Louisa Rawlings (34 page)

Adelaïde giggled. “Do you remember the game Nanine used to play with your toes after your bath?”

Topaze hesitated. “I’m not sure. It’s such a long time ago. Remind me.”

“I’ve forgotten too. A counting game, I think.
Bossu, Nain, Guenon, Elfe.
”
She tweaked Topaze’s toes one by one. “Hunchback, Dwarf, Hag, and Goblin. What was the last one?”

What a funny game. “I don’t remember.”

Adelaïde pulled on the last toe. “This poor little creature won’t have a name?”

Topaze began to laugh. “Silly old Fleur. Come and let me hug you.”

She lifted Adelaïde from the floor and wrapped her in her arms.

Adelaïde burst into tears and clung to her. “Tomorrow, my little
Poupée
. Your birthday. Dear heaven, I never thought I’d see that day.”

Topaze felt a sharp stab of conscience. “Don’t cry, Little Cabbage,” she said. “I’m home. I’m home.”

Chapter Nineteen

“What a dear you are, Fleur.”

Adelaïde smiled. “I’m happy you like my gift.” Topaze noted with pleasure how robust she seemed this evening. “Look, now,” Adelaïde continued, “there on that wall…”

Topaze turned and stared in surprise at her own face.
At the delicate features—pointed chin, upturned nose, full rosy lips. The pale brown eyes. Only the hair was lighter, a soft yellow the color of straw.

“Do you remember when it was painted?” asked Adelaïde.

Topaze reached out and touched the portrait of Véronique. The face was young, of course. It would have been painted before Véronique left. But, otherwise, it was her own face. By Saint Lazare, her very own face. It gave her an eerie feeling. “No, I don’t,” she said. “But I’m sure it was tiresome to sit for hours.”

“You were thirteen and a half. And very proud of that gown.”

Topaze looked around Adelaïde’s sitting room, then back to the picture on the wall. “Where have you been hiding it? I’m sure I didn’t see it here before. I’d almost forgotten about it.”

Adelaïde sighed. “I kept it put away. I couldn’t bear to look at it. But once a year—now don’t laugh at me,
Poupée
—on your birthday, I’d have it brought out and…and set in your place at the table. I feared that this year, again…” She smiled brightly, but her eyes glistened with tears. “But here you are yourself, safe with me, my dearest child.”

“Oh, Fleur.” Topaze grasped the other woman’s hand and pressed it to her lips.

“Come now. Don’t weep. You’ll get tears on your pretty gown.”

Topaze smoothed the white satin of her skirts, straightened a blue bow. “I do like this gown. The prettiest ball gown I ever saw. And the bracelet…” She admired the circlet of pearls clasped with a large cameo. “What a beautiful birthday gift.”

“It gave me joy to give it.” Adelaïde seated herself at her desk and pulled a piece of paper toward her. “Now let me write to my friend Sophie in Paris, and then we can go downstairs to join the others. I think I’ll tell Sophie we can visit in September, when it’s cooler in the city. About the middle of the month. Will that be agreeable to you?”

Topaze cursed her own cowardice.
I should tell her everything now
, she thought. “September will please me, if your health allows.”

While Adelaïde applied herself to her writing, Topaze wandered aimlessly about the room. She ran her fingers over the brocade of a chair, admired a porcelain figure on the mantel, played with Adelaïde’s patch box. She felt comfortable, secure, anchored. It was nearly two months now that she’d been here. With a start, she realized that she seldom thought of the Givets anymore. It was as though that part of her life had never happened.

She looked over at Adelaïde’s bent form. The pale yellow curls crowning a delicate head. Even that seemed right, somehow fitting.
I belong here
, she thought. She frowned. It seemed as though there was something—deep in her mind, straining to emerge, yet elusive when she tried to focus on it—something she should remember…

“Done.” Adelaïde put down her quill pen and stood up. “Now, my pet, let us go and celebrate your birthday.”

Everyone was assembled in the dining salon, and seated around a lavishly appointed table, when they entered. Hubert and Léonard. Père François, who was almost a member of the family. Bonnefous, whose presence was necessary because of the terms of the trust, and because he was a friend to Hubert and a guest in the house. Justine, painted and powdered and artificial looking—as usual—wretched and out of place among the family members. Even Nanine, her head covered with a little black velvet hood over a lace cap (for all that it was June, and warm), had been carried down from her room to enjoy the festivities.

At sight of the two women, Père François beamed and led the company in a round of applause. “To our Véronique.”
Insinuating himself with the heiress already?
thought Topaze in amusement.

Hubert rose from his chair and hurried to them. “If you’ll allow me, Adelaïde, I’ll seat Véronique first, since it’s her birthday.” He escorted Topaze to the place of honor. His eyes .held more friendliness than she’d ever seen. “I haven’t thanked you,” he said, “for saving my son’s life yesterday.”

“How could I do aught? He’s my brother,” she said. “But thanks be to God that you were nearby. We might both have been lost.”

Léonard smiled across the table. His eyes shone with devotion. “Greetings to you on your birthday, Véronique.” He blushed, wriggled in his seat, and knocked his knife to the floor with a clumsy elbow. It was quickly retrieved by one of the servants, but Hubert frowned.

After Adelaïde had been seated, Père François intoned the blessing, his eyes fixed upon a large bowl of fruit as though God were enthroned there. Then the wine was poured, the toasts were given, and the meal began in earnest. They feasted well. Topaze wondered fleetingly if Lucien was suffering with a cold supper in his lonely tower. Well,
she
might as well enjoy it! Who knew, in this chancy life, how much longer her good fortune would last?

At the end of the meal, Justine smirked at Adelaïde. “The sweet cakes were good, Madame de Chalotais. Don’t misunderstand me. But, of course, it’s not what they have in Paris. For example, at the Duc de Perrault’s table they serve ice cream.”

Adelaïde fixed her with a hard stare, but said nothing.

Hubert sipped at his wine. “My wife doesn’t care for Paris.” It was clearly meant as a reproach.

Adelaïde smiled thinly. “My husband seems devoted to it. And to the gaming tables, and to the low creatures who abound there.”

Justine wasn’t clever enough to have heard the insult. “Oh, but we have such charming friends. I’m sure they wouldn’t find you
too
provincial, Madame de Chalotais.”

Topaze stiffened. The little trollop! She opened her mouth to scold the woman, but Nanine was quicker.

The old nurse cackled. “And how do they find you, Mademoiselle Dubois? In the dark? Behind your bed curtains?” Topaze smothered a laugh as Justine turned purple. But Nanine wasn’t finished with the hapless girl. She motioned to the little maid who had stood behind her during the meal, helping her with her food. “You, Charlotte. You have eyes. Has our mademoiselle grown a gorbelly yet?”

Justine wailed and fled the room.

Hubert rested a clenched fist on the table. “Nanine, you look tired.” His voice was edged with steel. He snapped his fingers. Two footmen jumped forward. “Take Mademoiselle Flandre to her room.” They nodded and lifted Nanine’s chair. Topaze got up to kiss her good night, then, at Adelaïde’s beckoning gesture, resumed her seat.

They waited in silence until the table had been cleared, and the servants had withdrawn. Then Bonnefous cleared his throat. “By the terms of the Marcigny agreement—which I have here in my portfolio—you, mademoiselle, have done all that was required.” Topaze noticed that he had refrained from addressing her as Véronique. “Today is June the first, Véronique de Chalotais’s twentieth birthday. You are here, with the family. The inheritance now belongs to you. We’ll discuss the disposition of the funds tomorrow, when Monsieur Palombe arrives from Cholet. He represents the Marcigny interests. But it is my duty to verify your claim today, in the presence of these witnesses. Will you please sign this paper?” He fetched pen and ink from a sideboard, and brought them to Topaze.

God forgive my wickedness. For Lucien and the Givets
, she thought, and wrote “Véronique-Marie de Marcigny de Chalotais,” as Lucien had instructed her.

“You’re now a very wealthy young woman,” said Hubert. Topaze could read the resentment in his eyes. The hundred thousand livres was hers. And the entailed Marcigny holdings were now beyond his reach as well. She almost felt sorry for him.
Dieu!
she thought suddenly. Why should she pity him after all? When Véronique committed “suicide” according to Lucien’s plan, the entail would be terminated, and the holdings would revert to Adelaïde. Hubert would suffer, of course, for these next few weeks, but it was no great calamity.

Bonnefous, on the other hand, was clearly unhappy that he’d been unable to prevent this occasion from coming to pass. Topaze smiled at him, her eyes wide and free of guile. “Am I
very
rich now?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” he grumbled. “Very rich. A hundred thousand livres.”

“Sh-shall I have the same, someday, P-P-Papa?” asked Léonard.

Hubert sighed. “No, my son. But you’ll have Grismoulins.”

Léonard smiled his pleasure and gazed at Topaze in adoration. “Will you live here with me, Véronique?”

She couldn’t lie to him. “We’ll see,” she said gently. She turned to Bonnefous. “A hundred thousand livres, you say. Can I do with it as I wish?”

He smiled. She saw the flash of triumph in his eyes. “Will you have the sum entire? And at once?” Clearly he now hoped to prove her a fraud, whose only motive was the money.

She contrived to look horrified. “By Saint Jean, of course not! How thriftless. I should think that an investment would be the wisest course, Monsieur Bonnefous. And I would rely on your advice, as the family solicitor. However, I should like a small sum…”

“Whatever your heart desires, my pet,” said Adelaïde.

“
How small?
”
Bonnefous was no longer smiling.

“Oh, perhaps four thousand livres. That’s not so very much, is it, Monsieur Bonnefous?”

“No,” he agreed reluctantly. “But why do you want it?”

“The Givet family took me in, when Madame Benoîte died. They had so little, but they shared it with me. Can I not do the same for them, now that I have the means? And with Monsieur Givet lost at sea, how will they live, without my help?” It was an effective argument. Bonnefous frowned, but nodded his head.

“And then I should like a bit for my own personal needs,” Topaze continued. “Three thousand livres,” she added quickly, before Bonnefous could protest again. “It’s not very much, I know. But you can’t begin to understand how frightening it can be, to wonder if there’ll be money when you need it. To worry day by day…” She spoke from the depths of her own past misery. “And to know I have money, even so small a sum as three thousand livres, would be very comforting.”

“Why not?” said Hubert. “It seems little enough.”

Bonnefous shuffled his papers. “Very well. I’ll speak to Palombe. You’ll have a letter authorizing you to draw up to three thousand livres from the bank in Cholet. Is there anything more you want?”

She clicked her tongue. “How suspicious you are, Monsieur Bonnefous. From the very first day. I told you, I want to invest the rest.”

He was honest enough to look embarrassed. “A wise idea. We’ll speak of it with Monsieur Palombe tomorrow. Some prudent investment, conservative, but promising a good return…”

She smiled. “As to that, I met a charming banker in the public coach, on my way to Grismoulins. A Monsieur Etienne Farigoule. We spoke at some length. He mentioned several investments…”

Père François cast his eyes to heaven. “A stranger you met on a coach?”

“He was kind to me. I was unhappy. Frightened to come home. He sensed my distress, and concerned himself with my welfare. And then, when he spoke about his business, he seemed like a wise man.”

“
Morbleu!
”
said Bonnefous. “That’s no reason to invest with him.”

“But I met him again at les Herbiers last week. Such a nice man. He was there to buy some land, I think. Carle-André and Denis were with me. Carle-André has a friend who invested very successfully with Monsieur Farigoule. Ask him!”

“I don’t care
who
speaks for the man. It’s absurd to…”

She stuck out her lip in a stubborn pout. “I thought you said I could do as I wish with my own money.” She turned to Adelaïde. “He’s being hateful, Mother.
Can’t
I do as I wish?”

Adelaïde rose to her daughter’s defense. “It seems a harmless enough request, if this Monsieur Farigoule proves to be a man of integrity.”

“I’ll make inquiry,” said Bonnefous. His mouth was pinched, as though he’d swallowed a lemon.

Topaze yawned. It had been a long evening. “I look forward to discussing it with you and Monsieur Palombe on the morrow.” She made her excuses and went to bed.

On the following day, Monsieur Palombe arrived earlier than expected. Topaze had no time to visit the mill and see if Lucien had left a message.
There’ll be time
, she thought. This afternoon, when the business had been concluded and she’d have good news for him. There were no difficulties with Monsieur Palombe, but he was slow and long-winded, insisting on explaining the details of the Marcigny bequest at great length. They stopped for dinner, then began again. Reams of papers and documents for Topaze to sign.