Marielle spent the next weeks in despair that deepened with every passing day. She trembled lest Gravillac discover her secret, and was grateful at least that her nausea was confined to the mornings, that she might sit at table with him without gagging over her food. She dreaded the moment she could no longer hide it from him. She might hope that he would then be content to be rid of her, but it seemed far more likely that he would kill her in his rage or, worse, delight in her misery and mock her condition.
And what of the child? Once, in the first few weeks at Quiot, sunk in black despair, she had thought briefly of flinging herself out the wide casement windows to the pavement below, ending once and for all this nightmare she endured, but she could not. It was contrary to everything she had ever been taught; it was against God’s will. How much worse to take the life of an innocent creature, the small spark of humanity growing within her womb. No. Though it brought her misery, she could do naught but persevere, for the sake of the child. She began to convince herself yet again that things would be well; he would be glad about the child, he would be kind. She knew he would not marry her—even to give the child a name, but mayhap he would let her go away, to Paris, or back to La Forêt. She might even persuade him to provide a small pension for his child. Yes, all would be well. Had he not made every effort these last weeks to please her, despite her coldness to him?
And then he struck her.
They had been strolling on the terrace in the cool of a June evening, a soft night that hinted at the summer to come. He had admired her in the blue silk gown she wore; it had belonged to his mother, he said, though of course she had worn it with many more petticoats and a stiff farthingale underneath, as was the fashion then.
“And was she pretty?” she asked, surprised. He had not spoken of his mother before, though he mentioned his father often, in tones that made it quite clear that father and son had been at odds with one another.
“She was lovely,” he said with a smile. “A saint. I could always count on her to soften up my father when I came home after some escapade. She always allowed me to do what I wanted, knowing it would please me, then kept my secrets from the Noble Sire!”
And did she also allow his childish tantrums? wondered Marielle to herself. “She must have loved you very deeply,” she said aloud. “I wonder your father did not sometimes feel excluded. Did he love her very much?”
“What does it matter?” he said. His voice sounded odd in the darkness; she wished she might see his face. “What does it matter?” he repeated. “She was his wife!”
“And that is as it should be!”
“Little fool!” he roared. “What do you know?” and swung at her with such savagery, striking the side of her head with his fist, that she fell heavily to the ground and lay there, gasping for breath while tears of pain sprang to her eyes. Immediately he was contrite, and bent to help her. Angrily she shook off his hands and struggled, unaided, to her feet, swaying slightly and clutching at the balustrade for support. Her head was spinning, her thoughts in a turmoil. She pitied him and wondered what kind of mother the Marquise de Gravillac could have been—to deny her son nothing…nothing…except first place in her heart.
She held the side of her head where it still throbbed, kneading her palm against her temple to ease the pain. Dear God, he could have killed her! She gasped. He could as easily have struck at her belly and harmed the baby! And what if the child were a boy? Would he hate him? Would he compete with his own son as his father had done? Ah, no! She shuddered.
“I am going to my room,” she said, drawing herself up and trying to still the quiver in her voice. “My head hurts! Pray do not trouble me tonight!” She marched determinedly up the terrace to the house, but her heart thudded in fear that he might come raging after her to strike her again, to drag her to her bed, scorning her plea for solitude. He walked slowly behind her up to the château. As they reached the large glass doors of the salon, she turned. By the candlelight from the room she saw his face. The look he cast on her surprised and astonished her; she saw tenderness, concern, remorse. She felt bewildered, confused, like a ship on a stormy sea, buffeted and tossed one moment, deceptively becalmed the next. She had to leave this place, or go mad.
Chapter Eight
Marielle sat on the terrace with Molbert, the backgammon table between them. She found it hard to concentrate on the game; her mouth was dry and her hands felt so clammy that the dice seemed reluctant to leave her damp palms. Again she questioned Molbert, the same questions she had posed over and over for the last week, since, reading a grain of sympathy in his face, she had begged his help for her escape. Would the rope ladder be put under her bed during supper? And what of the rope leading from the balustrade down the embankment to the river? Would Gravillac notice it if they strolled the terrace after supper? Had he looked today? Was the boat waiting below, hidden in the rushes? Ah, Dieu! Why must it be tonight, with the moon bright and full? Molbert explained impatiently yet again that all was in readiness, that tonight was the only time, since he was leaving for Paris after supper. And besides, he had not wanted to be anywhere near Quiot when the master found out she was gone. And what about the payment she had promised him? He was not about to risk his neck for nothing, no matter how sorry he felt for her!
She put her hands up to her neck, and unclasped the pearls she wore.
“Oh, no, my lady!” he exclaimed. “Those pearls belonged to his mother! Unless you want him coming after you, you’d best leave them here when you go! If I take them, and he finds out, he’d nail my thumbs to the stable and skin my hide! Oh, no. Not those pearls!”
“But I have nothing else to give you!” said Marielle in dismay.
“What about your ring? It’s gold, is it not? I could sell it or melt it down—it’s worth something to me!”
Biting her lip, Marielle twisted André’s ring on her finger. It was worth a great deal more to her, but if it remained on her finger, she would be trapped here at Quiot.
“André, forgive me!” she whispered, a tear catching in her throat. Pulling the ring off her finger, she thrust it quickly at Molbert; it was best done before she had a chance to change her mind.
Supper was an eternity. Renard was jaunty and spirited, filled with amusing stories, plying her with more wine and keeping her at table till she thought she must scream with impatience. Never had she been more anxious for him to come to her bed and leave it quickly, for her mind was already carrying her down from the window and to the river, and from thence to Lyon and—God willing—Claude. She felt a momentary doubt. If Claude were not there? If she could not find him, where would she go? How would she live? What matter? ’Twere better to beg in the streets of Lyon, or be a whore, than endure another day in this prison.
Though she chafed with impatience, she lingered overlong at her toilette, suddenly reluctant to have Louise leave too quickly. Dear Louise! Marielle had told her nothing of her plans; Gravillac would be fearsomely cruel if he thought Louise had any part in them. Marielle had come to love the older woman; she was her friend, her comfort, her mother. She said goodnight, then called her back and hugged her tightly, while Louise shook her head at this excess of feeling and wondered if the girl had had too much wine at supper.
She was glad that Gravillac seemed impatient too. He made love to her perfunctorily, indifferently, seeming as anxious to leave her company as she was to see him go. She heard his footsteps plod across the hall, and his door slam. Good! That meant that in all likelihood he would sleep now, rather than going below to walk the terrace as he was sometimes wont to do on these warm summer nights.
Swiftly she extinguished the last few candles and dashed to the open casement. She was in luck. The moon was behind a thick roll of clouds. If she made haste, she could reach the river before the sky cleared. She hurried to the armoire and rummaged through until she found her own clothes, the homespuns she had worn to Quiot. She donned them quickly, tucking up the heavy skirt on one side to free her feet for climbing.
Under the bed she found the rope ladder. Bless Molbert! She tied one end of the heavy knotted cord to the window frame, and played out the other end to the ground, holding her breath lest one of the heavy knots should swing against a windowpane below, and shatter the glass noisily. It was a pity she could not use the door and the staircase, but the door was heavy and creaked, and the sound would be too close to Gravillac’s room. And there might be a servant about in the passageway. Best not to chance it. Carefully she swung her leg over the sill and eased herself out the window, her feet finding the first of the knots. She hung suspended there for a moment, listening. The warm night was alive with sounds. Crickets chirped loudly, and from the river came the croaking and singing of a chorus of frogs; their harmonies carried clearly through the night air, heavy with the scents of linden and honeysuckle. She took two more steps down, her feet searching out the vital knots, then stopped, gasping. One of her heavy shoes had slipped off her foot, and went clattering to the pavement below. Ah, Dieu! Surely someone would have heard that! She strained her ears and peered into the darkness. Nothing. With a sigh of relief, she continued her descent, wincing as the rough rope scraped her bare foot. Reaching the terrace at last, she dropped to her knees, searching frantically for the missing shoe. She cast a glance at the sky; the clouds seemed ready to break, the moon would soon illuminate the whole garden. She would have to hurry to reach the grassy terrace overlooking the river. At last! Her fingers touched the shoe, and she slipped it quickly back onto her foot. She sped through the garden, wishing Molbert had told her where on the balustrade he would tie the rope; she would have to search the whole long line of balusters in the dark. She began to run her hands along the stone railing, seeking, anxious.
“You will not find it tonight, I fear!”
She whirled in panic as the moon burst from the clouds, silvering the implacable form of Renard de Gravillac. His eyes were unreadable. She choked back a sob of disappointment.
“In the name of God,” she begged piteously, “let me go!”
“Ah, no, my dove, I have not tired of you yet!”
She drew herself up, proud, imperious. “Then know I loathe and despise you! Your every touch makes my flesh crawl! I pray each night that you will not come to me, and when you do, I am filled with disgust and horror. I can only endure you by praying to le Bon Dieu for strength, by dreaming of André, while you stain the virtue that was meant for him alone! Do you think I did aught but laugh at you—playing the eager suitor, making a mockery of love?”
Seething, he grabbed her fiercely by the shoulders, his rage boundless. Strangely, she felt no fear, only contempt.
“And will you beat me now, you coward, you debaucher of women?” she spat, her voice heavy with scorn.
He seized her fiercely by one arm and began to drag her toward the château, his brain whirling.
Damn the wench, he thought. Her words stung him, wounded his pride. He had been kind to her, gentle, far more patient than he had ever been with any woman. And yet she lay there, night after night, cold and unresponsive, avoiding his kisses and making him feel foolish, frustrating his every attempt to arouse her. And there was something more. He had begun to look forward to her company at supper as much as he hungered for her in bed. There was something so honest, so direct in her temperament that she was incapable of dissembling. Just as she never hid her revulsion in the bedroom (which hurt him mightily), she could not hide her enthusiasm and interest when they engaged in spirited discussions. She was wise and well-spoken, and he knew that somehow his admiration had long since deepened into feelings that were new to him. He had wanted to please her. He had looked at her soft belly, her nurturing breasts, and wondered if she could bear him sons. He had even toyed with the idea of marrying her. Now here she was trying to leave, heaping scorn upon him, challenging his rage. He felt helpless, impotent. Well, by God, he’d make her pay, and pay again! If he could not win her love, he would see that she played his game! No slip of a girl was going to confound him, wrench his heart, scorn his manhood!
He dragged her, protesting, up the wide stairs, pushing aside a worried Louise who, filled with dread, had run to the landing at the first sounds of trouble in the garden. He swept up a lighted candelabra in the hall, and pulled Marielle to her room, flinging her inside with venom in his eyes. Then he put down the candles, locked the door firmly and turned on Marielle, his face a mask of cold rage and vengeance. Now she knew fear, as she never had before, fear for herself, for the baby. She longed to take back the words she had hurled at him outside, words that seemed not to have hurt him, but only inflamed his fury. Swiftly, he tore off his clothes and stood naked before her; his power and force were unmistakable.
“Well?” he said, in a voice that was cold and hard, dangerously so. “Well?” It was a command, not a question.
Her eyes searched his face, terror gnawing at her insides, as she sought even a spark of pity in that dark visage. There was no pity there, no warmth. She suddenly felt beaten, numbed. With trembling fingers, she loosed her garments and let them fall to the floor, feeling helpless and vulnerable. His desire as strong as his anger, he grabbed her roughly in his arms and bent to her mouth. She turned her face away; his kiss caught her on her cheek, now stained with shame and humiliation.
“No! Curse you!” he roared. “I will have your kisses!” The words were measured, angry, determined. One hand went around her waist, pressing her body so tightly to his loins that she shuddered at the contact. The other hand swept behind her head, clutching savagely at her curls and pulling her head back until she gasped in pain. He took her mouth then, cruelly, possessively, forcing her lips apart and pressing hard, harder, while she felt his passion mounting. Abruptly, he picked her up and threw her roughly on the bed. Ripping her legs apart, he entered her with brutal force. She cried out. She was used to his lovemaking by now—repellent, distasteful, something to be ignored, endured, that was all. But this was different. There was no love here, no ardor—only hatred, the desire to punish. He took her viciously, cruelly, and when she tried feebly to wriggle away, he put his hands beneath her hips and forced her body ever closer to his heaving loins, till she felt she must scream out in torment.
It was a night filled with pain and terror, of unspeakable acts and brutal assaults. When he left her chamber in the morning, she prayed for death, that she might forever be joined with André.
July was hot, the air heavy and close. Not a breeze blew from the river, not a breath stirred the ripening wheat. Marielle spent her days like a sleepwalker, numb, defeated. All the spirit seemed to have drained out of her. The heat, her existence, the child—they sapped every ounce of strength from her body. Molbert had returned from Paris and by the look on his face, the way he avoided her eyes, she knew he had betrayed her. She demanded André’s ring back, but he insisted he no longer had it, and besides, he had done what she paid him to do—the ladders had been there, hadn’t they? She had not the strength to argue; she hardly had tears left to weep anymore.
She still had the freedom of Quiot during the day, though she was watched more carefully, and at night Gravillac locked her in her room, with a guard posted on the terrace below. She and Renard no longer dined together, and when he came to her bedchamber the scenes were repetitions of the night she had tried to escape. Each time, some small new humiliation, some fresh cruelty, until she felt stripped of her dignity and pride, and obeyed his orders like a whipped dog. She no longer wept; she no longer blushed.
She began to wonder how long she could deceive him about her condition. It had been easy enough at first to put him off for a few days every month, claiming female disability so he would not guess. Now she had begun to fill out slightly, her breasts fuller, her hips rounder and softer. She feared for the child when Gravillac should notice the changes, and one thought tormented her to the core of her being: he would never let her go. Never.
Gravillac lived in his own world of torment, chafing and dissatisfied. He sought in vain a sense of victory,
a feeling of triumph in his power over her. Did she not do his bidding? Did she not bend to his every whim, surrendering her mouth to his kisses, though hatred burned in her eyes? Still his discontent gnawed at him. He knew, with a certainty that only increased his anger and cruelty, that though she submitted without a struggle, he was—for the first time in his life—being denied what he wanted. He could break her spirit and ravage her body. He could never have her heart.
Chapter Nine
He seemed to swim up from a great depth, his body on fire, his lungs reluctant to function. He gulped great mouthfuls of air, feeling the searing pain race through his shoulder and end in a throbbing at the base of his neck. With great difficulty he opened his eyes. There were stripes, blue and red and gold, nothing but stripes above his head. It seemed peculiar, yet vaguely familiar. He frowned, trying to clear his thoughts, closed his eyes, then opened them again. The stripes were gone. In their place was a face, a young grinning face bisected by large mustaches, the whole surmounted by flowing curls in the most preposterous shade of orange. The face was familiar too, but recollection took too much effort, and his head ached. He groaned aloud. The grin deepened.
“Mon Dieu, André, I thought you would sleep through the whole month of May!”
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