Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  True to her word, Madame Revin appeared with her curling iron to dress Topaze’s hair. After each short strand had been well curled, her hair was finished with pomatum. While she covered her face with her hands, a maid dusted her coiffure with fine white flour. The maids tied on several petticoats and her panniers, then laced her into her gown. Topaze had never seen such a dress in all her life. Heavy white satin, with a voluminous skirt, a tight waist, full sleeves that ended at the elbows with snug blue bows. At the top of the low-cut bodice was another blue ribbon bow, and a spray of pink silk roses trailed across one shoulder and strayed onto the gown’s bodice, seeming to call attention to the creamy perfection of Topaze’s bosom. More silk flowers were pinned into her hair; a garland of silk ruching about her slim neck was her only “jewel”.

  “There you are, Mademoiselle Véronique,” said one of the maids. “Dressed to the nines. And beautiful you are, I warrant.’’

  Beautiful? Topaze gazed at herself in her mirror. She’d never thought she was beautiful. Not like her mother, Madame Benoîte. And hadn’t the Givets stressed the beauty of the soul? The beauty of an upright life? Beautiful! She laughed. Life was filled with wonders.

  She waited nervously in her suite until a little page boy came to escort her to the ball. Adelaïde had asked her to wait until the guests were assembled. Nearly a hundred of them, Poucette had said. And how many of them with names unknown to her? Her mouth felt dry as she followed the page boy. She made her entrance at the top of the stairs to polite applause, a few murmurs, a gasp of approval from a bewigged and painted fop in blue satin. She paused, scanning the sea of upturned faces, until Hubert came to lead her to their guests. She smiled uneasily at him. “So many people. I wonder if I shall remember a one of them!”

  He took her arm. “I have no doubt of your skill.”

  Adelaïde came forward as they reached the bottom of the stairs. She wore a deep pink gown that seemed to lend its color to her normally sallow cheeks, and she glowed in the light of hundreds of candles. Her hair had been dressed in soft curls, powdered, and embellished with a rosette of pearls. She smiled with pride. “My little Doll. How beautiful you are.”

  “Dearest Fleur.” Topaze kissed Adelaïde on the cheek and nodded at an elderly couple who stood beside her. Hellfire! she thought, feeling her knees turning to water. Am I supposed to know them?

  Adelaïde saved her. “Véronique, my pet, you remember Monsieur le Vicomte de Montalembert, do you not? And Madame la Vicomtesse?”

  “Of course.” The nearest neighbors, Lucien had said. He’d told her a little about them.

  “My dear,” said the vicomtesse, “we are all so pleased to see you returned to the bosom of your family.” She looked about the crowded room. “Carle-André is here somewhere. I’m sure he is. Ah, well. He’ll greet you, I suppose, in his own good time. Though he’ll scarcely believe how you’ve changed!”

  “Do you think so, Madame de Montalembert?” Bonnefous spoke at Topaze’s elbow; his eyes glittered with satisfaction. “Changed, you say?”

  “But yes! So grown-up. So beautiful. The fulfillment of what was only a promise six years ago.”

  “How kind you are,” murmured Topaze. “I’m eager to see Carle-André again. We played at bowls many a summer afternoon.” She smiled at Bonnefous. So much for you, suspicious old devil, she thought.

  Adelaïde led her through the throng, naming each guest in turn, and making her task quite simple. She had only to smile at every rouged face, take every proffered hand, nod graciously. Even if she was supposed to know them, there was no time to linger, mumbling awkwardly: Fleur was already steering her to the next cluster of guests. She noticed that Justine was there; she noticed that Hubert was pointedly ignoring her in favor of Adelaïde. She almost felt a spark of pity for the girl. Could anyone be more lonely than a mistress forced to attend her lover’s wife in her own house?

  The party moved into the large galerie for dancing. Topaze breathed a sigh of relief. Greeting all her guests, she’d felt like a seafarer running a gauntlet. Now, with the noise of the music, the couples moving about, the liveliness of the dancing, she ceased to be the focus of all eyes. She had been aware of the ladies who whispered behind their fans, the men who (cognizant of Véronique’s past) leered at her over their snuff-boxes. People who waited to see her blush for shame. And there had been the constant fear that someone would catch her in a lie, trap her with a stray remembrance. She shrank back into the draperies of one of the half dozen alcoves that flanked the galerie, grateful for the brief respite.

  “Liar!” The word was hissed in her ear. She whirled to see a comely man behind her. He seemed young, perhaps twenty-one or so. Léonard’s age. He wore his own brown hair braided into a small queue, and lightly powdered, and his brown eyes were unreadable. “Did you hear me, you little minx? I said you’re a liar.”

  What new danger was this? She nodded stiffly. “Monsieur?”

  “Oh, very good. I haven’t seen you for nearly six years, and this is the way you greet me?”

  Dieu! A friend. She softened her expression. “How should I greet you, when your greeting is to call me a liar?”

  “You might greet me in the way we parted, the last time I saw you. When you promised to go riding with me. A promise you clearly didn’t mean to keep.”

  “And how did we part?”

  He smiled and pulled her into the alcove, in the shadow of the draperies. His arms went around her waist, and his mouth pressed down on hers. She was too surprised to do anything but allow his kiss. His mouth was pleasant, no more. At last he lifted his head. “Didn’t you remember that?”

  “Was I supposed to?”

  “You teasing witch. Still hoping to break my heart.” His searching gaze scanned her face, dropped lower to enjoy her bosom, then focused on her full lips. “You’ve changed, you know,” he said. “I watched you moving through that room with such assurance. The old Véronique would have brazened it out, but inside she would have been trembling.”

  “The old Véronique was a child.”

  “I still adore you,” he said softly, and put his hand on her breast.

  “Monsieur!” she exclaimed, pushing at his fingers.

  He scowled. “You have changed. The old Véronique would have welcomed that. And more.”

  This was getting very difficult. Véronique had clearly been on more than friendly terms with this man, and she hadn’t a clue to his name! Perhaps if they danced instead of talked, she could avoid any serious blunders. She smiled. “Will you dance with me?”

  “I don’t like dancing. I never did.” He looked at her oddly. “Don’t you remember?”

  She had a sudden inspiration. “No.”

  “What? Scarcely flattering. What do you remember?”

  “I remember nothing. Nothing at all. You vexed me so just now with your bold kiss, your naughty hand, that I’ve forgotten everything about you. Including your name. If we’re to be friends again, you shall have to begin over. Now introduce yourself. And be a gentleman about it.”

  “I’ll play the game if I must. Mademoiselle.” He made a flourish in the air with his handkerchief, and bowed low. “The Chevalier Carle-André de Montalembert. And happy to be of service, my pretty one.”

  Ah, yes. Carle-André. What was that story Lucien had told? She curtsied. “Monsieur.” She smiled, showing her dimple. “You’ve changed, too. I look at you and remember a hobgoblin. At Carnival, in Pouzauges.”

  “I’d nearly forgotten. And you were a fairy princess. But I have fonder memories.” Again he put his hand on her bosom.

  This time she slapped the offending fingers. “Stop that!”

  “Why?” he asked sulkily.

  “Because I don’t like it. Anymore,” she added. Véronique had clearly allowed such behavior. “For all I know, you’re married now.”

  “For all I know, so are you! But why should that stop us? I told you, I still adore you. In point of fact, I’m single, and eager for a wife. I mig
ht choose you, and make an honest woman of you.”

  “What?” she sputtered.

  His forefinger traced the neckline of her gown, stopping briefly at the indentation between her breasts. “I have no doubt your parents would be pleased at a quick marriage. Your return must be an embarrassment to them, after the gossip we’ve heard.”

  “You scurvy dog. You damned villain,” she hissed, quite forgetting Lucien’s warnings. “What makes you think I haven’t spent the last six years in a convent?”

  He smiled, a lecherous smile. “The last year before you left.”

  She stared at him. “Did I even like you?” she said through clenched teeth. “Surely I was very young, and very stupid.”

  “Véronique…”

  “Mademoiselle de Chalotais to you, villain.”

  He shook his head. “By my troth, I thought I loved the girl. I was a simpleton. The woman is magnificent. You’ve humbled me, my sweet. Come. Though I dislike it, I’ll dance with you.”

  “Why?”

  “To breathe your sweet fragrance. To hold you in my arms, my angel.”

  “One minute you’re all but accusing me of being a whore, and the next minute I’m your angel? By Saint…”

  “Will you present me, Montalembert?” A soft voice from outside the alcove.

  Topaze turned. The man who had spoken was a handsome man, with a square jaw and craggy features, an odd contrast to the cultured and gentle voice. He wore a neat white wig tied back with a black ribbon, but the brows that arched over clear gray eyes were a light brown. He smiled at Carle-André. “Well, my friend?”

  Montalembert cursed softly. “You promised you wouldn’t intrude for at least half an hour.”

  “I meant it at the time. But then I saw how unhappy the lady was. Now, must I present myself?”

  “No. Véronique…Mademoiselle de Chalotais, may I present my friend Denis-Laurent, le Marquis de Rocher? Denis, the enchanting Véronique de Chalotais.”

  Rocher took her hand, and kissed it softly. “A goddess of beauty.”

  “Monsieur. Are you a friend to my stepfather?”

  “No. I’m staying with Montalembert for the spring. Though perhaps I should extend my visit. If you’ll but give me the sweetness of hope.” He smiled. “Listen. Isn’t that a minuet? I should be the happiest of men, my dear mademoiselle, if you would consent to a dance.”

  How charming he is, she thought. “I’d be delighted.”

  “Damn! You promised me!” said Montalembert.

  Her eyes were wide and innocent. “Did I? But then I seem to recall that someone called me a liar.” She shrugged helplessly. “What can I do? Monsieur de Rocher, take me away.”

  She spent the next hour dancing first with Denis de Rocher, then with Carle-André de Montalembert. From time to time another hopeful gallant tried to engage her in a dance, a brief conversation, but her two guardians would have none of it. She found them both equally charming. Rocher was warm and thoughtful, filled with soft compliments. And Montalembert, having reconciled himself to the fact that Véronique the woman was not the same creature as Véronique the child, retreated to the more refined conventions of a devoted suitor.

  At last it was time for supper. Topaze joined the Comte and Comtesse de Chalotais in inviting the guests into the dining salon. She took the opportunity of inquiring after Adelaïde’s health. “You must tell me if you wish to retire, Fleur. I won’t have you ill on my behalf.”

  Madame de Chalotais patted her cheek. “Seeing you with all your suitors warms my heart.”

  “I don’t know if they’re suitors, Fleur!”

  “Well, it won’t distress me if they are. I should like grandchildren.”

  That struck at Topaze’s conscience. She wouldn’t be at Grismoulins long enough for a wedding, let alone children. “Where’s Léonard?” she asked, to change the subject.

  “He didn’t come down, poor thing. Though Hubert raged at him. Perhaps now that the food is being served…”

  Sure enough, Léonard slipped into the room as the guests were being seated, and found himself a chair at the least important table in the room. Hubert scowled, but said nothing. Justine, relegated to the same outpost, took delight in giggling and whispering to her supper companions each time Léonard clumsily helped himself to a dish. Topaze was glad when the meal was over. Perhaps Hubert would speak to Justine. If not, Léonard, at least, would no longer be the butt of her joking. As the music began again in the galerie, the guests were invited to dance, or to go into the drawing room for games of comète, piquet, La triste cavagnole. Topaze was pleased to see that Adelaïde was still bearing up under the strain of the evening.

  The cards and dice appeared on the gaming tables, though Hubert had provided chips for wagering so the guests could play without losing money. Père François, who had enjoyed himself at the supper table (clearly the sin of Gluttony was not a serious concern for him), now affected horror at the sport of gambling. He frowned his disapproval and excused himself from the company. Topaze herself didn’t find the amusement to her liking, but she was weary of dancing; she wandered the large drawing room instead, chatting with the guests, watching an occasional turn of cards, sipping a glass of wine. It made her feel giddy, lighthearted, and light-headed. The evening had taken on the mistiness of a pleasant dream.

  There was a fine old harpsichord in a corner of the room. Léonard, his chin sunken unhappily to his chest, was sitting before it, idly playing with the two banks of keys. Poor thing, thought Topaze. She went to stand beside him, and put her hand on his bent shoulders. “Are you enjoying the ball, Léonard?”

  He looked up at her, blushed, but said nothing.

  “There you are, you charming creature.” Denis de Rocher came toward her, smiling. Carle-André de Montalembert followed close behind.

  Topaze laughed coyly. “My two shadows. What shall I do with you?” She blinked and put down her glass of wine. She’d really had too much to drink; it was difficult to focus on the two men.

  “Do you play the harpsichord?” asked Denis.

  “She used to,” said Carle-André.

  “But not very well,” said Topaze quickly.

  “Do you still remember how?” Adelaïde had moved into the circle and was smiling at her.

  “Not really. I…”

  “Oh, please try,” said Carle-André. “Léonard, get up and give your sister your seat.”

  “Have pity. I’m quite fuddled from the wine. I fear I’ll shame myself.”

  “But if you used to play, it should come back to you.” Bonnefous smiled like a cat about to trap its prey.

  Damnation! There was nothing for it but to make the effort. There had been a harpsichord at one of the theatres where Maman had played. Topaze remembered picking out a tune or two. She sat before the instrument, manipulated the various stops, ran her fingers across the sets of keys. The wine had truly done its work. She felt as though she were floating, oblivious to the smiling faces around her. I remember, she thought dreamily. I remember. She began to play.

  “‘Alma del core’—‘Fairest Adored’,” said Denis de Rocher. “A fitting song.”

  Topaze dropped her hands into her lap and stared at them. “I’ve forgotten the rest.”

  Adelaïde clapped softly. “Delightful. And after all these years. I don’t remember your learning that song.”

  Topaze shivered. “I don’t either. But I must have. My hands seemed to know it.” There’d been an actor, that summer of the harpsichord. Perhaps he’d taught her more than she remembered. Or perhaps she’d learned when she was younger, and simply forgotten. She shook off her unease. It was certainly nothing to be concerned about. She smiled at Léonard. “Did you like that?”

  He grunted and nodded, his eyes lighting up.

  “Then keep your promise, and dance with me.” She stood up and held out her hands.

  “N-n-no,” he stammered.

  “I’ll dance with you.” Carle-André took her elbow.

 
“No. Don’t be selfish. I want to dance with the sweetest brother a girl could ever have.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed Léonard softly on the cheek.

  His child’s eyes opened wide. He gasped in horror and fled the room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It took three days for Grismoulins to return to normal, for the last guest to leave. A large box of sweetmeats from Carle-André had arrived for Topaze the very next morning, quickly followed by an even larger box from Denis. Adelaïde had taken to her bed, drained from the effort that had gone into the ball.

  But at last there came a morning that was too sweet to be ignored. The gardens were bright with tulips and jonquils, the apple trees were in blossom, the birds sang an anthem to spring. Topaze had a picnic set out in a little bower in the midst of all this beauty, then persuaded Adelaïde to join her.

  “You see, Fleur? Isn’t this better than sitting in that gloomy old château?” She laughed and waved her hand in the direction of the golden stones of Grismoulins. “Though it really isn’t. I never tire of its charm.”

  “It will belong to your children someday, my pet. Unless Léonard marries and has children of his own, which would seem unlikely.”

  “Mine?” She frowned. She felt more and more bound to this place, to these people, whether she wanted to or not. Lucien’s simple scheme had become a complex web, trapping her, holding her fast.

  Adelaïde patted her hand. “Don’t fret, my sweet. You’ll have money to live on, long before Grismoulins comes to you. Your birthday inheritance is only a small part of it. I think I can tell you of it now. Since you left us, my family line has died out. There was a distant cousin, but now…” She spread her hands. “You’re the last Marcigny. But there are Marcigny holdings—lands and villages—which are entailed. They must go to you and your descendants. I have no control over that. Nor has Hubert. You can see, now, why your stepfather wasn’t happy to have you come home.”