Louisa Rawlings (39 page)

He pulled out his watch. “Time for us to go.”

They stood together at the window and embraced once more. Topaze sighed. “I’m sorry it has to end.”

He grinned. “Have you been well and thoroughly wooed, my lady?”

“Tut-tut, you arrogant dog! Did you expect to announce our betrothal at breakfast, just because of last night?”

“Well, I do confess to a certain amount of eagerness to see dear Uncle Hubert curdle with the news.” He smiled, an ugly smile of malice.

She felt tired and defeated. Their night of love. To end like this. “Is that all it means to you?” she said with bitterness. “Your damnable revenge?’

“Can you begin to understand how I feel?” he growled. “My mother’s suffering? The years of my exile?”

“I only know your hatred will destroy you. Let it go, for God’s sake.”

“Shall I tell you what hatred is? I wanted to see him suffer for what he’d done to us. Instead, he died peacefully in his bed. Can I let that go?”

“But he
didn’t
. Gilles was telling me only the other day. Perhaps he knew your father better than any man. Weak, he told me. Not evil. How can you hate a man for choosing the easier course? He was afraid of losing his soft life. Gilles thinks it would have destroyed him.”

His laugh was sharp and cynical. “So he destroyed us instead.”

“And suffered for it. Gilles says he was a haunted man, living his last years in misery, forever trying to convince himself that what he’d done had been for the greater glory of God. And wondering where his son was.”

“Damn it, am I supposed to care? Is that little recital supposed to reconcile me to the past? Wondering where I was? By Satan’s horn, I was dying a little more each day! Thieving and killing. A heartless beast. Lucien le Bâtard!” He spat the words.

She shivered, seeing the expression on his face in the brightening light. “No more a heartless beast than you are at this moment.”

He shrugged. His eyes were cold, a blue wall between them. His mouth twitched in a mocking smile. “Perhaps we
won’t
announce our betrothal this morning.”

She gathered her dressing gown more tightly around her body. “No. Perhaps not. I’m going back now. Alone, if you please.”

He bowed. “Your servant, cousin.”

Chapter Twenty-One

He avoided looking at her at breakfast; it broke her heart. She ignored Justine’s empty chatter, barely listened to Adelaïde’s conversation. She was filled with misery, seeing the distant look on Lucien’s face.

“You remember I told you about him, my pet.”

“What?” She looked up. Adelaïde was smiling at her from the end of the table. “Told me about whom, Fleur?”

“Monsieur Gourdin. From Poitiers. Husband to my old friend.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. It slipped my mind. The one who’s a widower.” In actual fact, Adelaïde’s solicitor as well, though Hubert’s bland expression told Topaze that he knew nothing of that.

“He’s late visiting this year. And I’m eager for news of his children. It brings the memory of dear Cécile so close to me.”

Hubert grunted. “He’s an old maid, filled with tiresome gossip. When do you expect him? Perhaps I’ll go to Paris while he’s here.”

“Next week. Wednesday, his letter said.”

Wednesday. And Adelaïde intended to change her will at that time. The half million livres that was to go to Lucien would now be willed to Véronique. Topaze looked up. Lucien was staring at her, an odd expression on his face.
By the Holy Virgin
, she thought,
does he mistrust me?
She’d already promised him she’d see to it that Adelaïde changed her mind about the bequest before Monsieur Gourdin arrived.

She’d hoped to see Lucien alone, to reassure him, but it was clear he was still angry over their argument at dawn. He spent the day riding, then declined to come down for supper, on the grounds that he was tired.

By the next day she was aching for a reconciliation. She’d spent a sleepless night, blaming herself for what had happened. He’d lived with his bitter hatred for six years; he couldn’t be expected to give it up so quickly. Not when his revenge was at hand.

When he didn’t appear for breakfast, she determined to make the first move. Giving a gentle excuse to Léonard, who’d begun to follow her around like a devoted puppy, she climbed the hill behind Grismoulins, and turned toward the old stone mill. She’d leave a message for Lucien, telling him how much she wanted to meet with him.

It was a cool day, filled with scudding clouds, a sky that warned of rain. As she climbed the last steep hill, following the path that skirted the old rock slide, the wind tugged at her cloak, and wisps of fog dampened her face. She saw the mill tower through strings of mist that swirled fitfully, ghostly white fingers curling around the old gray stone. She remembered what Lucien had said.
On windy days, you can almost smell the sea.
It was in her nostrils, wet against her cheeks, briny on her lips.

Ah,
Dieu
, there was a signaling handkerchief on the mill! Lucien wanted to see her. Her heart leaped for joy, and she began to run. She reached for the square of linen. The sharp wind whipped it away from her grasp for a moment, then she held it fast, pulled it down, pressed it to her heart. Near tears, she turned away from the mill and closed her eyes. Lucien wanted to see her.

She heard an odd noise. Above the whistle of the wind. Above the flapping of the canvas shreds that still clung to the mill’s arm. Behind her. Somewhere above her head. She turned quickly and gasped. The arms were moving. She tried to duck, but it was too late. The heavy beam of the windmill glanced off the side of her head and knocked her to the ground. She lay stunned for a moment, clutching at her head, seeing spots before her eyes. She almost feared she’d lose consciousness. Ave Maria, but her head throbbed! What a fool. She should have realized on a windy day the sails might turn. She kneaded at the sore spot, checked to see that the heavy blow hadn’t broken the skin, and rose unsteadily to her feet. She nearly turned about and went back to Grismoulins; then she remembered Lucien’s message above the door lintel. It was terse: He asked her to meet him that afternoon at the woodcutter’s cottage.

By the time they met, the weather had cleared. Though Topaze was glad for their reunion, Lucien was as distant, as impersonal, as his message had been. “I heard from Farigoule the other day.”

“You’re still using your farmer to deliver letters?”

“Yes. There’ll be time, later, to communicate openly with Farigoule, but in the meantime secrecy is best. He’s agreed to the change of plans. A more thorough cover for the loss of the ninety-three thousand. He’s examining legitimate enterprises to use as a screen. If there should be any additional expenses, he’ll let us know after the business is concluded.”

She rubbed at the side of her head, still sore from the blow of the mill arm. “That’s all? That’s why you brought me out here?”

“I thought you should know.”

“All this way.” She clicked her tongue and frowned. “The cursed windmill attacked me.”

“What do you mean?”

“The arms began to turn.”

“Nonsense. It must have been your imagination. The wind shaft is long since disconnected.”

“But it hit me on the head.”

“You probably just walked into the arm. It hangs low. And with the mists this morning…”

“Damn it, it
turned
!”

He snorted. “You have an active imagination. About many things. Do you still believe you’re Véronique?”

“More than ever. Don’t mock me, Lucien. Did you know I played the harpsichord the night of my party?” She shivered.

“I thought you said you couldn’t.”

“I
can’t
! At least I don’t remember learning, but I played that night.”

“And since then?”

“I’ve been afraid to try again.”

He spread his hands. “How can you not remember a thing like playing the harpsichord?”

“What do you remember of your childhood?”

“Lord! Where can I begin? A great many things.”

“Well, I don’t. It never bothered me before. I thought that everyone forgot most of their early years. The only clear memories I have seem to be from my later years. When we traveled from theater to theater.”

“You and Madame Benoîte. Your mother.”

“I don’t know. I
called
her Maman. Yet sometimes…like a dream…I remember trees, a château, tea parties. A pretty woman walking in a garden. Bits and pieces floating back from…I don’t know when, I don’t know where. But it feels right to be here at Grismoulins.”

He shrugged. “Childhood memories can be misleading. And if yours are so vague…”

“But sometimes I see very clearly. I have pictures in my head. I can see what I’m wearing. But I don’t know where I am. I see myself with a woman with blond hair.”

“Madame Benoîte, no doubt.”

“No! She was dark-haired. And there’s a man. Tall. Couldn’t it be Hubert? Even Simon?”

“This is absurd. Sometimes we dream things. Then, when we encounter reality, it seems familiar. There’s nothing strange about that.”

“Why can’t it be possible? That I’m Véronique?”

“To begin with, I remember you told me you had your thirteenth birthday with Madame Benoîte. Véronique was still here with Adelaïde at thirteen.”

“No. We
celebrated
my thirteenth birthday. But Madame Benoîte didn’t know for a certainty. If I’m Véronique, I could have been fourteen by then. And newly come from Grismoulins. I’m small. I’ve always been taken for younger than I am. Couldn’t Madame Benoîte have guessed wrong?”

“It sounds improbable to me. How could you end up with Madame Benoîte?” He shook his head. “No. I’m sure Véronique’s vanished for good. Probably dead. She would have returned else.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “More and more I think I
am
Véronique.”

He looked skeptical. “Then why don’t you remember?”

“Every day the pictures get clearer and clearer. When the time comes to remember it all, I shall.”

He smirked. “I’d like to be there when you do. Particularly to find out what you truly thought of me,
cousin
.” He threw back his head and laughed.

“Damn you,” she said.

His eyes were cold. “Now I know you’re not Véronique. Oaths never came easily to her tongue.”

“Véronique has grown up, damn it! And if she chooses to swear, she shall! I’m going back to the château. Denis and Carle-André are coming for tea this afternoon.”

His lip curled. “The besotted fools. Well, I’m not as eager to see your suitors as you are. I’ll be back later.”

She walked toward the château with a heavy heart. It was as though their sweet night of passion had never happened. He was the Lucien of old, his eyes far away, his feelings carefully shielded from view.

At the bottom of the garden, she found Justine hunched over on a bench, sobbing pitifully. She knelt before the girl and patted her knee. “By Saint Médard,” she said gently, “will you bring on forty days and nights of rain with your deluge?”

Justine lifted her head. The powder and rouge on her face were streaked by tears, and the pale blue eyes were rimmed with red. “No one likes me. No one talks to me. Pêre François, Monsieur Bonnefous. Nobody. Even Léonard. He used to play quoits with me sometimes, before you came. But now…” She wailed loudly and wiped at her nose. “No one likes me.”

It was impossible not to feel pity for the creature. “That’s not so, Justine.”

“It’s easy for you to make light of it. With all the men buzzing about you like bees to honey.”

She handed Justine her handkerchief. “Beau-père likes you.”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s only nice to me because…well, because.”

“Because of the baby?”

Justine began to sob again. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”

“What will you do? Will you stay here?”

“Hubert says I may. But I think he only cares about the baby. I don’t think it matters to him if I live or die.”

“Nonsense. Now go to your room and wash your face. And take a nap. You’ll feel better. No use making yourself wretched over idle fancies.” She watched the girl shuffle unhappily toward the château. In an odd way, it made her less unhappy with her own situation. Lucien might be distant, might bewilder her with his changing moods. But she was his. They were married under the law, secret though it might be. They’d be married again, openly. Unlike poor Justine,
she
knew what her future would be. With the Marcigny inheritance as a glittering prize, her respectability was ensured. And the child she suspected she was carrying would be legitimate.

She sighed. But it would be nice to think that Lucien wanted her for more than the inheritance.

It was her two suitors who gave her the idea that afternoon, in the drawing room. As usual, they swore their love and devotion, scarcely stopping to take the tea that Adelaïde offered, before returning to Topaze’s side to shower her with more praise.

Denis put down his cup and reached into his pocket. He stood up and bowed to Hubert, who sat in isolation before the window, staring at the lawn in thoughtful silence. “Monsieur de Chalotais,” said Denis, “have I your permission to give your stepdaughter a gift?”