Louisa Rawlings (27 page)

She was tired as well. She nodded in return, excused herself, and went to find Madame Revin to take her to her new rooms.

In the passageway, Bonnefous caught up with her. He smiled. His eyes were dark with hostility. “Good night, mademoiselle. I want you to know that—no matter what the others may say—I think you’re a charlatan. I don’t intend to rest until I’ve proved it.”

Chapter Fifteen

“Oh, Poucette, do you think Fleur will like my hair this way?”

“How can you doubt it?” Madame Revin held up an engraving on which were pictured a dozen or so ladies with well-coiffed heads. “Didn’t she send to Paris for the very latest modes?” She peered closely at the paper, squinting her eyes. “I’ve copied it exact, I’m sure of it.
Tête de Mouton
, Sheep’s Head. That’s what they call it.” She smiled at Topaze. “And very charming, Mademoiselle Véronique.”

Topaze pushed at the heap of curls on the floor, stirring them about with the toe of her pink satin mule. “All that hair.” She stared at herself in the mirror of her dressing table. Her blond hair was cut in short layers that curled close to her head and ended just below the nape. She bit her lip in consternation. What would Lucien think? She sighed. Ah, well. What did it matter? Adriane de Ronceray had hair as black as the night, Martin had said.

“You mustn’t fret. It looks charming. And before the ball tonight, I’ll use a
fer à friser
to curl it just right. Oh, Mademoiselle Véronique, aren’t you excited?”

Topaze stood up and danced about her boudoir. It was a beautiful May morning. The open casements welcomed a soft breeze. It stirred the pink damask draperies at the windows, the embroidered gauze of the skirted dressing table. Sunbeams bounced off the delicately carved wall paneling—scrolls, palmettes, sprays of flowers and foliage—finished in a pale blue lacquer. The sun even penetrated the deepest recesses of her snug bed, set into the wall and draped with the same salmon pink damask as the windows. “Oh, Poucette,” she laughed, “I’m so excited I don’t think I’ll last until tonight! My very own ball!” She sat again at her mirror and admired her morning
négligée
. She’d never get used to such extravagance.

As she had for nearly a month now, she’d been wakened this morning by two cheerful maids bearing a cup of chocolate in a little porcelain cup with a gold cover. They’d put her into a fresh chemise, washed her face and arms for her, laced her into a silk corset with ruffles and bows down the front, tied on a taffeta petticoat and a little silk cape. And all this just to run in to wish Fleur a good morning, and then to loll about in her boudoir until she was ready to be dressed for the day!

But today was a special day. Today was the day of the ball that Adelaïde had promised her. Considering Véronique’s loss of “reputation”, there had been few refusals to the invitation. But perhaps, among the aristocracy, morality was given only lip service. Lucien had been right. She’d found more godliness in the Givet household and among the shopkeepers and street people of Bordeaux than she’d seen here.

“Will you visit your mother this morning, mademoiselle?”

“No. She sent word by her maid that she wanted to rest and save her strength for the ball tonight.” Unwilling to voice her fears, Topaze toyed with the rock-crystal-and-gold dressing table set before her, sniffing at a flask of scent, opening and closing the little box that held her breath-sweetening pastilles. “Tell me, Poucette,” she said at last, “do you think her health is improving?”

“To be honest, mademoiselle, no. But she’s no worse, either. And before you came, it seemed that every day she grew worse and worse. You’re her mainstay, and that’s the truth.”

“Poor dear. It breaks my heart. She must have been so lonely.”

Madame Revin snorted. “Well, Monsieur Hubert isn’t a good companion, if I may speak bold. He was always running off to Paris when he could. Even before he brought back that butcher’s daughter. The little painted bitch. It was different when Madame Adelaïde had the companionship of…” Madame Revin frowned and put her lips together. She knelt and gathered the cut tresses from the floor. “Well, no matter.”

“Of whom? Aunt Marie-Madeleine?”

“We’re not to speak of her. She’s dead, they say. What difference now?”

“And Cousin Lucien? Oh, please, Poucette! Will no one tell me what happened?”

Madame Revin rose slowly and stared at her. Her eyes shone with tears. “I still remember the look in his eye,” she whispered. “With the blood streaming from his cheek…” She turned away. “No. No. It’s long forgotten. And we’re not to speak of it.”

“Oh, Lucien.” Topaze buried her face in her hands and began to sob. There had not been a moment all these weeks when she hadn’t thought of him. Counted the days until their meeting. She’d wandered the rooms of his birthplace, pictured him standing by a window, laughing by the light of a fire, lying by her side in her bed. Now she saw him through Madame Revin’s recollection, when the scar had been fresh, and the pain in his eyes had been new.

“Heavens! You weep so for your Cousin Lucien?”

By all the Saints, what must Madame Revin think of her? Sobbing over a man that
Véronique
scarcely knew! A stupid mistake. She wiped at her cheeks and forced a laugh. “How foolish I am. It was only when you talked of the blood. I knew he must have been hurt, and it seemed sad. That’s all. I liked Cousin Lucien. How was he hurt?”

“No. Monsieur Hubert will be in a rage. Don’t ask me again, I beg of you. Now, shall I send a maid to help you dress?”

“Yes. I’ll die of impatience before tonight. A nice long walk should help the time to fly.”

“Am I welcome?”

Topaze groaned inwardly. Père François stood at the door to her boudoir, a beatific smile on his face. “Of course, Reverend Father,” she said. “You’re always welcome.” She turned to Madame Revin and rolled up her eyes. “In half an hour’s time,” she murmured.

“Of course.” Madame Revin was at pains to hide the smirk on her round face. She bobbed politely and left the room.

Topaze removed a silk scarf from a large brocaded armchair and patted the plump seat. “Sit, Reverend Father.” She prayed he’d had his fill of her confessions after all these weeks; she’d almost run out of tales to tell. Madame Benoîte’s lovers, the thievery in the streets of Bordeaux, her wicked pleasure in sleeping with a man. She never named him; she begged the good Father to forgive her that bit of reticence. It amused her that while she described the perfectly moral state of lying with her own husband, Père François chose to interpret it as carnal knowledge of Narcisse Galande—and who knew who else! Each new confession filled him with a religious fervor, as though it were his piety alone that was guiding her to a pure life.

And the praying! In her room, in the Chalotais chapel, on the lawn at sunrise. Her poor knees! While Père François prayed for the cleansing of her imperfect soul, she prayed silently, in genuine devotion and entreaty to God. She prayed for the Givets, for Madame de Chalotais’s recovery. And for Lucien.

Père François beamed. “I’ll only stay a few moments. I came to tell you how pleased I am that you’ve seen the error of your ways. If you can conduct yourself with the same dignity and honor that you’ve shown since your return, I know that God will smile upon you.”

She bowed her head. “I have you to thank, Père François.”

He held up his hand. “No, no. I only do what I can.” He struggled to preserve a mask of humility, but failed.

They chatted for a few more minutes. Topaze found herself almost glad that he’d given up his parish to bring his pious hypocrisy to this household. Perhaps at least his parishioners were better served by his substitute. At last he bade her good morning and went his way. To the kitchens, she knew. While pretending to bless the house, and all in it, he never failed to fill up a plate with sweet cakes and pastries.

Grismoulins was bustling when she emerged from her room dressed for the outdoors. The château, she knew, had fifty rooms, not counting the servants’ wing. She guessed that every one of them would be in use today; many of the guests would stay for a day or two. And there were musicians to house, and the army of extra servants who had been hired from the villages. And all for her! It still seemed like a dream, when she thought of it. She was well fed, warm, comfortable. Waited on hand and foot. And her dressing room was filled with beautiful clothes. And now this ball. The excitement of the day was almost more than she could bear. She skipped down the great staircase, dodging several maids carrying armloads of bedding. She could hear Madame Revin giving instructions to set up card tables in the drawing room. And the smells that wafted up from the busy kitchens were redolent of roasting meats and spices.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs to admire the reception hall, its many console tables decorated with fresh flowers. She heard a dry laugh behind her. “I wonder if you’re worth the expense.” She turned. Hubert was on the step above her.

“Can you afford it, Beau-père?”

“Probably not.” He shrugged. “But don’t expect a large dowry if you marry.”

“Do you resent my coming back?”

“I resent the inconvenience of it. Change is always vexing.” She had to admire his frankness. They would never like each other, that was clear. But he’d accepted her. Somewhat grudgingly, but accepted. Not like that villain Bonnefous, who took every opportunity to remind her of his mistrust. He was just waiting to hear from Guadeloupe, he said; he was sure his agent would bring back word of her collusion with Lucien. Thanks be to God they’d thought to cover their tracks so carefully!

Hubert nodded and passed her, going toward the stables. Topaze continued down to the kitchens, to say good day to the cooks and thank them in advance for their efforts. She greeted them all by name: Véronique the young aristocrat was no less warm and sociable than Topaze the street urchin had been. She laughed and joked with them, then went out into the sunshine, munching on a sweet that the pastry cook had given her.

Léonard was in the park behind the château, playing with his dog. Topaze waved to him. “Good morning, Léonard.” She’d stopped calling him Little Gnat after that first day. She’d decided that Véronique had outgrown the use of the cruel nickname. He looked at her, then turned his head away. She persisted. “Will you dance with me at the ball tonight, Léonard?” This time, when he looked at her, he smiled shyly. Then, flustered, he picked up a twig and flung it, following his dog as the animal raced to retrieve the stick.

Topaze sighed. He was so difficult, so distant. Lucien hadn’t indicated that Léonard was so uncommunicative. Perhaps with the loss of Véronique’s companionship—then Lucien’s—he’d withdrawn into his shell more and more. He’d had no one to rely on. Adelaïde had been sick and grieving over Véronique, and Hubert clearly frightened his son. Of course, Hubert tried to frighten everyone. Justine was completely intimidated. And Adelaïde asserted herself only occasionally. Even Père François’s compliance with Hubert’s wishes was made up of equal parts of fear and self-interest. Topaze had to laugh to herself.
She
might have been afraid of him as well; but after Lucien’s contained fury and cold stares, Hubert was mild by comparison!

She made her way through the park and on into the farms and pastures. It was a glorious day. The small, hedge-bound fields were thick with peasants tilling crops of fodder and flax. The hedges themselves were in flower: fragrant white blossoms that scented the morning air. It was beautiful country; how Lucien must have suffered to lose it.

She turned back toward the château, moving in the direction of the mill. She’d visited it frequently this last week. It would be a month, come Wednesday, that she’d been at Grismoulins. And though she hadn’t needed to signal Lucien, she’d come to the mill anyway. There was always the chance (and the hope, and the longing) that he wanted to see
her
.

The mill stood on the top of a high and windswept hill—an odd-looking round tower with a peaked roof—like a giant stone hobgoblin surveying his magic kingdom. Shreds of canvas still clung to the arms of the mill—skeletal fishbones silhouetted against the blue sky. The grass around the mill was lush, but flattened by the wind, a smooth green curve that ended abruptly where the land fell away. A rock slide very long ago, Topaze guessed, for the face of the cliff had small bushes growing out of it, and the sharp boulders, some forty or fifty feet below, were green with mosses and interspersed with wildflowers.

She felt a pang of disappointment: There was no signaling handkerchief. Ah, well. Perhaps tomorrow. She climbed another hill, then down again; Grismoulins was now in sight. She thought for a brief moment that she’d go down to the grotto, then changed her mind. She’d been gone for quite some time; they might be looking for her. She’d examined the grotto on several occasions, without finding the entrance to the secret passage; Lucien had neglected to tell her of it. She hadn’t yet searched in the library for the other entrance. It might seem too suspicious, all that prying about. Besides, she still had a lingering feeling that she was being watched, particularly by that skeptic Bonnefous. She returned to the château, had a brief visit with Nanine, who was too frail to attend the ball, and went to her room to nap until it was time to dress for her party.

True to her word, Madame Revin appeared with her curling iron to dress Topaze’s hair. After each short strand had been well curled, her hair was finished with pomatum. While she covered her face with her hands, a maid dusted her coiffure with fine white flour. The maids tied on several petticoats and her panniers, then laced her into her gown. Topaze had never seen such a dress in all her life. Heavy white satin, with a voluminous skirt, a tight waist, full sleeves that ended at the elbows with snug blue bows. At the top of the low-cut bodice was another blue ribbon bow, and a spray of pink silk roses trailed across one shoulder and strayed onto the gown’s bodice, seeming to call attention to the creamy perfection of Topaze’s bosom. More silk flowers were pinned into her hair; a garland of silk ruching about her slim neck was her only “jewel”.