For a moment, in the flickering candlelight, he could not see her. A soft whimpering drew his eyes to the locked door. She crouched there, trembling violently, her bare shoulders heaving with small breathy sobs. Dazed, he passed a hand over his eyes, hardly believing what he saw, and stepped toward her. At his approach she shrank against the door and threw up an arm as though to ward off a blow. She stared at him, her eyes blank and unseeing. He staggered from the room, fleeing from what he had seen in their depths—naked terror.
Clothilde examined her body in the mirror. She was too plump. Her bare breasts, which once had pleased her, were now too full and had begun to sag slightly. The flesh about her waist and hips was no longer firmly rounded, but puckered here and there, making her body look old and tired. She lifted the candle to the mirror and peered searchingly at her face. Did she imagine the first wispy lines about her eyes, the creases on her forehead? A sob caught in her throat. Old! she thought mournfully. But he did not think her old until he brought that innocent-eyed babe back to Vilmorin. Ah, Dieu! She was so tired of searching! She had been so sure that this time she would get to Paris, live the life she was meant to.
Damn him! Damn that cold bitch he was married to! They did not even sleep together! She should have pursued him, wife or no wife. She could have played upon his conscience, tormenting him until he sent her packing to Paris with a fat purse and letters of introduction to the Court. Now it was too late. She would have to find another patron. Desperation clutched at her throat. And who would want a woman who was getting old and fat? She thought suddenly of Perrot, her first love. Ah, Perrot! She had sold her life for him. Now, seeing her reflection, she wondered for the first time if he had been worth it. She saw the long lonely years stretching ahead, and she was filled with panic. She might have been a vicomtesse, she could have remained a rich man’s daughter and had a fat legacy to cushion the passing of the years. She wept. The memory of Perrot could no longer warm her bed at night. It was too long ago and he had left her with nothing.
She heard a sudden noise from the stairs. Blowing out her candle, she opened her door a crack and was surprised to see Monsieur le Comte staggering, bootless, down the hall in the direction of the stables. By the dim light of the torchère she could just see his face—disappointed, angry, bewildered. Her eyes traveled the length of his body; it was apparent he had not got what he wanted from his wife this night! She watched him stumble toward the stable, then softly closed her door and smiled to herself. Perhaps it was still not too late—Paris might yet be hers! She splashed on her rose-scented perfume, remembering how it had tempted him once before, and wrapped her coverlet about her naked body. Her heart beat furiously; she felt almost giddy with renewed hope. Crossing the courtyard, she tiptoed into the stable, then stopped, feeling as though she must scream with rage and frustration. He lay sprawled on a pile of straw, fast asleep and snoring loudly.
The sun was too bright. The horse was shod with steel—as thick as a man’s arm—that thundered loudly on the turf. Surely the boots he had sent the stableboy to fetch were the wrong ones! Was it only one cuckoo that sang in the woods? No. It must be a whole flock! With a groan of pain, André reined in his horse and threw himself out of the saddle. He flattened himself to the ground, face buried in the cool grass, arms and legs thrown wide as though he would still the whirling of the earth. She had called him a drunken sot. She was right. Never in all his life, even in his wild student days, had he managed to drink so much and feel so terrible. The world had stopped spinning. Carefully he rose to his knees and crawled over to the river bank. Taking a deep breath, he plunged his head into the chilly Loire and emerged sputtering and shaking his golden mane like a soggy lion. The icy water made him feel better, and he sat back against a tree and allowed himself at last to remember the previous night. Never before had he needed the encouragement that the wine had given him. Never had his behavior been so at odds with his feelings. Ah Dieu! He must have seemed the animal to her, slapping her, tearing her clothes—a monster filled with lust and wine. No wonder she had been terrified! Whatever had created that wall between them, he had been a drunken fool to think that violence could win her love. And it was her love he wanted. He knew that suddenly, just as he knew he loved her. Not with the hot passion of La Forêt, that instantaneous, blinding flash, that ephemeral flame, that love without substance. Nor even the love he had felt in those weeks when he had thought her dead, and apotheosized her into something unreal, a saint, a creature of perfection. No. What he felt now was much deeper, substantial and real. He wanted to care for her, to make her smile and laugh, to protect her from pain. He cursed silently, filled with remorse at his own part in her unhappiness. But he would change. He would tell her he loved her, he would be her gentle and loving friend, he would put all thoughts of Gravillac out of his mind forever.
But…all women are fickle! Hadn’t he always known that? Didn’t it echo like a litany in his brain every time he looked at her? He groaned and held his head. He could not stop loving her, wanting her, any more than he could drive out the ugly thought that she would betray that love. Heartsick, he mounted his horse again. It was simpler to love a dream—dreams did not trail doubts and uncertainties in their wake.
Jean-Auguste, Baron Narbaux, tethered his horse to a large oak and hurried across the wide lawn of Vilmorin to where Marielle was waiting. He had been reluctant to leave his vineyards—there was still so much to be done—but the urgency of her message (“If you deem that we be friends, I beg you to come at once.”) had persuaded him. Her face was pale and drawn, the eyes red-rimmed and sad. She smiled wanly and thanked him for coming, making small talk and prattling on about the harvest until he took her hands in his and looked deep into her eyes. Her voice faltered then and she turned away, soft chin quivering. He waited for her to compose herself.
“You are his friend,” she began softly. “You can talk to him. Ask him…beg him…to let me go. I do not belong here—I am not a fit wife for any man!”
“What nonsense is this?”
“He hates me!” she wept. “He cannot forget. He cannot forgive. Gravillac’s specter perches on the rooftop and haunts us both! If you talk to him…a divorce…annulment…whatever the grounds. Say that we married under duress at La Forêt…that I am a disobedient wife…whatever he wishes!”
“But you love him! N’est-ce pas?”
“Does it matter? Does it keep me from grief? Oh, Jean-Auguste! I can no longer bear the pain we give to one another!”
“And what of his love for you?” he asked softly. “Do you know how he suffered when he could not find you at La Forêt?” Her eyes wavered, but she shook her head.
“No. No, it is not love he feels for me. More and more I have seen it in his eyes since Paris. It is not love he wants. He will never think of me as his wife—only a mistress with a wedding ring!”
“I think you make more of this than what is warranted. Be patient. Marriage is strange to him. It may be hard for him to settle down. And his pride was grievously wounded because of Gravillac!”
She frowned. “But there is something deeper,” she said slowly. “An undercurrent…I cannot explain it…a feeling, no more. As though he…expects me to disappoint him.”
He laughed shortly. “But that is what he thinks of all women! I thought he felt differently about you, at least. My friend André is a fool!”
“Perhaps, growing up without a mother, he never learned to trust a woman’s love. Perhaps he felt abandoned when she died.” She looked at Narbaux thoughtfully. “What was she like? He never speaks of her.”
“She died very suddenly. I was younger than he, but later, when we became friends…” He shook his head, remembering, surprised. “He never talked about her! I do not know if he felt her loss, but his father did. The old man languished for years, bent with grief, before he died.”
“Poor André!”
“You see? Could you really leave him?” he asked tenderly. She sniffled and smiled softly, then wiped
her eyes and blew her nose with the handkerchief he had proffered. “Stay with him,” he continued. “It has not been so very long—how can you judge a marriage that has hardly begun? And then…he loves you!”
She sighed. “I find myself unwilling yet to believe that…but…”
He smiled, his fiery mustaches bobbing. “I expect to be invited to the christening of your first child!”
She threw her arms about his neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him warmly on the cheek. “You are a good and loyal friend, Jean-Auguste!”
“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse in his throat. Something in his tone made her look up suddenly. She searched his face, her own awash with sympathy and understanding. Gently she reached up to touch his cheek.
“I am sorry,” she said softly.
He turned away. “Yes,” he said with a shaky laugh. “If I were not such a good friend, I would persuade you to leave him this very moment!” He strode quickly to his horse, mounted it and was gone. She watched him gallop out of sight, her heart filled with sadness for him.
“Such a charming scene! I did not wish to interrupt!”
Surprised, she whirled to face André. He looked disheveled, unkempt, his face drawn and haggard, but the icy blue eyes glittered with scorn. When he spoke his voice was heavy with sarcasm.
“I came to apologize for my churlish behavior of last night, but it would seem I returned too soon!”
“Do you see rivals behind every tree?” she said, tears of anger springing to her eyes. She pushed past him and hurried toward the château. He watched her for a moment, then impulsively strode toward her, turning her roughly about and pinning her in a fierce embrace. He bent and kissed her hard, bruising her mouth, while she struggled vainly against him. At last, with a great effort she pushed him away, her breath coming in deep gulps, her face a mask of anger and contempt.
“Don’t ever touch me again! Not ever!” She glared fiercely at him; he recoiled as though she had struck him across the face. Her glance wavered, the brave show collapsing. With a sob, she ran inside, leaving him to his remorse.
But the imp perched on his shoulder and whispered in his ear: Narbaux. Your friend. It is not just Gravillac. She will betray you with all men! And he hardened his heart against her tears.
Chapter Twenty
Grisaille removed a small wooden plug from the lid of the fermenting vat, sniffed deeply, and turned to André.
“A few more days yet, Monsieur!”
It had been nearly a week since the grapes had been crushed, and in that time the large vats had seethed and bubbled, giving off strange noises and intoxicating aromas as the fermentation took place, generating considerable heat that could be felt even through the heavy staves. Only the chill of the autumn evenings kept the wood cool enough to be touched. In a few days the burbling would slow and then cease, and the juice would be run off into large barrels. Then the “must,” the thick, viscous mixture of pulp and juice, would be transferred to the wine press, where the rest of the liquid would be extracted. When the barrels were full and loosely sealed, they would be transferred to the coolness of the caves, there to rest and age for several months, while the cloudy sediment sank to the bottom. The wine would then be racked off into smaller casks and hogsheads and sealed with straw plugs.
André sighed deeply. He should feel contented, but the thoughts that seethed in his brain stirred up more heat than the roiling grapes in the vats. Fall had always been a pleasant time at Vilmorin—the work finished, there was time at last to enjoy the golden days, the long cool nights. When there had been no campaigns to be waged, he and Narbaux had spent many companionable hours, riding and hunting in the leaf-strewn woods. How could they now be friends, when suspicion gnawed at him? And yet to stay at home, to look at Marielle…to ache with love for her…to doubt her, and loathe himself for his doubting…More and more, he found himself sharp and angry with her, hating her for the dilemma his own uneasy thoughts caused. Perhaps when the last of the wine barrels was stored, he could escape, alone, to Paris for a time.
Marielle arranged the last of the roses, her fingers deft and nimble as she stripped off the superfluous leaves and tucked the fragrant blossoms into the large vase. Her hands had not been so sure at the noon meal. André had been so surly and abrupt that she had felt stupid and awkward, and had tipped over her wineglass and watched in dismay as the stain spread on the linen. She had fled the room at his angry scowl, trying not to see Clothilde’s smirk of pleasure at her discomfort. Now, though her fingers were obedient to her will, her thoughts were not on the pink and scarlet clusters she held. It was only something to do to keep from feeling useless, as superfluous to Vilmorin as the leaves she pulled away. Mistress of Vilmorin! What kind of mistress could she be? She was unwomanly, she had failed him in every way. He did not seem to want her friendship any longer, but, God forgive her, she could not be a proper wife. Seeing his anger these last few days, for which she felt such a heavy responsibility, she had even crept to his bedroom door one night and stood there, shuddering in fear, unable to enter, until at last she retreated to the safety of her own bed and the pillow that muffled her heartbroken sobs. There was no need for her anywhere at Vilmorin. The servants took care of the estate, and Clothilde still anticipated most of André’s needs and openly resented Marielle’s intrusion—except when André was nearby to see her perfect obeisance to her mistress. In agony Marielle wondered what other need the housekeeper might fill for him. With a sigh, she carried the roses into the vestibule and set them down on a small marble table near the staircase. She glanced up. Clothilde was descending the stairs, her face a mask of hostility that made Marielle wince.
“If you please, Clothilde,” she said quietly, “while I am aware that you do not hold me in high esteem, I would prefer to see a smile upon your face rather than the sullen frowns to which I am subjected.”
“What I think is my own concern, Madame!” said Clothilde insolently. “Can I help it if my face does not hide my thoughts?”
“Then I must insist…nay, command…that you make an effort to be pleasant. It is the least you owe to the mistress of the house!”
Clothilde took a menacing step forward. “And how long do you think you will be mistress here if you cannot keep him in your bed?” Marielle gaped, speechless at this effrontery, stricken to the core by the woman’s brazen cruelty. Clothilde purred, seeing her arrow draw blood. She smiled wickedly and lowered her voice. “Who do you think shared his bed the night of the harvest—when you turned him out?”
It was too much. With a despairing cry, Marielle lashed out at her, striking the insolent mouth and catching Clothilde unawares so that she stumbled back and fell heavily upon a small bench, where she sat stunned, her cheek glowing crimson, hatred burning in her eyes. Suddenly she drooped and began to wail pitifully. The transformation was so surprising that Marielle would have gone to her and offered comfort, but a noise behind her caused her to turn and see the reason for the unexpected change. André had come storming into the vestibule and he took in the scene at a glance: the weeping Clothilde, red-faced, and Marielle, fury in her eyes, her hand still raised against the poor girl. He advanced upon Marielle, his rage kept in check by the strongest effort of his will.
“Now Madame,” he said coldly, his jaw rigid. “God knows you are hardly chaste enough to call yourself a lady, but you might at least behave like one!”
She gasped, a long, slow intake of breath that seemed to linger deep within her for a moment, then emerged from her throat as a low moan that ended in a choking sob. She ran up the stairs, pushing aside Louise who had come down the stairs in time to see the whole distressing scene, and who now pursued Marielle to her room, vainly trying to comfort her.
André bent to Clothilde, drying her tears sympathetically and sending her off to her room to rest, but his thoughts were on the grief he had seen in Marielle’s face. Distracted, he wandered into his small library and sat down, cursing himself for a blackguard. What had possess
ed him to say such a terrible thing to her? Restless, guilt-ridden, he jumped up and began to pace the small room, wondering if he ought to go and apologize to Marielle. Suddenly the door flew open and Louise burst into the room—the avenging angel, the she-wolf come to defend her young. Fists upraised, she stalked to him and pounded on his chest with all her might until, gasping for breath, he was able at last to push her to arms’ length, holding her at bay while he recovered himself.
“Damn you!” she cursed. “You pig! You stupid fool! She will not let me in…she will not let me help her! If I were a man I would run you through! I would tear out your heart with my bare hands the way you have done to her! Damn you to Hell. His cruelty left wounds you could see! He only broke her spirit—you break her heart! And that conniving witch Clothilde…are all men as blind and stupid as you?”
“His cruelty?” said André in disbelief. “But at Quiot I saw—”
“Pah! You saw what you wished to see! It pleased you to think her unfaithful!” She took a deep breath, forcing her anger to drain away, then curtsied quickly, her eyes on the floor. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur le Comte. I have said more than I should have.” She curtsied again and headed for the door. On the threshold she stopped and turned, her voice low, her eyes filled with remembrance and regret. “I saw him grow from a boy…there was always something dark and evil in him…you could see it in his eyes, even when he was a child. But you…innocent face…break a girl’s heart…what demons hide behind your mask?” Then she was gone.
What demons indeed? Brooding, he sat down heavily, his head dropping forward into his hands. Why did he find it so difficult to believe a woman could be faithful? Was it because of all the women he had known, the husbands so easily betrayed, the easy coquettes who played at love? From the first, he had been unfair and suspicious of Marielle. But why? She had never claimed to be a saint, and certainly not a virgin after Quiot. It was he…in all the weeks he thought her dead…who had created this perfect creature in his mind. After that, the reality of her could never match the dream, and she suffered in comparison with the woman she had never been, but he insisted upon recalling. No wonder she had been so unhappy—she could not have pleased him, no matter what. As for himself, finding her only human, he had no longer expected her to be faithful—and had treated her shabbily, with suspicion and ugliness. Why should he have been surprised when she turned to Narbaux for warmth and love and comfort? It was the very comfort that he had given her at La Forêt that had won her love. He sighed deeply. He owed her the opportunity to be herself, to be judged, seen, accepted for what she was. As for Clothilde, she had been there when he needed a woman—had his gratitude and guilt blinded him to her real nature?
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