Prelude to Heaven (12 page)

The man’s arrival was also noticed by Alexandre, for he swung the ax to sink it into the chopping block, then turned toward the approaching visitor. “Monsieur,” he greeted pleasantly, not seeming to notice that the other man had paused a good ten feet away. “What might I do for you?”

The man was short and rather stout, with a thick mustache. His clothes were tattered and stained with dirt and wine. Tess did not miss the nervous way he twisted the strap of leather harness in his hands.

“Monsieur?” Alexandre said again when the other man did not speak. “You are trespassing on my land. I suggest you state your business.”

The man pointed toward the pasture. “I have come for my donkey.”

“Indeed? And what proof have you that the animal is yours?”

The fat little man drew himself up, nervousness giving way to indignation. “The donkey is mine. She has my mark on her flank.”

“She has your mark, right enough,” Alexandre agreed, his voice suddenly hard. “The mark of your whip.”

The man bristled. “I want my property. If you do not hand the donkey over to me, I will go into the village and see the
maire
.”

“That will not be necessary.”

Tess squeezed her eyes shut at Alexandre’s reply, feeling slightly sick. Betsy, she feared, was doomed.

She forced herself to open her eyes, and when she did, she found that Alexandre had turned his face away from the visitor. He was staring straight at her. She ought to duck back behind the drapery, she knew, before the other man followed Alexandre’s gaze and perceived her standing there, but she couldn’t seem to move. She was unable to look away from the intense black eyes boring into hers.

Alexandre was the one who looked away, muttering what might have been an oath before returning his attention to the man before him. “How much?” he asked, the harshness of his voice as he asked the question making the other man jump. “How much for donkey?”

The man stared at him in surprise. “You want to buy her?” When Alexandre confirmed that with a sharp nod, he said, “One hundred francs.”

“One hundred?” Alexandre made a sound of derision. “The animal's not worth ten.”

“Livestock is scarce, monsieur. One hundred francs.”

“Twenty.”

The man gestured heavenward. “I couldn't replace her for that! Eighty.”

“If you take her back, you'll continue to mistreat her, she'll die, and you'll have no donkey and no money. Thirty.”

“Fifty. I'll go no lower.”

The man's stance and tone of voice were firm, and Tess held her breath, waiting. It seemed an eternity before Alexandre replied.

“Fifty, then,” he said tersely. “Wait here.”

Tess turned from the window, leaning back against the wall, filled with relief, gratitude, and something else, something that flooded her the way sunshine flooded a darkened room. It was happiness, another thing she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. A smile spread across her face.

***

Fifty francs for a donkey. It was outrageous. Insane. Outright robbery.

Alexandre strode into the house, walked past where Tess stood by the window, fetched the money, and returned to the courtyard, all without a single glance at her. He’d made the mistake of looking at her once already, and it was because of the plea he’d seen in those big green eyes that he was now handing over an extravagant sum for an animal that he neither needed nor wanted.

“Fifty francs,” he said as he dropped the coins into the other man’s palm and grabbed the harness. “Now go.”

The farmer departed, scurrying back the way he had come. Alexandre watched him disappear from view, wondering in disgust what had happened to his good sense. Fifty francs for a donkey.
Mon Dieu
.

He turned to resume his task, but as he did so, he made the mistake of glancing at the window. Tess’s smile pierced him like a sword, slicing through his defenses like a physical blow.

She was looking at him as if he were her
preux chevalier
, and he felt suddenly suffocated.

He knew he was no knight in shining armor.
Disillusion her
, he told himself desperately.
Tell her the truth about yourself. Tell her about Anne-Marie. Tell her every shameful detail, and see how she looks at you then
.

He couldn't do it. He said, “I have to finish chopping the wood.” Turning back to the stump, he seized the ax and resumed his task at a fast and furious pace. He did not look at the window again.

***

During the week that followed, Alexandre began to avoid her. He rose before she did, remained gone all day, and only returned after she had gone to bed. Sometimes, she would find a bucket of freshly caught fish on the table when she came down to the kitchen in the morning. Other times, she would find a chicken or pheasant, freshly plucked and butchered, when she returned from her afternoon walk. One day, she came down to find a hip bath in the kitchen with a note that told her she could use it if she wished. But she hardly ever saw him. When she did, they exchanged only a few brief, polite words before he excused himself and vanished again. She had no idea what he did all day, but it was clear he did not want company.

When she’d first come here, she would have welcomed a man’s avoidance, but in the month she’d been here, she’d come to enjoy the time she spent with Alexandre, and after a week of eating her meals alone and having only the animals to talk to, the château seemed terribly lonely without him. And perhaps more important, she was reaching the point in her pregnancy when being alone most of the time was probably not a good idea.

She needed Alexandre, but he didn't need her. She needed his company, his strength, his help, but he required nothing from her, not even her friendship. Tess found that fact quite depressing.

He was a good man, but he was also a complicated man. Unreachable. There were moments when he let her into his solitary world, but they were brief. The walls around him always came up again before she'd even realized they'd fallen down. Why? He made no effort to seek out the company of anyone. In truth, he went to great pains to avoid contact with the outside world. He went to great pains to avoid
her
. Why?

Tess knew she had no answers, only questions.

Augustus strolled over to where she stood and rubbed his head against her skirt, meowing. “I know,” she said with a sigh and peeked beneath the table. “I miss him, too.”

As she did her morning chores, Tess wondered what she could do to bridge this chasm between them and make them friends again, but she didn’t know how, and though she racked her brains for an idea, it wasn’t until she was on her way back to the château after taking the animals out to graze that an idea came to her.

She stopped abruptly on the path, staring at the wild tangle of the berry patch, its canes laden with huge purple-black fruit that had ripen in the July heat.

“Perfect,” she said and went for a pail. “That’s absolutely perfect.”

Two hours later, Tess carefully wrapped blackberry tarts in linen napkins and placed them in a big basket she’d found in the buttery. Under the tarts, the basket contained the sausages Alexandre had left for her, along with bread, a pot of mustard, cheese, and wine—everything needed for a picnic. All she needed now was Alexandre.

She’d hoped he would return while she’d prepared the tarts, but when it was nearly noon and he hadn’t yet appeared, she decided she’d have to go in search of him. She placed a cloth over the top of the basket, hooked it over one arm, grabbed her straw hat, and began her search.

She went to his studio first, thinking he might have slipped up there while she was going about her chores, but he wasn’t there. The studio, however, gave her a splendid view in all directions, and she took advantage of it, studying the landscape for any sign of him, but it wasn’t until she looked out over the foothills to the north that she spied his tall form amid the lavender that grew on the hillsides.

She watched him for a moment to discern his direction, then she went down to the kitchen, retrieved her picnic basket and started after him, circling around so that their paths ought to cross at the bend in the dry stream bed. But when she arrived there, Alexandre was nowhere to be seen, and though she waited, scanning the hills above, she saw no sign of him.

It had probably been wishful thinking to believe she could run him to ground by anticipating where his walk would take him, and yet she was keenly disappointed that she hadn't somehow managed it anyway.

Tess knew she ought to go back. Two hours of walking through the hills in the summer heat when she was six months pregnant had probably not been wise. Setting down the basket, she pushed her hat back on her head and took once more glance up and down the dry steam bed, over the meadow behind her, and along the rocky, tree-dotted cliffs above. “Alexandre?” she called, but only silence was her answer.

Giving it up, she lifted the basket and turned back. He'd probably turned at the bend in the stream bed and headed for the road to the village instead of across the meadow toward home. “It was silly idea anyway,” she mumbled to herself as she picked her way carefully amid the rocks of the stream bed.

***

Alexandre shut the book in his lap, realizing he’d been staring at the lines for ages without reading a word. Impossible to read when the memory of a woman’s beautiful green eyes and radiant smile kept getting in the way. He tossed the book onto the grass beside him and settled back against the ancient olive tree, his gaze roaming the hillside and meadow below, but in his mind, he still saw nothing but Tess. All he’d done the other day was buy a donkey, for God’s sake, but she’d looked at him as if he was king of the earth for it. He’d been avoiding her ever since.

He knew he couldn’t keep it up, but he didn't want to see her look at him that way—with trust he didn't deserve and expectations he couldn't fulfill. It hurt. It reminded him too much of what he'd once thought himself to be. He couldn't be any woman's hero, not anymore.

Last night when he’d finally come home from yet another long walk, he'd seen her from the courtyard. Bathed in lamplight, she'd been sitting at the kitchen window, mending what looked to be one of his shirts, humming to herself and waiting, he knew, for him to come home. No one had waited for Alexandre Dumond to come home for a very long time.

His gaze moved down the pair of black trousers he wore, trousers she'd left beside the shirts, to rest thoughtfully on his boots. The black leather now gleamed from the polish she'd given them. He’d hired her to be his housekeeper, but he hadn’t really required her fill the role, and he wanted to tell her she didn’t have to mend his shirts or clean his boots, but he sensed her pride demanded it. At the very least, however, he should tell her to stop waiting up for him, and yet he found himself reluctant to do it. Those moments of watching her in the window last night, knowing she been waiting for him, was like a balm to his soul, and selfishly, he didn’t want to give it up.

“Alexandre?”

The sound of her voice calling his name caused him to turn his gaze to the rocky stream bed below. He could see her far below in the dry stream bed, looking around, a picnic basket beside her feet.

What was she doing out here searching for him? Didn't she know better than to go tramping around in the heat? She was probably lost.

He watched as she picked up the basket and turned around as if to go back the way she’d come, but suddenly, she stumbled on the loose stones and pitched forward, falling to the ground. The picnic basket flew from her hands, its contents spilling out as it rolled away.

He was on his feet in an instant, moving faster than he'd ever moved in his life. A glimpse of stone stairs and a flash of tumbling blond hair and blue skirts danced through his memory as he raced down the hillside. His heart was in his throat as he watched Tess roll over slowly onto her back with a soft moan, and he felt as if history was repeating itself.

He stopped beside her, breathing hard, a sick knot of dread in his stomach.
Don't let her be hurt
, he prayed as he sank to his knees. “Tess! Tess! Are you all right?”

She drew a deep breath and nodded. “I think so,” she said, but her voice was shaky. She started to sit up, but he stopped her, his hand pressing gently on her shoulder to keep her on her back. “Do you feel any pain?”

She stirred experimentally, then winced, giving him his answer. “My ankle. I think I twisted it.”

He waved that injury aside for the moment. “But the babe, Tess. What about the babe?”

“I'm all right.” Despite his protest, she sat up, cupping her hands beneath her round abdomen. “The baby is, too.”

“How do you know? What if it isn't?” The knot in his stomach tightened, and he muttered an oath.

She placed a hand on his arm as if to reassure him, and she was actually smiling. “Babies are very resilient, you know.”

“I don't know anything of the kind! Tess, you took ten years of my life when you fell. Do you realize that?”

“You saw me fall?” Her smile faded. “You were watching me. You knew I was here.” There was accusation in her eyes.

He rolled his eyes heavenward. Who cared about that now? He moved away from her side, toward her feet. “Which ankle hurts?”

She didn't have to tell him. Her cry when he lifted her right foot was his answer. He pushed her skirts higher up her legs and eased off her leather shoe. He cradled her foot in his lap, running his hand over her stocking-clad ankle. “I don't believe it's broken, just sprained.”

“Why?” she asked.

He knew what she was asking, but he ignored the question. “Are you certain you're all right? No other pain anywhere?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

He retrieved the basket, placing Tess's slipper and hat inside. The food and broken bottle of wine, he left where they were, and put the basket in her lap. “I'm going to carry you back to the house,” he said, sliding his arm beneath her knees. Stop me if you feel any pain.”

She nodded, and he lifted her into his arms, but as he rose to his feet, he realized he was feeling a bit shaky. He stilled, cradling her against his chest, thinking about what could have happened. “
Jesu,
” he muttered, resting his chin atop her head. “I saw you fall, and my heart was in my throat.”