Léon escorted Elise to her carriage, placing a gentle kiss on the forehead of her upturned face. Elise felt reassured. This kind of attention she could submit to. The passionate kisses he had forced upon her earlier, and which had so frightened her, had only been because of the years they had been parted; a last remnant of his roistering days at court. They would not occur again. Elise felt happy at the thought.
‘I envy you,’ the Duke said sincerely as Léon returned to the drawing-room and Elise’s coach and six had thundered away down the drive. ‘She’s utter perfection. You’re a lucky man, Léon.’
A brief smile twisted Léon’s mouth as he accepted the Duke’s congratulations, his attention elsewhere. It was on Marietta and Raphael, who were nowhere to be seen. The torches flickered in the iron rungs on the wall, illuminating the passage in a soft light as Raphael de Malbré asked Marietta Riccardi to be his wife. She gazed at him uncomprehendingly, and he laughed softly taking her hand and palm upwards kissing it.
‘I’ve learnt my lesson, ma chère. No more trying to tumble you in the hay, only in a marriage bed.’
He drew her confidently into the circle of his arms, kissing her with increasing fervour. For a moment Marietta was so numbed by shock that she was unable to react, and when she did so it was to pull herself determinedly away from his embrace. Undaunted, he tenderly traced the outline of her cheek with his finger.
‘What a beauty you are, ma chère. What a sensation you will be in dresses of gold and silver at Versailles.’
She shook her head. ‘Versailles is not for me, Raphael. And I can never marry you.’
He smiled, his fingers moving to the softness of her lips. ‘Because your family is not known? You have said yourself that the Riccardis are noble and they are also beautiful.’ His hands slid around her waist, pulling her close. ‘ Breathtakingly beautiful, ma chère.’
She said quietly. ‘I don’t love you, Raphael.’
This time he paused, his eyes searching hers. It had never occurred to him that she would have been anything but delighted at accepting a proposal of marriage from a de Malbré.
‘That one of us is marrying for love is miracle enough,’ he said at last. ‘ Let me assure you, ma petite, that once married and in my bed you will soon overcome your reluctance.’
She shook her head again but Raphael only smiled.
‘Sleep on your doubts. They will vanish like the night.’
Behind them could be heard the sound of approaching footsteps and Raphael, intending to kiss her once more, reluctantly let her go and turned to meet Jeannette’s curious gaze. Marietta made her escape and Jeannette said with unaccustomed coolness, ‘ I hope I was mistaken in what I saw, Raphael.’
‘Indeed you were not, madame, but there is no need to distress yourself. My intentions are strictly honourable.’
‘They did not look honourable to me,’ Jeannette said bluntly. It was bad enough entertaining doubts about Marietta and Léon, without finding her in Raphael’s arms as well.
‘I have just asked your enchanting guest to be my wife,’ Raphael said, enjoying Jeannette’s look of complete stupefaction and then delight.
‘Oh, Raphael! That’s wonderful! I’ve been so worried about her—where she would go, what she would do.’
‘She will go to Versailles, madame. As for what she will do …’ Raphael’s eyes gleamed suggestively, but Jeannette was too happy at having Marietta’s future secured to scold him for his impudence.
‘Why such scenes of joy?’ Léon asked as he approached them, his tunic jacket slung negligently over his shoulder and hanging by his finger, his shirt already open to the waist as he made his way to his bed.
‘Marietta is to marry Raphael!’
Too late Jeannette realised that her son might not share her pleasure in such a fact.
‘Is this true?’
Not a muscle of Léon’s face moved. He was like a man turned to stone.
‘Quite true,’ Raphael leaned against the wall, savouring the moment to the full. Léon should never have tried to ride two horses at the same time. Marrying the milk-and-water Widow Sainte-Beuve for respectability and keeping Marietta for enjoyment had been nothing but sheer greed. Raphael felt a sense of superiority for the first time over his friend. He himself didn’t care a fig for respectability. He was going to marry her, and to hell with what the gossips said. For once he had shown himself more fearless than Léon.
‘Then I wish you well,’ Léon said through clenched teeth, and without more ado nodded a curt goodnight to his mother and strode off down the candlelit passage to his room. Seconds later there came the angry slamming of a door that both Raphael and Jeannette pretended not to hear.
Later, leaving Raphael to explain his decision to his appalled father, Jeannette wrapped a shawl over her nightdress and tiptoed softly towards her son’s room. They had to talk. She had to know what his feelings were. What was happening to change him from the laughing, devil-may-care son she had known into the brooding, taciturn figure that sat silently for hours staring into the flames of the fire?
His candles were lit, the light seeping beneath the door. Jeannette raised her hand to knock and paused. There came the distinct sound of a decanter against glass and the pouring of liquid, and then a chair fell as he stumbled across the room. There was no point in talking to Léon. He was too drunk to talk. Too drunk to see anything but the image of Marietta Riccardi—naked and abandoned in Raphael de Malbré’s bed.
The next morning Marietta avoided both Léon and Raphael by summoning Lili and Cécile for their lacemaking lesson at an unusually early hour. The sun was already warm, drying the dew on the grass and promising another day of sun and endless blue skies. The village women had not yet appeared, and the orchard was unusually quiet as the girls bent diligently over their work and Marietta began to make the lace that was to become Elise Sainte-Beauve’s wedding gown.
Cécile and Lili spoke softly between themselves from time to time, but Marietta became gradually unaware of them. A strange sensation crept over her as she gazed into the distance. She no longer saw the orchard and hills beyond, but the church of Chatonnay and Léon and his bride standing hand in hand, the bride radiant as she wore a gown of point de Venise lace, the relief so beautiful that it looked like sculpture. Her face was unseen, hidden by her veil, but she could see Léon clearly. Tall and strong, jet-black curls hanging freely to his shoulders, dressed in a tunic of scarlet velvet edged with gold braid, his knee-high boots gleaming, his sword at his side.
She felt a tightness around her chest so that she thought she was going to faint. It was like being caught up in a tunnel of unbearable light. The seasons changed. The leaves falling; flowers growing. The pews of the church were more lavish, a gilded crucifix that had not been there before now hung above the altar. The bride was young, no more than seventeen. She had Léon’s dark eyes and thick lashes and a full, generously curved mouth. Her mother’s dress fitted her to perfection as she stood, hand in hand before the priest who was to perform the marriage. Marietta felt a love beyond all bearing for this girl who was Léon’s daughter; this girl who was marrying in Chatonnay’s church, wearing the gown that she, Marietta, was now making.
And then, through the mists of time, another girl stood in her place. Small and with rosy cheeks that dimpled when she laughed. The lace dress looked more delicate now; it had been wrapped for so many years, carefully protected from the light.
She had thought she would leave Chatonnay and that she would never more be part of Léon’s life or he of hers. Now she knew that she was wrong. Elise’s wedding gown would be a family heirloom. Léon’s daughter would wear it when she took her marriage vows, and his granddaughter. As long as Léon de Villeneuve lived he would be reminded of her. When those glossy black curls turned to grey and then to white, he would stand in Chatonnay’s church and see his merry-faced granddaughter married to the man she loved, and the dress she wore would be the dress that she, Marietta Riccardi, had made.
Mathilde angrily shooed the dogs away from the kitchen door, vexed at having to bake the bread and make the breakfast herself while Cécile and Lili idled in the orchard.
‘You’d best go back to the kitchen until the village women come. Then we will continue,’ Marietta said, picking up her needle. The gown she had seen in her vision had been a full-length gown of point de Venise, not a lace bodice over a satin skirt. She had no time to lose.
Reluctantly the girls returned to the chores in the kitchen and Marietta continued to work, the only sound being that of an occasional bird and the hum of the bees from the nearby hives. She was disturbed by Céleste picking her way delicately across the grass, her gown raised high to protect its hem, slippered feet tiptoeing so as not to become soiled or grass-stained.
‘What on earth are you doing out so early? Mathilde tells me you’ve been up since dawn.’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
Marietta was sitting on the grass as Cécile and Lili had been, her legs and feet bare. Céleste found it hard to believe that she was the same person who had played the spinet and danced so entrancingly the night before. So far she was in happy ignorance of Raphael’s intention of marrying Marietta but not of his interest in her. Why should he prefer Marietta to herself? She never behaved in an unseemly fashion. Yet he had danced far more the previous evening with Marietta than he had danced with her. And it was always to Marietta that his eyes returned.
Life was really very unfair, and much as she liked Marietta, Céleste wished she would pack her bags and continue on her journey to Venice, or Montpellier or Narbonne. Anywhere, just as long as it gave her the opportunity to ensnare Raphael de Malbré without competition.
‘Léon is already preparing to leave for Lancerre,’ she said, watching Marietta’s face curiously. ‘ It seems he can barely tear himself away from Madame Sainte-Beuve’s side.’
‘Which is just as it should be, as he is to marry her,’ Marietta replied composedly.
Céleste could not detect a flicker of jealousy on Marietta’s heart-shaped face yet she was sure there was something between her cousin and the girl he had brought home with him. In public he barely acknowledged her, yet even that was curious, for Léon was a notorious charmer and Céleste had never seen him behave towards any woman with the indifference he displayed towards Marietta, and even Céleste had to grudgingly admit that she was a woman any man would go out of his way to entertain. Raphael de Malbré was smitten by her, and that alone was testimonial enough of her charms.
The Lancerre road ran perilously close to the orchard, and Marietta had no desire to see or be seen by Léon. ‘I think it’s time I went to visit Ninette,’ she said, picking her work up carefully.
‘But surely she’s cured now? Armand is back at the château and says his daughter is stronger and healthier than ever before.’
‘Nevertheless I think I will see her,’ Marietta repeated firmly, and then broke off as Céleste screamed, frozen in horror. An adder was weaving with lightning speed towards them through the grass. Marietta moved instinctively backwards, her skirt caught high, but before she could spring to her feet the deadly head rose, the poisonous fangs sinking deep into the flesh above her knee.
Céleste’s scream rang on and on, her fists clenched tightly to her chest, too horrified for coherent thought. The snake curled with lightning speed back into the thick grass, leaving Marietta white-faced, her eyes staring terrified at the deadly mark on her thigh.
‘Stop it!’ she said desperately to Céleste. ‘Stop screaming! Suck the poison out. Now! Quickly!’
Céleste’s eyes were uncomprehending, her screams rising to mindless hysteria. Helplessly, Marietta knew that she would gain no help from Céleste and there were only minutes in which she could save her life. Vainly she tried to reach the fang marks herself, but it was impossible. She was dying. Dying before she had made the de Villeneuve wedding gown.
‘Help! Léon! For the love of God!’
Céleste saw the familiar horse and rider taking to the Lancerre road, and the sight brought her back to her senses. She ran towards him, stumbling in her haste, her cries rending the still morning air.
Léon reined in immediately. He was aware of Céleste racing headlong towards him, her mouth a gaping hole as she screamed again for help and of Marietta lying in the grass behind her. Fear gripped him and he wheeled Saracen round, jumping the wall that separated the lane from the orchard, weaving between the trees, vaulting from the saddle to her side as Céleste gasped, ‘She’s been bitten by a snake!’
Marietta was barely conscious, her face white. ‘I can’t reach,’ she panted. ‘The poison needs sucking out …’
Léon seized her bare leg in his hand, the black curled head bent low as he kneeled beside her, sucking at the fang-marks and spitting viciously into the grass while Céleste grasped the trunk of an apple tree for support.
Céleste’s screams had been heard in the château. Mathilde was already breathlessly running towards them, Raphael and the Duke bursting from the doorway. The wound was clean; her leg was still held in his hands and for the first time in his life Léon de Villeneuve was shaking from the aftermath of fear.
‘Léon.… Léon.…’ Feebly she reached towards him, trying to sit up.
‘What the devil! Marietta! Are you all right? What happened?’
Raphael de Malbré was seizing her shoulders, dragging her away from Léon’s hold, lifting her in his arms.
‘A snake,’ Léon said, still kneeling on the grass, unable to move.
‘Sweet Jesus.’ Raphael de Malbré turned and began to run towards the château, a semi-conscious Marietta in his arms.
Léon remained where he was, kneeling on the grass, shaken by a terror he had never felt, not even in the heat of battle. At last, ashen-faced, he rose to his feet and made his way slowly to where Saracen pawed the ground. There was no sense in remaining at Chatonnay. There was nothing more he could do for her. Raphael had shown him that all too clearly, in the proprietorial manner he had taken her from his hold and carried her back to the château.
He headed Saracen away from Lancerre and into the hills. There could be no seeing Elise today. He wanted only to be with Marietta and he could not, nor did he have the right. She was to be Raphael de Malbré’s wife, and Léon knew that it was he who had driven her into his friend’s arms.
Marietta was as distraught at being taken so abruptly from Léon’s grasp as she had been at the snake-bite. He had saved her life. She had seen the expression of sheer terror on his face as he had raced towards her, terror because she, Marietta, was in danger. If only Raphael had not come and Mathilde, bustling about with good intentions, then maybe … maybe.…
Weakly she closed her eyes. Mathilde had tucked her up in bed and closed the heavy curtains. The room was dark and cool. At her side sat Raphael, his face anxious, his hand holding hers. She had not the strength to ask him to leave. She wanted no one but Léon, would never want anyone but Léon.
It was his father, who silently, by the lightest touch on his shoulder, indicated to him that he should leave. Marietta, aware of the closing of the door, opened her eyelids.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ the Duke said, leaning on his ebony-topped cane. ‘Are you strong enough?’
‘Quite strong enough.’ She sat up against the pillows. ‘ It was the shock that made me so weak.’ And the sight of Léon’s face, terror-stricken, bending over her, his mouth on her flesh, sucking out the venom, heedless of anythi
ng but her safety.
‘Good. Perhaps we could have a little more light.’
‘With pleasure.’
The Duke himself drew back the blinds, bathing the room in sunshine.
‘I have a very painful duty to perform, Mademoiselle Riccardi.’ Slowly he turned and walked back towards the bed, the sunlight flashing on the diamonds in the heels of his shoes. ‘Raphael tells me that he has asked for your hand in marriage. He acted rashly and in haste, and it is my sad obligation to tell you that no such wedding can ever take place.’
‘I know.’ The colour had returned to Marietta’s cheeks and there was the hint of a smile about her mouth.
The Duke paused, wondering if he had heard aright. ‘The difficulty is in the stations of our families,’ he continued.
‘That is of no account,’ Marietta interrupted spiritedly. ‘The Riccardis are fit enough to marry where they please.’
‘Not in this case,’ the Duke answered gravely.
‘In this case,’ Marietta said, something of the old mischief back in her eyes, ‘they do not desire to.’
The Duke frowned slightly, staring down at her. The de Malbrés were one of the noblest families in France, and this little baggage had managed to inflame his experienced and sophisticated son to the point of proposing marriage—and now, when he came to deliver the dreadful blow that she, a Riccardi, would never become the Duchesse de Malbré, she simply shrugged and smiled and said she had no such desire in the first place. He had expected hysteria, threats, protests. Anything but this careless indifference.
‘Are you quite sure that you have understood what I have been saying to you, mademoiselle?’
‘You have been saying that I cannot marry Raphael. It is you, Monsieur le Duc, who seems not to understand our conversation. I told your son when he asked me that I would not marry him. He, like you, seems to put very little belief in my words.’
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