the musketeer's seamstress (24 page)
Read the musketeer's seamstress Online
Authors: Sarah d'Almeida
Hermengarde opened a mirror in the wall, after touching certain points in the gilded frame. D’Artagnan wondered if there were any mirrors in this palace that were perfectly normal and didn’t open. Somehow he doubted it.
Past the mirror was a narrow passage and Porthos led the way into it with the look of a man who leads his friends on a path he knows well. Athos went second and D’Artagnan was third.
This meant that, being the shortest, he couldn’t really see more than a brief glimpse of the little shutter in the wall, as Porthos slid it aside.
“Impossible,” Athos hissed, as he prodded with his fingers. “You can see, Porthos, the portrait is fixed in place and there is no way to move it.” The back is a wooden panel and it is either nailed or glued in place.”
“I bet you I could move it nonetheless,” Porthos said in what he seemed to think was a whisper, but which was actually a suppressed boom, like a cannon firing under water.
“Porthos,” Athos whispered back. “You could move most things. That doesn’t prove that it is not fixed in place or that anyone else could move it.”
Porthos inclined his head, and seemed about to answer, but never uttered. And from Athos’s lips, something like a gasp emerged.
D’Artagnan, at the back, saw that each of his friends was looking through one of the eyes of the portrait the shutter allowed access to.
He might be the shortest. He might be the youngest. He might, in point of fact, know nothing about Paris and the court and its intrigues. And he certainly lacked the culture of Athos, the strength of Porthos or Aramis’s ability to understand what other people might be planning.
However, he was a Gascon. And this was a breed not known for letting itself be kept quiet, or silent, or pushed to the back of what was happening.
And so, with more force than strength, D’Artagnan pushed his shoulder forward, and stood on tiptoes, managing to squeeze his shoulder and upper body past Athos and, with Athos, look over Porthos’s shoulder and into one of the eyes of the painting.
Through this incomplete, narrow opening, he could see the room, bathed in the sunset light. And he could see the balcony door shaking, then opening inward.
Next to him, he felt more than saw as Porthos crossed himself.
A Musketeer’s Scruples; Between Girdle and Garter; A Decision Made
T
RUTH be told, Aramis began to feel regret before he put his hand within the warm, tight confines of Mademoiselle Lida’s girdle.
RUTH be told, Aramis began to feel regret before he put his hand within the warm, tight confines of Mademoiselle Lida’s girdle.
Oh, it was not that she was not all that was pleasing, or that she didn’t look very pleased in him. In fact, her reaction to his extending her the note was all that he could hope. Her eyes had widened and her dark red lips had opened in a smile.
And she’d played it like a woman used to these intrigues, so it wasn’t as if Aramis could feel guilty of déspoiling an innocent. When receiving his note, she’d done no more than slide it into her decolletage and flit away, as if nothing special had happened.
But he’d waited no more than a few breaths in the cool, dim chapel before she entered, demure looking, wearing a small hat from which a veil hung that hid her face. Such his state of mind from the few days he’d been here, and subjected to his mother’s vigilance and chastising that for a moment, on seeing the veil, Aramis was reminded of the story of Leah and Rachel and wondered who his mother had sent in, instead of the fair Lida.
But almost immediately, the temptress pulled the veil back to reveal her fine-featured olive-skinned face, with its mobile mouth, its large dark eyes. Her hair was modestly bound at the back, but he could still see it peeking, arranged in delicate ringlets, beneath the hat.
On seeing him, she rushed the four steps that separated them, crossing the chapel in the movement, because the chapel was almost no length at all, being a narrow space with three chairs and five kneelers and designed for the private devotions of Madame D’Herblay and the Chevalier’s family.
The family church proper, on the other side of the house, was much larger, more ornate, and contained pews at which the servants and the more important farmers of the domain would sit at Mass.
This small chapel contained only—over the altar—a painting of a nursing Madonna, at which Aramis could not glance without blushing because it had been painted in the image of his mother when she was very young. It figured Madame D’Herblay as the virgin Mary, arrayed in much richer attire than ever the poor Galilean could have mustered—rich cloth of gold veil, and ornate brocade dress, from which a pert, white, round breast showed, offered to the mouth of the babe. The fact that Aramis knew the babe to be himself and not the holy infant did not in fact make things any better. He’d been pictured at six months or so of age, a plump, handsome little boy, attired in a frilly satin dress and reaching longingly towards the maternal breast.
He knew breasts well enough to know the one portrayed in that painting had never nursed. In fact, not only couldn’t he imagine his mother doing something as uncouth as nursing her own child, as he had quite fond memories of his peasant nurse with her large breasts, her smell of milk and warmth. She had nursed him until he was three and a half and quite capable of speaking, so it was not extraordinary he should remember it.
All the same, knowing he’d never sucked his mother’s breast didn’t make the picture any easier, and looking up at it, as he crossed himself hastily, Aramis wondered if he should have found another place for the rendezvous.
But as Lida rushed towards him, she glanced at the figure over the altar, and smiled, a sweet smile, and coming closer, she asked him, “The woman is clearly the lady your mother—is the infant yourself as a babe?”
He swallowed and nodded and felt his cheeks color.
“Oh, he’s so sweet,” she said, and, standing on tiptoes, she planted a kiss on Aramis’s cheek. “And you’ve grown up to look just as sweet, if a lot more manly.”
She spoke perfect French with just the slightest trace of a Spanish accent and, as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him, he caught a fragrance of roses from her, as if she had bathed in macerated flower petals. It reminded him very strongly of Violette, and of Violette’s smell, and for just a second, he hesitated.
But then Lida threw her arms around his neck and, standing on tiptoe, covered his lips with hers, and pushed her tongue, boldly, between his lips.
Her passion inflamed him. His hands reached to encircle her, then, as though of their own accord, up towards her hair, which he loosed down her back.
His fingers entwined in her hair, so soft, so silky as to seem a substance that had been sent down from heaven. Like wisps of dream. Like bits of cloud. Her mouth tasted sweet and, faintly, of strawberries.
As she pulled away, at last, to draw a deep breath, she said, “Oh, when I saw you at the entrance, I think I fell in love with you at first sight. I wanted so badly that you would be my intended husband, instead of some dry, old count whom I’ve never met and with whom my father wishes to curry favor.” She kissed him again, and pushed herself against him.
Aramis was only human. She felt warm and delightful in his arms. It had been too long and he had endured great trials. And she was bold and capable—much too capable if truth be told. She pushed him down onto one of the chairs and sat on his lap, and toyed with his blond hair.
“You look so severe,” she said. “In your dark clothes. And your mother says you have a vocation for the church.”
Aramis said nothing. He allowed her to press herself against him and to caress him. It seemed to him he had been cold for a long, long time, and her warmth against his flesh was a welcome comfort.
And then he found his hand beneath her skirt and searching around for the girdle which cinched her undergarments.
Her thigh, between girdle and the beginning of her stocking proper, was warm and soft. He moved his fingers upon it, feeling skin like velvet.
Violette had felt so. And Violette had smelled like this. Of a sudden, it was all too much for him. He put his head on her shoulder and moaned, a soft moan of loss and regret, as his hand retracted, to rest upon his own thigh.
“What is wrong?” Lida asked, alarmed. “What is wrong?”
Aramis realized he was shaking. The overwhelming grief of losing Violette hit him suddenly and without reprieve. He thought of Violette’s soft skin, her luscious body. And he thought of other things . . . The way she played with him, the way she teased him. Her words, her letters where she pretended to be a mere seamstress. The way she understood him. The way their souls resounded together like goblets cut from the same crystal. He didn’t even know why or in what way.
Before her there had been many, and perhaps there would be more after her, but not yet, not . . .
He realized he was crying on Lida’s shoulder, his tears soaking the velvet of her dress. She pulled him to her, called by some ancient maternal instinct, resting his face upon her softly rising and falling bosom.
This reminded him even more of his Violette, and it brought out his tears yet more abundantly, till he was sobbing openly, like a child.
“You poor man,” Lida said. “You cry for fear of sinning, do you?” And, with gentle hand, she pulled back the hair that had got stuck to his moist face. “Don’t be,” she said. “You could marry me. I could break my engagement to the horrid old Count, and you could marry me. Then you could do as you please to me, and not feel guilty.”
Slowly, slowly, Aramis brought himself under control.
“Mademoiselle,” Aramis said. “If you must know . . .” He swallowed hard. “I had a lover. As close a lover as one can have without actually being married. I was with her for years, forsaking all others. And she got murdered, just a few days ago, while—”
“While you were in her room,” Lida said. “I know. I thought you might feel guilty over that, and that’s why I say you could marry me.”
Aramis stared into the dark, dark eyes and wondered if the girl was telling him she was sure he had killed his previous lover and then could marry her.
“How do you know about my mistress?” he asked.
“Your servant told your mother who told me, by way of warning me.” She smiled reassuringly at him. “I don’t know why your mother wished to warn me. The lady was not a lowly woman or a peasant,” Lida said. “Clearly your tastes are to the highest nobility. And if she had the misfortune of being already married when you met her, I do not have that misfortune. I find that your being so in love with Ysabella de Navarro de Dreux that you feel guilty about having an affair without marrying her is quite romantic. One of the tenderest things I’ve ever heard.”
Aramis shook his head. How could he explain tender to her? And how could he explain love? He didn’t think any less of her because she didn’t understand the depths of his feeling. He, himself, wouldn’t have understood anyone’s feelings on the matter. Hadn’t understood anyone’s feelings on the matter. He’d comprehended marriage only within the bounds of arranged unions. That someone could marry for love, marry by their own free will, contrive to live with one person his entire life was alien to him, and strange.
Lida’s words poured into his ears, inconsequential and meaningless, like the pleasing babble of a brook, “You know, they were from our area of the country and they had only two girls—those two. To preserve the dowry of this one, her twin was consigned to a convent before the age of ten. They say she’s very holy and has visions. Strange, isn’t it? Perhaps she expiated the guilt of her sister, and perhaps Ysabella is in a better place.” Lida patted Aramis on the shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure that must have happened. So, you see, Chevalier, there’s really nothing to fear of guilt or sin, because Ysabella’s holy twin, the nun, will have expiated sins for both of them. And doubtless, even now, your lost lover is in heaven praying for you. And as for you, you don’t need to commit any more sin. You can marry me, as I’m yet maid, and then you can do as you please.” She smiled wide at him. “Your estate is not nearly as grand as that of the tiresome Count I was to marry, but you know, you are younger and more pleasing to the sight, and I don’t mind. I’m sure I can learn to be pleased with your small estate.”
Lida poured into his ears assurances that he could marry her and that once they’d engaged in conjugal bliss all would be well. He wished he could believe her. He wished life were that simple. In his heart, in his mind, he now realized he’d never forget Violette. When she’d died she’d taken a piece of him to the tomb.
And he, wretch that he was, had accepted his friends’ offer of investigating for him. He, wretch that he was, had come all this way, had hid behind his mother’s skirts, had spent all this time thinking he could forget her. Had thought, even, that he could replace her. Or at least forget her beloved touch in the touch of another. But life would not permit it.
Slowly, he edged himself out from beneath Lida till at last he moved her to the chair, and he stood beside her.
She blinked her lovely eyes at him, in confusion. “Chevalier?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” he said. “I am so sorry.”
“But . . .” She blinked. “You have done nothing wrong. You have done nothing to me.”
“No,” he said. And because, in looking at her, he felt guilty for bringing her all the way out here and then crying on her. In his long and abundant experience with women Aramis could safely say this was the first time he had cried on a woman’s shoulder.
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