“Are you ready yet, Véronique?” Léonard’s voice echoed up the wide staircase.
Topaze came to the top of the stairs. “Wait for me at the end of the park. I want to get my hat.” Léonard nodded and did as he was told. Topaze turned back to her room. She stopped, momentarily startled. Hubert was standing in the passageway, watching her. His eyes were veiled, his expression unreadable. “Do you want something, Beau-père?” she asked.
“You’ve become a good friend to Léonard.”
“Poor dear. He must have been lonely without me. It’s been a joy to watch him blossom these past weeks.”
“I wonder if it’s wise to be so friendly.”
“Why not?”
“You broke his heart before. When you left. It was very hard for him.”
God forgive me, she thought. “I won’t leave again,” she lied.
“You might marry and leave.”
“Don’t you want me to be his companion?”
His glance wavered. “Sometimes I wonder,” he muttered. He turned away and went into his rooms.
Topaze retrieved her hat and hurried outside into the sunshine. She nodded at Monsieur Bonnefous, who was pacing the lawn. “Good morning, monsieur.” She couldn’t resist a gentle gibe. “Are you looking forward to celebrating my birthday with me tomorrow?”
He grunted. “Good day.”
“Such a sunny morning. And you so gloomy. Alas. I saw they brought you a message this morning at breakfast. Can that be the reason for your long face?”
“You haven’t won yet,” he growled. “My agents tell me that your cousin Lucien… that is, Véronique’s cousin, is still in Guadeloupe.”
She laughed. “Well, if you write to him, give him my love.”
“I’m still not convinced, mademoiselle. Lucien may not have helped you with this deception. But someone did. And I’ll not rest until…”
She plucked a rose from a nearby bush, tucked it into his wig, and kissed him on the cheek. “Nonsense. You’re far too reasonable a man not to know when you’ve been beaten. I’m Véronique, and there’s nothing for you to do but accept it.” Laughing, she raced off into the park.
Léonard was waiting. He grinned at her. “I couldn’t sleep last night, just thinking about our adventure today. You did promise I’m to be the captain of the ship?”
“Of course. I’m so glad I saw that boat on the lake.”
“Can we be a pirate ship?”
She smiled. “If you want.”
After some minutes of brisk walking, they reached a large lake in the woods. It was shadowy and cool, surrounded by tall trees. At the edge, resting on a sandy beach, was a small rowboat; Topaze had seen it on one of her walks to Lucien’s cottage.
Léonard’s eyes were bright with joy. “Can I name it?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll call it La Belle Véronique.”
“How sweet. Thank you.”
They clambered aboard. After some confusion, Léonard settled himself on a thwart and took hold of the oars. “It isn’t fair,” he said. “I’m the captain. I shouldn’t have to do the work.”
“Do you want me to row?”
“No. You’re my captive. You have to sit and be quiet. But I shouldn’t have to work.”
“You can pretend you’re just steering. Captains are allowed to steer.”
His face brightened at that. “But you have to be quiet, prisoner.”
“Aye aye, captain.” Topaze leaned back in her seat as Léonard clumsily guided the boat into the middle of the lake. Once or twice she tried to speak, but he scowled.
“Quiet, wench,” he said, “or I’ll make you walk the plank.” He blushed. “I h-h-hope you don’t mind me calling you w-w-wench.”
She tried not to smile. “Of course not. Pirates do it all the time. And you should have a nickname. Something fierce. Léonard the Bold.”
He smiled. “I like that.”
Topaze frowned down at her feet. They felt damp. She hadn’t noticed any water in the bottom of the boat when they’d climbed in. Well, a small leak was nothing to be concerned about. But perhaps she’d have Léonard bring the boat closer to shore. “Léonard, you…”
He shook his shoulders with a swaggering motion. “Quiet, wench.” He seemed to be enjoying his role. “Papa says they have gondolas at Versailles,” he said. “He showed me a picture of Venice. The gondoliers stand up.”
“No, Léonard. Don’t.” The water was pouring in at an alarming rate. But Léonard was already standing, his feet resting precariously on the thwart. He pulled an oar out of its lock and attempted to pole with it, in the manner of the gondoliers. The boat, already unsteady because of the water, began to rock dangerously. “Sit down!” cried Topaze. But it was too late. The boat tipped over, sending them both splashing into the lake. Léonard went under for a moment; his wig, dislodged from his head, floated away.
Topaze pulled off her soggy hat, shook the water from her eyes, and looked toward Léonard. He was thrashing wildly about, gurgling and sputtering in panic each time his head dropped and his mouth filled with water. Her own skirts were heavy, dragging her down, but she reached out toward him and caught him by the hair. Feeling an anchor, he wrapped his arms around her and held tight. “Let go!” she cried. He leaned heavily on her, pushing her head beneath the water. She choked and broke free long enough to suck in a deep breath of air; then he was upon her again—his terror giving him strength—and she felt herself going under.
She made a final effort, regained the surface. She heard a shout. “I’m coming!” Hubert was swimming toward them.
Thanks be to God, she thought. She grabbed Léonard by the hair to prevent his drowning, and paddled her feet below her skirts to keep herself afloat until Hubert was abreast of them. “Take Léonard,” she gasped.
Hubert nodded and wrapped his arm around his son’s neck, then turned and headed for shore.
Topaze took a moment to pull off her shoes and unhook her heavy quilted petticoat. Freed of its weight, she put her face to the water and swam for shore. By the time she reached the bank, half a dozen laborers were there, still carrying the axes and scythes with which they’d been clearing a nearby field. Strong arms hauled Topaze out of the water. She lay on the bank, panting. “Is Léonard all right?” she said at last.
Hubert nodded. “He’s frightened. And he swallowed a bit of water. But no real harm done.”
One of the workers smiled at her. He had red hair. Anselme, she thought. Paul’s father. “By my faith, Mademoiselle Véronique,” he said, “but you never used to swim.”
She sat up and tried to wring out her heavy skirt. “I learned in Bordeaux,” she said. “In the ocean.”
“We’d best get you back to the château,” said Hubert. “You’re both soaked.” He looked down at himself and laughed. “Morbleu, so am I!”
They trooped back to Grismoulins. Léonard, still shaken, leaned on two of the farmers. “That was m-m-my fault,” he said. He seemed about to cry.
Ave Maria, thought Topaze. The poor thing. So guilt-ridden. Like a little child who blames himself for everything. “Nonsense!” she said. “You’re Léonard the Bold. And a fierce captain. It was only La Belle Véronique that wasn’t sound.”
Soaked and shivering, they hurried into the château. Adelaïde was beside herself to see her darling Véronique trembling with cold. She followed along to Topaze’s boudoir, clucking in dismay and supervising the army of little maids who stripped Topaze down, dried her, slipped a fresh chemise over her head.
“No more,” said Topaze at last, dismissing the maids. All this, just over a harmless ducking! She sat on the edge of her bed, rubbing her still damp curls. “Fleur,” she laughed. “Stop wringing your hands. You see I’m quite well.”
“I want you to take to your bed for the rest of the day. I’ll not have my Poupée sick. Not on her birthday!”
Topaze patted the mattress beside her. “Sit with me and talk, and stop making such a to-do. It was Léonard, poor thing
, who was so frightened. I’ll visit him later.”
Adelaïde knelt on the floor before her. She picked up a towel that the maids had left, and began to dry Topaze’s feet and legs. They were long since dry, but Topaze let her continue, just to feel maternal. “You don’t know how much you mean to me, my pet.” Adelaïde’s voice shook.
Topaze stroked the older woman’s curls. “My Little Cabbage. How dear you are.” Sweet Virgin, she thought, it is so. In less than two months she’d come to love this woman, to look upon her as a mother, to grieve on days when her strength lagged, and celebrate the days of recuperation. And here was this loving woman, kneeling at her feet. “Haven’t you finished with my toes yet, you silly Fleur?” she said tenderly.
Adelaïde giggled. “Do you remember the game Nanine used to play with your toes after your bath?”
Topaze hesitated. “I’m not sure. It’s such a long time ago. Remind me.”
“I’ve forgotten too. A counting game, I think. Bossu, Nain, Guenon, Elfe.” She tweaked Topaze’s toes one by one. “Hunchback, Dwarf, Hag, and Goblin. What was the last one?”
What a funny game. “I don’t remember.”
Adelaïde pulled on the last toe. “This poor little creature won’t have a name?”
Topaze began to laugh. “Silly old Fleur. Come and let me hug you.”
She lifted Adelaïde from the floor and wrapped her in her arms.
Adelaïde burst into tears and clung to her. “Tomorrow, my little Poupée. Your birthday. Dear heaven, I never thought I’d see that day.”
Topaze felt a sharp stab of conscience. “Don’t cry, Little Cabbage,” she said. “I’m home. I’m home.”
Chapter Nineteen
“What a dear you are, Fleur.”
Adelaïde smiled. “I’m happy you like my gift.” Topaze noted with pleasure how robust she seemed this evening. “Look, now,” Adelaïde continued, “there on that wall…”
Topaze turned and stared in surprise at her own face. At the delicate features—pointed chin, upturned nose, full rosy lips. The pale brown eyes. Only the hair was lighter, a soft yellow the color of straw.
“Do you remember when it was painted?” asked Adelaïde.
Topaze reached out and touched the portrait of Véronique. The face was young, of course. It would have been painted before Véronique left. But, otherwise, it was her own face. By Saint Lazare, her very own face. It gave her an eerie feeling. “No, I don’t,” she said. “But I’m sure it was tiresome to sit for hours.”
“You were thirteen and a half. And very proud of that gown.”
Topaze looked around Adelaïde’s sitting room, then back to the picture on the wall. “Where have you been hiding it? I’m sure I didn’t see it here before. I’d almost forgotten about it.”
Adelaïde sighed. “I kept it put away. I couldn’t bear to look at it. But once a year—now don’t laugh at me, Poupée—on your birthday, I’d have it brought out and…and set in your place at the table. I feared that this year, again…” She smiled brightly, but her eyes glistened with tears. “But here you are yourself, safe with me, my dearest child.”
“Oh, Fleur.” Topaze grasped the other woman’s hand and pressed it to her lips.
“Come now. Don’t weep. You’ll get tears on your pretty gown.”
Topaze smoothed the white satin of her skirts, straightened a blue bow. “I do like this gown. The prettiest ball gown I ever saw. And the bracelet…” She admired the circlet of pearls clasped with a large cameo. “What a beautiful birthday gift.”
“It gave me joy to give it.” Adelaïde seated herself at her desk and pulled a piece of paper toward her. “Now let me write to my friend Sophie in Paris, and then we can go downstairs to join the others. I think I’ll tell Sophie we can visit in September, when it’s cooler in the city. About the middle of the month. Will that be agreeable to you?”
Topaze cursed her own cowardice. I should tell her everything now, she thought. “September will please me, if your health allows.”
While Adelaïde applied herself to her writing, Topaze wandered aimlessly about the room. She ran her fingers over the brocade of a chair, admired a porcelain figure on the mantel, played with Adelaïde’s patch box. She felt comfortable, secure, anchored. It was nearly two months now that she’d been here. With a start, she realized that she seldom thought of the Givets anymore. It was as though that part of her life had never happened.
She looked over at Adelaïde’s bent form. The pale yellow curls crowning a delicate head. Even that seemed right, somehow fitting. I belong here, she thought. She frowned. It seemed as though there was something—deep in her mind, straining to emerge, yet elusive when she tried to focus on it—something she should remember…
“Done.” Adelaïde put down her quill pen and stood up. “Now, my pet, let us go and celebrate your birthday.”
Everyone was assembled in the dining salon, and seated around a lavishly appointed table, when they entered. Hubert and Léonard. Père François, who was almost a member of the family. Bonnefous, whose presence was necessary because of the terms of the trust, and because he was a friend to Hubert and a guest in the house. Justine, painted and powdered and artificial looking—as usual—wretched and out of place among the family members. Even Nanine, her head covered with a little black velvet hood over a lace cap (for all that it was June, and warm), had been carried down from her room to enjoy the festivities.
At sight of the two women, Père François beamed and led the company in a round of applause. “To our Véronique.” Insinuating himself with the heiress already? thought Topaze in amusement.
Hubert rose from his chair and hurried to them. “If you’ll allow me, Adelaïde, I’ll seat Véronique first, since it’s her birthday.” He escorted Topaze to the place of honor. His eyes .held more friendliness than she’d ever seen. “I haven’t thanked you,” he said, “for saving my son’s life yesterday.”
“How could I do aught? He’s my brother,” she said. “But thanks be to God that you were nearby. We might both have been lost.”
Léonard smiled across the table. His eyes shone with devotion. “Greetings to you on your birthday, Véronique.” He blushed, wriggled in his seat, and knocked his knife to the floor with a clumsy elbow. It was quickly retrieved by one of the servants, but Hubert frowned.
After Adelaïde had been seated, Père François intoned the blessing, his eyes fixed upon a large bowl of fruit as though God were enthroned there. Then the wine was poured, the toasts were given, and the meal began in earnest. They feasted well. Topaze wondered fleetingly if Lucien was suffering with a cold supper in his lonely tower. Well, she might as well enjoy it! Who knew, in this chancy life, how much longer her good fortune would last?
At the end of the meal, Justine smirked at Adelaïde. “The sweet cakes were good, Madame de Chalotais. Don’t misunderstand me. But, of course, it’s not what they have in Paris. For example, at the Duc de Perrault’s table they serve ice cream.”
Adelaïde fixed her with a hard stare, but said nothing.
Hubert sipped at his wine. “My wife doesn’t care for Paris.” It was clearly meant as a reproach.
Adelaïde smiled thinly. “My husband seems devoted to it. And to the gaming tables, and to the low creatures who abound there.”
Justine wasn’t clever enough to have heard the insult. “Oh, but we have such charming friends. I’m sure they wouldn’t find you too provincial, Madame de Chalotais.”
Topaze stiffened. The little trollop! She opened her mouth to scold the woman, but Nanine was quicker.
The old nurse cackled. “And how do they find you, Mademoiselle Dubois? In the dark? Behind your bed curtains?” Topaze smothered a laugh as Justine turned purple. But Nanine wasn’t finished with the hapless girl. She motioned to the little maid who had stood behind her during the meal, helping her with her food. “You, Charlotte. You have eyes. Has our mademoiselle grown a gorbelly yet?”
Justine wailed and fled the room.
They waited in silence until the table had been cleared, and the servants had withdrawn. Then Bonnefous cleared his throat. “By the terms of the Marcigny agreement—which I have here in my portfolio—you, mademoiselle, have done all that was required.” Topaze noticed that he had refrained from addressing her as Véronique. “Today is June the first, Véronique de Chalotais’s twentieth birthday. You are here, with the family. The inheritance now belongs to you. We’ll discuss the disposition of the funds tomorrow, when Monsieur Palombe arrives from Cholet. He represents the Marcigny interests. But it is my duty to verify your claim today, in the presence of these witnesses. Will you please sign this paper?” He fetched pen and ink from a sideboard, and brought them to Topaze.
God forgive my wickedness. For Lucien and the Givets, she thought, and wrote “Véronique-Marie de Marcigny de Chalotais,” as Lucien had instructed her.
“You’re now a very wealthy young woman,” said Hubert. Topaze could read the resentment in his eyes. The hundred thousand livres was hers. And the entailed Marcigny holdings were now beyond his reach as well. She almost felt sorry for him. Dieu! she thought suddenly. Why should she pity him after all? When Véronique committed “suicide” according to Lucien’s plan, the entail would be terminated, and the holdings would revert to Adelaïde. Hubert would suffer, of course, for these next few weeks, but it was no great calamity.
Bonnefous, on the other hand, was clearly unhappy that he’d been unable to prevent this occasion from coming to pass. Topaze smiled at him, her eyes wide and free of guile. “Am I very rich now?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” he grumbled. “Very rich. A hundred thousand livres.”
“Sh-shall I have the same, someday, P-P-Papa?” asked Léonard.
Hubert sighed. “No, my son. But you’ll have Grismoulins.”
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