Prelude to Heaven (10 page)

Alexandre had not resumed work. Instead, he was watching her as she approached, and as she came to where he stood, she saw that wide, brilliant smile curve his lips. “I thought you might be thirsty,” she said, feeling suddenly, inexplicably shy.

“
Merci
.” He scooped a ladleful of water and swallowed it in one draught, then he refilled it and drank again. When he dipped the ladle into the bucket for the third time, she chuckled. “I think I was right.”

But to her surprise, he didn't drink it. Instead, he offered it to her. “Do you want any more?” he asked after she’d swallowed a few mouthfuls. When she shook her head, he added, “Then stand away.”

When she stepped back, he tossed the ladle aside and lifted the bucket and poured the remaining water slowly over his head. “Ahh,” he said with obvious pleasure.

Tess stared, watching the water flow over him, forming tiny rivers between the muscles of his body and glossing his smooth brown skin. A queer little ache hit her in the belly, forming a knot of heat and radiating outward, up her spine and down her legs, to the top of her head and the tips of her toes. She felt strange, suddenly, restless and fluttery, her gaze riveted.

When he flung back his head, drops of water spattered her like a light drizzle of rain, but it didn’t bring her out of this strange reverie. When he held out the bucket to her, it took her several moments to realize it.

“Thank you again, mademoiselle,” he said as she took the bucket from his hand, then he turned to resume his task.

“Can't I help you?” she called after him.

“
Non
. You have done enough for one day.” He paused amid the weedy garden and nodded toward the shade. “Lie down and rest. Have a nap.”

He resumed his task and she returned to the well, where she put the jar of milk back in the bucket and lowered it into the cool water far below. She then returned to the shade of the chestnut tree. She had no intention of napping, not while he was doing all the work, but the day was warm, and she did feel very sleepy, and some things were difficult to resist. It wasn’t long before her eyes fluttered shut and she drifted off to sleep.

That didn’t take long, Alexandre thought, smiling as he looked over to the chestnut tree and saw that the mademoiselle’s eyes were closed and her hands had fallen to her sides. He'd finish this row, he decided, and then he’d join her. A beautiful summer day like this almost demanded a nap. Besides, he hated gardening.

Tess was still sound asleep by the time he approached the chestnut tree, but he knew leaning back against the rough bark, with her head tilted sideways could not be comfortable.

He sank down to the ground beside her and grasped her shoulders. She stirred, but she did not awaken as he turned her body and eased her down to the grass. He stretched out fully, positioning his body perpendicular to hers, with her head in his lap. His belly wasn't the best pillow he could offer her, he supposed, but it would do.

Tess explored the vineyards and winery on the following day. She couldn’t help noticing the vines, which grew lush and unchecked along their poles, were badly in need of pruning. It seemed a shame that an established vineyard like this should go unattended, but Dumond didn't seem to care. She wondered if there was anything he did care about.

Thinking of him brought back memories of the day before, when she’d woken from her nap with her head resting on his stomach. Shocked, she’d moved to sit up, but his hand had reached out in sleep to stroke her hair, and for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, she had remained where she was, forcing herself to relax. Slowly, her shock and apprehension had eased away, allowing her to actually enjoy the feel of his strong fingers caressing her hair and his flat, hard stomach beneath her head and the deep, rhythmic sound of his breathing.

Tess stopped walking, staring with unseeing eyes at the grapevines that stretched out before her. She’d enjoyed that sleepy afternoon yesterday and that brief touch of human contact. After a while she’d sat up, careful not to wake him, and watched him as he slept. It was a curiously intimate act, watching a man sleep, and something she’d never done in the whole of her married life. Nigel would never have allowed it, and even if he had, she certainly would not have enjoyed it.

But she’d enjoyed watching Alexandre, liking how his thick lashes rested like tiny black fans beneath his closed lids and how his hard, lean face took on an almost boyish quality in sleep. She’d noticed how his wide chest tapered to his narrow waist, noticed it with a wholly feminine appreciation she hadn’t felt in a long time.

When he had woken, she'd liked the lazy way his arms had moved above his head, his body stretching even as his eyes remained closed. She hadn't seen any more because she'd turned her face away and leaned back against the tree with eyes closed, feigning sleep as she’d heard him sit up.

Tess looked around, seeing more than a vineyard, remembering long-forgotten truths. One man wasn't always just like another. A man's hand could do things other than inflict pain, such as spoon soup into the mouth of a sick woman, paint life into a blank canvas, provide a gentle caress. She’d forgotten that.

She remembered other men. Her father, whose hand had composed sermons and wiped away her girlhood tears. Old Herbert, whose hands had planted flowers with loving care. Nigel had blotted out everything good she’d known about men. But Alexandre was helping her to remember.

The sound of a bird rustling its wings as it flew past broke into Tess's reverie. She resumed her walk through the vineyard, feeling lighter of heart and more optimistic about life than she had felt in a very long time.

At the edge of the vineyards, she found the gray stone buildings that formed the winery itself. She tried the first door she came to, and when she found it unlocked, she went inside. Stairs to her right led down into the yawning darkness of cellars below ground, while all around her lay dusty, unused equipment.

What a waste, she thought, walking between rows of shelves laden with dusty, empty bottles, the sunshine pouring through the doorway lighting her way in the cool, windowless room. She knew little of wine making, but it was clear this winery had been productive and busy. Thrifty by nature, Tess simply could not understand why such a viable source of income remained unused.

It truly was a shame, she thought as she emerged from the first building into the bright sunlight. She turned toward the other buildings, intending to explore them as well, when she halted abruptly.

Several yards away, in the shadow between two buildings, stood a donkey. The animal carried nothing, but its back was swayed from too many past burdens. The bones of its ribs and flanks plainly showed its hunger. Tess's heart constricted with pity, and she took a step forward, but the donkey shied back with a frightened bray.

She reached out her hand and moved forward more slowly, speaking to the animal in a soft voice. “It's all right, love. Don't be afraid.”

The donkey didn't shy this time. It simply stared at her with dark, sad eyes, seeming too tired to care. When she stepped closer, she was able to see the reason why.

The animal’s back and sides were crisscrossed with the scars of a whip, and dried blood caked the most recent wounds. Anger, shimmered through her, and along with it, something else. Empathy.

Tears stung her eyes and she reached out a tentative hand to stroke the donkey's neck. “I know,” she choked, “Yes, I know.”

The donkey hung its head, as if ashamed, but with no logical reason to be. She knew all about that feeling, too.

Suddenly, it was too much. Tess wrapped her arms around the donkey's neck, buried her face in its short, ratted mane, and cried like a child.

It was a long time before she lifted her head. “You ran away, didn't you?” she murmured, brushing away tears with a swipe of her hand. “Don't worry. I shall take you home with me, and whoever did this will never, ever raise a whip to you again. I swear it.”

Grasping the mane, she led the animal toward the château. It followed obediently, resigned to whatever fate lay ahead.

The late afternoon sun was falling behind the rocky hills in a blaze of crimson and salmon against the azure blue of the sky as she led the donkey to the stable. She put it one of the stalls, then went in search of Alexandre to see if there was any feed available to give the animal.

She found him in his studio, cleaning paintbrushes. “
Bon soir
, mademoiselle. Is it time for us to prepare
le diner
?”

She shook her head impatiently, their dinner the last thing on her mind. “Do you have any oats? Any hay?”

“Oats? Hay?” A puzzled frown creased his brow at her curious request. “It's summer, mademoiselle. Sophie won't need hay until autumn.”

She sighed. “So you have none, then?” When he shook his head, she asked, “What about grain?”

He set down the brush, turning to face her. “There is a bag of oats in the buttery, I believe. What is all this about?”

Tess hesitated, suddenly realizing that he might not be pleased about the donkey. Wildly, she wondered if she could hide the animal, feed it in secret, but she knew at once such a plan was futile. She had no money for feed.

“Mademoiselle? Why do you need grain and hay?”

His voice broke into her thoughts, and she reminded herself that Alexandre was not like Nigel. “Come with me. I'll show you.”

She took him out to the stable. As they approached its stall, the donkey lifted its head, but its ears hung down like long, limp blades of grass. Dispirited, it stared at them without moving.

“I told you I’d be back,” she told the animal, reaching out to rub between its ears. “And I’ve thought of a name for you. How do you like Betsy, hmm?”

“A donkey?” Alexandre was staring at the animal in disbelief. “You brought home a donkey?”

“I did. I found her in the vineyards.”

“What in heaven’s name do you intend to do with it?”

“Take care of her, for a start. You can see she's been abused. She needs a home.”

“You work too hard as it is.”

“Alexandre, feeding one donkey isn’t much of a burden.”

“And after you're gone?”

Tess grimaced at the reminder that her situation here was only temporary, but she stood her ground. “I'll take her with me. In the meantime, I intend to keep her.”

“You can’t keep it. She probably belongs to one of the peasant farmers hereabouts, and he'll want her back. These people are poor. They need their animals.”

“Whoever owns this donkey forfeited all rights to it by treating her so cruelly.”

“That doesn't signify. Under the law, a man has the right to do what he wants with his animals.”

That's what men say about their wives, too,
she wanted to shout. “If the animal really meant anything to the owner,” she said instead, “he wouldn't have abused her this way. Men should...” She swallowed hard. “Men should protect and take care of what belongs to them. Look at her, Alexandre. Abused and starved. Have you no pity?”

Alexandre’s lips thinned, pressing tight at the accusation. Then he turned away. “If its owner comes looking for it, we will have to give it back,” he told her and turned to leave the stables. “If not, you’ll take it with you when you leave.”

Without another word, he turned and walked out of the stables, but her words insisted upon echoing back through his head as he went back to the château.

Men should protect and take care of what belongs to them
.

He passed the now well-ordered garden, knowing he'd have to keep on weeding the damn thing from now on. He marched up the back stairs and across the spotlessly clean kitchen, remembering he still didn't know where she'd put the paintbrushes he’d left there, a fact he found quite irritating at this moment.

The tap of his boots echoed on the now dust-free floors as he headed toward the stairs to his studio, the only place in this house that still seemed to be fully within his purview. She wanted a donkey? Well and good. She could be the one to take care of it.

He started up the stairs, but his attention was caught by a flash of color, and he stopped, turning to stare at the jar of wildflowers on the hall table. From there, his gaze moved to the door that led into the dining room and the basket of plums that stood on the table. Suddenly frustrated by these homey touches, he shouted, “I just want to be left alone!” The words echoed in the empty château.

A faint meow answered him, and he glanced over his shoulder to the foot of the stairs. There, on the bottom step, was Augustus. The kitten moved to follow him up the stairs, and Tess’s words echoed through his mind again.

A man should take care of what belongs to him
. “No!” he told the kitten, pointing toward the kitchen. “You don’t belong to me. Go back.”

Augustus seemed unimpressed. He skipped up two more steps, then sat back on his haunches and stared up at the man on the stair above him, uttering another meow.

Alexandre sighed, wondering exactly when he'd lost control of his own household. He didn't want a housekeeper. He didn't want a donkey. He didn't want a cat. A goat and some chickens were all he could handle.