Louisa Rawlings (33 page)

“No one to care? The villagers. There are half a dozen towns close by. Would not one…?”

“Lord! Will you never cease to expect more of people than they’re capable of? I’m only surprised that the villagers didn’t stone us out of the region. We were heathen. Heretics. You can’t know how narrow country people can be. They’re born into ignorance. Raised in ignorance. The Church is all that sustains their mean lives. And we had become strangers to that Church. To the rules of their lives.”

She couldn’t argue with that. She’d seen how the villagers in les Herbiers had looked at her. The fallen Véronique. They’d whispered and pointed. And when Carle-André’s coach had left that afternoon, several children had picked up clods of earth and thrown them at the carriage. “Then where did you go?”

He rubbed his arm across his mouth. “My mother was ill. The strain of…what had happened had weakened her heart. We went to Nantes. I hoped to get a ship to take us far away from France. But it was too much for her. She needed rest, care, medicine. She’d managed to make off with a few of her jewels when we left Grismoulins. I took them to a jeweler to sell. I narrowly escaped arrest.”

“By Saint Jude, why?”

“To begin, we were Huguenots, subject to arbitrary arrest. And besides, my father claimed the jewels were stolen, and sent the police after us.”

She struggled against her tears. Was there no end to his pain? “
Dieu
,” she whispered.

His voice was passionless. “But I was needy. My mother was dying, and I had no money to care for her.” He laughed, a dry bark. “You see, my little urchin, we have more in common than you think. I learned of a man who wasn’t too particular about what he bought. I sold him the jewels—for a pittance, but I had no choice—and began to enquire about passage to the New World. Eventually I was led to Monsieur Farigoule. My mother had died by that time. Of a broken heart.” He arose from the mattress; he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. He straightened his clothing and walked to a window. He leaned his arm against the frame and stared out at the day. “I’d planned to work in Nantes,” he said at last. “To earn my passage. But circumstances wouldn’t have it. It happened that several of the jewels I sold turned out to be paste.” He turned and smiled. His eyes were cold. “No doubt some profligate Chalotais had made the substitution years before. I knew for a certainty that my life wasn’t worth a pin if I stayed in Nantes. Monsieur Farigoule was very understanding. He allowed me to ship out on one of his smuggling vessels.”

“To England.”

“Yes. I speak English passably. I fell in with the smugglers, one Peg Leg Johnson, by name. I signaled the ships, hauled in the contraband. And between times caroused like a madman. But the English began to notice me. A foreigner, after all. I shipped out with old Peg Leg on his next voyage.” He shrugged. “How was I to know that he’d decided to turn pirate? But it seemed as good a life as any. Eventually I found myself on Captain Trescot’s ship. ‘Longknife’ Trescot, they called him.”

“Oh, Lucien, but such a life.”

“By Satan’s beard, don’t look at me with pity in your eyes,” he growled. “I was a dead man. What did I care? I lived for only one thing. To be rich enough to return to France, right the wrong that had been done to us. Restore my name in the courts.” He smiled at her with a look that chilled her heart. “And kill my father,” he said softly.

“Lucien, no.”

“But you see, God even robbed me of that. In Guadeloupe, I learned that he’d died.” He laughed. “Fitting, isn’t it? Perhaps it’s true what they say. God only smiles upon the True Faith. Not on some fool who had the misfortune to be born to a Huguenot mother.”

She gulped. “For how many years? With the pirates.”

“Nearly two.” His eyes were far away. “The boldest of the bold. The most reckless. And savage.” He shuddered.

“Did you call yourself Lucien Renaudot from the first? When you became a pirate?”

“No. I had a nickname, like all the rest.” He smiled in mockery. “I called myself
Lucien le Bâtard.”

The Bastard. She began to weep. “Lucien…”

“Don’t waste your tears.” He stared down at her where she lay. “Lord, I haven’t unburdened myself for a long time. It must be the weakness of the moment.” His eyes strayed to her raised skirts, her naked hips. “I expend my vital essence and lose my manliness.”

It was as if a door had slammed in her face. She stood up and straightened her skirts. “Perhaps you should avoid the one if you fear the other,” she snapped. “Unless it’s important, don’t ask to see me for the next few days. I’ll be far too busy preparing for my birthday!”

“Are you ready yet, Véronique?” Léonard’s voice echoed up the wide staircase.

Topaze came to the top of the stairs. “Wait for me at the end of the park. I want to get my hat.” Léonard nodded and did as he was told. Topaze turned back to her room. She stopped, momentarily startled. Hubert was standing in the passageway, watching her. His eyes were veiled, his expression unreadable. “Do you want something, Beau-père?” she asked.

“You’ve become a good friend to Léonard.”

“Poor dear. He must have been lonely without me. It’s been a joy to watch him blossom these past weeks.”

“I wonder if it’s wise to be so friendly.”

“Why not?”

“You broke his heart before. When you left. It was very hard for him.”

God forgive me
, she thought. “I won’t leave again,” she lied.

“You might marry and leave.”

“Don’t you
want
me to be his companion?”

His glance wavered. “Sometimes I wonder,” he muttered. He turned away and went into his rooms.

Topaze retrieved her hat and hurried outside into the sunshine. She nodded at Monsieur Bonnefous, who was pacing the lawn. “Good morning, monsieur.” She couldn’t resist a gentle gibe. “Are you looking forward to celebrating my birthday with me tomorrow?”

He grunted. “Good day.”

“Such a sunny morning. And you so gloomy. Alas. I saw they brought you a message this morning at breakfast. Can that be the reason for your long face?”

“You haven’t won yet,” he growled. “My agents tell me that your cousin Lucien… that is,
Véronique’s
cousin, is still in Guadeloupe.”

She laughed. “Well, if you write to him, give him my love.”

“I’m still not convinced, mademoiselle. Lucien may not have helped you with this deception. But someone did. And I’ll not rest until…”

She plucked a rose from a nearby bush, tucked it into his wig, and kissed him on the cheek. “Nonsense. You’re far too reasonable a man not to know when you’ve been beaten. I’m Véronique, and there’s nothing for you to do but accept it.” Laughing, she raced off into the park.

Léonard was waiting. He grinned at her. “I couldn’t sleep last night, just thinking about our adventure today. You
did
promise I’m to be the captain of the ship?”

“Of course. I’m so glad I saw that boat on the lake.”

“Can we be a pirate ship?”

She smiled. “If you want.”

After some minutes of brisk walking, they reached a large lake in the woods. It was shadowy and cool, surrounded by tall trees. At the edge, resting on a sandy beach, was a small rowboat; Topaze had seen it on one of her walks to Lucien’s cottage.

Léonard’s eyes were bright with joy. “Can I name it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll call it
La Belle Véronique
.”

“How sweet. Thank you.”

They clambered aboard. After some confusion, Léonard settled himself on a thwart and took hold of the oars. “It isn’t fair,” he said. “I’m the captain. I shouldn’t have to do the work.”

“Do you want
me
to row?”

“No. You’re my captive. You have to sit and be quiet. But I shouldn’t have to work.”

“You can pretend you’re just steering. Captains are allowed to steer.”

His face brightened at that. “But you have to be quiet, prisoner.”

“Aye aye, captain.” Topaze leaned back in her seat as Léonard clumsily guided the boat into the middle of the lake. Once or twice she tried to speak, but he scowled.

“Quiet, wench,” he said, “or I’ll make you walk the plank.” He blushed. “I h-h-hope you don’t mind me calling you w-w-wench.”

She tried not to smile. “Of course not. Pirates do it all the time. And you should have a nickname. Something fierce.
Léonard the Bold
.”

He smiled. “I like that.”

Topaze frowned down at her feet. They felt damp. She hadn’t noticed any water in the bottom of the boat when they’d climbed in. Well, a small leak was nothing to be concerned about. But perhaps she’d have Léonard bring the boat closer to shore. “Léonard, you…”

He shook his shoulders with a swaggering motion. “Quiet, wench.” He seemed to be enjoying his role. “Papa says they have gondolas at Versailles,” he said. “He showed me a picture of Venice. The gondoliers stand up.”

“No, Léonard. Don’t.” The water was pouring in at an alarming rate. But Léonard was already standing, his feet resting precariously on the thwart. He pulled an oar out of its lock and attempted to pole with it, in the manner of the gondoliers. The boat, already unsteady because of the water, began to rock dangerously. “Sit down!” cried Topaze. But it was too late. The boat tipped over, sending them both splashing into the lake. Léonard went under for a moment; his wig, dislodged from his head, floated away.

Topaze pulled off her soggy hat, shook the water from her eyes, and looked toward Léonard. He was thrashing wildly about, gurgling and sputtering in panic each time his head dropped and his mouth filled with water. Her own skirts were heavy, dragging her down, but she reached out toward him and caught him by the hair. Feeling an anchor, he wrapped his arms around her and held tight. “Let go!” she cried. He leaned heavily on her, pushing her head beneath the water. She choked and broke free long enough to suck in a deep breath of air; then he was upon her again—his terror giving him strength—and she felt herself going under.

She made a final effort, regained the surface. She heard a shout. “I’m coming!” Hubert was swimming toward them.

Thanks be to God
, she thought. She grabbed Léonard by the hair to prevent his drowning, and paddled her feet below her skirts to keep herself afloat until Hubert was abreast of them. “Take Léonard,” she gasped.

Hubert nodded and wrapped his arm around his son’s neck, then turned and headed for shore.

Topaze took a moment to pull off her shoes and unhook her heavy quilted petticoat. Freed of its weight, she put her face to the water and swam for shore. By the time she reached the bank, half a dozen laborers were there, still carrying the axes and scythes with which they’d been clearing a nearby field. Strong arms hauled Topaze out of the water. She lay on the bank, panting. “Is Léonard all right?” she said at last.

Hubert nodded. “He’s frightened. And he swallowed a bit of water. But no real harm done.”

One of the workers smiled at her. He had red hair. Anselme, she thought. Paul’s father. “By my faith, Mademoiselle Véronique,” he said, “but you never used to swim.”

She sat up and tried to wring out her heavy skirt. “I learned in Bordeaux,” she said. “In the ocean.”

“We’d best get you back to the château,” said Hubert. “You’re both soaked.” He looked down at himself and laughed. “
Morbleu
, so am I!”

They trooped back to Grismoulins. Léonard, still shaken, leaned on two of the farmers. “That was m-m-my fault,” he said. He seemed about to cry.

Ave Maria
, thought Topaze. The poor thing. So guilt-ridden. Like a little child who blames himself for everything. “Nonsense!” she said. “You’re Léonard the Bold. And a fierce captain. It was only
La Belle Véronique
that wasn’t sound.”

Soaked and shivering, they hurried into the château. Adelaïde was beside herself to see her darling Véronique trembling with cold. She followed along to Topaze’s boudoir, clucking in dismay and supervising the army of little maids who stripped Topaze down, dried her, slipped a fresh chemise over her head.

“No more,” said Topaze at last, dismissing the maids. All this, just over a harmless ducking! She sat on the edge of her bed, rubbing her still damp curls. “Fleur,” she laughed. “Stop wringing your hands. You see I’m quite well.”

“I want you to take to your bed for the rest of the day. I’ll not have my
Poupée
sick. Not on her birthday!”

Topaze patted the mattress beside her. “Sit with me and talk, and stop making such a to-do. It was Léonard, poor thing, who was so frightened. I’ll visit him later.”

Adelaïde knelt on the floor before her. She picked up a towel that the maids had left, and began to dry Topaze’s feet and legs. They were long since dry, but Topaze let her continue, just to feel maternal. “You don’t know how much you mean to me, my pet.” Adelaïde’s voice shook.

Topaze stroked the older woman’s curls. “My Little Cabbage. How dear you are.”
Sweet Virgin
, she thought,
it
is
so.
In less than two months she’d come to love this woman, to look upon her as a mother, to grieve on days when her strength lagged, and celebrate the days of recuperation. And here was this loving woman, kneeling at her feet. “Haven’t you finished with my toes yet, you silly Fleur?” she said tenderly.