French Passion (9 page)

I was pregnant.

“Be you all right?” asked Old Lucien.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, and proved it by sitting up.

“Then we best be getting home,” he said.

We moved slowly in the crush of horses and lackeyed equipages that filled the cathedral square. Then our coach moved along snow-muffled streets.

“I shouldn't have made you come tonight,” Aunt Thérèse said at last. “What a fool I've been. A stupid, blind old fool!”

“Auntie, you're too good to think bad thoughts.”

“It started that night I was away, when you told him about the robber mistreating you, didn't it?”

Nodding, I shivered a little.

“And I thought him kind!” she said. “Manon, you should have told me. I have friends, old and poor to be sure, but friends. They would have helped us. He's a monster!”

“Oh, Auntie, he's not bad, really. He would've married me without a dowry. Until … well, it's all past. He's been generous. He got Jean-Pierre the commission, we have the house. He's helped me keep this relationship from you.” Why was I defending the Comte?

“I won't have you selling yourself to keep me and Jean-Pierre! We'll walk out tomorrow morning.”

“Where to?” I asked bitterly. “Auntie, none of your friends would dare help us. The Comte is a powerful man.”

“Then we'll find employment.”

“Half Paris is seeking employment,” I said. “Auntie, can we save money out of the housekeeping allowance?”

“He goes over every account with me to make sure nobody cheats us. Him.” She sighed. “But don't worry. We'll manage. I won't let you submit to him anymore.”

“He won't want me.”

In the dark coach she made a small questioning
mmm
sound.

“He thinks I'm … well, pretty. He enjoys looking at me. And soon I won't be enjoyable to look at. I'm going to have a baby.”

“A baby? But you aren't married!” Aunt Thérèse cried. “How can you have a baby?”

I hugged her.

“I meant,” she said, “girls of good family don't have babies unless they're married. Maybe we can invent a husband who died.”

“We've got other things to worry about. Starving. Freezing. We
have
to find a way to get money. Otherwise—Auntie, think of that poor girl tonight.”

“But she's … a bad woman.”

“So am I. You heard them. So am I.”

And we moved in the elegant new carriage toward the charming house near the Palais Royale.

Even though the Comte had partially explained himself to me, I never understood him. He was too old for me to understand, too important. Besides, there was always that barrier of his amusement. Of one thing, though, I was positive. He'd never keep a mistress big with child. He collected perfection. The day my body swelled into distortion he'd send us packing.

How would I support Aunt Thérèse and Jean-Pierre while I had the baby? And there was Old Lucien riding postillion; I had to see he wasn't sent away to starve. Once I'd had my baby, I'd have no problem finding a new protector. Already three of the men who came to my Friday salon had made overtures. But until after my confinement, what would I do? My hands clenched on white lynx. I didn't know what this fur had cost, but I guessed the amount would keep us comfortably for a year. He'll take it back, I thought. And my jewelry. But my clothes are fitted to me. If the Comte lets me keep them, we'll sell them. How much are second-hand clothes worth? How many gowns and
robes de toilette
do I own? My brain swirled in a frenzy of questions.

Before I let Aunt Thérèse help me into bed, I went to Jean-Pierre's room. His bed curtains were open, and he lay on his side, one hand under his flushed cheek. Sleeping, he coughed. How would my brother, with his delicate health, fare in this cold winter? Quietly I pulled his hangings.

In my sofa bed I thought of my gowns again. There was the green silk, twice mended by Monsieur Sancerre, the blue velvet, the white brocade trimmed with ermine. The celadon wool. Three dainty morning frocks. How much were they worth? And the lingerie? What would I be allowed to keep? What? And all at once, like a candle being snuffed, I fell into a sound sleep.

Chapter Nine

I woke to a series of thunderous blows. Someone was pounding imperiously on the front door. It was still dark. The night watch sometimes came to make sure all was well, and I decided this was the check. As soon as the pounding ceased, I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow, trying to escape back into sleep before my fears caught up with me.

The bedroom door was flung open. The Comte stood there, folding his arms across his chest. Behind him, a terrified maidservant held a chamber stick. He gestured. She set the candle on the dresser, scurrying out.

He's going to throw us out tonight, I thought, and my brain whirled in a panic. Ten weeks ago I'd struggled to escape him and now I wanted to stay. No, I just want my clothes, I thought. I raised up on my elbow, determined to talk him out of lovely silks, fine lawns, exquisitely stitched lingerie. But how? The Comte was a mystery to me. Worse, his dignified amusement reduced me to a child—helpless or bewildered, brave or stubborn, petted or playful—but always a child. That just makes it more difficult, I thought, but not impossible. A cold determination came over me. Our lives depended on the next few minutes.

“Well?” he demanded, striding to the center of the room. He'd changed from bridal white to his customary black.

“Well what?” I surprised myself with a joking tone. Yes, I thought, it's best not to beg. “It's
your
wedding night.”

“As you're very aware!” he snapped.

Since that uncontrolled, uncontrollable rage, he'd used a faintly mocking note with me. My heart tripped with fear at his anger. Yet in a way it was better. At least I could understand anger.

“You saw me?”

“Everybody in France saw you,” he said. “You made yourself excessively visible.”

I was again in the cold, candlelit cathedral, with the blaze of gems, great silken islands of panniered skirts, the beautiful, malicious fairy-tale people.

“Why were you there?” he demanded.

“Aunt Thérèse. She said you're our guardian, and you've been so kind that one of us had to show up. Jean-Pierre is ill.”

“Regardless, your brother should have faced them, not you.”

“He has a fever!”

“Very convenient for him.”

“He does!” I snapped back. And forgot, completely, that I was going to have to tease our clothes out of him. “I should've explained to Aunt Thérèse
why
you're so kind. But I thought we'd stay in back, and nobody would notice us. Oh, how I wish I'd explained to her! It would have been far kinder than the way your friends let her know what I've become.” The sudden anger drained from my voice, and I went on bleakly. “Did you have to tell everyone at Court about us, you and me? They all knew whose daughter I am. These people
knew
my father. They said Raoul d'Epinay's daughter has become a whore. And it's true. I
am
your whore. Generations of honorable folk, and then me. A whore … and that's what … how poor Auntie … she heard.…”

I'd never let myself weep in front of him, but the memory of shame was too much. I turned my head so he couldn't see.

A chair was dragged over to the bed.

“I've never told anyone about us,” he said quietly. “But people come to the house. And each one of them, my dear, certainly knows more of life than your good aunt. You're spirited, beautiful. And every once in a while I confess to glancing at you.”

“One horrible old man wondered if you were ready to pass me around.”

“Is that why you fainted?”

“I fainted because I'm pregnant,” I blurted out.

And began to shake. I should've agreed that I'd swooned from shame. It would have made it far easier to wheedle the clothes from him. Why hadn't I given myself more time? I hated my compulsion to blurt out the truth.

I let out a shuddering breath. Then the silence was absolute. The candle flickered, and Chinese birds moved in paper branches.

Finally he asked, “Is it mine?”

Incredible, incredible! The question never had occurred to me. Was my child fathered by André, whom I loved, or by the Comte? I didn't know. And as I lay on my sofa bed, it came to me that it didn't matter. The father didn't matter. The baby was mine. I would love it, play with it, keep it warm and safe from having to scrounge in offal heaps.

“Is it?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

“I don't know.”

“Look at me.”

I rolled over. Shrewd raisin-dark eyes peered into mine.

“You really don't know,” he said finally. “Do you?”

“What does it matter?” I asked. I took a deep breath. “Comte, can we keep our clothes?”

“An odd request,” he said, “from a woman whose gowns soon won't fit.”

“We'll need money,” I explained. “Clothes can be sold.”

“Second-hand goods, my dear, are often more worthwhile than new.”

“Then you'll keep them to sell yourself?” I couldn't stop my leaden despair from being audible.

“I was merely following our old metaphor.”

I turned on the pillow. We won't have the clothes, I thought. We'll have to find another way, there's got to be another way to survive.

“You bewilder me.” He paced to the foot of the bed. “Wouldn't it have been best to say the child was mine?”

“But I told you—I'm not sure.”

“You're so young, so heartbreakingly young. An older, wiser woman would have foisted the child off on me.”

“Should getting older make me lie?”

“It's not unheard of for a man to cherish his bastard.”

At the word
bastard
I winced. Looking down the length of the bed, I was surprised to see my own misery reflected in the clever monkey face.

He said in a low voice, “Your clothes are your own.”

“They are? I thought they were so I could look nice in the salon. Part of our agreement.”

“Keep them.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you, Comte, very much.”

He came to sit by the bed again. “My first wife was barren.”

“Go home,” I said, feeling a lot more cheerful. “You'll father some on the new Comtesse.”

“I've already performed my marital duty.”

I wondered how the corpulent Comtesse felt about a husband who left her on her wedding night. They were too noble to share a room; still, tonight wouldn't she expect her bridegroom to sleep in her bed? For a moment I pitied her. But I had my own troubles. “Is the rent on this house paid at the beginning of the month?”

“Why?”

“If the rent's already paid, we can stay until the new year and it wouldn't cost you a sou.”

“My dear, must you keep talking as though I'm here to toss you into the snow? How do I deserve your worst suspicions?”

I bit my lip, remembering that first brutal rape. He must have had the same memory.

“How many times,” he asked, his tone haughty, “do I have to apologize to you?”

“If you aren't here to ask us to leave, why did you come?”

“You fainted. I needed to see you were well.”

“Tonight? You should've sent a servant.”

“For this?” he asked, bending over to cover my mouth with his. He'd been drinking sweet wine. The kiss lasted while he stretched on the bed, pulling me so close that his diamond buttons pressed through my thin night shift. “Should I have a lackey order you not to outshine my brides?” He was smiling.

I smiled back. “Are you planning other weddings, Comte?”

“For a dowry that size, one does what one must. But no, I'm not planning other weddings. Now. Since your good aunt has her blinders off, I refuse to tiptoe like a thief from a house I pay for. I intend to sleep very late.”

“But the new Comtesse—”

“A wife has no rights over her husband. My dear, don't disturb yourself over her. My bride's interests lie with pastries, bisques, and sweetmeats.” He was pulling up my silk night shift. “You aren't my whore. You're my pleasure.” He touched my breasts tenderly. “Sore?”

“A little.”

He kissed each nipple. I put my arms around him. I was grateful, very. The whole evening had been pointed toward disaster. First Jean-Pierre's illness reminding me how frail was human life and how much I loved my brother. Then, that poor, half-frozen little streetwalker, Izette, showing me my possible future. The shame loudly broadcast in Notre Dame. And, finally, the realization I was with child, coalescing my hopes and fears for all of us. I didn't understand the Comte, yet I trusted him. Even if he left me after tonight, we could sell the clothes, and survive. So maybe it was gratitude. For the very first time, his kisses and caresses roused in me the faint fringe of desire. Pulling off his wig, I traced strong tendons at the back of his neck.

Later, as he went into me, he gave a deep sigh. “Did you really believe,” he asked, “that I would give up something I'm this fond of?”

Propped by pillows, I sipped my chocolate.

The small table and gilt chair had been drawn up to the bed, and the Comte, in his white lace-trimmed shirt and black breeches, was buttering a croissant. It was still snowing, but in the fireplace apple wood blazed.

A cozy scene. In my morning languor I wondered idly whether the Comte missed his valet and two footmen. As if guessing my thought, the Comte reached over to put buttery, flaky dough in my mouth. He smiled.

Wooden shoes clattered up the stairs. He glanced questioningly at me. My servants, like everyone else's, wore carpet slippers in the house so as not to disturb their employers.

In the corridor I heard Old Lucien's voice and a feminine whisper that I couldn't quite place.