Prelude to Heaven (30 page)

He stared hard at the portrait. Or perhaps she had, even then, been thinking of her lover, wishing he were the man with her. Had she really been such a good actress? Had he really been such a fool?

Alexandre took the painting down from its hook on the wall. He ought to burn it, but he could not bring himself to such a course. Instead, he did what he had done with another woman’s portrait over three years earlier. He carried it up to his studio, wrapped it in a sheet, and put it with all the other canvases stacked against the walls.

He then went to the nursery. Suzanne was crying, almost as if she, too, knew her mother had deserted them. Leonie was holding her and pacing the floor, patting her back in an effort to soothe her wracking sobs. Alexandre walked over to her and took Suzanne from her arms. “You should take Elise out for a walk,” he said, “else you'll soon have two crying babies.”

“Yes, monsieur.” Leonie started to turn away, but paused. “Monsieur?”

He looked into her face and saw the sympathy there. He glanced away. “Yes?”

“Paul and I would like to stay with you permanently. If you wish it?”

“Thank you, Leonie. Yes, please stay. I will need your help.”

“That is what we thought, monsieur.” She bent and lifted Elise from her cradle, then left the nursery, closing the door behind her.

Alexandre sat down in the nearest chair and cradled the crying Suzanne against his chest. He felt his heart breaking with each sob she gave. He watched her grasp his finger in her tiny hand as if she were clinging to a lifeline, and a fierce wave of protectiveness washed over him.

“Hush,” he murmured, placing a kiss on her forehead. “You are my daughter, and I will take care of you. I will always take care of you. I swear it.”

As the sun set and the room faded into twilight, he heard the church bells of Saint-Raphael announce the evening mass, each toll a melancholy echo of Suzanne's sobs, and Alexandre would never be sure if the tears that stained her cheeks fell from her eyes or from his.

***

Tess watched the trunks filled with beautiful new dresses being carried up the sweeping marble staircase of Aubry Park. Nigel, of course, had chosen them during their five-day stop in Paris, and had paid handsomely to have them made in so short a time. But then Nigel was always able to pay for what he wanted.

She pulled off the luxurious merino traveling cloak she wore and handed it wordlessly to her maid. Sally smiled and murmured shyly, “It's good to have you home, my lady,” but Tess only nodded and moved toward the stairs, feeling like a marionette in a children's puppet show.

Nigel insisted she dress for dinner. There was, of course, no discussion, no argument. She wore the new ecru silk he liked, not out of a wish to please, but because he told her to. She ate, she smiled when she was told to smile, she went through the motions of making polite dinner conversation, but she did it all as if in a dream. She thought nothing, she felt nothing.

After dinner, she was permitted to go to her room. She stood in the center of her richly furnished bedchamber, staring at the thick, rich carpet beneath her feet. Not the same one as before, she noted. The bloodstains from the night she’d shot Nigel must not have come out.

Or perhaps that horrific night he’d almost killed her ten months ago had been a dream.

The shivers began in her belly, radiating through her until her entire body was shaking so badly she couldn't stand. She sank into the nearest chair. And she waited.

Gradually, the trembling in her body stopped, and a cold, calmness took its place. She knew what would happen tonight. He would demand explanations, and she would repeat her story of being a nursery governess. She remembered how he'd examined her hands in the carriage, how he’d seen the callouses. Not for the first time, it occurred to her that she'd have to explain those somehow. Although, really, did it matter? He probably wouldn't believe her explanations, and even if he did, he would still punish her. Curiously, she didn’t even care.

The door opened, spilling light into the darkened room, and she stiffened in her chair, all her senses suddenly sharp and alert. She heard his footsteps behind her, but she didn't turn. Instead, she stared straight ahead of her, staring at his reflection against the glass of the darkened window. She watched him, and she waited.

He set the lamp on her dressing table. Then he walked around to stand in front of her. She lowered her head to stare at his boots, not wanting to look at him, and she waited.

He bent over her, lifting her chin with one finger. His smile was benign, and if she had cared, it would have frightened her more than any angry words. But months away had not allowed her to forget that her best—her only—defense was complete indifference to her fate. Her gaze was steady as she looked into his angel-blue eyes, and she resigned herself to whatever would come next.

“Welcome home, my dear,” Nigel said and slapped her across the face.

April 1819

Alexandre went to Paris as he and Henri had planned, and his exhibitions there proved both successful and profitable. When he returned home, the first thing he did was take a tour through the vineyards with Henri, and he found no fault with any of the work that had been done during his absence.

They passed two men who were replacing diseased vines with new cuttings, and he paused to watch them, but they immediately scrambled to their feet, jerking off their caps and brushing hastily at their work-stained clothes, clearly apprehensive.

He hastened to put them at ease. Gesturing to the newly- planted vines, he said, “Well done, messieurs. We should have a good vintage from these in five or six years.”

Henri, who had paused beside him, gestured to one of the two workmen and said, “This is Monsieur Armand Calvet. He will be in charge of the cuttings nursery when it is finished.” He beckoned, and Calvet stepped forward with a slight bow.

Alexandre studied the younger man for a moment. “You look familiar to me, monsieur. Have we met before?”

“My father was in charge of the nursery under Monsieur Caillaux.”

Alexandre nodded, enlightened. “I remember your father from when I was a boy. He was a fine nurseryman.”

“Comte de Junot,” Armand spoke, using Alexandre's formal title, “my sons told me of their swimming lessons with you and how that came about. My thanks, Comte.”

“Your sons are fine young men. They do you honor.” He turned to resume his tour, beckoning Calvet to come with them. “Walk with us, monsieur. I am interested to hear your opinions for the building of the nursery.”

“I will give them gladly.” Calvet turned to his companion, gave a few instructions for what to do in his absence, and then accompanied Alexandre and Henri.

The three men spent the afternoon debating which new varieties to cultivate, and the discussion was a long one. When evening came, Armand accepted an invitation to dine and the discussion was continued.

It was well into the evening before the nurseryman departed, but it was not too late for him to stop at the tavern for a few glasses of wine. The other men listened, several shaking their heads in disbelief, as Armand related his observations about the Comte de Junot.

There had been plenty of talk in the village during the past few months. Everyone knew the winery was to commence operations again, a move they had greeted with cautious optimism, for though the Comte had been a recluse for years, an oddity at best and a danger at worst, the reopening of his winery meant more work and prosperity for everyone.

In addition, they knew of how the Comte had saved Armand's son from drowning, for Armand had related that tale months earlier, when he'd discovered the Comte had been giving his sons swimming lessons.

They knew of the Englishwoman who'd been his housekeeper and who'd gone off with the rich Englishman, leaving behind a baby. The Comte had adopted the child, making her paternity clear, but had there been any doubt of it, Armand's tale of how he'd sat at table with the Comte and seen with his own eyes how the man adored the baby would have laid that doubt aside.

“But what about his wife?” Gaspard Leclare's voice rose above the din of speculative voices in the tavern. “We all knew Anne-Marie Dumond. She died after he pushed her down the stairs.”

“If that's true,” Armand countered, “why would her brother-in-law come back here and become a partner in the winery? Why would her sister return here? Would you live in the same house with the man who killed your sister?” Armand took a sip of wine and added, “I think Françoise was mistaken. I don't think she saw the Comte push his wife down the stairs, even though she says she did. She's old, that one. Her eyes are bad, and the light in the winery is not good. I think it was an accident.”

Some of the men nodded, willing to consider the possibility that old Françoise might have been wrong about the Comte.

***

“You have done wonders in my absence,” Alexandre told his brother as he poured a brandy for each of them.

“I should hope so,” Jeanette interjected from her seat on the sofa and took a sip from her glass of wine. “He's been working so hard, I've seen less of him than you have.”

“She exaggerates,” Henri assured, accepting the snifter of brandy Alexandre handed him and taking one of the two chairs before the fireplace. “Tell us about Paris.”

“It was quite profitable.” Alexandre sat in the opposite chair and gave Henri and Jeanette a summary of the past three months. “We will have enough cash to continue as planned. Barely enough.”

“I see.” Henri grinned and turned to his wife. “No lavish parties for you, Jeanette.”

She made a face at her husband. “As if I care! Tell me, Alexandre, how long will you be home?”

“Not long. A few days, perhaps.” He looked at Henri. “Have the arrangements been made for London?”

“London!” Jeanette's astonished voice interrupted any reply Henri might have made. “I thought you were off to Florence?”

“I can’t now. Because I lingered too long in Paris, a trip to Florence shall have to be delayed until later in the summer. The annual exhibitions are held at the Royal Academy in London in May, and a successful showing there is one of the surest ways to find portrait work and sell paintings. London would be a much more profitable use of my time than Florence, and the winery shall need as much money as I can earn.”

“We could loan you the money,” Jeanette said. “You don’t need to go to London if...if you don’t wish to.”

“Why would I not wish to?” he asked, but behind the question, his voice was hard even to his own ears, and he strove for indifference. “The London season is quite entertaining, and more important, the city shall be teeming with rich, important men who will want portraits done.”

“The Royal Academy invited him to apply and they accepted him when he did,” Henri pointed out. “He cannot back out now.”

“I realize it would be difficult,” Jeanette murmured, “but still—”

Alexandre made a sound of impatience, causing Jeanette to pause in mid-sentence. “This discussion is pointless. I have to go. It would be foolish not to.”

“Would it?” Jeanette rose and came to stand beside his chair. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “You might see her, you know.”

He shrugged off her touch, then rose and crossed the room to stand before the fire. What she said was true, of course. Tess moved in circles where women wore dresses of bronze silk and diamonds. In London during the Season it was quite possible, even probable, that he would see her. He closed his eyes, not wanting to think about how much it would hurt if he did.

“You might consider not taking Suzanne with you.” Jeanette's soft suggestion broke into his thoughts, a suggestion he was quick to negate.

“No.” He grasped the poker and began to stoke the fire. “I will not leave her behind.”

“It's only for a few months.”

“No. She is my daughter now, I will not abandon her, and we will not discuss it any further.”

Jeanette sighed behind him. “Very well.” But under her breath, she added, “I hope you know what you're doing.”

***

May

Tess sat at her dressing table, watching as Sally packed her things for the journey to Town. There was still a great deal to do before they could depart, but she felt no inclination to stir. Lethargy and apathy were her best friends now.

She turned her head and stared dispassionately at the stunning emerald bracelet that lay in a velvet-lined box on her dressing table. Idly, she pushed up the sleeve of her dressing gown and observed that the bruises there were fading. Soon they would be gone, and there would be no more excuses for remaining at Aubry Park.

He always gave her gifts afterwards, as if that could make up for the bruises. She had hoped he would go to London without her, but of course, he hadn't. He had insisted on standing by until she was fully recovered from her latest “illness.”

Sally bustled to and fro, setting aside some items to be packed and returning others to the dressing room, but whenever the maid asked her preferences, Tess merely shrugged and gave the same answer. “Pack whatever you think best.”