Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  Léonard smiled his pleasure and gazed at Topaze in adoration. “Will you live here with me, Véronique?”

  She couldn’t lie to him. “We’ll see,” she said gently. She turned to Bonnefous. “A hundred thousand livres, you say. Can I do with it as I wish?”

  He smiled. She saw the flash of triumph in his eyes. “Will you have the sum entire? And at once?” Clearly he now hoped to prove her a fraud, whose only motive was the money.

  She contrived to look horrified. “By Saint Jean, of course not! How thriftless. I should think that an investment would be the wisest course, Monsieur Bonnefous. And I would rely on your advice, as the family solicitor. However, I should like a small sum…”

  “Whatever your heart desires, my pet,” said Adelaïde.

  “How small?” Bonnefous was no longer smiling.

  “Oh, perhaps four thousand livres. That’s not so very much, is it, Monsieur Bonnefous?”

  “No,” he agreed reluctantly. “But why do you want it?”

  “The Givet family took me in, when Madame Benoîte died. They had so little, but they shared it with me. Can I not do the same for them, now that I have the means? And with Monsieur Givet lost at sea, how will they live, without my help?” It was an effective argument. Bonnefous frowned, but nodded his head.

  “And then I should like a bit for my own personal needs,” Topaze continued. “Three thousand livres,” she added quickly, before Bonnefous could protest again. “It’s not very much, I know. But you can’t begin to understand how frightening it can be, to wonder if there’ll be money when you need it. To worry day by day…” She spoke from the depths of her own past misery. “And to know I have money, even so small a sum as three thousand livres, would be very comforting.”

  “Why not?” said Hubert. “It seems little enough.”

  Bonnefous shuffled his papers. “Very well. I’ll speak to Palombe. You’ll have a letter authorizing you to draw up to three thousand livres from the bank in Cholet. Is there anything more you want?”

  She clicked her tongue. “How suspicious you are, Monsieur Bonnefous. From the very first day. I told you, I want to invest the rest.”

  He was honest enough to look embarrassed. “A wise idea. We’ll speak of it with Monsieur Palombe tomorrow. Some prudent investment, conservative, but promising a good return…”

  She smiled. “As to that, I met a charming banker in the public coach, on my way to Grismoulins. A Monsieur Etienne Farigoule. We spoke at some length. He mentioned several investments…”

  Père François cast his eyes to heaven. “A stranger you met on a coach?”

  “He was kind to me. I was unhappy. Frightened to come home. He sensed my distress, and concerned himself with my welfare. And then, when he spoke about his business, he seemed like a wise man.”

  “Morbleu!” said Bonnefous. “That’s no reason to invest with him.”

  “But I met him again at les Herbiers last week. Such a nice man. He was there to buy some land, I think. Carle-André and Denis were with me. Carle-André has a friend who invested very successfully with Monsieur Farigoule. Ask him!”

  “I don’t care who speaks for the man. It’s absurd to…”

  She stuck out her lip in a stubborn pout. “I thought you said I could do as I wish with my own money.” She turned to Adelaïde. “He’s being hateful, Mother. Can’t I do as I wish?”

  Adelaïde rose to her daughter’s defense. “It seems a harmless enough request, if this Monsieur Farigoule proves to be a man of integrity.”

  “I’ll make inquiry,” said Bonnefous. His mouth was pinched, as though he’d swallowed a lemon.

  Topaze yawned. It had been a long evening. “I look forward to discussing it with you and Monsieur Palombe on the morrow.” She made her excuses and went to bed.

  On the following day, Monsieur Palombe arrived earlier than expected. Topaze had no time to visit the mill and see if Lucien had left a message. There’ll be time, she thought. This afternoon, when the business had been concluded and she’d have good news for him. There were no difficulties with Monsieur Palombe, but he was slow and long-winded, insisting on explaining the details of the Marcigny bequest at great length. They stopped for dinner, then began again. Reams of papers and documents for Topaze to sign.

  At last they came to the disposition of the money. “Véronique” was to have her three thousand outright. Palombe would send the gift of money to the Givets when he returned to Cholet. Topaze penned a tender note to Michel Givet, explaining the gift and promising to see the family as soon as she could. She phrased it in such a way that it seemed as though she only planned a visit; she had no doubt that Bonnefous, still filled with suspicion, would read the letter before he had it sent to Bordeaux.

  Much to her surprise and delight, the business of Farigoule presented no problems. Monsieur Palombe had heard of the worthy banker. Had he not just recently purchased some land near les Herbiers? A shrewd man of business, he hastened to assure Bonnefous. It was a fortuitous accident that the young mademoiselle had made his acquaintance. He promised Bonnefous that he himself would travel to Nantes to invest mademoiselle’s funds as she wished.

  By the time they’d made the last decision, sealed the final paper, it was growing dark. No time to go to the mill. After supper, Topaze spent an hour or so with Adelaïde, who’d had a relapse, and taken to her bed. As she fell asleep that night, Topaze promised herself that she’d communicate with Lucien in the morning.

  From his vantage point at the topmost window of the tower, Lucien scowled down at the lawns of Grismoulins. He could smell the smoke of the great bonfire that had been lit in a cleared flower bed. He’d watched all afternoon, while the patch had been raked, and twigs and logs had been piled on the site. He’d seen the servants put out tables and long benches, set them for a meal. He’d heard snatches of conversations: Véronique’s birthday. Invite her friends. A June eve too lovely to spend indoors. He’d watched the sun go down, while he supped on a stale piece of bread; saw the visitors gather on the lawn for the banquet. A dozen or so young people. He recognized a few of them: aristocrats from the neighboring parishes. And the family, of course. And the girl.

  When the first star had appeared, Père François had led the company in prayers of thanksgiving for Véronique’s safe return. Then the fire had been lit to illuminate the night, and the feasting had begun. A fiddler had appeared for the dancing. Lucien sighed, watching the happy couples frolic on the lawn before the bonfire. It took him back. Reminded him of Saint Jean’s Eve. That lovely midsummer festival. All the happy Saint Jean’s Eves on the lawn of Grismoulins. He’d almost forgotten those times. He felt divorced from the human race.

  He scowled, shaking off the past, and cursed softly. Damn the little chit! Two days since Véronique’s birthday, and still the signaling handkerchief remained on the mill, his message unheeded. What could have happened? One hundred thousand livres was a great deal of money. Could the girl have betrayed him? Arranged to keep it herself? He rubbed at his scar. Damn her. It was clear that the scheme itself had succeeded. The little thief had come to no harm.

  He stared down at the dancing figures around the bonfire. There she was, with her two familiars, Montalembert and Rocher. Smiling, laughing, dancing. In that gown of hers that made her look like a princess. A little ragamuffin, that he’d dragged up from nothing!

  He brushed his eyes with his hand. Lord, he was tired. He missed Guadeloupe, Martin’s companionship. The loneliness of these past weeks was beginning to grate on him. Somehow, in Guadeloupe, he didn’t feel so isolated from humanity.

  And he wanted the girl. It was good, when he lay with her. Her body was ripe and supple, and there was a warm generosity about her. He was always surprised to discover, afterward, that his contentment went beyond the satisfactions of his body. She brought him peace. She gave of herself.

  He grunted. Fool! She gave to the whole world. She’d kissed Martin, hadn’t she? Laughed with him, wept bitterly at his departure.
And look at her now! Smiling and dancing with those two coxcombs, while he stewed with impatience.

  The bonfire was dying down. The young people, for sport, had begun to pair off and leap over the embers. The little chit, generous to a fault, took two turns, first with Rocher, and then with Montalembert.

  So like Saint Jean’s Eve. He couldn’t keep the past from crowding back. He closed his eyes, remembering one special Saint Jean’s Eve. He’d been so young. The girl had been his first love, though he couldn’t even remember her face today. Félicité. They’d leaped over the embers, making a wish—as was the custom for the holiday—that the crops would grow as high as they could jump. That night, in the bower of the garden, Félicité had bloomed for him like a rose. The next morning he’d joined the laborers in gathering the ashes of the bonfire and strewing them over the fields. To ensure a good harvest, custom said. To bless your inheritance, Maman had said, when he’d returned from the fields tired and filled with contentment.

  He laughed bitterly. His inheritance. Black hatred scoured his soul, purging it of everything save his need for vengeance. By Lucifer, but he’d see the thing to its conclusion. He hadn’t told Martin what he had in mind, but he guessed it had always been there. The final revenge. It wasn’t fair to the girl, perhaps, but he didn’t give a damn.

  Maybe, if his plan succeeded, he could rejoin the human race.

  Topaze yawned. “Oh, Poucette, wasn’t it a lovely evening?”

  Madame Revin bustled into the room and pulled back the salmon-pink draperies of the bed alcove. “You must be worn out, Mademoiselle Véronique. All that dancing!”

  Topaze laughed. “And drinking. I’m quite perishing of thirst.”

  Madame Revin murmured orders to the maids who busied themselves in the room, folding Topaze’s satin ball gown, closing the window curtains, turning back the sheets of the bed. “I’ve told them to leave a pitcher of water for you, mademoiselle, in case you get thirsty during the night. And a small candle for you to find your way.”

  “Thank you, Poucette. Have you seen to the guests?”

  “Oh, yes, mademoiselle. I saw them all settled into the west pavilion before I even attended madame your mother. The two gentlemen were particularly gracious.” Her eyes twinkled. “But then, they have a reason to be. Which one do you fancy more?”

  “By Sainte Claire, if I could answer that, I could sleep at night!” She’d only meant it for a joke, of course. The moment she laid her head on the pillow, she was asleep.

  A small ray of light, disturbing the blackness of the closed alcove, woke her with a start. A dark shadow loomed above her. Before she had time to cry out, a hand was clapped over her mouth. “Don’t make a sound. The servants sleep well, and the walls are thick. But a shriek would bring them running.” Lucien’s voice, soft and controlled.

  Topaze relaxed her tense body as he released her mouth. “Ave Maria, are you mad? What time is it?”

  “Half after three, by my watch.” He climbed onto the bed and sat leaning against the wall. Topaze could see, by the flickering light of the night candle outside the alcove, that he was smiling his devil’s smile. “As to madness,” he said, “I thought you were the one who’d lost your reason. Or at least your memory. You seem to have forgotten to look for my signal.”

  “Perhaps I didn’t want to. And then again, perhaps I had no opportunity to get away. I spent all of yesterday talking business with my solicitors, and today my friends arrived before I’d finished my breakfast chocolate.”

  “Your solicitors? Your friends? How puffed up you’ve become. Well, what did you decide, with your solicitors?”

  “Monsieur Palombe, who’s handling the Marcigny affairs, is already on his way to Nantes to invest my money with Monsieur Farigoule.”

  He inhaled sharply, a sound of utmost satisfaction. “That means, in less than a week…” He pounded one closed fist against the palm of his other hand, and laughed. Then, “How much?” he asked. There was sudden suspicion in his voice.

  She bristled. “Curse you. Have you so little faith? Ninety-three thousand. As we agreed. I’ve sent four thousand to the Givets, and had Bonnefous convey three thousand to me direct.”

  “Good.” He reached for her.

  “What are you doing?”

  He pulled back the coverlet and slipped his hand around her shoulders. “I didn’t come all this way merely for news, even if it is what I wanted to hear.”

  She shivered. All this way. “Are you in the habit of sneaking around Grismoulins in the dead of night?” How often had he done it before?

  “Don’t tell me you’re losing your courage. Aren’t you the one who likes to live dangerously? And here you are, trembling in fear.”

  For a fleeting moment she wondered if her fear was for his safety. Or her own. The thought of him wandering around, unseen, unknown, gave her a chill. The ruthless pirate. Had she forgotten that? “If you’re found out,” she snapped, “it will be my undoing as well.”

  His fingers were at the drawstring of her chemise. He laughed softly. “You’re about to be undone now, my girl.”

  Damn him, she thought. I have a name. She pushed at his hand. “Am I beautiful?”

  “What?”

  “Am I beautiful?” she demanded again.

  By the dim light of the small candle, she saw the look of perplexity on his face. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Have I changed very much since those days in Madame Le Sage’s cottage?”

  “No. Not at all.” He reached out to stroke her cheek. “Your skin is softer, I think. And your gowns, certainly, are finer. But that’s all.”

  “And I’m beautiful. And was so then.”

  He sighed with impatience. “I suppose so. What is all this nonsense?”

  “Then why did you never tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it would matter to you.”

  “Oh! Not the way it would matter to other women. Is that what you mean to say? Women like that de Ronceray hussy!”

  “Are you jealous of Adriane?” he growled. “You? Who hasn’t stopped flirting with those two…lecherous dogs since the day you first clapped eyes upon them?”

  “Oh, pooh! Véronique’s a flirt. You told me so yourself. I’m merely playing the role.”

  “Playing the role?” he muttered. “Damn it, you enjoy it.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” She was warming to her anger. “They flatter me. They call me beautiful. They bring me presents, and hang upon my words as though…as though I have value in their eyes.”

  He swore beneath his breath. “What the devil has become of Topaze? Has she adopted Véronique’s vanity as well as her name? Now give me a kiss, and stop behaving like a simpleton.” He leaned down to kiss her.

  She turned her head aside. “You haven’t protested Véronique’s money. You’ll have to learn to take the bad with the good. Véronique’s faults. Vanity, if you will. And pride. I don’t give my kisses to common louts!”

  “You saucy chit.” His arms tightened around her. “Do you know you’re playing with fire?”

  “If I scream now,” she said coldly, “we’ll both go to prison.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then released her. “You’re scarcely worth that. I’ll go back to my tower. But…” He bent his mouth to hers before she could protest. His kiss was burning, thrilling her with its promise of more. “Just a reminder,” he said softly, and clambered out of the alcove.

  She waited to hear the soft click of the door. Then she rolled over onto her face and wept bitter tears into her pillow.

  Pride was a cold substitute for a lover’s embrace.

  It was nearly a week later before they met again. Bonnefous had stopped Topaze in the gardens that morning, to tell her that Monsieur Palombe had concluded his business with Farigoule. Her inheritance was now safely invested.

  “And far from the charlatan’s control, Monsieur Bonnefous?” she twitted him.

  He’d looked embarrassed. “I beg you to forget my earlier sk
epticism, mademoiselle. My zeal in protecting the family interests made me unkind, I fear. As your mother took pains to inform me.”

  “Then you believe, finally, that I’m Véronique de Chalotais?”

  “You must understand, I neither believed nor doubted you. I was concerned. You changed your name, for example. Topaze Benoîte, then Topaze Givet.”

  “But I told you. The shame to the family…”

  “Yes. I understand. Still, the facts were quite circumstantial, the fortune considerable. I had to play the devil’s advocate. But your mother has assured me that she has no doubts of your identity, and she wishes me to honor you accordingly. I’ll endeavor to follow her wishes with all my heart, Mademoiselle de Chalotais. For, I assure you, I’ve always found you an amiable young woman.”

  Topaze had nearly laughed aloud for joy. Bonnefous accepted her. The money was in Farigoule’s hands. She’d hastened to leave a handkerchief at the mill, asking Lucien to meet her at the grotto at five.

  It was raining by a quarter to the hour. Best to take the tunnel. She hurried to the library, unlatched the secret door, slipped into the passageway. Lucien was already waiting at the grotto, pacing at the open entrance to the tunnel, when she arrived.

  He smiled. His eyes were hard and distant. It was clear he hadn’t forgotten their last encounter. “On a day like this, we might have met in my bedchamber. Far more snug. Or were you afraid?”

  She ignored that, staying well inside the entranceway to avoid the pelting rain. “I only came to tell you that Farigoule has received the money. Bonnefous told me this morning.”

  “Then I should get Farigoule’s letter soon, through my farmer, telling me the funds are on their way to Guadeloupe. Martin can buy the plantation we were looking at.” He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. His face was drained of emotion. “It’s done.”

  She stared in surprise. She would have expected him to gloat at his triumph over the hated Chalotais. Instead, he looked like a forlorn little boy, lost and bewildered in a strange land. “Now that you have the money, can’t you go to court?” she asked. “Challenge your father’s right to usurp your mother’s dowry in the first place?”