Pam Rosenthal (24 page)

“It was a very sweet letter.” He dug his trowel into the leaf and peat moss mixture and began spreading it over the flowerbeds where she’d planted next year’s hyacinths. “Cheerful, newsy, and on the whole very decent and school girlish. She’s obviously never written to a lover. But when she receives
my
letters—well, she must have begun to receive them by now—she’ll learn how it’s done.”

What luxury it was to prattle on, he thought, after months of pretending to his family that Marie-Laure didn’t matter in the slightest. Jeanne was a good audience, sympathetic yet critical, with a sharp ear for self-deception—the sort of listener who made one want to get all the details right.

“It was stupid of me, though, not to give her money for postage,” he continued. “She says she won’t be able to afford to write to me every day, because of her confounded habit of saving every
sou
. Such a little bit of money, you know. I could have slipped some coins into the pocket of her dressing gown.”

He stopped. “No, no, of course I couldn’t have done that. She would have felt degraded by it.”

The Marquise sniffed. “She felt degraded, it seems, by the prospect of being
my
husband’s mistress. I don’t know if I can approve of such stiff-necked pride from a scullery maid—even one who aspires to be a bookseller.”

Joseph held up his trowel in protest. “You’re a snob, Jeanne. Bookselling is an honorable trade and honorable tradespeople cherish their independence. I admire and rather envy her for it, as I envy anyone who hasn’t been forced into a marriage, no matter”—he nodded politely—“how necessary it was for the both of us, and how pleasant it’s turned out to be.”

She returned his nod, but he could tell that she wasn’t persuaded.

He spoke more forcefully. “And anyway, it’s clear as day why she won’t take anything from me. It’s to prove that she doesn’t care what I can give her, and that she’d love me no matter what. I think it’s rather beautiful…”

The Marquise shrugged and he gave up trying to convince her. Because—although of course he wouldn’t tell Jeanne this—he also wished Marie-Laure were not so stubbornly self-sufficient. Still, there was nothing to be done about it. And anyway, the waiting would soon be over; before he knew it she’d be with him in Paris.

Better to turn to more agreeable matters. He drew a deep breath, paused, and allowed the next phrases to tumble from his lips in a boyish rush.

“But she has the most extraordinary, changeable eyes, Jeanne—sometimes blue, sometimes gray, they even shade to violet if you know how to look for it, and they’re enormous…and did I tell you about her freckles?”

The Marquise laughed from deep within her generous chest and belly. “Only about eighty times, Joseph. But I don’t mind; it’s a most agreeable way for me to get a good laugh for today. How marvelous to watch the fastidious Monsieur X grubbing around in the dirt, besotted by a pretty, bookish scullery maid with wide eyes and freckles on her cheeks. It restores one’s faith in the
unpredictability
of human nature.

“And you’ve done a lovely job with the flowerbeds,
cher ami
; all that’s left to do is make sure the pyracantha by the west wall are tied securely to their trellis, and to check for spider mites. We doused them last week with a soap solution, but sometimes one has to repeat the treatment.”

She rose to her feet and waved to the gardener, who scrambled down his ladder again, this time to pack away her tools.

“I’ll be pruning with you tomorrow, Gaspard,” she called, “so be sure to bring another ladder.”

The pyracantha vines were quite secure, and the Marquise’s careful investigations revealed no mites among their stems, leaves, or orange berries.

“In a month,” she said, “the berries of this firethorn will turn a brilliant, seductive red. The sparrows will eat them and become drunk on the fermented juices. They’ll be as giddy as you are, Joseph, and some of them will fly directly into the wall and smash themselves against it. It’s a pity, really, but I’ve never known how to stop it.”

He bowed over the hand she held out to him. “I’m not going to smash anything. Except perhaps Hubert if he spills his soup at supper.

“Until tonight, then, Jeanne. And I look forward to seeing Ariane as well.”

She watched him stride down the gravel path to the house.

“Until then,
mon vieux
,” she called.

But it was evident that he hadn’t heard her, for he’d taken the letter from his pocket and was rereading it, head bent and steps slowing in rapt contemplation of its decent, cheerful phrases.

The Hôtel Mélicourt had fine bright lamps and splendid mirrors in its guest wing. Perhaps a bit too splendid, the Duchesse de Carency Auvers-Raimond found herself thinking that evening; there were times when one preferred one’s image rather more obscure. She scowled at the reflection of her chambermaid, struggling with the hooks at the back of her gown.

There was no escaping it: the truth confronted her as though illuminated by the clear light of reason. The satin around her torso simply would not sit smoothly; the new gown, which had fit perfectly a month ago, was clearly too tight around the waist. She waved the maid away. No time now to let out the seams—she’d simply have to go down to supper with the violet fabric wrinkled and bunched.

She nodded thoughtfully at her reflection. Embarrassing to appear at supper this way: she’d been raised to always look her best in company. But then (she assured herself), tonight’s supper could hardly count as company. Besides herself and Hubert, there would only be Joseph, his dreadful new wife, a doddering uncle, and that actress, Mademoiselle Beauvoisin from the
Comédie-Française
. And in truth, the actress was so beautiful that it wouldn’t matter what anyone was wearing. Ariane Beauvoisin had a way of absorbing all the candlelight in a room, leaving everyone else in shadow.

An odd friend for that dowdy bluestocking of a Marquise, the Duchesse thought. But perhaps it hadn’t been the Marquise who’d invited the actress to supper; perhaps it had been Joseph. Interesting, she’d have to keep an eye out for developments in that quarter.

She turned her attention back to the mirror. The badly fitting gown wasn’t absolute proof, but taken together with other signs it constituted definite encouragement.

Of course, she hastened to remind herself, she and Hubert had been eating and drinking at some marvelous tables since their arrival in Paris a month ago. Her new sister-in-law’s chef was as good as Monsieur Colet, and the dinners they’d attended at Versailles had been superb. Perhaps she was simply getting fat, like the overbearing, autocratic woman she and Hubert had saddled Joseph with.

No.

It was all very well to be cautious, the Duchesse told herself, but current circumstances allowed for more optimism. One missed menstrual period wasn’t enough to go on—but two, and it almost
was
two by now, could be taken more seriously. And there had been other changes—subtle but consistent ones that she’d been observing since Hubert had ascended to his title. Perhaps becoming Duc had helped him overcome his deficiencies. Or perhaps it was the reports she’d had his valet pass along to him, of what he’d overheard during his late-night spying.

But what had most likely done the trick for Hubert, the Duchesse decided, was the bargain she and he had struck. It had been her idea, of course; Hubert didn’t have ideas, but he could recognize a good one when he saw it.
Do your duty, Monsieur
, she’d told him,
and I’ll make sure you get what you so evidently covet.

He hadn’t asked her how she’d manage it, and in truth she didn’t know herself. But she was confident of finding a way to do her part, if he could only get on with it and free her from the vile nightly necessity of trying to conceive. She’d be free for almost a year, anyway. Or—if she was lucky enough to produce a boy on her first try—she’d be free of him forever.

Oddly, she was sure that it
would
be a boy, as sure as she was of her ability to secure Hubert the prize he wanted so badly. Luck was on her side, the sort of luck that came to people who worked for what they wanted, and who weren’t afraid to exploit every opportunity that came their way.

Her plans weren’t fixed yet; it would still be necessary to improvise. But she’d manage it somehow. Setting Jacques to spying had been a good first step. The next steps would follow, in a carefully plotted sequence, immediately after she and Hubert returned to Provence.

Provence.
She frowned, thinking how deadly it would seem after this glittering month in Paris—the lazy, spoiled servants with no respect for authority, the tedious family dinners, the trifling society of inconsequential local gentry. Amazing how intimidating she’d once found it.

But those days were over. After a few false starts she’d easily picked up the old aristocracy’s gestures and language. It wasn’t as difficult as she’d been led to believe: just witness her success this past month in Paris, and—she smiled triumphantly—at Versailles.

It had been glorious. She wanted to stay here forever. More realistically, she hoped to return next year,
without
Hubert. Was there a way to manage
that
?

There must be a way. There was always a way for intelligent, energetic people—just think how far her father had come, on the backs of the poor unlucky devils who harvested the sugar on his plantations. It wasn’t as easy for a woman, of course. And yet, the Duchesse reflected, a woman had the advantage of being consistently underestimated. There would always be opportunities for a woman with money, strength of will, and unlimited resentment for the slights she’d suffered, especially from her husband’s lazy, overbred family.

Finishing her slow turn in front of the mirror, she was startled to see a familiar plump figure in the doorway—almost, she thought, as though she’d conjured poor Hubert’s presence by force of her meditations.

He appeared equally surprised to see her. His clothes were rumpled, his face drawn, his posture uncertain. Leaning on the doorframe to steady himself, he focused his red-rimmed eyes with evident difficulty. No doubt he’d been wandering muddleheaded through the corridors, aimlessly walking off the effects of alcohol and the aggressive ministrations of the girls at the Palais Royale this afternoon. After a hearty supper at the Marquise’s table he’d be useless.

Controlling an urge to scowl at him, she turned for a final scrutiny of her reflection in the mirror. Yes. The evidence was convincing—and not simply because she wished it so heartily.

In which case, she concluded, it didn’t matter how useless Hubert was.

I don’t need him anymore.

She motioned for her maid to fasten the amethyst necklace she’d bought yesterday, on the rue de Rivoli.

“Good evening, Monsieur,” she said.

He mumbled an apology for disturbing her.

Cordially, she assured him that she wasn’t the least bit disturbed. Of course, they did have a few minutes before going down to supper. But perhaps he’d like to take a sip of brandy with her.

His eyes brightened above his livid cheeks and slack mouth.

“For I have some good news to report, Monsieur. And some interesting new thoughts about the bargain we made.”

Mon amour,

There are thousands of places to be alone in Jeanne’s immense house. But I’m never alone now that I have your letter. I carry it everywhere and kiss it—and I kiss you, too—constantly, tenderly, passionately…

Marie-Laure smoothed the letter and tucked it under her pillow with the others. It was already a bit stained with grease, as she’d been carrying it in her apron pocket. But he’d used good, heavy paper and so the pages hadn’t torn, though she’d been folding them and unfolding them all day—reading and rereading between her chores, each time adding a few new words or a provocative phrase to the increasing store she kept in her memory.

He’d sent a whole portfolio of letters this past week, far too many to keep with her at any one time. She’d decided to keep the most recent one with her, the last three under her pillow, and the rest of them in the hiding place she’d created for the sixty-three
livres
she’d received for the pink dressing gown, when Nicolas had taken the peignoir to market and sold it for her. “No, Marie-Laure,” he’d said, “I don’t want a commission—a pretty smile from you is as good as a commission.” She’d hugged him and he’d laughed and said that now he’d been overpaid.

She’d never held so much money in her hand; coach fare to Paris only cost fifty-six.

And so, late one night when she was alone in the kitchen, she’d loosened a brick from the hearth. She’d wrapped the money, the letters, and Papa’s spectacles in an old stocking, scraped out some loose mortar, and placed the stocking in the hollow she’d created, carefully replacing the brick. Except for when it was time to add one of Joseph’s letters to the pile, she tried not to visit her treasures too often.

In my mind I kiss your eyelids, the little blue veins in your temples, the tip of your nose, and the quick pulse in your throat. My tongue, my lips, wander happily over the sweet geography of your flesh—the gentle hills of your breasts, the serene flat plain of your belly between your hip bones, the flaming curls on the plump mound below. I linger here for a moment, at the entryway, and you gasp, arch your back…but no, not yet.