Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  “You monster!” she cried. “He was your son. You killed him, and now you can use his death to serve your own ends?”

  “Will my tears bring him back?”

  She was getting desperate. The muscles of her shoulders throbbed with the strain of her weight. “What’s to be served by my death, Hubert? The money belongs to Adelaïde, whether I live or die!”

  His eyes glowed with hatred. “Your death will be my renascence, dear Véronique. Adelaïde will be dead in a week, out of grief for her daughter. One more dose of poison…”

  She gasped. “Poison? Not Fleur!” Save me, God, she thought, or Fleur will surely die.

  “She would have been dead a month ago, but for your appearance. But I swear I’ll finish it. Then I’ll marry Justine. My next son, God willing, will be healthy and strong. And born legitimately, my rightful heir. And he’ll have it all. Grismoulins, the Marcigny inheritance. Wealth and power and standing in the court. Everything I was denied for being the second son!” He laughed, his face twisted in an evil leer. “I’ll have triumphed over them all! Simon and his brat, Adelaïde, you!” He lifted the stone above his head.

  “You scurvy dog!” As Topaze watched, Lucien’s form hurtled through the air and collided with Hubert. The stone dropped from his hands, bounced against the edge of the cliff, and fell, missing her by inches as it descended to the rocks below. She fought back tears of relief. She couldn’t see the two men, but there were sounds of a scuffle.

  A head appeared at the top of the cliff. Bonnefous. “I think you need my help, Mademoiselle Véronique,” he said mildly.

  She could no longer hold back her tears. “Indeed, sir. God bless you.”

  He lay on the top of the cliff and reached down with one hand. His fingertips barely touched hers. “I’m afraid this won’t do. If I lean over any farther, I’ll lose my balance. Is it possible, my dear, for you to raise yourself up, even for a moment, so I can grasp one of your hands?”

  She nodded. “I think so. But let me catch my breath. I’m still trembling.”

  “And well you might, my dear. We heard the report of Monsieur le Comte’s pistol. It lent wings to our feet. Monsieur Renaudot was extremely agitated.”

  “Léonard…”

  “Yes. We saw him,” he said gently. “Now, may I help you up?”

  She bent her knees, used the toe of her remaining shoe to kick small footholds in the dirt of the cliff face. She braced her feet in the indentations; at the same time she pulled against the twig and raised her body by half an arm’s length. She prayed the twig would hold.

  “Now!” cried Bonnefous. “Let go with one hand and reach up to me!”

  Saint Cloud, protect me now, she thought, and raised one hand above the twig. She felt the solid grip of Bonnefous’s hand, felt herself slowly hauled to the top of the precipice. She lay for a moment, gasping, clinging to the sweet grasses; then she looked up.

  Lucien and Hubert, swords drawn, were engaged in a fight to the death. Topaze had seen Lucien fight before, in La Rochelle; he was skilled and savage, his days as a pirate evident in every fierce thrust and crafty feint. But his opponent fought with the recklessness of a man who had nothing to lose. A smudge of blood on the arm of Hubert’s fine silk coat showed that Lucien had already found a weakness in Hubert’s defense. Even as Topaze watched, hand to her tremulous breast, Lucien hooked his sword around Hubert’s blade and sent it flying harmlessly through the air.

  Hubert staggered backward, his eyes on the point of Lucien’s blade. “Kill me, then, nephew,” he gasped.

  Lucien’s sword arm quivered, then dropped to his side. “I can’t.” His voice was soft, bewildered. “I must be a fool. But I can’t kill you. You’re my own blood, my father’s brother.”

  “Has your life since you left here made you soft?” Hubert sneered. “It was I, you know, who betrayed your father.” The words were thrown at Lucien like a challenge.

  “I guessed as much. Lord knows I want your death. But I’d rather see you stripped of your rank and imprisoned for murder—and attempted murder. Is it so, Monsieur Bonnefous?”

  The solicitor nodded his head. “The attempted poisoning of the wife, the deadly designs on this poor child. And, of course, Léonard. Prison, certainly. Possibly even execution.”

  Lucien pointed to a spot on the grass at some distance from them. “I saw the pistol over there. We’ll take him to the police at Cholet.” While Bonnefous searched for the pistol, Lucien sheathed his sword and came toward Topaze. His eyes were warm and filled with tenderness.

  She returned his smile and got to her feet. She was aware for the first time that her ankle throbbed; she limped slowly toward him. She stopped, her eyes wide with terror. Hubert had pulled a knife from his waist and was lunging toward Lucien’s back, the blade poised to strike. “Lucien!” she cried.

  Lucien whirled about, tried to evade the knife. A shot rang out. Hubert cursed, dropped the weapon, and clutched at his bloody shoulder. Bonnefous, pistol in hand, bowed. “An ungentlemanly thing to do, Monsieur de Chalotais, and unworthy of you.”

  “You’re right, Bonnefous. A man should accept his fate with dignity.” He looked at Léonard, lying so still upon the grass, then he smiled. Topaze had never seen a more forlorn smile in all her life. “It would seem that God has the last laugh after all,” he said. He winced at the pain in his shoulder, but managed to bow in their direction. “Véronique. Lucien. Blaise.” He smiled again. Then, like a bird taking flight, he spread his arms, raced to the edge of the cliff, and threw himself into the void.

  Topaze cried out and limped to the edge. Lucien’s strong arms held her back. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t look.”

  He gathered her in his embrace. She sobbed and clung to him, all the horror of the day pouring out with her tears.

  Bonnefous sighed. “An honorable close to his life, at least. Monsieur Renaudot, I think it best for me to return to Grismoulins and fetch assistance. I see that Mademoiselle Véronique has hurt her leg. I’ll have a litter brought back for her. And for the…bodies.” He sighed again. “A bad day’s business.”

  “We’ll wait for you here, monsieur,” said Lucien. “Véronique needs to purge her heart before she can face the world again.” As she wept, he rocked her gently, kissed the top of her head. “Cry your tears, my darling,” he murmured.

  She looked up at him through a mist of tears. “I don’t know what I would have done, if you hadn’t come.”

  “It was my fault. All the way from Grismoulins I cursed myself, wondering what I’d done to make you think I could try to kill you. To make you think me a monster.”

  “I was frightened. I thought you were the only one who knew of the tunnel. And your message at the mill…it seemed so pointless, when you sent for me. I thought it was a lure.”

  He held her more tightly in his embrace. “It was pointless. I was only…sorry for our quarrel. I wanted to see you again, that’s all. A clumsy device.” He stroked the side of her face with gentle fingers. “Damn Hubert. To think how close you came…”

  “Oh, Lucien, it was horrible. Poor Léonard. He took the bullet that was meant for me.” She stretched out her arm toward the twisted body that lay in the grass. “Let me smooth his hair and kiss him to sleep, like a loving sister would.”

  “Of course.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. He put his arm about her waist, supporting her as she hobbled to Léonard’s side.

  She knelt before the body. She closed his staring eyes, pressed his gaping lips together, straightened his skewed wig. She kissed him on the forehead, his cheeks, his sad mouth. She folded his hands across his chest, and remembered the pinwheels those hands had fashioned. What a dear playmate he’d been. Léonard the Bold.

  “Oh, Moucheron,” she sobbed, and put her arms around his still form, trying in vain to pull his dead weight to her bosom.

  Lucien touched her shoulder. “Come away, my darling. Leave him. There’s nothing we can do. And he’s at peace, the poor thing.”
<
br />   She looked up at him, her eyes streaming with tears. “Do you think so?”

  “No one can ever tease him again. Come away.” Reluctantly, she lowered Léonard to the ground. Her hands were warm and wet beneath him. She pulled them from under his body. She stared at them. They were deep crimson, glossy red and foul, drenched with innocent blood. Not a wrinkle, not a line, had escaped the vile stain: her fingertips, her palms, the pale blue veins that throbbed at her wrists. She stared at them, while the chill horror of death froze her marrow. So much blood. Blood. Pain. Death.

  She began to scream…and scream…and scream…

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Horrified, Lucien dropped to the ground beside her and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Véronique!” What is happening to her? he thought. “Véronique!”

  She choked on a scream and stared at him, her eyes wide with fearful bewilderment. “Véronique?” she whispered. “Véronique?”

  There was something about her face. So different. As though she was a stranger. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  A breathless sob. “Topaze, monsieur.”

  Good Lord, then she wasn’t Véronique! “Of course,” he said reassuringly. “Topaze Benoîte.”

  She nodded her head, a frantic gesture. “Yes, yes, yes. Madame Benoîte. She’ll help me. She’ll tell me what to do about Maman!”

  He frowned. Her words made no sense. “What’s your name?”

  “Topaze Moreau.” She jumped to her feet and looked around, her eyes darting wildly about. “Please, monsieur, tell me the way. For the love of God.”

  Topaze Moreau? She was a stranger. And lost where he couldn’t reach her. The eyes she turned to him saw something he could only guess at. Something terrible, frightening. Something from her hidden childhood, and only now recalled. The childhood of Topaze Moreau.

  He stood up and moved toward her, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. “Come away, Topaze. Let me clean your hands.”

  “My hands. Oh, God.” She began to whimper again, wiping the blood on the pale linen of her skirts. It left a red smear.

  Her grief and distress were breaking his heart. “Topaze.” He reached out to take her in his arms.

  She shrieked—a cry of pain—and backed away from him, pressing her hands to her groin. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t touch me there. Please don’t. Maman said…oh, please don’t hurt me anymore…”

  He groaned. She wasn’t merely seeing the horror, she was reliving it. “You were raped?” he asked softly.

  She nodded, giving way to tears again. “They hurt me so much.”

  “They? How many?” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice. But it was difficult, when he thought of her sweet body being violated, even so long ago.

  “I don’t remember,” she moaned. “Three, four. So many. Vile men. Ugly and dirty.”

  “But you were just a child. How old were you?”

  She stared at him, her eyes blank and uncomprehending. “Monsieur?”

  She was still in the past. “How old are you?” he corrected himself.

  “Thirteen, monsieur.”

  Sweet Jesus. “My poor Topaze.” He put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t!” She cringed away from him. “Let me go!” She wrapped her arms around her belly and bent over. “Oh, Maman, it hurts so much. Maman?” She looked about her in a wild frenzy. “Maman?” she whispered. Her still soiled hands caught her eye. “Oh, Maman!” A horrified scream. “So much blood! My sweet Maman…” She buried her face in her arms and began to sob.

  Pain upon pain. “They killed her?” He found his voice trembling.

  She lifted her head and nodded. “And Monsieur le Vicomte. Those terrible men. They…tore out his bowels. Oh, God.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Monsieur le Vicomte?” he asked gently. “Who is he?”

  She looked up and blinked, then smiled at him through her tears, the horror forgotten for a moment. “Don’t you know?” Her voice had become the voice of a child, sweet and innocent. “He’s going to marry Maman. He’ll be my father.” She stuck out a belligerent chin. “Maman doesn’t care what his family says. She’s an actress, not a whore.”

  “Is he very rich, your mother’s vicomte?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he have a big château?”

  “Oh, yes, monsieur. Very beautiful. We’ve been living in it all the winter and spring.”

  “And…is there a harpsichord?”

  She giggled, a little girl’s laugh. “Monsieur le Vicomte hired a tutor to teach me to play it! Maman says I’m the most fortunate girl in all of France!”

  “And who is Madame Benoîte?”

  He cursed himself the moment he’d asked the question. It seemed to remind her again of the horror. Shaking in fear, she knelt down and began to rub her hands against the grass. Again and again, in a frenzied gesture. “Madame Benoîte. Yes. She’ll take me in.” She looked up at Lucien. Her face was drained, weary. He saw the lost and frightened child she must have been. “Monsieur, do you know the inn where Madame Rachel Benoîte is staying?” Again the little girl’s voice. “She’s my mother’s friend, you know. I’m so tired, monsieur.”

  “Poor little Topaze,” he choked. He knelt beside her, fearful of touching her, lest a man’s touch bring back the terror of her memories.

  “When I get to Madame Benoîte, I’ll sleep. So tired.” She wiped her hands on the grass again, then reached out and put her fingers in his. Her eyes held a desperate plea. “Can I sleep now, monsieur?”

  He hesitated, then gathered her into his arms. She didn’t resist. “Yes. Yes, little one. Sleep.”

  She sighed, rested her head on his chest, and closed her eyes.

  He pressed her against his breast. Her hair held the fragrance of sunshine. He found himself trembling at the cruel past she’d remembered.

  Savagely raped, her mother butchered, a happy childhood suddenly shattered. He looked at poor Léonard, lying cold and still. He thought of Hubert and his deadly plans, of the inhuman creatures who had raped this dear child—all the evil in the world of which he’d become a part.

  It was evil that she couldn’t accept, this sweet creature. So foreign to her nature—she’d simply wiped it from her memory. She’d refused to allow it to sully her pure, good heart.

  And here was he, Lucien le Bâtard, with his petty hatreds that had driven him to a foul life, while he wallowed in self-pity and cursed the world. He’d been unwilling to see the goodness in anyone, had allowed himself to be blind to her goodness. He’d used her. His selfish desire for revenge had brought her to this: she’d nearly lost her life because of him. He’d been too blind to see beyond his own pain, his own grief. No wonder she’d thought him a monster capable of murder. He was still Lucien the pirate, an outcast of his own making.

  He saw himself clear. She’d called him a heartless beast, because he couldn’t forgive his father. It was true. He was a beast. A savage. What could he give her? A wounded heart? He remembered how she’d laughed with Martin. She deserved a man like Martin. A man who didn’t carry his burdens, his grievances, like a millstone around his neck. Let her marry Denis de Rocher. Be a marquise. She deserved nothing but the best that life had to give.

  He thought of his father. He felt an emptiness now, where his hatred had been. There was nothing to sustain him any longer. He knew it had been so, what the girl had tried to tell him. That his father had been weak, deserving of his pity, not his hatred. But he’d refused to see it, even turned on the girl when she tried to make him see it. Without his hatred, how could he justify the evil of his years on the high seas?

  Lucien le Bâtard, filled with hatred, could do as he chose, and excuse it all in the name of revenge. But Lucien Renaudot had been born a gentleman; he had no one but himself to condemn for turning to a life of crime and piracy.

  The girl moaned in her sleep. He held her more tightly and rocked back and forth. They had both suffered. But she’d rejected evil through forget
fulness; he’d embraced it, and become no better than his tormentors. And then he’d cursed God for allowing it to happen.

  He began to weep, the scalding tears burning his eyes. He wept for all the wasted years, the ugly years, the years of cruelty and despair. But most of all he wept for his shame. His body shook with violent sobs. At last he lifted his gaze to the blue of God’s sweet heaven. He clutched the girl’s dear form to his heart.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned!” he cried aloud—a plea from the depths of his tortured soul.

  Topaze stirred in her bed. She felt rested. At peace. It hadn’t been a dream. It didn’t seem like a dream. Her life appeared to her as fragments, glittering splinters that were slowly coming back together. One crystalline memory as clear as another. And each in its proper order. It was as though everything had always been there, but hidden behind a thick cloud. Muddled, confused, lost. Now Maman’s death was as clear as Léonard dying before her eyes, and Grismoulins and the vicomte’s château similar, but recognizably different as she thought of them. The smile of her real father, the gentleness of Monsieur Givet. All the memories. They were falling into place, like chapters in a book; characters in a novel. It gave her a strange sense of being a spectator at her own life.

  She opened her eyes and sat up.

  She heard a gasp. “Oh, my dear child! You’re awake.”

  “Fleur?” Topaze smiled at Adelaïde, sitting in a chair just outside the bed alcove. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Since Lucien brought you here two days ago. My poor dear. Such a terrible time, with Hubert. And poor Léonard. We thought you were suffering from a brain fever. You couldn’t be roused. Monsieur Bonnefous wanted to send for a doctor today. I watched you all the while. It broke my heart to hear you groan in your sleep, and cry out.” She patted Topaze’s hand. “I began to think you were reliving your whole life in your dreams.”