Louisa Rawlings (29 page)

“She used to,” said Carle-André.

“But not very well,” said Topaze quickly.

“Do you still remember how?” Adelaïde had moved into the circle and was smiling at her.

“Not really. I…”

“Oh, please try,” said Carle-André. “Léonard, get up and give your sister your seat.”

“Have pity. I’m quite fuddled from the wine. I fear I’ll shame myself.”

“But if you used to play, it should come back to you.” Bonnefous smiled like a cat about to trap its prey.

Damnation! There was nothing for it but to make the effort. There had been a harpsichord at one of the theatres where Maman had played. Topaze remembered picking out a tune or two. She sat before the instrument, manipulated the various stops, ran her fingers across the sets of keys. The wine had truly done its work. She felt as though she were floating, oblivious to the smiling faces around her.
I remember
, she thought dreamily.
I remember.
She began to play.

“
‘
Alma del core
’
—‘
Fairest Adored’,” said Denis de Rocher. “A fitting song.”

Topaze dropped her hands into her lap and stared at them. “I’ve forgotten the rest.”

Adelaïde clapped softly. “Delightful. And after all these years. I don’t remember your learning
that
song.”

Topaze shivered. “I don’t either. But I must have. My hands seemed to know it.” There’d been an actor, that summer of the harpsichord. Perhaps he’d taught her more than she remembered. Or perhaps she’d learned when she was younger, and simply forgotten. She shook off her unease. It was certainly nothing to be concerned about. She smiled at Léonard. “Did you like that?”

He grunted and nodded, his eyes lighting up.

“Then keep your promise, and dance with me.” She stood up and held out her hands.

“N-n-no,” he stammered.

“I’ll dance with you.” Carle-André took her elbow.

“No. Don’t be selfish. I want to dance with the sweetest brother a girl could ever have.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed Léonard softly on the cheek.

His child’s eyes opened wide. He gasped in horror and fled the room.

Chapter Sixteen

It took three days for Grismoulins to return to normal, for the last guest to leave. A large box of sweetmeats from Carle-André had arrived for Topaze the very next morning, quickly followed by an even larger box from Denis. Adelaïde had taken to her bed, drained from the effort that had gone into the ball.

But at last there came a morning that was too sweet to be ignored. The gardens were bright with tulips and jonquils, the apple trees were in blossom, the birds sang an anthem to spring. Topaze had a picnic set out in a little bower in the midst of all this beauty, then persuaded Adelaïde to join her.

“You see, Fleur? Isn’t this better than sitting in that gloomy old château?” She laughed and waved her hand in the direction of the golden stones of Grismoulins. “Though it really isn’t. I never tire of its charm.”

“It will belong to your children someday, my pet. Unless Léonard marries and has children of his own, which would seem unlikely.”

“Mine?” She frowned. She felt more and more bound to this place, to these people, whether she wanted to or not. Lucien’s simple scheme had become a complex web, trapping her, holding her fast.

Adelaïde patted her hand. “Don’t fret, my sweet. You’ll have money to live on, long before Grismoulins comes to you. Your birthday inheritance is only a small part of it. I think I can tell you of it now. Since you left us, my family line has died out. There
was
a
distant cousin, but now…” She spread her hands. “You’re the last Marcigny. But there are Marcigny holdings—lands and villages—which are entailed. They
must
go to you and your descendants. I have no control over that. Nor has Hubert. You can see, now, why your stepfather wasn’t happy to have you come home.”

“Is it such a great fortune?”

“Yes. It provides me with a very comfortable income. But there’s more. I myself have a large personal trust—a financial investment—from the Marcigny. I should guess about half a million livres. And when my lawyer visits me in June…”

“
Your
lawyer? Not Monsieur Bonnefous?”

Adelaïde smiled and put a silencing finger to her lips. “Hubert doesn’t know it, but I’ve had my own solicitor for years. From Poitiers. He visits me every year. Hubert thinks he’s only the widower of a childhood friend of mine. I’ll have him change my will again, so that when I die you’ll get the half-million livres.”

Ave Maria, and by summer she’d be gone. A “suicide”.

“No, you mustn’t. I’ll have the birthday inheritance. Don’t change your will. Let Beau-père have the money.”

“Hubert?” Adelaïde laughed scornfully. “He’s been living off my income from that trust for years. I never intended for him to have the principal, though he won’t know it until I’m gone. He
thinks
I’ve willed it to him. It’s what keeps him civil to me. He’s quite greedy, you see.”

“Then who will have it? Léonard?”

“No.” Adelaïde paused. “Your cousin Lucien,” she said at last.

She gasped. “
Lucien?
Then he
is
alive, as Monsieur Bonnefous says.”

“As far as we know. In Guadeloupe. I had instructed my solicitor to seek him out upon my death, to give him the inheritance.”

“But why Lucien?”

“I’ve always felt he didn’t deserve what happened. And I knew that as soon as I was dead, Hubert would have you declared dead as well, which would terminate the entail and leave him a wealthy man. I thought Lucien should get
something
.”

“Oh, Fleur. What did happen to him? To them? No one will speak to me of it.”

Adelaïde smoothed a curl from Topaze’s forehead. “Yes, my precious. You should know. Hubert doesn’t like the story told. Sometimes I wonder if
he
was responsible for the tragedy.”

“Tragedy?” Topaze’s heart was filled with dread.

“To begin, I must tell you things that Marie-Madeleine told me, as a dear friend, in confidence. Not even Lucien knew as a child. But, of course, when the scandal came, the whole region learned of it. The Chalotais are an old family in the Vendée region. There was never much money, and they lost whatever lands they had long ago. The Renaudot family—Marie-Madeleine’s family—were Huguenots, and untitled.”

“Protestants? I thought the Huguenots were converted or driven out of France fifty years ago.” And hadn’t Lucien been taught by the Jesuits? It was bewildering.

Adelaïde laughed. “My dear, you’re too young to know that money speaks in a loud voice. The poorest Huguenots converted—or were persecuted—when old King Louis revoked the Edict of Nantes. The bourgeoisie emigrated. But the rich merchants, with their connections in all the cities of the continent, Geneva, Frankfurt, Amsterdam…” She shrugged. “Well, Catholic men of business found it convenient to swallow their objections. Bernard Renaudot was a very influential financier in Paris. And devoted to his only daughter, Marie- Madeleine. Your Uncle Simon wooed her and won her. Perhaps it was a love match at first. I don’t know. But it was certainly to Simon’s advantage. Bernard Renaudot bought Grismoulins—it was then in ruins—restored it and gave it, with all its lands and income, to Simon as part of Marie-Madeleine’s dowry. To please the old man, Simon agreed that the marriage should be performed in the Protestant rites. It was done in secret, to preserve the Chalotais position in the Vendée. But Simon swore to teach his children of their Protestant heritage. And then Renaudot died.”

“And then Lucien was born?”

“Not at once. There were several children, all of whom died as infants. Simon began to feel that God was punishing him for straying from the True Faith. And, God forgive him, he was ashamed of his wife. For the first time, he had money to buy a hotel in Paris, travel in society, go to Versailles. But his wife, for all she was now the Comtesse de Chalotais, couldn’t be received at court, of course. Because she was born a commoner. By the time Lucien was born, all these disappointments had cooled Simon’s ardor for his wife. They lived here together as virtual strangers.”

“And was all that happening when we lived here? When I was a child? And never saw or heard a word?”

“But why should you?
I
didn’t know. Not at first, until Marie-Madeleine told me. Lucien didn’t know. Simon had reneged on his promises to Renaudot: Marie-Madeleine wasn’t allowed to practice her faith, and the boy was raised as a Catholic.”

“How monstrous! To deny the wishes of the man who had given him everything. Had he no shame?”

Adelaïde laughed bitterly. “The Chalotais men have no shame when it comes to money.”

“But what happened to them? Lucien and Marie-Madeleine?”

“The year after you left, someone denounced the marriage.”

“Denounced?”

“The Huguenot rites are against the laws of France. Didn’t you know that? Because of the Protestant ceremony, Simon and Marie-Madeleine were accused of concubinage, and forced to separate. Lucien was declared illegitimate, and incapable of inheriting the estate.”

Topaze drew a sharp breath. Poor Lucien! “Who could have revealed it?”

Adelaïde sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve suspected it was Hubert. He was always jealous of his brother. But I don’t know. At any rate, Simon might have persuaded Marie-Madeleine to embrace the True Faith. He would have been free then to remarry her. At the very least, even if she’d resisted conversion, Simon could have legally adopted Lucien and made him his heir. But he was afraid of losing Grismoulins. And Père François was whispering ‘
heresy!’
in his ear.”

“That hypocrite. Then what did Simon do?”

“He formally repudiated his marriage and his wife. And his son.”

Topaze began to weep, tears of pain and horror streaming down her cheeks. “All to keep an estate that was—by all the rules of decency and fairness—
Lucien’s
. Oh God.” She wondered he had not gone mad with bitterness and despair.

“In order to escape the galleys or prison, Lucien and his mother were obliged to leave France quickly. But Marie-Madeleine wasn’t well. The strain of her ordeal had sapped her strength. The day they left”—Adelaide closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, her face twisted in grief—“Lucien tried once again to appeal to his father. He fell on his knees, begged him. Not for himself, but for his mother. He wept and humbled himself, swearing that he’d go willingly to the galleys, if only his father would embrace Marie-Madeleine again. It was pitiful. I wept as well that day, to see a proud man brought so low. And by his own father.”

“And Simon was unmoved? What did he answer his son?”

“He said nothing. He lifted his whip and slashed it across Lucien’s face.”

Topaze covered her eyes with her hands. “Sweet Virgin,” she whispered, “I can’t bear this.”

“My dear, my dear.” Adelaïde stood up and pulled Topaze’s head against her bosom. “My little Véronique was not so sensitive to the grief of others. How you must have suffered yourself these past years, to have become so tenderhearted.”

Topaze looked up at her. “What happened to them after that?”

“Marie-Madeleine had no family. Nowhere to turn. She’d managed to take a few of her jewels in the hem of her gown the day they left, so perhaps they didn’t starve. We heard a rumor, six months after they’d gone. Someone had seen them in Nantes. Maybe they planned to emigrate to the New World. It was said that…Marie-Madeleine looked like death. She was always fragile. I think she must have died soon after, though we had no report on that for over a year.”

“And Lucien?”

“A wild man, they said. His hair was turning white. And then we heard nothing until recently, when we heard that he might be in Guadeloupe. But I’ve thought of him often, these past years. The poor boy.” She brushed at a tear. “When Simon died and Hubert inherited the title and the estates, it didn’t seem fair. That’s when I instructed my solicitor to put Lucien in my will.” She sat down again and gazed lovingly at Topaze. “But now that you’re home, my pet, I’ll change my will again.”

“Oh, no. Please. Let it go to Lucien.”

“No. My mind is made up. It’s yours. To show my joy at your return. Don’t quarrel with me. My mind is quite set on it.” She smiled, a tender mother’s smile.

“But I…” Topaze stopped. Justine had come into the gardens. “Oh, there’s that vile woman,” she groaned.

“Poor thing.” Adelaïde laughed softly at the look of surprise on Topaze’s face. “I can afford to pity her. She’s not very clever. Not very strong. For all that he’s unfaithful, and spends my money willy-nilly, Hubert has always been solicitous of me. I don’t know whether it’s because of my noble birth, or because he still hopes to inherit that half a million from me”—she shrugged—“but he’s always been kind. He’s never bothered to be kind to her, the poor dear. He buys her pretty dresses to make up for his cruelty. But she’s just a tradesman’s daughter. He’ll never treat her as anything more than that. And now Madame Revin says that the kitchen gossip has it that the poor creature has been waking at dawn to vomit.”

“By Sainte Marthe, why did you marry him?”

Adelaïde’s eyes filled with regret. “The Chalotais men can be very charming. When they want to be.”