Louisa Rawlings (47 page)

Yes. She’d stay. After all, how could she leave, and break Adelaïde’s heart? The woman had become as dear to her as her own mother had been. Far more precious even than Madame Benoîte.

She sighed again and looked about the table. Monsieur Bonnefous alternately scowled and smiled at her; she couldn’t begin to guess what he was thinking. On the whole, she rather liked him. Quite apart from the fact that he’d saved her life at the cliff. He was an honorable man, with a good heart. If he could be harsh at times, it was only because he was scrupulous in the discharge of his professional duties. But why, in the name of Saint Hilaire, was he frowning at her tonight? It only added to her dark mood.

Père François snapped his fingers for more wine. He smiled apologetically to Adelaïde. “We must keep up our strength in these trying times.” His voice was properly funereal, but he called back the servant when his glass wasn’t filled to his liking. He’d already begun to limp again. Topaze wondered how soon his self-indulgence would lead to another agonizing attack of gout. Not that she had much sympathy for him. But for his insidious playing upon Simon’s religious fears and superstitions, the history of the Chalotais family might have been far different.

A gust of cold wind blew the rain against the windowpanes. “What a dreadful night,” said Adelaïde. “Can June be nearly over? I hope we’ll not have to bury them in the rain tomorrow.”

Père François smothered a belch. “I’ve prepared a most respectful funeral oration, Madame la Comtesse.”

“Thank you, Reverend Father. Something simple, under the circumstances.” Topaze glanced at Fleur. The circumstances being Hubert’s attempted murder of his own wife! Indeed, it appeared that he must have been administering the poison to Adelaïde on a regular basis: in the two days since his death, Adelaïde seemed to have bloomed with health. Her cheeks had a spot of color, and the sparkle in her eyes wasn’t dimmed by the somber black of her gown.

Huddled in her chair, Justine began to sob quietly.

“Now, now.” Adelaïde clucked. “Do stop that, my dear. It won’t bring him back. And it’s not good for the child, to allow yourself to sink into a black humor.”

Père François gasped his horror. “Really, madame. The indelicacy of it…”

Adelaïde’s smile was frigid. “Nonsense. We all know she’s carrying Hubert’s child. There’s no need to pretend.”

Justine wailed all the louder. “And what’s to become of me now? My father won’t take me back.”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. In the meantime, stop sniveling and eat your supper.” Adelaïde beckoned to one of the servants. “Give Mademoiselle Dubois another slice of the beef.”

Justine sniffled. “No, Madame de Chalotais, I can’t eat tonight.”

“Then spare us your lamentations, you foolish child. You should have used a little common sense when you were still in your father’s house. Now go off to your room and sleep. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Justine wiped her nose with her napkin and stood up. She looked about the table, scanned the various faces. “I know you all hate me,” she said, and flounced from the room.

“Oh, my,” said Adelaïde. “I’m fairly itching to scrub that paint off her face. I suspect she’s rather pretty beneath it.” She turned to Topaze. “You’ve scarcely smiled all evening, my pet. It’s not like you. I’ve never known you not to have a sunny word, even in the darkest of times.”

“I’ll smile tomorrow, Fleur. I promise you.”

“I hope so, dear one. In the meantime…” She turned to Bonnefous. “Monsieur, I’m considering allowing that simple creature to stay here at Grismoulins. She is carrying Hubert’s child, after all. Do you foresee any difficulties? I do rely on your good judgment, monsieur.”

Bonnefous scratched his chin. “There should be no legal problems, madame. Do you wish to have the infant properly recognized as Monsieur le Comte’s bastard?”

“Of course. The infant shouldn’t be made to suffer. And perhaps a small legacy from the Chalotais estate?”

“That would be extremely generous of you, madame.”

Père François crossed himself. “May
le bon Dieu
protect this house from such wickedness, madame! To allow the trollop to stay, and in her condition…!”

Adelaïde’s return to health seemed to have put steel in her backbone as well as color in her cheeks. She drew herself up. “My dear Père François. The girl was a trollop while Hubert was still alive. But you ate his food, and muttered your prayers, and averted your eyes.”

“But, madame, how will it look when the child is born?”

“No worse than when Hubert shamed me by bringing the girl into this house. And
you
allowed it. You, who claimed to be his spiritual advisor.”

Père François wrung his hands. “But, madame, I only…”

Adelaïde was warming to her anger. “You only forgot your God, Father. You became too soft, too secular. I’ve watched you for years, making mischief in this house with your sanctimony, your fraudulent pieties. First with Simon and his family, and then with Hubert and that girl. And all the other girls who came before, that I wasn’t supposed to know of. But
you
did, I’m sure. And looked the other way.”

He smiled uneasily. “Come, come, my child. The grief of your husband’s passing has made you immoderate tonight.”

“Not at all, Father. My eyes have always seen the truth. I simply never had the freedom. But now I’m mistress here. I can do—and say—as I please. By all means, give us your respectful funeral oration tomorrow. Your own hypocrisy will suit the occasion of my husband’s death. And then leave Grismoulins.”

Père François began to stammer. “L-leave, madame? But where shall I go?”

Adelaïde’s eyes glowed. “
Go and find God!
”

Père François made a sound like an injured cow and stormed from the room.

In the silence, Topaze began to giggle.

Adelaïde smiled at her. “Well, I’m pleased to see I’ve made you laugh at last, my pet.”

Topaze jumped up from the table and went to kiss Adelaïde on the cheek. “Oh, Fleur, I do love you.”

Bonnefous tapped his fingers together thoughtfully. “You’re a remarkable woman, Madame de Chalotais. It would have been a pity if your late husband had succeeded in killing you.”

“It
was
poison, of course, monsieur?” asked Topaze. “The cause of Fleur’s debilitating illness?”

“Oh, yes. Indeed. Your mother and I found the bottle in Monsieur de Chalotais’s writing desk this afternoon.”

Adelaïde sighed. “Hubert must have put it into my morning tea.”

“But I had tea with you, Fleur. Almost every morning.”

“I always took my first cup before you joined me. Upon questioning, the maid who served me admitted that Hubert stopped her almost every day to chat and flirt with her.” She snorted. “The giddy creature fancied that she’d take Justine’s place.”

Bonnefous looked pained. “There seems to have been a ritual kiss, with closed eyes, or some such nonsense.”

Topaze shook her head. “And that’s when he’d put the poison in Fleur’s cup? How wicked.”

Adelaïde nodded in agreement. “I’m sorry that Lucien left without saying goodbye to me. I wanted to thank him personally. If he hadn’t alerted Monsieur Bonnefous to your danger, Hubert might have succeeded in all his plans.”

Lucien. Every mention of his name broke her heart anew. She tried to put him from her mind. “I still can’t believe it of Beau-père.”

“He wanted us both dead, my dear. I should have died quietly, peacefully in my sleep. But you…” Adelaïde shuddered. “To think of you at the cliff…”

“Surely we’re the only ones who know the truth, Monsieur Bonnefous.”

“Of course. The three of us, and Monsieur Renaudot.”

“What story have you given out? To explain the deaths?”

“Only that Monsieur de Chalotais, in showing his son how to shoot a pistol, accidentally killed him. Then, in his grief and remorse, he threw himself off the cliff. You were an unhappy witness to the tragedy. The horror of it drove you to your bed in a state of nervous collapse.”

Topaze sighed. “I suppose it’s true, in a way. At least the part about Hubert’s remorse.”

“Yes, my pet. In his own fashion Hubert loved Léonard.”

Bonnefous nodded. “That’s the extent of the story that needs to be told. For the rest—the attempts on your life, Mademoiselle Véronique, and the poisoning of your mother—no purpose is served by noising it about. However”—he turned to Topaze and scowled—“while we’re on the subject of truth and stories, mademoiselle, I beg leave of your mother to scold you severely.”

“I knew you were angry with me tonight, Monsieur Bonnefous. Very well, then. What have I done?”

“You and Monsieur Renaudot deceived us.”

She gulped. “He…
told
you?”
Name of God,
what
did he tell?

“Yes. He told me how he met you in Bordeaux, and persuaded you to return to Grismoulins.”

“Yes,” she said weakly, “that’s so.” She could scarcely deny it, if that rogue Lucien had betrayed her, left her in this predicament! Her unhappiness at his leaving was replaced by vexation. Damn him!

“Have you no charity, mademoiselle? No conscience? You should have come on your own. Returned to the bosom of your family of your own accord, knowing how your mother was suffering.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. Was that all? She managed to look contrite. “You’re right, of course, monsieur. You fill me with shame.”

“Then to compound your wickedness by helping your cousin to line his pockets…”

“He told you that as well?”
He must have been mad!

“He did indeed. Wicked, mademoiselle. Wicked!” Bonnefous’s frown relaxed into a forgiving smile. He shrugged. “Well, what’s done is done. And your mother feels that— though your behavior was secretive—your motives were of a higher order. Heaven knows your cousin deserved something, after the injustices he’d suffered. Madame de Chalotais and I have agreed. If you want Monsieur Renaudot to have your birthday inheritance, it’s your right.”

She smiled. “Now God bless you, monsieur,” She moved to him and kissed him on the cheek. She hesitated, then kissed him again, this time on the mouth. She was delighted to see him blush. “I think I could grow very fond of you, Monsieur Bonnefous.”

He grunted and grumbled and finally rose to his feet. “I think it’s time for bed. Tomorrow will be a difficult day. Madame. Mademoiselle.” He bowed and left them alone.

“Are you tired, my dear?” asked Adelaïde.

“No. I slept again this afternoon.”

Adelaïde held out her hand. “Then come to my room and read to me for a while.”

“Of course, Fleur, if you wish it.”

“What I wish is to help you shake off your melancholy, my pet. Gloom won’t change anything.”

She hung her head. Adelaïde was right.
Pick yourself up, Topaze.
There was no point in moping for Lucien. He’d made his decision, chosen to return to Adriane de Ronceray. Hadn’t she always known he would? Why had she let a few weeks of tenderness, a moonlit night in the grotto, fill her with false hope? She smiled at Adelaïde. “You’re right, as always, Little Cabbage. You must choose a very amusing book for me to read tonight. We’ll laugh together until the melancholy flies away.”

She read a comedy by Marivaux. But though she and Adelaïde laughed a great deal, the laughter didn’t seem to reach that spot in her heart that echoed with grief for the loss of her love. At last she put down the book and went to the window. The rain still beat steadily against the dark panes, and the trees sighed in the night.

“Will it never stop?” she said. Her voice was as mournful as the wind.

“It’s only rain, my dear Véronique. It’s good for the flowers. The gardens are so beautiful in July. The peonies are still in bloom, and then the carnations flower, and the air is sweet at twilight. And the anemones—so bold with their bright purples and reds, and…”

“I’m not Véronique.”

“And there’s a fragrant yellow flower, I never can remember its name…”

Topaze turned from the window. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I’m not Véronique.”

Adelaïde smiled. “Yes, I know, my dear.”

She sank into a chair. “You
know
?”

“For a very long time. Do you remember the day before your birthday, when you and Léonard fell into the lake? And I dried your feet and played a child’s game with your toes?”

“You knew then?”

“No. Not then. Though something about it disturbed me. I didn’t quite know what it was. But then—oh, it must have been days later—Nanine reminded me of something, just in passing. When Véronique was very small, only two, I think, she upset a heavy table on her foot. A toe was broken, the foot was cut. It never healed right. The bone was twisted a little, and there was a scar. Nanine could never play the game on
that
foot.”

“You knew.” It was still incomprehensible. “I should have guessed. You haven’t called me
Poupée
since that time.”

Adelaéde’s eyes were sad. “No. Because you weren’t my
Poupée
.”

She felt such anguish. “How could you be dear and loving, give me gifts, kiss me and pet me, when you knew the girl you were being kind to wasn’t your daughter?”