Ninon straightened up from the furrow she had been smoothing and rubbed the small of her back. Le bon Dieu knew she worked as hard as ever she had for Baugin and la Bique—tending the garden, making butter and cheese and soap, dipping tallow for candles—but the aches and pains at the end of the day scarcely bothered her. Perhaps it was the joy of being repaid with kindness instead of blows, the goodness of the sisters, the delight in teaching the children. She had found a serenity here she had not thought possible, a pleasure in giving of herself to those who needed her.
And she had the joy of books again. Even music. She had found an old lute and a guitar that a long-ago traveler had donated to the convent in grateful payment for the sisters’ care. She had spent many a quiet afternoon reacquainting her fingers with the chords, smiling to remember the eccentric music teacher at her father’s château of Bellefleur.
And of course she had her dreams. The fantasies of her younger days had become full-blown scenarios of love and romance, with Philippe as the heart and core of each one. She acted them out when she went to bed at night, kissing her pillow, whispering words of love in the dark as though he were truly there to hear them. As she went about her chores, she would pretend that he was with her, and imagine what he would say, how he would praise her work. And when a passing traveler would stop at the convent and tell of the latest news from the world outside, she would use that knowledge to construct elaborate dialogues with the imaginary Philippe, discoursing on philosophy and politics to dazzle him with her intelligence.
And she had his very own words. Hidden in a little tablet that she kept under her straw mattress. He had written seldom to the abbess in the last three years, and had told almost nothing of his life, if one was to credit the reverend mother. She could only guess that he was happy without his Rosamunde. But he sometimes included in his letters a line or two about Ninon; smiling gently, the abbess would read them aloud to the girl. She would hurry back to her small cell and copy them into her tablet before she forgot the words; and there they sat, ready at hand when she needed them, to read over and over, to commit to memory as though they were a love sonnet. “I send to Ninon my best regards.” “I am pleased to hear that Ninon progresses so well in her studies.” “Give Ninon my fond wishes for a happy Christmas.”
She had never stopped loving him. Indeed, she loved him all the more because he was a sweet dream. He could not break her heart again if he were just a fantasy.
The coach jolted along the bumpy road, its leather-strap springs creaking loudly. From far away came the rumblings of thunder, blending with the coachman’s tuneless whistle to play a noisy concerto to the gloomy afternoon. Alas, thought Ninon, smoothing the skirts of her new gown, it will surely rain before I arrive!
No matter. The pony cart would meet her at the signpost and hurry her to Marival before the rain could do its worst. Would Philippe be in the cart? she wondered. No. He would prefer to greet her at the gates of his château, greet her as an honored guest. Well, perhaps not honored guest; rather a long-ago friend, someone who was dear to him. His letter to the reverend mother had been very vague. “Monsieur my cousin wants you in his service at Château Marival,” the abbess had said. She did not seem to know why, and Ninon did not care to ask. After all, he could hardly have told the reverend mother that he was summoning Ninon to be his mistress, his lover! But Ninon had no doubt of it. Why else would he have sent for her? Why else send money for this public coach, and the splendid new clothes?
Ninon smiled down at her garments. She had not worn anything so fine since her days at Bellefleur. To be sure, she had dressed as an aristocrat, as the bastard of a great noble at Bellefleur, now she was clad as a bourgeoise woman. Still, after her years of rags and hand-me-downs at the convent, she felt as elegant as a queen. The gray fustian jacket, braid-edged, with its large white linen collar and cuffs—she had not had time to frost them with her own embroidery. And two skirts over her petticoat, the blue underskirt banded at the hem with bright yellow stripes, the split overskirt—of the same gray twilled cotton and wool as the jacket—tucked up into large poufs over her hips. She had a large cape and a separate black hood—called a chaperone—that tied under her chin with a profusion of ribbons, and her shoes were square-toed and tied high over the instep with leather thongs. In a small straw hamper she carried the rest of the clothes that she had been able to buy with Philippe’s generous allowance: a fitted bodice, cut low across the bosom, in blue like her underskirt, an extra petticoat, and two more linen chemises, one with lace to peep out above her bodice for formal occasions, the other simple and unadorned, to be worn with a sleeveless laced jerkin for everyday wear. There were several pairs of knitted stockings, one in red silk, and a crisp white apron. And the sisters, led by a smiling Solange, had presented her with a delicate lace fichu to drape across her shoulders. It was almost like having a trousseau.
Leaning back in the carriage, Ninon allowed herself to daydream once again. She was beautiful in her new clothes; she knew it with a certainty. Would Philippe be pleased? Would Philippe be dazzled? Would he kiss her at their first meeting? She prayed so. Her lips had been tasting his—remembering his kiss at the inn—for so long that she could scarcely recall a time when she did not love him. In spite of her resolve to guard her heart, she found herself filled with hope, certain that this time her dreams would come true. There might even be a marriage at the end of this journey, God willing!
It was nearly evening when the coach reached the signpost; the rain had been falling steadily for over an hour. There was no pony cart in sight, but the coachman was unwilling to linger, while Ninon stayed warm and dry within. He had passengers waiting in Dijon, to the south, and a charming doxy he had not see in two months; besides, perched on his box, he had had no shelter from the rain. Why should he pity the mademoiselle? Pulling her light cape more closely about her shoulders, and clutching her hamper to her, Ninon stepped reluctantly out of the carriage. There was no protection from the driving storm among the still-bare trees, and the muddy road sucked at her new shoes and soiled her hems. By the time the cart appeared, and the gnarled old driver had apologized for the delay, she was soaked through, and cursing her own shortsightedness in not having bought a heavy cloak with the money from Philippe. But she had done without for so many years, she had not thought it necessary. Well, Philippe would remedy that.
Clambering into the cart, Ninon huddled miserably on the seat. It was not as she had imagined her arrival would be, jouncing through the darkening night, wet and cold. She could not even see Château Marival clearly; it was just a dim shape against the black sky. As the cart passed through the main gate to the wall-enclosed courtyard with its side wings of stables and workshops, she looked up to see lights twinkling here and there in the corps-de-logis—the central living quarters—of Marival. A side door opened; silhouetted in the sudden light was a heavyset woman who beckoned to her. As soon as the cart stopped, Ninon jumped down and hurried to the door.
“Mademoiselle Guillemot?” asked the woman, closing the door to the stormy night. Ninon nodded. “What a dreadful night to be out! You must be chilled through. Come along, my child.” The woman stopped. “Ah! Forgive me! My manners. I am Agathe, and I welcome you to Marival.” She smiled benignly. She was a robust woman, small but amply padded, with gray hair peeping from beneath her snowy, close-fitting cap, and ruddy cheeks like little apples. By her air of authority and the large ring of keys hanging at her waist, Ninon guessed she must be the housekeeper of Marival.
And Philippe nowhere about. Ninon began to shiver. She was cold, she was disappointed, and she was weary from the journey.
“By all the saints, you’ll catch the ague if you stand there!” Agathe said briskly. “Come along. Come along!”
She ushered Ninon up two flights of stairs and into a room just off the corridor. It was sparsely furnished and small, with a single dormer window, but it had a large bed hung with straight draperies, and a broad fireplace that radiated a welcome wa
rmth.
Still shivering uncontrollably, Ninon allowed Agathe and a young chambermaid to strip the drenched garments from her, to bathe her muddy feet in a basin of warm water, and to towel dry her copper curls, making them more frizzed than usual, so that her head glowed with a pink-gold halo in the firelight. Wrapped at last in a heavy blanket, she sat on a stool before the fire, sipping a mug of warm cider that the maid had brought, while Agathe went in search of a nightdress, horrified that Ninon would wish to sleep in her chemise. (“We are scarcely uncivilized here at Marival, mademoiselle!”)
The door opened. The chambermaid, who had been draping Ninon’s wet clothing across a chair near the fire, stopped and curtsied. “Madame,” she murmured humbly. Ninon looked up.
The woman who had come into the room was tall and elegant, her lithe form clothed in a rich gown of pale peach satin, her ebony hair twisted up in the back and hanging loose in front with spiral curls that fell to her shoulders. She might have been twenty-six or -seven. She sailed majestically toward Ninon, her thin lips held in a tight smile.
“You are Ninon.” Her voice was low and cultured. “If you please, stand up.” It was not quite an imperious command, nor was it a simple request—clearly, the lady was a woman who expected to be heeded.
“Yes…madame,” murmured Ninon, putting down her cider and rising to her feet. The woman made her uneasy, though she could not begin to understand why.
Pale gray eyes searched Ninon’s face; then, without warning, the woman reached out and pulled the blanket from Ninon’s body. This time the eyes held open hostility as they raked Ninon’s bare flesh, the full young breasts, the dense patch of copper between her rounded thighs. “But you’re not a child, are you?”
Ninon bristled, feeling her soul stripped as bare as her body. “No, madame,” she said quietly, though her eyes darted blue flame.
“He said you were a child.” The gray eyes lingered on Ninon’s groin, then came to rest on her face once again. “Are you a woman?” There was no mistaking her meaning.
Despite herself, Ninon felt the hot flush wash across her face. “No, madame,” she answered, wondering by what right the woman dared to ask such a question.
A honeyed smile parted the thin lips. “Good. It is wise to guard your virtue, to protect your virginity from the soft blandishments of men.” She handed back the blanket, frowning in thought as Ninon covered herself once again. “Something must be done about that hair, however. It is ungoverned and wild, and the riotous color is an affront to every decent sensibility. We shall cut you a fringe across the forehead, I think, and bind the rest in a cap.”
“But…I should prefer…” stammered Ninon.
“Nonsense! Do you wish to appear a slut? Every stableboy and carpenter at Marival will have his hand under your skirts if you flaunt those wild curls! Would you lose your virginity to a coarse finger? Tell Agathe you are to have a cap!” With a swirl of satin she was gone.
Ninon was still standing in shocked surprise when Agathe returned, bearing a soft nightdress. “I see you have met Madame la Comtesse. A charming lady. Now, here is your nightdress. Put it on, and get you into bed. Adèle here will bring you some supper.”
Passively Ninon allowed herself to be dressed in her nightclothes and led to the bed; she sat up against the pillows while a tray of food was brought and a single candle was left at the bedside table. Adèle curtsied politely and Agathe bade her a good night. She was alone. The fire still burned brightly on the hearth, but her heart had begun to grow cold. Madame la Comtesse. His sister, perhaps. A cousin, surely, widowed and come to live at Marival to be his hostess, to be the chatelaine. A bachelor could not be expected to manage the complexities of a large household! Still…
She put aside the tray of food, barely touched, her soul filled with a dire foreboding. Madame la Comtesse.
The room was dim, cozy, and warm, but she could not sleep. She sat for a long time listening to the rain outside the casement, the thumping of her heart. There was a sudden light tap on her door. At her bidding, the door opened.
She saw the candle first, then Philippe behind it. “I am glad that you are yet awake, Ninon!” he announced delightedly, striding across the room to perch on the edge of her bed. “I did not wish to wait until the morning to greet you!” He set his candle next to hers on the table and grinned at her. “I see the sisters have fed you well. You were naught save bones when last we met! Well, are you still the silent bird, that you cannot greet me?”
She gulped, feeling too overwhelmed to speak. He was more beautiful even than she had remembered him. A little older, perhaps, a little more mature, the lines of his jaw stronger and more angular, the small beard and mustache more carefully manicured. But his shoulders, beneath his billowing silk shirt, were as broad as she had imagined them in her fantasies, and his golden hair still set her to recalling her father. “I…I am pleased to see you again…Philippe,” she stammered at last.
“What a devil of a night for you to arrive! But I promise you fairer weather here at Marival. Have you met the boys?” She shook her head, mystified. He laughed. “Mon Dieu, then you must wonder what I’m talking about. Well then…Madame la Comtesse has been unhappy of late with the tutors for her sons. And every letter I receive from my cousin the abbess is filled with glowing accounts of your intelligence and skill as a teacher.” He frowned. “By the by, have you taught lads?”
“Yes. There were boys from the village.”
“Good! You shall not find these lads a burden, I’ll wager. Jean-Claude is ten and Robert nearly eight. A little untamed, as is natural, but good-hearted. Do you think you are equal to the task?” At Ninon’s silent nod he smiled. “And so I thought. As I said to Madame la Comtesse, let me but send for the clever child, the object of the reverend mother’s unceasing praise. You shall not regret it.” He smiled again, his eyes crinkling warmly. “And I shall not, I think.”
She must be his widowed sister or cousin, thought Ninon. It would be natural for her, left alone with small children, to seek a home with her kinfolk. More natural still for Philippe to take an interest in their education.
“A hundred gold louis for the year, and room and board,” he said. “That will be agreeable to you, will it not?”
“No. You gave money to Baugin for me. And the coins for my new clothes. Fifty louis will content me.”
“Fifty? I shall not hear of it! I pay my grooms more! One hundred. And not another word, lest I change my mind.”
“But…but…Philippe…the clothes and the coach…”
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “As to that, child—Madame my wife is closefisted. I should prefer she not know of those expenses. And you had best not call me Philippe, little bird. You understand, of course. An unseemly familiarity, and one that my stepsons could scarcely fathom. Eh bien, it grows late. In the morning we shall discuss a course of study for the boys.” He patted her gently on the head like a fond father, picked up his candle, and went to the door. “Welcome to Marival,” he said, and left the room.
Ninon blew out her candle and lay down, pulling the warm coverlet about her shoulders. Her eyes were dry. Her heart had turned to ice.
Ninon stood at the window of the long galerie of Marival, looking out on the wide stretch of lawn, the formal gardens. Beyond, clothed in the soft green of April, was a wooded park, with artfully planted groves of trees, the studied casualness of massed rocks and boulders, and the unexpected whimsy of a small summerhouse—built to look like a woodcutter’s cottage—in the midst of this charming but wholly artificial setting. She sighed heavily, filled with that mingled joy and sadness that always came with spring.
Directly below her on the terrace, Philippe was instructing Jean-Claude and Robert in the handling of a musket, helping them to load and unload the charge, to carry the weapon about, to march with it in the manner of well-trained soldiers. Most days, just before lunch, Philippe saw to some aspect of their military training: riding, drill with arms large and small, exercis
es with the pike, fencing with the rapier. Ninon taught them for most of the morning, and again for a large part of the afternoon, instructing them in writing and grammar, reading in French and Latin. Thanks to her own training, she was able to teach them the sciences as well—mathematics and ciphering—and guitar. After nearly a month, the routine had become steady, and she found that she could set them a full day’s instruction and still have a great deal of freedom for herself. In the morning she particularly liked to give the boys lessons to copy for half an hour or so, while she sat in the common room next to the large kitchen, having a leisurely breakfast with Agathe and the staff and servants of Marival. She seldom spoke to them, preferring her own counsel, but it made her life a little less empty.
She sighed again. The boys were agreeable enough to teach: not especially winning, but not very difficult either. And although Madame la Comtesse was always unpleasant to her, she contrived to avoid the woman as often as she could. The matter of her hair had been resolved somewhat amicably. To please madame, she wore a starched linen cap that covered most of her curls, but she balked at cutting a fringe across her forehead, preferring instead to part her hair in the middle and sweep the pieces back under the cap. It was a pleasant life. She should have been happy. But…
She looked at Philippe laughing below with the boys. So blind to her, so oblivious to the pain in her heart. Still seeing her as a child. Ah Dieu! How was it possible to hate and love someone at the same time? Her eyes softened as she watched him, his lithe grace, his noble bearing.
“He is a fine figure of a man, n’est-ce pas?”
Ninon whirled to see the Comtesse de Froissart smiling at her silkily. “Yes, madame, he is,” she said quietly, turning back to the window to look again at Philippe.
Dreams So Fleeting Page 5
