Prelude to Heaven

by Laura Lee Guhrke

“Comte! Comte!” An agitated male voice and the clatter of hurried footsteps on the stairs up to the studio interrupted him. Alexandre turned just as Paul took the last two steps at a jump and came flying into the studio.

  The young man stumbled to a halt, knocking over a table in the process. Out of breath, he grasped the edge of the table, righted it, and gasped, “Comte, the mademoiselle is gone!”

  Alexandre frowned, puzzled by Paul's vague statement and obvious agitation. “Gone where?”

  “I don't know. I came out of the tavern and saw her stepping into a carriage with the English fellow. I tried to run after it, but I couldn't catch it. I'm sorry, sir. I tried. I didn't know...”

  Alexandre strove to make sense of this chaotic jumble of words, and failed. “Sacré tonnerre! Speak slowly, Paul. I can't understand a word.”

  The young man waited a moment, taking several deep breaths, then began again. “I took the mademoiselle to the village and left her at the draper's shop. She said she would be there for some time, so I went to the tavern for a glass of wine. I didn't mean any harm, monsieur,” he hastened to add, seeing the frown darkening his master's face. “I was only gone only half an hour. As I returned, I saw the mademoiselle stepping into a carriage with the Englishman. The carriage drove away, taking the road to Marseilles, and as I said, I tried to run after it, but I was too late.”

  Alexandre fought the sick feeling that knotted his guts, refusing to believe what he was hearing, refusing to listen to the fear that whispered to him. “What Englishman? What carriage?”

  “The Englishman, Comte. Everybody's talking of him. He arrived only this morning, looking for the mademoiselle. Talk in the tavern was that she was his mistress. He was showing her portrait to people in the village, asking if they'd seen her. A rich aristo, by the look of him. He had a fine carriage and servants, too.”

  The paintbrush snapped in his hand, and Alexandre looked down at the broken pieces in bewilderment. Tess was gone? Why would she go off with a stranger?

  Unless the Englishman wasn’t a stranger and the talk in the village was true.

  He tossed aside the pieces of the broken paintbrush and headed for the stairs, his heart hammering. “Take the baby down to Leonie,” he told Paul. “I'm going after her.”

  He was in the carriage and on the road within minutes. The weather seemed to match his mood, for though the day had started sunny and beautiful, a storm was moving in and ominous clouds of gun metal gray gathered above his head as he drove toward the village. During the journey, the skies continued to darken and his thoughts spun as fast as the carriage wheels beneath him.

  Paul was mistaken. She'd just gone for a ride. Or she'd been forced, kidnapped. Desperately, his mind sought sane reasons for an insane thing.

  He yanked on the reins and halted the carriage in front of the draper's shop. Tossing aside the reins, he jumped down. The shop was closed, however, and it was only then that Alexandre realized that it was evening. Not to be thwarted, he pounded on the door.

  Madame Giraud finally heard his loud, insistent knock and came to open the door. She knew Alexandre's reputation, but the moment she tried to close the door in his face, he blocked her effort. With no other choice, she answered his questions readily enough, though what she told him was not what he wanted to hear.

  She confirmed that the Englishman had been looking for an Englishwoman, the same Englishwoman who had purchased fabrics from her shop the day before. The miniature the man had shown her matched Alexandre’s description of Tess. Madame Giraud also verified Paul's statement that the Englishwoman had gotten into a carriage with the man, but when asked if she had seemed unwilling to go, Madame Giraud denied it. Indeed, the Englishwoman had walked to the carriage arm in arm with the Englishman.

  Refusing to believe it, Alexandre went to the inn. But the innkeeper, too, supported what Paul had told him, reiterating the talk in the tavern that the girl was the Englishman's mistress, and he'd spent months trying to find her.

  Still refusing to believe, Alexandre returned to the carriage, determined to follow Tess and the Englishman and learn the truth. Paul had said they had taken the road to Marseilles, and without stopping to think about the fact that he had no money and no clothes with him, he headed the carriage in that direction.

  When it was too dark to drive any further, he pulled off the road and tried to sleep, but the rain falling on the roof of the carriage, the persistent wind that chilled his bones, and his own turbulent thoughts prevented any rest. She wouldn't go away with a stranger. Was the man her lover? Was he Suzanne's father? Agony and uncertainty were Alexandre's companions that night, and at the first hint of dawn, he was on the road again.

  He made inquiries at every inn he passed, eventually locating the one where Tess and her Englishman had spent the night. He continued on, reaching Marseilles by late afternoon.

  The rain had turned into a raging storm by the time Alexandre found the address he was seeking in the Rue de Madelaine. Halting the exhausted horses in front of the graceful stucco home, he jumped down from the carriage and mounted the wide steps leading to the front door. He pounded on the door, and when it was opened, he wasted no time on polite introductions to the butler. He shoved his way in, striding toward the sound of laughter the floated to him from the salon.

  “Monsieur! You cannot barge in this way! Madame has guests this afternoon. You cannot—”

  Alexandre strode through the opened doors of the salon, and paused there, his gaze scanning the faces of the ladies present. As he did so, the sounds of laughter and conversation gradually ceased as the women turned to stare at the dark stranger who was dripping water all over the expensive carpets. A brunette in rose pink silk noticed the stares and the sudden silence and turned around in her chair. What she saw made her gasp in astonishment. She rose and came around the chair, staring at him in obvious disbelief. “Alexandre?”

  “She's gone, Jeanette,” he said, his voice choked with all the despair and desperation he felt. “She's gone.”

  ***

  “This would be much easier if you had learned the man's name,” Henri told Alexandre as the two men walked through the doors of the Hotel d'Arterre, one of Marseilles' most fashionable hotels and a favorite with wealthy English tourists.

  “I wish you'd stop saying that,” Alexandre muttered, following Henri across the richly appointed lobby to the desk of the concierge. As they approached, the distinguished-looking man behind the desk rose to his feet. “Messieurs? May I be of assistance?”

  As Henri explained their search and gave a description of Tess, Alexandre examined the lobby. He saw many people strolling in and out, but there was no sign of the woman he sought. This was the fifth hotel at which they had made inquiries, and so far they'd had no luck at all.

  He pulled at the silk cravat he'd borrowed from Henri, only half listening to what his brother was saying as his gaze desperately scanned the faces in the crowd.

  “They would have arrived today.”

  “A petite English lady with short red hair, you say?” The concierge paused as if pondering the matter. “I seem to recall such a lady arriving this afternoon, though I cannot for the moment recall her name. She was wearing a blue dress.”

  Henri and Alexandre exchanged glances.

  “Yes,” Alexandre confirmed the concierge's last statement. “It was blue.”

  The man gave a disdainful sniff. “Several years out of fashion. The English ladies really have no sense of style. And she wore no cloak. Can you imagine? In this weather?”

  Alexandre had no time for irrelevancies. He leaned forward, placing his palms on the desk. “Where would the lady be now?”

  “I haven't any idea,” the concierge replied. “However, since it is the dinner hour, she might be in the dining room.” He pointed to a set of doors inset with glass. “I believe an English couple staying here have arranged a dinner party. She may be with that group. But you can’t interrupt—”

  Alexandre wasted no time
hearing what he could or could not do. He headed in the direction indicated by the concierge, Henri close behind him. Pushing open the door, he paused in the doorway.

  Amid the sea of faces, he spied her almost immediately. She was seated with a large group at a long table near the opposite end of the room. Diamonds glittered at her ears and throat and the light of the chandeliers above made her fiery hair glow. The “unfashionable” blue dress had been discarded in favor of bronze silk and the neckline plunged low, revealing a generous expanse of her creamy skin.

  The man seated beside her, a blond, typically English dandy, leaned closer to her and whispered something in her ear. The corners of her beautiful mouth lifted in a little smile, and raw pain ripped through Alexandre's chest.

  Unable to bear the truth staring him in the face, he turned away and left the hotel, oblivious to the rain pouring over his borrowed clothes and Henri's voice calling his name.

  ***

  Alexandre arrived home two days later. Paul and Leonie asked no questions, and he was grateful. He wouldn't have known what answers to give them.

  He could have told Paul and Leonie the truth. That he had been thoroughly deceived. That Tess had told him she loved him and that like a fool, he had believed her. That she had needed him to take care of her and the baby only until her lover decided to take her back.

  Her lover had obviously not wanted the baby, and Tess had abandoned Suzanne in order to return to him. Every time Alexandre thought of her sweet deception, of how he'd been used, it filled him with a bitter, corrosive anger like nothing he’d ever felt before.

  As a distraction, he tried to paint, but even inspiration deserted him, and he felt more lost and bereft more than ever before.

  He stared at the mess he had made of the canvas for a moment, and then, with a curse, he tossed down the brush and left the studio. Downstairs, he went to the front hall and stood in front of the painting he'd done of Tess in the meadow, staring at her face and wondering if his eyes had deceived him that day. In this image, she looked radiant, happy. Had that only been his wish, his fancy?

  He stared hard at the portrait. Or perhaps she had, even then, been thinking of her lover, wishing he were the man with her. Had she really been such a good actress? Had he really been such a fool?

  Alexandre took the painting down from its hook on the wall. He ought to burn it, but he could not bring himself to such a course. Instead, he did what he had done with another woman’s portrait over three years earlier. He carried it up to his studio, wrapped it in a sheet, and put it with all the other canvases stacked against the walls.

  He then went to the nursery. Suzanne was crying, almost as if she, too, knew her mother had deserted them. Leonie was holding her and pacing the floor, patting her back in an effort to soothe her wracking sobs. Alexandre walked over to her and took Suzanne from her arms. “You should take Elise out for a walk,” he said, “else you'll soon have two crying babies.”

  “Yes, monsieur.” Leonie started to turn away, but paused. “Monsieur?”

  He looked into her face and saw the sympathy there. He glanced away. “Yes?”

  “Paul and I would like to stay with you permanently. If you wish it?”

  “Thank you, Leonie. Yes, please stay. I will need your help.”

  “That is what we thought, monsieur.” She bent and lifted Elise from her cradle, then left the nursery, closing the door behind her.

  Alexandre sat down in the nearest chair and cradled the crying Suzanne against his chest. He felt his heart breaking with each sob she gave. He watched her grasp his finger in her tiny hand as if she were clinging to a lifeline, and a fierce wave of protectiveness washed over him.

  “Hush,” he murmured, placing a kiss on her forehead. “You are my daughter, and I will take care of you. I will always take care of you. I swear it.”

  As the sun set and the room faded into twilight, he heard the church bells of Saint-Raphael announce the evening mass, each toll a melancholy echo of Suzanne's sobs, and Alexandre would never be sure if the tears that stained her cheeks fell from her eyes or from his.

  ***

  Tess watched the trunks filled with beautiful new dresses being carried up the sweeping marble staircase of Aubry Park. Nigel, of course, had chosen them during their five-day stop in Paris, and had paid handsomely to have them made in so short a time. But then Nigel was always able to pay for what he wanted.

  She pulled off the luxurious merino traveling cloak she wore and handed it wordlessly to her maid. Sally smiled and murmured shyly, “It's good to have you home, my lady,” but Tess only nodded and moved toward the stairs, feeling like a marionette in a children's puppet show.

  Nigel insisted she dress for dinner. There was, of course, no discussion, no argument. She wore the new ecru silk he liked, not out of a wish to please, but because he told her to. She ate, she smiled when she was told to smile, she went through the motions of making polite dinner conversation, but she did it all as if in a dream. She thought nothing, she felt nothing.

  After dinner, she was permitted to go to her room. She stood in the center of her richly furnished bedchamber, staring at the thick, rich carpet beneath her feet. Not the same one as before, she noted. The bloodstains from the night she’d shot Nigel must not have come out.

  Or perhaps that horrific night he’d almost killed her ten months ago had been a dream.

  The shivers began in her belly, radiating through her until her entire body was shaking so badly she couldn't stand. She sank into the nearest chair. And she waited.

  Gradually, the trembling in her body stopped, and a cold, calmness took its place. She knew what would happen tonight. He would demand explanations, and she would repeat her story of being a nursery governess. She remembered how he'd examined her hands in the carriage, how he’d seen the callouses. Not for the first time, it occurred to her that she'd have to explain those somehow. Although, really, did it matter? He probably wouldn't believe her explanations, and even if he did, he would still punish her. Curiously, she didn’t even care.

  The door opened, spilling light into the darkened room, and she stiffened in her chair, all her senses suddenly sharp and alert. She heard his footsteps behind her, but she didn't turn. Instead, she stared straight ahead of her, staring at his reflection against the glass of the darkened window. She watched him, and she waited.

  He set the lamp on her dressing table. Then he walked around to stand in front of her. She lowered her head to stare at his boots, not wanting to look at him, and she waited.

  He bent over her, lifting her chin with one finger. His smile was benign, and if she had cared, it would have frightened her more than any angry words. But months away had not allowed her to forget that her best—her only—defense was complete indifference to her fate. Her gaze was steady as she looked into his angel-blue eyes, and she resigned herself to whatever would come next.

  “Welcome home, my dear,” Nigel said and slapped her across the face.

  Part II

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  April 1819

  Alexandre went to Paris as he and Henri had planned, and his exhibitions there proved both successful and profitable. When he returned home, the first thing he did was take a tour through the vineyards with Henri, and he found no fault with any of the work that had been done during his absence.

  They passed two men who were replacing diseased vines with new cuttings, and he paused to watch them, but they immediately scrambled to their feet, jerking off their caps and brushing hastily at their work-stained clothes, clearly apprehensive.

  He hastened to put them at ease. Gesturing to the newly- planted vines, he said, “Well done, messieurs. We should have a good vintage from these in five or six years.”

  Henri, who had paused beside him, gestured to one of the two workmen and said, “This is Monsieur Armand Calvet. He will be in charge of the cuttings nursery when it is finished.” He beckoned, and Calvet stepped forward with a slight bow.

  Alexa
ndre studied the younger man for a moment. “You look familiar to me, monsieur. Have we met before?”

  “My father was in charge of the nursery under Monsieur Caillaux.”

  Alexandre nodded, enlightened. “I remember your father from when I was a boy. He was a fine nurseryman.”

  “Comte de Junot,” Armand spoke, using Alexandre's formal title, “my sons told me of their swimming lessons with you and how that came about. My thanks, Comte.”

  “Your sons are fine young men. They do you honor.” He turned to resume his tour, beckoning Calvet to come with them. “Walk with us, monsieur. I am interested to hear your opinions for the building of the nursery.”

  “I will give them gladly.” Calvet turned to his companion, gave a few instructions for what to do in his absence, and then accompanied Alexandre and Henri.

  The three men spent the afternoon debating which new varieties to cultivate, and the discussion was a long one. When evening came, Armand accepted an invitation to dine and the discussion was continued.

  It was well into the evening before the nurseryman departed, but it was not too late for him to stop at the tavern for a few glasses of wine. The other men listened, several shaking their heads in disbelief, as Armand related his observations about the Comte de Junot.

  There had been plenty of talk in the village during the past few months. Everyone knew the winery was to commence operations again, a move they had greeted with cautious optimism, for though the Comte had been a recluse for years, an oddity at best and a danger at worst, the reopening of his winery meant more work and prosperity for everyone.

  In addition, they knew of how the Comte had saved Armand's son from drowning, for Armand had related that tale months earlier, when he'd discovered the Comte had been giving his sons swimming lessons.