Prelude to Heaven (31 page)

Sally was almost like a shadow at her elbow. On those rare occasions when Tess did manage to escape the maid's vigilant supervision, a footman would appear within moments to take Sally's place at her side. She knew why, and she could not blame them. They were only following orders.

Only at night could Tess be alone. But even then, there was no escape. The door was always securely locked from the outside.

Every time she’d run away, every time he’d dragged her back, he always made sure she was carefully watched and well-guarded. When they went to London, he would perhaps give her more freedom, if she behaved herself. Not so much because he trusted her, but because it was more difficult to confine her, given the social demands they both would face.

The door opened and a maid appeared with a tray. Tess did not glance up as the maid cleared a space on the table and placed the breakfast tray before her. It contained a pot of tea, hot buttered toast, and jam. Blackberry jam. Almost violently, she pushed at the tray. “Take it away, Nan. Please take it away!”

“Yes, my lady.” The maid took the tray and departed, and Tess did not miss how she shook her head sadly at Sally, nor Sally’s frown of worry at her continual lack of appetite.

“You must eat, my lady.” Sally came to stand beside her chair.

Tess did not reply. Instead, she put her elbows on the table and lowered her face into her hands as images flashed across her mind. Images of dark purple blackberries, azure blue skies, and brick red hills. Her daughter's green eyes, lavender in bloom, and orange kittens. Alexandre’s hair, black as a raven's wing. All the vivid colors of Provence.

“My lady,” Sally's voice pleaded with her, “you must eat. The master said—”

“All right.” Tess lifted her head. “Have Nan bring fresh tea and toast, please. But no jam.”

Sally left the room on this errand as Tess rose and walked to the window. It was raining again, she noted, striving not to think about the warm sunshine of Provence. In the distance, she could see the roses blooming in her newly-planted garden. Nigel had torn out the shrubs that had been there, allowing her to put a garden of her own design in that spot, but she had taken no joy in the project.

The garden was another gift from Nigel, and therefore it was impossible for her to take pleasure in it. His gifts were the result of his violence, and any gift he gave could always be taken away from her the next time he was angry.

She leaned closer to the window and looked down, watching the rain spatter against the flagstones below. Far, far below.

Her hand shook a little as she opened the window. A damp draught of wind and a shower of rain hit her face, but she put her head out, appreciating what a long distance it was to the ground. If she should fall, she might be killed.

She leaned a little farther out the window.

You must have courage
. Alexandre's words came back to her, and she froze, poised on the edge. She stared down at the ground below, thinking of him and all that he had suffered. He had courage, the courage to endure. She bit her lip, uncertain, and the will to pitch herself forward over the sill deserted her. She yanked herself back from the window, hating herself for not having the will to die and for not having the courage to live.

“My lady!” Sally's astonished voice intruded.

She watched the girl walk past her to the window and close it. As Sally turned the latch, Tess turned away.

She endured the remaining days at Aubry Park as she had endured all the other days before. She got through them one at a time. In the mornings, she practiced at the pianoforte or did embroidery. In the afternoons, she gave instructions to the gardeners about modifications to her garden. Most of the time, she was able to keep thoughts of her life with Alexandre at bay, but sometimes, late at night, when the heavy English rain drummed against her window and she was alone, Tess would close her eyes and remember the colors of Provence.

***

The drawing room was crowded with people. It seemed as if all the rich and fashionable of London were gathered here. Although it was a flattering tribute to his success, it was also oppressive, and Alexandre felt the need for some air.

He shouldered his way through the crowd, oblivious to the many pairs of speculative feminine eyes watching him, and made his way out of the drawing room. He descended the stairs to the foyer and was relieved to discover it empty.

Even after spending two months in Paris and nearly a month in London, he still wasn't comfortable with the constant social demands required of him. But making witty conversation with rich patrons, making flattering comments to their wives, and partnering their daughters for waltzes and quadrilles, though often tedious, was also necessary.

And his success spoke for itself. Tonight's soiree was in his honor, a toast to a wildly successful exhibition at the Royal Academy. Even the Prince Regent, who always made an appearance at the annual event, had complimented his work. Immediately afterward, he had been inundated with commissions.

Now he worked at a breakneck pace, painting portraits of anyone who could afford him. He continually raised his fees, but each time he did, his commissions doubled. He had, he realized, become a fashion.

Alexandre was amazed at his own rapid rise, but the irony of it did not escape him. His social and commercial success seemed to be fate's compensation for private failure.

“There you are.”

The rich, languorous voice and the smell of subtle, expensive perfume broke into his thoughts. Alexandre opened his eyes to find his hostess before him.

Though she'd buried two husbands and was no longer in the blush of youth, Camilla Robinson was no man's idea of a dried-up widow. Beauty, style, and charm clung to her as effectively as the scarlet silk dress she wore. She could discuss the latest fashion or the latest political intrigue with equal knowledge. She and Alexandre had become great friends, and her connections made her one of his most powerful allies. “With all of London at your feet, why are you hiding in here?” she asked.

“I wanted some air.”

“You realize it ruins my reputation as a hostess when the guest of honor feels the need for some air?” Her voice was teasing, but he sensed the concern behind it.

He straightened and gave her his arm. “My apologies, madame. We should go back before people begin to wonder exactly where we have gone.”

Her warm laughter filled the foyer as they walked back toward the drawing room. “You needn’t fear for my good name. I've been considered a scandal for years. And you're an artist, so of course everyone makes assumptions about you. So...” She halted and eyed the man who stopped beside her. “Since everyone already thinks we're lovers, we could live up to our reputation, you know.”

The words were lightly spoken, but Alexandre knew they were not so lightly meant. He turned to her, taking her gloved hands in his. “Camilla—”

“Would it be so difficult?” Her dark eyes searched his face, and she sighed. “You could tell me about her, you know.”

Startled, he dropped her hands. “Who?”

“Suzanne's mother. I'm not blind, Alexandre. You adore that child, and it doesn't take much to guess how you must have adored her mother. You were married for many years, and I can appreciate how difficult it must have been for you when she died.”

He wondered now if he should have told Camilla the truth about Suzanne. It was widely assumed he was a widower, and that his wife's death had occurred in childbirth eight months, not three years, before. But his private life was not for public display, and he had allowed people to think what they liked. Given the isolated life he had led for so long, it hadn't been a difficult secret to keep. But, for a brief moment, as he looked in Camilla's eyes and felt the genuine warmth of her concern, he was tempted to reveal his secret just for the sheer relief of confiding in someone who cared. He pushed aside the impulse.

Recapturing her hands in his, he said, “Your concern touches me deeply,
mon amie
.”

“But?”

He shook his head with regret. “I cannot.”

She let go of his hands and slipped her arm through his once again. “Then we should definitely return to the party, or we shall have the scandal without the rewards.”

Camilla asked no more questions, and the party was declared a smashing success, but he left before it was over, returning to his rented house in Curzon Street. Though the hour was late, Alexandre lit a lamp and walked down the hallway toward the nursery to look in on Suzanne. Moving quietly so as not to awaken Paul and Leonie, who had accompanied him to London and were sleeping in the adjoining bedchamber, he crossed the nursery and lifted the lamp above Suzanne’s crib.

She was fast asleep, and one glance at her round, sweet face was sufficient to remind him that all the work he was doing was worth it for her sake. She would have the best of everything life could offer, including all the love he could give.

The strands of her hair had an incandescent glow in the lamplight, and as he touched the delicate wisps of golden-red, an image of hair a darker shade entered his mind. Most of the time, he refused to think of Tess, but despite his best efforts, she often stole into his thoughts, and it took every ounce of discipline he possessed to drive her out again. Even tonight, he had found himself searching the room for a glimpse of her.

Perhaps he should have taken Camilla up on her offer. Perhaps the warmth of another woman's body would banish Tess from his mind for good. But deep down in his heart, he knew that wasn't so. Only time and work would cure what ailed him, and Alexandre suspected that a great deal of both would be required.

***

June

Tess pasted a smile on her face as the butler announced her name. Walking across the drawing room, she held out a pair of gloved hands to the stout, gray-haired Lady Wentworth.

“Countess Aubry, at last!” Lady Wentworth squeezed her hands briefly, then released them. “I heard you had finally arrived in Town.”

“Yes, Aubry and I arrived only a few days ago. Lovely weather, isn't it?”

“Indeed, it is. So refreshing to have some sunshine after all the rain this year.” Lady Wentworth gestured to one of the other two women seated in the drawing room. “I believe you already know Lady Ashford.”

The tall brunette in yellow silk bobbed her head slightly in acknowledgment. “Lady Aubry, how delightful to see you again.”

Liar
. Tess smiled, ignoring the animosity that emanated from Lady Ashford's side of the room, feeling an overwhelming tiredness. Only a few days into the season, and the effort to keep up appearances was already wearing her down. That did not bode well for the months ahead.

“This is Miss Felicia Colebridge, of the Shropshire Colebridges,” Lady Wentworth added, causing Tess to turn to the other young lady in the room.

“Of course. How lovely to meet you, my dear.” Tess gave the pretty blond a smile and took a chair, then removed her gloves and accepted a cup of tea from her hostess.

“Miss Colebridge is a cousin of Lady Grenville,” Lady Wentworth went on. “Like you, Felicia is only recently arrived in London. So unfortunate, since it is her first season.” She gave the girl an affectionate smile. “She will be making her debut at the Grenville ball tomorrow night. And she will soon be presented at court.”

“Indeed?” Tess murmured. She took a sip of tea and glanced at the girl. “How exciting for you.”

Felicia gave her a wide smile. “I’m actually finding it quite intimidating.”

“I can imagine.”

“Really?” Lady Ashford's voice intruded, dripping sweetness. “Can you?”

Tess met the other woman's eyes over the tea tray. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Lady Ashford that if she wanted to warm Nigel's bed, she was more than welcome to do so, but she turned her attention back to Felicia Colebridge instead. “No, actually, I can't imagine it,” she confessed, returning the girl’s smile with a rueful one of her own. “I was never presented.”

“Three years ago, Lady Aubry managed to catch the most eligible bachelor of the Season without even coming to London.” Lady Wentworth supplied the information to her young friend between sips of tea. “He met her when he visited his mother in Northumberland that spring. They were married a month later.”

“A whirlwind courtship!” Felicia exclaimed. “How romantic.”

Tess's smile faltered, but she propped it back up with an effort. Most people believed she and Nigel had a match made in heaven, and she did not dare display any hint that it was otherwise. It had been hard enough for a poor vicar's daughter to be accepted by the
ton
. If they knew Nigel's treatment of her, many would say it was only to be expected when a man married out of his class. She didn't care what society thought, but Nigel did, and he would punish her for anything negative said about either of them. Nigel's punishments were always extremely unpleasant. A shiver ran down her spine.

“Tess, my dear,” Lady Wentworth's voice interrupted her thoughts. “We were so distressed to hear of your long illness. More tea?”

Tess held out her cup, and murmured a noncommittal reply, knowing that whatever she said about being “ill” would be common knowledge by the next day. “How sweet of you to be concerned about me.”

“But are you well now? Forgive me, but you look quite pale.”

“I'm perfectly well, thank you. My time away did me a world of good.”

“We heard you'd gone to France. Menton, I assume. Or Nice, perhaps?”

“Neither, actually. I spent most of my time in a small, quiet village on the coast.” Tess's mind searched desperately for a change of subject. “Enough about me and my wretched ailments. Having missed the entire Season last year, and half of it this year, I long to hear all the gossip.”

That was all the encouragement Lady Wentworth needed. By the time Tess arrived home, her head ached from an afternoon of making trivial conversation, and her mouth ached from smiling. Calls were a dreaded necessity. She hated the effort it took to keep up the pretense of a blissful life. What she wanted and desperately needed was a true friend in whom she could confide. But there was no one she could trust with her secrets. No one at all.