“It will come back to you,” he assured her. Blissfully ignorant of Jean-Paul’s participation in many all-night card games with Claude and friends, he led Simone into the parlor.
Near midnight, Alain lingered in his study next to the room where his ward now slept. Outside, the wind had risen and thunder rolled in the distance, but he was warm in front of the fire, sipping a brandy.
His long frame draped over a chair, he marveled at his discovery of Simone and wondered what had happened to the child who had pestered him all those years ago, chattering to attract his attention, sulking when that attention was brief. Since he had found her last night, he delighted in every moment spent with her, in every new facet of her personality revealed to him. He hadn’t even minded being fleeced quite professionally in a game of bourrée. She was Nicholas’s daughter, after all, he chuckled to himself.
Suddenly the night sky outside the window was split by a blinding bolt of lightning, and thunder cracked overhead, eliciting a cry from the next room.
Instantly Alain was on his feet, racing through the wind-lashed rain along the gallery to the bedroom door. As he entered, the room was illuminated by stark white light, and the thunder sounded again close at hand.
Simone sat bolt upright in bed. “Stay back!” she shouted wildly.
“I came to see if you were all right,” he answered. Then, realizing she was still asleep, he went to her, uncaring that he left a trail of water across the floor. “Wake up, Simone,” he said softly, “you’re having a bad dream.”
“Don’t make me hurt you,” she pleaded, recoiling in horror from a scene only she could see. “So much blood! What have I done?”
Sitting beside her on the bed, Alain reached out to touch her shoulder, but he met with a flailing punch that nearly unseated him.
“I’ll never be your mistress!” she cried desperately. “Never!”
“Simone, my poor little love,” he murmured sadly, “wake up.” He managed to capture her thrashing arms and shake her gently.
Drawing a shuddering breath, she opened her eyes to look at him dully. “Alain?” She touched his face as if to be sure he was there. “You’re wet.”
“I came when I heard you cry out. You were having a nightmare, chère.”
“It really is storming. I was dreaming of the night . . . .” Her voice trailed off pitifully.
“It’s all right. You don’t have to be afraid,” he whispered. Unmindful of his wet clothes, he drew her against him, stroking her hair comfortingly. “I am here now.”
A strangled sob escaped her, and abruptly Simone buried her face against his chest. While she wept, Alain cradled her in strong, protective arms and for the first time since her father’s death, she did not feel alone.
“Isn’t this one beautiful?” Simone asked excitedly. Holding a soft green dress in front of her, she waltzed around the bedroom, skipping through patches of the spring sunlight pouring in through the windows and the door on the gallery.
“Very pretty,” Lisette approved as she unpacked more boxes.
Parcels from the shoemaker were stacked on the slipper chair, assorted hat boxes littered the bed. The bed was a jumble of splendid colors and textures as dresses and evening gowns, frilly chemises and stiff petticoats, an opera cape and a riding habit were added to the heap.
“‘Lain must have liked the perfume you wore the night of the ball,” Lisette said. “He bought you more.”
“I liked it, too.” Simone pirouetted past and took the bottle from her friend’s hand.
“Why don’t you try on that green dress while I put these things away?” Lisette suggested. “If we hurry, I’ll have time to see how you’re progressing on your needlework.”
Simone spun away to close the door at once. As soon as she had changed, she said eagerly, “I’ll put the rest away later, Lisette. Come downstairs now and let me show you what I’ve accomplished since our last lesson.”
When the woman had visited for the first time a couple of weeks before, she had discovered that, though Simone could sew, she did not know how to embroider. Immediately, she set out to teach her. Both of them now looked forward to the quiet interludes when they chatted companionably.
After they were settled in the parlor, Simone asked, “Lisette, how long have you known Alain?”
“All his life.” The madam was concentrating on unsnarling her thread. “His family and mine were neighbors.”
“I can’t imagine Alain as a child.”
“He was a terror,” Lisette said solemnly. Then she smiled. “And out of the three de Vallière boys, he was my favorite.”
“I didn’t know Alain had brothers.” Simone regarded her with surprise over her embroidery hoop.
“Two brothers and two sisters. But only Pascal, Alain’s older brother, is left. The same epidemic that killed my family took its toll on his as well.” Lisette bent over her work in exaggerated concentration.
“I’m sorry,” Simone murmured.
“It was along time ago,” Lisette said briskly. “That year was hard for the de Vallière family. Madame de Vallière died as well, leaving Alain’s father a very bitter man. I don’t think he’s said a kind word to his sons since.”
“So that is why Alain lives in New Orleans and not in the country.”
“There’s nothing for him at Bois Blanc. Pascal will inherit the plantation, and he doesn’t want Alain there.”
“Why not?” Simone asked indignantly.
“Pascal has always been sickly. He’s resented Alain’s strength and vitality from childhood. Later he despised him for his business acumen. So, rather than fight with his brother, ‘Lain seldom goes home. He has made a life for himself, managing the family interests here in New Orleans.”
“Poor Alain, he hasn’t known much love in his life, has he?”
“He’s known a little,” Lisette answered. “I’ll always love him because he’s been the best friend I’ve ever had. He stood by me when no one else would.”
“I think you’ve been a good friend to him, too, Lisette. And I’m sorry if my masquerade caused any strain on your friendship.”
“Alain understood that I had given my word to you. He’s an honorable man. I’m just glad it’s over.”
“Glad what’s over?” the man asked from the doorway.
“Winter,” Simone lied, her face coloring tellingly. She had not heard him come in.
“So am I,” Alain said, moving to stand beside her chair. “Especially when I find you looking like a spring day. Is that a new gown you’re wearing?”
“Oui. My new clothes came today.” Simone sprung up at once and twirled ingenuously for his inspection. “Do you like it?”
“It’s lovely.” His voice was vibrant. “Do you like it?”
“Oui, I’ve never had such beautiful things.”
“Everything is perfect, just as you wanted,” Lisette assured him softly.
He smiled at the words, beaming all the more when Simone impulsively tiptoed to kiss his cheek and murmured, “Merci, Alain.”
“My pleasure, ma petite.” His arms closed around her, and he held her against him for a moment. “And you smell good, too.”
Simone was flustered when he released her. Why did he have this effect on her? All he had done was to give her a brotherly hug, and her heart was pounding.
Seeking to cover her discomfiture, she said crisply, “As much as I love all you bought me, I think you spent too much money. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”
“I don’t expect you to. It is my money to spend, at least until the next card game. I’m beginning to be sorry I taught her,” he complained good-naturedly to Lisette.
At the sound of the bell at the gate, his face clouded. “Who could that be? I’m not expecting anyone. I’m afraid you must go upstairs, Simone,” he said apologetically. “We cannot risk anyone seeing you.”
The girl’s good mood was swept away by the realization that she was little more than a prisoner in Alain’s house. His
generosity and all her new clothes could not change that fact. Sorrowful and silent, she left the parlor.
A few steps behind her, Lisette said, “I will see myself out the back way and come tomorrow.”
The women were scarcely out of sight when Alain went to answer the door. “Serge, sorry to keep you waiting,” he greeted his friend, who waited on the banquette. “It took me a moment to remember Batiste is out at the market. Come in.”
Her door slightly ajar, Simone listened to the voices drifting up from the courtyard. Recognizing the fencing master’s voice, she smiled nostalgically, missing him and his kindness.
“Would you care for some café?” Alain was asking.
“Oui, and let us sit out here. It’s such a beautiful day.”
After a moment, Simone heard the men settle in the courtyard.
“Since you have not come to the salle for weeks, I decided I must call on you,” Serge said lazily.
“Business affairs have occupied me,” Alain explained.
“More likely affairs of the heart have occupied you,” the other man teased. Leaning toward his friend, he sniffed. “You have about you the distinct fragrance of perfume, mon ami, the scent of roses. Is it true you’ve taken Lisette Dupré as your mistress?”
“What makes you think that?”
“It’s what everyone says. You are the envy of the salle. She is a rare beauty indeed, and very unobtainable, until now. But then, you always had great luck with the ladies.”
Alain glanced uneasily toward the gallery. He could not tell if Simone’s door was closed or if it stood open a crack. Suspecting the latter, he said, “I’ve had no greater luck than you, mon ami.”
“You’re too modest.” Serge laughed. “You stole that dancer in Paris from under my nose quite nicely. What was her name?”
“Hélène,” Alain mumbled uncomfortably.
“Nor have I forgotten the innkeeper’s daughter,” Serge accused humorously.
“Innkeeper’s daughter?” Alain frowned, unable to place that conquest.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Manon. Or what about--”
“Surely you haven’t come to catalogue my idle flirtations,” Alain interrupted.
“Idle flirtations?” Serge exploded in laughter. “The pretty gypsy—Carmen, wasn’t it?—would have killed for you.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Alain saw Simone’s door close.
“What did you come for, Serge?” he growled.
“To ask if you will practice with me before the assaut d’armes in May,” Serge replied, somewhat surprised by his friend’s brusqueness. “You’re the only opponent who truly tests my skills.”
“I heard there was to be a tournament for the maîtres d’armes. I’d be glad to help,” Alain agreed, remorseful at his impatience.
“Merci beaucoup.” The fencing master rose and bowed politely. “Pardon, my friend, but I have several private lessons this evening and I must get back to the salle.”
Mounting the stairs to the second floor a little later, Alain knocked on Simone’s door and called, “You can come out now.”
“I prefer to stay in, merci,” she informed him through the closed panel.
“I thought you would like to hear about our caller.”
“I know it was Serge.”
“Don’t you want to hear about our conversation?”
“I heard all I need to know about your ‘idle flirtations.’” The door was flung open, and Simone glowered at him.
Alain fought back a smile. “They happened long ago, ma petite. There’s no reason for you to be jealous now.”
“Jealous?” she hissed. “Why should I care whom my guardian sees? Though why my father ever decided to hand my future to a ne’er-do-well, a ladies’ man--”
“That’s the second time you’ve accused me of being a ladies’ man. Just where did you get that idea?” he interrupted.
“You told me so yourself, outside Lisette’s house.”
“When you were Jean-Paul. Now I remember. You provoked me into that.”
“It was still fine talk for a boy to hear,” she shot back.
“Accusing me of loitering in front of a whorehouse was fine talk for a girl to speak,” he thundered, out of patience at last.
She glared at him, incensed that he was right. “You, sir,” she said haughtily, “are a cad and a roué, not a suitable guardian for a young lady.”
“And you, mam’selle, are a complete hoyden. Your taste of freedom obviously did not agree with you. It proves what I’ve always said. You need someone to take you in hand.”
“Well, it won’t be you!” she yelled.
“Not tonight anyway,” he agreed, his voice deceptively mild. “I fear if I tried to take you in hand now, I would strangle you.” With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his study.
CHAPTER NINE
It was wash day in the Vieux Carré, and the river-scented wind carried the Monday morning odors—the mingled scents of soap, bluing, and starch and the aroma of red beans cooking on wood stoves in every household.
Peeping over a stack of clean towels, Simone climbed the stairs to the garçonnière. She smiled at Batiste over the railing as he heated water in washtubs near the kitchen and waited for her to bring the soiled linens from Alain’s room.
The day was warm, and in the fig tree a bird was chirping cheerfully. The big servant also sang, his voice deep and soothing. Simone listened, her bad mood of the night before dissipating with the morning fog.
At the top of the stairs, her steps faltered. She did not know why she should be nervous. Alain had gone hours before, leaving his door and the louvers of his jalousie window open to the breeze. During the past few weeks, bored with idleness, she had often helped with the chores, but this was the first time she had gone into Alain’s room.
Her feet made no sound on the thick Turkey carpet as she entered. Balancing her burden of towels, she pulled back the curtains that billowed softly over the open windows. Sunshine streamed into the orderly room. The narrow tester bed was rumpled and unmade, but no clothing or shoes cluttered the floor. The only thing that seemed out of place was a towel crumpled beside the bathtub on the brick hearth.
Humming, Simone hung clean towels on the back of the washstand. Quickly she stripped the linens from the bed, trying not to notice the imprint of Alain’s head on his pillow or the scent of him wafting from the sheets as she wadded them into a bundle and laid them at the foot of the bed.
She went to pick up the towel from the floor, anxious to leave. Just being there made her feel vulnerable somehow. She must not soften toward Alain when there were still battles to fight. Her guardian was charged with finding a husband for her, after all.
As Simone stood beside the mantel, her eyes fell upon a sword lying there. It looked like . . . it was! Smiling incredulously, she picked up her father’s sword and turned it over in her hand. She had feared it was lost forever.
“I know you were angry last night, but that’s no reason to ambush a man in his own room,” Alain teased from behind her.
Simone turned to see him on the landing. “I didn’t hear you come up,” she greeted him breathlessly, wondering how such a big man could walk so quietly.
Removing his hat, he stepped into the room. “Would you accept that as a peace offering?” He nodded to the sword she held.
“I may have it? Really?”
“Really,” he replied. As he walked toward her, he carelessly pitched his hat toward a rack on the wall where it caught neatly on one of the pegs.
“Merci, Alain.” Forgetting the harsh words they had spoken last night, she smiled radiantly. “How did you get it?”
“I told you I got a few things from your landlady.” He stood so close to her that the toes of his polished boots disappeared under her full skirt. “What are you doing in here, chère?” he asked softly.
“I came to get your linens for the laundry.” She ducked swiftly to scoop the towel from the floor wi
th her free hand as if to offer proof.
“Ah yes, the laundry,” he murmured, taking it from her when she rose and tossing it onto the sheets.
Still he did not touch her, but Simone suddenly wished he would.
His dark eyes roved over her approvingly, taking in her rolled sleeves and the apron she wore over her housedress.
“What a pretty picture you make, Simone,” he complimented her, “very feminine and very domestic. Almost wifely.”
At his choice of words, her green eyes darkened to the color of a tempestuous sea.
“Wait,” he commanded quietly. “Before you storm away from me again, there’s something I’ve wanted to say since the night I discovered you hiding at the salle.”
“Oui?” Trepidation mixed with unexpected anticipation as she watched him.
Alain flexed tense shoulder muscles and searched for the right words. “I just want you to know, Simone, I would never make you marry against your will. I promise you’ll be able to choose your own husband.”
She looked at him blankly for a second. He was telling her what she had wanted to hear since she had learned he was her guardian. But just now, when he had stared at her with that gleam in his eye, she had felt butterflies in her stomach that had nothing to do with their conversation.
What was wrong with her? she asked herself as she did almost every time he came near. Why did he cause her pulse to race and her breath to grow short? And why did she feel such absurd disappointment at his words?
“Merci,” she said flatly, scooping up the bundle of soiled linens. Her heart was pounding, but she forced herself to appear calm. “You must excuse me. Batiste is waiting. The water is probably hot by now.”
“Of course.” With a rueful expression, Alain watched her hasty departure. He thought he had given her one of her heart’s desires, yet she acted as if she could not escape his company fast enough. He would never understand women, and this one in particular.
Scowling, he walked out onto the landing. In the courtyard below, Simone turned suddenly, her bundle still slung under one arm, and brought the sword up in front of her face in a graceful fencer’s salute. “Thank you for my father’s sword, ‘Lain,” she called up to him. “It means a great deal to me.”
The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 14