Lion of Languedoc (8 page)

‘Won't the Comte have a surprise when he sees how grand you look?'

‘The Comte?' Marietta asked in alarm.

‘He's waiting for you downstairs. He told me to tell you to hurry because he's expecting the widow Sainte-Beuve at any minute, but I forgot in the excitement of dressing your hair…'

While Marietta tried to gather her scattered wits Céleste grabbed her hand and hurried her from the room. Where, Marietta thought desperately, was Léon? How could he be so heartless as to leave her alone to explain her uninvited presence to this Comte?

Celeste's slippered feet ran hastily along the gallery and down the stairs and Marietta caught a glimpse of a black-wigged figure standing broad-shouldered and straight-backed beneath them, facing the fire.

She took a deep steadying breath as she reached the bottom of the stairs and began the long walk, Céleste's hand no longer in hers, across the acres of floor towards the imposing figure at the fireplace. She was vaguely aware of a woman sitting at the casement window but of no one else. There was no sign of Léon. She was going to have to face the Comte's wrath alone.

Three feet behind him she stopped and cleared her throat. ‘I believe you wanted to see me, Monsieur le Comte.'

He turned, his mouth twitching with amusement.

For a moment Marietta was dumbfounded, then she felt weak with relief.

‘Léon! Oh Léon, I thought you were the Comte! Has he asked to see you too? Will you explain to him?'

‘There's no need to explain anything, Marietta.'

‘But there is!' At the expression on his face she faltered. He took her hand gently.

‘
I
am the Comte.'

She stared at him. He stood in the centre of the ornately filled room with the unmistakable stance of one who was master. He looked devastatingly handsome in a fashionable tunic of crimson velvet edged with silver braid. The black wig was his own hair, the glossy curls falling over a collar of fine
point de France
lace.

Her relief turned to anger. ‘ Then you could have told me earlier!'

‘I didn't find the need,' Léon said easily. ‘ Did you sleep well?'

‘Yes,' she snapped, the colour still high in her cheeks.

His face did not betray it but she knew he was laughing at her. Damnable man! There were times when she wished he had left her to her fate in the forest of Evray.

‘I see that Celeste's gown fits you perfectly.' Dark eyes swept approvingly over her from head to foot.

Marietta was just about to make a sharp retort when she heard the clattering of hooves and the rattle of an approaching carriage, and Léon strode swiftly away from her as if she no longer existed.

‘Our visitor,' the lady at the window said. She had been watching the heated exchange between Marietta and her son with interest. ‘We will make friends when she has gone. Céleste, perhaps you could take Marietta for something to eat while I greet Madame Sainte-Beuve?'

Disappointedly Céleste led Marietta away, not to summon a servant from the kitchen as her aunt had indicated, but upstairs to the gallery. From there she would be able to see the reunion clearly.

As Léon entered with his guest Marietta caught her breath. The word widow had not prepared her for a fragile vision in turquoise watered silk. Her face was a perfect oval, the skin flawless and as creamy as a magnolia petal, violet-blue eyes slumbrous beneath heavy, gold-tipped lashes. She was petite, the pale blonde hair that hung in clusters of ringlets scarcely skimming Léon's shoulders. A slim white hand rested securely on Léon's arm, and he was looking down at her with an expression Marietta had never been privileged to see.

‘Who is she?' she asked, dreading to hear the answer.

‘Elise. The widow Sainte-Beuve. The woman Léon is to marry.'

The blood drained from Marietta's face and to Céleste's horror she moved away so quickly that Léon's attention was caught. His eyes narrowed dangerously as he saw the fleeting green of her gown disappear behind a swiftly closing door. Then he was looking down at Elise again and smiling.

Céleste let out a sigh of relief. Incredible though it seemed, he had not noticed her at all.

Any doubts Marietta might have had about her feelings for Léon were resolved in that one bitter moment when he looked down at the angelic face of Elise Sainte-Beuve. He would never look at her like that, with a mixture of love and protectiveness and adoration. She felt a pain so intense that she had to grasp the solid wood of the bed-post for support.

There was no place for her at Chatonnay. Léon had been right in not wanting her to come. To have to endure seeing him with Elise would be a torment too unbearable to consider. Her mind made up, she felt calmer. She would leave the château and continue her journey to Venice.

The sound of movement floated upward from beneath her window. She crossed to it, seeing Léon help Elise into her carriage and then, as a coachman cracked a whip and the team of ebony-black horses began to move down the avenue of plane trees, watched unseen as Léon swung easily into Saracen's saddle, the plumes of his hat waving gently in the light breeze as he cantered beside his lady-love and out of sight.

Desolately Marietta turned away. Now was the time to go. But she couldn't take Céleste's precious green lawn with her—perhaps her aunt would give her something older and more serviceable, something the maid had no further use for. She fingered the fine material sadly. It would be hard to part with it.

‘Why on earth did you move away like that?' Céleste asked, bursting into the room. ‘Léon looked absolutely
furious
at being spied on.'

‘I wasn't spying on him,' Marietta protested indignantly. ‘It was you who wanted to watch. I didn't understand until it was too late.'

‘Well, when you did understand you should have had the sense to remain quiet. Léon is quite capable of giving me a beating, even though I
am
sixteen!'

Marietta had no intention of letting Céleste know that she had already experienced that aspect of Léon's character at first hand.

Instead she said: ‘ I'm leaving, Céleste. I want to see your aunt and ask her if there are any old clothes she can let me have, then I'll give you your gown back. It was very kind of you to lend it.' She walked purposefully out of the room and Céleste followed her.

‘Going? Going where?'

‘To Venice.'

‘But you can't, not without Cousin Léon's permission.'

‘I can do what I want. I don't have to ask your cousin's permission for anything.'

Céleste shook her head. She liked Marietta, but her new-found friend had some strange ideas.

‘Cousin Léon is the
Comte
,' she said breathlessly as she hurried after Marietta down the polished stairs. ‘
Everyone
has to ask his permission for everything when he is at home.'

‘
I
don't,' Marietta said, and seeing Céleste's aunt, went directly to her saying simply:

‘Thank you for your kindness and hospitality, madame, but I must be leaving. If there are any old clothes you could let me have so that I can return Céleste's gown, I would be most grateful.'

Jeannette looked thoughtfully at the straight-backed figure before her. Her words were calm enough, but there was a suspicious glitter of unshed tears in her eyes.

‘I'm sure I can find you some more clothes, my dear. I'm sorry we had to burn the ones you arrived in, but they weren't fit to be worn again.'

Marietta's cheeks reddened in shame and Jeannette turned to Céleste.

‘Would you tell Mathilde that Léon will not be in for most of today? He has gone to Lancerre.'

Reluctantly Céleste left on her errand. Really, it was too bad, she thought. Whenever things were beginning to get interesting she was sent out of the way!

Jeannette led Marietta out into the brilliant sunshine, saying when they could not be overheard: ‘There's no need to feel uncomfortable because of the state of your clothes when you arrived. My son told me what happened to you, and I understand.'

Marietta drew in her breath sharply. It had not occurred to her that the serene-faced lady who had treated her with such kindness was Léon's mother.

Jeannette led the way through a tangle of wild flowers to a garden seat half submerged in trailing ivy. She sat down weakly, and at the sight of Jeannette's pale face Marietta immediately forgot her own troubles.

‘Are you ill? Can I help you?'

Jeannette shook her head, motioning Marietta to sit beside her while she rallied her strength.

‘The slightest exertion leaves me as weak as a new-born babe,' she said after a few minutes, ‘ but there was nowhere in the château we could talk and not be overheard, and Léon was insistent that there should be no rumours regarding the circumstances in which he found you. The peasants of Chatonnay are as gullible as those anywhere else, I'm afraid.'

‘That is one of the reasons I want to leave. Léon … your son … the
Comte
,' Marietta floundered. After all they had been through together it seemed perfectly natural to her to use his Christian name, but that had been before she had known his station in life. When he had been a bloodied young man who laughed easily and angered easily; now he was an elegant stranger.

Jeannette patted her hand.

‘Léon is a perfectly acceptable form of address for you to use; at least when you are talking about him to me. And if you are leaving because you are frightened of the rumours that may start if you stay, then put such nonsense out of your head.'

‘No, madame. It isn't only that.'

A butterfly fluttered past on azure wings and against the cloudless sky the white stone towers of the château gleamed brilliantly in the hot sun.

‘Then what is it? There is no need for you to leave Chatonnay. I would like you to stay.'

Marietta, too, would have liked to stay. But not if it meant seeing Léon constantly at the side of the beautiful widow Sainte-Beuve. She bit her lip, saying so quietly that Jeannette could hardly hear her, ‘There is no place for me at Chatonnay. There will be a new mistress here soon, and I doubt if she would welcome my presence as you so kindly do.'

Jeannette looked at the carefully averted face, and at the nervous twisting of her fingers. So that was how the land lay. She felt a wave of compassion for the red-haired girl at her side. Léon was a notorious breaker of hearts, but so far the ladies had all been sophisticates of the court. He had no right to toy with the affections of a girl whose position was as vulnerable as Marietta's. Why, the child had no home, no family, no friends. Nothing.

‘My son tells me you are a lacemaker.'

Marietta nodded, her head lifting slightly. That at least no one could take from her.

‘And that you know the secret of making
point de Venise?
'

‘Yes. My grandmother was a Venetian, and one of the most skilled of that city's lacemakers.'

Jeannette had found her son's careless reference as to Marietta's abilities far more interesting than he had. Indeed, she had stayed awake most of the night pondering on the possibilities that it might hold.

‘I never go to court,' she continued, ‘mainly because my presence is never requested, and if it were, the effort would kill me. There are so many thousands of courtiers at Versailles that most of them are hard put to it to find anywhere to lay their heads at night. But my friend, le Duc de Malbré, keeps me in touch with the latest gossip and fashions and I know that
point de Venise
lace is the rage.'

‘That is because it is the finest lace in the world,' Marietta said proudly.

‘And I also know that our own country's lacemakers are trying desperately hard to imitate it.'

‘And failing,' Marietta said, a smile returning to her face. It was a pretty face, guileless and generous. Jeannette was liking Marietta Riccardi more and more with every passing minute. She had seen the concern in the girl's eyes when she had sunk weakly on to the seat; it had been a genuine concern. Marietta Riccardi would make a good friend. And a good wife.

She banished the thought as soon as it entered her head. Léon was to marry Elise and Elise was as sweet-tempered as she was sweet-looking. It was stupid of her still to entertain doubts as to whether such a fragile and helpless girl could make her swashbuckling son a suitable wife.

‘I have also heard that the King's Comptroller, Colbert, is trying to prevent its importation, and that the finest names in the land smuggle it in, hiding it under their cloaks. Le Duc tells me that Colbert desperately wants to start production of
point de Venise
in France and put an end to the smuggling. He estimates that losing the lace trade to Venice is costing the country something in the region of three million
livres
a year. Your work must have been much in demand.'

‘Not in Evray,' Marietta said bitterly. ‘There was no one in Evray in need of lace.'

‘But in Paris?'

‘In Paris we were sought after by such people as Madame de Montespan herself.'

‘Who no doubt wanted you to work solely for her? I doubt if Madame de Montespan would like sharing such a source of supply.'

Marietta's smile widened. ‘ Indeed she did not. We were hard put to it to keep up with her demands.'

Jeannette nodded thoughtfully. ‘Did you ever consider teaching others to make
point de Venise
, and so enlarge your business?'

‘My grandmother would have died first. She always said that the making of
point de Venise
was a Venetian art and should remain so.'

Jeannette nodded. She had suspected as much.

‘I would like you to do something for me. I would like you to walk through the garden. The kitchen garden is to the right, beyond that barrier of wild roses. And then I would like you to take a careful look at the château, and when you have done that ask Armand for a horse and take a ride through the village and surrounding countryside. When you have done all that we will continue our talk.'