Marielle

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Indeed, it looks inviting!” cried Marielle. She quickly removed her shoes and stockings, then hitched up her skirts almost to her knees, while Narbaux made a big show of pretending not to look. André watched them idly, too lazy to join in.

  “I like your wife, André,” said Jean-Auguste. “And she rides well too, I noted.” He turned to Marielle. “How does a country girl who has never even been to Paris—Mon Dieu—learn to ride like that?”

  Marielle laughed in fond remembrance. “If she is fortunate enough to have a big brother to teach her…”

  “And what else do big brothers teach little sisters, then?”

  With a superior smile, Marielle rolled up her sleeves and reached down into the clear water, groping until she found a large flat rock. Holding it in her thumb and forefinger, she swung her arm horizontally, releasing the rock so it skipped across the surface of the water.

  “Three!” she announced triumphantly.

  “Ha!” shouted Narbaux, as he too danced a stone on the water. “Four!”

  “Five!” said Marielle, as her stone skipped across the river, raising five ripples that fanned out in evergrowing rings. The challenge was too much for André who, rapidly casting aside his footwear, plunged into the river beside them. Narbaux was groping frantically in the riverbed, complaining bitterly about the size and shape of every rock that he dredged up. André scooped up a large stone and sent it flying across the water.

  “Six, Madame! What have you to say to that?” he crowed, a satisfied grin on his face.

  She shrugged in seeming disinterest, but her green eyes gleamed wickedly. Stooping down as though to pick up another stone, she scooped up a handful of water and splashed it into his face, while his look of triumph turned to surprise. The battle was joined. By the time the three of them had struggled back to the bank and lay exhausted, gasping and chuckling, André’s shirt was soaked through, Jean-Auguste had lost a lace cuff, and Marielle, despairing of ever finding her hairpins, was trying to arrange the masses of chestnut curls that swirled around her face in a tangled cluster.

  On the ride back to the château she dozed, her riotous hair spread out on the soft pillows like a brilliant halo, one hand thrown over the side of the boat and trailing gentle fingers in the water. Narbaux poled against the current, while André, his back to his friend, contemplated Marielle’s lovely face with a mixture of awe and desire. Shaking off her spell, he turned to speak to Narbaux, then stopped. Oblivious to his friend, Jean-Auguste was gazing fixedly at her, a look of naked longing on his face. Disconcerted, André turned quickly away. By the time they reached the château, Marielle had awakened. André and Jean-Auguste scrambled ashore, and André turned to help Marielle; Narbaux was already there, lifting her smoothly out of the boat and swinging her onto the land. She thanked him smilingly, and skipped off to the château, minded to find a comb and some hairpins. Both men watched her go.

  “You know, André,” said Jean-Auguste lightly, “if you do not treat her well, I shall steal her away from you!”

  At André’s frown, Narbaux laughed. “As I recall, you did not mind poaching on another man’s territory. Take care now, lest you become the cuckold!”

  André whirled on Narbaux, clutching his shirt from with both his fists. His eyes glowed with anger.

  “Don’t be a fool, mon ami,” cried Jean-Auguste. “I did but jest! I could not win her away from you if I tried! Surely you must see that!”

  André growled an apology and turned away. When Marielle returned, they took their leave curtly, while she wondered what had transpired between the two friends to cast such a pall on their lovely day.

  The ride home was a quiet one, André sullen and brooding. As they passed the pine grove, they heard the sound of a child weeping and a man crying out in pain. Following the cries, they came upon a little child of six or seven, who sobbed helplessly; nearby sprawled a peasant, writhing in pain and thrashing his arms wildly about. Across his chest and torso lay a huge tree. It appeared that he had been chopping it down when the large trunk, dry from the rainless days, had cracked too soon and pinned him to the ground. A thin trickle of blood came from his mouth and he raved like a madman, his eyes two black pools—as though he already saw Death’s approach. They jumped from their horses, Marielle to comfort the child, André to lift the tree trunk if he could. It soon became apparent that the man, in the frenzy of his pain, was impairing his own rescue, for every time that André came near, the peasant clutched at his arms and legs as though he would drag him down.

  “Wait, André!” cried Marielle. “Mayhap I can be of help whilst you clear the tree!” So saying, she fell upon the peasant, struggling with all her might to hold his arms above his head. He was strong, with the strength of madness and desperation. He freed his hands and clutched at her fiercely, his fingers bruising the soft flesh of her bare arms. She murmured softly, stroking his forehead, his cheeks; soothing, comforting, until some of the madness passed from his eyes and he lay still, groaning in pain, his breath coming in soft gasps. In the meantime, André had managed to loop his horse’s reins around that portion of the tree that lay across the farmer; now he urged his horse on while he himself strained to raise the trunk. Dragged and lifted, the tree rolled away, freeing the unfortunate man. Marielle bit her lip and looked hopelessly at André. It was clear to them both that nothing could help the farmer. His body was woefully mangled, the chest stove in; already he was beginning to cough weakly and pant for air, his eyes glassy and faraway. Leaving André to make him as comfortable as possible, Marielle scooped the child up in her arms and cradled him against her breast, rocking him, kissing his tear-stained face, giving what comfort she might. André arose from the farmer’s side; his face told Marielle that the man was dead. He helped her into her saddle, then handed the boy up to her. In silence, they rode to the nearest cottage, where André arranged for the man to be buried. The boy would be cared for and returned to his family.

  They rode back to Vilmorin in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. André marveled at her quiet strength, at a spirit and capability only dimly perceived until now. He had thought of her as a sweet and lovely girl; it was clear now she was a woman, with depth and understanding. He remembered suddenly how she had seemed to read into his heart at La Forêt. Strange how the Marielle he had conjured up when he thought her dead had so lacked the substance of the real woman.

  “Take supper with me,” he said when they arrived home. “Tonight. Every night. I should be glad of your company.”

  She smiled gently. “I have no thought for food this night. But I will take a glass of wine with you.”

  They walked into the long gallery, where André took two glasses and a flagon from a small cupboard. He brought the wine to Marielle; she stood at the window, gazing pensively out at the star-filled night. They drained their glasses in silence, but as Marielle reached out and put her empty cup on a small table, André saw her bare arms. They were scratched and red from her struggles with the farmer. He held them gently and kissed their sweet softness, his eyes filled with tenderness and consolation. With a sob, Marielle turned away, covering her face with her hands.

  “Why should I weep for them?” she cried. “What were they to me?”

  He folded her gently in his arms, holding her trembling body to his breast, his face buried in her fragrant hair, until her tears subsided and her quivering ceased.

  “Life is so fragile, Marielle,” he said, his voice husky, muffled by her tresses. He hesitated, groping for the words. “We are foolish, you and I. Do you remember La Forêt? How we vowed our friendship? Can we start anew, Marielle? Can we be friends at least?”

  Slowly she lifted her eyes to his face, peering deeply into his eyes, trying to read an answer written there.

  “Ah, André,” she sighed. “And will you be able to forget the past?”

  His gaze wavered, clouding with doubt; he tried to speak, agony and confusion crossing his face. He groaned and turned away.

  “G
od knows!” he said wretchedly.

  The heat became oppressive, sultry, the air so heavy with moisture that Louise puffed when she climbed the stairs, and mopped at her forehead with her sleeve. Marielle and André had discarded doublets and jackets, spending their days in cool shirts and chemises; nevertheless, by the end of the day the fabric clung damply to their bodies. When the rain came, they welcomed it, but joy turned quickly to dismay. It brought no relief from the suffocating heat, adding only to everyone’s discomfort. What was more, after two days of steady downpour worry began to show in André’s face. He rode out once or twice, fearing now the grapes would begin to rot, and returned drenched and morose, responding curtly to Marielle’s queries and brooding for long hours at a window.

  It was thus she found him, one late afternoon, in the sitting room that separated their chambers, sunk in despair, watching the persistent rain.

  Her heart ached for him. How much she loved him! She wanted to comfort him, to smooth the frown from his brow, to ease his dismay. Crossing to the window, she stood beside him and touched his arm, at a loss for words. He smiled gently at her, but the cloudy blue eyes mirrored his helplessness and frustration. On an impulse, she reached up her hands and locked them around his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers. She kissed him softly, her lips moving gently on his. His arms slipped around her waist and he returned her kisses, his hands playing lightly across her back and shoulders until she shivered with ecstasy and clung more tightly to his neck. Ah Dieu! She had forgotten how she thrilled to his kisses, and now she drank hungrily, intoxicated with the sensations his mouth aroused. She closed her eyes, her head spinning, lips parted in desire, while he rained kisses on her face, her eyelids, her velvet throat; her breath caught and she trembled, feeling his mouth burning on her eager flesh. She was hardly aware when he picked her up and carried her through the small door to her room, laying her gently across the bed; she knew only that she wanted his kisses to last forever. His passion mounting, he began to press more insistently, his mouth hard and hungry on hers, his hand groping at the neckline of her chemise and clasping the firm roundness of her breast. She shuddered, a wave of panic rising in her throat. She saw Gravillac’s face before her, the hungry cruelty, the animal lust. Oh God! she thought. Not this! Not André! She struggled against him, her terror mounting, as the nightmare of her days with Gravillac overwhelmed her. If she could just explain to André—if he would only be patient, gentle…She tried desperately to hold him back, while he, reading rejection in her eyes, pressed her ever more impatiently, seeking to overcome her resistance with the heat of his passion. His kisses bruised her mouth and she began to whimper, large tears springing to her eyes. He looked at her, bewildered. Did he disgust her? Was she afraid of him? Or was she dreaming still of Renard’s kisses? His hunger burned in his loins; his face was a mask of jealousy and rage. He sprang from the bed, hatred glowing in his eyes.

  “Slut!” he growled through clenched teeth.

  “André,” she whispered piteously, “Please!”

  He turned on his heel and strode from the room, angrily slamming the door behind him.

  “Am I never to be forgiven?” she shrieked at the closed door. She choked and sobbed, throwing herself face down on the bed. In a moment the sobs had turned to anger, cold rage. Forgiven for what? she thought, sitting up suddenly. As though she were somehow guilty—responsible for those months of misery!

  By dawn, the rain had stopped and the sun rose on a world dripping and steamy with the heat. For hours Marielle had tossed and turned on her bed, unable to sleep, feeling choked and suffocated. But the heat that she felt had less to do with the weather outside her casement than with the fury that boiled within her. She was tired. Tired of being ashamed and apologetic. Weary of tiptoeing round André lest the name of Gravillac plunge him into black despair. She had borne the grief of her months with Renard; she resented the burden of guilt that André pressed upon her. Reflected in his eyes, she was a fallen woman, no longer entitled to kindness, gentility, even subtlety. Bitterly, she wondered he had not tried to take her on the sitting room floor, and felt her disgust rise with her anger. Was that all she meant to him? She would be better off with Gravillac—at least he did not pretend a kindness that was foreign to him!

  She threw herself from her bed, anxious to be free of her room for a few hours. It was still very early; no one seemed to be stirring. There was a bend in the river that she knew of, a quiet sheltered spot, hidden by trees, isolated from the château by the natural twistings of the Loire. She went there ofttimes when she wanted to be alone and knew she would not be found. It beckoned her now. The cool air would soothe her fevered thoughts. Swiftly she slipped out a small door and hurried through the grass, still damp from the rain. Her spot was cool, shadowed. Here and there the morning sun glinted through the thick branches, igniting sparks of light on the crystal water. Not far from the bank, the shallow riverbed dipped sharply, creating a small natural pool that called to her now. Quickly she pinned up her hair and shed her garments, wading in and letting the refreshing water soothe her troubled spirit. She swam slowly, reluctant to see even a ripple disturb her placid retreat, letting the water flow over her body and wash away the memory of the scorn in his eyes, the hateful word on his lips. She glanced up toward the tree. He was there, mounted on horseback, watching her, his face unreadable in the shadows. She stood up in the water, the gentle current reaching to her shoulders and lapping against her skin. She felt cold and numb, remembering still what he had called her, unwilling to forgive him, reluctant even to face him.

  “Go away,” she said tiredly. “Leave me in peace.”

  Now she saw the contempt in his face, the ragged pride that turned him ugly and cruel. He dropped his horse’s reins and lolled in the saddle, while he unbuttoned his doublet.

  “A fine morning for a swim,” he said, “and such a secluded spot, where no one will disturb us.” He removed his doublet, draping it over his saddle. His eyes narrowed, watching her.

  “André, please,” she said softly, “try to understand. I never meant for it to happen that way. I did not wish to hurt you.”

  He laughed shortly. “Hurt me? Why should I be hurt? I have known far too many women like you to be hurt…though I seldom call them to their faces what I think in my heart! You must forgive me my lapse of yester-eve.”

  She bit her lip and turned away. He must not see her weep. After a long moment, she turned to him, her chin held high.

  “The water is chilling,” she announced as firmly as her trembling lips would allow. “Please be so kind as to withdraw, that I may put on my clothes.”

  He sneered. “Your modesty hardly becomes you, Madame. Isn’t it rather late to play the country maiden? You blushed at La Forêt when Gravillac bared your bosom. Would you bother to blush now? I wonder…” With one quick movement he stripped off his shirt, revealing the strong shoulders, the overpowering arms. She closed her eyes, a look of pain on her face. It was impossible not to read his intent. Would the nightmare begin again?

  “Very good, Madame! Very modest! But blushing is for maidens, not whores! Not women of experience!” He spat the words.

  It was too much. Her eyes flew open. The fury burst within her. There was little she could do if he was minded to rape her, but if he wanted a whore, by le Bon Dieu, that is what he would have!

  Coldly, brazenly, she stepped slowly into the shallows, her chin held firm and proud, her eyes never leaving his face. Deliberately she let her hips undulate as she walked, the movement at once tantalizing and defiant, until she stood at the bank glaring up at him, challenging, taunting, enjoying his confusion and dismay.

  He sat his horse as one struck dumb, the breath caught in his throat. He had never seen her like this before, beautiful, desirable, with a body to set a man to dreaming. The sun, shining through the trees, dappled her creamy skin with golden patches and kindled the rich chestnut of her hair until she seemed to glow with light. She was slim, but her hips curved b
eguilingly, and her full breasts were young and firm and rosy-tipped. The defiant set of her chin, the pride in her stance, bosom heaving in anger, dared him and challenged him. He felt his pulse racing and a hungry ache in his loins, but the fury and the arrogance in those hazy green eyes made him feel as stupid and awkward as a mere mortal who had stumbled upon a goddess bathing. She saw the consternation in his eyes, his desire warring with his pride, and pressed her advantage, glad to see him suffer.

  “Will you pleasure yourself here, my lord?” she asked coldly. “Or will you allow me the comfort of my own bed?”

  The barb struck home. Frustrated, defeated, he wheeled his horse around and fled in confusion. She remained standing there for a very long time, the bitter tears flowing unchecked. She hated him, despised him. Then why did she feel no triumph—only an aching loneliness in her heart, a sadness that weighed her down?

  Chapter Fifteen

  He did not love her. She was certain of it now. If he had ever loved her at La Forêt, that emotion was gone now, drowned in his jealousy and suspicion. She had dragged through the day, her heart breaking, avoiding Louise’s inquisitive eyes, her questioning glances. If once she let herself weep on that ample bosom, her tears would never stop; her grief seemed bottomless. But as the day wore on, her sorrow congealed to cold anger that he should be so blind. She had loved him with all her heart, asking only patience from him—how could he even think that Gravillac mattered to her! As she dressed for supper, her cold implacable eyes stared back at her from the silver mirror. Since the day they had found the woodcutter, they had taken their meals together, exchanging pleasantries, trying to bridge the chasm between them. Now, staring at her reflection, she laughed bitterly. Without any hope of winning his love, it had been futile. He lusted after her, his basest passions aroused, but that was all. Even at that, she knew his pride tormented him—she might be a whore in his eyes, but she was also Gravillac’s leavings. He fought to deny his physical need of her as he had already rejected her love. Whereas before she had trod softly, afraid to hurt him, afraid of being hurt herself, now her blood boiled, wanting to make him suffer as she had suffered. Deliberately she tugged at the neckline of her gown, pulling it low until the soft orbs of her breasts peeped enticingly above the snowy lace. She took her rouge pot and stroked subtle spots of rosy color on her cheeks and in the hollow of her bosom, then doused herself liberally with heady perfume. She nodded in satisfaction, but a sob caught in her throat. She found she could no longer meet her own eyes in the glass. Curse him! She swept from the room and went down to supper.