small plate of food. “That won’t be necessary, Madame Revin. Véronique is coming to the table this evening.” She smiled. “You may lay two covers. I feel well enough to sup with the family tonight.”

  “Oh, Madame la Comtesse! What sweet joy for all of us. To have Mademoiselle Véronique home at last, and you at supper!”

  Adelaïde rose from the bed and looked about the cheerless room. “For shame, that my daughter should have spent a moment in this place. After supper, I want her moved to the suite next to mine. The one with the blue boiserie.” She turned to Topaze and held out her hand. “Come. Have you seen Nanine yet?”

  “Nanine? Is she still alive?” It seemed a logical question: Lucien reckoned she must be seventy-two by now.

  “Of course. I kept her on, with a small pension, to live out her days in tranquility. Come along.”

  Nervously Topaze followed Adelaïde through the corridors. Nanine. The nurse who knew every inch of her, every curl, every feature of her face. The nurse whose acceptance, according to Lucien, was critical. Her heart was thumping as Adelaïde tapped on a paneled door. At a muffled response, Adelaïde opened the door and ushered Topaze in.

  Nanine sat in a padded rush chair, her slippered feet on a footstool, with a large shawl wrapped about her thin shoulders. She seemed incredibly old, from the snowy hair that peeped from beneath her lace cap to the wrinkles that lined her face. She smiled and lifted her head at the sound of their entrance. Her eyes were filmed with white. “Who is it?” she asked of the little maid who stood by her side.

  “Nanine, it’s I,” said Adelaïde. “And I’ve brought someone to see you.” She pulled Topaze to the old woman and joined their hands. “Say something to Nanine,” she instructed.

  The bones through the delicate skin felt like the thinnest twigs of a tree. Blind! thought Topaze. Lucien wouldn’t have known it. But there was nothing to fear now. She felt a surge of relief. “Nanine,” she said gently. “Do you still like orange comfits?”

  The thin mouth spread in a grin. The broken tooth that Lucien had described had vanished, leaving a space. “Is it my little Véronique?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because your voice is the same. Because you always remembered to bring me orange comfits.” The blind eyes seemed to glint with devilish glee, for all their sightlessness. “Because I’ve heard whispers and gossip among the servants.”

  “What a sly muffin you are, Nanine.” She kissed the old woman on the top of her head.

  “Now let me feel your face.”

  “Of course.” Topaze knelt before the old nurse and guided the frail hands to her face.

  Nanine’s fingers were gentle but thorough as they traveled across her chin and mouth, traced the plane of her nose, the curves of her cheeks. The old woman frowned, then dropped her hands. “No. You’re not Véronique.”

  Topaze’s heart stopped. “What do you mean?” she managed to say.

  “My Véronique was a simple girl. This is a beautiful woman before me. Can it be so? Adelaîde, has our little pet become a beauty?”

  Adelaîde dabbed at fresh tears. “She has indeed, Nanine.”

  “I wish I could see her.”

  “Pooh!” said Topaze, feigning petulance, though her heart had resumed its normal beat. “You pretended not to know me. You wicked Nanine. You shouldn’t tease me like that. Next time I visit, I shall bring you licorice. Because I know you hate it!”

  Nanine cackled. “But I duped you, isn’t it so?”

  Topaze laughed. “You did indeed. I thought you’d been talking to Beau-Père, or that cross old Bonnefous.”

  They spent the next quarter of an hour recalling stories from the past. Lucien had been an observant member of the Chalotais household, that was clear. The two women couldn’t stop exclaiming at the sharpness of Véronique’s childhood memories. At last, seeing Nanine droop sleepily, Adelaïde pulled Topaze along to her own appartement, to stay with her while she dressed for supper.

  That effort exhausted Adelaïde. She sipped a glass of spirits and rested on an ottomane, instructing her maids to find a suitable gown from her wardrobe for Mademoiselle Véronique’s use until more could be ordered. She beamed as Topaze was transformed before her eyes. She laughed. “Take off that dreadful cap, my pet. Only a bourgeoise dresses like that! Oh, how long your curls are. We shall have to do something about your hair. Everyone is cutting it these days.”

  “Whatever you say, Fleur.” Topaze was too dazzled by the magnificent gown she’d been given to argue.

  They were late going down to supper. Adelaïde wanted to make a grand entrance, to discomfit Hubert and the rest. He was seated at the head of the table; Père François and Bonnefous were to his right, Léonard to his left. And Justine, resplendent in a blue silk mantua, sat at the foot of the table. In Adelaïde’s chair.

  The room fell silent at their appearance. As Adelaïde had hoped, they seemed distinctly uncomfortable. Père François murmured an Ave Maria.
Justine gave a little squeak of chagrin, Bonnefous scowled,Léonard’s face turned red. Only Hubert appeared to have accepted the inevitable. He rose from his chair and took Adelaïde by the arm. “My dear, are you well enough to join us for supper? Justine, I believe you’re in the wrong chair.”

  “No, I’m not.” There was more stupidity than malevolence in Justine’s painted face.

  “Justine…” At the menace in his tone, the girl relinquished the chair at once, taking the seat next to Léonard.

  Assisted by her husband, Adelaïde de Chalotais took her rightful place. “Thank you, Hubert. Will you seat my daughter now?” She stared fixedly at him. “She is my daughter, you will agree?”

  He shrugged. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Yet you would have kept her from me.”

  “My dear, I only sought to protect you from impostors.”

  “Spare me your concern, husband. I think I know precisely what you were trying to do. But now I trust you will welcome my daughter.”

  “Of course.” He gave Topaze a grudging smile and seated her between Bonnefous and the priest.

  “And you, Monsieur Bonnefous,” continued Adelaïde. “Do you accept this girl as my daughter?”

  He nodded. “A mother knows her own child.”

  “Père François?”

  “My dear Madame la Comtesse, I assure you I never doubted the girl. I accepted her from the very moment I laid eyes upon her. And if she is truly penitent”—he crossed himself—“God will accept her as well.”

  Topaze thought: Wicked hypocrite. But he was determined to have her confession, she could see. Well, by Sainte Christine, she’d give hime a confession to curl his wig!

  “Well, what shall we do to welcome your daughter home, madame?” asked Hubert as the servants brought around platters of food.

  “I should like to give a ball. And invite our neighbors. You remember the de Montalemberts, don’t you, my lamb?”

  Père François looked horrified. “But, madame, surely the stories of poor Véronique’s fall from grace are well known by now.”

  “All the more reason.”

  He smiled uneasily. “Yes, of course. We must give the appearance of…respectability. Véronique’s reputation, after all… But I strongly urge a mariage de raison as soon as possible.”