Tender the Storm (31 page)

Salome drew herself up to her full height. "Salome is a good witch and a good Catholic," she said.

"Oh God!" groaned Zoë. "I didn't mean to imply that you were a bad witch or
— "

"Your
maman
knew it. She listened to old Salome." Arms akimbo, head nodding, Salome went on inexorably, "You had better listen to old Salome's words. Only bad cards have turned up for this family for years past. Now the cards have turned in our favor."

"I don't want to hear this," said Zoë.

"You'll see. Salome will know him when he comes. And you had better not let this one slip through your fingers."

"Who
is coming?"

'You'll see." And with that
unsatisfyingly
cryptic rejoinder, Salome turned on her heel and left her mistress to the dubious consolation of her music.

When next Varlet paid a call on Zoë, Tresier was not present. He found her far more amenable to his suggestions than formerly.
And when she shyly thanked him for coming to the house so soon after her parents' arrest he understood the change in her.
By the time he rose to leave, Zoë had agreed to allow him a free hand in preparing her for her entrance into Parisian society.

"We shall begin with the dancing master," he said.

Zoë just looked at him as if he had gone stark, raving mad. She knew the steps of all the dances.

"Reserve all your mornings for the dancing master,"
were
the last words he called out before Zoë shut the front doors upon him.

The dancing master who introduced himself to Zoë the following morning was of the old school, that is, the instruction of dancing was only a very small part of his repertoire. Monsieur
Montmercy
regarded himself, first and foremost, as an educator, a purveyor of style, of that polish which
a gen
-
deman
or lady of fashion must acquire. "Rank is nothing. Quality is everything" was his motto.

Laughing with disbelief, Zoë heard him out as the old chevalier instructed her on how to enter a roomful of people. The laughter was wiped from her face when she discerned that the old gentleman was perfectly serious. Over and over, time without number, he made her rehearse her steps, her smiles, her
curtsies,
her opening remarks after imaginary introductions were made.

"The entry of a young lady or gentleman into society requires serious study," he was to repeat without ceasing in the days that followed. No gesture, no movement, was so elevated or so trivial that it could not be
practised
with profit.

She had not known that there was an art to putting on and taking off her bonnet. And who would have suspected that a lady's skirts must be shaken out just so, as if she were a dancer in the chorus of the Opera? And it went without saying that the correct mode with a fan was a science which would take a lifetime's study to master with anything resembling style.

Zoë set herself to practicing with religious zeal. Once having made up her mind that she would acquire "polish" or die in the attempt, she let nothing stand in her way. Nor did she make the slightest objection when Varlet engaged a
modiste
for her. She was paying the shot, she reminded herself. She was under no obligation to him. Still, she was curious.

"Why are you doing all this?" she was finally moved to ask. He had taken her to
Tourtoni's
for one of its famous ices. She could not help remembering another occasion when a gentleman had taken her out for an ice. But that was in another lifetime. Rolfe's face, as clear as a picture, flashed into her head. She stifled a pang and with great deliberation she forced the image to retreat. Giving her full attention to her companion she repeated, "Why are you doing all this?" Suddenly, she sliced him an affronted look and exclaimed, "Paul, if this has anything to do with a wager . . ."

"You misjudge me!" he protested. He stroked one long finger under his chin. He caught her stare, and smiled. "I've known you since you were in the cradle," he remarked.

Zoë's eyebrows winged upwards. "Have you?" she asked. "I had not known you were so old."

Feigning an air of injury, he quizzed, "I attended many a reception at your parents' home. Surely you must have noticed me?"

"Naturally!
But only from a distance.
I wasn't permitted to attend grown-up parties."

"I noticed you."

"Did you truly?" She made no attempt to conceal her surprise.

"Peering over the balustrade in the gallery, your eyes as big as saucers."

"I remember." A small smile turned up her lips. Her eyes wandered and gazed into space. As from a great distance she murmured, "In those days, the ladies were all so beautiful, and the gentlemen looked like demigods."

Covering her clasped hands with one of his own, he spoke softly, as if afraid to shatter the moment. "I think I lost a little bit of my heart to you even then."

Her withdrawal was so gradual it was scarcely noticeable. Varlet was aware of it, and said in a more natural tone, "I always promised myself that one day, when it was time for you to enter
society,
I would be there, just for the pleasure of watching that little cygnet turn into a swan."

His words startled a laugh out of her.
"Cygnet!
That's not very complimentary!"

He guided her out of
Tourtoni's
and handed her into his waiting carriage. She was comfortable with him again and on the return drive to St. Germain, he was careful to steer the conversation into neutral channels.

Later, as his
valet de
chambre
assisted him to dress for a night on the town, his thoughts wandered to Zoë as he had remembered her as a little girl. It was the elder sister, Claire, who was always referred to as the beauty of the family. But it was the younger girl with her lost, doe-eyed air which had made the lasting impression on him. She still had that same look of innocence.

It was fortunate that he had not declared himself that afternoon. To do so would have been premature. She would have refused him. He must approach her
cautiously,
persuade her by degrees that marriage to him was eminently suitable.

Varlet was not the only gentleman who harbored thoughts of wedded bliss with Zoë. Jean Tresier was reflecting that already he felt a great affection for the girl. In the meantime, it could only do him good to be seen in her company. His creditors would know what to make of it. The thought that his motives were entirely mercenary, he rejected out of hand. He was genuinely fond of Zoë. She needed someone, "some man, to manage her affairs. It was no fault of his that the
Tresiers
had lost their vast wealth. While other speculators had made capital of the upheaval in France with the advent of the Revolution, his father had seen fit to squander the Tresier fortune on the losing Royalist cause. The knowledge that the debts which he had since incurred were for nothing more pressing than to maintain a style of living well beyond his means, did not trouble him overmuch. Once he married Zoë, his troubles would be at an end.

He must warn her off Varlet. Without conceit, he knew himself to be a far more preferable suitor for the girl's hand than the debauched older man, even supposing his debts were astronomical.

"Jean?"

Rose was restless. He adjusted his naked body to the fit of hers. "What is it,
cherie
?"

"What are you thinking, Jean?"

He would have to tell her soon, of course.
But not yet.
He would delay for as long as possible. Rose might be only his mistress, but she truly loved him. He cupped a hand round her breast. "That is what I am thinking," he whispered. And very soon after, he proved the truth of his words.

How odd, thought Zoë, a fortnight later, that having just acquired a whole new wardrobe of gowns and having paid no inconsiderable sum for that pleasure, all she could see when she opened the press in her chamber was a cloud of white fluff.

"They're all white," declared Salome gratuitously. She peered into the cavernous depths of the clothes press.

Immediately on the defensive, Zoë protested, "Yes, but no two gowns are alike."

"They all look the same," insisted Salome.

Stifling her own thoughts on the subject, Zoë adopted a superior air. "If you look closely, Salome, you'll observe that the muslin of each gown is vastly different." Those were the very words the
modiste
had used when Zoë, herself, had voice a similar misgiving. She tried to recall more of what the
modiste
had said. "Details, Salome," said Zoë airily. "It's the details that make the difference in the new fashion. Sleeves, hems, embroidery, ribbons, feathers, and such like —ladies of discriminating taste know what to look for."

Salome pressed her lips together, and Zoë was saved from further defense by the arrival of the hairdresser. Clad only in a silk wrapper, she stared solemnly at her reflection in the mirror as Mon
sieur Andre brushed out her waist-long hair.

"Your hair is very beautiful," remarked that gentleman, cocking his head first one way then the other, "but so
demode
.
When I have finished with Mademoiselle, the transformation will be astounding. Not all ladies have the head and face to carry off the new mode.
This long neck?"
He held the weight of Zoë's hair over her crown to make his point, "It will show the ringlets to advantage.
And those enormous eyes of yours?
We shall brush the tiny curls forward to emphasize them even more. Oh yes, when I have finished with you, Mademoiselle, you will resemble Aphrodite herself."

The scissors were poised to sever the offensive mane when Zoë cried out, "Wait!"

"Ah," said Monsieur Andre, lowering the scissors, "I know how it is. It feels like an amputation,
non
?
It is always the same with ladies who have preserved their locks for so many years. May I suggest, Mademoiselle, that you close your eyes?" He angled
her an
encouraging smile. "The surgery is quite painless."

But it wasn't painless, not really. Her waist-length hair symbolized her last link to Rolfe. He had forbidden her ever to cut it. At each slice of the shears, something inside her seemed to wince in pain. Tears squeezed from beneath her lowered lashes.

It was absurd to be moved to tears by the loss of her hair when she had been dry-eyed on the day she had taken the irrevocable step of divorcing her husband. Charles Lagrange had accompanied her to the law courts. In a matter of minutes, the thing was done. And she had a piece of paper to show for it.