Louisa Rawlings (22 page)

He looked uncomfortable, as though his unfamiliar kindness unmanned him. “I’ll see you at supper.”

“No!” She clutched at his sleeve. “For pity’s sake, Lucien. Stay.”

“Only for pity’s sake?”

“No. Stay because I want you so very much at this moment.”

He smiled and dropped to the bed beside her, gathering her in his strong embrace.

They supped quietly that night. Madame Le Sage had left them alone for their final night together. Topaze found herself watching him, studying him. She couldn’t forget his tenderness, his sweet concern.
Perhaps
, she thought,
he could learn to love me after all.

Then he raised his glass and smiled at her across the table. “A toast to the morrow?”

Dear Virgin Mother
, she thought.
Let him love me.
She returned his smile. “To the fulfillment of all our hopes and wishes,” she said.

His eyes glinted with a terrible light. She saw in his face the diabolical stranger she’d first met. “To vengeance,” he said softly.

She shivered. She was afraid of him. In the deepest recesses of her heart, she still feared him. And couldn’t even tell why.

He slept in his own room that night. She could hear his nervous pacing until long after the moon had set.

He gave her a purse of money in the morning. In case she needed to escape Grismoulins in a hurry. They said their farewells and she climbed aboard the wagon. She smiled down at him, but her heart was breaking. What did it matter about the money? She loved him—couldn’t he see that?
Oh, Lucien
, she thought.
Tell me not to go. Tell me it isn’t important to you, your mad vengeance.
She gazed at him, all her love, all her longing, in her eyes. The wagon started to move.

Lucien held up his hand. “Wait!”

Her heart leaped in her breast. “Yes?” she whispered.

He stared. His face twisted, seeming torn by a deep conflict. Then he frowned and rubbed his hand across the scar on his cheek. “Remember the signal on the windmill. I’ll see you in a month, Véronique.”

Chapter Thirteen

The road to Grismoulins was narrow and damp from recent spring rains—deep cart tracks bordered on either side by ditches, beyond which rose up dense hedges. Hawthorn, shiny green and thick with spines, and so high that Topaze couldn’t see over the tops into the nearby fields. Only the sound of cattle lowing, or the rich scent of newly turned earth, distinguished for her the farmland from the pastures. Now and again the meandering road climbed a hill, and Topaze could see the terrain spread out below. A softly rolling great patchwork of irregular fields: green, loam brown, pale honey where they’d been allowed to lie fallow. And all enclosed by the
bocage
, the thickets that separated one field from another. Lucien had said he’d be close by. By Saint Claude, she thought, he could be hiding behind the nearest hedge and she’d be none the wiser!

She really wasn’t sure what his plans were. He’d stayed behind at Madame Le Sage’s to destroy the telltale maps and lists and charts they’d used. And he promised that—should urgent circumstances warrant it—she could leave a signal on the mill as early as a fortnight from now. But she had no clue to where he was at the moment.

True to the plan, Monsieur Farigoule had boarded the public carriage at Beauvoir, exhausted the half-dozen passengers with his incessant chatter about banking, and disembarked at Fontennay-le-Comte. Topaze had continued on into the Vendée hills, coming at last to the little village of Saint-Michel-Mont-Mercure. It looked as Lucien had described it. Sun-washed granite cottages crowded together at the top of the rise. Large crucifix in the square. And solid peasants who eyed her with suspicion. A sleepy market town where meat was more abundant than produce because of the quality of the land.

She stopped, shifted her little bundle of spare clothes to her other arm, and pushed the hair back from her forehead. It was warm, and she’d been walking for a long time now. She giggled. Wouldn’t it be funny if she’d proved an inept pupil on her very first day, and had taken the wrong road out of Saint-Michel? She untied the lappets of her cap—far too warm on a day like this!—and pinned them onto the top of head, continuing on her way. The opening in the hedge appeared quite suddenly. A wide break, just to her left, that led into a long alley of trees.
Thanks be to God, Grismoulins
, she thought.
At last.
She followed the line of trees. Her heart had begun to thump with excitement. And a little trepidation. The Saints only knew what was waiting for her beyond the trees. A fortune, or…danger? Discovery? Prison, or worse?
Ah well
, she thought,
what does it matter? Life’s an adventure.
She took a deep breath, marched boldly to the front gate of the château, and grasped the iron ring.

No. That was a mistake. Véronique would be a little hesitant, a little fearful of coming home. And filled with sentimental memories. She let go the ring and peered through the bars of the gate. Grismoulins was as beautiful as Lucien had said. Pale golden stones, gray-blue slate roofs, tall windows reflecting back the late-afternoon sun. The central pavilion was a long, low building of harmonious symmetry, with gently pitched roofs and graceful turrets at either end. The two side pavilions matched it in scale and delicacy, except for the rough stone tower that adjoined the pavilion to her left—the ancient tower that Lucien had described. It seemed disconnected from the other buildings, but Topaze knew that somewhere beneath the lawn that separated them was the secret passageway. Beyond the tower, on the left, the land dropped away to a rustic garden, with clumps of trees, a running brook. The grotto, she knew, was in that direction. There were formal gardens and a park to the rear of Grismoulins, Lucien had said, though she couldn’t see them from here. To the right, the land climbed sharply to a tree-covered hill; somewhere beyond it was the old gray mill.

My home
, she reminded herself.
My home.
This time when she grasped the ring she did so with a little less assurance. Would she be welcome? Lucien had said that the gate was only watched and locked at night; sure enough, when she pushed at it, it swung wide. The gravel crunched under her feet. She reached the door. Lifted the knocker. She sighed.
The prodigal returns.

The door opened immediately at her summons. The footman was young. His coat looked new and uncomfortable, and his bright red hair was inexpertly powdered. She made a quick calculation in her head. He was too young to have served the child Véronique, she guessed. And he didn’t seem to match any of the servants that she knew by name. Still his hair
was
red…

He eyed her serviceable—though hardly lavish—clothes. “What do you want?”

She took a chance. “Are you Anselme’s boy?”

He frowned. “Don’t you know your place, girl? This is Monsieur le Comte’s house! You don’t come to this door to see my father.” He pointed to a side building. “Over there.”

She eased her way inside before he thought to slam the door on her. “No. I’ve come to the right door. I want to see…” Should she ask for her mother first? “Monsieur le Comte.”

He snorted. “What makes you think he wants to see
you
?”

She was an aristocrat. Born an aristocrat. She lifted her chin. “That’s not for you to know. Do as you’re bidden. I think that Monsieur le Comte will want to see me.”

He was clearly cowed. Nervously he scanned the hall, then sighed in relief as a large woman bustled in. “Madame Revin!” he bawled.

“What is it, Paul?” For all her bulk, the woman moved gracefully across the marble floor. “What do you want, girl?” Her voice was kind.

Yes
, thought Topaze.
I would have guessed this was Madame Revin, the housekeeper.
She smiled, a tentative smile, and forced tears to her eyes. It wasn’t difficult. She really
did
feel like the returning prodigal. “Don’t you know me,
Poucette
?”

The woman turned white, her eyes and mouth round and open wide. She gasped, crossed herself, poked Topaze’s shoulder, then crossed herself again. “I’m dreaming. No one ever called me ‘Thumbkin’ except…”

“Except the naughty girl you rapped on the head with your thimble.”

Madame Revin was now shaking violently, her several chins aquiver. “Why are you standing there like a fool, Paul? Show the mademoiselle into the salon. I’ll get the master.”

“Oh, please. Can’t I see my mother first?” She brushed at her tears.

“I’ll get the master.” Still trembling, Madame Revin hurried away.

Topaze looked around the small salon to which she’d been shown. Yes, there was the painting of the Roman ruins. There the picture of a port at sunset. And the mantel—she rubbed her fingers along the cool marble. It still had a jagged piece missing from when Grandpapa Chalotais’s portrait had fallen from the wall. She smiled. Grandpapa Chalotais had given Lucien the proud arch of his eyebrows, the prominent cheekbones. She knew it even before she looked up at the picture. But the desk in the corner was not the one she expected to see. This one had been in Lucien’s mother’s
appartement
. Curious.
 
She recognized so many things. The lessons had been thorough, God knows. But everything looked so familiar, so well remembered. Almost as though she’d been here before. Lucien would laugh to know how successful he’d been.

She heard voices from outside the door. Madame Revin. And two men, from the sound of it. Angry. Hubert de Chalotais would be one of them, she guessed. But who would be with him? Père François? Well, Hubert was her stepfather; she’d naturally go to him first. It would give her a few precious moments to figure out who the other one was. Yes. She’d greet Hubert warmly, and…wait a moment! She mustn’t forget that Madame Revin had gone for the
master
. To Véronique, that meant Simon.

The door opened. Hubert and the other man came in. Madame Revin tried to crowd in behind them, but Hubert turned to her with a snarl. “Calm yourself, you silly fool! Wait outside, in case I need you.” He closed the door on her bleats of protest. Then he turned back to Topaze. The room was large; she had time to examine him carefully as he came toward her. She had recognized him at once, of course, from Lucien’s description. He was thin and tall, as were all the Chalotais men. Forty-five this summer, Lucien had said. And quite handsome, with refined features and intelligence in his drak brown eyes. He was dressed quite fashionably in a cinnamon-colored velvet suit embroidered all over in silver thread, with a pale blue satin waistcoat beneath. His black wig, well powdered, was in the latest mode, with large pigeon wings at the sides and a neat braid in back. That was new. Six years ago he’d worn a round wig. Madame Revin had clearly caught him as he was going out: he wore his sword, a tricorne was tucked under one arm, and a light cane dangled by a ribbon loop from one wrist.

The other man didn’t even begin to look familiar to Topaze. He couldn’t be
Le Loup
. This man was in a simple gray suit, not church vestments. And not Léonard, either. He was too old, perhaps forty. And thin and agile. Surely not the Little Gnat! Well, she’d deal with Hubert first. Perhaps something in the conversation would give her a clue as to whether she was supposed to recognize the other man.

“
Beau-Père?
” she said in a tremulous whisper. “But… Poucette said… Where’s Uncle Simon?”

He glared at her, threw his hat on a nearby chair, and struck her to the floor. A savage blow with his open palm. “Filthy baggage! Get out. Before I have them throw you out.”

She struggled to her knees and rubbed her stinging cheek.
Damned villain!
she thought, then…
No! I mustn’t forget I’m Véronique. And I’ve disgraced my family.
She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. “I know you must hate me. But I’ve suffered too. Have a little pity.”

“Pity, you little trollop?” He raised his cane. “A good thrashing should do for you before you go.”

The other man leaped forward. “Chalotais, I beseech you. Your own wife’s child.”

Hubert turned to the other man with a sneer. “My dear Bonnefous. I intend to thrash this girl.”

Though she kept a wary eye on Hubert and his cane, Topaze felt a flicker of relief. Bonnefous. There had been no one named Bonnefous on Lucien’s list. “How can you bring yourself to hurt a penitent sinner?” asked Bonnefous. “Your little Véronique?”

Hubert laughed, a short, ugly bark. “Sinner? Without a doubt. Penitent? Bah! But, as God is above, this is not Véronique.” At that, Bonnefous grunted in surprise.

Topaze sobbed pitifully. “Have I changed so?”

I don’t know if
you’ve
changed. I didn’t know
you
as a child,” Hubert said coldly.

“Name of God, Chalotais. How can you say that? With Madame Revin outside, crying that her little mistress has come home?”

“She’s an addlepated old fool. Easily led. But if I must prove it to you…get the woman in here.”

Madamae Revin had regained some of her color. She came into the room at Bonnefous’s summons, nervously twisting her apron. “Monsieur?”

Hubert pointed to Topaze, still crouched on the floor. “Look at that girl’s face. Who is she?”

“That’s Véronique de Chalotais, monsieur.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think so.”

“Did you recognize her at first? Or was it the way you told me, when she called you by your pet name?”