by Nina Mason
“I will paint day and night, if that’s what it takes.”
“Excellent.” The art dealer clapped him on the back. “Now, what do you say to a glass of something to celebrate? I don’t suppose you have any champagne in your cellar.”
“I do, as it happens.” Matthew, pleased beyond measure, gave up all thought of riding. “Let us return to the house, and I’ll ask my butler to bring up a few bottles of the best I have on hand. For we have much to catch each other up on, and I’ve far more of the stuff than I can possibly drink on my own.”
Matthew and Monsieur Claremont talked, drank, and ate into the wee hours, catching up on each other’s lives and reminiscing about their days together in Paris. By the time they retired, drunk on champagne, nostalgia, and camaraderie, the servants had long-since gone to bed.
Due to the alcohol, Matthew slept heavily. At one point, he became dimly aware of shouting, but he didn’t rouse. Hands shook him, but he couldn’t seem to find his way to wakefulness through the dense fog enveloping his mind. His whole body felt leaden, his flesh was fevered, his throat burned something fierce, and his lungs strained for breath like a man buried alive.
Good God. Had he caught Mathilde’s cholera?
He began to cough, violently. The hands shook him again, harder. “Wake up, Monsieur Brontë, you must,” a Frenchman cried frantically. “Your bed is on fire!”
* * *
“Mademoiselle Grey, are you up? Oh, I do hope you are, because I have the most dreadful news.”
The sound of the housekeeper’s frantic voice calling through the door of Jane’s bedroom, brought her awake with a jolt. As she scrambled out of bed, her fearful, sleep-confused mind raced over the grim possibilities. Had her mother died? Had Lady Cécile run off with Lord L’Hiver? Was Lord Brousseau waiting to terminate her employment for failing to keep them apart? She pulled on her wrapper, raced to the door, and yanked it open.
There stood Madame DuBois, wringing her arthritic hands. “Oh, my dear, what do you think? There has been a fire. At Cœur Brisé. Very late last night.”
All the blood in Jane’s head rushed to her stomach and began to churn. She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know, but couldn’t stop herself from blurting, “Is Lord Brontë all right?”
“Oui, Mademoiselle, God be praised. Or I assume so, at least.” She reached into the large pocket on the front of her apron, withdrew a letter, and held it out to Jane. “How else could he have sent you this? It was delivered a few moments ago by his butler.”
Pulse quickening, Jane turned the sealed letter over in her hand. Her name was scrawled across the front panel in Matthew’s artistic handwriting.
“How did the fire start?” she asked while breaking the seal on the folded vellum. “Do you know?”
“Non, Mademoiselle. But the butler did say foul play was suspected.”
Foul play? Heaven forbid. Jane looked up from her fumbling to meet the housekeeper’s worried gaze. “How extensive was the damage?”
“Only the count’s bedchamber itself was burned. While he lay within the curtains, dead to the world. Apparently, a gentleman staying at the château smelled the smoke, which had stupefied the poor man. Not a moment could be lost; the very sheets were sparking, according to the report I received. The guest rushed to the basin and ewer, both of which—God be thanked—were filled with water. He heaved them at the flames, deluging the bed and its occupant, before he ran downstairs to alert the servants and retrieve the fire bucket from the kitchens.”
Jane shuddered upon hearing the tale. “So, if not for this guest, Lord Brontë might have perished in the fire?”
“Oh, oui.” The housekeeper was flushed and breathless. “It was a very close call, I was told—and might have ended in tragedy if not for Monsieur Claremont.”
The name rang a bell. “Monsieur Claremont?”
“Oui. The gentleman who so heroically saved his host from the flames.”
“Of course.” Monsieur Claremont was the art dealer to whom Matthew’s unfinished letter had been directed. Thank God he’d been there to put out the fire!
They conversed about the incident a few minutes longer before Madame DuBois went back to her rooms. Jane closed the door and, with a racing pulse and shaky hands, broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
My dearest Jane,
You may have heard about the fire by now, as word travels fast in these parts. Trust that I am sound. Badly shaken, but sound. I can guess who set the fire and what motive he has for desiring my demise. What I cannot suppose is where he has gone or how far he will go to wrest Cœur Brisé from my grasp. Apparently, he isn’t above committing murder to gain the estate. I believe, therefore, my best course is to get away from here until the authorities are able to build a strong enough case against him to put him behind bars. Much as it grieves me to leave you with things between us unresolved, I feel I have no other choice. How I wish I could say my farewells in person, my darling Jane; but, alas, I can only assure you of my affection and my plan to return to you as soon as it is safe to do so. To protect your reputation and situation, I shall not write, but please, my dearest Jane, have faith in my affection and promise.
Until we meet again, I remain your devoted servant,
M. Brontë
Jane re-read the note at least a dozen times, but, alas, could find naught to assure her of his ambitions beyond his plan to return if and when Lord L’Hiver was imprisoned. Flattered though she was he’d taken the time to write—and vastly relieved he’d survived the attempt on his life—she couldn’t spend her life waiting and hoping. He had gone away—heaven alone knew where or for how long—and there were no guarantees the police would ever connect the marquis to the fire. They might, therefore, never meet again, devastating as the prospect was to her troubled heart.
As she slipped his letter between the pages of Jane Eyre, she recalled with alarm the scene in which Mr. Rochester’s mad wife had set fire to his bed. Turning to the place in the book where the fire was described, Jane wondered if the one in Matthew’s bedchamber had been similar.
Tongues of flame darted round the bed: the curtains were on fire. In the midst of blaze and vapour, Mr. Rochester lay stretched motionless, in deep sleep. “Wake! wake!” I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned: the smoke had stupefied him. Not a moment could be lost: the very sheets were kindling, I rushed to his basin and ewer; fortunately, one was wide and the other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaved them up, deluged the bed and its occupant, flew back to my own room, brought my own water-jug, baptized the couch afresh, and, by God’s aid, succeeded in extinguishing the flames which were devouring it.
Poor Matthew! How terrifying it must have been to wake up in a bed engulfed in flames! Thank God Monsieur Claremont had been there to come to his aid. For she couldn’t bear to think what might have happened if he’d not been awakened in time. It was too upsetting to contemplate.
But alas, he was still alive and thinking of her as he took his leave. So, she would repay his kindness by waiting for him—at least until she left this place to return to England. That was not such a terribly long time to hold out hope. And if he did not return before she left France, she was determined never to think of him again.
Meanwhile, it wouldn’t do to pass the day in her room marinating in worry. Last night, before she sought refuge in her room, she promised Madame DuBois help with the ball preparations. Thus, she must bite back her melancholy and force herself to be cheerful and useful. Her prayers, tears, wishes, fears, and laments on the subject of Matthew Brontë must hereafter be reserved for what little private time she could carve out of her taxing schedule.
Chapter Fourteen
The weeks passed and Matthew had his show, which sold well, though not as well as he’d hoped. While the profits might have supported him and Jane for a few months in a tiny garret, there would be nothing left for her relations in England or any guarantee of future income.
While a few collect
ors and gallery owners showed interest in the work he’d exhibited, none made promises he could bank upon. Not yet, leastwise, and, as Monsieur Claremont frequented reminded him, one must not count one’s profits before they were jingling in one’s pocket.
Instead, he must wait, much as it grieved his heart to delay marrying Jane even one more hour. He loved her so dearly and missed her so profoundly every part of him ached with longing. If he could only make enough to support her and her relations, he would return to Tours tomorrow and beg her on bended knee to be his wife. Then, she would only have him to look after instead of recalcitrant brats like Cécile Brousseau.
Speaking of whom, the much-anticipated ball was only a few days away. Should he go to claim his dance with Jane? Much as he longed to do so, he had no wish to see Phillippe, who would surely be there.
Two weeks ago, Matthew received a report from the police. Finding no evidence to implicate the marquis, they’d concluded that the fire was an accident caused by an overturned candle. Though he felt sure they were wrong, he could do little to discourage another attempt on his life short of giving Phillipe what he wanted.
Perhaps he should. Just sign the whole bloody estate over and be done with it. He was a painter who wished to marry a governess. He had no use for titles, riches, or a castle haunted by his former mistress. Mathilde’s actual ghost might not walk the floors, but he could still feel the chill of her presence in every room. By giving up Cœur Brisé, he could be rid of her once and for all.
And, while he was there, he would ask for Jane’s promise to marry him once he’d earned enough to keep her. Securing her promise would allow him to focus entirely on painting, which would pass the time more quickly.
Yes, yes. That’s what he would do. Go back to Tours, relinquish his legacy, and propose to Jane. But first, he wanted to make her a token to secure their promise and remind her of him and his love.
A miniature self-portrait similar to the one she’d seen hanging in the Blue Talon Inn.
* * *
After helping with that day’s ball preparations, Jane retreated to her chamber, locked the door, and threw herself down on the bed. Yes, Matthew had said he wouldn’t write, but it was hard to keep the faith in total silence. He’d been gone for weeks and she was beginning to doubt his promise to return for her. After the ball, she would go home to England and begin the dreaded hunt for a new situation. How would he ever find her with nothing more to go on than that her mother lived in Somerset?—if indeed he remembered her telling him where she was from. And, even if he did, he would have to search for her like a needle in a haystack of families named Grey.
On a brighter note, at least she’d only have two mouths to feed from now on instead of three—and so would he if ever he did propose. Mary was married now, having gone ahead with her nuptials in her only sister’s absence. Having missed the wedding only added to Jane’s desolation—and her resentment of Lady Cécile and Lord Brousseau.
If only he’d come back before she left France, life would be so much easier for them both!
Hugging the pillow to her, she let the tears she’d been holding back flow freely. To the devil with the etiquette books. Crying was cathartic; crying would help speed her through this; crying would make it easier to carry on like one of the automatons Lady Cécile kept on a shelf in her room.
* * *
Two days later, when Matthew arrived back in Tours, he sent a note to Lady Cécile, informing her of his plan to call upon her within the hour. As desperately as he desired to see Jane, the surrender of his inheritance must come first, and a private audience with Phillippe’s co-conspirator seemed the best way to ascertain his nephew’s whereabouts.
Or, at the very least, to get word to the scoundrel about his intentions, which could not be unwelcome news.
Matthew rode his new horse (now named Rochester) the short distance to Vouvray. After dismounting, he slapped the dust from his clothes and surrendered his hat and gloves to the butler, who then led him to the same parlor in which he’d given Lady Cécile the white roses. He cringed inside when he recalled the kiss he’d given her that day—and the one he’d stolen the day of Mathilde’s wake. How he ever found that horrid creature the least bit charming he couldn’t account for now. But c’est la vie. Soon enough, like Mathilde, she would be out of his life for good.
Lady Cécile was all smiles and fluttering eyelashes when she received him. “Oh, Lord Brontë. How glad I am you’ve decided to return for my ball—and not just for the sake of Miss Grey.”
“How is Miss Grey?” he asked too hastily.
“Well enough in body, I suppose…but her spirits are much depressed—a consequence of your extended absence, I have no doubt.”
The news that Miss Grey was depressed by his absence should not have cheered him as much as it did. “Does Miss Grey know of my return to Tours?”
Lady Cécile pursed her lips. “I thought it best not to tell the poor creature, lest she get it into her head that you prefer my company to hers. Which is untrue, I am sure.” She smiled at him boldly. “Though, if it should be true, I could not pretend to be sorry.”
Matthew blinked at her and shifted his weight, unsure what to make of the remark or her behavior. Was she flirting with him or seeking flattery to appease her vanity? It could not be easy for a lady as self-centered as she was to concede defeat to her own governess. Even if the prize held no interest, as was assuredly true in this case.
Eager to get to the point, he said, “I have sought a private audience with you to discuss a matter of some delicacy.”
“To do with Miss Grey?” She fluttered her lashes again.
Disregarding her blatant and inexplicable flirtations, he cleared his throat. “Yes, but only in a round-about way.”
“Then, please.” Lowering her chin, she looked up at him coquettishly. “Do have a seat and tell me all you wish for me to hear.”
He moved to the chair beside the settee and pulled up the tails of his coat, preparing to sit. Just as he bent his knees, she said, “Not there, you ninny. Over here, next to me. I know you distrust me, but I promise not to bite you.”
A bite was not what worried him, though he could not say precisely what did. He nevertheless took the offered seat, keeping a safe distance between them. “I wonder if you know how to contact my nephew.” He cleared his throat and moistened his lips, which all at once felt as uncomfortably dry as his mouth. “I have something I wish to relay to him—something I believe will please him greatly.”
“Please him? Then, by all means, do tell me without delay what it is you have come here to divulge.”
He hesitated, like a swimmer on the verge of diving into a pool he knew to be ice-cold. Was he sure about this? He had no assurances of Jane’s regard, no reason to suppose she’d agree to marry him. If he threw away his fortune and could not secure her promise, what would he do?
The answer came. He would paint—and be free once and for all of Mathilde’s ghost and his nephew’s malice.
“I have decided to give up my inheritance to Phillippe.”
“How decent of you.” Her words and expression thinly veiled her obvious delight.
“I flatter myself I am being decent. And also extremely generous.”
“He will be thrilled to learn of your decision, I am sure. As am I.”
“Then you do know how to get word to him of my decision?”
“I do, as it happens.” She fluttered her lashes once more, baffling him exceedingly. “I will write to him of your decision first thing tomorrow. In the meantime, I wish to discuss another topic: your intentions toward my governess.”
Matthew, incredulous, coughed into his balled hand. “Don’t you think it only proper that I discuss my intentions first with the lady herself?”
She moved closer, putting him on guard. “Forget about my governess, handsome. She is unequal to a man like you.”
Her assertion took him aback and raised his shields all the higher. “I don’t understand. I
thought you supported my relationship with Miss Grey. Championed it, even. So, what makes you suddenly judge us a poor match?”
“You are a man of great passion, Lord Brontë. While Miss Grey is naught but a prim and proper haddock who is always so buried in her books she takes no pleasure from life.”
“But…I thought you were fond of Miss Grey.”
When she put her hand on his upper leg and gave it a squeeze, he stiffened. “I am in my way, but not nearly as fond of her as I am of you.”
“But—what about my nephew?” Paralyzed by shock, he left her hand where it lay. “Will you not marry now that he will have Cœur Brisé?”
“Yes, we will marry.” She batted her infernal lashes at him yet again. “For I must have the estate, whoever its master may be.”
He gaped at her, stupefied. “Then why do you wish to come between Miss Grey and myself?”
She ran her hand up his thigh and cupped his crotch, shocking him senseless. “Can you not guess? You did promise to enlighten me about the hidden regions of the mal anatomy, did you not? And yet, I remain as in the dark as I was when I began my drawing lessons.”
Her conduct defied comprehension. Had he read of such despicable behavior in a novel, he would think the author had overstepped the bounds of reality. Had he heard it spoken of, he would have judged the teller of the tale spiteful. But witnessing her actions with his own two eyes, and suffering from them as well, he could only deduce that extreme vanity or excessive selfishness had driven her to the brink of madness. Like a greedy dog that was gorged to the gullet, she wouldn’t give up the merest scrap to a starving pack-mate.
Disgusted by her, he attempted to dislodge her hand, but she only gripped more firmly, squeezing his masculine parts to the point of pain. Then, she spun onto his lap, straddling him like a horse. Finally, she smashed her lips against his. Matthew was so astounded, he couldn’t think straight. What the devil was she hoping to accomplish by forcing herself upon him in such a brazen and unwelcome a manner?
