Janequin smiled at her coming, then froze for a moment, his eyes flickering to see André following close behind. Then he smiled again, shaking off his suspicions. “We have all been waiting for you, Delphine.” Tucking his hand under her elbow, he led her to the smooth lawn where the bowlers and half a score of spectators were assembled. “I must warn you, ma chère,” he laughed, “there are several wagers already today that the gentlemen will defeat the ladies!”
She feigned astonishment. “What? Is it so? René?” She turned to Rannel, who stood with a young duchesse. “Would you wager against me?”
“Goddess,” he bowed, “in the game of love you are peerless; the game of bowls is another matter!”
“For shame!”
“I will put ten crowns on you, Madame Despreaux.”
She turned stiffly. “Monsieur de Crillon. I am flattered!”
“Is there any game you cannot play well?” There was more sadness than malice in André’s voice.
Louise de Trémont smiled primly at Janequin. “I must betray my sex and wager for Monsieur de Janequin. You were always an accomplished bowler, Bernard. Do you remember that summer in Blois?”
“I remember I was young,” he said dryly. “Save your coins, Louise! Come, gentlemen, shall we decide who is to roll first?”
Just then a booming voice shouted from across the gardens. “Sink and scuttle me, Gosse! Is it you? Be hanged, Michel, but it is our Gosse!”
Delphine whirled at the voice. Lumbering toward her across the lawn was Gunner, his hair more grizzled than ever, his rolling gait strange and out of keeping amid the manicured gardens and neat paths. Michel, a little less gangly now, strode along beside him.
“Gosse!” he shouted, and ran to Delphine to pick her up and sweep her around in a joyous circle.
“Put me down,” she said, barely able to find her voice.
“Be hanged if ever I thought to see you again in this world!” laughed Gunner. “Come and give us a kiss!”
Delphine ran a hand nervously across her mouth. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
Gunner frowned, his open face creased in dismay. “Be you ashamed of your shipmates, Gosse?”
“Gosse? Brat?” Louise’s sharp voice cut the air like a knife. “Nom de Dieu, André! Why did you never tell us Delphine was your famous—sailing companion?”
“Goddess! You?” Rannel’s voice was deep with shock and disappointment. “A common—”
“Common—what?” she spat, her eyes burning. “Mother of God! Am I less a woman because of my birth?”
“La, André!” laughed the duchesse. “Is that the temper you spoke of?”
“I cannot believe it,” said Rannel, tugging nervously at his lovelock. “You!” he said to Michel. “Who is this woman?”
“But that’s our Gosse! The best shipmate a sailor ever had!” At this several of the women began to laugh in derision.
“Did she dress as a man?”
“How else climb the rigging?” said Michel, mystified at the laughter.
“And the swearing?” sneered Rannel.
“Rot and damnation,” growled Gunner. “What sailor doesn’t?”
A fat marquis began to chuckle, his belly bobbing up and down. “The famous—and mysterious—oh, what a jest!—Madame Despreaux—nothing but a—”
“A ship’s brat!” shrieked the duchesse in delight, and they laughed uproariously.
“André, you should have told us long since,” chided Louise. “The joke is too delicious to keep to yourself!”
Like a cornered animal, Delphine turned around and around, seeking a spark of warmth among the smirks of derision, the sneers of contempt. Gunner and Michel stared in unhappy confusion and Janequin’s face was stiff with shock. André stepped toward her and put a hand on her arm.
“Delphine—” he said softly.
She shook him off. “Are you revenged at last, André? Have you waited until now to destroy me? Listen!” she cried, whirling to the guests. “You shall see Despreaux in her best role—ship’s brat! Will that please you, you poxy dungheap, Rannel? And yes, Madame la Duchesse—I wore breeches! And had more between my legs than you shall ever have with that pisspoor husband of yours! Look you now!” She bent over and reached between her legs, pulling the back of her skirt forward and up and tucking the fabric firmly in her waist to form a kind of loose pantaloons. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her bodice. “Come, Monsieur le Marquis, you fat whoreson, lend me your sword! Will you not see the whole of the show? Lend me your sword, that I may deal with this son of a dog Crillon!” She snatched the marquis’s rapier from its scabbard and slashed the air with it. “A lousy blade for a lousy coward,” she sneered. “No balance, no heft—but it will serve. Now, André, you scurvy knave, will you see what new tricks I have learned?” She made a pass at André. “Draw your sword, you stinking bilge rat!”
“Delphine, please—” he said quietly.
“Curse your eyes!” she cried, her fury mounting. “I am Gosse! The ship’s brat! Now draw your sword!”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Delphine. Ma chère,” said Janequin. “Come away.”
She was almost beside herself now, her anguish and humiliation mixing with her rage. “Don’t you want to see what you nearly married, Bernard? Damn you, Crillon! Draw your sword!” She lunged forward, the point of her blade just touching André’s wrist. A small spot of crimson appeared on his skin.
“Don’t, Delphine.”
“Gosse, you scum!” she shrieked, and attacked. This time he flinched as the blade pierced the soft flesh of his thigh. When she lunged again, her rapier flashing, he sidestepped and held up his elbow to ward off the blow; the slashing blade tore through his doublet and shirt and bit into his skin.
“Damn you!” he said, and drew his sword, parrying her next thrust. “Will you come to your senses? I have no wish to—Merde!” he swore, as she broke through his defense, her sword point tearing the front of his doublet.
She was weeping tears of helpless rage now. “I’ll kill you!” she screamed. “I’ll kill you!” Again and again she thrust at him, her fury driving her, until he was forced to fight for his very life against that murderous blade. At last, with a great sob she lowered her arm, her fury giving way to grief.
André dropped his sword and took a step toward her, his eyes warm with understanding. “My poor Gosse—”
She stared at him, the bitter tears pouring down her cheeks, seeing the handsome face, the deep blue eyes that had haunted her, destroyed her marriage, destroyed her peace of mind for two long years now. “Be damned to hell!” she cried and, lifting her blade, slashed at that beautiful face.
André clutched at his cheek as the knife point ripped open the flesh, and sank to one knee, blood gushing from between his fingers. Louise shrieked in terror and the duchesse gasped aloud, fanning herself with trembling fingers. André sat down heavily on the grass, feeling his head spinning. Gunner and Michel were suddenly beside him, easing him down, pressing on the cut edges of the flesh to stanch the flow of blood. Gunner looked as though he were about to cry.
“Did we do wrong, André? We were so longing to see our old Gosse. Be hanged, but she’s a fine wench that Master Fresnel would be proud of—” He stopped to wipe away a tear. “Did we do wrong?” he said again, his face twisted in grief.
Janequin knelt in front of André. “I’ve sent for a surgeon, monsieur.”
André nodded his thanks, feeling unexpectedly weak, and closed his eyes, drifting through a haze of pain and light-headedness, barely conscious save for a nagging gadfly of a thought that would not quit his spinning brain. “Gosse,” he mumbled, and opened his eyes, struggling to sit up despite Gunner’s restraining hands.
But when he looked around the circle of concerned faces that bent over him, wide-eyed with horror and shock, he could not see the one dear face he sought.
Gosse was not to be found.
Chapter Twenty-two
The sea gulls wheeled and shrieked overhead, swooping down to pluck their supper from ocean and shore, dropping the mussels on the sharp rocks again and again until the shells cracked and disgorged their tender morsels. The sun hung like a scarlet disk on the edge of the sea, turning the sky and the waves a glowing pink. After the heat of the day, the breezes blew fresh and cool from the ocean, whipping up little whitecaps that broke softly against the sand.
André threaded his horse through the dune grass and reeds to the top of the rise. He would be able to see much of the coastline from here. The tavern keeper in Honfleur had said the cottage was isolated, set on a promontory, a high point of land projecting into the sea beyond the coastline. It would be what Delphine would have chosen.
He reined in his horse for a moment and took off his plumed hat, rubbing his sweaty forehead across his sleeve. Replacing the hat, he touched his cheek gingerly, feeling the strip of adhesive plaster that protected the silk sutures which bound up the cut edges of his wound. Damn! he thought in annoyance. Already it was beginning to itch. It was little more than a week, and the cut would heal without corruption—thanks be to God—but the desire to scratch at the puckering flesh was driving him mad. Urging his mount on once again, he sighted the cottage at last, where the coast swung out into a rocky headland. The beach on either side of the promontory was wider than the rest of the stretch—two pale, sandy crescents that seemed to bracket the spit of land.
He sighed. He was fortunate to have found the cottage so easily. He had hardly waited for the surgeon at Fontainebleau to finish his work before he and the Duc de Janequin were off and away for Paris. But it was too late. Delphine had already fled.
He had paced the vestibule of her hôtel, looking impatiently at Janequin, while a distressed Charlotte had wrung her hands in alarm at these two madmen who had invaded her lady’s home.
“Where could she have gone?” he asked Janequin.
“She goes away oftentimes. There is a house in the country—”
“Where?”
“I know not.”
“Name of God!” cried André. “You pay her bills, you are betrothed to her—and you know not where she goes when she is away from Paris?”
“You are perhaps bolder than I, my friend. I never wanted to ask. I feared she journeyed to see a lover.”
André looked shamefaced. “Forgive me. I can scarcely reproach you for that. But have you no idea where she went?”
“It was on the coast. I know that for a certainty.”
André turned to Charlotte. “Do you know where madame goes?”
She bobbed nervously. “No, monsieur. She was very—discreet about her dealings—as well you know.” The caustic innuendo was not lost on André. “Only the coachman knows the place, and he always stays with her until she returns.”
André frowned. “Dieppe?” he said, half to himself. “It was where she lived with her father. Could it be Dieppe?” he asked Charlotte.
“I know not. It was near to Dieppe, I think, for the coachman talked of a—lady friend—he had there. Madame often received letters. I think they came from Normandy, but I cannot be sure.”
André turned to Janequin. “Honfleur? Saint Valéry-en-Caux? They are close by.”
Janequin shook his head. “No. It could not be.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I—have—sent inquiry once or twice, when—jealousy got the better of me—to Honfleur and Saint Valéry and Dieppe—and half a dozen other towns in the district. There was no Delphine Despreaux.”
André looked thoughtful. “Tell me, did she—love Despreaux?”
“No. I think she despised him. I could never understand why she had married him. He treated her damnably, as far as I could tell. And he was a thief besides.”
“Then I’ll wager if she is to be found in Saint Valéry or Honfleur or any other village nearby, it will be as Delphine Fresnel, or even Copain. She would choose a name that was dear to her.”
“Would it then be Crillon?” said Janequin softly.
“I know not.” André sighed. “I have brought her so much grief, I think she would choose the devil’s name before mine.”
“I pray that it be so,” said Janequin, “for my sake.” He clasped his hands together. “Bring her back—to me, if you can.”
André moved along the top of the rise, looking for a break in the dunes that would lead him easily to the beach. His intuition had been right. Honfleur had been only the second village he had visited, asking for a Madame Fresnel, a Madame Copain. Yes, the tavern keeper had said, there was a Madame Fresnel who had bought a house near the shore. Kept to herself. No one saw her very much. Went away a great deal, though someone lived in the house, it was said. Maybe a servant. He had given André directions, then beamed in pleasure at the coins that were pressed into his hand.
André frowned, recalling his conversation with Janequin. Why had Delphine married Despreaux if he had been such a villain? Gosse had loved the sea. Why had she left it? She said her father had died in an accident at sea—did the reason lie there? But surely Gunner, as the new master of Olympie, would have been delighted to welcome her aboard. He shook his head. What had turned the happy and open Gosse into the artificial, angry, suspicious Delphine? She had not seemed like a creature who needed worldly goods for her happiness. Perhaps the answer lay here, in this desolate stretch of coastland.
His heart leaped in his breast. On the strip of beach beyond the cottage a figure was pacing slowly back and forth. Even from here, with her sweet body clothed in somber garments, it was impossible to mistake Delphine. She seemed deep in thought, her golden head bent, her shoulders drooping with unhappiness.
The horse descended noiselessly to the beach; it was not until André was level with Delphine, and at some hundred yards, that she glanced up and saw him. A look of panic crossed her face and she turned away from him, fleeing across the sand, her hands clutching at her skirts to speed her escape.
“Delphine!” he called, spurring his horse forward.
She looked over her shoulder for a moment, her eyes wide with dismay, then continued her flight. But though she was fleet of foot, he had soon bridged the gap; tossing off his hat, he leaped from his horse and tackled her, so they fell together onto the warm sand.
“Let me go!” she shrieked, struggling furiously. “You vile—you—let me go!” She bucked and kicked, pushing up with tight-clenched fists against his chest, twisting and writhing to pull away. Grunting, he managed at last to straddle her body, which kept her in one place at least; with some difficulty he grabbed at one wrist and then the other, pinning her hands to the sand beside her head.
“Damn it,” he gasped, fighting for breath, “I am too old for these incessant battles! Will you be still and listen to me?”
Knowing that further struggle was hopeless, she lay still beneath him, her body going limp in resignation. Her mouth twisted with bitterness, angry tears filling her eyes. “Will you not leave me one corner of the world where I may belong?”
“Delphine—”
She closed her eyes, letting the tears flow, giving way to her grief and despair. “Go away,” she sobbed, her voice shaking. “I can no longer call the sea my home. I cannot return to Paris. Go away and forget Delphine. Leave me a shred of dignity. Leave me a last refuge!”
“Delphine. My dearest Delphine, look at me.” He waited until she had opened her eyes, then released one of her hands and gently dabbed at her wet cheeks, his fingers soft and loving. “I did not bring Gunner and Michel to Fontainebleau. I would not hurt you so. It was Louise de Trémont, filled with jealousy and envy, who meant to disgrace you and gain Bernard for herself.” He moved off her body and got to his knees, helping Delphine to sit up beside him. “Nom de Dieu! Did I not tell you I searched for you and could find no trace? But I searched for Gosse. Louise, knowing I had sailed on Olympie, searched for the ship and found the truth. Poor Gunner is heartbroken, thinking he has brought you grief.”
She buried her face in her hands. “What does it matter? I am ruined in any event.”
“No. Come back to Paris. Marry Janequin, if that is your wish.”
“He would not see me again, I’ll wager.”
“No. His last words to me were to bring you back. I was to tell you that—Delphine or Gosse—he wants you as his bride. He loves you very dearly, you know.”
“Ah Dieu!” she cried. “And he would suffer every moment that the court mocked his duchesse!”
André began to laugh. Delphine looked at him in shocked surprise. Scowling, she rose to her feet and would have stalked off, but he stood up in his turn, clasping her hand in his so she could not flee. “You will return to Paris in triumph,” he said, smiling. “Monsieur le Cardinal Richelieu has heard of your skill with a rapier, and is most anxious to see a demonstration of your talent.” He touched at his wound. “With less—disastrous results this time, God willing!”
She gaped in astonishment, wiping the tears from her face. “I cannot believe it!”
“The court is fickle, but a woman of beauty and spirit is always to be admired. Even that popinjay Rannel—having recovered from his initial surprise—”
“The snobbish prig!” she hissed.
“Indeed. But now he is telling the whole court that he divined all along that the matchless La Déesse was a more extraordinary creature than anyone else suspected!”
“Damn his hide! I shall hang him by his lovelock!” said Delphine, then smiled sheepishly at the ferocity of her own words.
He held both her hands. “How gladsome to see you smile again. Go back to Paris and your triumph. Marry Janequin. Marry Rannel, for aught I care! Only be happy. I see such pain in your eyes, and I suffer to think that—all unknowing—I may have put it there. If marrying Janequin will take the grief away, then I would see you as his bride, though it break my own heart. My dear love, I long to see Gosse again—free, untamed, joyous. Do as you wish, only be happy. Let me know you are happy.”
Delphine Page 27