Daughters of the Storm (24 page)

‘Is it anything to do with Monsieur d'Épinon?' asked Sophie, who had decided to talk directly.

Héloïse drew back. ‘You forget I am recently married,' she said, and the dishonesty of her reply sounded hollow even in her ears. She slapped her hand against her chest. ‘Only recently married.'

‘Héloïse, do me the goodness to treat me as a grown woman,' said Sophie bluntly. ‘And as your loving, concerned friend. We've talked about this before and I know how things are arranged over here. You are not some housewife determined to protect her reputation.'

‘There you are wrong,' replied Héloïse. ‘I
am
concerned to protect my reputation.'

Sophie sighed.

‘All right,' she said, a little wounded by Héloïse's refusal to trust in her. ‘But I know you better than you think.'

At that precise moment, de Choissy entered the room. Booted and spurred, he stood for a moment surveying the charming picture that the two girls made with their morning gowns billowing around them.

‘If I were you, my dear,' he greeted his wife, ‘I would not wear that colour against the blue of the upholstery if you plan to sit for any length in this room.'

Héloïse stiffened, the familiar dislike tightening her throat. She fought it back and rose to her feet. ‘Hervé,' she said nervously. ‘I did not expect you yet. Is all well?'

De Choissy tossed his gloves on to the chair and went over to a tray laid with a decanter and glasses.

‘No, all is
not
well,' he replied. He poured himself a glass and drank it straight off. ‘I am afraid La Tesse has been subjected to the same treatment as La Joyeuse. In fact,' he said softly between clenched teeth, ‘the
canaille
have looted the entire house.'

Something like pain crossed his features.

‘Thus it is, madame wife, that I shall not be taking you on a wedding tour to visit La Tesse.'

‘How dreadful,' cried Sophie impulsively, genuinely grieved for the fate of what was reputedly a beautiful house. ‘Was anyone hurt?'

‘Only the concierge and his son. Apparently my good Cabouchon chose to fight rather than give in to the demands of the rabble. He might have saved himself the trouble.'

De Choissy drained a second glass and replaced it carefully on the tray.

‘I'm sorry,' said Héloïse, and touched his arm in a rare gesture. Her own happiness had made her more sensitive to others' pain, even de Choissy's.

De Choissy allowed her hand to rest on his sleeve and made no move to disengage himself. Sophie bent her head; she had an uncomfortable feeling that she was prying into something she should not.

‘No doubt you will mourn the fact that you have less to be mistress over,' said de Choissy. ‘In fact, if this continues, marrying me will prove a very poor bargain.'

‘Good God,' cried Héloïse sharply. ‘What matters is your safety.'

She moved away from her husband and sat down beside Sophie.

‘Really, my dear, I never knew you cared so much,' said de Choissy with an exaggerated drawl, and Sophie wondered why he was so angry. Then she understood. De Choissy was not angry with them but with himself.

‘Don't be stupid, monsieur.' Héloïse picked up her embroidery and jabbed the needle into the canvas.

Strangely enough, de Choissy appeared to approve of her flash of spirit, for he nodded, and then said, in a considerably modified tone, ‘Perhaps I am, Héloïse, but you must bear with me, for I cared for La Tesse far more than most things and it gives me acute pain to contemplate its destruction.'

That night he was more violent with Héloïse than he had ever been, and the involuntary cry that burst from her lips at one point only served to invite him to more savage delight.

‘Cry, will you, my pretty wife?' he said, grinding his hips deep into her soft flesh.

His fingers probed without mercy. Héloïse bit her lip and stared over his white shoulders into the dark beyond, trying to summon up the shade of Louis to help her endure it. But no comfort came. De Choissy forced open her legs and pressed himself into her. Tears sprang into her eyes.

‘I have your body, my sweet,' de Choissy breathed into her ear. ‘Now I am searching for your soul, the part of you that you hide from me, my dear, but I know is there.'

In reply, she clenched her teeth and turned her head as far away from his as she could, and waited for him to finish.

He lay, one hand clasped lightly over her breast, his white, finely made body relaxed and heavy and his hair tumbling over his neck. When Héloïse rose from the bed, reached for a candle and shone it down into the face of her husband and tormentor, she perceived for the first time that he was extraordinarily handsome.

‘Monsieur,' she said, finally goaded beyond her endurance, ‘I insist that in future you treat me with more respect. I must, it seems, and I will, God help me, accommodate your needs. That is quite clear. But I do have some say in the matter. I will not be treated like an animal. Do I make my meaning plain?'

De Choissy propped himself up on one elbow. Into his eyes shot a gleam of comprehension.

‘Rebellion, it would seem, is quite the fashion,' he commented. ‘Now what, I wonder, has stirred up this particular one? I do not, in general, take kindly to my wives dictating to me.'

Héloïse held the candle higher. To her surprise, she was furiously angry.

‘I do not care, monsieur, what your poor unfortunate first wife accepted at your hands. I am telling you that
I
am not prepared to accept this treatment.'

With a swift movement, de Choissy was on his knees. One hand wrested the candle from Héloïse. He set it down on the table. With the other he forced her up against the side of the bed.

‘Release me, if you please,' said Héloïse icily. ‘You have taken your pleasure for tonight.'

His hand bore down on hers and forced her on to the floor. He muttered something.

‘You remind me very much of her.'

‘Who?' Héloïse was frozen with loathing.

De Choissy reached out and touched her breast. ‘My mother.'

Even in the flickering, uncertain candlelight, she could see that he was incandescent with anger and with a strange emotion that she did not recognize. Was it pride? Or was it, she wondered with a sinking heart, some sort of love?

‘Take your hands off me, monsieur,' she said again and looked him straight in the eye. Under her gaze, his own wavered and his grip slackened.

‘Quite a fishwife, I see,' he said, and lay back on the pillows.

Héloïse pressed home her advantage.

‘You may come to my chamber whenever you wish,' she said, ‘but I insist that you treat me with respect and gentleness. In return, I will perform whatever duties you require of me.'

He was silent, but he pulled her slowly towards him. She resisted, but it was useless. He was far too strong. His hands circled her throat and pressed hard against her windpipe. Héloïse struggled for breath, and when he saw that he was in danger of really hurting her, he recovered himself and relaxed his hold.

She choked and struggled to get her breath back.

‘Since you plead so eloquently, Héloïse, I will concede to your request. Remember, it is a bargain. If I ever discover that you have reneged on your side – that you have taken a lover without first providing me with an heir – I cannot answer for what I will do.'

His long fingers teased at her throat in a parody of tenderness.

‘Do you hear me?'

So saying, he released her. Héloïse staggered back.

She stood for a moment rubbing at her throat. ‘Why do you do this?' she burst out, goaded beyond endurance. ‘What have I ever done to deserve this treatment?'

‘Why do you ask, madame wife? Do you care?'

‘No.'

He smiled bitterly. ‘Do you know, I almost mind, Héloïse.'

‘How can I care?'

‘How can you indeed? Nevertheless, there is something about you that makes me wish that you did. How little we give each other, Madame la Comtesse. Sometimes I think it could be different. How would you feel if I told you I loved you? Or is the name that I gave you, and the chattels that come with it, sufficient for your needs?'

‘Enough,' said Héloïse, sickened. ‘We have said enough.'

De Choissy became very still.

‘So be it,' he said. ‘But I will have no cuckoos in my nest, Héloïse.'

She looked away, hating his naked body and cynical face.

‘As you wish,' she said at last. ‘I have made my point.'

De Choissy smiled, and for a moment she thought she was looking at a madman. But when he spoke it was with his usual urbanity.

‘Come,' he said, ‘we are beginning to understand one another at last. To celebrate our new understanding, I shall spend the night.'

*

When she awoke the next morning, Héloïse was alone, and only the thrown back quilt on the other side of the bed indicated that de Choissy had occupied the bed. Marie-Victoire was bending over her, holding a tray. The smell of chocolate was pungent and it made her feel nauseous.

‘No, thank you,' she said, waving it away.

Surprised, Marie-Victoire set down the tray on the table and went to draw back the drapes at the window. At her touch, the light flooded over the room, which looked reassuringly normal. Héloïse raised herself on the pillows.

‘I think I shall lie for a bit longer,' she said faintly, and she looked so pale that Marie-Victoire hastened to wring out a cloth in lavender Cologne which she pressed on to Héloïse's temples. Héloïse submitted gratefully and lay watching while Marie-Victoire began to set the room in order. Her tasks done, Marie-Victoire came to stand by the bed. Héloïse pushed back the compress.

‘Do you wish to talk to me?' she asked.

Marie-Victoire hesitated. ‘If you please, madame.'

‘Then, do.'

‘If you please,' she said, ‘I wish to leave your service.'

Héloïse pulled herself upright with an effort.

‘Leave?' she said blankly.

‘Yes, madame.'

If she hadn't felt so ill, Héloïse might have been angry. As it was, Marie-Victoire had succeeded in taking her breath away.

‘You are serious?'

‘I am, madame, very serious.'

‘Yes, of course,' said Héloïse . ‘This is very sudden. Are you sure it is wise? You see, I feel responsible for your welfare... Marie would never... what I mean is that I loved your mother and I have grown to love you. In fact, I rely on you to help me...'

Héloïse gestured at the luxurious room with its well-appointed fittings and beautiful furniture.

Marie-Victoire's heart sank. This interview would be harder than she thought.

‘It's what I wish to do, madame.'
Do not give in
, she told herself.
You have a life. It is yours, not hers.

Héloïse recovered herself. Sickness was making her weak and... well... what? ‘I see,' she said. ‘Then, I must ask you.' Tactfully, she felt her way. ‘Have you sufficient funds? Or a protector?'

‘Both, madame.'

Marie-Victoire did not wish to elaborate further. Nor was she going to furnish Héloïse with the details of the transactions that had taken place between Pierre and herself and a querulous old man who was renting out a dank room in the Rue des Sts Pères.

‘I shall be sorry to leave you, madame,' she said, and the enormity of what she was abandoning struck her anew. The house. Her position. Her life with Héloïse. I must think of Pierre, she said to herself. I must keep thinking of Pierre.

‘And I so very, very sorry to lose you,' said Héloïse. It was true and so great was her sadness that she was silenced.

She swung her legs over the bed, and tried to stand upright but her wretched legs weren't working properly. Marie-Victoire hurried over to help her. Héloïse swayed and pressed her hand to her mouth.

‘I can't think what is wrong with me,' she said.

Marie-Victoire's country upbringing asserted itself, and she asked a few pertinent questions, to which Héloïse gave the answers.

‘Madame is
enceinte,'
pronounced Marie-Victoire with a smile.

‘You think I am pregnant?'

Héloïse thought back over the past few weeks. De Choissy... Louis... please, please let it be... his.

Panic shook her, dousing her initial flare of excitement.

No... not Louis'.

More calculations. Oh God, the child would be Louis'.

‘Marie-Victoire. You can't think of leaving me now,' she exclaimed.

Marie-Victoire helped Héloïse into her
robe de chambre
and her expression was troubled.

‘I am sorry, madame,' she said quietly. ‘But my plans are made.'

I need help as I never have before, thought Héloïse, and the one person who can help is going. I can't tell Sophie. It would not be right to burden her with such a secret. How selfish of Marie-Victoire. No,no, it isn't. She has the right. But I am not sure that I understand. I will miss her.

I am free... Marie-Victoire poured out water to wash her mistress. I have broken away. There is nothing to stop Pierre and me now. But I hope I go with madame's good will.

Even so, her pleasure was tinged with sadness that she had not anticipated. Regret, too. And, of course, a natural apprehension.

Héloïse pressed a handkerchief hard against her lips and retched. Marie-Victoire watched anxiously. After a moment, Héloïse looked up and held out her hand to Marie-Victoire.

‘Of course you must go, if you wish,' she said. ‘But you must promise to come back and tell me how you fare. I will see to it that you are rewarded for your service with me.'

Relief was clearly evident in the girl's face and Héloïse was glad that she had made the effort.

‘The extraordinary thing is,' Héloïse confided to Sophie later, ‘Marie-Victoire seemed so much older and wiser than either of us.'