The Comtesse could trace her genealogy all the way back through the Brissac-Orleans; one of her far-distant ancestors was Anne de Bretagne, the wife of King Louis XII. The Comtesse was thin and elegant, as haughty- looking, Hélène thought, as the facade of the chateau. Her hair was uniformly gray and immaculately set. Her pale skin was almost porcelain-toned, but her hands, in which she held a small Maltese spaniel, attested to her years. They were spotted with a faint sprinkling of age spots. She had a very distinguished Roman nose, a perpetual frown, and a network of tiny wrinkles in the corners of her cool, stony, dark eyes. She sat stiffly erect and wore a simple white silk blouse and a beautiful pale yellow suit. A Chanel, Hélène thought.
Madame Dupre curtsied politely. 'Bonjour, Comtesse,' she said formally.
'Bonjour, madame.' The Comtesse's clipped voice was loud and clear. She pronounced each syllable precisely.
'May I introduce my new seamstress, Hélène Junot.' Madame Dupre gestured gracefully to Hélène.
Hélène curtsied as Madame Dupre had instructed her to, but her movements were somewhat awkward. She could feel a blush coming over her face. 'Bonjour, Comtesse,' she whispered nervously.
The cool dark eyes swept imperiously over Hélène. 'But she is very young!' the Comtesse said with surprise.
'Oui, Comtesse,' Madame Dupre said quickly. 'She is the most talented seamstress I have ever had. She will go far.'
'Is that so?' Once again the Comtesse's dark eyes looked at Hélène, this time with keen interest. 'She is rather an attractive young lady.'
Hélène could feel another flush of embarrassment coloring her face. She rarely received compliments, and when she did, she didn't know how to accept them graciously, so she remained silent. From the Comtesse's pleased expression, Hélène knew that her silence had been misinterpreted as modesty.
The Comtesse pulled a bell rope that hung beside the settee. A moment later a young maid in black uniform appeared soundlessly.
'Lise, I want you to give Madame Dupre and her associate all the assistance they may require.'
'Oui, Comtesse.'
'Bon. You may take them upstairs to the sewing room. Then I want you to bring them the clothes that have arrived from the couturiers. Everything except for the gowns.'
'Oui, Comtesse.'
'That is all.' The Comtesse made an imperious gesture of dismissal.
Madame Dupre glanced at Hélène. Once again they curtsied, then followed Lise out of the room.
The sewing room was on the second floor of the northeastern wing. At one time it must have been a sumptuous bedroom. There were high carved ceilings, boiserie-paneled walls, and big mullioned windows that allowed maximum light. Sheet-draped objects stood around the room like ghostly white sculptures. The room was cold and dusty and needed airing. Hélène went over to the windows and threw them open. A blast of fresh air and a sprinkling of raindrops came blowing in. For a moment she stood there looking out at the sweeping view of Le Notre's park.
With a snapping motion of her wrist Madame Dupre went around the room pulling off the white sheets. Hélène saw that they had draped the sewing machine, a big paper-covered table, the dressmaker's dummy, a coat rack in the corner, a three-paneled screen (behind which the Comtesse could dress or undress with delicacy), and a tall three-paneled gilt-framed mirror. Then Madame Dupre crossed the room to the carved wardrobes and threw open the doors. Inside were bolts of fabric, threads, needles, pincushions, shears, trimmings, and all other tools of the dressmaker's trade.
'The Comtesse insists on many fittings,' Madame Dupre told Hélène in a low voice. 'That is why the sewing room is not in the servants' quarters!'
Hélène pushed her plate away. 'I'm full,' she announced.
Madame Dupre looked at her sharply and wagged her finger. 'A lady never says 'I'm full,'' she said sternly. 'In society a lady says 'I've had plenty, thank you.' You must not underestimate the importance of these social graces. Once you get to Paris, they can make the difference between success and failure.'
Hélène nodded and filed this bit of information. They were having dinner on the little table in Madame Dupre's room. This arrangement was the result of a bizarre etiquette that placed them in a no-man's-land: their social status was far below the de Légers' but somewhat above the servants', so they could dine with neither. Madame Dupre explained to Hélène that if there had been a governess in the house, she would have been an acceptable dinner companion for them, but since there were no small children there was no governess, and thus they had to eat alone in Madame Dupre's room. Hélène was somewhat annoyed at such intricacies of the social ladder and wondered how many rungs there could possibly be.
Carefully Madame Dupre placed her fork and knife in an X on her plate, signifying that she, too, was finished. Delicately she dabbed her lips with her napkin.
'Therese will bring us coffee and dessert later,' she said. 'She knows I like it a few hours after dinner.'
Hélène nodded, sipping delicately at her wine. 'I can't wait until tomorrow,' she said. 'The dresses are so beautiful! And the Chanel suits—I can't believe their quality. I'd have never thought of sewing tiny chains into the hems to make them fall better.'
Madame Dupre nodded. 'Chanel is a genius,' she said simply. She rose and walked over to the little round window. She bent down, parted the filmy curtains, and looked out. She let the curtains drop back in place and turned to Hélène. 'It has stopped raining. Shall we take a walk?'
Hélène pushed back her chair and got to her feet. 'I'd love some fresh air. Let me get my coat.'
They went downstairs and walked out through the kitchen door. It was still daylight, but dusk would soon begin to fall. The rain had made the dull autumn lawn appear green and springlike. A fine mist had settled over the countryside. The clouds overhead were thinning and looked like a gray water- color wash. All at once they parted and a glimmer of weak sunshine broke through.
Madame Dupre glanced at the sky and smiled. 'Perhaps there is hope for the tender grapes after all,' she said. 'Let's take a look around.'
When they had walked for some minutes, the sprawling stables suddenly came into view. Hélène marveled at their size. 'The de Légers must have a lot of horses to need so many stables.'
Madame Dupre smiled. 'They do. The de Légers pride themselves on horsemanship. They hold fox hunts and even race horses.' She stopped talking as they both heard the approach of pounding hoof beats. They turned around.
Hélène let out a shriek and threw herself at Madame Dupre. A magnificent black Arabian stallion was charging across the grass toward them. It looked as if the equestrian had lost control, but at the last moment he expertly drew in the reins and the big horse whinnied and skidded to a halt barely a meter away from them. Bits of earth flew up all around. Hélène could feel the animal's heat. It must have been galloping for some time.
The shadow of the rider fell across Hélène and she looked up. He was undeniably handsome, with dark hair, a determined cleft chin, and deep, flashing eyes. They were the same eyes as the Comtesse's, but whereas hers were cold, his were mischievous. Under the serge riding habit she could sense a wiry, athletic physique, and his bearing bespoke an aristocratic heritage. This had to be the Comtesse's son.
Hubert de Léger grinned suddenly and touched the little visor of his cap with his riding crop. 'Ah, Madame Dupre,' he said.
Madame Dupre gave a curt little nod. 'You scared us half to death,' she said with quiet fury.
He ignored her and nodded his chin at Hélène. 'Who are you?'
Hélène could feel his dark eyes boring through her. There was some¬thing virile and powerful about him that made her suddenly afraid. She felt paralyzed. 'Hélène Junot,' she murmured softly, and looked away.
'You're a lot better-looking than that woman Madame Dupre brought with her last year.' He looked at Madame Dupre and smiled disarmingly. 'Isn't she?'
'I think it's all a matter of personal taste,' Madame Dupre replied stiffly. 'I wouldn
't know.'
Hubert de Léger threw back his head and laughed heartily, showing strong white teeth. Then his expression became serious as he looked at Hélène. 'Do you ride?'
Hélène looked confused. 'You mean. . .horses?'
He grinned easily. 'What else is there?'
'I. . .I've never tried.'
'It's easy to learn.' He kept his hands on the reins; the stallion was restless.
'I'm not sure I like horses,' she said quickly.
'You will,' he said confidently. 'You'd cut a fine figure on a horse. We have many in the stables. Some of them are quite gentle. Perhaps I should teach you to ride.' He paused. 'You should be flattered.'
Hélène looked flustered. She fidgeted with her hands and turned her face away. 'Maybe some other day,' she murmured.
'Tomorrow?' he said quickly.
'No, I'm afraid I've work to do tomorrow,' she said firmly, then looked at Madame Dupre, clearly wanting the woman's backup.
Madame Dupre took her cue. 'I'm afraid your mother would be very displeased if her garments weren't finished on time.'
He grinned slyly and bowed to Madame Dupre. 'But I know better. You never work after six o'clock, madame.' Then he looked at Hélène. 'We'll have the lesson here tomorrow at half-past.'
Before Hélène could refuse again, he neatly smacked the stallion with his crop and dug in his spurs. Instantly horse and rider went flying across the lawn, hooves pounding and kicking up pieces of earth. Soon he disappeared.
Hélène turned to Madame Dupre. 'What do I do now?' she moaned.
Madame Dupre shrugged. 'Hubert does not easily take no for an answer. He has inherited the determination of the Brissac-Orleans.'
Hélène looked uncomfortable. 'Perhaps I should go and speak with him later.'
Madame Dupre shook her head. 'That would be a waste of time. He is charming but evasive. You can search everywhere, but you'll never find him until six-thirty tomorrow afternoon. I'm afraid you'll just have to go.'
11
A little after six o'clock the next afternoon, Madame Dupre chaperoned Hélène as far as the stables and helped her into one of the riding habits that were kept on hand for guests. When Hélène was fully dressed, Madame Dupre stood back to study the effect. She frowned thoughtfully. 'It's a little big in the bust, but otherwise it suits you quite handsomely.' She stepped closer to rearrange the wisps of veil that hung off the top hat. 'Yes, quite handsomely,' she repeated with satisfaction.
Hélène walked over to the tilted dressing-room mirror and stood in front of it awkwardly. She stared at her reflection. The outfit was beautiful. The long black skirt was just short enough to show off the gleaming boots that had been murder to pull on and that didn't quite fit. They were too narrow in the ankles—'A lady really needs custom-made boots,' Madame Dupre had growled as she helped Hélène struggle into them. The black coat and white blouse were slightly too big, but elegantly cut, and the black bow tie was a dressy touch. Still, Hélène felt ill-at-ease, as if wearing a costume she didn't belong in.
They went out into the pine-paneled saddle room, fragrant with the smells of leather and wood. A glass-fronted vitrine was filled with racing trophies and dressage ribbons, and the walls were hung with tack, saddles, brass hunting horns, and framed engravings of horses that the de Légers had raced at Chantilly and Longchamps.
Hélène took one look at the paraphernalia and turned to go back into the dressing room. 'Maybe I'd just better—'
Madame Dupre caught her arm. 'Oh, no, you don't! You are going to have to go through with it.'
'But—'
'Silence!' Madame Dupre gestured in agitation. 'Just be yourself! Right now you're too stiff and self-conscious. Relax! Don't give anything a second thought.' Then her voice softened. 'Remember, you look lovely.'
'I'm hungry.'
Madame Dupre rolled her eyes. 'A little dieting won't hurt,' she said between clenched teeth. 'You can stand to lose a few pounds.'
Just then they heard approaching hoof beats outside.
'Out you go,' Madame Dupr6 said firmly. She pushed Hélène toward the door. 'There's nothing to be afraid of. Have fun and. . .be careful.' She gave Hélène an obscure look.
Hélène blushed. Silently she cursed herself. She was blushing all the time lately. She'd have to find some way to bring it under control. It wouldn't do to walk around with a red face half the time. But what had Madame Dupre meant about being careful? Careful of what? The horse or. . .Hubert?
When he saw her, Hubert de Léger expertly swung down off his saddle and strode toward her, leading his Arabian by the reins. 'You look marvelous in that getup, but of course, I knew you would.'
'Thank you,' she said coldly. Her lips trembled angrily at his arrogant self-confidence.
'Come,' he said. 'I will tie up Sheik here and have a boy bring your horse around. We'll stay in the corral for a while.'
She nodded nervously and he called out to one of the stableboys. A few minutes later, her horse was led out. It was a huge chestnut mare with a sidesaddle. Hélène looked up at it and cringed. 'It. . .it looks so high.'
'You'll manage.'
'If you say so,' she said doubtfully.
For the next half-hour he taught her only to mount and dismount. She had the sneaking suspicion that this exercise was being practiced so diligently because it gave him the opportunity to put his arms around her, hold her by the hips, and 'accidentally' brush against her as he lifted her up. With surprise, she found that she rather liked the feel of his body against hers. She sensed a certain rough power in him, a cruel streak perhaps, but to her he was gentle and polite. Several times his face was close to hers, and for a few seconds they would stare at each other. Then she would look quickly away and he would continue with the lessons as if nothing had happened.
He was playing a game, she thought, smiling to herself. Two could play such a game. She would simply alter the rules and play a game of her own— learning quickly how to mount and dismount. She was strangely pleased when she saw his disappointment over her quick progress. Hélène one, the hungry lion zero, she thought.
'Now we ride,' Hubert said at last. 'Just a slow trot around the corral for practice, and then once around the park.' He reached into his pocket for a lump of sugar and held it out to the mare. She nuzzled his hand as she took the sugar gently from him.
Hélène practiced riding around the corral. Then slowly she was graduated to the park. She had to admit that she enjoyed it immensely. It took concentration and skill, and she was catching on quickly. For a moment she even brought the mare to a canter, and the wind felt exhilarating against her face.
When they returned to the stables, Hubert told Hélène to stay put. Then he leaned low over the Arabian's neck, dug in his spurs, and headed toward a fence. Hélène drew in her breath. He was going to try to jump the fence! She saw that there was a series of hurdles in varying heights inside the enclosure.
Neatly the Arabian leaped over the fence and Hubert took it through its paces over the hurdles. The horse cleared each one. Hélène shook her head unbelievingly. Hubert was showing off for her, she knew, and dangerously so. Yet it was a beautiful, graceful demonstration of the unity of man and beast.
The hurdles completed, he headed the stallion back over the fence and galloped toward Hélène. When he drew up alongside her, he looked at her questioningly. She said nothing, but she thawed with a smile. Apparently satisfied with that reaction, he hopped to the ground and motioned for her to dismount. They handed their reins to two stableboys.
Hubert looked at Hélène. 'Are you tired?'
She nodded. 'Yes, but it's a rather thrilling tiredness.'
He nodded. 'I know what you mean. Feel sore from the saddle?'
She looked at him challengingly. 'Not a bit.'
He grinned. 'You will tomorrow.'
Together they walked across the park back to the chateau. Dusk was at hand and the sky was turning deep purple. For a few minutes they were silent. He sti
ll carried his riding crop and kept slapping it against his boot.
'I made you miss dinner,' he said finally. 'You may have it with me.'
She looked at him. 'I'm not hungry.'
He smiled. 'I won't take no for an answer.'
'But. . .I'd have to get changed.' She gestured at her riding skirt.
'Then get changed.'
She paused. 'No,' she said firmly. 'I'm afraid I can't.' She shook her head. 'It wouldn't be right.'
He looked at her queerly and stopped tapping his boot with the crop. 'What wouldn't?'
'My having dinner with you.'
'Why?' He looked at her with amusement. 'Because I'm a de Léger?'
She flushed. 'Yes,' she said softly.
But he was very persuasive. She could have countered him if he had ordered her to dine with him. But he hadn't. Instead, he threw himself at her mercy and begged. Finally she laughed. It was impossible to refuse. She suspected that he knew this was the only way she'd agree to it. But she no longer really cared. Too much virility and a potential cruel streak aside, he was very charming.
When they reached the house, they parted company for an hour. She ran upstairs, waited for one of the maids to come out of the bathroom they shared (what took her so long!), and quickly drew a bath. For several minutes she luxuriated in the tub, then hurried to her room and dressed with care. When she was finished, she looked in the mirror approvingly. The dress was black and plain, almost severe, but it was acceptable for anything from taking a walk to attending a funeral. At any rate, it was the only decent thing she owned. In her excitement she'd forgotten to close the connecting door between her room and Madame Dupre's. With a start she realized that Madame Dupre was watching her with amusement from the doorway.
'Do I. . .look all right?' Hélène asked hesitantly.
'That depends on where you are going.'
'Downstairs. Hubert has asked me to dine with him.'
'In that case, you look beautiful,' Madame Dupre said. She frowned slightly. 'But a bit severe.'
Hélène looked at her in panic. 'What do you mean?'
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