Judith Ivory (25 page)

He made a wan laugh and came to sit beside her on the bed. “It was horrendous. My wife divorced me under the most damaging, most sensational circumstances she could manage.”

“For infidelity?”

He laughed again. It was a good guess, a logical
guess. And true; but only in a technical sense, not in spirit. “I wanted a divorce,” he explained. “And it seemed to me, being stupid and twenty-three at the time, that the gentlemanly thing to do was to go out and have a discreet affair to give my wife grounds. Only Madeleine was a little pigheaded about the whole thing. So I had a slightly less discreet affair. Then another.” He took in a breath, let it out noisily. “It turned into a kind of rampage. The miracle, I suppose, was that I didn’t end up with some social disease. Though, from one point of view, I contracted something of that ilk: I became infected with infamy. Anything I’ve ever done since has always been tinged with the impressions I made then. I’ve never been able to shake it.”

He leaned back, put his arms under his head. He was suddenly comfortable talking about this. “The papers had a field day,” he said. “An earl, not just divorcing, but divorcing in scandal. You can’t imagine. Madeleine began legal proceedings. I continued; a lot of drinking, craziness, a
lot
of women—and nearly all of it public. I had gotten on rather a roll, you see. She was so angry, and I was so happy she was. Eventually, I was cited for debauchery—some of which was actually true—that would make your hair stand on end. However, much of it wasn’t true—if you can believe me. I lost control somewhere. It all got out of hand. I was so covered in mud and slander after that year, I had to go abroad.

“Legally, though, it didn’t do her much good. English law is blissfully unfair on some points. She had two strikes against her. She was French, and she was a woman. This left my property and wealth virtually still under my control, no matter what she said I’d done. She won the divorce, but nothing more. She retreated to France. I haven’t seen her since the day the papers were signed.”

Was there no more to it, he wondered? Could it be summed up so easily as that?

He heard Christina sigh, very softly. She whispered, “Was it an arranged marriage?”

“No.”

“You were in love with her?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still?”

It didn’t take even a moment to think about. “No. I’m in love with you. And, for the first time in a dozen years, it seems all right to be in love again.” He added softly, “More than all right.”

“Then marry me, Adrien.”

He’d thought surely this little history would have daunted her. “I can’t—”

“You can—”

The trump card. “It was an English divorce, Christina. My wife was a French Catholic. In France, I am still married to her.”

He felt her roll onto her side in the dark. Away from him. “Oh God,” she groaned. But, other than that, he couldn’t fathom what in the world was going on in her mind.

He reached for her. “Christina,” he tried to tell her, “being my mistress is no disgrace in London society. My children have a good life. Marriage is an unnecessary complication—”

She rolled back toward him, onto her shoulders, and hit him. Right in the nose with the flat of her hand. It hurt, then made him sneeze. “Damn you, Adrien Hunt,” she whispered, “My father didn’t polish my speech and educate my sensibilities so I might decorate your own private brothel! I wasn’t bred to produce bastards!”

“And exactly how did you plan on getting around that before tonight? Now that you’ve wrenched some leverage from me, I suppose—”

“You pompous ass!” she hissed. “Did you honestly think I’d planned on going back to London with you and setting up house without another word said?”

“No, I expected—”

“I planned on leaving you, you idiot! At the first opportunity! I planned on going where no one would know any differently, making up a suitable lie, scraping together what dignity you’d left me and making a decent life for myself and my child—”

“Leaving me?” he broke in hoarsely.

“Leaving you! Is that so hard to imagine? That a woman might prefer some peace of mind and a little honor to your blithely bestowed favors?”

“Leaving me?” It was as if he couldn’t quite translate this foreign notion. He couldn’t grasp it. “You were perfectly willing to accept my blithely bestowed favors last summer in Hampshire.”

“Oh, you stupid man—”

“I’m stupid? You were, quite happily—and quite publicly, my mistress last August. You were looking for a way to extend things, not end them. Will you kindly explain to me the difference between now and then?”

“Six months. And a baby in my belly.” But she wouldn’t let him off there. “I tried last August, Adrien. I wanted you. I wanted to be able to be what Evangeline told me once I could be: a woman who took her happiness from what fate offered. But I can’t. I’ve tried, and I’m miserable! I feel like a slut when you touch me. I feel like a peasant when you order me about. I want to be good enough to share your name, to be your equal, do you understand? I’d be miserable with
just
your name, without your love. But your loving me—well, the choice is clear. I have a chance at happiness. Marry me. The other choice, starting again somewhere else without you, is awful, but a damned sight better than hating myself and you, too.”

There was a catch in her voice. “Oh, Adrien,” she continued, “can’t you see the difference? There would be too much notoriety beside you in London. I could never
dust myself off if you threw me over. And there would be this little reminder for everyone to look at—who, bless his soul, deserves at least a bit of what my father wanted for his grandchildren: a chance to look any man in the eye. There’ll be no doing that unless I leave to make that kind of life for him. And for myself—” She stopped, sighed noisily. “Oh dear, you’re absolutely silent again. This all sounds like some hopelessly concocted ultimatum, doesn’t it? It’s not. Honestly.”

“No. It sounds like extortion. Damn it, Christina. You can’t leave me! I won’t let you!”

“Only a husband can say that. Or a kidnapper. Are you prepared to be one of those, once in England?”

He smiled grimly, “Oh, a kidnapper by all means. I’ve really taken to that.” He rolled toward her, to pull her under him.

There was frustration in her voice. “You’re hopeless,” she said, “Do you know that? You’re beyond help.” She threw her arms around him. “And I love you. I don’t want to go from you.”

He slid his arms about her, feeling reassured by this admission. “Then that settles it. You won’t. Now, no more of this foolish talk, and brace yourself”—he laughed in what he hoped was a convincingly light manner—“I’m about to rape you again.”

“No.”

The smile left his face. Damned woman. He gnashed his teeth.

“No,” she repeated, “no more rape. I have a week before I must be strong; I’m going to enjoy being weak. Make love to me, Adrien. I want it.” He realized she had begun to cry silently. “I want it desperately.”

She pulled him down on her, until he had to resist to keep from lying heavily on the child. He frowned as she hiked up her gown and began pulling on his nightshirt. He caught her hands. “Damn it, Christina. Are
you going to badger me all week with this? And add the sweet morsel of, finally, being a little more agreeable. This threat is—”

She put her fingers to his lips. “Is nonexistent,” she finished for him. “Come kiss me. There’s no threat, honestly. I love you, and I want you.”

“And you won’t leave me. Say it.”

“Adrien, don’t bully me.”

“Now,” he said more sternly. “I want to hear this crazy notion of yours put to rest.”

“Adrien,” she pleaded with some emphasis.

He lay over her, silent, motionless; scowling.

She heaved a huge sigh. “Put away your lordly manner, my dear earl. Rest easy. I have no intention of badgering you into doing something you don’t want to do. As if I could. O-oh. Oh! Get up! The baby’s moved. I want off my back.”

He hesitated. He was relieved at her reformed attitude, and then immediately befuddled by her command to get up. He didn’t want to get off her. But the only play he’d never felt good about ignoring was the one he’d just had pitched at him. He was suspicious that despite previous intimations, he was being maneuvered away from the physical comfort he now wanted. Added guilt piled up on him when he remembered how much closer she was to term than he’d realized.

“Come on, now,” she said impatiently, “I can’t breathe properly with both of you on me this way. Move.”

He did. Grudgingly. She followed him, turning onto her side. She began to pull at his nightshirt again. He jerked to grab her cold fingers as they grazed over his warm belly.

“You’re not going to fight me now, are you?” she giggled. She rolled, pushing his hands up and out; she straddled him, settling on top of him. He laughed when she spoke. “I’m going to have my way with you, young man. And you may as well know, I’m merciless. I’ve
been known to kiss a man in unspeakable ways in unspeakable places. Are you man enough to take it?”

He broke her hold and hugged her. “I am man enough for you, Madame La Chasse. And man enough to tell you I love you. I love you with a passion, woman.”

It ended oddly. Just at the end, she began to cry again. He would never understand her, he thought; never. But the tears were brief and silent, and he let her think she’d hidden them—since that appeared to be the point of the mad wiping jerk to her eyes with her sleeve. Then she’d fallen asleep against him.

As the sun rose, he held her in his arms, feeling a deep contentment.

He had forgotten how pleasant it could be to have her cooperation. What pure sweetness it was to have her yield to him from the first. This physical satisfaction, the strong healthy movement of his child between them, the fact that Christina had given up on the idea of marriage, the sure feel of having everything his way—all should have made him perfectly happy. But there was a flaw somewhere. Some horrible flaw he couldn’t put his finger to.

He frowned at the sleeping face, the damp, tawny lashes, the great tummy, the yards of messy golden-red hair all over the pillows. There was a tightening in his chest at the sight of her. He truly loved her, he thought. What a blow. That must be what robbed him of complete contentment. He felt hopelessly vulnerable.

He gently wiped at the dampness, still there in traces, about her eyes. Those silly tears.

It hit him.

With growing excitement, Adrien knew he’d hit on the flaw: Her unhappiness. Her attempt to conceal it was at once sweetly generous and bleakly ominous. This sadness in her must run deep, be very frustrating. And he was the cause. He’d selfishly put his own fears
and reservations between her and all the things that would make her happy. And he’d done so like a bloody despot, worse than the poor dethroned king of France. No wonder she was up in arms!

Adrien stroked the hair of his
petite révolutionnaire.
He was distraught at the strange feelings in him. She was right. So much for the past, he thought. It was time to make a future. He loved Christina. He’d marry her. He’d tell her, no, ask her—he’d do it right and please every romantic notion in her pragmatic little head. He’d find the right moment and ask, “please.”

On impulse, he slid from the bed and tore through some bottom drawers of the bureau. He found what he was looking for—the stickpin that had somehow made it across the Channel, the one he’d taken from her after she had used it as a weapon. By the early morning light, he scribbled a note, stuck the tiny sword through it, then affixed its foil-clasp. Its diamond hilt glittered. It would make a wonderful surprise. He tucked it into the pocket of his coat. He would send it today. It would be ready and waiting when they got to England.

Unable to sleep any longer, Adrien got up and got dressed; exuberantly happy.

He had dozens of things to coordinate before their departure. He turned his attention to these details, anticipating with high spirits the rewards of this final plan.

Adrien was so transported with energy and elation, he could have shouted by the time he reached the streets. He bumped into a puppeteer, scattering papier mâché faces into the snow. He danced around the man, tossing heads at him with enthusiastic apology. He smiled an old lady into a swoon. Then jogged off toward the café and breakfast. He felt wonderful. In love with the world. By God, he pronounced to himself, Christina Pinn was good for him! He wanted to yell it out. And he’d be good for her! He’d make the
goddamndest effort a man ever made for a woman. He’d be a damned good husband to her. And a good father to their child. No, children! The idea of legitimate heirs pleased him all at once. He rounded the corner.

And froze.

The café was surrounded by a good dozen national guardsmen and a complement of another dozen or so
gendarmerie.
Too many for a search or sealing of the place. And, considering that Louis was supposed to be having his head basketed at nine o’clock this morning, there shouldn’t have been a single one, either guardsmen or police. Something important had to be calling them from the crowds and sights of La Place de la Révolution.

Adrien frowned and stepped back into the shadows of the building. A woman’s voice—Colette’s—screamed coarsely from within the building.

“The Earl of what? Well, you can turn the whole place upside down, if you want,” the voice screeched. “There’s no filthy Englishman here. And there never has been! A bunch of fucking bureaucrats you all are! No, your description reminds me of no one. Do you know how many men come in and out of this place in a day? What the hell would the mad Englishman be doing here? No, I know no one named La Chasse….”

Pressed against the cold stone wall, out of view, Adrien started making adjustments—major adjustments—to his plans.

Christina awoke late. She lay there, slowly becoming aware of the silent snow beyond the window, the coziness of her bed—Adrien seemed to have found wood; the fire was lit—then the emptiness of the room. A vague reluctance to pull from bed held her a moment longer. Then, like a huge, unwelcome shadow, the memory of last night’s conversation fell over all this. It ruined the small pleasure of her winter bed, like some omnipresent beast that had crawled in beside her to nestle in the indention of the mattress where Adrien had slept. His words, “I love you but…” These dampened and chilled the snug warmth of the room; then also dampened and chilled the comfortable satisfaction she had taken so much pain to make for herself.

All those determined months of knowing precisely what she was going to do, seeing just how she could see herself through this. So much had hinged on his not caring too deeply, on her ending sensibly what was going to end eventually, anyhow. Christina sighed. It seemed the end now was unfairly complicated.

She rose sluggishly. The child was low, heavy. Christina moved with effort, each step measured. Her robe was on the floor with all the clean laundry—what a mess. She bit her lip, shook her head, then moved back to the bed for her shoes. She picked up Adrien’s discarded pants and sweater and tossed them into a basket in the corner. Then plodded out to the front room.

She felt none of the lightness or energy she had experienced the evening before. Christina felt an aging without Adrien’s presence. And a responsibility that weighed heavier than the two stones of pregnancy that had added physically to her weight.

In recent months this responsibility had become a ballast. It had given her a kind of calm. The calm of decision and resignation. As her belly had expanded, she had seen her options shrink. No matter how many tantrums she threw, there were miserably few choices left her. There was only one consolation: As she had embraced the obvious wise choices for her own, she knew the woman in her was finally outdistancing the little girl.

The baby moved. When it did so now, it did so with less of a flutter, more the push and shove of a good-sized animal in tight quarters. They would meet soon, she and this stranger who seemed so much to have a mind of his own; deciding when to churn and thump at her, deciding when to sleep like a rock, deciding indeed to begin within her without so much as fair warning. With perfect presumption, this child decided everything. So much like its father. She smiled a wan smile, then patted her midsection. She would have Adrien’s child; it was still a wonder to her. The idea, still, as it had from the beginning, both pleased and appalled.

She hadn’t even considered the possibility when she’d come up out of her dead faint last August. There was Adrien, looking into her face, seeming a little perplexed, a little worried—then looking a good bit more
concerned as she threw up over the railing of the ship, which had not even cast off yet. She had continued, all the way across; heaving herself hollow, folding in on herself, unable to control it. Adrien had found he had her quite literally on his hands; she couldn’t stand. And still she hadn’t thought of pregnancy. For goodness’ sakes, she was barren; a doctor had told her so—doctors!

It was not till Adrien had carried her in from the deck (only to have her throw up in his berth), that the conclusion had been unavoidable.

As she lay there, he placed one hand firmly on her breast. She recoiled. “You pig! Don’t touch me!” She tried to pull away.

Then he moved her hand farther down, to where his own went. He pushed hard and low on her abdomen, “Here. You can feel it.” He took her hand under his and pushed again. “Your womb is coming up out of your pelvis.” He cocked his head to one side to look at her. “You’re really not pretending? You didn’t realize?”

She stared at him, trying to swallow the urge to be sick again. “Realize what?”

He shook his head, even had the nerve to smile a little. “You’re bloody pregnant, Christina. How could you not know?”

She was bewildered and, suddenly, very nauseous. “I can’t be,” she moaned.

“But you bloody well are.” He made an incredulous laugh, then threw his head back and laughed harder. “Barren, indeed. It had to be the middle of the summer, almost right away.”

“You’re happy!” She made a shove at him.

“No. Honestly.” Yet he continued to laugh. “I’m stunned,” then—the scoundrel!—“I thought you were safe.”

Safe indeed! She had never been safe with him. Not
from the first moment. And not till the last: The only way was to leave him.

And to this end, Christina needed very much to remember the scoundrel in Adrien, to remember the anger, the resentment she felt. Yet, after last night, it all seemed so hopelessly tangled. That he loved her—this seemed impossible, horrible, wonderful; the worst thing to be true. And the child, he would furious to be deprived of it. Christina had just realized that aspect last night. He had spoken of his children with great fondness. He would feel the loss of this child. In his own unorthodox way, he actually wanted it.

She was not pleased to deprive him of his child, nor was she proud of the deception she would practice in doing so. Months ago she would have relished such a strike against him. But now it was simply an unhappy by-product of self-defense. Being totally honest with Adrien—as she had seen last night—would mean countless rounds of bullying and charm and reasoning and persuasion and…He would be undefeatable in his persistence; too clever, too attractive, too relentless by miles.

A sound outside, brisk steps in front, made Christina turn. It must be Adrien. Then the steps halted as the front door began to rattle and bang under someone’s excited fist.

“Madame La Chasse! Madame La Chasse! Where is your husband? Did he come here last night?” A voice bellowed at her in French from the other side of the door.

She opened the door. “Monsieur Le Saint, what is the urgency?” She’d only seen the man once or twice before, but one did not easily forget the man or the name associated with him. “Oui, Monsieur was here, but he has left early this—”

Le Saint rushed past her into the room, darting
searching looks about. He charged into the bedroom as if expecting to find someone. He tore back out and grabbed Christina by the arms, breathing stale garlic and rum into her face.

“He
is
the Madman! Do you believe? He
is,
I tell you! I know it for a fact. But—oh—sweet Mother of Jesus—the committee knows it. The
big
committee!”

“What?”

“It’s true! They’ve issued a warrant with names and titles—Did you know he was an English lord? Mon Dieu! And a description of him accurate down to his”—Le Saint caught his breath, halted and amended his vocabulary in the face of Christina’s Madonna-like presence—“down to his toenails,” he finished. “They turned the café upside down this morning. It is only a matter of hours, maybe minutes, before they trace him here. No one was saying anything when I left, but—well—there is great pressure. The guardsmen were destroying chairs, tables, bottles, windows; looting and knocking people about damned freely. People will—well, if he doesn’t come back here in a short time, you should leave, pack up—”

They both froze. There were people, steps, voices, sounds of running coming toward the house. The door burst open.

A moment’s panic. Then Adrien. Looking concerned, immersed, involved, but whole and very clearly not under arrest. He was unstoppable, she told herself; he would handle this.

She got her instructions. Three brief phrases in English amid a torrent of mixed-language directives to the half-dozen men who quickly crowded in after him.

“Grab what you need. You’re going. This minute.” He turned to Sam Rolfeman behind him. “You get her away from me for the time being. Take her to the cottage. That should still be safe. Then stay with her.”

Christina frowned as she looked from Adrien to Sam, from face to face as the men all seemed to talk at once. “No—” she began. Anxiety overflowed into selfish channels. Not yet. They still had a week.

“Adrien,” she tried to break in. His French signaled and directed, pointing at this man, a break of his wrist to another, then a distance drawn with the side of his hand. “Adrien, I want to wait, go with—”

He held her off with a gesture and finished in rapid French to the others. Then he threw her a smile; it was a labored lightness even he couldn’t quite carry off. “I’m going to have one hell of a day. And you can’t run as fast as I can, my dear.” He tapped her belly.

“Don’t joke. We’ll hide. Then sneak out tonight.”

“Sam will take you to a very nice place to wait for me. Of course, we’ll hide. We’ll have a cozy day or so together at the cottage Sam will take you to. Then we’ll slip out through Spain. It’s all preplanned, Christina. Don’t worry.” Again the smile. “It’s safe. Now go.”

He’d turned his back. His very broad, beautiful back. Christina suddenly remembered the scar that embraced him, that encircled his body; a reminder of the last time he’d misjudged the French. It was no time to think of his fallibility. She cringed, then put her hand on his back, smoothed his coat. A coldness washed over her; it settled in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, Adrien seemed the only warm thing in the room. She hated what was here, these other men, their demands, France itself. It was an irrational sort of loathing; people who had been kind, a country that was essentially beautiful. But nothing felt beautiful now. She felt only an empty cold fear.

Adrien’s hand reached back to take hers and draw it around. She leaned against him. He brought his other arm over her head to her back, pulled her nearer. All the while, he babbled on. They stayed like that for some time. He, talking, stroking her hair occasionally,
brushing her shoulder with his thumb; giving no other acknowledgment. Christina, holding on to him with an icy premonition; it was all happening too fast, going all wrong.

She left him to go to the bedroom. There, she gathered up visaed passports, citizens’ cards, declarations, documents of French birth. No one traveled without such things. She grabbed up a few articles of clothes, some personal items, a few things for Adrien. Mysteriously, he had dumped out a bottom drawer; everything on the floor. From this, she picked out a fresh shirt and pants—then found herself staring at something that had been at the bottom of the drawer: A scarf. The red scarf. Why on God’s earth had he kept that? She grimaced and kicked it under the bed. When she returned to the front room, Adrien was speaking in English.

“…then relieve them of their papers and get to my grandfather’s house, on the Rue du Honneur. Arrest him with the papers. Wave your sabers about like any good guardsman, then loot the house of anything you think he might need to take with him. Don’t let him become suspicious that you are packing for him. And
don’t,
under any circumstances, let him know my hand is in this. For an arrest, he’ll come quietly. For me, he would singe your ears with his cursing and put up such a fight you would be lucky to get him away without breaking his bones. Oh, and watch his cane; he’ll have no compunctions about breaking your bones.”

“Adrien—” Christina was trying to gain his attention again. “What is happening? Why aren’t you coming with us?” He seemed annoyed as he glanced down at her. “Why aren’t you coming with me now?” she asked.

He kissed the top of her head. “I wish I had time to explain. You have to go with me on this. We’ll talk tonight.”

There seemed a signal among the men. Their feet began to stir; they were moving.

As Christina started to move through the door, however, Adrien grabbed her arm. He pulled her back into the doorway. There, just out of view, he took her into his arms and kissed her properly. Precious seconds. Delicious seconds. His body was frenetic, charged. She could feel the thrill coming off him, catching it—even against her will, against her better judgment—as he backed her against the doorjamb. She let it come.

She knew that what he was doing brought him alive; each time, each crisis, each impossible obstacle—as he climbed over, it brought an essential, vital renewal. Yet she knew this process was also killing him. If it didn’t do so directly today, then it would by inches, starting with his stomach. He was truly mad. And it was so easy to be mad along with him, when she could feel the muscles of his body reaching, straining for her, his tongue entering her mouth like he owned it. Her knees felt weak, her body flushed and warm. All logic and rational thinking rushed straight to her core and melted.

His mouth went down her neck to her bosom. His hands pressed her breasts as his mouth kissed what he exposed. His breathing became heavy. “Oh, Lord,” he murmured. He sighed noisily and raised his mouth to her temple. “Tonight,” he said. “Nothing on earth could keep me from you, Christina. You must know that.”

She made a wan laugh. “That’s precisely what I’m afraid of. Nothing on earth: If you end up under it, rather than on it—” She sighed. “Keep your earthly self together, please.”

“Yes. I shall try.”

Sam was leading her away. She was dazed. The last she saw of him, that day, was his standing on the porch, huddled in on himself, his hands in his pockets. With everyone moving away. He looked so harmless. So cold and alone.