“Ah! Shipboard! The source of your singular charm.”
“Damn you!” He was mocking her. “Be cursed for a scurvy dog!” She tried to turn away, but he held fast to her arm.
“Name of God,” he said, “but I meant it for praise.” He looked at her oddly. “Do you want to be as other women?” She bit her lip but said nothing. “Well, then,” he continued, “to begin with, you must contrive to walk as though you were ashore, not still at sea. You need not match me step for step—take two dainty steps to my one. Mademoiselle?” He held out his elbow for her to take; blushing, she slipped her hand through his arm and minced along beside him, feeling awkward and foolish and ladylike all at once.
He bought her a little Flemish cap that fit snugly at the nape of her neck, fanning out into graceful wings on either side of her face, the whole edged with dainty lace. She curtsied a thank you and held out her hand; thinking merely that he would grasp her fingers, she was surprised and flattered when he brought her hand to his lips. He turned her hand over and stroked her palm—rough and calloused from the work aboard Olympie—smiling warmly when she would have pulled away in embarrassment.
“I shall buy you creams and orange-water. You will have the loveliest hands in all of France!”
Despite her protests (“What shall I do when I must hoe my garden? Willy-nilly, I must toil with my hands!”), he bought her a tin box of sweet-smelling cream and a vial of orange-water, insisting that she use some at once, and stroking the softness of her fingers approvingly when she was done. She had never felt so flustered and disarmed by a man’s kindness, though a small voice whispered within her to beware. Giggling, and a little bit frightened, she allowed him to lead her to a fortune-teller who had set up a dim tent on a quiet corner of the fairgrounds.
The old crone, a gnarled woman with a large red wart on her nose, pocketed Despreaux’s gold, then looked into his hand. “I see fortune for you, monsieur. Happiness, good fortune, riches.” She droned on, the words mechanical, as though she had said them a hundred times.
Despreaux glanced at Delphine, then back again at the old woman. “And love?”
She hesitated. “Who can say what is love, monsieur? If your heart is open, love may enter. But—desire—may come in the guise of love—” She closed his fingers into a fist and pushed his hand away. “Your palm does not tell me. Come, mademoiselle,” beckoning to Delphine, “let me see your hand.”
Nervously Delphine sat before the old woman and held out her palm. The fortune-teller ran her fingers along the creases of Delphine’s flesh and began her ritual once again: happiness and riches and good fortune, love and a handsome man.
“And joy always?” It was almost a plea, Delphine’s voice hopeful and fearful all at once.
The old woman smiled at such innocence, then looked into the amber eyes, so filled with trust, yet dark and troubled with some deep sorrow. The smile faded from her face. “No. Much grief, I think. Grief and pain. I see it in your—” she recovered herself, glancing quickly down at the young hand still within her withered two “—in your palm.”
“Alas!” whispered Delphine.
“Stupid old woman!” growled Despreaux, and gave the crone a cuff to the side of her head that sent her sprawling to the ground. “Would you frighten mademoiselle with your foolish talk? Come”—pulling Delphine to the tent’s entrance—“let us be quit of this lying old fool!”
“Wait!” The fortune-teller raised a shaking finger and pointed it at Delphine. “You may have need of me again. The little alley behind the Church of Saint Jacques. You must ask for La Sorcière.”
Though Despreaux scoffed at the fortune-teller’s words, Delphine was unhappy and distracted, feeling herself suddenly cursed. To cheer her, Despreaux bought her a meat pastry; they sat together in the shade of a tree, eating and drinking from the large demijohn of wine that Despreaux had also bought. Delphine noticed the way he took small bites from his pastry, and restrained herself from downing her own pie in two or three large mouthfuls. The wine was very good—rich and strong—and she found herself growing quite giddy, reveling in the unexpected luxury of such fine food and drink. She did not protest when he proposed a stroll in the grove of trees beyond the walls of Dieppe; indeed she felt as free and light as the butterflies that danced among the wild flowers. And when he suggested that she take off her heavy jacket, she was delighted to comply, the warm day and the wine and the jacket having conspired to make her feel uncomfortable and constrained. She sighed contentedly and lay down on a patch of moss beneath a tree, throwing her arms wide to the lovely day. Despreaux sat above her, a curious smile on his face, watching her with an intensity that he scarcely hid. At last he leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth; she was startled for a moment, then relaxed as she found herself enjoying the feeling of his lips on hers, the small tingling that had begun somewhere deep within her. He sat up and looked at her again, surprised at her warmth, the way her mouth had responded willingly to his kiss. Pensive, he allowed his eyes to travel the length of her body, arrayed so temptingly before him; then, deliberately, he pulled off her neckerchief and slipped his hand down the front of her chemise to fondle one soft breast. She trembled and drew in her breath sharply. Emboldened, he loosed the drawstring on her chemise and pulled it low so her bosom was exposed, deriving as much satisfaction from her quivering response as from the feel of her breasts beneath his roving fingers.
“Do you like that?” he asked, his voice low and throaty.
A flicker of apprehension in her golden eyes. “Shouldn’t I?”
He laughed. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll take advantage of you?” Unexpectedly his hand reached up under her petticoats to stroke her knees, her thighs. To search for what lay beyond.
“Damn your liver!” she shrieked, leaping to her feet and backing away from him, her eyes burning. “I am no whore! Did I not tell you I would not go down for you?” She clutched at her chemise, shaking fingers attempting to restore modesty. “Filthy scum! You shall not put yourself in me! I am no whore! I am no whore!”
Without a word he arose, turning his back resolutely on her and striding off in the direction of the fair. His coldness made her feel like a fool, and she ran after him, feeling shamed and humbled all at once. “Please,” she said. “Please, Monsieur Despreaux,” clutching at his sleeve, “forgive me. I am so clumsy—I cannot say what I mean—the words—it is only that—I swore to my father—to myself—that I would not—ever!” He stopped and turned icy eyes to her. She bit her lip, then pulled the cap off her head and handed it to him. “Here!” she said, near tears. “I am not worthy of your kindness.”
“Keep it,” he said, still frowning as though her behavior angered him—or mystified him. But he turned about and retraced his steps to the grove, walking slowly enough so that Delphine might move daintily beside him.
At last she sighed. “Why would you want to take advantage of me? You are a fine-looking man—there must be a score of charming women who would welcome your attentions! Whilst I—clumsy—ugly—foolish—not like a lady should be!”
“Because you are a very beautiful young woman.”
Delphine stopped, her jaw dropping open in surprise. “Sink me, but you cannot mean that! God’s blood, I have a mirror—”
Despreaux turned and took her by the shoulders. “I have a friend who deals in rare gems. He has shown me rough stones, and taught me to see the sparkling jewel within. I saw you in church, your face shining with holiness—do you think it mattered that you did not move with grace when the church was lit with your sweetness? And when I offered you the holy water—mon Dieu!—do you know what it does to your coloring when you blush? You bloom like a rose—and you talk about what a lady should be! Stuff and nonsense! Now, do you want to be a lady?”
“Sink me for a bloody bilge rat! Of course I do!”
He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Then you had best not let anyone hear you talk! Ladies do not blister the ears of their listeners!”
“Damn you!” She raised her hand to strike his face, but he grabbed her wrists, putting his arms around her and pinioning her hands behind her back. They struggled for a moment until, unexpectedly, he kissed her, and she melted in his embrace, abandoning herself to the pleasure of his mouth once again. He let go her wrists and stroked her back before bringing his hands around to cup her heaving breasts in his firm grasp. When she trembled and twitched at his touch, he released her and stepped back, his laugh a soft growl.
“Mon Dieu! What a sensual creature you are! Now, if you behave yourself, I might kiss you again. To begin with—if you would be a lady—you should not walk alone in the fields with a strange man. The gossips will find plenty to talk about, and your family will not be pleased!”
“I have no family. Only my father, and he is at sea.”
“Indeed?” He looked at her, his eyes thoughtful. “Eh bien—it still is not wise. A man could take advantage, seduce you, rape you, even.”
“Is that why you asked me to come for a walk? To seduce me?”
“I know you like me to kiss you—but do you want me to seduce you?”
“Sink and scuttle me! Of course not! I’d as soon slit your blasted throat as—” She stopped, seeing the frown on his face, hearing the coarseness of her own words. “No,” she said, suddenly shamefaced.
He drew himself up, very cold, very proper. “If you want me to kiss you again, you would do well to guard your tongue!” And he led her back to her cottage as she directed, the few words he could not avoid crisp and cutting and disapproving.
Chapter Eight
Delphine kicked at a small pebble on the beach. Five days, she thought miserably. Five days and he has not come to see me! He had called her beautiful, had kissed her, had made her forget for a moment that André had found her unworthy. And then he had not come to see her. She cursed her ugly tongue, the coarse speech that had driven him away. She looked up at her cottage; he was standing in the doorway, smiling at her. She resisted the impulse to run like a carefree hoyden to greet him, managing to step gracefully the way he had shown her.
“Mademoiselle Delphine?”
“Monsieur Gilles?” She started to curtsy, then thought better of it and held out her hand instead. She had been diligent in her applications of cream and orange-water; he beamed his approval at the softness of her skin.
“Come,” he said, pulling her into the cottage, “see what I have brought you!”
Her eyes opened wide with excitement. “Rot and—” She bit her tongue. “What have you brought?”
He appraised her coolly, wondering how far he could go. “No,” he said. “You must buy it with a kiss.” She smiled and moved into his arms, putting her hands about his neck, offering her lips willingly. He kissed her gently, then took her mouth with more passion, allowing himself the pleasure of stroking the hollow of her back, feeling the lissome waist beneath his hands, holding her body close to his burning loins. Damn! but the wench excited him! Since the day he had first seen her in church, he had tried to imagine what it would be like to go down on her, to strip away her coarse clothes and hold her naked body in his arms. And the tantalizing sight and feeling of her breasts that day in the meadow—he had almost raped her, he had wanted her so badly! And then she had spurned his advances. It was a challenge he could not resist. It suddenly seemed important to have her come to him willingly, however much cunning it might take.
But she was such a strange creature! Angel and devil in one: defending her virtue with fire, yet melting sensuously in his arms like a practiced courtesan, allowing his hands and mouth to do things an innocent maiden would view with horror. Was she really unwilling to lie with him, or did she just need a little more persuasion? He had deliberately stayed away from her for days; her obvious joy at seeing him now proved the wisdom of his action. And surely she meant to please him with her soft hands and newly graceful walk. It gave him a feeling of power over her: what else might she be willing to do to please him?
“Do you know how I’ve missed you?” he said, his hands—still about her waist—bunching up her skirt and petticoat so he might touch the bare flesh of her thighs. Then he cursed to himself as she stiffened and pulled away.
“Damn you,” she said, more hurt than angry. “You shall not.”
He contrived to look pained. “Are you so unfeeling that you can deny me? Do you know how I ache for you?”
“No! No and no and no!” She stamped her foot, then turned away, her voice catching on a sob. “Please, monsieur, I do not wish to send you away, but—”
He shrugged, seeing the game lost for now. “Forgive me, ma chère,” he said smoothly, “your mouth is so sweet that I forget myself. Come”—as she smiled shyly at his words and turned back to him—“here is what I have brought you.” He indicated a shallow brass saucer on a tripod that he had placed on the table, filled with small lumps of charcoal. Taking out his tinderbox and striking flint to steel, he soon had the embers glowing. He pulled from his pocket a small tool which he set into the middle of the red-hot charcoal.
Delphine could contain herself no longer. “Nom de Dieu! What is it?”
He grinned. “A curling iron for your hair! All the fine ladies of Paris dress their hair with little wisps and tendrils about faces that are so ugly they should be masked!” He cupped her chin in his palm. “But you, my lovely Delphine—” He kissed her softly then indicated a chair. “Sit you here.”
She refused to look in her mirror until he was finished, biting her knuckle in concern each time the hot iron sizzled about a lock of hair. When he had twisted the last curl in the iron he placed her lace cap back on her head and handed her the mirror. She gasped at her reflection, seeing the way each dainty tress clung softly to her cheek and forehead, the straight straw changed to delicate yellow curls that accented the fine bones of her face, the graceful line of her chin. She felt a sudden pang. If André could see her now. Then she jumped resolutely to her feet. Damn André! She smiled at Gilles. “Surely I owe you another kiss for such a gift!” And she suited the action to the words, pretending to herself all the while that the momentary thrill she felt at Gilles’s touch, at the taste of his lips, could drive out the memory of André’s kiss.
In the days that followed, he brought her ribbon garters to replace the string, bits of lace for her chemise, a sleeveless jerkin that laced snugly about her ribcage and waist, accenting the womanly curve of her body. He insisted that she lengthen the green skirt to her ankles (“Only a common peasant wears a short skirt!”), and chided her when they supped together and she grew careless of her manners. He frowned when she swore and turned cold when she lost her temper, until she found herself tense and on edge, trying constantly to please him and wondering what kind of fool she had become to let him rule her so. But when he was pleased with her, he praised her until she glowed, and bought her little presents, and kissed and caressed her so she trembled in his embrace and knew that it was all worthwhile.
One day he took her to see his shop—a large airy cottage abustle with apprentices—with his fine house set just behind it and surrounded by a lovely walled garden. Proudly he showed her his Certificate of Mastership in the Upholsterers’ Guild—his Lettre de Maîtrise—that had cost him a great deal of money and many years of studying to earn. The young boys under his tutelage gathered around to be introduced; one lad, obviously smitten by Delphine, gaped and stammered until Despreaux fetched a blow to his face that nearly sent him flying. His freckled cheek red from Gilles’s fingers, the boy hurried back to his bench where he had been cutting a piece of leather for a stool, then gasped in fear and dismay as the knife slipped in his grasp and dug an ugly channel into the smooth leather.
“By God,” growled Despreaux, reaching for a stick, “but you shall pay for that with your hide!”
Delphine frowned, surprised at Gilles’s harshness, almost ready to intervene. Gunner had been a fierce taskmaster, but he had never beaten the cabin boys needlessly, and had forgiven many
an accident brought about by fear or haste.
Just then the door opened and an elegantly dressed gentleman entered. Despreaux threw down the stick and swept his hat from his head, bowing with a flourish while he motioned the boys back to their work. “Monsieur le Marquis! You do me honor! Have you come to see if your chairs are ready? Voilà!” Despreaux indicated half a dozen arm chairs covered in a rich brocade. “The boy is tacking on the last fringes. If you send a wagon around in the morning they shall grace your bedchamber by nightfall!”
The marquis nodded in satisfaction, rubbing his hand across the fabric of one chair, then peering more closely at the padded armrest. Despreaux’s face was frozen in an obsequious smile. “Delphine, my lovely, show Monsieur le Marquis how charming a young woman will look in his chair.”
“But certainly.” Remembering Gilles’s lessons, Delphine spread her skirts wide and sat gracefully in the chair.
“Beautiful!” exclaimed the marquis. “The chairs are beautiful, Monsieur Despreaux.” But his eyes never left Delphine’s face.
Despreaux pressed the advantage, pleased at the distraction Delphine provided. “Do you fancy a footstool, monsieur? Think of sitting in front of your fire—mayhap with a lass as charming as this one—would it not be fine to have a footstool upon which to rest your feet?”
“Yes. Yes, a footstool.” The marquis smiled at Delphine and pulled her from the chair, keeping her hand in his. “Would you sit at my feet, mademoiselle, if I had a footstool?”
She smiled grandly, but her amber eyes flashed. “No, God rot! You would sit at mine!”
There was a moment of silence, during which Despreaux held his breath. Then the marquis began to laugh. “By my faith, but this is a spirited wench! I shall have the footstool, Monsieur Despreaux. Send one along with the chairs tomorrow.” He kissed Delphine’s fingers and made for the door. “There will be an added crown or two if the girl comes with it!”
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