Apprehensions and Other Delusions

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I don’t have one.” Hatred burned at the back of her eyes, hatred for Baron Clotaire de Saint Sebastien, who had brought her to this, and for Michon de Vandonne, who had lost her with the same concern he had lost a rouleau of ange d’or. What had she meant to him, if he could let her go so easily, for nothing more than the turn of a card?

  Saint Sebastien regarded her evenly, his hooded green eyes unfathomable. “I thought you understood, Desiree. I thought I had made matters clear to you. But I see I will have to demonstrate once again, this time more forcefully.” He smoothed the broad cuff of his salmon-colored silk coat, a frown puckering his brow.

  This was a familiar expression to Desiree and though it frightened her, she was not overwhelmed by her fear. “You will beat me, I suppose.”

  The defiance in her words made him look up. “So. You are growing strong in your anger.” The polite bow he favored her with terrified her. “I see I will have to use other tactics. It would not do for you to learn to resist me. It would not be acceptable.” He rose, taking his silver-and-ebony cane from beside his chair. He paused, then said at his most urbane, “Oh, you need not fear I will use this on you. I would do that only if I intended to kill you.”

  She loathed herself for revealing her terror, but she could not make herself keep silent. “Then what will you do to me?”

  He pursed his lips, taking time to relish her fright. “I assumed I had made that clear, ma belle. I am going to make sure you learn your lesson this time.” He picked up a silver bell and rang it, pleased to see her bewilderment. “I have decided to delegate my punishment to another.”

  She stood as if impaled. “Who?”

  “You remember Tite?” It was an unnecessary question, for she had never disguised her dislike for Saint Sebastien’s large, saturnine manservant who was virtually her jailer. “He was distressed when you disappeared, and requested that when you came back he might have the schooling of you.” He tapped his cane lightly on the marble floor. “He is a strange man, Tite, a very strange man. Tite lusts the most where he is most angry. Your foolish rebellion has infuriated him, and therefore he is enflamed as well. He has no regard for affection, I ought to mention; he finds his greatest satisfaction in resistance and the submission of his ... victim.”

  “And I am his victim?” she asked in spite of her resolution to be silent.

  “Why, of course. You have shown that my chastisement means nothing, so you must have a more obdurate tutor.” His glance raked over her, taking in all the dirt and tatters. He flicked his handkerchief toward her, suddenly fastidious. “Certainly you are more fitting for him, or a stablehand, or a pig farmer, than for me in your present state.”

  The trembling that seized her almost made Desiree fall. She steadied herself against his writing table. Her mouth was too dry for speech. Dumbly she shook her head, her body filled with protest. She wanted to take the standish and throw it at him, hoping the ink would mar his beautiful clothes and reveal him for what he was. Her hand would not move.

  Saint Sebastien enjoyed her distress as he went on smoothly, “You should be grateful, ma belle. You have made it plain enough that my embraces disgust you, that you would prefer another; I am offering you the variety you crave.”

  At that she blurted out one name: “Michon!” though Saint Sebastien did not understand it for the curse it was.

  “Oh, no, I am afraid there is no hope for you from that quarter, not now. That puppy de Vandonne would not take you back now, Desiree; he is too nice for that. He would never touch what I have had. Ah.” He looked up as the door opened.

  Tall, raw-boned, more a bodyguard than a valet, Tite came forward, his eyes on Desiree. He bowed.

  Saint Sebastien looked directly at Desiree as he spoke to his servant. “I promised her to you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, master,” said Tite, his face avid.

  “Then, naturally, she is yours.” He gave Desiree a slight, contemptuous nod before he left her alone with Tite.

  After the agony and humiliation, Desiree shut most of herself away, to be infected with her shame, her fear, and to fester. Outwardly she was no more than a sleepwalker, seemingly immune to Saint Sebastien’s cruel amusements and taunts. Even when she discovered the profane altar in the cellar, she did nothing more than shrug, as if the inverted crucifix with its aroused Christ was little more than another tasteless decoration. She spoke rarely and, when she did, the words were gentle, emotionless, as her eyes were strangely vacant and unresponsive.

  At first Saint Sebastien was pleased with this change in her, and invented new torments to provoke her into another burst of rebellion. Only occasionally was he able to abuse her enough for her to resist or object, and eventually he grew bored. Only her pregnancy kept him from turning her out.

  “I do not know why I continue with you,” he said to her one evening as they sat alone in the cavernous dining room. The food on her plate was largely untasted. “There are others who can conceive.”

  “Nor do I know,” muttered Desiree. She pushed a dollop of veal around her plate with her fork.

  “I do want your babe,” he said, with extravagant unconcern. “I have a use for a newborn, if not for you.”

  She swallowed hard, but said nothing, keeping her eyes on the smear of sauce at the rim of her plate. In four more months she would deliver, and then God alone—or perhaps only the Devil—knew what would become of her. Desiree had reached a state where she was not able to imagine any life other than this one. She would not permit herself to speculate on what awaited her child when it came.

  “He will be offered on the altar, before I return to Paris.” He wiped his mouth with his lace-edged napkin. “Would you like to participate? It helps to have a woman on the altar, to use as a woman, and to hold the basin for the blood.”

  She kept silent.

  “Well, in four months you may make up your mind.” He patted her arm in a deceptively avuncular way. “In the meantime, Tite and I will find new ways to amuse you. As long as Tite continues to be so inventive, my interest will not slacken. Once it does, I will need to find other sport.”

  Three weeks later, Desiree miscarried. She lay in her room, her teeth clamped shut so that she would not scream, would not gratify her captors with her suffering. When it was over, when the blood had dried and she had come to her senses again, Tite found her.

  “You brought this on! Out of spite!” he thundered at her.

  “I didn’t have to, not with what you have done to me,” she said, weary and desolate.

  Tite suddenly laughed. “It might be worth the entertainment we had, but it’s a pity we lost the sacrifice.” His nose wrinkled at the coppery scent of blood. “You’ve ruined the bed.”

  “Do you care the baby was yours?” she asked harshly. She looked at the incomplete lump, no larger than a clenched fist, with little of humanity to identify it. It was Tite’s, and that made it despicable. But also it was hers, she realized. It had lived in her, and now it was dead, because of the man who fathered it. Like everything else in her life, it had been contaminated by Clotaire de Saint Sebastien. As she fought down her sudden rush of tears, she promised herself and her dead child vengeance.

  That night the herb woman came to treat Desiree and to take away the thing she had lost, promising that she would find a way to bury it in sacred ground. “For it wasn’t its fault that it had no proper birth,” she said. Marta was not as old as she looked: an ugly facial birthmark and prematurely gray hair made her appear ancient, but her walk and the firm tone of her skin betrayed her youth. Traces of native Italy clung to her in her accented French and her lambent dark eyes. She realized Desiree’s predicament before the desperate young woman could speak. “There,” she said reassuringly when she had finished bathing Desiree and assured herself that there was no infection from the miscarriage. “The men know nothing, not the worst or the best
of them. You do not need to tell me how it was.”

  “I could not,” whispered Desiree, all her anguish wakened afresh at her loss.

  “Do not worry; the infant is out of reach of that satin-clothed pig. The child is gone to Heaven where Mere Marie will treasure it until you come.”

  “I, come to Heaven?” she started to laugh, but that gave way to weeping she could not stop. She attempted to apologize, to stem the tide of her sorrow, but for once she was not able to control her emotions, or to disguise them.

  “A mother’s tears are holy. There is nothing disgraceful in shedding them.” Marta put her hands over Desiree’s as if to reinforce her prayers. “God knows what beasts like this Saint Sebastien do, and He will judge them. It will be the worse for Saint Sebastien, I think, because he came by his title through the Church; Saint Sebastian is a benefice and a Vidamie. His grandfather was made a Baron, or so they say, but the estate came from the Church, for service to God.”

  “How do you come to know this?” Desiree was able to ask the question as if it had nothing to do with her or anyone she knew.

  Marta had been searching her bag for the herbs that would lessen the bleeding and ease the hurt. “I know because I live here, for everyone near this place knows about the Baron.”

  “This has happened before?” Desiree told herself that she was not shocked, but new pain wrenched inside her.

  “Let us say that there have been women here before, sometimes more than one, and what has happened to them has not often been good.” She pulled out a cloth bag of tansy. “Le Baron prefers it if we all pretend not to notice.”

  “And you?” Desiree asked, turning even more pale. “Oh, God, what will happen to me?”

  “No, no, little one. You are not to be afraid. I will stay with you,” she said as she sorted out her supplies, “until you no longer need me.”

  It had been so long since Desiree had known kindness that she had no response to offer Marta but puzzlement. “Why would you do that?”

  “For love of God, and to shame the Devil,” said Marta.

  “Thank you,” Desiree murmured, beginning to feel for the first time since she arrived at Saint Sebastien’s estate that she had an ally, and some comfort in her plight.

  Marta was building up the fire in the grate. “You must lie back and pray for the soul of your lost little one. Pray God will send peace to your heart.” She was heating water now, and the steam from the pot smelled of winter savory and tansy.

  Desiree doubted that was possible, but did as she was told. Her body ached as it never had from a beating; she was dizzy when she moved. “My head is sore,” she said, wondering why she should notice that, with so many other hurts clamoring for attention.

  “I know. It will pass. I am here. We will deal with everything.” Crooning other words, she lulled Desiree into a light sleep. As she looked down at her, Marta knew what it was that Saint Sebastien wanted in the girl—she was lovely, even now when her face was haggard with suffering and she was thin from her ordeal. What a pity that she should be the prey of such a man as Saint Sebastien. Marta shook her head in resignation. She had not been brought here to mend the morals of Clotaire de Saint Sebastien, but to heal his mistress. She uttered a prayer and a curse as she set to work.

  Sometime that night, while her body struggled to throw off the last effects of her miscarriage, Desiree cried out, tossing in delirium and pain. From pieces of what she mumbled, Marta pieced together her story; Marta’s heart grew bitter as she listened.

  “There, there,” she said as she wiped the sweat from Desiree’s brow. “Marta is here now. Marta will not fail you. You will have your revenge. I will help you gain your revenge.” Her hands were strong and sure as she lifted the young woman and bathed her in water of motherwort and rosemary. She did not let her outrage enter into the tone of her voice, which remained low and soothing. “You will have vengeance for your pains, for that is the way of justice.”

  Once Desiree called for Michon, and when he did not come, fell to weeping and cursing. “No, no. You do not come. You let me go for a card, a card. It is because the Baron has me. I am lost for a card. The Baron ... I am not for you, Michon. You would not know me now. You would not know me. Or want me. I am lost. How could you gamble me away? You let me go. I could kill you. Both of you; both of you.”

  “Hush, poor one,” Marta whispered. “Hush. There is justice in Heaven and we will have justice on earth.”

  The sound of Marta’s voice at last pulled Desiree awake, and she opened clear, intelligent eyes. “Yes,” she said faintly, but with purpose, “there is justice. I will avenge my dishonor and the death of my babe. You will help me, oh promise me your help.”

  “I will help you,” Marta vowed as she lifted Desiree back into her bed and pulled the sheets around her. Then she took up her position on the pallet as if guarding Desiree while she slept.

  Three days later Desiree had improved and Saint Sebastien stopped in her room to see her.

  “Not dead yet, ma belle?” he asked, pinching her cheek enough to leave a red mark where his fingers had been. He was elegant and languorous in saffron satin with gold-and-topaz buttons and gold lacing. “Somehow that disappoints me.”

  “I am sorry to have done so, Baron,” she replied with extreme courtesy, her breathing rapid. “I did all that I could to oblige you, but it was not to be.”

  “And yet, I would not want to raise a brat of Tite’s get. Perhaps the next one will be mine. Or my groom’s.” He twirled his quizzing glass at the end of a long silk ribbon. “You are getting too thin; that does not please me,” he observed critically. “When you leave your bed, see that you put on flesh before you come to me again. I do not want to be poked with hips and ribs.”

  Desiree turned her head away on the pillow, which made Saint Sebastien laugh.

  “She is tired, Baron,” Marta said as she brewed another special tea from a pot on the hob.

  “Women are always tired, or so they claim. It is usually an escape so that they will not have to lie with men. Fatigue is supposed to explain their lacks. When she has come to my bed, she has been worse than a doll, lying without moving or making a sound. She has no passion.”

  Desiree began to weep again. She thought she would never stop, and she was disgusted with herself for showing such weakness to her enemy.

  Marta was about to dismiss the remark when a thought occurred to her. She put the kettle near the ashes and said, “I venture to guess, Baron, that she longs for a more stalwart lover.” Marta knew that such bold words could mean a beating and her dismissal without pay. She waited while Saint Sebastien considered what she had said.

  “Go on,” he said, a strange light in his narrowed eyes.

  “There is a remedy, perhaps; one that I have learned. I know of a plant that can be mixed with meat, red meat ...” She hesitated as if embarrassed to continue. “It is a remedy for the weakening of the virile parts. If I could supply you with this plant—the fruit is eaten, not the leaves—in a few months it might answer your needs. By that time your mistress should be anxious for your touch.” Looking toward the bed she saw the horror and betrayal in Desiree’s face, undisguised and open. “It renders the man like Priapus.”

  “You interest me,” Saint Sebastien said with a nod as he looked toward Desiree. “In a few months, then, ma belle, we shall try again. If you please me, perhaps I will not give you to Tite for some time.” He minced toward the bed. “Your breasts are larger now. That is satisfactory.” He said over his shoulder to Marta, “In July, then, I will want that fruit. If you do not have it for me, perhaps I will give you to Tite for amusement because you have not fulfilled your pledge.” He gave the two women the tiniest of bows and left.

  When he was safely out of earshot, Desiree let her wrath pour down on Marta’s head. “How could you betray me! How could you promise your help a
nd then do this! Is there a place in Hell for those who destroy the trust of those who are in need?”

  Marta came to Desiree’s side. “No, no, do not say this, my little dove. Hush,” she said softly, “do not fear. No, do not. Marta would not give you again to that monster. Never would I do that. Before God, I would die before I would do that. Listen to me, poverina.”

  “For more lies,” Desiree said, averting her face.

  “You must listen to me,” Marta insisted, and in a moment, Desiree sighed and looked at her. “There have been lies told here, but not to you—to him. I would rather open my veins than lie to you, and I sing with the angels when I lie to him. This fruit I told him of, it is real, but it is not for the virile parts. It is the deadliest poison.” She saw the beginning of hope in Desiree’s eyes. “Now, hear me out, for you will have your vengeance. This fruit will give you vengeance.”

  “What fruit is it?” Desiree asked, not quite curious but anxious to know what Marta could offer her.

  “Some have called this the fruit of love, for the shape is like the fruits of men, the sacks that are so precious to them. The shape is something like a pear. There are fools who will eat it because they have heard that the shape lends passion and lust to their parts, and for this vanity they die hideously.”

  Now Desiree’s face was bright and her smile held an echo of the ferocity of Saint Sebastien’s smile. “Tell me, Marta. I want to know about this fruit.”

  Marta nodded, bending closer to Desiree in case someone at the door might be listening. “The fruit is mashed—it is not so firm as an apple but not so soft as a ripe melon—and mixed with meat for a pie, so that the poison will penetrate all that the man eats. It has a taste that is not unpleasant, or so they say, but that is part of the deception of the plant. Like the love of madmen, the fruit does its work. Because of how it looks it is named for love, but it gives death.”