Prelude to Heaven

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  It truly was a shame, she thought as she emerged from the first building into the bright sunlight. She turned toward the other buildings, intending to explore them as well, when she halted abruptly.

  Several yards away, in the shadow between two buildings, stood a donkey. The animal carried nothing, but its back was swayed from too many past burdens. The bones of its ribs and flanks plainly showed its hunger. Tess's heart constricted with pity, and she took a step forward, but the donkey shied back with a frightened bray.

  She reached out her hand and moved forward more slowly, speaking to the animal in a soft voice. “It's all right, love. Don't be afraid.”

  The donkey didn't shy this time. It simply stared at her with dark, sad eyes, seeming too tired to care. When she stepped closer, she was able to see the reason why.

  The animal’s back and sides were crisscrossed with the scars of a whip, and dried blood caked the most recent wounds. Anger, shimmered through her, and along with it, something else. Empathy.

  Tears stung her eyes and she reached out a tentative hand to stroke the donkey's neck. “I know,” she choked, “Yes, I know.”

  The donkey hung its head, as if ashamed, but with no logical reason to be. She knew all about that feeling, too.

  Suddenly, it was too much. Tess wrapped her arms around the donkey's neck, buried her face in its short, ratted mane, and cried like a child.

  It was a long time before she lifted her head. “You ran away, didn't you?” she murmured, brushing away tears with a swipe of her hand. “Don't worry. I shall take you home with me, and whoever did this will never, ever raise a whip to you again. I swear it.”

  Grasping the mane, she led the animal toward the château. It followed obediently, resigned to whatever fate lay ahead.

  The late afternoon sun was falling behind the rocky hills in a blaze of crimson and salmon against the azure blue of the sky as she led the donkey to the stable. She put it one of the stalls, then went in search of Alexandre to see if there was any feed available to give the animal.

  She found him in his studio, cleaning paintbrushes. “Bon soir, mademoiselle. Is it time for us to prepare le diner?”

  She shook her head impatiently, their dinner the last thing on her mind. “Do you have any oats? Any hay?”

  “Oats? Hay?” A puzzled frown creased his brow at her curious request. “It's summer, mademoiselle. Sophie won't need hay until autumn.”

  She sighed. “So you have none, then?” When he shook his head, she asked, “What about grain?”

  He set down the brush, turning to face her. “There is a bag of oats in the buttery, I believe. What is all this about?”

  Tess hesitated, suddenly realizing that he might not be pleased about the donkey. Wildly, she wondered if she could hide the animal, feed it in secret, but she knew at once such a plan was futile. She had no money for feed.

  “Mademoiselle? Why do you need grain and hay?”

  His voice broke into her thoughts, and she reminded herself that Alexandre was not like Nigel. “Come with me. I'll show you.”

  She took him out to the stable. As they approached its stall, the donkey lifted its head, but its ears hung down like long, limp blades of grass. Dispirited, it stared at them without moving.

  “I told you I’d be back,” she told the animal, reaching out to rub between its ears. “And I’ve thought of a name for you. How do you like Betsy, hmm?”

  “A donkey?” Alexandre was staring at the animal in disbelief. “You brought home a donkey?”

  “I did. I found her in the vineyards.”

  “What in heaven’s name do you intend to do with it?”

  “Take care of her, for a start. You can see she's been abused. She needs a home.”

  “You work too hard as it is.”

  “Alexandre, feeding one donkey isn’t much of a burden.”

  “And after you're gone?”

  Tess grimaced at the reminder that her situation here was only temporary, but she stood her ground. “I'll take her with me. In the meantime, I intend to keep her.”

  “You can’t keep it. She probably belongs to one of the peasant farmers hereabouts, and he'll want her back. These people are poor. They need their animals.”

  “Whoever owns this donkey forfeited all rights to it by treating her so cruelly.”

  “That doesn't signify. Under the law, a man has the right to do what he wants with his animals.”

  That's what men say about their wives, too, she wanted to shout. “If the animal really meant anything to the owner,” she said instead, “he wouldn't have abused her this way. Men should...” She swallowed hard. “Men should protect and take care of what belongs to them. Look at her, Alexandre. Abused and starved. Have you no pity?”

  Alexandre’s lips thinned, pressing tight at the accusation. Then he turned away. “If its owner comes looking for it, we will have to give it back,” he told her and turned to leave the stables. “If not, you’ll take it with you when you leave.”

  Without another word, he turned and walked out of the stables, but her words insisted upon echoing back through his head as he went back to the château.

  Men should protect and take care of what belongs to them.

  He passed the now well-ordered garden, knowing he'd have to keep on weeding the damn thing from now on. He marched up the back stairs and across the spotlessly clean kitchen, remembering he still didn't know where she'd put the paintbrushes he’d left there, a fact he found quite irritating at this moment.

  The tap of his boots echoed on the now dust-free floors as he headed toward the stairs to his studio, the only place in this house that still seemed to be fully within his purview. She wanted a donkey? Well and good. She could be the one to take care of it.

  He started up the stairs, but his attention was caught by a flash of color, and he stopped, turning to stare at the jar of wildflowers on the hall table. From there, his gaze moved to the door that led into the dining room and the basket of plums that stood on the table. Suddenly frustrated by these homey touches, he shouted, “I just want to be left alone!” The words echoed in the empty château.

  A faint meow answered him, and he glanced over his shoulder to the foot of the stairs. There, on the bottom step, was Augustus. The kitten moved to follow him up the stairs, and Tess’s words echoed through his mind again.

  A man should take care of what belongs to him. “No!” he told the kitten, pointing toward the kitchen. “You don’t belong to me. Go back.”

  Augustus seemed unimpressed. He skipped up two more steps, then sat back on his haunches and stared up at the man on the stair above him, uttering another meow.

  Alexandre sighed, wondering exactly when he'd lost control of his own household. He didn't want a housekeeper. He didn't want a donkey. He didn't want a cat. A goat and some chickens were all he could handle.

  These were all things a man had to be responsible for. Tess was right. A man should take care of what belonged to him. But the woman didn't belong to him. The donkey didn't belong to him. The cat certainly didn't belong to him. He didn't want to take care of them. He wasn't any good at it.

  “Go back!” he repeated his command, glaring down at the tiny animal.

  Augustus jumped up another step, closing the distance between them, and laid down right on top of Alexandre’s boot.

  He stared down at the kitten for a moment, then he sighed and bent to scoop up the animal with his hand. Turning, he resumed walking up the stairs. “Your trust in me is sorely misplaced, mon ami,” he warned.

  Augustus rubbed his tiny head against Alexandre’s chest, purring loudly, not seeming at all put off by the warning.

  ***

  When Tess came back to the house, Alexandre was not in the kitchen as she expected, but though a chicken, plucked, dressed and wrapped in damp cloth, was on the worktable, Alexandre was not there to begin their evening cooking lesson.

  Tess knew he wasn't happy about acquiring a donkey. In fact, he didn't seem to welc
ome anything or anyone into his solitude—not servants, not her, not even a few animals. She wished she knew why, but she knew she’d never learn the reason from him.

  It was time to begin preparing the evening meal, and she supposed she should go in search of him. He was probably in his studio, but she hesitated to disturb him if he was working, and she knew enough now about cooking to prepare a meal by herself. She’d make dinner and take it up to him, she decided. A sort of peace offering.

  She set to work, and two hours later, she was carrying a tray laden with roast chicken, a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine up to the tower, rather pleased with her efforts. Granted, it was a simple meal, but a few weeks ago, she would never have been able to prepare it.

  As she’d suspected, Alexandre was in his studio. He was painting, and though his face was in profile to her, his preoccupation with his work was evident, for he applied paint to canvas in quick, almost frantic strokes, and he didn’t even look up as she entered the room. She hesitated by the stairs, not sure she should interrupt.

  A flash of movement caught her attention, and she watched as Augustus ambled across the room, displaying none of her reticence about disturbing an artist at work. The kitten moved between Alexandre's feet, rubbing against the man's boots and purring loudly.

  “Not now, mon ami,” Alexandre told the animal, his attention fixed on the canvas before him. “I know you're hungry, but you shall have to wait.”

  Augustus responded with plaintive meow, but when this was ignored, the kitten curled his body over Alexandre's foot, his chin resting on the tip of the boot and his tail wrapped around the ankle.

  Tess laughed, and Alexandre glanced in her direction.

  “Mademoiselle,” he greeted and returned his attention to his work. “Something amuses you?”

  “This is the man who hates cats,” she teased as she crossed the room and set the tray on one of the room’s less cluttered tables.

  “The cat, unfortunately, does not hate me.”

  “You say that, but if you really resented him as much as you pretend to, you wouldn’t let him stay.”

  He heaved an aggravated sigh, but he didn’t debate the point.

  “Are you hungry?” Tess asked as she poured wine into glasses. “I've prepared dinner.”

  “Not that I don’t trust you...” He paused, glancing at the tray and then at her, and a rueful smile tilted his mouth. “But did you taste it first?”

  She made a face at him. “If there’s anything wrong with it, you have only yourself to blame. You taught me how to make roast chicken.”

  “Then let’s hope I’ve been a good teacher, because I’m famished.” He set the brush and palette on the table nearest him, then came to where she stood, reaching for the glass of wine she held out to him, his fingers brushing hers as he took the offered glass. A few weeks ago, Tess would have tensed at the brief contact, but now she found herself savoring it.

  He took a sip of the wine, and set his glass beside hers on tray, then pulled out a pair of stools from beneath the table, giving her a look of apology. “I’ve no comfortable chairs up here. Will this do?”

  “Of course.” She settled herself on one of the stools and he moved his to sit opposite her and maneuvered the tray to rest between them, shoving aside paint supplies and rags. He then picked up the knife, sliced the chicken into pieces with a few practiced strokes, and picked up a thigh.

  She found herself holding her breath as he took a bite, unable to avoid remembering the first time he’d sampled her cooking, but her worry proved groundless.

  “Très bon,” he complimented around a mouthful of chicken. “Perfect.”

  It was only a chicken, but she felt a thrill of pride just the same. “Is it really?”

  “No, but I have to say that. As you pointed out, it is my recipe.”

  He was teasing. She knew it, for there was a smile lurking at the edges of his mouth and creasing the corners of his eyes. In retaliation, she kicked him under the table, and they both laughed.

  How long, she wondered, looking into his black eyes, had it been since she’d laughed with a man? How long since she’d felt like this? Happy and relaxed, unafraid? A long time. Her laughter faded to silence. Too long.

  “Mademoiselle?” Alexandre’s voice broke into her thoughts, and she blinked.

  “Hmm?”

  “Is something wrong? You look quite grave all of a sudden.”

  “Sorry.” She shook her head. “I was woolgathering, I’m afraid.”

  “What about?”

  She was saved from answering by Augustus, who let out a loud wail of indignation from the floor below, reminding them of who did not yet have anything to eat. He began to circle the base of the table by their feet, voicing his displeasure with a series of plaintive meows.

  Alexandre paused, leaning sideways to frown at the kitten below. “Augustus, lie down and be quiet. The mademoiselle will feed you when we are finished.”

  Tess peered beneath the table as well, watching as the kitten changed tactics by rubbing his head against Alexandre’s leg and purring mightily.

  Tess straightened, grinning at the man opposite her. “You have made a friend, I think.”

  He sighed. “It would seem so.”

  Wisely, she decided to change the subject. Glancing around the studio, her gaze moved past the stack of linen-wrapped portraits that leaned against the wall, suspecting he would not like to be asked about the woman whose portrait was amongst them. She chose a more innocuous topic. “Is this your ancestral home?” she asked, tearing a piece from the loaf of bread.

  He nodded. “The Dumond family has held this land for five centuries.”

  “How did you manage to keep it during the Revolution?”

  “I didn't.” He paused a long moment, and Tess thought he was not going to say any more. “Robespierre accused my father of treason,” he said after a moment. “The Jacobins executed both my parents in Paris in 1792. I was five years old.”

  Tess drew in a sharp breath. She, too, knew how painful it was to lose one's parents, but that must have been especially difficult for a five-year-old boy. ‘I’m so sorry.”

  “I was here when it happened,” he went on. “Lucien, my father's wine master, adopted me, and I lived with his family. Our lands were taken over by a member of the Robespierre government. He only came here once a year, and the rest of the time, Lucien managed the estates for him.”

  “How did you get the land back?”

  “Later, when Napoleon was in power and began his Egyptian campaign, he took possession of my home for military purposes. Being situated right on the Mediterranean Sea, this land made an excellent military outpost.”

  He gestured to their surroundings. “This tower was originally one of four, but in the sixteenth century Provence law had declared that towers were too ostentatious, and all four towers torn down, but Napoleon rebuilt this one as a watchtower to the sea. While I was in Italy, Lucien continued to manage the lands for Napoleon until 1814, making brandy and other wines for the army. When the Corsican fell and Louis came to power, I returned from Florence and petitioned the king to restore to me my lands and title. He agreed, and I have lived here ever since.”

  “Title?”

  “I can see I have been remiss.” He bowed his head to her. “Allow me to formally introduce myself, mademoiselle. I am the Comte de Junot.”

  But who is the girl in the portrait? Tess looked down at the blue dress she wore. Who did this dress belong to?

  She did not ask him that, however. After all, she could not expect him to share his secrets if she was unwilling to share hers.

  ***

  The Earl of Aubry was not a happy man. He stared down at the letter that had come in the morning post, scanning the lines of Martin Trevalyn's handwriting with growing irritation. Pushing aside his breakfast of kippers, bacon, and toast, Nigel read the letter once again, unable to believe that they had still found no trace of his wife.

  Trevalyn had bee
n in Paris for nearly two weeks now and had uncovered only one tiny scrap of information. It was now confirmed that she had been in Paris, staying at an inn on the outskirts of the city for several days. But her stay had been in April, three months ago, and Trevalyn had no clue where she had gone from there. He scowled down at the spidery handwriting.

  “Is something wrong, Nigel?”

  The earl gave a distracted glance at the woman seated at the opposite end of the table. He'd forgotten his mother was even there. But then, that wasn't surprising.

  The dowager countess was a small woman who looked much older than her fifty-three years. Though she sat rigidly straight in her chair, there was something about her that reminded him of a drooping flower. Perhaps it was the way she could never look him in the eye, or the apologetic way she spoke, or the perpetual expression of martyrdom she wore. She irritated him immensely. She always had. “No, Mother,” he answered, “nothing at all.”

  He returned his gaze to the letter in his hand. He was not worried about finding Teresa. She had run away twice before, and he'd had no trouble locating her. Also, she was without means. The money she’d gotten for the emeralds would run out soon if it hadn’t already. Still, he had hoped to find her by now. The longer she was gone, the more difficult it became to explain her absence.

  He crushed the letter in his fist and tossed it onto his plate, where it landed atop a slice of marmalade-covered toast. “I want Sullivan!” he shouted, rising from his chair.

  The nearest footman scurried off, and within minutes, his valet appeared. “Sir?”

  “We are journeying to Paris immediately. Begin making the necessary preparations. Since I have no idea how long we will be forced to remain there, pack enough for an extended stay.” He paused, then added, “Have Lady Aubry's maid pack some of her things as well.”

  It wasn't Sullivan's place to ask questions. “At once, my lord.” He bowed and left the room to carry out his orders.

  “Nigel?”

  He gave his mother another distracted glance. “What is it?”