Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  “Is it such a great fortune?”

  “Yes. It provides me with a very comfortable income. But there’s more. I myself have a large personal trust—a financial investment—from the Marcigny. I should guess about half a million livres. And when my lawyer visits me in June…”

  “Your lawyer? Not Monsieur Bonnefous?”

  Adelaïde smiled and put a silencing finger to her lips. “Hubert doesn’t know it, but I’ve had my own solicitor for years. From Poitiers. He visits me every year. Hubert thinks he’s only the widower of a childhood friend of mine. I’ll have him change my will again, so that when I die you’ll get the half-million livres.”

  Ave Maria, and by summer she’d be gone. A “suicide”.

  “No, you mustn’t. I’ll have the birthday inheritance. Don’t change your will. Let Beau-père have the money.”

  “Hubert?” Adelaïde laughed scornfully. “He’s been living off my income from that trust for years. I never intended for him to have the principal, though he won’t know it until I’m gone. He thinks I’ve willed it to him. It’s what keeps him civil to me. He’s quite greedy, you see.”

  “Then who will have it? Léonard?”

  “No.” Adelaïde paused. “Your cousin Lucien,” she said at last.

  She gasped. “Lucien? Then he is alive, as Monsieur Bonnefous says.”

  “As far as we know. In Guadeloupe. I had instructed my solicitor to seek him out upon my death, to give him the inheritance.”

  “But why Lucien?”

  “I’ve always felt he didn’t deserve what happened. And I knew that as soon as I was dead, Hubert would have you declared dead as well, which would terminate the entail and leave him a wealthy man. I thought Lucien should get something.”

  “Oh, Fleur. What did happen to him? To them? No one will speak to me of it.”

  Adelaïde smoothed a curl from Topaze’s forehead. “Yes, my precious. You should know. Hubert doesn’t like the story told. Sometimes I wonder if he was responsible for the tragedy.”

  “Tragedy?” Topaze’s heart was filled with dread.

  “To begin, I must tell you things that Marie-Madeleine told me, as a dear friend, in confidence. Not even Lucien knew as a child. But, of course, when the scandal came, the whole region learned of it. The Chalotais are an old family in the Vendée region. There was never much money, and they lost whatever lands they had long ago. The Renaudot family—Marie-Madeleine’s family—were Huguenots, and untitled.”

  “Protestants? I thought the Huguenots were converted or driven out of France fifty years ago.” And hadn’t Lucien been taught by the Jesuits? It was bewildering.

  Adelaïde laughed. “My dear, you’re too young to know that money speaks in a loud voice. The poorest Huguenots converted—or were persecuted—when old King Louis revoked the Edict of Nantes. The bourgeoisie emigrated. But the rich merchants, with their connections in all the cities of the continent, Geneva, Frankfurt, Amsterdam…” She shrugged. “Well, Catholic men of business found it convenient to swallow their objections. Bernard Renaudot was a very influential financier in Paris. And devoted to his only daughter, Marie- Madeleine. Your Uncle Simon wooed her and won her. Perhaps it was a love match at first. I don’t know. But it was certainly to Simon’s advantage. Bernard Renaudot bought Grismoulins—it was then in ruins—restored it and gave it, with all its lands and income, to Simon as part of Marie-Madeleine’s dowry. To please the old man, Simon agreed that the marriage should be performed in the Protestant rites. It was done in secret, to preserve the Chalotais position in the Vendée. But Simon swore to teach his children of their Protestant heritage. And then Renaudot died.”

  “And then Lucien was born?”

  “Not at once. There were several children, all of whom died as infants. Simon began to feel that God was punishing him for straying from the True Faith. And, God forgive him, he was ashamed of his wife. For the first time, he had money to buy a hotel in Paris, travel in society, go to Versailles. But his wife, for all she was now the Comtesse de Chalotais, couldn’t be received at court, of course. Because she was born a commoner. By the time Lucien was born, all these disappointments had cooled Simon’s ardor for his wife. They lived here together as virtual strangers.”

  “And was all that happening when we lived here? When I was a child? And never saw or heard a word?”

  “But why should you? I didn’t know. Not at first, until Marie-Madeleine told me. Lucien didn’t know. Simon had reneged on his promises to Renaudot: Marie-Madeleine wasn’t allowed to practice her faith, and the boy was raised as a Catholic.”

  “How monstrous! To deny the wishes of the man who had given him everything. Had he no shame?”

  Adelaïde laughed bitterly. “The Chalotais men have no shame when it comes to money.”

  “But what happened to them? Lucien and Marie-Madeleine?”

  “The year after you left, someone denounced the marriage.”

  “Denounced?”

  “The Huguenot rites are against the laws of France. Didn’t you know that? Because of the Protestant ceremony, Simon and Marie-Madeleine were accused of concubinage, and forced to separate. Lucien was declared illegitimate, and incapable of inheriting the estate.”

  Topaze drew a sharp breath. Poor Lucien! “Who could have revealed it?”

  Adelaïde sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve suspected it was Hubert. He was always jealous of his brother. But I don’t know. At any rate, Simon might have persuaded Marie-Madeleine to embrace the True Faith. He would have been free then to remarry her. At the very least, even if she’d resisted conversion, Simon could have legally adopted Lucien and made him his heir. But he was afraid of losing Grismoulins. And Père François was whispering ‘heresy!’ in his ear.”

  “That hypocrite. Then what did Simon do?”

  “He formally repudiated his marriage and his wife. And his son.”

  Topaze began to weep, tears of pain and horror streaming down her cheeks. “All to keep an estate that was—by all the rules of decency and fairness—Lucien’s. Oh God.” She wondered he had not gone mad with bitterness and despair.

  “In order to escape the galleys or prison, Lucien and his mother were obliged to leave France quickly. But Marie-Madeleine wasn’t well. The strain of her ordeal had sapped her strength. The day they left”—Adelaide closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, her face twisted in grief—“Lucien tried once again to appeal to his father. He fell on his knees, begged him. Not for himself, but for his mother. He wept and humbled himself, swearing that he’d go willingly to the galleys, if only his father would embrace Marie-Madeleine again. It was pitiful. I wept as well that day, to see a proud man brought so low. And by his own father.”

  “And Simon was unmoved? What did he answer his son?”

  “He said nothing. He lifted his whip and slashed it across Lucien’s face.”

  Topaze covered her eyes with her hands. “Sweet Virgin,” she whispered, “I can’t bear this.”

  “My dear, my dear.” Adelaïde stood up and pulled Topaze’s head against her bosom. “My little Véronique was not so sensitive to the grief of others. How you must have suffered yourself these past years, to have become so tenderhearted.”

  Topaze looked up at her. “What happened to them after that?”

  “Marie-Madeleine had no family. Nowhere to turn. She’d managed to take a few of her jewels in the hem of her gown the day they left, so perhaps they didn’t starve. We heard a rumor, six months after they’d gone. Someone had seen them in Nantes. Maybe they planned to emigrate to the New World. It was said that…Marie-Madeleine looked like death. She was always fragile. I think she must have died soon after, though we had no report on that for over a year.”

  “And Lucien?”

  “A wild man, they said. His hair was turning white. And then we heard nothing until recently, when we heard that he might be in Guadeloupe. But I’ve thought of him often, these past years. The poor boy.” She brushed at a tear. “When Simon died and
Hubert inherited the title and the estates, it didn’t seem fair. That’s when I instructed my solicitor to put Lucien in my will.” She sat down again and gazed lovingly at Topaze. “But now that you’re home, my pet, I’ll change my will again.”

  “Oh, no. Please. Let it go to Lucien.”

  “No. My mind is made up. It’s yours. To show my joy at your return. Don’t quarrel with me. My mind is quite set on it.” She smiled, a tender mother’s smile.

  “But I…” Topaze stopped. Justine had come into the gardens. “Oh, there’s that vile woman,” she groaned.

  “Poor thing.” Adelaïde laughed softly at the look of surprise on Topaze’s face. “I can afford to pity her. She’s not very clever. Not very strong. For all that he’s unfaithful, and spends my money willy-nilly, Hubert has always been solicitous of me. I don’t know whether it’s because of my noble birth, or because he still hopes to inherit that half a million from me”—she shrugged—“but he’s always been kind. He’s never bothered to be kind to her, the poor dear. He buys her pretty dresses to make up for his cruelty. But she’s just a tradesman’s daughter. He’ll never treat her as anything more than that. And now Madame Revin says that the kitchen gossip has it that the poor creature has been waking at dawn to vomit.”

  “By Sainte Marthe, why did you marry him?”

  Adelaïde’s eyes filled with regret. “The Chalotais men can be very charming. When they want to be.”

  Topaze hurried down the long galerie. She heard a clock chime in the distance. She’d have to hurry before supper. What an idiot she’d been. Tomorrow would mark a month since she’d left Madame Le Sage’s house. Lucien might wish to signal her at once. And she’d never taken the time to search for the hidden passageway! What if he should want to meet her there?

  Reaching the end of the galerie, she peered into the paneled library. It was empty. She’d been in here once or twice, but for some reason she’d tried to avoid this room. It made her uneasy. She always felt as though she were being watched when she was in this room.

  She took a few moments to wander about. Lucien had said it was a favorite room of Véronique’s. She should be more familiar with it than she was. The walls were paneled in dark woods, richly carved and gilded. Two walls were lined with bookcases; the third had a long bench and two tall windows; the fourth was the fireplace wall. She smiled to herself. The clock was still there, on the mantel. The little shepherd girl was still missing her hand.

  Dieu! She couldn’t be distracted by memories! There were more important things to do. She frowned, trying to remember. The bookcase opposite the windows, Lucien had said. That’s where the secret door was. And to release it…the paneled strip to one side of the books. Damnation! There were two paneled strips, one on each side. She tried to picture Lucien’s map of the room; she was sure that he had indicated which side. She racked her brain but couldn’t remember. Oh, well, she thought. I’ll try them both. The fourth cockleshell. That much she remembered. From the top? No. The bottom. She found it. Tried to turn it. Nothing happened. It must be the panel on the other side, she thought. She shivered. What was it the old wives said? Someone was walking on her grave? Everything about this room made her uneasy. Ninny! she thought. No one’s been spying on you! She heard a noise from the galerie. She almost felt reprieved. I’ll search for the passage another time, she thought, it’s too dark now. She hurried from the room.

  She dreamed that night of Lucien, and awoke with tears on her cheeks. Her heart was aching with longing. And grief for his sorrows. As soon as she could, she went for a walk, turning in the direction of the mill when she was out of sight of the château.

  A fluttering bit of white caught her eye long before she’d reached the crest of the hill. She nearly wept for joy. A signal from Lucien! She ran to the mill. The handkerchief was impaled on the lowest arm of the mill, fastened to the heavy old beam just at eye level. She pulled it off, then ducked inside the building. It was ancient and dusty, with field mice scampering among rotting grain sacks. She stretched her arm above the door, searching with eager fingers. Sure enough, there was a note. And Lucien had even thought to leave a small crayon for her reply. She pulled down the paper and unfolded it with shaking fingers.

  It said, Can you meet me in the grotto at three this afternoon? Wednesday. Come by way of the garden. Hubert will be working in his library. I shall wait for you until four.

  She scribbled a one-word reply, Yes. Oh, yes, my love, she thought, replacing the note and handkerchief above the door and returning to Grismoulins. She thought she’d die until the afternoon came, staring at the clock on her wall until the characters were engraved in her brain. She was out of the door by a quarter to three.

  Léonard stopped her as she passed the old tower. He smiled. “G-g-good afternoon, Véronique.”

  He was really getting quite brave! She returned his smile. “Léonard.” There was an awkward silence. He seemed to be waiting for something. An invitation to join her on her walk? Ave Maria, not this afternoon! He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. As she continued to smile in silence, his face fell. He turned away, shoulders sagging. “Léonard,” she said gently, “shall we build cardhouses tonight after supper?”

  He grinned, nodded, did a joyous somersault on the lawn, and raced to the château.

  On the chance that he might still follow her, she took a circuitous route to the grotto. She passed a large lake edged with tall trees, and crossed a wide meadow. She came to the pond, ducked under the greening willows, and reached the small grotto: a little artificial cave with plaster stalactites hanging from the ceiling. It was cool and dim. She shivered, blinked her eyes in the sudden darkness.

  A strong hand clasped her arm, pulled her close to a hard body. And then she was drowning in Lucien’s kiss, with his mouth demanding her surrender. She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him. Nothing else mattered. Only the thrill of his nearness, the joy of his kiss. Her head was spinning.

  Too soon he broke her embrace, laughed, stood back from her. “Well, Véronique, let’s take a look at you.” His blue eyes (so well-remembered, so beloved) scanned her with care. “You’re well dressed. They must be pleased to see their Véronique.” He frowned. “I’m not sure I like your hair, though.”

  “You don’t?” She touched her short curls self-consciously.

  He smiled, his eyes glinting. “Well, perhaps I do. When you entangle yourself with me in bed, your hair won’t tickle my nose so much.”

  She giggled. “By Saint Damian, what makes you think I’ll allow you into my bed? I have two handsome suitors now.”

  He rubbed the scar on his cheek. She was surprised to notice that his deep tan, that had begun to fade at Madame Le Sage’s, was now as richly bronze as it had been when first they met. He smiled. “New clothes. A new coiffure. And two suitors. By Lucifer, you have been busy, I see.”

  “And I’m the darling of the Chalotais family.” She tossed her head. “And what have you been doing all this month?”

  He smiled. She’d forgotten how cold, how chilling his smile could be. “Why,” he said, “I’ve been right here at Grismoulins.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  She stared at him. “What do you mean, you’ve been here?”

  “I arrived two days after you did.”

  “What? Where have you been staying?”

  “A number of places. I came as far as Parthenay by coach. It’s a large town. Easy enough to lose myself there. I hired a farmer with a wagon to bring me here at night. He thinks I’m an astronomer who’s studying the moon and stars of the region.” He laughed sardonically. “I convinced him that the daylight makes me uneasy. Once a week—at night, of course—he brings me food supplies. There’s an old woodcutter’s hut, deep in the woods. I’d had it in mind from the beginning. I remembered it was in ruins, but I hoped it was still usable.”

  “And you’re staying there?”

  “Not always. It’s not the most comfortable inn. But I discovered
that the old tower has now become a storeroom for unused furniture.” He grinned. “I’ve found myself a cozy bed.”

  “The tower? Have you been in the secret passageway?”

  “Of course. It was the first place I went to. I’ve explored it all. Lord, I’ve even been in the library.”

  “Ave Maria, but that’s so dangerous! And how do you find your way around in the dark?”

  He eyed her with curiosity. “Haven’t you been in the tunnel yet?”

  “No, I was afraid they were still watching my movements. And I haven’t had time to search for the door in the library.”

  “I’ve had nothing but time. I’ve amused myself by spying on the detestable Chalotais. And sunning myself.”

  “Sunning yourself? Have you become as vain as that?”

  “No. I did it in the event that…well, no matter.”

  “In the event that what?”

  He shook off her question with an impatient toss of his head. “Enough. Tell me all that’s happened here.”

  “Well, at first Hubert was suspicious. What an unkind man he is.”

  “I never liked him much.”

  “Poucette seems to think he’s become worse, since he’s the master of Grismoulins. At any rate, after a while he seemed to accept me as Véronique. He’s not very kind about it. But then he’s not very kind about anything. And that little trollop of his…”

  “Yes. Pachot told me about her. But of course I wanted you to be as surprised as Véronique would have been.”

  She pursed her lips in annoyance. “You might have told me. I could have feigned surprise. I suppose you knew that Nanine was blind, then. In spite of your talk of her being difficult to dupe.”

  “No, I didn’t. Blind, you say? A pity. She was always well-meaning. What about that solicitor? Pachot mentioned something of him.”

  She snorted. “Bonnefous. Though he smiles at me when the others are around, he’s made it clear he thinks I’m an impostor. He’s already sent to Guadeloupe to find out about you. He’s sworn to unmask me.”