PART III
The Awakening
Chapter Twelve
André strode along the wide corridor that led to his bedchamber. Mon Dieu, but he was tired! After a day of riding the countryside, he was ready for fresh clothes, a good supper. He passed Marielle’s door quickly, glad to see that it was closed. As he neared the sitting room that separated his room from hers, he glanced through the open door. It was a fine evening, the sun still glowing amber in the sky, and the large windows had been thrown open to the breezes, so the sheer gauze curtains rippled gently. He stopped for a moment, then entered. He had forgotten how much he liked this room, with its gilded paneling, delicate frescoes and pale blue ceiling strewn with gold stars. For the last two weeks he had felt like an exile from his own home. By choice, perhaps, but an exile nonetheless. He crossed to the window and leaned out, breathing deeply, letting the calm and the beauty of Vilmorin fill his soul. Since that terrible day they had brought Marielle here, borne on a litter, her eyes dark and tearless and unreadable, he had spent as little time as possible in his own home. True, Marielle passed most of her days in her chamber, in the company of that woman Louise, but he was reluctant to risk even a chance encounter; thus he had avoided this room, since both his bedchamber and hers opened into it by small doors concealed in the paneling. Perhaps if Marielle had already gone to bed he would take his supper here; it was such a lovely night, and the view from these windows, across the shallow grassy terraces to the wide and placid river, was the finest in Vilmorin. He turned, meaning to send for Clothilde and his supper, then he frowned.
A large velvet armchair had been drawn up to one of the windows, and curled up there, fast asleep, her head dropped to one shoulder, was Marielle. No doubt she had come to admire the view as well. He contemplated her face. It was the first time he had really looked at her since that morning at Quiot. After that he had fled her company, seeking refuge in riding, working the fields—anything to avoid her tears and the cold silence between them. Now he was free to look at her undetected for a while. He felt a sudden pang, remembering how he had watched her sleeping at La Forêt and lost his heart—it seemed like a lifetime ago. Her hair was loose and full; for the first time he noticed how it curled around her cheeks and forehead, the soft tendrils seeming to cling to her velvet skin. Her eyelashes were long and thick, and lay on the pink roundness of her cheeks; her nose in profile was delicate and straight, with just the slightest tilt at its tip, which gave it an elfin quality. The fullness of her lips, soft and rosy and parted slightly as she slept, made his heart stop. He was minded to bend down as she slumbered and take that lovely mouth for his very own. His very own! Gravillac had taken those lips, and more! The thought curdled the desire within him, and he saw her as just another woman, no different from the rest, playing with a man, giving when she wanted to give, using a cloak of innocence to get what she wanted. Wasn’t that how Clothilde had beguiled him into her bed? And he had thought Marielle so special, so uncorruptible. He had promised her marriage, given her his heart and his love, and she had denied him her body. What temptation had Renard dangled before her to win what he, André, could not? He could hardly have offered her marriage, knowing André yet lived, but if she had truly thought André dead, perhaps she was minded to become the Marquise de Gravillac, and was willing to chance the giving of her favors as against an eventual marriage. Renard was darkly handsome, and charming enough when he wanted to be, and André remembered with a pang of jealousy and regret that he would have seduced her himself but for his faith in her purity. His thoughts tortured him. Surely she must have been truly innocent at La Forêt, the shy maiden she had seemed to be. If not, he had married a stranger! And even if she had been what he thought then, it was clear he had lost that Marielle, lost her to a man who dressed her like a princess and lavished her with gifts. He felt his heart go cold. He could play that game as well! If Renard had bought her, he was prepared to match the price! He had already instructed Clothilde to bring in merchants and seamstresses from the village of Vouvray to see to all her needs, and had sent some of the finer Crillon jewels to be cleaned and reset. A man had his pride, after all—if she wished to be kept like a courtesan, he would show her he could afford to be more lavish than Gravillac. And without demanding payment in bed in exchange!
He thought then of Clothilde. It was clear he could hardly visit her bed either. With Marielle in the château, the situation could be awkward. And besides, he could not take advantage of the poor girl. She had been so terribly disappointed, and tried to hide it, when he had returned with Marielle; it was obvious that she was in love with him. It would be cruel to continue the affair now. He sighed deeply, filled with self-pity. A wife who cared for another man, a housekeeper who cared too much. Caught between the two, where was a man to find his pleasures? Cursing silently, he left the room. The evening no longer seemed pleasant.
She was glad the baby was gone. It would make forgetting that much easier. Then why did she weep so? It seemed that the smallest incident reduced her to tears, charging her emotions with a grief she could hardly explain, confounding André and deepening the gulf between them. Louise said it was just because of her condition, and would pass as her strength returned, but it was so difficult in the meantime. How could she reach André, touch him, when the slightest glance from those cold blue eyes, implacable and unforgiving, would send her to her room in a flurry of tears? She longed to talk to him, to tell him how dear he was to her, but he seemed to avoid her company, spending time with her only when Louise or Clothilde was present, or when his friend Jean-Auguste rode over from his château to while away an afternoon. Then he was polite, civil, a kindly stranger. He smiled, spoke to her, put his arm casually around her waist—but it was a sham, a mockery. The smile was cold, the voice was hollow and the encircling arm was simply to establish ownership for the world at large. Otherwise he was away most of the time, inspecting his vineyards, collecting rents and taxes. She was surprised when tradespeople began to appear with clothing, perfume, lovely things she had never dreamed to own; André himself had given her a magnificent diamond necklace crowned with a glowing emerald. Delighted, she tried to thank him, but the icy eyes made it clear that for him the giving was joyless, merely his obligation to her position as mistress of Vilmorin.
Under Louise’s gentle care, she slowly regained her strength. Until now, she had passed most of her days in her bedchamber, or the lovely sitting room that adjoined or the gardens that overlooked the river Loire. André never dined with her, so she took most of her meals in her room, except when Narbaux came to visit and André made a great show of their closeness. Now she began to explore this estate of which she was mistress.
She was struck at once by the contrast between Vilmorin and Quiot. The latter had been aloof and proud, built for show; grand, certainly, compared to the ancient stones of La Forêt, but a cold, unwelcoming place.
Vilmorin was different. Perhaps it was the valley, gently rolling hills clothed in tender green, or the placid river, wide and glassy, that murmured along the stones near its grassy banks. The air had a sweetness that was almost palpable, shimmering and golden under a clear blue sky. The château was old, built nearly a hundred years ago during the reign of Francis I, when the aristocracy of France had first discovered the beauty of the valley. It was like a fortress built for toy soldiers, with miniature turrets and rounded towers, long airy galleries and pointed roofs. It was a large château, but it was set so perfectly in the narrow valley—as though it had grown there, its golden stones the color of pale amber—that it gave one a sense of warmth and intimacy. Within, the rooms were large, their walls covered in plaster frescoes or wood paneling, or hung with tapestries and tooled leather from Spain. Marielle took especial delight in the ceilings, beamed and gilded and painted, striped and flowered…she had never seen such lovely rooms. Above the fireplace in each room was carved the Crillon coat of arms, the same lion and hound and grapes that were etched into the ring on her finger.
At first she thought to begin meeting him as he came from the fields, letting her presence indicate her interest in what he did, but as often as not Clothilde had already climbed the path to the vineyards to meet him with a flagon of ale, and they came back down together, laughing, the girl bent attentively to his every word. Clothilde made her uneasy. She was an efficient housekeeper, careful, competent, devoted to André and Vilmorin, but there was something about her attitude that made Marielle feel like an intruder, and a provincial one at that. She took great delight in telling Marielle about her own upbringing in Paris—with every new detail that brought expressions of wonder and awe to Marielle’s face, she smiled with a superiority that almost bordered on insolence. And there was more. It seemed as though she always gave the orders for the cleaning of the bedchambers in Marielle’s presence; something in her tone would suggest that she knew André did not sleep with his wife, a note of triumph that disturbed Marielle. She tried, once or twice, to speak to André about Clothilde, but how could she describe feelings that were so vague, so ephemeral? Perhaps she only imagined Clothilde’s attitude—she still had not completely mastered her emotions since her miscarriage.
In mid-August the weather turned unexpectedly cool. Though there was little danger of frost, the budding clusters of grapes were young and tender, and if the cool days remained, their growth would be stunted. That would mean that the harvest yield would be less ripe and mature, and the wine produced would be thin and sour. Although there was little to be done about it, André eased his frustration by riding out early every day and inspecting the long rows of vines, looking for the damage of the previous night, and riding back late, often after sundown. Marielle felt useless. Clothilde seemed to anticipate his every need—a warm doublet against the chill, a hearty meal packed and ready for his saddlebag. After the second evening, when Marielle had sat up late in the sitting room, the door open, awaiting his return, and heard Clothilde greet him on the marble staircase below, she persuaded herself that he did not need her. The next night she went to bed early without waiting for him to come in. She did not know how late it was when she was awakened by noises in the corridor outside her room. Throwing on a peignoir, she rushed to see what was amiss.
A sleepy and terrified pageboy was holding a large candelabra in his shaking fist. By its light Marielle could see that Clothilde and Grisaille between them were half carrying, half dragging André. His clothes were dripping wet and his face was covered with blood. He seemed barely conscious, and he stumbled along, sometimes going limp in their grasp. All the while terrible sounds came from his chest, gasping and wheezing, and a racking cough that would have pitched him forward on his face but for the restraining hands. Marielle took in the dreadful scene at a glance, then snatched the candles from the trembling boy.
“Fetch Louise!” she said. She glared at Clothilde. “Why was I not awakened?”
“Madame, it was not necessary,” said Clothilde coldly. “I am quite used to taking care of things. We do not need Louise,” she said to the boy, who still hesitated.
Marielle bristled at the challenge, her temper rising. “You may take charge of things,” she said evenly, “but I am mistress here, and I gave an order! Go!” she shrilled at the boy, who fled in the direction of Louise’s room. Her eyes flew to Grisaille. “What happened?” she demanded.
“Ah, my lady. Monsieur’s horse must have slipped near the river’s edge, and thrown him. I found him in the water, half-drowned. And he hit his head! He must have swallowed a lot of water…he keeps coughing and choking!”
“Get him into his room,” she ordered, thinking quickly. Narbaux had told her of the wounds to André’s chest; she knew that his lung must still be weak. If he coughed too much, or took a chill and came down with fever, the lung might rupture and kill him. Putting down the candles, she whipped the coverlet from the bed and placed it on the floor, a small distance from the fireplace.
“Place him here! Grisaille, I want the fire built up as quickly as possible. Ah, good!” she said, as Louise bustled in. “I need a basin of water and some soft cloths.” She turned to Clothilde, who stood glaring at her, the challenge now open and unmistakable in her eyes.
“I do not think—” began Clothilde, her mouth hard and stubborn.
Marielle stamped her foot impatiently. “If he dies, I shall be mistress of Vilmorin! I scarce think you would find that to your liking! I would not be won over by soft blandishments!” Clothilde’s eyes wavered. “Now,” said Marielle, “I want you to make me a mixture of herbs and oils that I shall name for you—I need a warming salve for his chest. When that is done, fetch a straw pallet and a fresh coverlet to place nearer the hearth. He must be kept warm.”
As she spoke, she knelt beside André, taking the basin from Louise. Gently she sponged the blood off his face, and was grateful to see that the injury to his head, just within his hairline, was neither as large nor as serious as she had at first supposed. The bleeding had already stopped, and she decided that a bandage was probably not necessary. Of far more urgency was the racking cough, which had continued almost unabated, despite the fact that he was still almost insensible from the blow to his head. She began to unbutton his wet doublet, indicating to Louise to remove his boots, while she listed the medicines that Clothilde was to mix. By this time Grisaille had a good fire going, and she sent him off again to find some hot broth, hoping that André would be alert enough to swallow a few mouthfuls. She and Louise stripped off the rest of his wet clothes, and when the pallet and dry coverlet had been brought, they transferred him carefully, wrapping him well in the warm blanket. The salve was so strong it made her eyes water, but it eased his wheezing, and after a few sips of the hot broth he dropped off to sleep. She had Grisaille place a small chair for her, that she might sit by him all night in case he had another attack; she then dismissed them all, ignoring Clothilde’s protests.
The fire was warm and he slept peacefully. It was strange. She had never noticed before how extraordinarily handsome he was. These last few weeks they had neither of them really looked at one another, and in prison he had been drawn and tired and badly in need of a shave. Besides, she had hardly been able to see anything but those riveting blue eyes. Now she took in every detail: the tawny hair, spun to pale gold by long hours in the sun; the burnished copper of his skin, stretched taut over the strong jaw; the wide forehead. His nose was straight and thin, and flared proudly at the nostrils, and the corners of his wide mouth were crinkled from frequent laughter. His lips, firm, sensuous, made her heart catch, and she closed her eyes, wondering if he would ever kiss her again. The memory of his kisses still stirred her with a strange excitement; she ached to throw herself in his arms, to return to what had been between them before Gravillac had poisoned everything. Heavy-hearted, she dropped off to sleep at last.
She was awakened by the sound of his coughing. She dropped quickly to the floor by his side, but the spasm had already passed, and he had fallen back to sleep. She yawned and stretched, feeling the creaking in her bones; it was nearly dawn and she had slept the whole night curled in the chair. He did not seem to be feverish—she was glad for that. Still, it might be a good idea to rub more of the salve on his chest, in case there was still congestion. She folded back the top of the coverlet and scooped up some ointment in her hand, rubbing as gently as she might so as not to disturb him. She scarcely knew at what point he ceased to be a sick man in need of tender care and became a sensual male whose closeness filled her with an u
nfamiliar excitement. She was conscious suddenly of his bare flesh under her hand, warm and slightly moist from sleep, the feel of the powerful muscles just beneath the surface. It was ridiculous! She had helped to care for scores of injured men; why should this be different? Yet try as she might to erase the image from her mind, her thoughts returned again and again to the sight of him, as she and Louise had wrapped his naked body in the coverlet. She remembered again the fine golden hairs covering his chest and limbs—powerful shoulders and long legs—which glinted and shimmered in the firelight. Her breath caught in her throat and, all unaware, she rubbed more vigorously, disturbed by the intensity of her feelings. She dragged her eyes away from his body, forcing herself to look at his face; her heart leaped in her breast. Clear blue eyes were staring at her and the lips held the hint of a smile. She wondered how long he had been awake and if he had read her thoughts, and she sat back quickly, briskly wiping off her hand and busying herself with the pallet to hide her agitation. His hands seemed to be exploring beneath the coverlet and he looked at her questioningly.
“Your things were wet!” she said sharply. Again the quizzical look, the glint of mockery in the eyes.
“Louise and I,” she said as casually as she could, afraid now to look at those blue eyes that suddenly disturbed her more than his body. He began to laugh then, a laugh that was half a cough, and left him gasping but still merry.
“Ah, yes,” he panted, “I had almost forgot! The doctor’s daughter. In the interests of medicine, of course! Though there be women at Versailles who would give their rouge pots to have such a reason to get a man so quickly out of his breeches!”
Stung, she would have risen, but one strong hand, emerging from the coverlet, stopped her. The mockery had faded from his eyes and he looked at her seriously.
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