“They’re real enough,” he growled, and completed the transaction in silence, exchanging the deed for five hundred livres. In the carriage, Delphine urged Monsieur le Duc to put the necklace in a safe place as soon as possible: even if she needed money again she would not go through another such scene. It was too difficult, she assured him, to play the false role for the moneylender.
They celebrated long into the night, Gilles and Charretier, and a reluctant Delphine—eating and drinking, planning how they would spend a quarter of a million livres. Charretier was in no hurry to break up the necklace. If he waited for awhile—and especially since Monsieur le Duc was reported to be returning to Paris at the end of May—he might be able to sell it, intact, almost openly in Rouen, substituting an emerald or ruby for a few of the diamonds to change the look of the piece.
Gilles was ecstatic, bragging to Charretier of Delphine’s coolness, his own adroitness in making the switch. In a sudden burst of emotion—or satisfied greed—he threw his arms around Delphine and kissed her resoundingly.
“I shall leave you to your joy,” she said, and pushed him away. She went tiredly up the stairs to her room, then stopped as she heard faint stirrings from the nursery. Tiptoeing in, she saw that Robert had kicked off his coverlet; she bent over the cradle and tucked him in again, crooning softly as she rocked him back to sleep. His busy mouth found his thumb at last, and he closed his eyes and slept.
How blue his eyes were becoming. More and more like André’s. She was too weary for hatred tonight, only an overwhelming sadness. Oh André, she thought. Because you came into my life, I have lied, and I have stolen. She wiped Gilles’s kiss from her mouth.
Because of you, shall I kill as well—someday?
Chapter Thirteen
May blossomed with tulips and peonies, pink and white apple trees, green willows that cast their swaying branches to the soft breezes. The nights were sweet and moon-filled, the days golden with sunshine. But Delphine’s heart was as cold as winter, heavy with black dread. Such a long time, and no sighting of Olympie; no word, even, though she had questioned the sailors in the harbor as their ships came in to port. She tried to keep busy, to still the anxiety, the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.
She could not break off abruptly with Janequin for fear of rousing his suspicions (and perhaps she did not want to lose his company before his departure for Paris made it necessary), and so she spent several afternoons strolling with him in his gardens. She and Gilles were invited to supper; Gilles maintained the role of cruel husband that had been fashioned for him—though he seemed to glory in it—scolding Delphine in front of Braudel and Janequin until she turned red with humiliation.
But at home he had become kinder to her, looking at her with new eyes as though her skill at handling the affair of the necklace had made him aware of her value to him, her attributes as a woman. As far as she knew, he had not visited Lucie in weeks. No more was said of taking Robert from her, but she was not put off her guard. When her father returned, he would know how to hire and pay for a lawyer. If need be, she would have Michel swear in open court that he had lain with Delphine and the child was his.
Only let Olympie return! Delphine sat at her dressing table, gazing into her mirror by the light of the candle. It was late; she had sent Anne-Marie to bed hours ago. But she could not sleep, and she had not the patience for reading tonight. She took out her brazier and curling iron; perhaps such a simple and mindless task as curling the wisps about her face would help to still her nerves. Outside her window she could hear the rumblings of thunder far off. There was a storm brewing—like the storm she sensed was building in Gilles. She shivered, feeling strangely fearful, wondering if she should lock her door.
He had stared in fascination at her bosom during supper last night, a small muscle working in his jaw; this morning he had slipped his arm about her waist as she carried flowers from the garden. She had put down her basket and scissors and pushed his hand away.
“You had best visit Lucie,” she said with contempt.
“Should I?”
“Indeed yes. You would—regret Delphine.”
He had blanched at that and turned away, clearly recalling the humiliation of their last encounter. She had picked up her flowers and gone about her work, sure that she had cooled whatever ardor he had begun to feel again. Still, he did not like to be powerless—she knew that—and she stirred uneasily, remembering the look in his eyes.
She finished her hair and left the curling iron in the brazier. Anne-Marie could put it away in the morning, when the embers had smoldered out. She combed out her chignon, letting the back of her hair hang straight and loose, then went to the window, opening it to the night air, sniffing the tinge of moisture that blew from the sea, that promised a night of storm and fury. Even as she stood at the window the wind freshened, rattling the leaded panes of the casement, and a jagged knife of lightning ripped through the black sky. Nom de Dieu! Why did she feel such misgivings? Idly she began to plait her hair into a long braid, then jumped as a crash of thunder rent the air. She slammed the casement shut and turned, shaking, to see Gilles silhouetted in her doorway. In his hand he held a bottle of wine; when he closed the door and came toward her, staggering, she saw that the bottle was already nearly empty.
“Bitch,” he said softly, the word thick and slurred.
“Nom de Dieu, Gilles,” she snapped. “Have you come to torment me tonight?”
“And wherefore not? Do you not torment me? You are my wife—yet never mine! Never! In all these months, never mine. There is passion in you. There is fire! But not for me!”
“Go and find Lucie,” she said tiredly. “She will please you more than ever I could.”
“Bitch!” he said again, catching her wrist in a steellike grip. “Why not for me?”
“Because you disgust me!” she cried, tearing away from his grasp. “Because you are cruel and vicious and dishonest! Because you lie and cheat and make me steal for you. Because there is not one breath of goodness in your soul!” Her voice rose in fury, all the anger and hatred spilling out in a torrent, like the rain that had begun to beat furiously against the window. “Drunken pig—I spit on you!”
He pointed an accusing finger. “Look at you! Is that the only passion that can be aroused? Your foul rages?”
Her lip curled. “For you—yes. Always!” The shrieking wind echoed her fury.
He gulped the last of the wine and smashed the bottle into the empty fireplace, wiping his mouth carelessly across his sleeve. “And for him? Was there passion for him?”
“Go to the devil.”
His eyes were blazing. “What did he do? Did he kiss you—like this?” His arms shot out to imprison hers, dragging her roughly to him.
She tossed her head from side to side, avoiding the mouth that would take hers. “Damn your eyes! Let me go! I warn you, Gilles—”
He laughed drunkenly, holding her squirming body tightly against his own. “What will you do? Will you claw me, you tiger? Will you fight me, and struggle and cry out? Will you make me know at last that I married a woman of fire?” With a sideways wrench that upset her balance, he dragged her down to the floor and straddled her knees so she bucked helplessly beneath him, her nightdress riding up to her thighs. Then he held her wrists together over her rib cage.
“I shall make you wish you had never been born a man!” she panted, still struggling.
“No, my sweet. Not tonight.” With his free hand he pulled up the nightdress to her waist, wrapping it about her shoulders and arms, twisting it tightly so she lay entwined and entrapped in the folds of fabric, her upper torso imprisoned and helpless, her lower body bare. “Tonight you shall know I am more the man than he ever was—that villain I saw in your eyes each time you lay with me!”
“You dungheap! You filthy whoreson!” she cursed through clenched teeth, straining her muscles against the determined hands that had begun to pry her legs apart. With a cry she felt her strength give way as he
forced his knee between her legs. She struggled to sit up, but it was almost impossible with her arms folded helplessly before her and her knees spread wide. She went limp, overcome with disgust and lassitude. “You will never be the man that he was.”
“Bitch!” He slapped her face. She grunted in pain as the back of her head banged against the hard tiles of the floor. Outside, the thunder crashed and the wind howled. “What was he like?” he growled. “Was he handsome? Was he strong?” His voice rose in jealous fury, eyes glowing with a light that was almost madness. “Do you see him still in your dreams?” His glance went wildly about the room and stopped at the curling iron in its brazier on the vanity near him, in reach of his hand. He snatched it down and held it close to her face; she could feel the heat of the iron above her flesh. “Shall I burn him out of your eyes?” he whispered. She looked at him steadily, trying to keep from trembling, knowing he was drunk enough—and angry enough—to do her harm. He laughed, an ugly sound, and touched the hot iron for a second to her neck. She flinched, but bit her tongue to keep from crying out; she eyed him sternly, her voice the strong voice of reason.
“You are drunk, Gilles. In God’s name, go to your bed. This is folly. This is madness. You can only earn my hatred.”
“Not your eyes,” he said, as though he had not heard her. “They are too lovely. But mayhap,” his hand dropped to her loins, the hot iron passing dangerously near her belly, “so he may never give you pleasure again—”
Delphine held her breath, steeling herself, praying he was only bluffing. To her relief Gilles tossed aside the curling iron and began to weep and blubber, his words thick between sobs. “You’ll forget him tonight. You’ll see. Tonight—only Gilles—only Gilles—” He sniffled loudly and began to fumble with his breeches; then he leaned down and kissed her, his mouth wet on hers, reeking with wine. She stared at him open eyed, choking with disgust, knowing he’d rape her anyway, and hoping only that he would have done with her quickly. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “Close your eyes. Close your eyes.”
She laughed contemptuously. “I shall watch you make a fool of yourself.”
A great flash of lightning illuminated his haggard face. “Damn you! Close your eyes!” He clutched at the curls that hung over her forehead, lifting her head and banging it back onto the hard floor—once, twice. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, then closed, and she lay very still. He frowned and stood up, swaying slightly. Stooping, he lifted her in gentle arms and carried her to the bed, tenderly unwrapping the twisted nightdress and pulling it off her, stroking her naked limbs, spreading her hair like a golden halo on the pillow where she lay. Bending over her, he kissed her unconscious lips, then lifted her limp hand, guiding it to caress his cheeks, his mouth, while tears of pain streamed down his face. Then his visage darkened, his jaws clenched with remembered humiliation. He let go her flaccid arm and threw himself off the bed, glowing eyes darting furiously about the room to rest at last on the discarded nightdress. His hands tore savagely at it, ripping and rending in mad fury, as though the soft fabric were a living thing.
“Bitch!” he hissed, while the carpet before him filled with shreds of linen. “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!”
Delphine stirred in her bed, passing her hand across her eyes. Why did her head throb so, just behind her closed lids? She opened her eyes, blinking at the bright sunshine that streamed into the room. She tried to sit up, then groaned aloud at the hammer-beats within her brain. She closed her eyes again, unable to think, and rubbed at her face and neck. “Dieu du ciel!” she gasped aloud, her eyes springing open as her fingers touched the small raw blister on her neck. Gilles! Last night! Oh God, why could she not think clearly? Gingerly she touched the back of her head, feeling the tender swelling, the crusted blood on her scalp. That villain! It hurt too much to think. She closed her eyes again and let her mind drift, absorbing reality in small doses only as she could cope with it: the pounding in her head that clamored for supremacy, the twittering of birds beyond her window, the feel of the sheets against her naked skin. Her eyes flew open. But she had been wearing her nightdress last night! In dread she ran her hands over her body, exhaling in relief to find herself unviolated. Ah Dieu! She shuddered in horror that the thought had even crossed her mind. But—the whisper of a tiny voice—Gilles was capable of it, however much she had closed her eyes to the evil of the man.
She lifted her pounding head from the pillow and gasped at the sight of her torn nightdress. Dear Mother of God! She clutched her arms about her bosom, feeling Gilles’s hatred—so manifest in the shreds of her garment—like a pulsing wave of poison that was almost harder to endure than if he had raped her. She could not bear to look at them another moment. She struggled to sit up, the gorge rising in her throat, and staggered out of bed, clutching at the bedhangings for support. With shaking hands she gathered up every bit and piece of fabric—all her horror, all her shame in those tattered shreds—and hid them in a drawer of her vanity. Her head splitting, she barely tottered back to her bed, falling across it without the strength even to crawl between the sheets. Sweet Jesu! She could not stay another minute, another hour with such a monster! If only she could think. Perhaps if she closed her eyes for a little—Sighing, she pulled the coverlet around her and drifted off.
It was thus that Anne-Marie found her, curled up in the coverlet at the foot of her bed. “Madame!” She gasped in shock, holding up the bloody pillow. “What has happened?”
“Help me back to bed, Anne-Marie, and bring me a cup of wine. It is nothing. Monsieur and I—quarreled last night. I fell and struck my head. It is nothing.”
“Nothing?” Anne-Marie frowned, her fingers probing among the bloody tresses to find the still-oozing wound, her eyes noting the small burn on the tender flesh, the broken bottle in the hearth. Had it come to this? She had always found him a good master, though she was aware of his harshness to the apprentices. But that was natural—they were headstrong lads and needed to be molded. But his wife? A man had a right to beat his wife, of course—a few slaps on the rump to keep her in line—but not to brutalize her! Anne-Marie sighed. Well, it was none of her concern. She was too old to start looking for another position.
Clad in a fresh nightdress, Delphine leaned back against a clean pillow and sipped at the wine Anne-Marie had brought, feeling a bit of her strength returning. “Where—where is Monsieur Despreaux this morning?”
“I know not, Madame. He woke the stableboy in the midst of the storm last night—it was very late, and the wind howling like Satan, the boy said—and rode out into the tempest. He has not returned.” Her brow creased with concern. “Will you sleep again now, Madame? Please. You look so pale.”
Delphine hesitated. She was safe so long as Gilles had not returned. Still—
“I shall wake you should monsieur come home,” said Anne-Marie quickly.
Delphine nodded gratefully and closed her eyes. But when the old housekeeper had gone, she got out of bed and crossed to a small cabinet. Rummaging in a drawer, she withdrew her sheathed sea knife; only when it was tucked safely under her pillow did she allow herself to drift into defenseless sleep.
By afternoon she was feeling a little better, her headache subsiding, and she sat patiently while Anne-Marie cleaned the blood from her golden hair, and helped her to dress. But her brain was churning with thoughts. As long as Gilles remained away, there was time to decide what she must do. She could not stay—she would kill him if she did. But if she left with Robert, she would have to hide so Gilles could not find them, stay in seclusion until her father came home. She had not seen the cottage since the fire—there might be a corner of it yet standing. She would have to be careful about lighting a fire to cook or keep warm, lest someone see the smoke from afar and run and tell Gilles. The coins that she had would buy enough milk for Robert for a few weeks. As for herself, she would steal as much of Gilles’s food as she could carry away; she thought she could persuade Anne-Marie to give her the keys to the larder. It was a desper
ate plan, but she was desperate. Tucking her sea knife into her waist beneath her bodice (she would never go without it again, so long as Gilles lived), she set out for the cottage.
The beach bore the ravages of the storm, bits of seaweed and driftwood flung about, dead fish and washed-up mussels beginning already to stink under the warm sun. With eyes that had spent years gazing out over the vastnesses of the ocean, Delphine could see from far away that there was nothing but one or two charred timbers left standing of her father’s cottage. But she plodded on across the dunes, refusing to accept the testimony of her eyes until she stood before the scattered ashes that had once been home to her. Heavyhearted, she turned about and returned to Gilles’s house, deliberately avoiding the harbor of Dieppe. She could not bear to see that Olympie still had not returned.
Anne-Marie met her at the door. Monsieur was still away, but there was a man come to see her. She had left him in the garden.
“A gentleman?”
“No, Madame. One of the men who came last fall with Monsieur Fresnel your father.”
“Ah Dieu!” With a glad cry Delphine rushed to the garden, her heart filling with joy at the red-faced giant who turned to greet her. “Gunner!” she squealed, throwing herself into his arms. She kissed him joyously again and again until his rosy face darkened to crimson, then stepped back, grinning, her words tumbling over themselves in a rush to get out. “Did you come on Olympie? When did you make landfall? Where is my father? Is Michel well, that lazy lout? Have you missed me?”
“We—we landed yesterday morning and—”
“Rot and damnation!” she burst out, interrupting him. “Yesterday morning? And no word to me?” She stamped her foot angrily. “God’s blood! How could you—” then stopped, seeing his face. “Where is my father?” she whispered.
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