By the next morning he seemed to have decided to smile now and again. Topaze saw him from the window, taking tea on the lawn with Adelaïde. She watched in pleasure as he laughed, held Adelaïde’s chair for her. And when the older woman smiled and put her hand on his, he let it stay.
How sweet they looked together. Lucien, tall and dark-haired, standing beside Adelaïde. Her blond curls glinting in the morning sun. She thought, I love them both. My mother and…and who? She trembled. Oh, God, whom had she seen just then, when she’d looked at them? The word “Mother” had come so naturally. But Fleur wasn’t her mother! She closed her eyes, pressed her fists into them until she saw rainbow colors. Think. Think! What did she have to remember? It wasn’t her imagination. She couldn’t pretend to herself anymore. She belonged here. She felt it every time she walked in the gardens, looked at Adelaïde. And she’d played the harpsichord. Or rather, her hands had. Was Véronique dead? Had her spirit come back to haunt her? To possess her body?
Ave Maria, she thought. I’m frightened.
“It’s a ghost.” The voice was quivery and spectral.
Topaze whirled in terror, then gasped her relief. “Oh, Gilles, what a turn you gave me!”
The old valet bent his head in salute. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle Véronique. I only meant to say that Monsieur Lucien, there, is so much like his father.”
“You served him for a long time, didn’t you? Uncle Simon.”
“From the time he was a boy.”
“Tell me about him. I think I was a little bit afraid of him, when I was growing up.”
They chatted for a few minutes. Then Hubert appeared, scowled at his servant. “Have you nothing better to do than gossip?” Gilles blinked his rheumy eyes, bowed to his master, and shuffled away. Hubert smiled coldly. “You seem to have won over every heart in Grismoulins since your arrival. Do they all tell you their secrets?”
“Do you begrudge me, Beau-père? Are we such enemies as that?”
“Enemies? No. But you’re a worthy adversary.” He nodded and moved off down the corridor.
Topaze hurried into the garden. She greeted Fleur with a kiss, and smiled at Lucien. “Good morning, cousin. Oh, is that tea?”
“I’ll pour for you, my pet.” While Adelaïde busied herself with the tea, Topaze waited for Lucien to pull out a chair.
He made no move, but the bland smile on his face showed that he knew what she was waiting for. “Good morning, cousin,” he said. “Aunt Adelaïde has just been telling me of the miracle of your return.”
She was still the little chit to him. The street urchin. She smiled and seated herself. She thought, I’ll make you pay, Lucien. She looked up. Carle-André and Denis were racing their horses up the long drive to Grismoulins. “Oh, look!” she cried. She jumped from her chair and waved at the two men. “What are you doing here so early in the morning?” she chided, as they leaped from their horses and ran to her.
Denis picked her up, swung her around, and kissed her on the cheek. “It’s spring, we both adore you, and we want to take you on a picnic.” He glanced at Lucien. “Do I know you, monsieur?”
Carle-André whistled. “Lucien, is it you?”
“Montalembert?” Lucien bowed stiffly.
Carle-André stared at the scar, the spikes of white at Lucien’s temples. “Good God, man, what’s happened to you?”
“Life.” Lucien jerked his chin in Denis’s direction. “Will you introduce me to this one, cousin?”
“Monsieur le Marquis Denis de Rocher. A friend of Carle-André’s.”
Lucien gazed fixedly at the arm that Denis still kept about Topaze’s lithe waist. “And a friend of yours, no doubt, cousin.” He smiled at the man. “Monsieur le Marquis. And I’m Lucien Renaudot, Véronique’s bastard cousin. Montalembert can give you the details later,” he added, as Denis gaped in surprise.
Adelaïde rattled the cups. “As long as you’re here, Lucien, why don’t you join them on the picnic?”
Lucien was a morose companion the whole of the day, frowning each time Topaze laughed with her cavaliers. But she was determined to extract her revenge. She flirted with the two men, enjoying Lucien’s discomfort. And when she kissed them both for being such jolly friends, and refused to kiss her cousin because he wouldn’t smile, Lucien was positively apoplectic. His blue eyes burned with more heat than she’d ever seen.
But suppertime brought a dramatic change: He smiled warmly and held her chair for her. “You look quite beautiful tonight, cousin. That gown becomes you.” He laughed at the look on her face. “Have I made you blush, Véronique? It becomes you as well, that sweet flush of your cheeks.”
Adelaïde smiled. “Do you intend to turn your cousin’s head, Lucien?”
“I intend to try. I watched her with those callow pups this afternoon. Has poor Cousin Véronique returned merely for that?”
The arrogance of the man! Topaze sniffed. “Do you think you can do better?”
He grinned. “Yes. I’ll turn your head, sweet cousin, before I return to Guadeloupe. Just to show you what it is to be wooed by a man.”
She laughed and took a sip of her wine. “I defy you, Cousin Lucien.”
Hubert helped himself to a slice of mutton. “Have you become a braggart, Lucien?”
“Not at all, Uncle Hubert. I simply want my visit here to be a memorable one. And since the charming Mademoiselle Dubois”—he nodded at Justine—“is otherwise occupied, why can’t I have a harmless flirtation with my lovely cousin?”
For all her annoyance at his manner, Topaze had to admire his cleverness. He’d announced his intentions openly to the family; now he was free to pursue her without constraint. It was a game, wasn’t it? He was simply amusing himself and his cousin until he returned to the Indies. It would be a simple enough matter, when the time came to leave, for him to say that the game had turned into genuine affection, and to sue for her hand in marriage.
His campaign began the very next day. As was her habit, Topaze climbed to the mill just before noon, in case there should be a message. The white handkerchief announced its presence. She pulled the note from above the lintel, and blushed when she read the words. Surrender to me, my angel. My nights are cold. My bed is empty without you. Bring me your sweetness or I die. She leaned against the open doorway of the mill, her heart thrilling to the longing in his words.
No! He could be charming; she’d seen it before. But it wasn’t enough. Perhaps she wanted his surrender. She reached for the crayon, scribbled No across his message, and returned to the château.
At supper that night, he smiled across the table, but spent the evening with Léonard, patiently explaining the production of indigo. She felt a twinge of pique at his indifference. But when she went to bed, she found a single rose on her pillow. She slept with it against her cheek.
He confounded her again and again in the days that followed. Her two suitors were constant guests at Grismoulins; indeed, she suspected that Lucien had invited them. The men were reasonably friendly to him: his family’s disgrace scarcely seemed to have disturbed them. Topaze wondered if his purpose in inviting them was to have her see the differences between them.
When they played backgammon, Carle-André and Denis let her win, then protested that the game had been fair, and she’d simply been more clever than they. Lucien battled her with every throw of the dice, doing her the honor of treating her as an equal. And when she won (which wasn’t often—he was a master of the game), his genuine praise added to her triumph at the win.
While Carle-André and Denis flattered her with effusive compliments, flowery and overblown, Lucien would turn away, silent and distant. Then he’d stop her on the lawn, and tuck a flower into her bodice, and smile. “Your plain sister,” he’d murmur. “But it’s the best that nature can do, to challenge your beauty.”
She was enchanted by a part of him she’d never seen before. Yearning for his intimacy, she went to the mill every day, in hopes that his plea would be repeated. But there were no
notes. There was just Cousin Lucien at the château, seeming contented with only her smiles.
One day he proposed a horse race to the men. They found a broad meadow on the edge of the woods and rode out together. Topaze was still awkward in the saddle, but she had a gentle horse. She dismounted while they discussed the rules of the contest.
Denis de Rocher grinned. “A kiss from Véronique as the prize.”
Topaze smiled coyly at Lucien. “Are you agreed, cousin?” She wondered why he’d suggested the race in the first place. His rented horse was no match for the fine animals the others were riding.
His expression was blank, indifferent. “Of course.”
Damn him! He didn’t seem a bit jealous, or concerned that he’d lose the race! “Two kisses,” she said, her mouth set in a pout.
He laughed. “Better and better. Will you give the signal?”
It was agreed that she should stand at the halfway point of the course, the better to see the finish. She dropped her handkerchief and watched the horses race toward her. Lucien’s horse was a great deal slower than the others; indeed, if she didn’t know his propensity for winning, she would almost have thought that he was holding back.
By the Holy Virgin, what was he doing? As his horse neared, Lucien tugged on the reins. The horse swerved, Lucien leaned down and swept Topaze onto his arm, then turned his animal toward the woods. “Let me go!” she cried. He laughed. She clung to his neck for dear life as they sped among the trees. Her little tricorne blew away.
Deep in the woods they stopped. He lowered her gently to the ground and dismounted beside her. She straightened her tousled hair. “Are you mad? I thought you’d kill me!” A lie, of course. She’d enjoyed the adventure, and he knew it! She could see it in his eyes. “What about the race?” she said.
“Devil take the race.” He gathered her in his aims. “I never planned to finish it. I only suggested it so I could get you alone for a few minutes. I haven’t held you in my arms for such a long time.” His eyes were warm on her face, filled with a tenderness she’d never seen before.
“Oh, Lucien,” she whispered. “You funny, silly Lucien.” He grinned and took her mouth with his. His kiss was soft at first, moving against her lips in a gentle caress. But as his kiss deepened, he held her close to him, molding her pliant body against his. She trembled. She was drowning in the wonder of his sweet mouth, the brush of his tongue against the edge of her lips, the strong arms that possessed her, enveloped her.
She was breathless when he released her. “Lucien…” If only he’d ask her now, she knew she’d melt. She’d share his bed, his life. Anything.
Instead, he stepped back and pointed to the tangle of trees. “Here come the Gemini.” He leaped into his saddle and laughed. “Do you think it would be too villainous to make for the finish line, while the two of them are clucking over you?” He kicked his horse and raced out of the woods, just as Carle-André and Denis galloped to her rescue. They were vexed by the cunning of her cousin, who had clearly intended to win by fair means or foul. In the end (for safety’s sake), Topaze declared the whole contest null and void: If she’d had to kiss Lucien in front of the two men, they would have guessed her feelings at once.
The days grew warm and sweet, perfumed with flowers. Topaze couldn’t remember a June so magical. Denis and Carle-André were devoted suitors, and Lucien seemed to have cast off his harsh manner to woo her with tenderness. “Oh, I’m tired,” she said one afternoon, when they’d been playing at shuttlecocks. She threw down her racquet and smiled at them all. “I must look a sight.”
“You’re beautiful, as always,” said Denis, and Carle-André hastened to add a compliment of his own.
Lucien said nothing. He smiled, took his handkerchief, and dabbed at Topaze’s moist brow. His touch was caring, filled with gentleness.
“Morbleu! What’s that?” Carle-André pointed to a neatly trimmed hedge. Around the corner of it could be seen a conical shape, all of fur. As they looked, it disappeared, to reappear at the other side of the hedge. Carle-André winked at Denis. When the cone had vanished once again, the two men rushed to either side of the hedge, closed in, and emerged carrying a struggling Léonard. The fur cone proved to be a hat, a crudely stitched piece that drooped over one of his sad eyes. “Look what we’ve found,” said Carle-André. “Your stepbrother.” They dropped Léonard to the grass, laughing loudly at his comical appearance.
“Stop it,” said Topaze, as Léonard lumbered to his feet, fighting back tears. “What are you doing, brother?” she said gently.
He looked at the mocking faces. “I’ve been reading a book. From England. I’m R-R-Robinson Crusoe.”
Lucien stepped forward and straightened his hat. “And a fine book it is, cousin. I remember reading it myself.”
Topaze frowned. Carle-André and Denis were still snickering. How could they be so unkind? “Let’s play with him.”
“Oh, really, my dear, don’t be ridiculous.” Carle-André made a face.
She sat down on the lawn and began to take off her shoes and stockings. “No. We’re all going to be ‘Friday’ for his ‘Robinson Crusoe’. If you refuse, Carle-André, I won’t speak to you for the rest of the day.”
“I adore you, my sweet, but I don’t intend to play the fool. Not even for you. Good day.” He nodded curtly and made for the stables.
“Well, I’ll play,” said Denis, though he looked decidedly uncomfortable about the whole thing. Only Lucien entered into the spirit of the game. Barefooted, he led them through the flowerbeds, leaving footprints in the soft soil, in the manner of the book. He was the first to kneel at Léonard’s command, obeying his master, Crusoe. And when Léonard wanted to climb a mountain and look out over the ocean, Lucien overturned a large bench for the purpose, while Topaze devised a spyglass from the broad leaf of a tree.
Lucien frowned at the bench. “We’ll never fit. There are too many Fridays.”
Topaze giggled. “You can be Thursday.”
“No.” His eyes glinted wickedly. “I shall be a pirate who attacks Crusoe’s island.”
Denis blushed. “Oh, I say, this is getting too foolish for me.” He climbed off the bench and retrieved his shoes and stockings.
Léonard, however, was delighted with the new game. He abandoned his fur hat and closed one eye, pretending he had a pirate’s patch. He and Lucien dueled furiously, attacking each other with the stems of tall flowers from the garden. Topaze was their prize, the fair damsel. She wailed and shrieked as they tossed her from hand to hand. At last, laughing uproariously, they collapsed in a heap together, all tumbled arms and legs in the middle of the lawn.
Lucien unwrapped Léonard’s arm from his ankles and smiled warmly. “How is it I never knew until now what a fine fellow you are, Cousin Léonard?”
Topaze sat up and gazed at him. His eyes crinkled with laughter, his smile was sweet and filled with joy, far from the world-weary smirk he usually allowed himself. Dear Virgin, she thought. I do love him. Let him read it in my eyes now. For I’ll never want him more than I do at this moment.
The clock on the library mantel chimed twelve. By the light of the glowing moon that shone in at the window, Topaze found the release to the passage. It was a warm night, but she shivered beneath her flowing dressing gown. Her heart fluttered in her breast, filled with anticipation. She’d found the note on her pillow. “Midnight. The grotto. Come to me.” Yes. Oh, yes, she thought. Dearest Lucien.
She lit a lantern at the bottom of the circular staircase and made her way through the tunnel, pushed open the heavy door beyond the entrance to the tower, and moved through the passage until she’d reached the grotto. The door was open. She extinguished her lantern, went through, and looked about her.
The moon was full, shimmering off the small pond, the drooping willows, the rolling lawn. The velvet shadows were alive with the glow of twinkling fireflies, and the chirp of crickets made the night echo with soft music. The linden trees had begun to bloom; their perfume sc
ented the air with heady fragrance. For a moment she thought she was alone in this magical land. And then she heard a soft murmur behind her. “Sweet angel.” She turned and melted into Lucien’s arms. He kissed her, then led her to a moonlit spot between the willows, where a dark cloak had been spread. He’d clearly planned this with care—the cloak was strewn with rose petals, and a bottle of wine and two goblets awaited.
“How lovely.” She thought she’d cry for the joy of it.
He pulled her down beside him on the cloak. “Do you like it?”
“Oh, Lucien, you know I do. But I don’t understand. I…”
He laughed softly. “You wanted to be wooed, n’est-ce pas?”
“But you never were so dear before.”
He sounded almost apologetic. “Well, perhaps I saw you for the first time through the eyes of those…damned fops of yours.”
She giggled. “Who were not very good at playing games.”
“No.”
“I was surprised that you played so easily with Léonard. You must have had a jolly childhood.”
“No. I was a quiet child. I think I’ve told you that before.” He cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her on her cheeks, her soft earlobes, her willing mouth. “You’re the inspiration, my angel. It doesn’t seem foolish, when you’re leading the merriment.”
“I like it when you laugh. I always did.”
“I like it when you make me laugh.” He bent to her lips again. “You delightful creature, I like everything about you.” He kissed her fervently, while his hands stroked her willing body through her garments. He undid the fastenings of her dressing gown and nightdress, and kissed the pulsing softness of her throat.
She trembled at his caresses, his kisses, his loving words. The magic of this scented night. “Oh, Lucien,” she whispered, “isn’t it a wondrous eve?”
“It’s enchanted, as you are. I saw a fairy ring, just over there. It must have been put there for this magical night alone. For you, my fairy princess.”
She smiled. “Well then, shall I seal the spell over you by dancing in the fairy ring?” At his nod, she stood up and cast her garments to the ground. She looked about for the fairy ring. The circle of toadstools shone clean and white under the moon. She moved within their boundaries and danced a slow, undulating dance. The grass was night-cool against her bare feet. The moonlight was fairy dust, glinting on her pale flesh, warming her with its silvery fire.
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