Lion of Languedoc

by Margaret Pemberton

  Marietta wondered if perhaps Madame de Villeneuve was a little wanting in the head. One glance at those intelligent dark eyes was enough to assure her that she was not.

  ‘If that is what you want me to do, madame.’

  ‘It is,’ Jeannette said, rising to her feet. ‘We’ll meet again this evening. There’s plenty of cold meat and fruit in the kitchen—take some with you when you go riding. I’ll tell Mathilde to put wine and bread in your saddlebag as well.’

  She began to walk with disturbing slowness down the overgrown path and back towards the château.

  Puzzled, Marietta set off obediently towards the kitchen garden. Not until she had conquered the shoulder-high barrier of sweet-smelling roses did she realise that she had intended leaving immediately, and would now be unable to do so, at least until evening, and she did not relish the thought of setting off on her long journey in the darkness. Whether intentionally or unintentionally, Madame de Villeneuve had seen to it that she would see Léon once more before she left. Marietta did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

  The kitchen garden was so overgrown that unless Léon’s mother had told her it was one, Marietta would never have guessed. A small patch had been cleared and a few herbs grew alongside beans and asparagus. Pear trees and apple trees were heavy with fruit but early windfalls lay rotting and ungathered.

  Marietta frowned. Her impression the previous night had been that of entering a magnificent château. Now, in the harsh sunlight, she saw that her initial assumption of wealth had been incorrect. There was clearly no one to carry out that most vital of tasks, the tending of the vegetables, and as she approached the château she saw that there was an air of genteel poverty about it. The enormous room that had been the scene of Léon’s reunion with Elise was the only room, with the exception of her own bedchamber, that looked cared for.

  For the first time the suspicion entered Marietta’s head that the room she had slept in had been prepared for Léon. Everywhere else there was dust and a general air of neglect. To Mathilde’s indignation she opened store-cupboards and pantries: the contents were meagre. No satisfying stocks of salted and pickled preserves met her eyes, no large amounts of jam. Barely anything at all.

  Mathilde was not used to having her kitchen scrutinised and gave Marietta her meat and fruit with bad grace. Marietta was hardly aware of it. She was too deep in thought. The maids who had stared at her the previous evening were half-heartedly making bread, but talking so much that Marietta doubted they would ever finish their task.

  Armand grinned welcomingly at her when she found her way to the stables and asked for a horse. He had dutifully saddled Saracen earlier on and privately thought his master a fool for spending time on the fragile widow Sainte-Beuve when there was much better sport at home. His hand lingered a fraction too long on Marietta’s ankle as she mounted the horse, and he was rewarded with a sharp cuff on his ear. It didn’t disconcert him in the slightest. He spat gustily and watched with admiration as Marietta handled the strange horse with ease.

  He doubted if the widow Sainte-Beuve had ever been astride a horse. The Riccardi wench looked as if she had been born on one. He rubbed his stinging ear and went back to his work, grinning.

  She rode in a cloud of dust through the village of Chatonnay. The peasants paused in their work, watching her curiously. The horse belonged to the Comte. Who did the girl belong to? Barefoot, ragged children left the turkeys they were tending and ran after her, shouting and laughing.

  Most of the fields being tended were growing woad or maize. There were vines in profusion and very little else. A pathetically thin girl, not much older than herself, grabbed a naked baby out of the way of Marietta’s horse and it wailed angrily, beating tiny fists against her chest as Marietta rode by.

  By the time she returned to the château she had seen all that she needed to. Chatonnay was as impoverished as any other village in France, and despite Léon’s fine clothes, his home was impoverished too. No doubt it had been a long time since he had been home, and at the moment all he had eyes for was Elise. Marietta wondered if he was even aware of his mother’s precarious state of health.

  With relief she saw that Saracen had not returned to the stables; it would be impossible to talk to his mother in Léon’s disturbing presence. She went to her bedchamber, washed her hands and face in cold water, brushed her hair which had blown into its usual wild tangle, and went in search of Madame de Villeneuve.

  Jeannette was at the dining table waiting for her. She poured her a goblet of apple wine, and not until they had finished the hare pie and artichokes did she ask, ‘Well, my dear, what did you think of your exploration?’

  ‘I thought that life at Chatonnay was as difficult as life anywhere.’

  ‘Except at court,’ Jeannette agreed drily.

  Marietta remained silent, wondering what it was that Léon’s mother wanted of her.

  ‘For the Villeneuves, too, times have been difficult. Now, thanks to Léon’s success, we no longer have to count every livre, but it will take many months to restore the château to anything like its former comfort; and will be of very little help to the villagers. They need to be able to earn money for themselves, not rely on the Comte’s bounty, however generous.

  At last Marietta understood what it was Léon’s mother wanted of her. She said slowly, ‘You mean that point de Venise lace could bring prosperity to Chatonnay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The two women stared at each other and Marietta’s struggle showed in her eyes.

  ‘The skill is passed down from mother to daughter. It is a jealously guarded secret; if it was not then the whole world could make point de Venise and Venice would no longer be rich.’

  ‘I know.’ Jeannette’s voice was understanding, and Marietta knew that if she refused she would incur no wrath, but it was hard to refuse Madame de Villeneuve anything. Beneath her wan pallor and physical weakness was an inner strength. She did not want the secret for herself or for her own gain, only for the peasants who scratched out a living on the sun-baked land and to whom her son was Comte and Seigneur.

  ‘It would take too long, madame. Such skills cannot be learned in a few days or a few weeks. True lacemaking is not for amateurs.’

  ‘But if you stayed…’

  ‘No.’ Marietta’s voice was firm. ‘ I cannot stay.’

  Jeannette sighed. The girl was right. It would not be fair on either her or Elise.

  ‘All right,’ she said, admitting defeat. ‘But one thing I do insist upon. You can’t leave here until you have something of worth to sell on your journey. Stay here and make some collars and cuffs, then at least you will have enough to reach Narbonne or Trélier. And take my advice, Marietta. Settle there. To attempt the journey across the Alps to Venice would be madness, and you will not easily find a ship to take you by sea.’

  Marietta did not agree but was too polite to argue and Jeannette’s suggestion that she make some collars and cuffs before setting out on the road was a sensible one. Yet Léon would be here…

  Jeannette began to cough, a harsh racking cough that brought Marietta from her seat and round the table to her. When at last Jeannette leaned back in her chair, the handkerchief she had clutched to her mouth was bright with spots of blood.

  ‘Don’t tell Léon,’ she said, seeing the expression on Marietta’s face. ‘There is the wedding to prepare for before I can allow myself the luxury of being ill and taking to my bed.’

  ‘But you can’t prepare for a wedding!’ Marietta said, horrified. ‘You’ve scarcely the strength to walk up the stairs!’

  ‘I must.’ Jeannette’s face was tortured.

  Marietta thought of Mathilde and the two carefree serving maids. Apart from them and Armand and the stable boy, there was no one to help Jeannette with the preparations. She took Jeannette de Villeneuve’s hand, knowing that she could not let the sick woman who had taken her in and given her shelter cope with the wedding preparations single-handed.

  ‘Le
t me help,’ she said. ‘I’m a good cook, and I can do all the baking that is necessary.’

  Jeannette’s look of gratitude was all the thanks she needed. The older woman squeezed her hand tight.

  ‘Just one more favour, Marietta. Don’t tell Léon how ill I am. There will be plenty of time for that after the wedding.’

  Before Marietta could protest there came the sound of Léon’s familiar stride and within seconds he was in the room, drawing his gauntlets and throwing them on to a convenient chair, doffing his plumed hat of ostrich feathers and setting it carelessly down beside the gloves.

  Mathilde hurried in with more hare pie and Marietta sat down again, such a tight constriction round her chest that she wondered if she, too, was sickening for something.

  ‘How is Elise?’ Jeannette asked.

  Her son frowned, broke his wheaten bread in half and said: ‘She seems to think we should postpone the wedding out of respect to Sainte-Beuve.’

  ‘Well, he has only just died. She should still be in mourning.

  ‘For that old lecher?’ Léon asked savagely.

  Jeannette seemed to be choosing her words with great care.

  ‘Elise did seem to adapt very well to living with an older man.’

  Léon’s black brows drew together till they almost met. ‘She hadn’t much choice, had she? Forced into marriage at seventeen with a man already a grandfather. God, even to think about it…’

  ‘But she never seemed really unhappy, Léon.’

  ‘Of course she was unhappy!’ her son retorted angrily.

  Jeannette bit her lip, knowing that Léon was on the verge of losing his temper. ‘He took very great care of her,’ she persisted.

  The retort that sprang to Léon’s lips was quickly suppressed. He was speaking to his mother, not a soldier, and for the first time he became aware of Marietta’s presence.

  ‘You don’t understand. I don’t give a damn for the niceties. Elise has had a life of hell for six years, and there’s no need for a period of mourning. And I won’t have her married from his house! I’ll marry her here!’

  He pushed his plate of hare pie away unfinished, glared at Marietta as if the whole exchange had been her fault and strode away from the room. Jeannette sighed and shook her head weakly.

  ‘I’ve tried to tell him before but he won’t listen. Elise was happy with old Sainte-Beuve. He looked after her as if she were a child, treating her like a piece of precious china, but Léon’s pride won’t let him admit it. I daresay he’s left Elise in tears by his stubborn insistence on going ahead with the wedding without waiting for a suitable period of mourning.’

  She raised a hand to her throbbing temples. ‘We must make a start on the pies and the cakes tomorrow and where I shall get the strength from I don’t know. And there are all the rooms to prepare. Elise couldn’t possibly manage with just Mathilde to look after her. She has an army of servants at Lancerre. She’ll have to bring them with her and they’ll have to have room to sleep and most of the rooms haven’t been opened since my husband died. I’ve kept asking Mathilde to make a start on them but she can’t get any obedience out of those girls and her days are busy enough as it is…’

  ‘Please don’t worry,’ Marietta said, trying not to let her hurt show at the way Léon had glared at her and the protective way he spoke about Madame Sainte-Beuve. ‘I’ll look after everything for you.’

  Jeannette undid the ring of keys at her waist. ‘Then please do, Marietta. Though it will need a miracle to prepare for the wedding and put the château in order.’

  ‘Not a miracle,’ Marietta said, forcing a smile, ‘just hard work. I think you should rest now. Would you like me to help you up the stairs?’

  Gratefully Jeannette took her arm. Léon, still incensed at his mother’s insinuations, stormed out of his room intent on continuing the conversation. It was an insult to Elise to suggest that she had been even remotely happy in her marriage to the Mayor of Lancerre.

  He was stopped short by the sight of Marietta half carrying his mother up the stairs. His anger vanished in an instant. Appalled, he took the steps two at a time, lifting his mother in his arms and carrying her the rest of the way to her bed. The door closed behind mother and son and Marietta went to her own room and slowly removed Céleste’s green gown and slipped into her nightdress.

  If Elise had been happy in her marriage to her elderly husband, how much happier would she be as Léon’s bride? And for the sake of Jeannette, Marietta would have to be a witness to that happiness. The night was warm, but Marietta felt chilled to the bone as she lay in the darkness. He had not even spoken a word to her tonight. As far as Léon de Villeneuve was concerned, she no longer existed. The night sky was already paling to dawn before she finally closed her eyes and fell into a restless sleep.

  Marietta was wrong in thinking Léon oblivious of the shabbiness that his home had fallen into. Or that he was unaware of Jeannette’s failing health. His reunion with Elise had not been all he had anticipated, and he had ridden away from Lancerre in a mood of irritation. Elise’s reluctance for an early marriage had been the main cause of it. He had taken it for granted that her love for him would overrule the outward proprieties, yet her violet-blue eyes had been distressed when he had told her of his intention for an early marriage, and she had stiffened awkwardly in his arms, feeling it wrong for him to kiss her with her husband barely cold in his grave.

  As far as Léon was concerned it was all damned annoying, and for some reason he couldn’t define his irritation had deepened when he had walked into the dining-room and seen Marietta and his mother in close conversation. The green lawn dress was modest enough on Céleste; on Marietta it took on a whole new meaning. High rounded breasts peeped tantalisingly from the black velvet bodice and the soft falls of the skirt accentuated the pleasing outline of her hips.

  His feelings were mixed when Jeannette had told him that she had asked Marietta to stay and help her prepare for the wedding. He was honourable enough to feel a measure of relief that she wouldn’t be leaving Chatonnay without means of support. His mother’s idea that she employed herself making collars and cuffs in point de Venise was a sensible one. The smallest amount of such lace would fetch a high price. Yet she brought out in him feelings that were not fitting in a man approaching marriage. He remembered the tantalising smallness of her waist and the way her hair had glinted a thousand shades of red in the candlelight, hanging down to her waist in gleaming waves and curls without even a ribbon to restrain them. No wonder the Huguenots said a woman’s hair was the work of the Devil. Marietta could tempt even a saint from the path of virtue, and Léon de Villeneuve had never aspired to sainthood.

  ‘I need her,’ Jeannette had said simply and Léon, looking down at her, knew that it was true and that he was glad of it. He groaned inwardly. The sooner he was married the better. Celibacy was no way of life for a man who had spent six years at the court of Louis XIV.

  Despite her lack of sleep Marietta rose early. The clink of the keys at her waist gave her confidence. She had two weeks to effect a transformation at Chatonnay; there was no time to lose lying abed. Mathilde and the serving maids were outraged at having their presence demanded in the kitchen at such an early hour, and it was Marietta who cooked Léon’s breakfast, though she handed it to Mathilde to carry through to the dining table.

  Léon sat down to it with relish. Mathilde’s breakfasts were usually notoriously slipshod.

  ‘You’ve surpassed yourself this morning, Mathilde,’ he said, giving her a smile that made even old Mathilde wish she were a young girl again.

  ‘Wasn’t me,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘Seems we’ve got a new châtelaine here, though Heaven alone knows why. Forty years I’ve been here and never a word of complaint, and now a slip of a girl is given Madame’s keys and is ordering us about left, right and centre. She’d cooked a whole batch of bread before I got down this morning, as if the bread Lili and Cécile made yesterday was not good enough.’

  S
he left the room muttering angrily beneath her breath. Léon was unable to sympathise. He had never tasted such good bread; Marietta obviously had talents other than lacemaking. He had no time to waste in telling her so, however. Elise was waiting and so was the Abbé. There was a wedding to arrange and he still had to coax Elise into agreeing to it at the earliest opportunity.

  By the time he strode across to the stables and a waiting and saddled Saracen, Marietta had already sent an eager Lili down into the village to request the help of her sisters, and had cleared the whole contents of the kitchen into the yard, sweeping every inch of the stone flags with a broom. The dust rose in choking clouds, sending Mathilde scurrying for cover.

  ‘Whenever I see you,’ Léon said, a wide grin on his face as he paused at the doorway, ‘you always have a dirty face!’

  ‘And you always have bad manners!’ Marietta returned, wielding the broom with gusto so that a cloud of dust threatened to spoil the perfection of his dove-grey tunic and white leather boots. He retreated hastily and Marietta continued her sweeping with angry force. His precious Elise would look like a goose-girl too if she had such a kitchen to contend with! She looked so fierce as she ordered Cécile to begin sluicing the flags with scalding hot water that Cécile did not dare demur. By midday scoured pans gleamed, the giant wood table was near white and the flags were not only washed but whitestoned. A large jug of flowers stood on the window-sill.

  Lili’s two sisters were only too happy to work and Marietta sent them to the upstairs room, beating carpets, airing beds, scrubbing floors. Linen-cupboards were turned out and Mathilde was set the task of darning and patching. The chicken that Marietta put in the pot, aided by a bunch of herbs growing wild in the garden, tasted more appetising than anything ever before served on the de Villeneuves’ dining table.

  By the end of the week even Mathilde had been won over, and with the help of Lili and her sisters the château was spotlessly clean, the rooms for Elise and her maids prepared, and the fragrance of fresh flowers mingled with that of new-baked bread and the enticing odours of a perpetual stockpot. She had gone to Armand next for help, explaining that she needed the kitchen garden cleared and the fruit gathered in. An hour later an army of ragamuffins between five and ten years old descended on the wilderness of the garden, and under Marietta’s direction began to clear it. Cécile, once shown how, proved an excellent jam-maker and under the blazing southern sun Marietta laboured happily in the garden, rescuing what she could of the herbs, bringing about some semblance of order.