Louisa Rawlings (13 page)

“Hellfi—” she bit off the oath. “You wicked rogue. I’m glad we’re not blood cousins.”

“Sweet cousin. Back to your lessons. What do you remember about your old nurse?”

“Jeanne-Marie Flandre. I call her Nanine. She came to the Marcigny family when Fleur, my mother, was born. There’s a wart on her nose, and her front tooth is broken. She has a fondness for orange comfits.”

He nodded. “She’s the one to fool. There’s little that goes past her. Though you love your mother, you have a special fondness for Nanine, and she for you. She nursed you through all your illnesses, bathed you, dressed you, comforted your hurts. If you can pull the wool over her eyes, you’ll be halfway to success.”

“And the other half?”

“
Le Loup,
Père François, the family confessor. He’s a sanctimonious old fool, filled with hypocritical pieties.” Lucien smiled malevolently. “Won’t he be astonished to hear you eternally invoke your saints. Véronique avoided church when she could.”

“And he lives at Grismoulins?”

“Yes. Though he has a parish somewhere—from which he collects a handsome stipend—he’s always found it more to his taste to live like a gentleman. He pays his substitute a scant wage out of his living, and the poor parish is forced to make up the difference, or close the church. The Chalotais, meanwhile, maintain their own chapel and give a pension to
Le Loup
—all for the privilege of going to Mass without getting their feet wet. Such is the glory of the church of France.”

“And I’m to fear Pêre François?”

“He’s naturally suspicious. And perverse. The more the family accepts you as Véronique, the more the good Father will dance like a cat on hot bricks to prove you false.”

“Alas! A man of God…?”

He laughed, a short, bitter laugh. “Save your dismay. You said farewell to your last pious Frenchman when you left the Givet family.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

He shrugged. “No matter. Do you ride?”

She had a mental picture of herself upon a large horse, and Maman laughing. “Not for many years. It was a long time ago. I think I gave it up because I fell.”

“Well, at least you’re not a stranger to the saddle. Though you can choose to ride or not. The family would hardly insist upon it. And they wouldn’t find it odd if you were awkward at it after all these years.” He pulled out the plans of Grismoulins. “Let’s go through the rooms again.”

She sighed. The snow would have to wait. “It seems a waste,” she said. “Surely after six years they’ll have moved things around. Nothing will be where you’ve described it.”

“Then you can ask what happened to that particular painting. That ottoman. That table. The more you can recognize, the more convincing your story. The clock that broke. What do you remember of it?”

She hesitated. So much to remember. Martin smiled his encouragement. “I was four. I was teasing Léonard. He knocked it off the shelf. In Uncle Simon’s library. The porcelain shepherd boy lost his hand.”

“It was the shepherdess. Damn it, the shepherdess!”

“By Saint Antoine, surely I can forget! Why must I remember
everything
? So many years have passed since we—since
I
left home. What need to remember when I was a child in leading strings? I don’t remember all that much of my
own
childhood!”

His expression softened. “True enough. You’re very observant, but I doubt that Véronique was. Especially when she was young. You can use that as an excuse to cover the lapses in your memory. The passage of time. The difficult years.”

“What
have
I been doing since I left Grismoulins?”

Martin laughed. “Even I can answer that. You’ve been living with Madame Benoîte as Topaze, her daughter. And more recently with the family Givet in Bordeaux, where the neighbors think you’re Topaze Givet. You see? You needn’t lie about any of it.”

Out in the yard, one of the stableboys tossed a snowball at the little maid as she climbed down from the barn loft with a basket of eggs. Topaze was bursting with impatience. “Is there anything more this morning? My head has begun to buzz with so much to remember.”

Lucien grinned. “Little slyboots. And of course the snow is waiting,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Slyboots? I?” Topaze contrived to look innocent, which only made him laugh the more.

“A few more minutes,” he said. “And then I’ll release you. Let’s talk about the paintings again. You liked to look at all the paintings. What painting hangs over the doorway of the small salon on the first floor?”

“A picture of Grismoulins.”

“And what…”

“Wait a moment. You said I liked to look at the paintings. Did I have a favorite? Children usually do.”

He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers together. “At the bend of the stairs. Yes. An old Flemish scene. A maiden about to be attacked by a dragon. With a cavalier in silver armor and velvet—blue, as I recall—riding to save her. Curious. I never thought of it before. Though Véronique was a lively child, I shouldn’t have expected her to favor such an exciting scene, so fraught with danger.” He chuckled. “I have no doubt it will appeal to
you
, however.”

She ignored that. “Are there pictures of
me
?”

“Just one. Painted when you were about twelve.”

“Where is it? How will I know it?”

“Since Aunt Adelaïde is still grieving for you, I’d guess it’s in her
appartement
. But I’ll not describe it. You’ll recognize yourself in an instant. It’s what you look like now, less a few years. You look younger than nineteen, but Véronique herself was petite and small-boned. She might have retained her childlike features. I’ve told you. The resemblance is uncanny. It’s your best weapon against those who might doubt you.”

She tossed her head. “I’ll vanquish them all.
Now
may I go out and play in the snow?” She looked hopefully toward Lucien, who sat staring at his fingers, seeming lost in thought. She held out her hands to Martin. “Come. While he’s still trying to decide.”

Lucien roused himself. “No. Wait. I just remembered. There were portraits of my parents. I should guess that Hubert has them stored away. But if he should decide to trick you by bringing them out again, you should know them. They hung at the top of the stairs, in the place of honor, side by side. My grandfather had them painted before I was born, so the sitters are young. My father has a full-bottomed wig, glossy black. The old style, you understand. He wears pale yellow brocade and a blue sash. He holds a green book. His dogs sit at his feet.”

“And your mother?”

“She too is coiffed in the old fashion, with matched curls at her temples. Light brown hair, but powdered. And dressed with a jeweled clasp. Diamonds, with a large teardrop pearl. She’s wearing a white satin gown, with a blue velvet wrapper thrown over it and held with one hand. Her eyes are blue, her face soft and loving and serene. Her mouth is curved in a gentle smile. She…” He stopped and closed his eyes. Suddenly he began to laugh, and when he opened his eyes again, his face was twisted in a savage grimace. “
Merde!
Why am I bothering with all this? Hubert will have burned them long since, no doubt. Go to your snow games.”

Martin stood up and put his hand on Lucien’s shoulder. “Join us.”

“No. All this talk of the paintings has played on my memory. While my thoughts are fresh, let me put them to paper. Enjoy your games.”

Swathed in mufflers and warm gloves supplied by Madame Le Sage, Topaze and Martin ran into the farmyard. The traffic of the servants had ground the snow into the mud of the yard, churning up large, dirty patches. But on a nearby hill, the sun glinted upon pristine whiteness. “Come on!” cried Topaze in delight, and raced toward the hill.

She stopped in wonder. The snow covered the hills in gently undulating swells as far as the eye could see: giant puffs of cotton, soft cloudbanks on a summer’s day. Clean and white and beautiful. What little snow fell in Bordeaux had never been like this. “Oh, Martin,” she whispered, “isn’t it lovely?”

His eyes were on her face, not on the distant view. “It’s all joy to you, isn’t it?”

“The snow? By Saint Nicolas, of course it is! Don’t it…doesn’t it…make
you
laugh? Doesn’t it make your mouth curl up for happiness, without being able to stop it?”

He sighed. “I wish I had your eyes. Well, then, what shall we do first?”

They chose an untrodden patch of snow and stamped out their names in great scrolled letters. Martin had the more difficult task: Topaze insisted that he dot the “i” of his name, without connecting it to the rest. She clapped her encouragement as he leaped into the air; then gasped when he landed precariously and skidded across half the length of his name. This misadventure prompted a new game. They borrowed empty grain sacks from the barn, found a steep rise, and slid down again and again, crowing with laughter.

Tiring at last, they cleared a space on the hill and built a fortress: a fairy castle, with turrets and battlements. Topaze even managed to find a dry leaf beneath the snow. She threaded it with a slender twig and planted it for a flag on the highest tower.

She looked up. Lucien, in greatcoat and cocked hat, was trudging up the hill toward them. She waved. “Come and play!”

He reached the hill. His world-weary gaze scanned them both in disbelief and amusement. They were covered in snow, with great damp patches at their knees from kneeling before the castle. “By Satan’s horn, you must be mad. The two of you.”

Martin laughed. “Then join our madness.”

“I can think of better things to do than recapture memories of a dubious childhood by playing in the snow. Thank you, no. I’ve had my share of remembrance for today. I’m going for a walk. To clear the cobwebs of the past from my brain.”

“Rot!” said Topaze, as he turned away. “Will you be a seeksorrow on such a merry day?” She scooped up a handful of snow, packed it into a ball, and tossed it with all her might. It hit him squarely between the shoulder blades.

He whirled in surprise. “Imp!” He was just fashioning a weapon to return her fire when Martin attacked him with a snowball that knocked the hat from his head. The battle began in earnest. To the accompaniment of shouts and cries and boisterous laughter, they pelted one another with snow. At the end, Topaze conspired with Lucien to attack Martin. His blond hair matted with snow—its ribbon lost in some drift—Martin at last threw up his hands and declared a truce.

“Lord,” gasped Lucien. “I haven’t laughed so much in years. I’d almost forgotten snow, living in Guadeloupe.” He brushed the whiteness from his coat and looked around for his hat. “You know, Martin, Adriane has never seen snow. I wonder if she’d like this?” He bent to retrieve his hat.

Topaze felt the joy die in her heart, to be replaced by unreasoning anger. She picked up a large handful of snow and leaped at his stooped back. She knocked him to his knees and fell on top of him, just managing to push the snow down the back of his collar before he roared and shook her off, so she landed on her back. He rolled onto her, his body pressing hers into the snow.

She looked up at him. There was no laughter in the distant blue eyes, though his mouth twisted in a wicked smile.
Ave Maria
, she thought.
I’m afraid of him. And yet…and yet…
His lips were full and soft; they curved sensuously from the perfect bow at the top to the rounded lower lip that held the hint of a pout. And his powerful body on hers—legs, hips, breast, pressing down—warmed her even as it made her tremble.

He grimaced and scraped the snow from his neck. “I’ll have my revenge, you devil.” He dipped his hand into the snow and brought it to her face.

I’ll die
, she thought. It was too much to bear. The fear and the trembling and the inexplicable thrill. She wanted him to go away. She wanted him to stay forever, to keep his hard body against hers. “Martin!” she cried. “Save me.”

“Don’t do it, Lucien.” Martin’s voice was sharp.

Lucien stared at his friend, then dropped the handful of snow. “If the little chit needs to call in reinforcements…” He stood up, rubbed at the back of his neck, and reached for his hat. “I’m still going for that walk.” He stamped off across the snowy fields.

Martin leaned over and pulled Topaze to her feet. “You look frozen. And you’re shaking like a leaf.”

How could she tell him? How could she explain what she didn’t understand herself? “I’m soaked through to my chemise.”

“Come on. We’ll change into dry clothes. We’ve missed dinner, no doubt. But I’ll have Aunt Louise serve us in my room, in front of the fire. That should drive the cold away.”

But it didn’t. She sat before the fire in Martin’s room, her velvet dressing gown over a fresh chemise, and felt the cold, like a block of ice, lodged somewhere within her. The joy of the morning had faded, leaving her bewildered and strangely sad. Martin tried to draw her out, then gave up. They sat together in silence, finishing the last of the wine from their dinner, and gazed into the depths of the crackling fire. At last Topaze stirred. “By Saint Augustin, I don’t know why I should feel so strange today.”

He leaned over and put his hand on hers. “You’re tired, perhaps.”

“Tell me about Adriane de Ronceray,” she said forlornly.

He withdrew his hand. “There’s not much to tell. She’s very proud and haughty. But she has a right to be, I suppose. Her family is one of the oldest and most aristocratic on the island.”