Lion of Languedoc

by Margaret Pemberton

  No one noticed Céleste sitting in the window, ignored by Raphael whom she had hoped to charm; ignored even by the Duke. Her mouth was set in a sulky line and she clenched her fists in her lap, determined not to let her disappointment show.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning Marietta was up at dawn, picking coltsfoot and angelica to make into medicine to take to Ninette Brissac. These few hours every morning, before the rest of the household was awake, were the happiest of Marietta’s day. For a short while it was possible to forget Elise and Léon’s forthcoming marriage. To forget that soon she would have to leave. Her southern blood loved the rolling sun-baked plains and shrub and stone-covered hills that surrounded Chatonnay. The orange and terracotta earth, the deep green of the cypress trees as they languished beneath the blazing sun, pleased her far more than the cool greenness of Northern France. Here she felt at home. Here—given a chance—she could have been happy.

  ‘Where are you going to, ma chérie?’ Raphael de Malbré asked, leaning elegantly against the stable door, barring her way as she went for her horse to make the journey to the Brissacs’ cottage.

  ‘To Ninette, with medicine.’ Marietta kept her voice cool. She knew very well that Raphael de Malbré was determined to seduce her, and for her pride’s sake, when Léon was present, she was glad of his attentions. But on all other occasions she treated him with a coolness that instead of dampening his ardour only succeeded in increasing it.

  In Raphael’s eyes she was an experienced little minx, blowing hot one minute, cold the next, in order to inflame a man to the point of insanity and so receive for herself far more precious jewels and reimbursements than might normally come her way, though from the way she dressed she paid very little attention to lavish fripperies. Perhaps the little Riccardi was shrewd enough to put the gifts bestowed on her into more tangible assets like land and property. Whatever it was, he was prepared to pay the price. The emerald ring he had offered her the previous evening had been returned with a flush of indignation that indicated that she was used to far more expensive gestures before surrendering her charms. He wondered what price Léon had paid for the favours of a body whose every movement betrayed a sensuality that made his blood race.

  That she played the peasant on purpose Raphael had no doubt. It gave her the excuse of showing off her long slender legs when she picked up her skirts to make her way across the kitchen garden, and the sight of her slim feet, almost perpetually bare, was erotic in the extreme. Dressing simply also gave her the excuse to wear her magnificent hair loose and waist-length.

  Raphael de Malbré smiled to himself. He wasn’t taken in for a moment by Marietta’s apparent simplicity. It was as calculated to inflame the senses as the bejewelled and heavy brocades of a courtesan. And far more intriguing and successful.

  ‘A most worthy occupation,’ Raphael de Malbré said with amusement. So that was where Léon met his amoureuse. ‘Perhaps I may accompany you?’

  ‘I think not.’ Marietta could not resist a smile as she eyed the pale grey silk of Raphael’s tunic and perfection of his garter hose held by a profusion of pink ribbons. ‘Saracen is not a horse to ride in such finery, monsieur.’

  ‘I doubt if Saracen is stabled,’ Raphael said negligently, eyeing the depths of the stable beyond Marietta’s shoulder. Léon’s distinctive black stallion was missing, as he knew it would be. He and his rider were already waiting impatiently for the vibrant beauty before him.

  Marietta shrugged. ‘It makes no difference, monsieur. The roads of Chatonnay are mere tracks and thick with dust. A man needs breeches to ride in Languedoc, not silks and satins.’

  ‘A man needs neither to make love,’ Raphael de Malbré said, his voice thickening as he caught her against him, pressing his mouth down hard on hers.

  Marietta struggled fiercely. Despite Raphael’s dandyism he was young and strong, and there was no escape from his hold as his tongue forced her lips apart, seeking hers avidly.

  Saracen was saddled and waiting at the drawbridge for Léon to make an early morning visit to Lancerre. He had returned to the stables only for his riding crop, which he had thrown down in temper after returning from Montpellier with the Duke and Raphael, and struggling in the dirt with Marietta and that damnable goat.

  He halted abruptly in the courtyard, his face hardening, a muscle twitching convulsively at his jawline, his hands clenched till the knuckles showed white.

  Raphael, Marietta’s body at last close against his, his mouth devouring hers, was oblivious of him. Marietta, pushing her hands with all her might against the chest that crushed her, struggling to free her mouth; neither saw nor heard him.

  Léon swung on his heel, striding through the château with a look on his face that stopped even his mother in her tracks. He leapt on to Saracen’s back, digging his spurs in unnecessarily deep, his mouth set in the harsh, hard line seen only by his adversaries in battle.

  ‘Little whore,’ he said beneath his breath as he whipped Saracen the harder. If she had refused his advances in the barn it had only been to heighten his desire. And hadn’t she succeeded? After all, there she was, installed at Chatonnay; friend of his mother and virtual mistress of his house. And without him she would be walking the streets of Toulouse, penniless and destitute.

  ‘The Devil take her!’ he said angrily to himself as he stormed into the home of the deceased Mayor of Lancerre. What he needed was a day in the saddle, a day hawking and hunting. What did it matter to him if a slut he had known only days should give herself shamelessly to de Maloré? His affections were elsewhere. She could go to damnation for all he cared.

  Elise trembled visibly as Léon strode into her drawing-room, black brows drawn close together, looking more like a demon from hell than a tender lover. What had happened to put him in such a bad temper? Was it something of her doing? Or something she had not done? Her hands fluttered helplessly. If only the Duke were here to comfort and reassure her; but the Duke was leaving for Versailles after her marriage and then who would she turn to? She felt sick and wondered if she was going to faint but remembered that Léon had little patience for ladies who suffered unnecessarily from the vapours.

  She smiled tremulously, hoping to please him; anything if only he wouldn’t look so angry, so warlike. She remembered tales of her future husband’s prowess on the battlefield and of how he had once killed a man in a duel. He looked very much as if he would like to kill someone now.

  Léon paced the feminine drawing-room fretfully. Ever since he had returned home his courtship of Elise had taken place within the confines of this ornately filled room or walking on the terrace outside. He needed exercise. Fresh air.

  ‘Let’s hawk,’ he said. ‘I bought a merlin especially for you.’

  Elise blanched. ‘I fear I would be poor company …’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Léon suppressed his irritation and gave her the benefit of a dazzling smile. ‘That’s what I came home to Chatonnay for, to hunt and to hawk with my lady love.’

  ‘But I …’

  ‘Come,’ Léon drew her to her feet. ‘ I have a horse that is gentle and quiet and obedient to the lightest touch of the reins. Let’s ride into the country and away from watching eyes.’ He drew her into his arms and kissed her.

  ‘I could not,’ she said, her voice scarcely audible as she disentangled herself from his embrace. ‘ I cannot ride, and as for hunting!’ She paled. ‘A little ride in the carriage, perhaps.’

  Léon breathed deeply, hanging on to his self-control with every ounce of his strength. A ride in a carriage! He, the Lion of Languedoc! The most fearless rider and hunter in France! With an enormous effort he smiled, took her hand and kissed it.

  ‘Forgive me, Elise, but I’m in a bad temper and should not have inflicted it upon you. It would be best if I rode by myself today.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Elise said eagerly and then faltered, hoping she had not sounded too pleased that she was to be robbed of his company.

  ‘Till tomorrow,’ he sai
d, wondering whether to take her in his arms and kiss her goodbye. He decided it was not worth it. A kiss as gentle as Elise’s left him completely unmoved. The restraints she had imposed on him when he had returned, and which he had thought would be so hard to keep, had been surprisingly easy. He only hoped that once in their marriage bed his expertise in love would be enough to overcome her passivity.

  Raphael de Malbré, he thought viciously as he headed Saracen out into the hills, would have had no passivity to overcome in Marietta; he knew well enough what effect Marietta’s kiss had on a man. What effect those kisses had when given freely and passionately was beyond his imagination and he cursed again, trying to console himself with the thought that at least his bride-to-be was chaste and pure, and failing miserably.

  At last Marietta managed to free herself from Raphael’s mouth and kick him hard enough in the leg to make him gasp with pain and release her.

  ‘How dare you! You popinjay!’ Marietta spat at him, vaulting on to her mare’s back and nearly riding him down in her fury. ‘Do you think jewels will buy a Riccardi?’

  Raphael leapt hastily to one side as the horse charged past, knocking him on to a bale of straw. He sat there, dazed, removing a scattering of oats from his exquisite apparel. For the first time in his life he had misjudged a woman. Her indignation had been no act. Money and jewels would not buy Marietta’s favours so what would? Raphael de Malbré was left with only one answer as he brushed himself down and walked thoughtfully back into the château. Marriage was what the tempestuous little Riccardi was holding out for. Well, she’d lost Léon and had little chance elsewhere with no family and no background to speak of. A pity she wasn’t from a family equal in rank to that of the great de Malbrés. The prospect of a lifetime in the bed of that hot-blooded baggage was enough to tempt any man into matrimony.

  He rang for his valet to dress the wig that had suffered badly in his escape from the mare’s hooves, and then descended the stairs to the more appreciative audience of Céleste. His mind, however, was not on her artless chatter, but on a more serious subject. One that surprised even him.

  Marietta rode to the Brissacs’ oblivious of the countryside around her. She had been a fool to flirt with Raphael de Malbré and lead him on. At least now he would trouble her no more, or engage her in conversation when Léon’s attention was taken up by Elise. For a little while at least, he had saved her pride. Now even that comfort would have to be denied her. But not for long. The wedding was drawing closer with every passing day, and Marietta felt her heart tighten within her as if it would die from lack of air, from lack of love.

  Armand ran out to meet her and with difficulty she turned her attention to the sick Ninette, relieved by Armand’s assurances that she was responding to the medicine she had given her and that the fever was breaking. Marietta sponged the girl’s forehead down with cool water, fed her with the fresh goats’ milk she had brought with her and saw that Armand was right. Ninette Brissac was weak and would need several days’ more care but she would live. Armand was profuse in his thanks but Marietta merely shrugged. ‘Healing is a gift,’ she said with a slight smile.

  ‘But you could have died coming to her if it had been smallpox,’ Armand protested.

  Marietta wondered if Léon would have cared and doubted it. He seemed scarcely aware of her existence.

  She had been wrong in thinking that Raphael de Malbré would no longer pay her any attention; instead, his attentions increased. He took no more liberties with her but treated her as a woman of quality and, it seemed to both Jeannette and his father, one whom he was assiduously courting. If Léon had noticed he showed no sign of it and his manner grew terser and curter day by day. He ignored Marietta totally, and when his mother broached the subject, wanting to know the reason why he treated her so unkindly, he was brusque to the point of rudeness. Jeannette could do nothing but watch, worry and wonder.

  As Ninette Brissac regained her health Marietta spent more and more time teaching Cécile to make point de Venise. Within days her class of one swelled to twenty as the women of Chatonnay came from miles around to sit in the orchard of their seigneur and be instructed in the secret art, ages old.

  ‘What the Devil’s going on?’ Léon asked incredulously as he finished his breakfast and heard the giggles and laughter of a score of women.

  ‘Marietta’s lace school,’ Jeannette replied equably. She had seen no reason to discuss Marietta’s new project with him. He was scarce fit to talk to these days.

  ‘Her what?’ He threw his napkin to the table and marched to the window. Under the gnarled branches of the apple trees dark, blonde and grey-haired heads sat over the work in their hands. He recognised young Jacinthe Daudet, the baker’s daughter; and Babette, whose mother had died only a year ago; and old Widow Gautier. In the centre was the familiar head of flaming red-gold hair.

  ‘Lace school,’ Jeannette repeated. ‘Marietta is teaching them the art of making point de Venise. If she stays long enough and if the women are apt pupils, Marietta will have transformed Chatonnay by bringing prosperity to it at last.’

  Léon swallowed. He wanted to be angry with Marietta; anger seemed to be the only safety valve for his feelings. But how could he be angry with a girl who was sharing her most precious skill: a skill held secret, the most valuable thing she possessed, with the women of his village? She had transformed the château. Now she was transforming Chatonnay.

  His mother watched him closely as he turned from the window but his eyes were masked of feeling, his face impassive as he picked up his gauntlets and plumed hat, ready for his daily ride to Lancerre.

  ‘This is called a Reprise Bar,’ Marietta said to little Jacqueline Pichant, who was only nine and had her tongue stuck determinedly between her teeth. Marietta stretched two threads across a space, passing her needle over and under so the bar was covered in even stitches. ‘And this is a Venetian Loop Picot. A Rose Point loop is made by taking a stitch back a little way up the part of the bar you have just made and filling it with buttonhole stitches.’

  Jacqueline laboured perseveringly. Marietta turned her attention to Cécile, who was enjoying the warmth of the sun and a respite from Mathilde’s scolding.

  ‘This is how we make the pattern,’ she said. At that moment there came the sound of hoofbeats over the wooden drawbridge and Marietta felt her heart contract. He was going to Elise again. With difficulty she continued.

  ‘It makes me dizzy when you talk like that,’ Cécile complained after a while.

  From the orchard the Lancerre road could be seen clearly, the black stallion with its handsome rider unmistakable.

  ‘Then just watch,’ Marietta said, forcing herself to speak. ‘See? By varying the number of stitches set close together and the length of spaces, you can make different patterns.’ She had lost the girls’ attention. Even old Widow Gautier was gazing after the rapidly vanishing figure of Léon de Villeneuve with a dreamy look in her eyes.

  ‘How I wish I were the Widow Sainte-Beuve,’ Jacinthe said, and the others laughed.

  ‘He’ll make a welcome change from the old Mayor of Lancerre, that’s for sure,’ Thérèse Colet said. ‘I doubt if he even managed more than a goodnight kiss!’

  ‘She’ll get more than that from the Comte,’ Jacinthe said, and there was another burst of ribald laughter. Marietta kept her head firmly lowered over her work, her cheeks flushed, her eyes agonised.

  ‘Do you remember how he threatened to kill the Mayor when he first heard about the marriage?’ Babette said reminiscently. ‘And how it took his father and over a dozen men to stop him?’

  ‘And how he said he would return for her, even if it meant waiting years and years and years?’

  They sighed rapturously. Cécile giggled. ‘Armand told me that all the ladies at Versailles were in love with him.’

  ‘Not the Queen as well?’ they chorused incredulously.

  ‘Why not the Queen?’ Jacinthe asked. ‘She’s a woman, isn’t she? I’m in love with him,
and I would be even if I were Queen.’

  ‘And a fat lot of good it would do you,’ her sister said as she finished marking out her pattern. ‘You can’t even get the swineherd to fall in love with you!’

  The other girls tittered, knowing full well how infatuated Jacinthe was with Nicholas Sandeau, and how he ignored her.

  ‘I overheard the Duke telling Madame that Madame Francine Beauvoir was the Comte’s mistress when he was at court,’ Cécile ventured. ‘I bet that’s why he doesn’t want to return there with his new bride. And he doesn’t, Armand told me so.’

  ‘I heard that he fought a duel over her,’ Jacinthe added. ‘I wonder what it would be like to be fought over? She must be very beautiful.’

  ‘So is Madame Sainte-Beuve,’ said Babette loyally. ‘She’s the love of his life. He must love her very much to have returned for her after so many years.’

  The rest of them agreed that he must.

  With immense effort Marietta continued as if they had never been interrupted. ‘Now, Jacqueline, trace a single thread over your finished outline, fixing it in place by passing frequent stitches over it.’

  The girls returned their attention to their work and Cécile and Lili had the grace to blush at the way they had spoken of the Comte in front of a girl who, after all, was no servant but a guest. And, if rumours were to be believed, perhaps something more.

  Léon spent an unsatisfactory day making small talk with Elise in the claustrophobic atmosphere of her garden. He felt relieved when she made no objection that he spent the next day hunting again. On returning to Chatonnay and finding Marietta and Raphael deep in a game of chess, he had even had the grace to thank her for the instruction she was giving to his peasants.

  Marietta had struggled to regain her composure and barely looked up from the game, knowing she could not meet those dark eyes without the emotion in her own showing clearly.

  Léon poured himself a glass of wine and spent the evening in conversation with the Duke and Jeannette, glancing with ever-decreasing intervals across the room to where Raphael and Marietta continued to play. He noticed that Raphael was having to concentrate hard and he frowned. Where the devil had she learned to play a game of chess that challenged a de Malbré? And why was it Raphael who was enjoying such a diversion? He himself loved the game, but when he had suggested teaching Elise she had paled with horror, protesting that she would never understand such a complicated pastime and that all but the simplest game of cards was beyond her.