Marielle too was different since Paris. Subdued, shy, she went quietly about Vilmorin in a cloud of embarrassment, as though she still felt the shame of what had happened, upset by her own gullibility. There was a sadness about her—until now he had not thought to wonder if she were happy at Vilmorin. Whenever he looked at her (which was often, lately), he seemed to see a wall between them. He began to feel guilty for wanting her so desperately. Nom de Dieu! As though a man had no right to desire his own wife! He should have taken her as soon as he could; the longer they behaved as they did, the harder it became to change the pattern. Coward! He thought of the rainy afternoon, when she had resisted him and he had cursed her, conjuring up Gravillac. There had been a wall between them that day, but now, recalling what Narbaux had said in Paris, he was sorry he had not persisted. Perhaps that wall was more flimsy than he supposed, and he should not have allowed himself to be put off. She melted at his kisses, that was not feigned; if he had insisted on his rights as a husband, he might have been able to break through the wall. Now, after all that had happened, he was no longer sure he was willing to risk his own pride. Curse Gravillac, La Forêt, that betraying moonbeam that had lit up her face and unsettled his life forever! He yearned for bachelorhood again, and noted with a disturbing ache in his loins that it had been two months since he had had a woman. If rumors could be believed, Cardinal Richelieu himself was less celibate than he!
Still, Narbaux said she loved him. Who could tell? Perhaps it was so, and his jealousy of Gravillac had made him blind. He began to feel a surge of hope. Away from Paris and the gallants who might turn her head…with the long autumn nights approaching…he might still have a wife to warm his bed.
He looked up suddenly. At the edge of the field Clothilde was waiting, a large jug of ale in her hand. He rode slowly toward her, uneasy, guarded, feeling himself besieged. She smiled and handed the jug up to him.
“You rode out early this morning, my lord. Cook said you hardly stopped for breakfast.”
He took a large swig of ale, then made a sweeping gesture toward the vines, as if in explanation. “I was restless and could not sleep.” He regretted his choice of words at once. She laughed, her voice strange and hard.
“The nights are chill, my lord. Mayhap you find your bed too cold for sleep!” He could hardly mistake her meaning. Disconcerted, he handed back the jug and would have wheeled his horse around, but she put her hand on the bridle and stopped him. Her words tumbled out in a rush, and the smile she turned on him seemed frozen. “If there is some service I might perform…something I can do to ease your discomfort, my lord…!”
“Yes,” he said, annoyed, feeling trapped. “You might run some heated bricks between the sheets before I retire.” And turning, he rode away. Her eyes, dark and troubled, followed him.
The following day was clear and sunny, the cloudless sky so blue and pellucid that it seemed likely to remain so all day. For the past week, Vilmorin had had an air of expectancy, of anticipation, like some great army marshalling its forces for a great war. The day of battle had now arrived and Vilmorin exploded with activity. The large fermenting vats were dragged out of the chalk caves and brought to the grove of fruit trees below the bluffs. They were placed beneath two large and leafy elms whose branches would shade them and keep them cool. Men and women with large rush baskets on their backs made their way down the long rows of staked grapes, plucking the golden clusters by hand or cutting them with small scythes. Although some of the fields belonged to André’s tenant farmers who paid him rent, and some were cultivated by the sharecroppers who contributed a portion of their yield to their landlord in exchange for the use of the land, at harvest time everyone worked together, the farmers side by side with André’s own servants. The grapes would be crushed and processed without regard to ownership; the division of the wine would come later, when each man would be given casks according to the proportion of his own harvest. Since the vats and the wine press belonged to Vilmorin, André would be expected to take the first press of the grapes, the best wine, in lieu of a fee for the use of the equipment.
Marielle worked in the grove, supervising the setting up of tables and benches, for it was traditional at Vilmorin to celebrate the harvest with a party. A large bonfire was built over which the cook placed a spitted lamb which hung between two poles and roasted slowly. There was bread and cheese and large jugs of cool ale to sustain the vintners as they worked during the day; when the last cluster of grapes had been cut the ale would be replaced by pitchers of good Vouvray wine, and the feasting would begin in earnest. Ham and sausages would join the lamb, and succulent vegetables from the Loire valley. Louise, hands on hips, was scowling up at two young boys she had sent into the apple trees to pick the ripe fruit. There would be rich apple tarts, hot and fresh, for those who survived the meats. Clothilde assisted Marielle and obeyed her orders smilingly and without question, knowing André was nearby, but her gray eyes betrayed her ruffled feelings.
By late afternoon, although there were still clusters to be picked, the vats, fed by a steady stream of filled baskets, held a thick layer of fragrant grapes. This was the moment that the children (and not a few of the adults!) had been waiting for. Laughing and giggling, shoes thrown aside, they tumbled into the vats, there to stomp and squash the tender grapes, while a young man pounded out a rhythm on a large leather drum. In the fields the cutters lifted their heads and smiled at the steady drumbeat, then hurried to finish the last row, the last field, that they too might join the revelers.
The sky was glowing red as the last baskets were emptied into the vats and the men let out a cheer when the casks of wine were brought out. Tired but content, André smiled warmly at Marielle and was dismayed to see the unhappiness in her eyes. He would have gone to her side, to discover what troubled her, when he was distracted by shouting. Grisaille and Louise were quarreling violently, their voices loud above the happy laughter and the beat of the drum. Louise was determined to take a turn in a vat; Grisaille just as determined she should not. At length, glaring at him, she hitched up her skirts, kicked off her wooden clogs, and marched willfully to the vat, calling on a young farmer to help her up, and stomping triumphantly through the grapes while Grisaille glowered at her. The clusters by now were well-trod and slippery; Louise’s feet suddenly slid out from under her. With a surprised whoop, she vanished into the pulpy mass, and reappeared a moment later dripping with juice, her clothing embellished with mashed globules and stems. His anger forgotten, his face filled with concern, Grisaille dived in after her, meaning to rescue her; he succeeded only in upsetting her yet again, and himself in the bargain. When finally they were able to drag themselves out to the merriment of all, Grisaille declared that the grapes had been trampled enough, and while he and Louise went to change their clothes, large wooden lids were placed loosely over the vats.
André had sent for a fiddler from Vouvray who scraped out merry tunes to accompany the feasting; as the wine flowed more freely, it was not enough merely to listen to the music and tap the foot. More and more couples jumped up to join the reel, trampling down the grass with their lively dances. André danced with Marielle for a spell, but she seemed so aloof, so distant and sad, that he felt like an intruder on her thoughts and led her finally to a bench somewhat removed from the dancers, that she might sit alone and at peace. Though he rejoined the company, his eyes strayed ever to his wife, and he began to drink more than was his wont. When the fiddler struck up a fresh tune, he allowed himself to be dragged among the dancers, then saw with a start that his partner was Clothilde, her eyes bright and shining. He would have turned away, but the other dancers insisted that Monsieur should take a turn. Glancing uneasily at Marielle, he reluctantly put his arms about Clothilde’s yielding waist. She seemed to linger in his arms, smiling up at him, and once she tripped, falling heavily against him, her full bosom pressed against his chest. His eyes flew again to Marielle, but in the flickering light of the bonfire he could not read her expression. Did she lo
ve him, as Narbaux claimed? Then surely she would be upset by Clothilde’s advances. Angrily he pushed Clothilde away, and pressed through the dancers, throwing himself on a bench and retrieving his cup of wine. When he looked for Marielle, she was no longer where he had left her. He gulped his wine in one draught, then leaned his arms on the table, laid his head upon them and fell asleep.
When he awoke, the fire was dying, and most of the people had left. His head was still spinning, but it would take a great deal more wine than he had already drunk to still the unrest within him. He reached for a fresh pitcher, then saw that Clothilde was sitting nearby, as though she had been waiting for him to awaken. She smiled hopefully, but the invitation in her eyes repelled him and he snarled at her and told her to leave him alone. The wine made him less diplomatic than he might have wished, and she turned in a huff and flounced away.
The wine was good. It deadened his brain. He looked around. Most of the peasants were already abed, but here and there a couple locked in tender embrace reminded him of his loneliness. Where was his wife? His partner? He felt anger, righteous indignation. She did not mind his company when he took her to Paris! She did not object when he rescued her from those leering gallants! His blood boiled again, remembering the costume she had worn in the ballet. How dared she disobey him? How dared she tempt every man with her beauty? He thought suddenly of how she had looked, and his heart began to pound in his chest, desire rising within him. By le Bon Dieu! Why not? She was his wife—everything a man would want—and Narbaux said she loved him! He took another swallow of wine and jumped up, full of hope, longing, desire. Then he groaned as an ugly thought, all unbidden, sprang into his head.
Why had she gone to bed with Gravillac? Always Gravillac! He pounded his fist on the table, his brain whirling in torment. Damn her! She knew well enough how to tempt a man—with her low-cut dresses and her perfumed body! It was time to see if she could please a man! Even through the haze of wine, he ached with longing, a hunger that tore at his vitals. He would burn her with his passion, sear out the memory of Gravillac, breach that wall between them once and for all! Staggering slightly, he headed for the château and his wife’s bed.
Chapter Nineteen
The corridor was dark, save for a large candle on a table near the end of the hall. It shone like a beacon in the black night and he stumbled toward it, conscious only of the silence and the darkness around him. He was aware suddenly that his boots clacked noisily on the smooth tile; the sound disturbed him, and he pulled them off, tucking them under one arm. Heart pounding, he reached Marielle’s door and tried the knob, feeling suddenly stupid and unsure. More like a prowler than a lover, he thought. Well, perhaps he would just look at her for a moment—he was really feeling too unsteady for anything else. He turned the knob and pushed open the door, then picked up the candle and entered her bedchamber. Dropping his boots softly at the foot of her bed, he crossed over to where she slept and placed the candle on a nearby table.
The sight of her was like a blow to the top of his head, driving out the wine and the drunken haze, causing his knees to near-buckle beneath him. She was so fragile, exquisite. She lay on her back, her arms flung out, her burnished hair so full and loose it almost hid the pillow. Even the coverlet could not conceal the soft roundness of her body. He drew in his breath sharply, the sound rasping in his throat. Mon Dieu! How could any woman be so beautiful, so desirable? Her witchcraft drove all reason from his mind. He wanted her. Reaching down, he stripped off the coverlet, noting the nightdress that had ridden up above her knees, thus revealing the creamy smoothness of her thighs. She woke with a start and gasped, her eyes flying open. Something flickered—fear?—in their green depths.
“Nom de Dieu! André! What is it? Has something happened?” There was concern in her voice, but her hands were quick to smooth down the shameless nightdress.
“Nothing has happened,” he said, and was surprised to hear how slurred his own voice sounded. “Everyone has gone home. The fiddler has gone home. The farmers. Everyone. To his own mate. But the lord of the manor is lonely and cold! Is that fair…wife?” She stirred uneasily, inching her way slowly and carefully toward the far side of the bed.
“Go away, André,” she said firmly, trying to keep the anger out of her voice, lest she provoke him into action. He sat down on the edge of the bed, while she watched him warily.
“Wife!” he said again, his voice husky with desire. Bending down, he kissed her full on the mouth, feeling the familiar warmth of her lips, her melting response, as always. Suddenly she pushed against him, turning away angrily, as though her vulnerability to his kisses was a weakness she could no longer tolerate. She rolled away from him and started to get up, hoping to put the bed between them. He clutched wildly at her and caught his hand on the back of her gown. There was a loud tearing sound as she sprang from the bed, and he had a brief glimpse of her smooth back and the rounded firmness of her buttocks before she whirled to face him, clutching her tattered garment to her, her eyes blazing in fury.
“Drunken sot! How dare you? Get out of my room!” She cursed him with every curse she knew, and then with oaths she had heard and did not even understand. He did not seem to hear; he was conscious only of his hunger, the desire that burned like fire in his veins. He leaped off the bed toward her, and she backed away, her eyes never leaving his face. She watched him like a hunted animal, as though gauging her chances for escape, the seriousness of his purpose. Warily they circled the room. He lunged forward, she shied away, barely avoiding his grasping fingers, but he caught at her gown as she scampered back. There was a final wrenching tear, and she stood naked in front of him. Bosom heaving in anger, she cursed him again, while his eyes raked her body and his passion mounted. Again he lunged and she sidestepped nimbly, heading for the partly-opened door and the safety of Louise’s room. With a small shriek, she tripped over his boots and fell heavily, sprawled upon her belly. He stopped his pursuit, eyeing the firm roundness of her bare bottom, then his jaw tightened. Stooping down, he swung his hand in a great circle, the broad flat palm outstretched. There was a satisfying smack. She yelped in indignation, and scrambled to her feet, rubbing her stinging flesh, her eyes on fire.
“That, Madame, is for playing the coquette in Paris!” His voice was thick with wine. “Perhaps you have found it easy ere now to forget you have a husband—but no more! No more, my lovely Marielle! I claim a husband’s right to collect what is owed me! You have a wife’s duty to obey!”
“Bah!” she spat. “A wife’s duty! You call me whore at every turn…you behave as though you thought I meant to seduce Saint-Denis and half the Court…oh!” She stamped her foot in fury. “You play the jealous lout who thinks his wife sleeps with every man she meets…and then you stagger in here like a besotted animal and talk to me of a wife’s duty! You who must get drunk just to take me! Damn you for a coward and a villain!”
He growled angrily and leapt at her, his shoulders held low so that he caught her around the middle and, standing upright, was able to sling her across one shoulder. She shrieked in protest, her head hanging down his back, and pounded furiously at him as he carried her across the room and pitched her onto the bed. He fell upon her, covering her with kisses, while she struggled and trembled beneath him. His searching hand found the soft warmth of her thigh and followed its velvet contours to that which waited beyond. She shuddered under his touch and strained against him, but her efforts were feeble. In that moment he knew that he had won. She might struggle, but the wall would crumble, she would be truly his at last. He sat up to rip off his shirt; in that split second she had drawn her knees up to her chest, muscles tensed like a coiled spring.
“NO!” she screeched and kicked violently against his belly, sending him flying backward, caught off guard. As he staggered, his balance precarious, she leapt up in fury and hurled a water jug at him. It narrowly missed his ear, shattering against the far wall, and sent him into retreat, while she looked wildly about the room for something else
to throw. His heavy boots were still lying on the floor; the first one glanced off his head and set bells to ringing in his brain. He staggered backward and felt the open door. The second boot came flying out as he beat a hasty retreat to the corridor. She slammed the door. In a moment he heard the key turn.
He leaned against the door while his head cleared, then grinned in triumph. He had won her. He knew it! She was magnificent in her fury, but she would be his despite her protests! There would be a battle royal, ending in happy submission. He felt almost cocky. It was so simple he was astonished he had not thought of it before. He had known other women who gloried in a fight, who begged to be taken by force, why not Marielle? It was only the surprise of discovering that his dainty flower was a delightful briar in the bedroom. His passion flamed anew within him. He briefly contemplated the locked door, then shook his head. If he were sober it would be a foolish assault; in his present condition he would probably break his skull. He smiled, remembering the small door through the sitting room. He could taste victory as he hurried around through the sitting room, his fever mounting. Exultant, he burst through the door.
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