Delphine

by Sylvia Halliday

  Delphine was indifferent. Let him do as he wished, so long as he left her in peace. She had nothing with which to reproach herself; she would not betray her marriage vows, whatever her feelings for him. She supped alone in her room each night, and kissed and petted her sweet Robert. She put a candle beside her bed and sat and read her books, blowing out the candle only when her eyes were too tired to read another line. But one night she drifted off in the midst of turning a page and awoke to the sound of the wick end sputtering in its dish, the candle having burned to the bottom. Even as she watched, it flickered and went out, plunging the room into darkness. She groped on the table for the tinder and flint, meaning to find another candle, then cursed as her hand jostled the candleholder, spilling the hot tallow over her fingers. Rot and damnation! She would need light just to remove the tallow from her hand, and she suddenly remembered that this had been the last candle in her room tonight. It seemed to be very late and the house was still, but if that whoreson Gilles was yet riding his doxy in some tavern, there would be a lighted candle or two waiting for him in the corridor. She slipped out of bed and opened her door. The passageway was dark, but Gilles’s door was ajar and there was a light coming from within. She hesitated, wondering if her appearance in his room at this hour would give him mistaken ideas, then shrugged. If he had spent the evening with Lucie, he would scarcely be interested in her. And besides, her hand had begun to itch and sting, despite her efforts to scrape off the wax; the sooner she could clean it properly, the less the risk of festering sores.

  She was surprised to hear laughter coming from Gilles’s room. Softly she pushed open the door, standing transfixed at the sight before her. Gilles sat in a large armchair in the center of the room, his arms folded imperiously across his chest, a makeshift wreath of leaves—like a king’s crown—perched on his brown curls. His bearing was regal, but he grinned evilly like a devil out of hell. Before him stood a young woman, naked as Eve, with tousled black hair that she pushed out of her eyes from time to time. Gilles murmured something to her, and they both laughed; then she began to dance in front of him, gyrating obscenely while he gazed in rapt fascination. He clapped his hands together and she curtsied, holding wide an imaginary skirt. He spoke another command and she leaned over and kissed him, running her hands across his body, probing beneath his open shirt, his breeches. Again he clapped his hands and she curtsied, doing honor to her “king,” but laughing vulgarly all the while. She pressed her breasts together, inviting him, her eyes smoldering as she backed up toward the waiting bed.

  “Damn your poxy soul!” shrieked Delphine, bursting into the room. The girl’s clothing lay in a heap on the floor; Delphine swept up the jacket and began to beat Lucie with it. The girl cringed and tried to back away, letting out a small yelp each time a button of the jacket struck her and left a little red mark on her bare skin.

  “Nom de Dieu, Delphine! Stop it!” Gilles grabbed at her arm, wresting the jacket from her, struggling to keep her from the now-whimpering Lucie. Delphine fought like a tiger, tearing at his hair, kicking at him with her bare feet. She was itching to sink her nails into the girl’s face. Sobbing and trembling, Lucie hastily donned her clothes, anxious to be gone. Delphine broke free of Gilles and went for the girl again; Gilles took hold of her arm and flung her against the wall. The shock of it took her breath away for a second; in that moment Gilles snatched up the armchair and pinned her against the wall with it, imprisoned between its legs.

  “Get out!” he gasped at Lucie. The girl fled.

  Delphine struggled against the chair. “How dare you!” she screeched. “How dare you bring that slut into this house!”

  He bared his teeth, his face twisted in an ugly grimace. “I brought you into this house, didn’t I?”

  She felt her knees go weak beneath her. “What—what do you mean?”

  “Do you think I am a fool? That child was not too soon, for all your pretense! Less than seven months! A seven-month babe would be stillborn, or sicken and die. But that child—strong and hearty! Seven months—bah!”

  “But Gilles—” she protested, then stopped, the lie dying in her throat. She was weary of lies, hungry for the fresh air of truth, clean and sweet like the breezes at sea. “Why did you have him christened with your name?” she asked tiredly.

  “It were better my friends think you played the whore for me before our wedding. I shall not be a cuckold for their amusement! Did you know, I wonder, when you married me, that you carried another man’s seed? Filthy strumpet! You must have known! ‘No, Gilles, not for any man!’” he mimicked, then laughed bitterly. He set the chair upright, releasing her, and sat down heavily.

  “Please, Gilles,” she whispered, overcome with remorse. “Forgive me, I—” She reached out a conciliatory hand but he slapped her fingers away, jumping up to confront her with fresh anger.

  “And who was the father?” he growled. “Is he the one you dreamed of when you lay with me? He was not a seaman—you swore you never slept with any of Olympie’s crew.” He sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “Lying whore! For aught I know, you slept with them all!”

  “Blasted dungheap! You are not worth my remorse! I have not dandled a lover for all the months of our marriage as you have that trollop! Look to your own sins ere you chide me!”

  “No,” he said, his voice suddenly quiet and deadly. “I shall do as I choose. If I wish to take Lucie in this house—in your very bed!—I shall do so. And you will hold your tongue, my sweet. Else Berthe will be sent packing, and you and your brat will find yourselves out on the streets begging.” His eyes raked her body contemptuously. “A whore you were—a whore you shall become again if I turn you out. If you spread your legs often enough, you can earn food for yourself. But how shall you feed your child with your useless breasts?”

  She reeled back, her hand to her mouth, staggering as though he had struck her. Without a word she stumbled to her room, there to fall on her knees before her bed and pray le bon Dieu to bring Olympie home quickly, filled with gold from a successful voyage.

  It was several days later that he stopped her in the kitchen garden, as she helped the cook to plant early peas (an empty gesture, for she would be with her father long before the vines flowered). She had not seen him since the night in his room: twice he had stayed out all night, and once Charretier had come to supper and the two men had sat in the kitchen until nearly dawn, drinking and whispering and laughing.

  On her knees before the furrows, Delphine looked up in surprise as Gilles’s shadow fell across the rich earth. She eyed him carefully, gauging his temper, unsure of his mood after all that had happened.

  He nodded brusquely. “I shall come to your bedchamber tonight for supper. There is something I must discuss with you, far from prying servants.” Delphine rose to her feet, brushing the loam from her skirts, and frowned at him, half minded to refuse. Gilles smiled sourly. “Think of Robert, ma chère, and then mayhap you will receive me with civility.”

  She inclined her head. “For Robert’s sake, I think I may endure your company for an hour or two.”

  “At seven,” he said, and left her to her garden.

  She scarcely ate at supper, watching him like a caged beast, fearful that he might insist on taking her to bed, knowing she must submit because of Robert. She thought briefly of putting her sea knife under the pillow, then changed her mind. Who would raise her darling child if she were in prison or hanged?

  When the last dishes had been cleared and Gilles had waved the servants away, he poured himself another cup of wine and leaned back in his chair. “Dieppe has had a distinguished visitor these last few months. Monsieur le Duc de Janequin. His estates are in Auvergne, but his late sister, who died—alas—of the ague December last, was widow to the Marquis de Courtan, seigneur of the district to the west of Dieppe. You may know it.” Delphine nodded; there were many fine estates surrounding Dieppe, and the townspeople had often spoken highly of Monsieur de Courtan. Gilles continued. “Monsieur le Duc came
to Dieppe to settle his sister’s affairs, and has been living in a charming house on the hill overlooking the Hôtel de Ville.”

  Delphine sneered. “And does he need furniture? Does he own fine treasures that you covet?”

  “He owns, through his late sister’s generosity, a magnificent diamond necklace worth a quarter of a million livres.”

  She threw back her head and laughed scornfully. “Were I to dance naked in front of him—like your harlot Lucie—I could scarcely distract him well enough for you to do your thieving work! A diamond necklace is not a tobacco box!”

  He glared at her with icy eyes. “Monsieur le Duc brought the necklace to Monsieur Charretier to be cleaned and repaired. My friend the bijoutier had the good sense to copy the piece in glass.”

  “Mother of God! What a fool! When he gives back the imitation he will be found out immediately!”

  “And so I told him. Monsieur de Janequin has taken the care to bring from Paris a very shrewd lawyer. Sure enough, so soon as Charretier returned the real necklace, Monsieur Braudel, the lawyer, had another jeweler testify as to its genuineness.”

  “And there’s an end to it,” she shrugged.

  “No. Charretier still has the imitation. And we have devised a scheme whereby Monsieur de Janequin will be so cleverly duped that he will not think to authenticate the necklace this time. There will be an—exchange—at a time when he does not expect it, and so smoothly done that it might be years before he discovers his necklace is false—at which time he will be hard pressed to recall at what moment he might have been deceived.”

  “Knowing you, I have no doubt that the plan will be devilishly clever.”

  “Indeed. But for its execution, my lovely, we need you.”

  She leaped up from the table. “The devil you do!”

  He sipped at his wine—cool, in control. Delphine shuddered at the mockery of a smile on his face, so evil, so smugly confident. “But you see, my love, it needs a woman.”

  “Then ask Lucie!”

  “Lucie is a lusty wench between the sheets—but she is a common slut. We need a woman who is—who can pretend to be—” he amended, and watched her flinch, “a lady.”

  “By the horn of Satan, I shall take no part in your wicked schemes! When they burn the brand of thief on your forehead, I shall glory in your downfall!”

  “If you are not dead of starvation long since—you and your whelp!” The threat was unmistakable.

  She thrust out her chin proudly. “Better to be a whore and a beggar than a thief! Shall I send for Anne-Marie to pack my few belongings?” She thought quickly, her mind spinning with alternatives. The weather was growing warmer; if she could not find humble lodgings, there might be a cozy barn to shelter her and Robert. It was only a few more weeks until Olympie’s return, and since the night with Lucie she had managed to salt away a few extra coins from her household accounts, contriving even to falsify the ledgers so Gilles would not notice. He had taught her well!

  And she would be a whore, if need be! She had endured Gilles—could she not endure the restless aristocrats and hungry sailors who prowled the waterfront seeking a doxy? She had seen scores of the slatterns in every port of the globe—not an enviable lot, but they earned their own way. All she needed was enough money to hire a wet nurse for Robert.

  “Before you hasten to leave me, sweet Delphine, you might consider this. That bastard child of yours was baptised with my name. I have formally acknowledged him. If you leave here—more especially if you leave as a deserting wife—you leave alone, without the child. There is no court in the land that would deny me the right to my own son.”

  “It cannot be! There are laws—I bore the child!”

  “You may consult a lawyer, of course, but I hardly think you have the finances to oppose me.”

  She clasped her hands together, her face twisted in pain. “You could not do it, Gilles. Please! I beg you!”

  “I am quite prepared to turn you out—alone—unless you do exactly as I direct. Foolish woman,” the voice unexpectedly gentle, “did you never think, while you swooned in your lover’s arms, that—sooner or later—you would have to pay for your stolen pleasures?” He laughed harshly, enjoying his total mastery of her. “And the price, sweet love—one diamond necklace! Now, sit down. Take a glass of wine; you look pale. And listen carefully. You will insinuate yourself into Monsieur de Janequin’s favor. I have a plan as to how this may be accomplished. And make no mistake about it, my charming whore, you will go down for him if the man desires you!” Carefully he laid out his plan, then rose to leave, signaling the end of their discourse. At the door he turned—Lucie’s “king.”

  Delphine’s “king.”

  “You will do all that I command,” he said softly, “or you will no longer have a child.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The driving rain pelted Delphine’s face. She pulled the hood of her mantle lower over her forehead and wiped the drops from her eyes, peering through the gloom at the heavy carriage making its way up the hill toward her. Leaning into the high hedge that surrounded the manor house, she knew she could not be seen by the coachman. Soon now the carriage would crest the hill and, picking up speed again, would swing into the muddy lane that led to the gates and the long drive of the house. That would be the best place, where it swung wide into the curve. Less risk of falling under the horses’ hooves. It must be timed just so, so that she could fling herself away as the wheels caught her, and not be pulled beneath the carriage. Thanks be to her years on Olympie she was agile; still, her heart beat madly at the foolhardiness of the whole scheme.

  Now! She stepped into the lane, shoulders hunched against the rain, walking quickly despite the mud that dragged at her feet and fouled her skirts. As he maneuvered the turn, the coachman saw her and shouted frantically for her to get out of the way. She looked up in pretended alarm, steeling herself to keep from leaping to safety until the last possible moment. She had planned to scream (“There is nothing so heartrending as the cry of a distressed woman!” Gilles had advised), but the force of the heavy wheel striking her shoulder and spinning her away so violently that she felt a wrenching pain in her ankle, tore an involuntary cry from her lips. The mud oozed about her as she fell, gasping, dazed with pain. Damn Gilles! Small wonder the bastard had suggested this plan. That streak of cruelty in him enjoyed the sufferings of others.

  Up ahead, the carriage had stopped. The coachman leaped from his box, and hurried to help her up, while his passenger, an elderly man with snow white hair, leaned out of the window, frowning in concern. Dieu du ciel! thought Delphine. God in heaven! I cannot lie here with the mud seeping into my clothes until the man reaches me! As the coachman neared her she struggled to rise, then cried out as her ankle gave way under her and the pain ripped through her leg. There was the buzzing of a thousand bees and the world closing in on her—then blackness.

  When she awoke, she was in a handsomely appointed bedchamber and gentle hands were stripping her filthy clothes from her, washing the mud from her feet, toweling her rain-drenched hair. She was bundled into a warm nightdress and carried with care to the large bed by the two robust servant girls who had been assisting the old housekeeper. They tucked her in and plumped up her pillows; then, with much curtsying and bobbing they left her alone.

  “Are you feeling better now, mademoiselle?”

  “Thank you, yes, monsieur.” Delphine nodded at the man who had just entered the room. She judged him to be in his late fifties or early sixties, his white hair almost to his shoulders, his trim moustache and spade beard neatly cut. He was clad in a splendid brocade doublet and breeches, though the style was somewhat out-of-date. The sleeves of the doublet were slashed to reveal silk undersleeves. The breeches were in the Spanish style, ballooning out, then fastening tightly at the knees, instead of the wide-legged breeches favored by the younger dandies and cavaliers, or the narrow knee breeches that Gilles had. He wore silk stockings and low shoes adorned with shoe roses, and though he
limped slightly, his carriage and bearing were so noble as to make the irregularity of his step an attribute. His face was kind, his eyes were gentle, and the sweetness of his smile made her conscience ache.

  “You will find this clairet most agreeable,” he said, handing her the goblet he had carried into the room. He drew up a small chair to the side of the bed, settled himself comfortably in it, and smiled at her again. “My housekeeper says your shoulder is grievously bruised, but she does not think your ankle is broken. If you cannot walk in the morning, mayhap I shall send for a physician.”

  “In the morning?” Delphine pushed at her coverlet, pretending to get up. “But I cannot stay until morning!”

  “Nonsense, mademoiselle! It is a dreary evening, your clothes will not be dry for hours—and you must at least enjoy my hospitality for a little, more especially since my coach was the cause of your pain and distress! No, mademoiselle, I shall not hear of your leaving tonight.”

  She cast her eyes down modestly. “It is not mademoiselle. It—it is madame. And my husband will be expecting me.”

  “Then you must allow me to send a message to him this evening, telling him his wife is safe and will remain under my care, if it pleases him, until she is well enough to return home.”

  She dimpled prettily at him. “And who is my benefactor, monsieur?”

  “Ah, forgive me!” He rose and bowed grandly to her, catching her fingers to his lips with such elegance that she felt like a queen. “I am Bernard de Chagny, Duc de Janequin.”

  “I am honored, Monsieur de Janequin.”