Lion of Languedoc

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘But what about your lacemaking?’ Jeannette had protested as Marietta sat sewing new curtains for Elise’s bedchamber.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Marietta said, and then without looking up from her work, ‘Cécile is going to watch me. She should be an apt pupil. She’s quick and intelligent and clever with her fingers.’

  Jeannette looked over at the Titian-haired head bending low over her needlework, knowing what an enormous gesture it was for her to show anyone but another Venetian the secrets of her craft.

  ‘Change your mind and stay, Marietta. I shall miss you dreadfully when you leave.’

  ‘No. Elise will be here to keep you company.’ She pricked her finger on the needle and blamed that for the sudden rush of tears to her eyes. What was she doing sewing bed-curtains for Elise’s bridal chamber?

  She blinked the tears away. She was sewing curtains to help Jeannette. She must not dwell on the use to which they would be put, but hard as she tried she could not help it. With her own hands she was labouring to make the new bride’s bedchamber as pleasant and comfortable as possible. The room faced south, full of brilliant sun and the sound of birds. It was there that Léon and Elise would lie together, there that their children would be born.

  There came the sound of a door slamming and Léon’s footsteps across the hall. Hastily Marietta picked up her work.

  ‘I’m tired. Goodnight Jeannette,’ and she hurried from Jeannette’s small drawing-room only seconds before Léon entered.

  Jeannette knew the reason for her speedy exit and her heart ached for her, but there was nothing she could do. Léon wanted to marry Elise. Had always wanted to marry Elise. She sighed and turned to meet him.

  Chapter Five

  Léon sat down on the red brocade chair that Marietta had just vacated, and was instantly aware of the disturbing fragrance of faint lavender. He stretched his long, booted legs out to the fire and frowned, his forehead deeply furrowed. Jeannette eyed him curiously. It seemed to her that for a prospective bridegroom Léon was showing disturbing signs of boredom.

  He poured himself a goblet of wine, took a sip and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s cinnamon-scented,’ Jeannette said in answer to his unspoken question. ‘Marietta made it.’ Léon made no comment, but she noticed that he helped himself very quickly to more.

  ‘Le Duc de Malbré and Raphael arrive tomorrow from Paris.’

  Léon nodded, pleased. The Duke was an old friend of Jeannette’s and Raphael a companion he had played and wrestled with as a child and drunk and womanised with as a man. They were the first of the wedding guests to take up residence at Chatonnay, and Chatonnay—to Léon’s relief—was now fit to receive them. Despite his pleasure his brow remained furrowed as he said:

  ‘Armand’s daughter has gone down with fever.’

  Jeannette’s face whitened. ‘Is it smallpox?’

  ‘Armand says not, but she’s eating and drinking nothing. He will need to stay with her for the next few days.’

  Jeannette did not feel reassured. Two village girls had died of fever in the last three months, but there was no point in worrying Léon with such knowledge.

  The wine mellowed him, and he gazed around his home well pleased. It would be good to have Raphael’s company, and tomorrow night Elise was dining with them. Candlelight shone on polished wood, and a magnificent vase of flowers crowned the table. Thanks to Marietta, Chatonnay was fit to receive anyone who chose to come. Her cinnamon wine was good too, and the Duke had an appreciative palate. He poured himself another goblet full, whistled his dogs, and made his way to bed.

  Marietta, on hearing of Armand’s daughter’s illness, had immediately visited her. The girl was raging with fever and thin to a point of emaciation. She ordered Armand to feed her goat’s milk and honey, and was horrified when Armand protested that they had no such luxuries.

  ‘Anyone can keep bees!’ she told Jeannette indignantly. ‘And as for goats…’

  ‘But we have a goat,’ Jeannette protested weakly.

  ‘What good is one? What about the villagers? They are too poor to buy their own. What do they do for milk?’

  ‘I’m sure that now Léon is back he’ll…’

  ‘Pah,’ Marietta said, her hands on her hips, her eyes flashing. ‘Léon is too busy paying court to Madame Sainte-Beuve to worry his head about goats! I’ll drive the cart to Montpellier and bring back a dozen of them. There are children in Chatonnay dying for lack of milk, and the least the de Villeneuves can do as Seigneur is to provide that for them!’

  Weakly Jeannette agreed, handed Marietta a purse full of livres and wondered exactly where Marietta intended penning the animals once she had bought them.

  On seeing her march purposefully across the cobbled yard to the stables the stable boy brightened up considerably and moved towards the mare, intending to saddle it. ‘The cart,’ Marietta said briefly, ‘and both the mules.’

  The stable boy stared.

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake be quick about it,’ Marietta said exasperatedly, ‘ or it will be noon before I leave!’

  The stable boy debated whether it was worth risking a thick ear by letting his hand linger on her waist on the pretext of helping her into the cart, and was cheated of the chance as she sprang on to the rough wood seat unaided and grasped the reins. He stared fascinated at well-shaped bare feet. No lady would travel thus, and yet the de Villeneuves treated her as an equal and she certainly had high ideas of herself. There was as much chance of tumbling her in the straw like Cécile or Lili as tumbling Madame de Villeneuve herself.

  Intrigued, he watched as the shabby cart trundled out through the courtyard and across the drawbridge. Barefoot or not, Marietta held herself like a queen. He wondered if the Comte had enjoyed the pleasures so firmly denied himself and grinned lasciviously. There could be no other reason for her being at Chatonnay. Hell and the Devil, but he wished he’d been born a man with money! The sight of Marietta’s high rounded breasts had put all thought of work out of his head.

  He threw the saddle he was cleaning to one side and crept round to the kitchen door. With a bit of luck Cécile would be able to slip away from Mathilde’s suspicious eyes and sneak into the back of the stables with him. She was short and dumpy, but it was dark in the stables and a man had to use his imagination. When the Comte had had his fill of the Riccardi wench she wouldn’t be quite so high and mighty, and could very well be glad of his attentions.

  Living in hope, he whistled softly through the open back door and was rewarded by seeing Cécile’s plain face light up as she gave a quick look round to ensure no one was watching, and then hurried towards him.

  Montpellier was hot and crowded, and it took Marietta the best part of the morning to haggle for the goats she wanted. The stupid animals had no desire to jump into the cart voluntarily, and only with much help and ribaldry from the local stallholders did she manage to herd the protesting goats into the wooden cart. Even then her troubles were not over. The animals smelt abominably and nosed their way over her shoulder and beneath her arm as she urged the mules through the narrow streets and out on to the dusty road to Chatonnay.

  If she’d had any sense she would have stayed with Ninette Brissac and asked Armand to bring the wretched animals himself, she thought savagely as an ungrateful animal gave her a nip on the arm.

  It was past midday, and the light was clear with a luminosity that Marietta had never seen anywhere else but in Languedoc. The sun-scorched track wound through olive groves and fig trees, and Marietta raised her face to the sun and tried to ignore the reek and clamour of the goats. From behind her came the thundering of hooves and the crack of a whip and she turned her head to see an outrider and a team of beautifully matched greys with scarlet plumes drawing an impressive carriage. Hastily she urged the mules out of the way to let the splendid equipage pass.

  It didn’t. Instead it halted and the outrider, magnificent in black velvet with falls of lace at throat and cuff and knee-high boots of gleaming black l
eather reined in and said furiously, ‘What the devil do you think you are doing?’

  Marietta gritted her teeth, pushed an inquisitive goat away from her neck and said: ‘Providing Chatonnay with goats for milk, which is something you should have done long ago!’

  Léon’s face was white with anger. ‘ Hell’s light, aren’t there men enough to ferry goats without you making a public spectacle of yourself?’

  From the windows of the coach two occupants watched, one in amusement, the other in admiration. The Duke de Malbré’s lips twitched at the sight of his elegant young friend being spoken to in such a way by a peasant girl. His son, Raphael, was staring with blatant admiration.

  There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, the hem of her gown was thick with dust, yet she was the most ravishing creature he had ever seen. Green eyes slanted tantalisingly upwards, bright with anger. Olive skin gleamed flawlessly, and for the first time in his life Raphael de Malbré decided that the women of Versailles were fools. Why strive with creams and lotions for a face as white as death when there was beauty such as this in nature?

  Her lips were full and soft, cherry-red. Her nose was straight, her face heart-shaped, and her hair … Dear Lord! Raphael de Malbré gazed mesmerised. Never in his life had he seen hair like it. All of a sudden he was looking forward to more than a few weeks hawking and hunting with his friend. With village girls like this in Chatonnay his visit was going to be a memorable one.

  ‘Armand is with Ninette, and who else is there?’ Marietta was saying fiercely, fighting back tears of humiliation as she saw the amused expression on the exquisitely dressed occupant of the carriage and the all-too familiar look in the younger man’s eyes. She might as well be naked the way he was looking at her, and as for Léon … He looked as if he could quite happily-choke her to death.

  ‘How dare you behave like a peasant!’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘You’ve shamed me in front of my guests, made your position at Chatonnay impossible …’

  A goat, taking advantage of the stationary carriage, jumped nimbly beneath Marietta’s arm and on to the ground.

  ‘Now see what you’ve done,’ Marietta cried, jumping down from the cart. ‘Do you know how long it took me to get these stupid animals into the cart in the first place?’ Breathlessly she raced after it, picking up her skirts to run the faster.

  ‘Hell’s light!’ Léon seized his riding crop and leapt from Saracen’s back, running after her.

  ‘Do you realise what a spectacle you’re making of us?’ Eyes that were once honey-gold were black as the Devil’s as he seized the goat’s hind legs while Marietta held frantically on to the front ones. The goat squirmed, depositing a large amount of straw and stale dung on to Léon’s immaculate black velvet.

  ‘God’s grace!’

  She thought he was going to strike her as she hauled the goat from his grasp, and he brushed angrily at the offending dirt.

  The sight of Léon, sophisticate of Versailles and warrior of the battlefield, struggling with an unkempt village girl and protesting goat was too much for the de Malbrés. The Duke was wiping his eyes with a lace kerchief, while Raphael’s laughter was loud enough to be heard both in Montpellier and Chatonnay at the same time.

  Léon struggled to speak, failed, clenched his fists and swung on his heel, leaving Marietta to struggle with the still writhing goat as he mounted Saracen, his shoulders rigid with anger.

  Raphael de Malbré, still laughing uproariously, blew her a kiss from the window of the carriage as she sat, the goat in her lap, her skirts high around her knees.

  ‘Not even a pair of shoes on her feet!’ Léon said explosively to his mother when the de Malbrés had been settled in their rooms. ‘Driving the mule and cart like the commonest peasant, and with one hundred and fifty goats in the back!’

  ‘Twelve,’ his mother said, biting her lip to prevent herself from laughing.

  ‘Twelve, twenty, one hundred, what difference does it make? How am I going to introduce her to the de Malbrés now?’

  ‘As a kind-hearted girl willing to ride in the heat to Montpellier for goats to provide milk for the peasants who live on our land and cannot afford goats of their own.’

  ‘Any of the village men could have gone for the goats.’

  ‘And drunk the money,’ Jeannette replied equably. ‘You should be proud of Marietta, not ashamed. The goats and bees will make a big difference, not only to us but to all those who depend on us.’

  There was a long silence and then Léon said in a voice dangerously quiet, ‘What bees?’

  Jeannette winced. She had meant to break the news of the bees gently, not blurt it out while Léon was still in a raging temper over the goats.

  ‘What bees?’ he repeated, eyes smouldering.

  ‘The ones in the orchard. Marietta thought it would be a good idea to …’

  The door slammed behind him and Jeannette sank down into a chair and poured herself a restorative glass of plum brandy.

  Lili and Cécile scuttled out of his way as he stormed through the château and out into the orchard. What yesterday had been a wilderness was now transformed by line upon line of neatly arranged beehives. Close by, penned in the meadow adjacent to the kitchen garden, the goats grazed peacefully.

  Léon swore, but this time in reluctant admiration. In a week she had done more for Chatonnay than Mathilde had ever done. And the sight of her in that cart surrounded by goats was not one he would forget in a hurry. He grinned, his anger disappearing as quickly as it had been aroused. The Lord alone knew what the two of them had looked like, struggling with that wretched animal! No wonder Henri and Raphael had laughed themselves senseless. If word of it reached Versailles his reputation would be ruined. He determined to threaten Raphael with a cracked jaw if he even so much as whispered about it.

  ‘What’s her name?’ Raphael called from behind him and Léon turned to see his friend approach, his travelling clothes changed for a slashed doublet that showed the finery of his Dutch linen shirt and a pair of breeches tied above the knee with a profusion of ribbons in the style affected by anyone with any pretentions to fashion. It was reputed at court that Raphael de Malbré had used as much as two hundred and fifty yards of silver ribbon in one outfit. He was as tall as Léon but slimmer, his hair carefully powdered. In the orchard, the air heavy with the hum of bees and the drifting aroma of goats, he looked out of place—like an exotic bird in a farmyard of hens.

  ‘Who?’ Léon asked, knowing very well who his womanising friend meant.

  ‘The redhaired wench with the goats. Hell and damnation, I’ve never seen a sight like her.’ He rubbed well-manicured hands in anticipation. ‘I’ve not had sport with a village girl for years, but I’m going to make up for it now. Did you see that hair and those breasts? They’re enough to make a monk break his vows! Now, what’s her name and where can I find her?’

  ‘Her name,’ Léon said with a sudden spurt of anger, ‘is Marietta Riccardi, and you can find her at my dinner table,’ and he turned his back on his dumbfounded friend and strode back into the château.

  ‘How was I to know Léon would be riding back on the Montpellier road with his guests?’ Marietta asked Céleste bad-temperedly as she hooked her into her gown.

  Céleste giggled. ‘But with a cartload of goats! What will the Duke think?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ Marietta lied, beginning to brush her hair fiercely.

  ‘Well, you can’t wear the lawn green again, the hem is thick with dust. My gowns never get in such a state!’

  ‘You don’t buy goats.’

  ‘I should think not!’ Céleste shuddered with horror. ‘Nasty, smelly things. Have you seen the gown Aunt Jeannette has laid out for you? I think the colour a little drab myself, but at least it’s better than my lawn green, and I can’t lend you my pink satin. I must look my best tonight. Raphael de Malbré is reputed to be the handsomest man in the whole of Paris, excepting Léon of course, but Léon is to marry Elise so he doesn�
�t count.’

  She chattered on happily as Marietta stepped into a dress of heavy amber velvet. The colour glowed like autumn leaves, the perfect foil for her hair and eyes, and it was no accident that the deep scooped neck and nipped-in waist fitted to perfection, or that the full-blown sleeves gathered in so tightly at the wrists. Jeannette has spent all day sewing and altering and making sure that the dress that had been hers would look as if it had been made for Marietta and for no one else.

  The Duke de Malbré had accepted Jeannette’s explanation that Marietta was an old friend, staying with them until the wedding, with a grave face and a twinkle in his eyes. He had known the de Villeneuves for years and had never before met anyone who even remotely resembled the redhaired vixen who had given Léon such a tongue-lashing as they struggled over the goat. As for why any lady of quality should be riding around the countryside barefoot and driving a mule, Jeannette had made no attempt to explain and the Duke had the manners not to press her. It would, he thought, be rather hard for even Jeannette to think up a plausible explanation.

  Raphael had been first disappointed, and then delighted. Disappointed because it meant if the girl was no local peasant there was no way he could enjoy her body without preamble; delighted because it meant he would be in her company for long periods, and with Léon on the verge of matrimony he would have no competition. Like his father, he found the de Villeneuves’ explanation of Marietta’s presence too vague to be satisfying, but it added piquancy to the situation. Was the girl Léon’s mistress, and was he reluctant to give her up even though he was about to marry? It wouldn’t be the first time he and Léon had vied for the favours of the same lady. This time he, Raphael, had a distinct advantage, for Marietta Riccardi could not be happy at the prospect of Léon marrying and so would be more than willing to find consolation in other arms, and Léon could do very little about it. For if he did, his bride-to-be would discover his secret. Raphael had lost too many ladies to Léon’s dark charms not to feel a certain sense of satisfaction. Marietta Riccardi did not know it, but in Raphael de Malbré’s eyes she was his already.