Marielle

by Sylvia Halliday

  “I thank you for your concern. The memory of last night is dim, but I know I could not breathe and you lifted the weight from my chest. Come. Sit by me a while longer and be my nurse.”

  Relenting, she bent again to the salve, rubbing in a fresh portion while he breathed deeply, letting its strong aroma clear his lungs.

  “So many scars,” she said suddenly. “Jean-Auguste said you were grievously wounded at La Forêt, but…so many!” Her soft fingers gently traced the marks on his shoulder and chest, solicitude written large in her eyes. She touched the two scars on his breastbone that were different from the rest, her green eyes hazy with remembrance.

  “A small price to pay,” he said. “They believed the lie.”

  “I saw the stable burn,” she said softly.

  “I found Jacques. He was bringing me to you when we were hit.”

  For some moments they were silent, lost in memory, in the past, in what might have been and was no more.

  “Vilmorin is lovely,” she said at last, for want of something better to say. It was safer if they did not talk about the past.

  “Have you seen the vineyards and the caves?” he asked. She shook her head. “In a day or two then, when I am fit. And since it seems that I am also beholden to that Louise of yours, we shall take her along and treat her to a goblet of fine wine!” She smiled. They lapsed into silence again, trying to read each other’s eyes. Something trembled in the air between them.

  “Marielle,” he said softly, questioningly. His hand reached up to touch a curl that lay on her shoulder.

  There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for an answer Clothilde burst in, smiling brightly.

  “Ah, Monsieur! I knew you would be better this morning! I have brought you breakfast and good news! The sun is bright, the air is warm and Grisaille says the grapes are safe!”

  Pleased, André struggled to his feet, wrapping the coverlet about him, and stood unsteadily, while Clothilde, having deposited her tray on a table, rushed to give him her shoulder to lean on, and guided him gently to his bed. She settled him against the pillows and brought him his food, fussing over him while he basked in her attention. Marielle felt suddenly tired. It had been a long night in that chair; she arose wearily from the floor and went out, her eyes burning with tears, aware that Clothilde’s triumphant smile followed her to the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  At Marielle’s insistence, André spent the next three days in his bed, until he could breathe freely and no longer wheezed. But it was Clothilde who took it upon herself to tend him. She seemed always to be with him when Marielle wished to assess his progress, she served him all his meals and supervised the steaming baths which eased his coughing. Since the night they had brought him home, she no longer made a pretense of even liking Marielle, though she was careful to be polite and subservient, particularly in André’s presence. For his part, André was not inclined to ask Clothilde to leave, even when Marielle was there; indeed it seemed almost as though he welcomed her intrusion to forestall any closeness with Marielle. Although he no longer treated her with coldness, there was still distance in his attitude, an air of sadness tinged with regret. It matched Marielle’s mood. It dismayed her to see Clothilde fussing over him with such possessiveness, all the more so because he seemed to enjoy and welcome her attentions. For the first time she felt the pangs of jealousy, wondering what they had been to each other before her arrival. It heartened her little when Clothilde, remarking on the speed of his recovery, smiled smugly and said, “Monsieur is a very strong man…in every way!”

  The day came when he announced that he was well enough and it was time to take Marielle to see the caves. While she went to fetch a shawl, he marched into the kitchen, bellowing loudly for Louise.

  “I am hardly deaf yet, my lord, and do not wish to be,” she said tartly.

  He laughed aloud. “It seems I am to show you the caverns, and then, minding myself of the other evening, methinks you will have seen all that Vilmorin has to offer!”

  She snorted loudly. “Do not praise yourself overmuch, my lord! I was not struck dumb by the sight of you! I have seen enough knaves in my time!”

  “Aye, and bedded them too, I’ll wager! What a devilish wench you must have been!”

  “I would have been a match for you, my lord!”

  He roared with laughter and delivered a resounding whack to her ample bottom. She smiled broadly and followed him out to the wide front lawn where Marielle was waiting.

  Château Vilmorin had been built close to the river Loire, on a narrow and verdant strip of land, rich and loamy, the soil built by the river for eons. Beyond the château, a few hundred yards from the river bank, were overhanging bluffs and cliffs, chalky limestone outcroppings that had marked the river’s edge in some prehistoric time. These cliffs were honeycombed with caves, some built by nature’s hand, others dug out by men from the dawn of time. Cool and dark, the caves were used as storage for the kegs and casks of wine, the chill air helping to stop the fermentation process. Curious houses had also been built into many of the caves, serving as living quarters for the vignerons who worked in the fields. Above the cliffs, and stretching for many miles away from the river, were the rich plateaus of the province of Touraine, gently rolling hills woven with the neat patterns of the vineyards.

  Grisaille, the chief vigneron, met them as they mounted the paths to the caves. He greeted Louise with particular warmth, and Marielle was surprised to see the flustered look upon her face; while André suddenly remembered that in the last few weeks Grisaille had found countless reasons to go into the kitchen. His eyes glittering wickedly, he whispered something in Louise’s ear and was gratified to see her redden, feeling revenged for the jibes she had directed at him.

  Grisaille lit a large candle and led them through the caves, pointing out the large fermenting vats that would be used for this year’s harvest, and the oaken casks in which the wine was aged, large wooden kegs stoppered with straw and clay plugs. André explained the peculiar quality of the Vouvray grapes which produced wines noted for their petillement, a slight effervescence that left a tingle in the mouth. Marielle had already noted it when she dined, and had found the wine very agreeable. She was surprised now to discover that, unlike the wines of the Languedoc region on which she had been raised, the quality of the Vouvray vintage fluctuated radically with the differences in the weather. When the summer was rainy and cool, the wine was thin, a sharp acid taste that made Marielle wrinkle her nose and shiver. Moderate years produced a light, refreshing wine, pale and golden, while a good summer, hot and sunny, rewarded the vintner with a strong, fruity wine, of a light rose color, heavy but not overly sweet. Because of the caves and the unusual quality of the Vouvray grapes, the wines lasted remarkably well, some living to a great age. There were many vintages to be sampled, discussed, enjoyed, while André beamed with the pride of ownership. Grisaille had been very generous with Louise’s samples, and her eyes had begun to sparkle, her cheeks a bright pink, while she giggled like a young maiden. André suggested that perhaps Grisaille would like to offer her one more glass of the finest vintage; he and Madame would walk through the vineyards for awhile.

  Marielle was glad to be out of the caves at last; she had begun to feel chilly. The air outside was warm; it was a pleasant afternoon, with the hint of hot days to come. It would be good for the grapes. André gave her his hand, helping her up the narrow path that ran alongside the caves, until they reached the top of the plateau, with the fields stretching out before them. The touch of his fingers brought her back to reality, and, remembering Clothilde, she drew her hand away, suddenly shy and vulnerable. As for André, the glow of the wine had faded, and he seemed lost in a strange melancholy. They walked silently through the rows of vines, each vine staked to its own forked branch, reaching almost to a man’s waist.

  At the end of the field they came upon the cottage of one of André’s tenants. The farmer and his wife were delighted to see the Seigneur and
his lovely Comtesse, of whom they had heard so much. They insisted on sharing their meager supper, setting a small table under a fruit tree and waiting on Marielle as though she were the queen herself. It had been a long time since Vilmorin had a mistress, let alone one as lovely and gracious as this. When they rose to leave, André thanked the farmer and suggested that he come up to the château in the morning; the cook had a fine smoked ham that his family might enjoy.

  They strolled back toward the edge of the bluffs, warmed by the goodness of the peasants. Marielle marveled at André’s kindness, a generosity that could give without leaving obligation or embarrassment. She felt suddenly proud, glad to be the mistress of Vilmorin.

  “How long has it been,” she asked suddenly, “since Vilmorin had a lady?”

  “My sister married some eighteen years ago,” he said curtly.

  “Do you never see her?”

  “She is many years my senior; we were never particularly fond of one another.”

  “And your mother?”

  He was silent, quickening his pace so that she had to take a little skip to keep up with him. There was something about the set of his jaw, his rigid expression, that made her almost regret asking the question. Finally he spoke, his voice so low she had to strain to hear.

  “I was twelve when she…died.” There was something in his tone that touched her heart, a note of pain that she longed to ease. She reached out her hand to comfort him, then stopped. The blue eyes turned toward her were cold and hostile, filled with jealousy and suspicion. She bit her lip and turned away. What had she done to remind him of Gravillac? Would the man haunt them forever?

  They descended from the bluffs and passed the grove of fruit trees leading up to Vilmorin and the broad front lawn dotted with flower beds and gently splashing fountains. By the time they reached the wide front door, André’s black mood had passed. He stood aside for her to enter, and then they both stopped, riveted by the sounds of howling and wild laughter that seemed to come from somewhere above them, echoing down the marble staircase that spiraled upward through the château. The sound bounced down the polished stone steps, reverberating against the tile flooring of the vestibule in which they stood. Clothilde, hands on hips, was standing at the foot of the stairs, a look of disgust on her face; at the sight of Marielle, she sneered and flounced into the kitchen, slamming the door loudly behind her. André and Marielle raced up the staircase. At the first landing they stopped, struggling to hold back their laughter. Louise, her apron askew, her eyes glassy, had plopped herself down and was steadfastly refusing to budge, despite the earnest entreaties of Grisaille, who was desperately tugging at her arm. She was very drunk. It was he who howled, and she who laughed, a wild cackle at every frenzied attempt of his to lift her. It was an uneven contest. Even sober, she stood half a head taller than he—and considerably wider. In her present condition, she was just so much dead weight, and she sat and laughed and grinned, shaking her head at his feeble attempts.

  André roared with laughter.

  “Louise, you wicked woman!” he crowed. “Drunk! And trying to seduce Grisaille as well!”

  Grisaille looked horrified and shook his head vigorously.

  “Nay, my lord! I was just trying to get her to her bed!”

  André roared all the louder, and Marielle smothered her laughter with her hand.

  “You see, Louise?” said André. “If you were not so drunk, you could at least help the man!”

  Louise glared at him through red-rimmed eyes, and her voice was thick and slurred.

  “You are a wicked devil, Monsieur! I am a good woman, and perfectly sober besides!” She nodded her head for emphasis. “But if you would be so kind, Monsieur, as to help me to my feet, I should like to go to my room!”

  Still laughing, André gripped her firmly by one arm, motioning Grisaille to take the other. Marielle scampered on ahead to fetch a candle, as the evening was falling and the staircase had grown quite dim. By the time she returned with light, they had managed to struggle almost to the top of the staircase, André and Louise engaged in a ribald battle of words that had poor Grisaille blushing; all the while they shook with laughter so that André was hard-put to keep a grip on her. The sight was so ludicrous that Marielle, at the top of the stairs, burst out laughing herself, too convulsed to do more than point a finger at Louise, while the candle shook in her hands. Seeing Marielle, Louise broke into fresh fits and let her whole body go limp. Before they realized what was happening, Louise began to slide backwards down the smooth and polished stairs, her own weight carrying her down. André and Grisaille, caught off guard, felt themselves being dragged down, and hung on desperately while they shouted to Louise to help herself. She would have none of it. Like a child on an icy hill, she was enjoying the sensation of sliding, and in a moment all three were heaped upon the landing, roaring and shouting, while Marielle, watching from above, laughed till the tears sprang to her eyes.

  It took all their powers of persuasion to convince Louise to cooperate, but at last they got her up the stairs and into her bed, where she bristled at André’s sly suggestion that he help her undress, and promptly rolled over and fell asleep, snoring noisily. Mortified by the whole episode, Grisaille fled to his cottage, while Marielle and André, exhausted from the laughter, collapsed against one another.

  Marielle sighed deeply, trying to recover herself. André wiped a tear from the corner of his eyes, and grinned down at her, his eyes warm and gentle. Absently he brushed aside a stray lock that had fallen across her forehead, his finger tracing a gentle path around the curve of her cheek.

  “I like Louise,” he said. “I should pay her a wage. If she is sober enough in the morning, tell her so, and send her to me.” She smiled back at him, noticing how white his teeth were against the rich tan of his face. His blue eyes burned into her, making it difficult to speak or to concentrate on what he was saying. He seemed to be having the same trouble, and spoke distractedly.

  “Where did you find her?” he asked, his eyes on the eager rosiness of her lips.

  “Quiot,” she answered, wondering why she found it so hard to breathe. “Her family served there for generations.” Would he never kiss her?

  “And she would leave?” he asked, a small unwelcome thought beginning to nag at the back of his mind. It seemed foolish to talk. She gazed up at him, love and longing shining in her pale green eyes; then stepped back as his face darkened and all the joy drained out of it.

  “And are all of Gravillac’s women so fickle?” he said bitterly, and turning on his heel, strode away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  True to the promise in the air, the weather turned hot. August was nearly over and the fields basked in the sunshine. The road beyond Vilmorin turned to dust, sending up little puffs and eddies with each stray breeze. André returned from his rides covered with a fine powder, his throat parched and dry. Marielle found a willow tree near the river where she could sit and read or do her needlework, shielded from the glare. An uneasiness hung between them; they no longer went out of their way to avoid each other, but neither did they spend much time together. By tacit agreement, Marielle took her meals alone in the dining salon before André returned. Occasionally he rode in early, joining her for a glass of wine while she finished her meal, but their conversations were guarded and awkward, punctuated by long silences, while they avoided one another’s eyes. Fearful of being hurt, they met only on neutral ground, discussing the weather, the grapes, anything that would not poison the air with regrets and recriminations.

  In spite of the heat, they were glad to receive an invitation from Narbaux to visit him at his château. It was something to do, to break the tension that had begun to build up between them, exacerbated by the sweltering weather. It was only a short ride, an hour or so, and the path took them through cool glades and a large stand of pine, following the course of the river that never flowed more than a few hundred yards from where they rode. They traveled slowly, letting the horses set the pace.
Marielle was glad she had worn only a sleeveless doublet over her chemise, and a cool linen skirt; nevertheless, by the time they arrived at Jean-Auguste’s they were both flushed from the ride.

  Narbaux met them at the long, tree-lined avenue leading up to his château. He was in his shirtsleeves, his bright red mustaches drooping with the heat. He greeted them warmly, his face wreathed in smiles, and shook André’s hand as he alit. Turning to Marielle, still mounted, he put his hands around her waist and guided her gently to the ground, his eyes full of frank admiration.

  “I hope you are taking good care of this wife of yours, André!” he said, smiling benignly at them both. They exchanged pleasantries as they strolled to the château, while Narbaux’s grooms led their horses away.

  “I thought we might have a picnic,” said Jean-Auguste. “We can boat across the river. There is a very agreeable spot downriver that should prove cool and inviting on this warm day.”

  He led the way to the bank, where a small boat was already waiting, a large hamper of food aboard, and a small mound of pillows in the bow upon which Marielle was soon comfortably settled. Jean-Auguste stood in the stern, holding a large pole, and André sat between the two. They drifted gently downstream, Narbaux content to let the current work for him, and chatted pleasantly about their vineyards, the weather and the latest news from Paris. Richelieu had returned from the south of France, and the King was preparing to leave Versailles for Fontainebleau. With the coming of autumn, the Court would be gay again. No doubt there would be royal invitations for them both, especially since the King would want to meet Marielle. They regaled her with stories of the festivities at Court, while her eyes opened wide and she clapped her hands in sheer joy. They were like children. With Jean-Auguste to break the tension, they laughed and joked, reality forgotten. They beached the boat in the shallows and sat in the shade of a large oak tree, gorging themselves on the food and wine, while the river gurgled happily over the smooth rocks nearby. When they had finished, André stripped off his doublet and rolled up his sleeves, putting his hands behind his head and leaning up against the tree with a contented sigh. Narbaux kicked off his shoes and pulled off his stockings. He waded into the water, urging the others to join him.