The Bride Wore Scarlet

by Liz Carlyle

  “Well, the consort, I believe,” Charlotte acknowledged. “And he was very dear to his niece Victoria, especially in her childhood.”

  Anaïs smiled and leaned forward to warm their cups. “One wonders though, if things mightn’t have changed between them over the years,” she murmured suggestively. “Leopold’s position is very different now.”

  “Indeed.” Charlotte was slowly circling her spoon in her tea. “He is a powerful king in his own right, and Uncle says that . . .”

  Anaïs leaned intently forward. “Oh, go on, Charlotte, do!” she pleaded. “It sounds as if you have gossip—and who can resist a little tittle-tattle over tea?”

  Charlotte flushed guiltily. “Uncle says that Leopold must now look to himself first, and take care of his own long-term interests,” she whispered. “He says that Leopold’s connections to England, loose though they are, could one day be to his disadvantage politically.”

  “Oh,” said Anaïs. “Well, that is all too complicated for me to grasp. I just think he is handsome. And his wife—someone said she suffers from consumption. I wonder if it is true?”

  Charlotte seemed to stiffen slightly. “The Queen is very ill,” she answered. “I think she hasn’t long to live.”

  Anaïs leaned very near. “And I have heard the King’s mistress is with child,” she whispered, dropping one of DuPont’s juicier tidbits. “Or may already have given birth.”

  At that, Charlotte looked suddenly stricken. “But . . . But that is tragic!” she said, one hand going to her breast. “It’s said his wife adores him—even if their marriage was politically arranged.”

  Anaïs shrugged. “Little good that does Leopold now that his father-in-law has been booted from the throne of France,” she remarked. “No wonder he is worried about making new French alliances. As to poor Queen Louise, one wonders if love is worth the pain. I am glad, I think, to have married for practicality this time.”

  Charlotte dropped her gaze to her tea again. “Well, I shan’t do it!” she said, her voice low and fervent. “I do not disparage your choice, Anaïs. Truly, I do not. But I should rather feel the ache of loss, however acute it might be, than to marry where I do not love.”

  Anaïs set her teacup down with an awkward clatter. “Poor Charlotte, you are thinking of your husband, are you not?” she murmured, feeling rather like a cur. “I collect you have not been long widowed?”

  Charlotte’s face softened with a mix of grief and what was obviously affection. “Pierre died last year,” she said softly, “but it seems like only yesterday. Some days—most days—I wake up, and for a moment, I expect him to be lying there beside me. Then the grief strikes me anew when he is not.”

  Anaïs reached out and touched her hand. “How inconsiderate I am,” she murmured. “Charlotte, I am so sorry. But you do not need to marry again. You have your uncle. He has not suggested you should leave him, has he?”

  But Charlotte did not look up. “I have thought of you, Anaïs, so much since that day we first met,” she said out of nowhere. “I have thought about how much we have in common. We both married for love, and against our family’s wishes, to men who were not wealthy—and we have neither of us regretted it. Have we?”

  Anaïs felt a shaft of remorse pierce her heart, but she shook her head. “No, never.”

  “And we both have dear daughters,” Charlotte continued. “We are young widows of similar background in a foreign land where we cannot always speak the language.”

  Yes, thought Anaïs guiltily, or so you believe.

  “But you have remarried,” Charlotte added. “Happily, it is to be hoped?”

  “I think so,” said Anaïs tentatively, searching her mind for yet another lie, and hating herself for it. “But Charlotte, my father is elderly, and wanted me to marry so that I would have someone to care for Jane and me when he is gone. You have your uncle. He obviously adores little Giselle.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said almost wistfully. “Not dotingly, no. But he frets constantly about her welfare—and wants her treated as if she is made of spun glass.”

  “And I sense that all this has you worried,” Anaïs went on. “Yes, I think that is not too strong a word, my dear. I do hate to see you distraught, however well you hide it. Do you want to tell me what is wrong?”

  “It is just that sometimes . . . sometimes I am so confused, Anaïs.” Her words fell to a whisper. “So confused, and I have no one here to talk to.”

  Which was exactly as Lezennes had planned it.

  They were all of them, it seemed, using Charlotte.

  Anaïs was beginning to feel filthy. Again she was tempted to confess all. But she had to remember the child, and Charlotte, she feared, was not strong enough to hear the truth. The expiation of Anaïs’s sins would have to wait.

  “But you do have someone to talk to, Charlotte,” she replied. “You have me. Now I am not, perhaps, the most intelligent creature on earth, but I am your friend and you can confide in me. And even a goose could see, frankly, that there is something about Lezennes that troubles you.”

  Charlotte swallowed hard, the muscles of her pale throat constricting until Anaïs wondered if she mightn’t choke on her words. “Well,” she finally whispered, “it is just that he is not my uncle.”

  “But he is your husband’s uncle, my dear,” said Anaïs soothingly, “and that is the very same thing according to canon law.”

  Charlotte’s gaze had turned faintly inward. “Well, I always believed him to be my husband’s uncle, though they were never close,” she said. “But the truth is, Pierre’s mother was just a servant on their family’s estate. Pierre’s parents were never married.”

  “Oh,” said Anaïs softly. “Well. But it still doesn’t matter. Lezennes is taking care of you on behalf of the family.”

  “It doesn’t matter?” Charlotte looked at her a little sharply. “I told myself that at first, too.”

  “What do you mean, at first?” Anaïs looked at her quizzically.

  “I thought Lezennes was Pierre’s uncle, but now he says—” She bit off her words, cast her gaze into the depths of the room, and shook her head. “Oh, God, why am I even speaking of this?”

  “Because it is troubling you.” Anaïs reached out to lightly touch her. “Charlotte, my dear, nothing grows lighter than a burden shared. What does he say now?”

  Charlotte gave a shuddering sigh, as if pushing away tears. “Lezennes says that his brother always denied being Pierre’s father,” she whispered. “That his true father was probably one of the many guests who frequented their estate. Or one of the other servants.”

  “How odd,” said Anaïs. “What did your husband believe?”

  She lifted her shoulders weakly. “Pierre just said that he was the old vicomte’s illegitimate grandson, and so the family had educated him and found him a place at court—a minor position as a clerk. But Pierre’s father died when he was three, so I suppose it is possible he was confused.”

  Anaïs very much doubted that. “And what does Lezennes say now?”

  “That Pierre’s mother claimed Lezennes’ brother was the father of her child, and so the family did the right thing,” Charlotte answered, still sounding mystified. “But Lezennes has gently suggested that no one ever really believed it. Indeed, he claims his elder brother was . . .” Her words halted, her face flaming.

  “Was what?” Anaïs prodded.

  “That he was unnatural!” Charlotte whispered, eyes widening. “Lezennes says his brother was never interested in women at all. That the old vicomte simply seized upon the bastard child as proof that his son was . . . was not what everyone whispered he was. And that the family thought it a kindness to let the rumor lie.”

  “Oh, dear. How very odd that sounds.” Anaïs furrowed her brow. “And Lezennes is still caring for you and Giselle, even though he does not believe he is . . . Oh, Charlotte! Are you afraid he will turn you out?”

  Charlotte shook her head vehemently. “No, no, he won’t,” she said
, staring at her hands. “He seems most protective toward Giselle. He says nothing need change unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  Charlotte lifted her gaze, and Anaïs saw the unshed tears that shimmered there. “Unless I wish to marry him,” she whispered. “He says it is the best way—the only way—to protect Giselle. No written record exists of who Pierre’s father was. He says there is absolutely no impediment within the Church to our marrying.”

  “Oh, my.”

  Anaïs fell silent for a long moment. It was just as DuPont had feared from the first. Lezennes had tried to have it both ways—and in the end, he had twisted matters around until poor Charlotte was in a devil’s dilemma. Charlotte was religious; she could never have violated the Church’s edict by marrying her husband’s uncle. But now her morality was being tested in another way altogether.

  Anaïs wondered if Lezennes had counted on that.

  “So the way things stand now,” she finally said, “you are making a home with a man who mightn’t be any relation at all?”

  “Yes!” Charlotte squeaked. “Oh, Anaïs, what am I to do? I cannot live with a man who is not my family! It seems morally reprehensible, even for a widow. As if I am living a lie. But I cannot—will not—marry a man whom I do not love as much as I loved Pierre.”

  “And have you told Lezennes this? That you do not love him?”

  “Yes, yes, of course I have! I cannot lie to him, either.” Words were spilling from Charlotte now. “Not when he has taken us in and given us a home. But he was so . . . vexed. Oh, Anaïs, I think he was almost angry with me. He turned red and sputtered, then stalked from the room.”

  The perfidy of it made Anaïs tremble with rage. Lezennes knew that marriage would make Charlotte his under the law. He would have the ultimate power—the power to control all that was hers, including Giselle. The power to beat her, most likely. Even the power to lock her away in an asylum if he wished.

  “The vicomte has no right, Charlotte, to be angry with you,” said Anaïs, her voice quiet but firm. “You must not believe he does.”

  “But he has asked nothing else of me,” she cried. “And I owe him so much. We had no one to turn to when Pierre died. Nothing of value to sell save a little jewelry, which is long gone. It was like a godsend when Lezennes showed up on my doorstep to offer us a home.”

  “And what did he say when he had regained his composure?”

  “That I should not choose hastily,” said Charlotte. “That he did not wish to replace Pierre, and that we simply needed more time alone, the three of us. A holiday, perhaps, he said. It does sound lovely—Giselle might like the seashore, perhaps—but I don’t know how to tell him . . .”

  “That you don’t think you will ever come to love him?” Anaïs supplied, lifted one eyebrow.

  “But I shan’t, Anaïs!” she cried. “I know it. He is so . . . strict sometimes with Giselle. He is so suspicious of everyone we meet. Sometimes I feel as if he watches my every move, and on the next breath I realize I am imagining it! How can I be angry with him when he has done nothing unkind? What an ungrateful wretch I am!”

  “No, Charlotte. You are not ungrateful in the least.”

  Anaïs reached out and took one of Charlotte’s hands in her own. But inwardly, she was a little shaken.

  One had to wonder if Lezennes’ frustration was not rising to the boiling point. Likely he had imagined Charlotte would be so glad for a roof over her head, she would set her moral quandaries aside. Certainly it is what Lezennes would have done.

  For a moment, Anaïs was tempted to reach inside her pocket and show Charlotte the letter from Sutherland. But that’s all it was—just a letter from Sutherland, not Charlotte’s parents. And there would be a great many difficult explanations that would have to be given along with that letter.

  Charlotte would distrust her instantly. Indeed, the whole operation could collapse, for who was to say Anaïs was any less evil than Lezennes? Nonetheless, she was increasingly certain that Charlotte was headed for disaster. If Charlotte tried to take Giselle and leave Lezennes, what might the man do to stop her?

  They must tread very carefully indeed.

  Anaïs forced herself to relax, then patted Charlotte’s hand. “My dear, perhaps you will come to love him,” she murmured. “Stranger things have happened. Do not fret so. And do not, I beg you, rush into anything. Give yourself time, and perhaps . . . well, perhaps you will begin to feel an affection for him.”

  “But how long? And how could I ever, Anaïs, when all I feel now is a—a near revulsion?” Charlotte stopped, all color draining as she slapped a tremulous hand over her mouth. “Oh, God! I should not have said such a thing. That was vile. I truly am ungrateful.”

  Anaïs carefully considered her next words. “You are neither vile nor ungrateful,” she answered. “You are a mother—which means you must tread carefully, Charlotte. You must always trust your instincts. You must. They will keep your child safe.”

  “Safe—?” she said sharply.

  Anaïs flashed a wan smile, and snatched Charlotte’s hand again. “I speak too strongly,” she said at once. “We have become histrionic, the both of us. We are imagining things that will not happen. Look, I know what we need. We need a glass of sherry instead of this tea.”

  “Oh, I would be so grateful!” Charlotte’s color began to return. “And you are right. I am imagining things, am I not?”

  “Yes, so what is called for here is a diversion.” Anaïs forced a wide smile, and leapt up to ring the bell. “And I have just the thing. I have cards.”

  “Cards?” Charlotte looked at her curiously. “Shall we play piquet, then?”

  “No,” said Anaïs. “Wait here—ah, Petit! There you are. Be so good as to clear the tea things away, and bring us some of Bernard’s strong sherry, please.”

  The footman bowed. “Certainly, madame.”

  “I shall be but a moment,” said Anaïs before dashing from the room and up the stairs.

  In her bedchamber she plucked Nonna Sofia’s ebony wood box from her night table and went back down the stairs to find Petit already pouring two glasses of wine. The tea tray having been cleared away, Anaïs set the box on the edge of the table and opened it. The cards had not recently been purified, she remembered a little guiltily. But in this case, did it really matter? She was not really going to read.

  No, she was going to tell another vile pack of lies. She was going to spin a mound of silly froth laced with just enough truth to keep Charlotte on her guard. It was beginning to feel as though kidnapping both Giselle and Charlotte would be easier than this—one lie spackled upon another like so much lime and horsehair plaster stuffed into a crack.

  “Oh, my!” Charlotte was leaning over the box. “What are you up to, Anaïs?”

  Anaïs forced a light laugh, and got on with it. “I am going to set your heart at ease, Charlotte,” she said. “I am going to tell you what the future holds. How do you like that?”

  Charlotte drew back, her eyes large. “Is that a tarot?” she asked. “Can you really use it?”

  “A tarocchi, yes,” said Anaïs, dumping the box into her hand. “That is what my great-grandmother called it.”

  “Heavens, I have heard of such things, but never seen one,” said Charlotte. “Those look almost ancient.”

  “Indeed, they are,” said Anaïs truthfully, setting the pack down. “And frightfully delicate. We never let light get to the cards unless we are reading. They have been kept in that ebony casket for two centuries, at least.”

  The pack had slid a little to one side, fanning across the table. Tentatively Charlotte touched the top card with the tip of one finger. “This one—le Re di Dischi—he looks more faded than the others,” she said. “Where ever did you get such a thing, anyway?”

  Anaïs looked directly into her eyes. “The Gift of i tarocchi runs in the blood of my family,” she said honestly. “But it usually skips a generation or two. My nonna was the last, and then the Gift—the skil
l and the cards, I mean—they passed to me.”

  At the word gift, Charlotte’s breath caught, but she quickly recovered. “Could your nonna really tell the future?”

  “She lived to be ninety-two, and I never knew her to be wrong,” said Anaïs, her heart sinking a little as she said it. There were, regrettably, one or two things she wished Nonna Sofia could have been wrong about.

  “But . . . but you cannot be serious.” Charlotte pressed one hand flat to her chest. “Can you?”

  “Watch, and you will see,” said Anaïs, delicately shuffling the pack. “Then you may decide the truth of i tarocchi for yourself.”

  She set it down in the middle of the table. “Now, take the cards up and hold them,” Anaïs instructed. “Let the cards feel your energy, Charlotte. Your emotions. Shuffle them if you wish. Then, when you feel ready, set the pack down, and cut them into three stacks with your left hand, dividing it any way you choose, but moving only to the left with each stack.”

  Charlotte cast her a chary glance. “Very well.”

  Anaïs watched as Charlotte did as she was bid, eventually dividing the pack into fairly even thirds across the table. “Excellent. Now restack them, in any way you choose.”

  When this was done, Anaïs laid the cards out, using her nonna’s favorite pattern, the crossed circle.

  “Now the tarot is truthful, Charlotte, but often capricious,” Anaïs murmured, snapping down the last card. “We cannot command it. But tell me if there anything you should particularly like to know, and I shall do my best to elicit an answer.”

  “N-no,” said Charlotte. “Just . . . my future, I suppose.” Then she gave a little laugh.

  Anaïs wished she were so lighthearted about it all. But suddenly it seemed less like a lark, and more like a burden. Rarely had she attempted to use the cards, even in jest, for it was something she instinctively resisted. Anaïs had seen enough strange things at her great-grandmother’s knee to respect the power of i tarocchi, if not her own abilities.

  Closing her eyes, Anaïs skimmed her hand palm-down around the circle, not quite touching them. It was a tradition—a way of asking for God’s guidance in interpreting the cards—but this time the pack seemed to radiate a shocking warmth.