Beloved (21 page)

“Do you wish me to help you undress, Madame
?
”

“No, thank you.”

Christina waited patiently until Agnes left the room. Then she went to the mirror and removed the
fichu
from her shoulders, leaning into the glass to better see the bruises along her collarbone. They were still very noticeable. She knew Maryse had seen them and vaguely wondered what she thought.

She smiled. She liked Maryse and wondered if they would see each other again. She would very much like to have a friend, another married woman to share her thoughts with, to spend time with while her husband was occupied with his work. She knew she’d no longer see much of her unmarried friends. They were busy with the social diversions that would bring them together with suitable young men so they, too, could be married.

Christina sat down on the little chair facing the mirror. She stared at her reflection with open curiosity. What was wrong with the person she saw there? She was pretty—she’d been told that from the time she was small. And she had always thought herself a good person, at least she’d always tried to be kind and considerate. Why had she been forced out of her father’s house? Why had he bartered her away like just another bolt of silk? If she must be separated from Richard, she would have wished to stay at home and care for her father.

Tears filled her eyes.
Where is Richard? Why did he leave?
She looked at her reflection again, realizing Guy would know she’d been crying.

She got up and hurriedly poured some water into the basin, dipping a cloth into it and pressing the cool liquid against her eyes. She recovered quickly and began to unfasten her dress. But as her fingers fumbled with the tiny hooks, she remembered Guy was coming. She felt a chill and immediately reclosed the panel.

She stood frozen in the moment. Very soon she would have to face him. And when he came, would tonight be a repetition of their last encounter? How could she dare to hope it might be otherwise?

She looked down at the front of her dress. Well, she thought, if he insisted on forcing himself on her again, he would have to rip the clothes from her body. Though she knew her strength was no match for his, she was determined she would not willingly submit to such brutal behavior.

Her resolve faltered when she heard the soft knock at her bedroom door.

Guy heard the tremor in her voice as she bade him enter. She turned, obviously frightened, and knocked her brush from the dressing table. Guy smiled slightly and retrieved it from the carpet. As he took another step toward her, she retreated.

He saw the fear in her eyes. Nevertheless, he went to her dressing table and carefully set the brush beside its matching comb. Christina said nothing. Slowly he turned to her and took her by the shoulders, careful to be gentle with her. Still, she flinched at his touch and he frowned.

“My poor little bride, have I really frightened you so badly?” He touched the bruises on her cheek, carefully, then kissed her there, his lips barely brushing her skin. His hand moved down to the other, darker mark on her collarbone but she pulled away from him.

Guy smiled sadly. His fingers ran down her arms and clasped her hands.

“Will you ever be able to forgive me for what happened between us?”

Christina just looked at him.

Suddenly, he let her go and turned away, his hands on his hips. Almost instantly he turned back.

“Damnit, Christina, you just don’t understand how much I love you!” He glared at her. Why was she being so unreasonable?

For a moment her form seemed to shimmer and reflect another person, with lighter hair, a different dress, a different room. Guy remembered the day he’d unburdened himself to the mayor’s daughter. He had loved her and trusted her, but when he’d finally explained about the pain and how much it hurt, she hadn’t given him the love and compassion he’d expected. Horrified by what he’d told her, she fled the room. He never saw her again.

And now Christina, his wife, the woman who had the capacity for the love and tenderness he longed for—hadn’t he seen that for himself?—stood staring at him as if he were mad. He wanted to tell her everything and to bathe himself in the warmth and comfort he knew she could offer.

Did he dare? No, this wasn’t the time. Later when she came to love him…later when she would understand…

Mastering his emotions, he took her hands. “Please believe me when I tell you I’m sorry for the way I misused you.”

Christina couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This man,who’d hurt her so badly, now sounded for all the world sincerely apologetic. She opened her mouth to speak, to say something—anything.

Guy put his arm around her shoulder. “Come now, Sweetheart. We can be very good together, I know we can. But you must give me a chance.”

She looked up at him helplessly, having no idea how to respond.

Guy smiled, just a little, just enough to be encouraging. He touched a finger gently to her chin and turned her head so that he could kiss her lightly on both cheeks.

“Sleep well, my dear.”

And then he was gone. Christina stood staring at the door as it closed behind him. Was it true? Was truly he sorry about what had happened? Was it possible she might somehow find some measure of contentment in their misbegotten alliance?

The next night, after supper, Guy handed Christina an envelope with her name written across the front in a delicate flowing script. It had already been opened.

“Go on, read it.” He smiled benignly.

Christina unfolded the ivory vellum. It was from Maryse, thanking her and inviting her to call on Monday afternoon. Again she looked at Guy. Why had he opened her letter? What did he want her to do?

“I assume you wish to accept?”

“Yes. Do you have any objections?” she asked carefully.

“Oh, no. On the contrary, my dear, I had hoped that you and Madame Chabannier might become friends. I badly want her husband to invest in my business venture and I will certainly appreciate anything you can do to encourage him.”

And so Christina accepted Maryse’s invitation, not to further her husband’s business ambitions, but because she very badly wanted a friend.

La Vie, sans toi, ma Bien Aimée? Comment puis-je supporter?

—Carvajel

Life without you, my Heart? Is it possible?

Juillet 1753

Arles

Christina lay her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath of air heavily laden with all the smells of the city. When she opened her eyes again she saw the clear blue sky overhead, with a few gulls circling high above the red-tiled rooftops and was overwhelmed by a giddy sensation of freedom. It was the first time she’d left Guy’s house on her own since they were married. For an instant she wished she could direct her driver to turn left and take her across the Rhône and through the countryside to Beauvu, back to Richard. But knowing he was no longer there dampened her desire to escape the city.

The driver turned right instead, taking her past the ancient theater to the street that circled the huge arena. As the carriage followed the curve of structure, she looked up at tier after tier of stone arches, admiring the ambitious Romans who’d built the imposing edifice nearly eighteen hundred years before, when Arles itself had been an important provincial capital.

On the far side of the arena, the carriage turned into a narrow street and pulled up before an impressive set of wooden doors with heavy brass handles in the shape of elephant heads. The footman pulled the bell. And as a servant swung the doors wide, he helped Christina from the carriage.

She entered a courtyard filled with riotous color. Everywhere she looked flowers bloomed in large pots, often escaping their containers and cascading over the sides and onto the ground. There seemed to be no formality in the arrangement of the different types of plants, but the overall effect was one of uninhibited celebration. Maryse came out to greet her.

“Oh, I’m so happy you’ve come,” she said, taking Christina by the arm.

“I’m pleased you invited me, Madame
.
”

“Come now, I hope we’ll become great friends. You must call me Maryse.”

“Then you must call me Christina,” she answered, feeling that her initial response to this woman had been the right one.

Maryse’s home was elegant, a haven of light and soft pastel colors. The entry hall was floored with white marble and the paneling painted a pale shade of green. Maryse led her upstairs and into the salon overlooking the courtyard.

“It’s beautiful!” Christina exclaimed. The room was decorated exclusively in shades of pink, blue and ivory. On the walls were murals depicting Oriental dancers striking graceful poses amid flocks of exotically plumed birds. The carpet beneath her feet echoed the graceful curves of the birds’ feathers.

“I’m glad you like it. I had the designs copied from a book given to me by my mother.”

Christina remembered what Maryse had said to Estelle Layglon. “Is it true? Is your grandfather really a king?”

Maryse laughed. “It’s true. But the King of Siam has hundreds of wives and my mother was one of many, many daughters. She was sent to the court at Versailles, the gift of one king to another.”

Maryse saw the expression on Christina’s face. “Oh, she wasn’t unhappy to be there—my mother had quite a sense of adventure. But you know how it is at court, the liaisons move and shift like eddies in a river. And there is no room for children in that milieu, so I ended up here in Arles, with my father’s cousin, Madame Dijol.”

Christina didn’t know what to say. To abandon a young girl in a brothel…and yet Maryse’s story reminded her of something, something from the past that she couldn’t quite remember.

Maryse noticed the far away expression on Christina’s face and mistook it for deep concern.

“Oh, please,” said Maryse, placing her hand on Christina’s arm in an effort to reassure her. “You mustn’t think I’ve had a difficult life. I was very fortunate and I was always treated very well. Can you imagine how awful it would have been to remain at court? Believe me, I’m very happy with my life.”

Christina studied her new friend’s face. She did seem happy.

“And I hope you’ve forgiven me for being so rude to Madame Layglon. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“On the contrary,” Christina insisted, “I think you did a wonderful job, one that needed doing. But…”

“Yes?”

Christina felt her cheeks color. “I suppose what you said did surprise me.”

Maryse smiled. Christina was so young. What must she be now? All of seventeen?

“I apologize. It’s been some time since anyone has felt it necessary to mention my background. It’s common enough knowledge in this town, but no one seems bothered by it these days. Afterall, I married Christien five years ago. Those who considered his choice of brides a scandal seem to have found other things to gossip about.”

A servant arrived a few minutes later, bearing a tray with a plate of exquisite little cakes and a pot of tea, which he set down on the table in front of the women.

“So, you know my history. Would you like to tell me about yourself?” Maryse asked as she poured the steaming green liquid into delicate china cups painted all over with pink roses.

Christina looked at the roses. Before she could become swept away by memories, she launched into her own story. She told Maryse of her years in the convent and her singing and her travels, but though she tried to avoid it, Richard’s name crept into her story over and over again. And though she never mentioned how she’d loved him, beyond saying that she thought they would marry, how could she have left him out of her story?

Maryse stopped her now and then to ask a question or share an observation, but for the most part she let Christina talk. She noticed how beautiful the girl was as she spoke, becoming more animated and lovely as her cares seemed to slip away. Maryse was not at all surprised that Richard was so deeply in love with her. And she also noticed how his name became a part of the narrative more and more often as Christina went on. It was obvious she’d loved him. Maryse suspected that, perhaps, she still did.

“I suppose you know that my brother was murdered, but I can assure you that Richard wasn’t responsible.” Christina looked at Maryse. Suddenly, it seemed very important that someone else believe in Richard’s innocence.

“Of course not. He loved your brother.”

“What?”

Maryse quickly made to cover her slip of the tongue. “Why from everything you’ve told me, it was obvious, Christina.”

“Oh, yes. Well, he left after Marco died. I was very unhappy and so my father persuaded me to marry Guy.”

“And are you happy now, my dear?” Maryse asked gently.

“It was difficult in the beginning, but I think perhaps I’m partly to blame.” Christina smiled sadly. “I could have behaved better. It was just so soon after losing Marco and then when Richard left…”

Maryse said nothing and gave Christina a chance to recover. She could see the girl was on the verge of tears.

“Please forgive me.” Christina reached for her handkerchief. “I’m beginning to think that growing up means accepting that the dreams we had as children will never come true. I’m afraid I’m still having a little difficulty with that.” She smiled apologetically.

“Dear girl,” Maryse said, taking Christina’s hand. “I’m afraid that growing up is difficult for all of us, but I promise you, it does get easier.”

There was a knock at the doors and a lovely young woman appeared with Maryse’s children. The three-year-old boy, Albert, was handsome and playful and the little girl, Janine, almost a year old, was quite pleased with herself as she walked to greet her mother, hanging on tightly to her nursemaid’s fingers. Christina was delighted with the children and spent the next hour playing with them. Then Maryse showed her through the rest of the house.

When Christina left that day, she knew she’d found a friend.

It was nearly two weeks before the letter reached Richard.

He was lodging at the
Taverno Corso
in Bonifacio, at the extreme southern tip of the island of Corsica. The inn was was located on the narrow street that faced the water. It was clean, the food tolerable. Though he was chafing at the inactivity of his exile, Richard had not yet decided to open up the cottage his family owned on the hill above the town’s small harbor. He chose instead to stay along the waterfront, to be at the center of the activity of the family business, and also so he would be there when Christina arrived.