Louisa Rawlings (25 page)

“An honest answer,” said Père François.

“But you know your way in the main pavilion, of course.”

“Of course, Beau-Père. Wait. Do you still have the same
appartement
that you did when I was young? Or have you taken Uncle Simon’s rooms?”

“Simon’s. It is the master suite, after all.”

She could see by the look in Hubert’s eyes that he hoped to trap her. She blessed Lucien’s rigorous drills, seeing the plan of Grismoulins clear before her. She led them to the
cabinet
with a hesitancy that she thought would seem natural: twice she pretended to have momentary doubts, and once she truly took a wrong turn. But all the while she exclaimed in delight at the discovery of another and yet another familiar old painting. “And didn’t this used to hang in the
galerie
?” she’d ask, and watched Hubert’s eyes widen in surprise.

He wasn’t ready to concede to her yet, that was clear. When they reached the
cabinet
he tried a new trick. He pointed to his desk, a large rosewood piece with gilt-bronze mounts and tulipwood inlays. “Do you remember when I got this? That hot summer after Grandmère Chalotais died, and we had such trouble bringing it from her little house?”

She was almost beginning to enjoy playing with him. “Yes,” she said, and saw the gleam in his eyes. He was sure he had her. She gave him a moment to enjoy his triumph, and then she pounced. “Oh, no. It couldn’t have been the summer, could it? Are you sure it wasn’t winter? I distinctly remember playing truant from church to look at her new grave in the snow.” She smiled wistfully at Père François, her eyes filling with tears. “I was so afraid she’d be cold.” Dear Lucien. She’d thought it a useless anecdote when he’d told it.

“My child.” Père François’s voice trembled. “I remember how you wept. Monsieur le Comte, I beg you. Embrace this girl. Welcome your sweet prodigal home.”

“Are you so easily swayed?” sneered Hubert. “When a fortune hangs in the balance?”

“Will you deny her then, despite all the proofs, merely
because
of the money?”

Hubert’s eyes narrowed. “Have you forgotten your loyalties? I’ll decide when—and if!—this creature is to be believed.”

Père François’s glance wavered. The voluptuary had clearly won out over the man of God. “Of course, monsieur.”

He’s not a wolf
, thought Topaze. How could Véronique have thought him so? He was more like a pampered cat, vain and self-indulgent, willing to rub up against its master for a crumb or two.

The door crashed open. A heavyset young man stood on the threshold. He was large-boned and strong-looking, but carried his bulk clumsily, as though nature had given him the body but not the skill to live with it. His features were coarse: a prominent brow, a fleshy mouth that drooped at one corner, and ears that were too large. His wig was askew and he was coatless. His face was dirty; it was clear he’d been crying and had wiped at his cheeks with grimy hands. He seemed surprised to find people in the room, and started to back away.

“What do you want?” growled Hubert.

The young man hesitated, then pointed to a display of arms on the wall. “I came for a p-p-pistol.”

Hubert looked down at his clenched fists. “What sin did I commit, that God has punished me so?” He looked up at the young man. “The pistols don’t work. They’re very old. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“I know. I j-j-just want to scare the b-b-boys.”

“What boys?”

“I was in the pasture. Just playing with a c-c-caterpillar. They chased me. And threw s-s-sticks.”

“Damn it! I’ll see they’re soundly thrashed.” Hubert’s voice thundered in anger. The young man cringed. “Who are they?”

“I don’t know. Just b-b-boys. But a lot of them.”

Hubert’s voice softened. “And they threw sticks? Is that why you’re crying?” The young man shook his head. “Why, then?” demanded Hubert.

The young man shuffled into the room, rolling back his sleeves as he came. His arms were red with deep scratches and bristling with hedge thorns. “They ch-ch-chased me into the hedges.”

Topaze gasped. “Oh, you poor thing! Let me.” She hurried to him and began to remove the sharp spines as carefully as she could. He winced once or twice, but kept silent. At last she was finished. One large thorn had gone deep into his forearm; the spot still bled. She was surprised when Hubert handed her a clean handkerchief to bind it. She knotted it carefully, patted it once, and smiled up at the young man. “Good day,
Moucheron
.”

Léonard looked at her, his jaw going slack.

“Won’t you greet me?” she said.

He stared at her, then at Hubert. Then he began to cry.

Hubert scowled. “Go to your room, Léonard. I’ll speak to you later.”

“B-b-bu—”

“Do as you’re told!” Cowed, Léonard turned about and ran from the room.

“You see? Léonard recognized her.” Père François’s voice was defensive.

Hubert still seemed distracted by his son’s intrusion. “I told you, I’m not convinced. Are you, Bonnefous?”

“Not until I speak to some of the villagers. They might be helping her. Or what of the servants? She knows so much of Grismoulins. For money, a servant could be disloyal.”

Hubert frowned. “Pachot was angry and vengeful when he left. I wonder…”

“No,” said Père François. “Don’t you understand? This
is
Véronique. I’d swear to it. Pachot wouldn’t have known about that snowy day in the graveyard.”

“Simon’s son,” Bonnefous said. “Is there a possibility that he’s in on it?”

“I’ve thought of it.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“A friend in Paris said he’d seen him in Guadeloupe.”

Véronique would be curious, thought Topaze. “Are you speaking of Cousin Lucien?” she asked.

Hubert ignored her. “Perhaps it would be wise to send someone to Guadeloupe, to see what Simon’s bastard has been doing of late.”

“What about the girl?” asked Bonnefous. “Have you more questions?”

Hubert was still looking toward the door where Léonard had vanished. Topaze saw a strange expression on his face: anger, shame…but an odd tenderness as well. “My heart isn’t in it today,” he said. “She can tell lies as easily tomorrow as today. Keep her in her room until you get a few more answers from the villagers.”

“Shall I send someone to that family in Bordeaux?”

“I wouldn’t bother. I think we’d find that part of her story to be true. She’s too clever to lie about it.” Hubert sighed, his glance straying once again to the door. “Does it never end? Ah, well. I’m going for a ride.” He nodded curtly and strode away.

By late afternoon, the boredom of sitting in her little room with nothing to do began to wear on Topaze. At length she gave in to her lethargy, curled up on the bed, and fell asleep. She was awakened by a burning sensation on her hand. Startled, she opened her eyes. A woman was leaning over her, holding a dripping candle. Beyond her, the room was already dim. She felt dazed, confused. “What do you want? What time is it? Where’s Madame Revin?” She rubbed at the hot tallow on her hand and sat up.

The candle began to shake in the woman’s hand. “Oh, merciful heaven. It’s true. It’s true.”

Topaze stared. The woman was thin and frail, her eyes deep-set in a gaunt face. Her skin was ashen, with dark rings under her eyes. Her yellow hair was lank, and streaked with gray. But there was something familiar about her features. “
Fleur?
” Topaze whispered. “Is that you, Mother?”

“They wouldn’t tell me anything. But I heard them. Talking behind my back.” The candle was now quivering violently.

Topaze smiled gently. “Put down the candle, Little Cabbage, before you burn us both.”

Adelaïde de Chalotais set the candle on the chair. “Naughty child. Naughty Véronique.” With a sob, she clutched Topaze in her arms.

Topaze began to laugh and cry at the same time, wrenched by emotions that weren’t feigned. She’d become Véronique, and this poor suffering creature was her mother. She wept real tears, leaning on the woman’s bosom—all the pent-up tears and griefs and disappointments of her short lifetime. They wept for a long time, clinging to each other and rocking back and forth on the bed.

At last Adelaïde sighed, sniffled, and held Topaze away from her. “I’ve shed enough tears these past six years. No more. Let me look at you, my sweet child.” Her eyes searched Topaze’s face. “How pretty you’ve become.”

“No, Fleur, let me look at
you
. Ah,
Dieu
, you’re so thin and pale. What is it?”

The smile was filled with resignation. “Oh, the doctors say I’ll recover with a little rest. But I expect I’m dying.”

“Oh no! They said you’ve been ill. Was it because of me?” For the first time Topaze cursed the real Véronique. How could she have left?

“I
was
sick after you went away. It was so difficult—the agony of the search, the false rumors… I thought I wouldn’t survive.” At Topaze’s gasp of dismay, Fleur put a comforting hand on her arm. “No. I recovered. After a year or two, I was almost myself again. But the past few months have brought me low. I find it hard to eat, to sleep. Yet I’m always weary. Alas, I’m fading so fast…”

“We’ll make you well again, Fleur. You’ll see. A pox on Beau-Père! Why didn’t he let me see you at once?”

She snorted. “Have you met our Monsieur Bonnefous?”

“Yes.”

“He has a large gold Louis where his heart should be, I think. And blinders made up of francs and sous. I’m sure he had a hand in keeping us apart. I never told you, when you were a child, that you’re to come into a large inheritance.”

“Père François told me today. I never knew.”

“Did he also tell you it’s to be yours on your twentieth birthday?”

Topaze feigned astonishment. “But that’s less than two months away!”

“Exactly. Hubert, with Bonnefous’s help, has been trying to persuade me to declare you dead.
Before
the first of June. Perhaps they planned to keep us separated until then.”

“But why?”

“By the terms of the Marcigny trust, you must be here with me on your birthday. If that day should come and go, with no one to receive the money, it would become a part of my estate, and subject to my control and the terms of my will. But if you were declared dead
before
that day, God forgive us,”—she crossed herself with fervor—“the money would go at once to the nearest living relative.”

“That’s
you
, Mother. How can Beau-Père get it, then?”

Fleur smiled sadly. “What can I do? I’m a helpless woman. He already controls my income.”

“Oh, Fleur. Can you forgive me for making you suffer so?” She embraced the woman again, filled with an odd sense of guilt. “I should have been here to give you strength.”

Fleur stroked her blond hair. “Your hair has grown darker. I still have a locket with a curl. From when you were ten. Do you remember when I cut it?”

“No.”

“Ah, well. That’s a mother’s particular joy.” She fell silent. “You did run off with the Galande boy, didn’t you?” she asked at last.

“I’m so ashamed, Fleur. I was young and stupid.” Perhaps she could get through this without lying. For Hubert and
Le Loup
she’d be prepared to make up all sorts of lurid tales about herself and the seducing Narcisse Galande. But she couldn’t bring herself to hurt this woman more than she’d already been hurt.

“Was there a child?”

“No. But…” How could she put it, without lying? “But I was sick for a long time, you understand. And a woman, an actress, took care of me. We never spoke afterwards of my illness, but…”

“Say no more, my pet. I do understand. I forgive you, and I thank God you’ve come back to me. We’ll never speak of it again.”

“But Beau-Père might. I should tell you, Fleur. He thinks…” She pulled Adelaïde’s hand to her lips and kissed it fervently. “Oh, Mother! He thinks I’m an impostor.”

“Now,
damn
him. Is he so greedy for the money? Would he have denied you, and never told me of it? The villain. He goes behind my back all the time now.”

“Why do you let him?”

“My dear
Poupée
. When you were little, I suppose you saw me with a child’s eyes. But now you must see me as I am.” She sighed. “Have you met his…woman?”

“His whore, you mean. How can you bear it?”

“He was always very difficult. But when he became master of Grismoulins, he became a tyrant. I’m not very strong. I never was. Not even when my health was good.” She smiled, an unexpected smile that creased the corners of her eyes. “But I’ll have the last laugh.”

“Oh, Fleur. How happy I am to be home.”

Adelaïde laughed. “You’re the medicine I needed. Do you remember the day, coming back from les Herbiers in the carriage, that we gorged ourselves on marzipan until we were sick, and never told anyone?”

Topaze giggled. Lucien, of course, wouldn’t have known that story. “Yes,” she lied. “And I remember you used to sing to me, when there was thunder outside and I was afraid.”
That
, Lucien had known.

“And I’d call you a silly goose, and you’d waddle about and quack, and we’d laugh.”