Pam Rosenthal

by The Bookseller's Daughter

  How extraordinary that he could admire her as he did, even while wanting her so fiercely that it went beyond pain. It wasn’t supposed to work like that, he thought.

  Hearing her describe her plans for the future, he’d begun to make some of his own. Not as brave as hers, but creditable enough. Jeanne de Machery was a good friend. If he had to marry someone he didn’t love, she was the ideal candidate; she had her own complicated life, her own secret reasons for marrying. They’d joke about their situation. They’d be honest with each other. They’d have civilized conversations over breakfast, reviewing the latest talk at the political salons, where the best of the Parisian upper classes argued about how to make France a better, fairer place. And then they’d part for the day, each in pursuit of separate interests—they’d part, knowing that they wouldn’t see each other until the next day’s breakfast.

  He’d renew old acquaintances, join Lafayette’s antislavery society. He should have done it years ago; having fought for the rights of the American colonists, he had a responsibility to work for the freedom of their black slaves. He’d reconnect with the people he’d disappointed at Versailles: returning from America a hero, he’d squandered his glory by becoming a fop and a libertine. All because of some obscure angers and long-ago shames that shouldn’t matter anymore.

  He’d be all right, he thought, once he was gone from here and mercifully free of his family.

  Gone from here and—most likely—never to see Marie-Laure again.

  He stopped pacing, to allow himself to feel the pain of that last thought.

  Well, at least he could be proud that he’d stood by his principles. He hadn’t taken advantage of her, hadn’t harmed her. As once he had done, to another innocent…

  He raised his chin. Listen. Aren’t those her steps in the corridor?

  He dove into the armchair, hurriedly opening the volume on the table. A collection of American political writing; the editor had chosen to call it The Pursuit of Happiness. Rather an annoying phrase, he thought, when one was being denied the freedom to pursue one’s own marital happiness.

  But the ideas in the book were still interesting and worthy of discussion. Yes, he’d keep the conversation to books and ideas tonight. A peaceful, intellectual evening would be best.

  The only problem with this scheme was that her mood was anything but peaceful or intellectual. He could see it as soon as she walked through the door. The exaggerated straightness of her back, the tilt of her chin, the flush in her cheeks and opacity of her usually limpid eyes gave her away immediately. She looked as she had last winter, when he’d told her she should stick to reading what was on the page.

  “Are you tired?” he asked hopefully. “Have they worked you too hard in the kitchen?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m used to the work,” she said, “and today was actually rather pleasant.

  “We learned how to make madeleines,” she added. “Fashionable little teacakes, Monsieur Colet says they’re quite the rage among the gentry. I imagine you ate a few of them this afternoon.”

  He hadn’t eaten anything.

  “My father enjoyed the performance,” he offered.

  She nodded. “Louise told me.

  “The maid who served the tea and cakes,” she explained with exaggerated patience. “The girl with the misshapen mouth.”

  “I know who Louise is,” he answered quietly.

  His jaw tightened. Of course Marie-Laure knew how his show had come off. An aristocrat’s life was always a performance, acted out in front of the same merciless audience who washed your soiled linen. What other entertainments did servants have, after all?

  He was usually so conscious of that all-seeing gaze, too. But somehow he’d managed to trick himself into forgetting that she was part of that audience.

  And that she obviously knew about his family selling him on the marriage market. Perhaps even about their threat to imprison him.

  His stomach clenched. In the kitchen they would have been discussing his marriage, as well as making the same kinds of scabrous jokes they’d made about his mother and Père Antoine. Marie-Laure had doubtless laughed at the jokes—and at him and his ridiculous situation too. Perhaps, since she knew him so well, she’d even contributed a few bon mots to the proceedings.

  She relaxed against the cushions, her breath coming more evenly now as her muscles uncoiled. She watched the candlelight cast shadows on his cheek. One of the candles flared suddenly; the smell of the singed wick prickled her nostrils.

  He looked sad, tired, perhaps even a bit angry. She regretted that she hadn’t thought to say something nice to him.

  For he had been a dutiful son all these weeks, sensitive and imaginative, caring and devoted. Even Gilles, who thought all aristocrats were heartless parasites, would have applauded the loving consideration Joseph had shown his father.

  She’d say something now.

  Something comforting and encouraging.

  But as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, she could feel the words coming out all wrong.

  “And your intended wife,” she heard herself saying in a sharp, querulous voice. “The Marquise de Machery. Does she like acting and theater?”

  If she’d rehearsed all day, she thought, she couldn’t have chosen a worse question to ask him. She watched in horrified fascination as his mouth compressed to a thin line and curved downward into a sneer. His face became a mask of aristocratic hauteur, his black eyes suddenly gone cold.

  “Yes,” he said, “she does like actors.” His voice was calm, emotionless. “She’s rather a patron of the theater, in fact, and has got some intimates in the Comédie-Française.”

  He shrugged.

  “Well, she knows actors and actresses, of course. Which will be rather a help to me when I look around for a suitable mistress. Because I’ll be able to afford the best—”

  “I suppose so,” she said.

  “Don’t interrupt,” he replied quickly. “It’s impertinent for a servant to interrupt.”

  She stared at him.

  “Yes, I’ll buy the most expensive mistress I can find. Of course, you and the rest of the crew down in the kitchen already know about the fabulous clothing allowance I’ll have. It’s almost as good as the King’s brother’s. And if we hold out a little longer, wait for a better settlement, who can say what riches they’ll shower on me and my family? Quite impressive all in all, don’t you think?”

  He’s dueling with his shadow, she thought.

  She opened her mouth to reply but no sound came out.

  “It’s also impertinent,” he told her, “not to answer when your master asks you a question.”

  She took a breath.

  “And what,” she asked, “will you actually do with your life in Paris?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “An aristocrat doesn’t do anything, Marie-Laure. But I thought you already knew that. An aristocrat simply lives, brilliantly and gracefully, wasting his time and spending France’s money. You told me that yourself—told me how selfish, how petty—”

  “Stop it,” she cried. “You know I’m sorry that I said that. It’s just something Papa used to say, a general observation about the aristocrats who patronized our shop. But Papa hadn’t met you. And you’re not like that.”

  “On the contrary,” he snapped. “Your esteemed Papa was quite right about me. Because I’m exactly that selfish and petty. Worse, if truth be told—but that’s a story I think I’ll keep to myself.

  “And I’ll go on being that way. I’ll enjoy it too. I’ll buy the most expensive mistress in Paris, and when she cheats on me I’ll dabble in more esoteric pleasures—but only as a diversion—and then I’ll toss her out and move on to the next, even more stunning, mistress. I’ll eat good food, drink expensive wine, sleep with beautiful women on perfectly laundered linen. No fleas in my bed, thank you.”

  She gasped.

  Now you’ve done it, Joseph. Badly phrased, that comment about fleas. Everybody knows that
typhus is spread by flea bites. And typhus killed her father.

  She was trembling.

  He looked down at his hands and discovered that they were shaking as well. He balled up his fists.

  Should he apologize?

  No, he was still too angry. Too ashamed. Too paralyzed by the skewed emotions that had seized him.

  Whatever he was feeling, though—at least it wasn’t desire.

  You’re a liar, Joseph. Mixed in with all the other uncontrollable feelings was the strongest desire he’d ever felt for anyone.

  She was sitting up very straight and staring at him with eyes that had dulled to the color of lead. Her freckles were dark on her pale cheeks.

  He stared back at her, feeling his face contort, his entire body stiffen with rage.

  No, not only with rage. It wasn’t rage that was doing its work, down there between his legs.

  It was humiliating. It was—mon Dieu, it was fantastic. And she was so close by, just a step or two away. He need only grasp her shoulders…

  She was speaking now, in so low a voice that he had to lean forward to catch it.

  “Yes, perhaps he was right about you after all. And perhaps I was wrong. Wrong to like and trust you and to hope that you might earn a place for yourself in the world. Like my papa did. Or Gilles or Augustin. Or any decent, ordinary man I might love.”

  She’d slid off the window seat and was standing in front of it. He could probably reach out an arm and pull her to him. But he didn’t. He sat still, his hands still balled into fists.

  “Any man,” her voice was disdainful, “with the self-respect to try to make the world a better place than he’d found it. But I guess you wouldn’t know about such things. And I’m only sorry…”

  Her voice caught. She paused to collect herself, but she continued to stare at him with eyes like storm clouds.

  He hadn’t known her eyes could look like that. There was heat lightning behind the clouds.

  You’ve lost her, Joseph.

  You never had her, idiot.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “that I ever left my old way of life. Sorry I ever met you. Or wanted you.”

  She looked away for a moment.

  She had wanted him. He hadn’t merely imagined it. And now he’d ruined any chance he had of…of what, Joseph?

  “They’ll put me in prison if I don’t go along with this marriage.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

  She touched his shoulder. So quickly and lightly that he didn’t believe it was happening.

  “I know,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, Joseph.”

  And then she was gone.

  She couldn’t remember how that awful night had come to an end. Or even how the next day had begun. But she didn’t suppose there’d been anything special about it; everything must have gone as it usually did.

  Baptiste must have led her back through the dark corridors and up the stairs. She must have tiptoed into her garret room, slipping silently into bed beside a snoring Louise.

  The sun must have risen this morning, she thought. She and Louise must have washed and dressed. She suspected that she’d drunk some coffee before getting to work, though her throat was so clogged with unshed tears that she couldn’t have eaten anything.

  She saw his taut, white face in the bottom of every pot she scrubbed.

  Why had he wanted to hurt her so deeply?

  And why had she responded so harshly? It should have been obvious how aching and needy he’d been, how furious and alone. At the moment when he’d most needed comfort she’d responded by telling him that he wasn’t a man that she could respect. He’d never want to see her again.

  Well, he shouldn’t have made that horrid joke about the fleas. He shouldn’t have pretended to be everything she loathed—and everything he loathed as well.

  The next pot had so much grease burnt onto it that it took all her concentration to get it clean. She grimaced with bitter satisfaction as she put it aside to dry.

  Of course, she thought now, it would be stupid to delude herself about who had actually set the evening’s combative mood. She remembered her stiff posture, the aggrieved look on her face as she’d marched into his bedchamber, her curt answer when he’d asked whether her work had been too hard.

  But that was different. I was angry at him because he’s leaving me. And I didn’t want him to know how much it hurts.

  I’ve ruined everything, she thought as she brushed her hair that evening. He’ll never want to see me again. It’s hopeless, impossible. Baptiste won’t be knocking on my door tonight. Or ever again.

  She continued, nonetheless, to brush out the tangles, to toss the ringlets down her back. I’ll go to bed in a minute. In five. In ten. She smoothed her skirt and straightened her apron.

  Baptiste’s tap was so soft she couldn’t hear it at first. Belatedly, she flew to open the door.

  Monsieur Joseph’s apologies, Baptiste told her, but he’d be spending tonight at his father’s bedside.

  For the Duc’s illness had taken a definite turn for the worse.

  Chapter Eleven

  He remained at his father’s bedside for the next three nights and days, with the Duchesse, who wept continually, and Monsieur Hubert, who dozed over his brandy-laced coffee. The Duc was in pain a good deal of the time. He was angry and rebellious—especially, according to his valet Jacques, when the Duchesse would begin the next round of prayers for his soul.

  “He told them he wasn’t interested in the next world, that he was too angry at this world, which had never admired him and never would.”

  “Well, I’ll admire him,” Jacques told the group in the dessert kitchen, “if he leaves me a year or two’s wages, to tide me over while I look for a new job. For I can already see that bitch Madame Amélie sizing up my skinny arse and wondering who else will fit into my livery breeches—to save her the expense of buying somebody else a new pair this year.”

  Nicolas nodded. “We’re going to see a lot of changes around here, once that harpy takes over.”

  “Those she doesn’t fire,” Bertrande added dolefully, “to replace with staff from her parents’ mansion in Avignon.”

  If any servant were likely to be replaced, Marie-Laure thought, it would probably be the irksomely pretty scullery maid whom the Duc and his older son had tried to visit—to everybody’s great amusement.

  And if by chance she weren’t fired, there would be the new Duc’s advances to worry about. She knew she could defend herself; well, she’d made forcemeat of Jacques, hadn’t she? Fighting off Monsieur Hubert would be easy: he wasn’t very big and he was usually drunk. But the pleasure of seeing him with a black eye (or worse) would be short-lived. She’d be dismissed instantly, and without her twenty livres half-year wages. She could only hope he’d lost interest in her by now.

  In truth, though, she was grateful for these worries, for they were more bearable than the dumb, dazed panic that engulfed her whenever she tried to imagine her life without Joseph in it.

  The funeral was adorned with every pious detail money could buy: the army of paupers carrying candles, the deafening tolling of church bells. The servants followed at the back of the procession, all of them maintaining a very sorrowful demeanor, until it was time to scurry back to prepare the sumptuous supper the new Duchesse had ordered for the local worthies who’d attended the ceremony. All Marie-Laure had seen of Joseph was the back of his head, towering above the other members of the procession, just behind the coffin.

  “He’ll stay for a month of mourning,” Louise told her, “and then he’ll escort his mother back to the convent.”

  “And then?” Marie-Laure prompted her.

  “And then,” Louise hesitated, “oh, just some legal business that they’re working on…I don’t really understand it, these nobles are always petitioning the King for something…imagine my family petitioning the King not to conscript my brothers to build his roads during the harvest season, when they’re really needed on the farm
. Oh yes, we might as well petition to raise the dead or stop the mistral. I don’t know anything else, Marie-Laure.”

  “Yes you do,” Marie-Laure said. “What is it?”

  Louise’s voice dropped to a harsh, sad whisper. “They’ve decided to settle it quickly. He’s going to Paris, with Monsieur Hubert—I mean the Duc—and with the new Duchesse too. He’s going to be married.”

  Marie-Laure nodded, her face expressionless, her chest as tight as if it were bound with steel bands.

  “Come to bed, Marie-Laure,” Louise said.

  But she found the air in the little attic room impossible to breathe—and Louise’s snore absolutely insupportable. She slept fitfully, trying not to fling herself about the bed. And at the first gray dawn, she stole down the stairs and across the fields to the river, where it would be cool.

  She stood on the hillside and looked down at the water. It was not really so much a river at this point as a brook, gurgling as it swept over the rocks in its path. The autumn sun was just beginning to show over the eastern hills, its slanted rays outlining each needle of the pine trees and illuminating the little yellow leaves of the poplars.

  About a mile to her right, the brook met up with other streams, and the river widened, flowing through fields and farmyards, past barns and hayricks and noisy squadrons of ducks and geese. Marie-Laure turned to the left, through a small wood, where the water formed pools bordered by ferns. A large, flat rock overlooked one of the pools. She’d sat there and dreamed away many a spare moment; it would be a good place for weeping as well. This morning, she intended to weep until she couldn’t weep anymore.

  The path through the woods was stony and narrow; she had to watch where she stepped. Tiny lizards skittered from rocks that the sun was just beginning to warm up. The sun will be shining on my own rock, she thought.