François stood up, narrowing his eyes. “In that case, you won’t have a problem remembering your place. This is not a conversation I wish to repeat.”
Sketching a bow, Andrew replied, “Nor do I, sire. If you’ll excuse me, I will return to work.”
“By all means. Good day, monsieur.”
Alone again, the king slumped in his chair, sipping his wine. He sensed that he’d lost this battle of wits, but his opponent had prevailed so subtly that he couldn’t really call him on it.
Across the room, the door to the queen’s second antechamber was slightly ajar. On the other side Anne d’Heilly drew back and knit her brows thoughtfully. She was strongly attracted to Andrew Selkirk herself, but now it seemed advantageous to encourage his flirtation with Micheline.
If the girl ran off with a penniless artist, she would disgrace not only herself but her king as well, for he would have to explain to the jilted bridegroom. How furious François would be! Anne smiled and rubbed her delicate hands together. It really would be perfect. Such outrageous behavior would make Micheline’s permanent absence from the French court an absolute certainty.
Chapter Thirteen
March 10-11, 1533
Dressed all in pink and looking as sweet as a ripe strawberry, Anne d’Heilly sat at her writing table and stared out at the bank of pale gray clouds that rose above the white horizon. It was going to snow. Everyone said so. A huge storm was predicted—an oddity in France, but not an impossibility. The temperature was right, just below freezing, and there was an eerie stillness in the air outside, broken periodically by sudden gusts of wind. People were pointing most often to that thick layer of clouds and the lack of color in the sky. Those two signs meant snow, and lots of it.
Anne twisted her long necklace of pearls around a finger, thinking. A snowstorm could be used to bring Micheline Tevoulere and Andrew Selkirk together. The question was where—and how?
*
Thomas had gone riding with the king, so Aimée, missing the company of her friend, decided to test the waters and visit the antechamber where Micheline’s portrait was in progress.
“May I come in?” she inquired hesitantly from the doorway.
Sandhurst made a sweeping gesture of welcome with one hand, a paintbrush between his fingers. “Welcome, madame.”
He smiled. “No doubt my subject is starved for the sight of any face but mine.”
Clad in a gown of soft peach velvet parted in front to display a silken leaf-green petticoat, Micheline was looking especially lovely. There was not much sunlight this morning, yet her curls still gleamed softly, and she wore a contented smile that shone even in her eyes.
“How good it is to see you!” Micheline exclaimed, rising to embrace her friend. “I called on you day before yesterday, but Suzette told me that Ninon wasn’t well and that you were with her. Do tell me that my little angel is recovered!”
“Little hellion is more like it!” Aimée laughed, returning Micheline’s hug. How good it was to see her dear friend glowing, whatever the reason! “Ninon complained of a sore throat, and she sniffled for an hour or two, but I think she’s stronger than her father. After a nap she ate ravenously and now is jumping up and down in our chambers in anticipation of the snow!”
“I’m glad to hear it! And I’m so glad you’ve come. I have missed you, Aimée.”
“It’s mutual, cherie. I decided that it was time to discover whether all these hours you’ve spent away from me have been worthwhile. May I see the portrait?”
Micheline glanced up. “Andrew?”
“Why not?” he replied lightly.
Approaching the painter and his canvas, Aimée’s eyes traveled lightly over Andrew Selkirk and she almost sighed aloud. Even in fawn breeches and a simple paint-smudged white shirt, he possessed that rare combination of splendid looks and charisma. Aimée couldn’t help wondering what effect Andrew Selkirk must have on Micheline, whose heart was like a budding flower that longed to open.
“What do you think?” her friend was asking.
“Just bear in mind that it’s far from complete,” Andrew interjected.
Aimée turned her attention from the two of them to the unfinished portrait. It was unmistakably Micheline who looked out from the canvas, her exquisite iris-blue eyes filled with longing and sadness. The rest of the face was perfectly Micheline, too, from the proud tilt of her chin with its tiny cleft to the sensuous curve of her lower lip to her abbreviated nose and elegant cheekbones. Aimée was transfixed.
“Parbleu!” she whispered. “It’s extraordinary.”
“Capturing Micheline on canvas has been a tremendous challenge for me,” Andrew murmured as he studied the painting himself for the thousandth time. “Of course, it’s impossible—”
“Oh, no, m’sieur, you have had astonishing success!”
“Isn’t he talented?” Micheline chimed in. “Look at the background!” It consisted of muted trees that might have been those in the forest of Fontainebleau during springtime. A soft meadow receded from the figure of Micheline, leading to the trees, which were veiled in a thin mist. “Andrew used a technique called sfumato that he learned from a master who trained under Leonardo da Vinci.”
Sandhurst elaborated rather absently. “The purpose is to create a dreamlike atmosphere, only for the background. It’s thought that this allows the inmost nature of the true subject to be sensed more deeply. The contrast seems to work for Micheline… making her beauty and the radiance of her spirit that much more striking.”
“I agree, m’sieur.” Aimée nodded, staring up at him. Could Andrew Selkirk truly be in love with Micheline? This painting, that seemed to reach inside her friend’s soul, told her that the answer was yes. Aimée resolved to see the other portrait she’d heard that he had brought to Fontainebleau as a sample of his work, so that she might compare the two.
Meanwhile, Micheline had begun to blush, uncomfortable with all the emotion in the air. “How fortunate I am that Andrew was so well trained in Florence! He knows all manner of tricks to make me look more beautiful in this portrait than I could ever hope to be in life!”
Sandhurst merely turned his head and stared at her with brown eyes so compelling that her cheeks flamed. “That’s nonsense,” he said softly in English. “No amount of training or talent could begin to do you justice, Michelle.”
The currents of yearning in the room made Aimee wish she could disappear. “I should be going. My daughters will be looking for me.”
Just then a page appeared with a message for Andrew. He broke the seal, noting that it was Queen Eleanor’s, and scanned the words, his brow furrowing.
“The queen asks that Micheline and I meet her at her cottage in the woods. Apparently the king will be dining there as well, and they want to have a private meal with us to discuss our progress with the portrait.” He looked up. “Rather odd, don’t you think?”
“They may want you to paint the queen,” ventured Micheline.
“That is possible…” acknowledged Aimée with a puzzled frown.
“I don’t like the look of the sky. What if a snowstorm descends while we’re off at this cottage?” he said.
“I’ve been to the queen’s little retreat in the forest,” Aimée reassured him. “It’s nicer than most houses in France. Very cozy, with plenty of food and firewood. The king had it built deep in the woods, hoping that the queen would go there to meditate, leaving him alone with Anne, I suppose. At any rate, I can think of worse places to be snowbound, if it comes to that.”
“If the king’s there, I don’t suppose we’d be snowbound long,” added Micheline. “Besides, it sounds like a pleasant change to me. I’d enjoy the ride.”
“Well then, we’ll go.” Sandhurst paused, smiling ironically. “Not that we truly had a choice…”
*
By the time Andrew and Micheline set out for the queen’s cottage, the snow had already begun to fall, swirling about them in gentle gusts that seemed quite harmless.
They rode the same horses as before, both riders bundled up against the elements. Micheline wore a hooded cloak of green velvet that was lined and trimmed with fox, while Andrew had changed into breeches, doublet, and a furlined jerkin of toasty brown velvet, all embroidered with fine golden thread. As she rode behind him through the lacy curtain of snow, Micheline thought that he looked positively royal. He sat gracefully erect in the saddle, exuding an easy confidence.
For a moment, she wished that Andrew Selkirk were the Marquess of Sandhurst instead of an itinerant painter. It was impossible that her betrothed, for all his noble blood, could be a better man. Micheline sighed softly, her breath making a puff in the frigid air, and reminded herself that it was all just as well. Love was a trap. Even Bernard, whom she had trusted and loved since childhood, could not be faithful. It would be even more dangerous to give one’s heart to a man like Andrew, who could have any woman he chose.
As for the Marquess of Sandhurst, he must not want love any more than she did. They would become friends, she hoped, and build a life together rooted in mutual respect. She would have children, friends, books, and of course there would be wonderful horses. It would be a comfortable, secure life, which was just what she longed for.
“Are you all right?” Andrew called, turning in his saddle to look back at her. “Warm enough?”
“Oh—oh, yes!” Her heart skipped at the sight of his tender smile. Snowflakes glinted like diamonds on his hair.
“Good. You were looking terribly serious.”
“I was… just wondering what Queen Eleanor wants with us.”
“Well, we’ll find out soon enough. According to her directions, we are halfway there.”
A minute later Sandhurst chose a right fork in the path, which led them deeper into the forest. After another half hour Micheline caught sight of a stone building through the trees and thickening snowfall.
The cottage appeared charming, as Aimée had promised, and there was a small stable in back stocked with hay, but there was no smoke coming from the chimneys. Sandhurst saw to the horses first then joined Micheline where she waited in front of the cottage.
“I don’t think the queen has arrived yet,” she said, looking puzzled.
“I suggest we find out.” He knocked, but there was no response. “I suppose we should go inside and wait. Would that be ill-mannered?”
“I don’t think that Queen Eleanor would expect us to stand on ceremony in this weather. She’s a very nice person.”
“I’m surprised that servants weren’t sent ahead to start a fire and prepare things,” Andrew remarked. He threw open the heavy wooden door and stood back to allow Micheline to enter first.
“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it pretty!”
“Quite,” was his wry response.
What appeared from the outside to be little more than a well-tended peasant’s cottage was a different matter inside. The walls were paneled in carved oak, and the floor, richly tiled in a pattern of red, blue, and ivory, was strewn with fresh herbs and dried rose petals. The furnishings were elegant pieces of oiled walnut, and included blue-upholstered chairs, a dresser filled with dishes, a long table bracketed by benches, and, on the far side of the room, a luxurious carved bed hung with blue and gold velvet curtains. Its deep goosedown tick boasted a counterpane made of what appeared to be the pelts of white foxes.
There was plenty of dry wood stacked against the wall, and Sandhurst busied himself laying ample fires in both stone fireplaces. Micheline, meanwhile, was opening cupboard and dresser doors to discover all manner of fresh provisions. There were potatoes, apples, carrots, pomegranates, a large chunk of cured ham, eggs, a pitcher of sweet cream, a jar of sweetmeats and dried figs, several stoppered flasks of strong wine, and a dish of butter. In addition, Micheline found four newly killed pigeons hanging next to the back door.
“No one could starve to death here,” she remarked, “but I don’t see what the queen intends to serve us and the king for dinner.”
“Perhaps her servants are bringing it from the chateau. It’s obvious that they’ve been looking after this place. Those pigeons couldn’t be more than a day old.”
“Everything is quite fresh, especially in this temperature. The cream looks like it’s straight from the cow.” Micheline went over to the fire, removed her kid gloves, and held her hands out to the leaping flames. The cottage warmed quickly now that both fireplaces were ablaze. Out of the corner of her eye Micheline saw Andrew pause at the window and stare pensively out at the dense flurry of snowflakes. “Are you thinking that the queen may not be coming?”
“It has occurred to me,” Sandhurst replied with a dark smile. “If she has any sense, she’ll remain at the chateau, and I don’t doubt that the king has returned there himself after his ride. The snow’s so thick you can scarcely see the trees.”
Micheline went to stand beside him. Staring out at the swirls of white flakes that had already completely covered the leafy ground, she found herself acutely conscious of his nearness and the fact that they were alone together in this cottage. There was no one else nearby, nor was there even another chamber to escape to. A shiver of panicky excitement washed over her.
“What shall we do?” she wondered in a small voice.
“I wouldn’t subject even the horses to this storm, let alone you,” Sandhurst said flatly. “We’ve no choice but to stay here and hope that the weather clears.” He looked over at Micheline, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed, and tried to remember that he was supposed to be a gentleman. “In the meantime, I’m hungry. Let’s prepare something hot to eat.”
*
Two hours later, the snow was several inches deep, the queen had not arrived and seemingly never would, but the cottage was warm and fragrant. Andrew had plucked and cleaned the pigeons, then announced that he would cook them. Peeling potatoes, Micheline had watched dubiously as he shed his doublet and folded up his shirtsleeves. He’d proceeded to combine fresh herbs and bread crumbs, which he then mixed with egg and used to stuff the pigeons. These were placed in a pot with red wine, cloves, and ginger, plus a few scoops of snow, and now it all simmered invitingly over the fire beside Micheline’s pot of potatoes and carrots.
Andrew brought cups of wine for the two of them, and they sat side by side in the walnut chairs, their stocking feet sharing the same stool near the hearth.
“Where did you learn to cook?” she asked.
He gave her a mysterious smile. “My mother taught me.” Unwilling to lie to her, he realized nonetheless that she would accept this explanation, thinking that his beginnings must be humble. In truth, the Duchess of Aylesbury had been proper in every sense except for her penchant for dismissing the cook and taking over herself. As a little boy Andrew had helped her chop and mix things on rainy afternoons in Gloucestershire, and now those times were treasured memories. His mother had been happy and relaxed, enjoying the creation of a meal, and he had basked in her glow.
“You are very fortunate to have your mother. I can’t tell you how much I miss mine.”
“We are alike in that, Michelle. My mother died, too, five years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” Micheline gazed at him sadly and it seemed that she could see his soul in the depths of his eyes. She wanted to put out her hand and caress his arm, feel the warmth of his skin. All afternoon she had been beset by sudden waves of happiness. Never in her life had she known such pleasure as she felt in Andrew’s company, especially now that they were isolated from the rest of the world. Sipping her wine, Micheline found it astonishingly easy to shut out all the warning voices in her mind.
For his part, Sandhurst was making an effort to listen to his own conscience, but this situation sorely tried his powers of resistance. She sat within touching distance, guileless yet sensual, sipping her wine as if they had lived together for a lifetime. Firelight played over her hair, which spilled in long, loose curls over her shoulders but did not obscure the creamy curves of her breasts above the bodice of her go
wn. Farther down, green velvet tapered in to accentuate Micheline’s waist. Sandhurst’s eyes wandered to her trim ankles and slim feet while he imagined the rest.
She looked over with a dreamy smile. “This is nice, isn’t it? I’m rather glad the queen didn’t come. This cottage is a welcome change from the crowds and space of the chateau.”
With an effort he forced himself to remember the issues at hand. Suddenly he sighed harshly and said, “Perhaps I’m slow, but I still don’t understand why you are so determined to marry the Marquess of Sandhurst. Is there a reason why you don’t want to love your husband?”
Micheline blinked as if he’d offended her. “I don’t see why you had to bring that up now!”
“What better time?” he shot back, suddenly determined to erect barriers between them.
“I don’t believe there is any right time for questions such as yours, m’sieur!” Eyes flashing, she sat up straight in her chair. “Why should I tell you things that even my dearest friends do not demand to know?”
His own gaze softened. “I think you know the answer to that, Micheline.”
She felt like sobbing. There was something between her and Andrew Selkirk, but whatever it was, it had no future. For this one day she would have liked to enjoy their relationship for its own sake. Why did he insist on asking questions that she could not answer? It was impossible for her to tell anyone about Bernard’s infidelities; her heartache and humiliation were still too acute. Staring at the fire, Micheline felt an abrupt surge of anger. This man had no right to demand that she bare her soul to him, and she had no obligation to tell him the truth.
“D’accord,” Micheline said heatedly. “If you must know, the reason I cannot marry for love is because I cannot forget my dear husband Bernard. I shall love him through eternity, and thus it is impossible for me to give my heart to another man.”
Sandhurst’s brows flew up. “Really! Are you certain?”
Somehow, she managed to meet his intent gaze. “Absolutely.”
Lords of the Isles Page 41