Prelude to Heaven

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  She wasn't well enough to leave yet, he thought, crossing the armory and opening one of the double doors leading into the salon. That room, too, was dark and silent.

  Despite all his resolutions to the contrary, he was becoming truly concerned, his mind conjuring up visions of her in any number of desperate situations as he continued to search for her. “Foolish woman,” he muttered, turning to go down one of the corridors. “If she's gone off by herself at night...”

  Alexandre paused at the lamplight spilling through the open doorway at the end of the passage. She was in the library. He quickened his steps and strode down the corridor, relief replacing the worry he had felt only moments before. “Mademoiselle, why didn't you answer when I...”

  He stopped in the doorway. She was there, curled up on one end of the dusty leather sofa, sound asleep. An open book from the shelves behind her had fallen from her hand to the floor. Her other hand rested on her abdomen.

  Alexandre set the lamp he was carrying on the table beside the door and moved into the room, careful not to make a sound. He picked up the book from the floor and glanced at the title. She'd been reading Aristotle, in Greek. He frowned, his gaze moving from the book to the sleeping woman, then back to the book. What was a common English miss doing reading Greek philosophy? It appeared there was more to the petite mademoiselle than he'd first thought. He set the book on the table before returning his thoughtful gaze to her.

  Light fell softly over her, but it could not soften the thin, shadowed planes of her face. It could not disguise her troubled, hunted look. It could not hide the fear that enveloped her like a black cloak. Tenderness, a feeling he'd thought long dead within him, stirred to life. No woman could look more in need of protection and help than this one.

  He bent over her, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her head. He lifted her from the sofa, hoping not to wake her.

  Her whole body stiffened, even in sleep. “No,” she mumbled. “No, no.”

  “Shh...” he commanded softly, turning toward the door, cradling her in his arms, savoring the forgotten luxury of human contact.

  “Put me down,” she said, fully awake now, her hands pushing against his chest. “Let me go.”

  He should have complied, but he found he didn't want to. Instead, his arms tightened protectively as she began to struggle in earnest. “Stop twisting about, mademoiselle,” he ordered and paused by the door. “Pick up the lamp.”

  She did as he bid her, holding the oil lamp in her hand as he carried her down the corridor into the wide entrance hall, but though her struggles subsided, he could feel her apprehension like a tangible thing, and her voice, when she spoke, shook a little. “Where are you taking me?”

  “My sofa is not for sleeping,” he told her as he began to ascend the stairs. “That is what beds are for. You, mademoiselle, should be in one.”

  “This isn't necessary. I can walk. You needn't make such an effort.”

  “You don't weigh enough for it to be an effort, mademoiselle,” he answered. They were at the top of the stairs now, and he turned toward his bedchamber, the one she'd been sleeping in since her arrival. “It seems I need to feed you better.”

  She did not answer, but she was rigid in his arms, and when he set her down inside his bedchamber, her feet had barely touched the floor before she was scrambling backwards, out of his reach, one hand holding the lamp, and the other clutching at the collar of her dress.

  Astonished, he stared, realizing that she was actually afraid of him. Perhaps she had already heard the rumors about him. Perhaps she knew of Anne-Marie and what had happened here.

  No, if she did, she would never have come here in the first place. But a woman could have other fears. It was clear this woman did.

  “Go to sleep, mademoiselle,” he said and turned away. He left the bedchamber and walked further down the corridor to the one he was now using. As he lay in bed, he watched the breeze tease the moonlit curtains at the open window and thought about her. He thought about the frightened cries she had uttered in her delirium whenever he touched her and how she had slapped his hands away. He thought about the way she jumped back whenever he came close. He thought about how her eyes watched him with suspicion. He wondered again why she was so afraid. Could she somehow sense what he was, what he had done?

  He knew she only stayed because she had no choice. He knew she was afraid of him. And he found himself wishing that she weren't.

  Chapter Four

  When Tess came downstairs the next morning, Monsieur Dumond was gone. In the kitchen, she found a loaf of bread, a sausage, butter, and cheese set out on the table for her. Tucked beneath the bread was a note. Written in bold black letters were the words, “Eat. I will return at sunset. Dumond.”

  Tess ate a bit of the bread and cheese and decided to explore the house and grounds in a search of ways she could be useful here. If Dumond was to be persuaded to let her stay, she would like to give him as many reasons as possible to do so.

  It was a beautiful morning, and she began her explorations outdoors. The château was perched high on a craggy cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. On the landward side, the sloping hills to the left were covered with deserted, overgrown vineyards. The hills to the right led through forests of chestnut trees and pines, interspersed with meadows of wildflowers and lavender. Having passed the vineyards on her journey here, Tess did not go that way. Instead, she wandered around the grounds of the château itself.

  The courtyard was bordered on two sides by the main house. Along the other two sides ran crumbling stone walls, one of which had completely fallen down. She stepped through a huge gap in the other wall where an archway had once stood and took the first path, leading her past the garden where she’d collapsed a few days earlier to a group of outbuildings. Made of stone and timber, with crumbling tile roofs or ramshackle wooden ones, they were badly in need of repairs.

  Opposite the outbuildings was a pasture, choked with weeds, where a goat stood grazing. The animal was tethered to gnarled, dead tree, for the fence surrounding the pasture was in very poor condition, with many gaps where the goat could easily escape. The berry brambles that grew wild beside the pasture were a tangled mass of canes.

  One of the outbuildings was a henhouse with a fenced pen. Although the fence wasn't falling down like the one that surrounded the nearby pasture, it looked about to. She noted the strip of linen handkerchief that held two pieces of the fence together and wondered if there were nails and a hammer anywhere about, for she might be able to effect some repairs. Someone had to, for if the fence fell, the chickens would be lost to foxes, dogs, and heaven only knew what else.

  Tess continued to follow the path, past another pen, the barn, and the stables. The path continued on, winding down sharply to the sea, but Tess followed it no farther. Instead, she changed direction, heading down another path that curved between untrimmed boxwood hedges through overgrown rose gardens and potagers. This chateau must have been a beautiful place at one time, but now it seemed a deserted, melancholy place, rather a fitting home for the man who owned it.

  After a midday meal of more bread and cheese, followed by a short nap, Tess explored the upper floors of the chateau itself. Most of the rooms were easily accessible, but two, located side by side at the end of a long corridor, were locked. She couldn’t help wondering why, but an image of Dumond’s black, unreadable eyes came into her mind, and knew she’d probably never learn the reason from him.

  Every room she entered seemed musty and undisturbed, every room but one—Alexandre's studio. It was located at the very top of the only tower in the château and consisted of one huge room, exactly square, with tall windows in all four directions. Tess paused at the top of the spiraling corner staircase and caught her breath, appreciating at once that for an artist, this was the perfect place for a studio. The windows let in the light, no matter what the time of day.

  She walked slowly to the center of the room, stepping around tables littered
with pots of paint, brushes, sketchbooks, and charcoal. Below the windows, sheet-covered canvases leaned against the walls of whitewashed stone, but not a single painting or sketch adorned the limited wall space. There was no need. The view was adornment enough.

  Tess turned slowly in a circle, taking a moment to admire the incredible views of sea, cliffs, vineyards, and distant village before turning her attention from the view outside to what lay within. Although far from tidy, this room seemed to be the only one in the chateau without a thick layer of dust, cobwebs, and neglect. In the far corner, by one of the windows facing the sea, was an easel holding a half-finished painting in oils. Tess walked over to study it.

  A burning sea of orange and blue and black raged around the barely discernible white sails of ships engaged in battle. Columns of smoke and plumes of fire swirled upward into a gray sky. Though not complete, the painting conveyed clearly the pain and passion of war. Anger seemed to emanate from the canvas. Tess admired it, but she wasn't certain she liked it.

  Still, she discovered that there were other paintings much more to her liking hidden beneath layers of linen sheeting. An airy landscape, all pinks and greens and blues. A still life of wine, cheese, and grapes that was so French, she smiled. A portrait of a woman in a blue dress.

  Curious, Tess pulled it out from the paintings leaning against the wall to study it more clearly. A lovely girl, with milk-white skin, blue eyes, and spun-gold hair stared back at her. There was so much laughter and joy in the girl's expression, so much life to her that Tess could almost imagine her breathing or opening her mouth to speak. Who was she?

  Tess stepped back from the painting and glanced down at the blue muslin dress she wore, comparing it to the one in the portrait. No, it wasn't the same gown, but it was of a similar color and style and conveyed a similar taste in dress. She had wondered about the clothes Alexandre had given her and who they belonged to. Now she knew.

  But who was this girl? A sister? A wife? And where was she now?

  Suddenly feeling as if she had intruded on something very private, Tess wrapped the portrait back in its linen sheeting and returned it to its place among the others. Then she left the studio, hoping without knowing why that Alexandre would not be able to discern she had been there.

  She wandered back downstairs and after a bit more exploring, she returned to the kitchen, where she sat down at the table and wondered what she’d seen that might help her demonstrate her usefulness here. The problem was that the château was in such disrepair that strong, able-bodied workmen were really what the place needed. Tess gave her rounded abdomen a rueful glance. She in no position to do much, at least for the present, and Dumond certainly had no inclination to make repairs.

  As she thought of him, she remembered the apprehension she’d felt as he’d carried her upstairs to her room the night before, and her relief when her fears had proved groundless. After setting her on her feet, he hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t even tried, strengthening her conclusion that staying here was the perfect solution. If only she could give Dumond a reason to see it the same way.

  Tess's gaze wandered around the kitchen, and she couldn’t help noticing the dust balls that rested around the bottom of the stove. There were soiled plates, bowls, and cups piled on the wooden tables against the wall. There were bottles of linseed and used paintbrushes scattered carelessly about. She sat up straight in her chair, suddenly considering her plan and Dumond's refusal in a new light.

  Suppose she just quietly began working, assuming the duties of housekeeper as if he’d already given her the post? If she wanted to convince Dumond that he needed a housekeeper, wouldn't it be best to show him how nice it was to have one and how much more comfortable his life would be?

  Tess stood up and went in search of a broom, rags, and a bucket. Room by room, she would clean this château and turn it into a home again. She would demonstrate that she was hardworking and useful. Her knowledge of domestic affairs was in the supervising of servants than doing the work herself, but she wasn’t going to allow that to stand in her way. After all, how hard could it be to clean, cook, and keep house for one man?

  ***

  It was late afternoon when Alexandre returned to the château. He walked past the garden and into the kitchen. Setting his sketchbook and a pail full of spider crabs and sea-water on the worktable, he moved toward the wood bin to get kindling for a fire, but halfway across the room, he suddenly realized something was different. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the change, however, and he paused, frowning as he studied his surroundings.

  Sunshine spilled through the high windows, reflecting off the gleaming, whitewashed table. The wooden floor glowed with a subtle patina he hadn’t seen in years. All the dishes piled on the table against the way had been washed and put away. Paintbrushes, rags, and bottles of linseed were nowhere to be seen. His mud-encrusted painting had been placed neatly in one corner. There wasn't a speck of dust anywhere.

  It was clear his guest had not paid any attention to his refusal of her offer. He wondered where she'd put his paintbrushes. He muttered a curse under his breath.

  After he’d spent the past week making sure the woman didn't die, here she was, barely out of the sickroom, cleaning house. His house. Hadn't he told her clearly that he didn't need or want a housekeeper? He didn't want her messing about with his things, putting them in all the wrong places.

  He knew exactly what she trying to do. Mais oui. She was trying to show him how much more comfortable his life would be if she remained and kept house for him, but he had no intention of allowing it. If she was well enough to clean his house, she was well enough to leave.

  He found her in the dining room, sweeping the floor, further confirmation of his theory. She had tied her overly long skirt up several inches off the ground, and beneath it, the hem of her petticoat brushed the floor. On the table nearby was a pail of water and a pile of rags. She was still humming, her body swaying back and forth as she swept dust into a pile.

  Alexandre frowned at her back, and when he spoke, he couldn’t keep his frustration out of his voice. “What do you think you're doing?”

  She jumped and whirled around, her eyes wide as they met his, the broom clutched to her breast.

  “Sacré tonnerre!” he went on, exasperated. “Have I not spent the past week trying to keep you alive? Your second day out of bed, you start working like a scullery maid! Mon Dieu!”

  Her lips parted, but she did not reply.

  “Did I not make myself clear yesterday, mademoiselle? Did I not say that, no, you could not be my housekeeper?” He came toward her with long strides, and she backed away as he advanced, her eyes growing wider with every step he took.

  When her back hit the wall and she could retreat no further, she lowered her gaze and stared at the floor. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled, refusing to look at him.

  Her humble response surprised him. He hadn't expected this sort of reaction. He would have thought she'd try to persuade, coax, or plead her cause and play on his sympathy. He looked down at the slender hands holding the broom and saw that they were clutching the wooden handle so tightly her knuckles were white, reaffirming his thoughts of the night before. She was afraid of him. He folded his arms across his chest and frowned down at her, dismay mingling with frustration.

  After a long moment, she raised her head slightly to look at him. He saw the fear in her eyes. And something more. He saw resignation, and sadness. A deep well of sadness. Alexandre blinked, startled, uncertain what to do.

  After a moment, he reached out to grab the broom from her. She flinched, releasing her hold on the handle and pressing back against the wall, and before he could stop the words, he found himself saying, “If you are to be my cook as well as my housekeeper, you'd best start dinner, mademoiselle.” He paused, then added, “If you feel well enough?”

  Her relief was palpable. He watched her shoulders relax, and the fear melted from her eyes. When she nodded, he let out his breath in a sigh. Like it or not, he
had acquired a housekeeper.

  ***

  Tess followed Dumond to the kitchen. She wanted to thank him for his kindness, she wanted to tell him how grateful she was, but she stared at his broad, rigid back and decided to say nothing. Her plan had obviously worked, though she wasn’t sure quite how.

  When she had seen his anger, she’d been sure he would hit her, or toss her out, or both. She thought of what Nigel would have done. She shuddered, and reminded herself that life was behind her. Nigel could not hurt her ever again. He could not hurt her baby.

  When they reached the kitchen, Dumond halted and pointed to a pail that stood on the table. “Dinner, mademoiselle.”

  Tess walked over to the table and peered into the pail. Four crabs lay inside, covered with water. She stared down at them, appreciating for the first time that while the cleaning part of her new position was simply a matter of common sense, the cooking was going to be more difficult. She glanced up to find him watching her thoughtfully.

  She looked down again at the crabs and saw one of them twitch sluggishly in the water. Startled, she looked up. “They're alive!”

  “Of course. I just caught them.”

  Tess resisted the temptation to squirm beneath that intense black gaze, and instead tried to recall the many ways she had seen crab served. In salad, of course. Stuffed. Covered with sauce. None of that was much help, however, in determining how to cook it.

  She worried her lower lip between her teeth, knowing she had to pretend she knew exactly what she was doing. “Have you a cookery book?” she asked, feigning a nonchalance she was far from feeling.