Marielle

by Sylvia Halliday

  She moaned softly. She wanted suddenly to hold him fast, to feel the length of her body pressed against his, and she raised his head from her bosom, needing his mouth on hers, his arms twined tightly about her. Instead, he lifted her gently and deposited her on the bed, stepping back to the fireplace where he began to remove his boots. She felt an odd pang of disappointment, an impatience to have him near her again. She watched as he stripped off his garments and marveled anew at how beautiful his body was: narrowed-hipped, broad-shouldered, his chest and arms browned by the sun, the spun-gold hairs shimmering on his limbs and back; it was incredible that the very sight of him could make her heart pound so. His muscles rippled under the firm flesh; she was overwhelmed by a desire to touch him, and she reached out her yearning arms. He hesitated for a moment, then came to her, meaning to lie down at her side, but she opened wide her arms and drew him down on top of her, holding him tightly as though she would absorb his body into her own. Surprised at the fierceness of her embrace, and swept away by his own passion, he entered her quickly, still half-expecting the tension, the moment of panic. Instead, she clung to him, her body seeming to have a will of its own, writhing in ecstasy, rising to meet his with an eagerness she could not control, filled with an unbearable excitement that was almost too beautiful, too painful to endure. Suddenly she arched her back and gasped, her eyes wide with astonishment, as waves of feeling exploded within her, a searing warmth that filled her being and subsided at last into gentle spasms; then she lay quietly, her eyes closed, filled with a contentment, a completeness she had never known before. At length she opened her eyes to see André smiling down at her, his face filled with wonder and surprise and pleasure.

  “I…had not dreamed!…” she marveled, her voice soft and shaky. He chuckled, his eyes warm with love and pride. In truth, he had only expected her to be a compliant wife, responding to him because she loved him; he had been as totally unprepared as she for the passion his lovemaking had aroused in her. In spite of his skill as a lover, the number of women he had known, he had never felt such satisfaction, such joy; Marielle had responded to him totally—heart, soul, body—all the more touching because her innocence had led her to expect nothing from their encounter but the dutiful willingness she had given him that morning. He kissed her gently, hardly trusting the stability of his own voice, then rolled over and sat up, pulling down the coverlet and helping her into its warm folds. Tucked contentedly in the crook of his arm, her face snuggled against his chest, she let the soft sounds of the rain outside lull her into contented sleep. The last thing she remembered as she drifted off was André, watching her lovingly, and grinning like a jackanapes.

  Something had wakened her. Some small sound or movement—or intuition—had penetrated her brain as she slept and she woke, curious, surprised, half-alarmed. The rain had stopped and the skies were already clear, for the bright silver of the full moon flooded the chamber, illuminating all it touched with shining clarity. The candle had burnt out, and the hearth glowed red with the last dying coals. At the same time her hand reached out for the spot where André should have been, Marielle saw him at one of the windows, one knee leaning on the window seat, his shoulders hunched forward until his arms rested on the sill and cradled his chin. He looked lonely, forlorn, his whole attitude suggestive of some deep grief. Swiftly she rose from the bed and wrapped the coverlet about her. She crossed silently to him, feeling somehow excluded from his unhappy world.

  “André. André, what is it?” He straightened up, his hands on the windowsill, his back still toward her; when he spoke, his voice was muffled and low.

  “It is nothing. A bad dream. Nothing more. Go back to bed.”

  There was an odd note in his voice; with a sudden flash of insight Marielle remembered when she had heard it before.

  “It was about your mother,” she said. It was a statement, not a question. He laughed raggedly, surprised as always by her perception.

  “Witch!” he said. “How do you do that?” She touched him tenderly on the shoulder.

  “Tell me about her.” He hesitated, then turned and sat sideways on the window cushion, his head against the side wall of the enclosure. The moon shone full upon his face, but he might have been in darkness for all his expression told Marielle, as though he felt his look would betray him, even to her.

  “It is so long ago,” he said disconsolately. “You would think I should have forgot by now.”

  “Tell me,” she urged.

  “She came from Normandy,” he began. “A good family, titled, respected, wealthy. She was very beautiful, and did not want for suitors. Then her father quarreled with King Henry…I never knew what the dispute had been about…and his land and holdings and title were forfeited to the Crown. The suitors vanished like the winter snows—save one. My father, for all the wealth and splendors of Vilmorin, was a simple country farmer, but he loved her. I doubt if she had even noticed him until then, but his loyalty and persistence eventually won her over. My sister was born in the first year of their marriage; I did not arrive until eleven years later.”

  He paused and stared blankly out the window. “I remember how she laughed. All the time. My father and I were good friends—we rode together and hunted and worked the fields—but I think that all the gaiety at Vilmorin, all the happiness of those years, was because of her. The eyes of a child…” He laughed bleakly.

  “They did not go often to Court, but my mother returned occasionally to Normandy, where my grandfather had a small cottage, and after he died she still returned to see old friends. It seemed natural enough. She took my sister with her sometimes, which always pleased me—I missed my mother, but I was glad to be quit of my sister, if only briefly. And since my father seldom joined her, there was the added joy of the time we spent together.” He paused and rubbed his eyes wearily. “I was twelve…”

  “And then…she died?”

  “I was twelve. I had not been to Normandy since my grandfather had died. She was planning a journey. At the last moment, it seemed, my father decided that he and I should accompany her; I think she was annoyed, for the ride was tiresome and somber, with none of her usual laughter to lighten the way. Desmarches, the caretaker my father had employed to keep the cottage in order—for it was Vilmorin money that had sustained my grandfather after his ruin—Desmarches was surprised to see us all, but he was quick to get our rooms in order, and brought his sister from the village to work in the kitchen. My mother spent the rest of the day with me. She was very proud of her village and its history, and insisted on showing me where William the Conqueror had stayed and where battles had been fought. I remember we laughed about everything that day. How we laughed together! We had never been closer.” André sighed, then shook his head as though he would clear it of agonizing memories. “The next day my father and I went out riding—we were to be gone all day—it was to be an adventure. An adventure! But my horse went lame after scarcely an hour. He let me ride his horse back, while he led mine. My father’s horse! I was so proud. When we reached the cottage I raced ahead. I could hardly wait to tell her of my ride home. I flew up the stairs and burst into her room.” He paused and tapped his clenched fist against his mouth, as if to block the ugly words that formed.

  “I remember first a lavender cloud upon the floor, and thought that she was huddled there, buried somewhere in the folds of her gown. Then I saw them on the bed. Desmarches was dark and swarthy…she…she looked so pale and…white beneath him. I could not imagine how she could bear to…touch…him…”

  “Oh, André!”

  “Then my father was there. It was like a scene from a bad comedy. He drew his sword—I had never seen him so angry. Desmarches, naked as a snake, leapt from the bed and snatched up a poker from the hearth to defend himself. It was a ludicrous duel—I might have laughed about it…in another life. I remember my father slashed at him and there was blood and my mother screamed—I ran from the room and crouched outside the door. I could hear the sounds of struggling, and the
n my mother’s voice. ‘Even though you kill him,’ she said, ‘I shall not return to Vilmorin! I shall never! There will be another to take his place.’ That is what she said—‘never return!’ I thought to myself…she does not want us anymore…what have we done to make her so unhappy? I could not listen to another word. I fled the cottage and hid myself—God knows where, or for how long—I could only hear her words…‘never return.’ It was night when he came searching for me with a lantern…no one was in the cottage, and all her things were gone. He would not talk to me or speak of her, but he gave me supper and put me to bed. In the morning we returned to Vilmorin. I was afraid to talk to him, or question him, but when we arrived home he gathered us all in the salon, my sister, the servants, and told us that the Comtesse du Crillon had died suddenly of a fever, and had been buried in Normandy next to her parents.”

  “Mon Dieu!” Marielle would have touched him, but he seemed so remote that she feared she could not reach him.

  “After that, he was never the same. My sister escaped into marriage the following year—a nobleman from Strasbourg—and I was left to ease his misery. He began to tell me what their life had been like. She was a restless spirit—she had betrayed him countless times—that was why they had stopped going to Court. She was always sorry, and he always forgave her…I think in some ways he felt pity for her. That was why he had let her go alone to Normandy so often—he had not wanted Vilmorin to seem a prison. But as the years went on, his bitterness deepened, and he would sit with me, drinking himself senseless, and describe her succession of lovers, humiliating himself afresh with each retelling. God!” He groaned aloud. “I had not even known…all those years…I thought they were happy!”

  Marielle threw her arms about him, cradling his head against her breast; she could feel the wetness of his tears on her bosom, and her heart ached. “But what…happened to her?” she asked.

  His voice, muffled against her, was filled with agony. “I thought he had killed her. Killed them both. Long after he died, I still thought it.”

  “Oh, André, alas!”

  “Then I found some papers of his. There was a letter. From her. In Paris. It was written only a few weeks before he died. She was not asking for forgiveness, but she was desperate. Sick, abandoned—God knows what ever happened to Desmarches—she needed money. There was another letter as well, written the following week, from a woman in Paris—she was returning only a part of the money he had sent, but times were hard and she begged the Comte du Crillon to forgive her. The lady to whom he had sent the gold…she was using the name Desmarches…can you imagine?” André stared at her with stricken eyes. “Desmarches!”

  “But your mother?…”

  “She was dead, the letter said. A fire in her pension. It was God’s blessing, the woman said. Her illness and suffering had been beyond bearing. My father died less than a week later.”

  They were silent for a very long time. At length Marielle took him gently by the hand and urged him back to bed. He lay down, and would have turned away from her, but she pushed him down upon his back and perched over him, her soft breasts lightly touching his chest, and she kissed his mouth and eyes, caressed his face and stroked his forehead gently until the haunted look faded from his eyes and his arms closed possessively around her. Then she lay down full-length upon him; their two bodies seemed to touch in a thousand places, and every spot a flame that fired his passion. With a groan, he rolled over and pressed her down upon the pillows, feeling again her eager response, the quickening of her hips against his burning loins, her breathless hunger that told him she felt the full wide measure of love. He knew, in that moment before his senses lifted him beyond his body to soar in a firmament of shooting stars—lips pressed to lips, bodies fused as one—he knew with certainty that he would never be tormented by his dreams again.

  She woke to the sound of doves cooing under the eaves. The room was filled with the first rays of the sun. Beside her, André still slept, curled up on his side like a little boy, his face in repose strong, yet soft and vulnerable at the same time. How could she have hurt him so, that lady of long-ago who had abandoned him, who had made him feel responsible for her going? And what of his father, who had poisoned his mind, shared burdens a son should not have had to hear? Small wonder he had been so jealous, not only of Gravillac, but of Jean-Auguste, and every other man who looked at her. He had held back love and tender feelings, not out of hatred, as she had thought and feared, but out of dread that she would break his heart the way his mother had. How foolish. She was bound to him by a love so strong that nothing could touch it; it was a needing, a caring that could only deepen with time. She saw their lives together as one silken ribbon stretching into tomorrow as far as the eye could see, smooth and beautiful and unbroken. And there was something more. She smiled to herself, reliving those moments of ecstasy they had shared. Without her quite knowing how or why, André had unlocked a door deep within her—a door that could never be locked again. She marveled at the forces that stirred within her; even now, just thinking of him was enough to start a strange and wonderful tingling sensation deep within her vitals. She closed her eyes and stretched luxuriantly, spreading her limbs wide and feeling a warm glow from her fingers to the tips of her toes. She gasped suddenly, her eyes flying open, as a strong hand gripped her outflung leg; André’s merry blue eyes stared down at her.

  “Good morrow, my love,” he said mildly, and kissed her gently, but the grasping hand, with an independence of its own, was creeping slowly upward from her knee, far less innocent than his smiling face.

  “Should we not be returning to Vilmorin?” she asked artlessly, but wriggling under that searching hand.

  “I think Louise and Grisaille can manage yet awhile longer without us!”

  “Think you there will be a wedding?” Only the twinkle in her eye betrayed the battle that was being waged beneath the coverlet, as she twisted and turned to elude his teasing fingers. With a mischievous giggle, she suddenly pulled free and rolled over on her belly, smiling at her cleverness in leaving him no access to those regions that aroused her so.

  “Devil!” he said, and whipped off the coverlet. He kissed the hollow of her back, laughing as she gasped at the sensations his lips awakened; his hands moved gently upon her, touching little secret places that made her jump and set her heart to pounding. Squirming free, she leapt off the bed and danced into a corner, André in hot pursuit.

  “I truly think we should return at once to Vilmorin, my lord,” she said innocently. “The sun will soon be high in the heavens—Louise will worry!” Her eyes swept his body, noting with a wicked gleam that his passion had not abated. “Think you there will be trouble with your breeches, my lord?” She laughed gaily, but her steps were wary and cautious, expecting the sudden onslaught; instead he stopped his advance and nodded his head.

  “You are right, wife. Grisaille might do something foolish. I must warn him against marriage and cruel women!” He allowed himself to pout a little.

  “Poor André!” she said with mock-seriousness. “What may I do to make amends?”

  “One kiss,” he sighed. “One kiss is all I ask!” She hesitated, eyeing him with suspicion. “Look,” he said. “I shall put my hands behind my back,” and he followed the words with the action.

  She curtsied demurely. “Will I be safe from the wicked dragon then, my liege?”

  “I give you my word, fair damsel!”

  She put her hands softly on his shoulders, and stood on tiptoe as he pressed his lips gently upon hers; then she squealed in surprise as his strong arms caught her in a fierce embrace—lifting and flinging her swiftly upon the bed—and he leapt triumphantly atop her. There was a sudden flicker of fear in her eyes, and he sat up, filled with contrition.

  “Marielle! Love! Forgive me. I had not meant to…” Her fingers, pressed against his lips, would not let him continue. She smiled. The moment of terror had passed.

  “André. Mon cher. I am not so very fragile as you might s
uppose. I have but to see your face, and my fears vanish. You must not be afraid when I am not!” She pulled his mouth down to hers in a kiss that set his head to spinning, but when at last he opened his eyes he saw that the devil had returned and was grinning wickedly up at him. Laughing, she would have wriggled away, but he caught her and pinned her wrists to the bed, covering her sweet face and tumultuous bosom with his burning kisses, while she struggled halfheartedly against him.

  “Ah, no, my lord,” she gasped, panting and laughing in the same breath. “Kiss me as you will—I shall not submit so willingly this time!” In a little while, of course, she did.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The morning was well-advanced before André and Marielle, laughing gaily, descended from their little room beneath the eaves. They stopped halfway down the stairs: it was André who first saw the pistol pointing at them; Marielle, her heart thudding in terror, saw that the face behind the pistol belonged to Renard de Gravillac.