Louisa Rawlings (7 page)

Monsieur Teissier, out of breath, arrived with Michel. Seating himself at the table, he produced pen, ink, and a small piece of parchment, upon which he proceeded to write in a florid hand. He smiled at Martin Ducellier. “The groom’s name?”

Ducellier blushed, a bright glow suffusing his handsome features. “Not I, monsieur. That man, there.”

Monsieur Teissier glanced at Renaudot. He seemed clearly disappointed in what he saw. The smile faded from his face. “
Your
name, monsieur?”

“Lucien-Armand Renaudot.”

“And the bride?”

“Topaze Givet,” said Renaudot.

“No.” Topaze shook her head. “Topaze-Claude Benoîte.”

“Very good.” Teissier continued to write. “And now, if the witnesses will sign…” He drew a line on the parchment, then held it out to Madame Givet. Though she took the pen from his fingers, she waited until Michel had read the paper and nodded his approval before making a large X on the page. Ducellier signed next, then Topaze. Renaudot was the last, signing with a defiant flourish, and such a satanic leer on his face that Topaze half expected to see the paper burst into flame.

“I’ll keep this, if I may,” he said.

“Oh, but…” Madame Givet was clearly unhappy.

“Can you make a copy, monsieur?”

“Of course. Upon the instant.”

Renaudot produced a coin from his pocket and handed it to Teissier. “Do so, then. And send it to this lady.” He fished out several more coins. They were gold. “After that, I want you to forget this visit, this marriage, and the names you have written on the papers.” He dropped the coins into Teissier’s hand. “Do you understand?”

The notary clinked the gold in his palm and smiled his satisfaction. “I’d forget my own mother for this, monsieur!”

Renaudot watched him go down the stairs, then turned to Topaze. He grinned. “Come, wife, give us a kiss.”

Topaze squirmed.
Damn the wicked man
, she thought.
He
would
be revenged for the two hundred and fifty livres!
She felt herself blushing, shamed before the gentle eyes of Martin Ducellier. “Really, Monsieur Ren…Lucien. Not now. Monsieur Ducellier… Maman…” she stammered.

The villain seemed to be enjoying her discomfiture. He laughed, a laugh filled with sly mockery. “Your mother will think you regret this day’s work, my dear. Come.” He held out his arms.

Madame Givet’s eyes shone with piety. “You have a
duty
to your husband now, Topaze. Don’t forget that.”

There was no way out of it. Not without alarming Maman. Reluctantly she moved into Renaudot’s arms. “The Devil will have his due, I see,” she whispered.

He grinned again. “Indeed.”

While Madame Givet beamed, Topaze slid her arms around Lucien’s neck. His hands encircled her waist. She was small in his embrace, smaller than she would have guessed. She pulled his head down to hers and kissed him softly on one cheek, then moved to the other cheek, in the formal salute.

His laughing voice was against her ear. “Is my wife a coward?” he said quietly. “Is that all I’m to have?”

By Sainte Suzanne, if the man wanted more, he would get it! She stretched an inch or two more, until her lips were at his vulnerable earlobe.
This for your arrogance, monsieur!
she thought, and nipped sharply at the tender flesh. He grunted in pain and surprise and pushed her away. His eyes were blazing in fury. She smiled, but took care to move out of his arms’ reach. “Come now,
husband
. If you frown like that, I’ll think that
you
regret this day’s work!”

She wasn’t sure she’d dampened his anger, but Ducellier stepped forward in haste. “We have a long journey ahead. Shouldn’t we be going?”

Lucien relaxed and even managed a smile. “Yes. Of course. Get your hat, girl, and say your farewells.”

The hat was an old battered straw that had been too shabby to sell; Topaze tied it on with her scarf so the wide brim curled around her face and shaded her features. She kissed Madame Givet repeatedly, hugged Michel in her arms, warning them again of the necessity of keeping silent. She charged Michel with the care of the little ones, and cautioned him to apply himself to his work. She promised that they would meet again in June. “In the cottage,” she said with pleasure, as Lucien counted out two hundred and fifty livres and placed them in Maman’s hand. “Please go back to our dear cottage. I’ll look for you there when I return. And that’s where Papa will want to find you.”

Madame Givet nodded. “Papa. Yes, of course.” Her eyes betrayed her own uncertainty.

Topaze smiled, hope on her face. She would maintain the pretense. “Yes. You and Papa in the cottage. Think of me, as I’ll think of you. And tell the little ones I’ll see them soon.” It would be too painful to say goodbye to the little ones.

As they started for the door, the children came bursting into the room. “It’s cold out,” cried Anne-Marie. “It looks like snow.”

Lucien muttered a soft oath and pulled Ducellier into a dim corner of the room. The two men turned their backs, shielding their faces from the little ones’ view.

Matthieu pointed with a grimy hand. “Who are them?”

Topaze knelt and gathered the children into her arms. “Just strangers, seeking their way,” she said. “Pay them no mind. Now I must leave you for a while. Be good and do as Maman says. Anne-Marie, keep up your sewing. Baptiste, you study your lessons. I want Michel to tell me that you’ve learned to read when I return.”

Matthieu began to cry. “Leave? When will you return?”

“Before you know it. When it’s warm again.”

He sobbed and rubbed his sleeve against his nose. “It aren’t never going to be warm.”

“You foolish darling,” she said tenderly. She led him to the grimy window and scrubbed a spot clear. “You look out there. Look for the sunshine. You’ll see. It will be spring before you know it. Warm and sunny. And I’ll be home before summer, I promise.”

“Alas,” whispered Madame Givet. “You’re the sunshine, Topaze. And what will we do without you?”

She gulped. “You must search for it yourselves.” She turned and fled down the steps, waiting in the bleak cold until she was joined by the two men.

Ducellier frowned down at her, his brown eyes filled with sympathy. “Are you all right?”

She fought back her tears. “Thank you. Yes. When they’re fed and warm, they won’t miss me so much. But leave me to my own thoughts for a little, I beg you.”

They set off down the narrow street and stopped at a secluded tavern, where the two men retrieved their portmanteaus and boxes. By the time they had reached the wide boulevard that led to the square of Sainte-Croix and the public coach, she’d recovered her spirits. When she thought of the family safe and warm, it heartened her. This was the right thing to do. Whatever it cost her—the lies, the dishonesty, the cheating—it was worth it. When this adventure was done she’d spend a week in church, on her knees, and make her peace with God and her conscience.

But, God forgive her, it was exciting as well! To contemplate the danger, the risk, the great prize if the ruse was successful. She glanced up at Lucien Renaudot as they strode along. He too was excited. She could see it in the set of his broad shoulders, the unexpected bounce to his step, the satisfied smile that played about his lips.

He seemed suddenly aware of her scrutiny. He grinned down at her. “Well,
Madame
Renaudot, does your courage still hold?”

“For the scheme? Yes, of course.” Remembering his attempt to embarrass her with the kiss, she laughed softly. “For the prospect of being wife to
you
, however…I’ll need more than courage. I’ll need the patience of a saint!”

He fingered his earlobe and chuckled. His expression softened for a moment, so that he was almost handsome. “It will be amusing, I think. The next few weeks.” He rubbed at his scar, the blue eyes grown thoughtful. “By the bye, why did you have the notary write you down as Benoîte? Was Madame Givet married before?”

“No.”

“Ah. Monsieur Benoîte, then, had a”—he cleared his throat delicately—“a dalliance with Madame Givet?”

She shrugged. “I never knew Monsieur Benoîte. Perhaps I
am
a bastard. As for the Givets…despite my devotion to them, they aren’t no kin of mine. Nor ever were.”

Chapter Five

“You!
Girl!
Get up the stairs. Your master’s waiting for you.”

Startled from her reverie, Topaze looked up at the toothless innkeeper. She nodded and rose from the little stool in the chimney corner. Ignoring the innkeeper’s coarse snicker, she slowly made her way up the staircase.

By Saint André, she was tired. They had traveled all afternoon and into the evening, in a crowded public coach along a bumpy side road. Ducellier had explained that they wanted to stay far from the highroad and the danger of recognition. But what a ride! She was stiff from sitting squashed between the two men for hours, her head down so her face was hidden by the large brim of her hat.

At last they’d reached this inn, near Libourne. Ducellier had gone at once to visit a banker, from whom they hoped to obtain a loan,
if
the Chalotais scheme should fail, the men would still need money to expand their plantation. Renaudot had deposited Topaze by the fire, and gone to arrange for their room. He and Ducellier had already decided that the girl should be passed off as a family servant. The shabbiness of her clothes would have made any other explanation suspicious. Renaudot had assured her—with a leer, the plaguey devil!—that he’d see to it that she slept in chaste solitude on a truckle bed, while the two men shared a large bed in the same room. Still, it rankled her that the innkeeper should assume that she was the fine gentlemen’s plaything, rather than a mere servant.

Renaudot was sitting in a large armchair, his feet propped up on a table, when Topaze entered the room. He had removed his several coats and his waistcoat, his sword, and his white linen stock; now he took his ease, his ruffled shirt unbuttoned at the neck, its voluminous sleeves rolled back on his deeply tanned arms. He didn’t bother to rise as Topaze closed the door behind her; he simply raised his glass of wine in offhand acknowledgement of her presence. “I’ll order up supper when Martin gets back. Take off your clothes.”

She gasped, feeling her heart stop. “You lecherous villain! To take. advantage, while Monsieur Ducellier is away! You promised…”

“Lord! How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not in the least interested in a tumble with you. Look.” He pointed to the blazing fireplace, before which a deep wooden tub had been placed. It was filled with soapy water that sent a fragrant steam into the air. “Now take off your clothes. All of them.”

“Blast your liver. You want me to climb in there
naked
? All of me at once? I aren’t never taken a whole bath but one time, when I was sick. It aren’t natural!”

He sighed. “Listen to me, you stinking little urchin. Martin and I will be sick if we’re forced to smell you for much longer. You did nothing but ripen in that coach for the last four hours. By Lucifer, I thought we’d suffocate. Now get out of those filthy rags.”

She sniffed at her sleeve. It didn’t seem so bad. The fish smell had faded, and the only odors she could detect were the usual ones: a little sweat, a little sourness from the tanner’s shop, the various smells from the children. Honest smells. What did that devil expect? She had nothing to be ashamed of! “I won’t,” she said. “I’ll wash my face and hands and feet. But I won’t take no bath.”

He put down his wine and rose to his feet, uncurling himself from the chair like a languid snake. “For the last time. Take off your clothes.” He smiled, an icy grimace that chilled her to the bone. “I’ll not ask again.”

She backed away from him. The good Lord knew he was cold-blooded enough to do anything! She wasn’t of a mind to challenge him, not over a damned bath! Besides, in some peculiar fashion, she felt she had a duty to him. She was his wife, however false their contract.

He advanced on her. “Well?”

“Hold your water, you poxy devil!” she said hurriedly. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t. But I aren’t got no other clothes besides these. Do you want me to put them on again after my bath?”

“Good Lord, no. I intend to have them burned.” He turned to the large bed, where his portmanteau had been laid open. “You can wear one of my shirts for tonight. Tomorrow Martin and I will buy you some new clothes.”

While he rummaged through his clothing, his back to Topaze, she stripped off her outer garments, her stays and petticoat, her shoes and stockings. He turned back just as her hands went to the drawstring of her chemise. She hesitated for a moment. She’d seen lust often enough in a man’s eyes to be on her guard. But Renaudot’s expression never changed. Ah, well. Despite his roguish manner, he was obviously a man of some breeding. While Philibert might find her desirable, she must scarcely be attractive to a man who seemed used to fine living, fine women. Not with her winter-chapped face and hands, her unkempt hair, her underfed body. She shrugged and dropped her chemise to the floor. What did it matter to her?

Renaudot settled himself into his chair again as she stepped into the tub and sat down He retrieved his wineglass. “Don’t stint on the soap.” He pointed to a large bucket of water that stood beside the tub. “When you’ve done, I’ll rinse you off.”

In spite of her initial protest, her sense that a
whole
bath was really only for invalids, she found that the experience was more pleasurable than she would have imagined. The soap was richly perfumed, filling her nostrils with the heady scents of roses and summer clover. She lathered her hands and rubbed them across her arms, her shoulders, the swelling roundness of her breasts. She soaped her hair, leaned her head back to rinse out some of the suds, then repeated the procedure. She scrubbed her feet, her legs, the delicate thatch of hair between her thighs. She scooped up handfuls of water and poured them over her shoulders and back, a gentle cascade that slid down in soft, stroking rivulets. She sighed. Maman would call her wicked for enjoying the sensual delights of the bath, the luxury of her nakedness. Her flesh, her very being, tingled with an unfamiliar sensation—a feeling, she suspected, that went beyond warm water, soap, a cozy fire.