Prelude to Heaven

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Prelude To Heaven

  by

  Laura Lee Guhrke

  Prelude to Heaven

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  More from Laura Lee Guhrke

  About the Author

  Prelude to Heaven

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Published by Laura Lee Guhrke, Smashwords Edition.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without permission of the author is illegal. The author requests that you purchase only authorized electronic editions, and that you do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Thank you for your support of authors’ rights.

  Cover design by Hot Damn Designs.

  To Elizabeth Guhrke, a heroine in the classic tradition, a woman of courageous heart and generous spirit. I love you, Grandma.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  June 1818

  Alexandre Dumond cursed softly as his left hand moved the brush across the canvas. He knew the rain was coming, but he wanted to capture the fury of the waves crashing against the rocks before the deluge began.

  He dipped the brush into a blob of steel-gray on his palette and his black gaze moved from canvas to sea to canvas as a crack of thunder echoed in the hills behind him. The wind tore away his ribbon, but Alexandre tossed back his flying black hair with an impatient shake of his head and kept painting. Storms of such violence were rare along the Provence coast this time of year, and he wanted to capture it on canvas before it was lost forever.

  He painted with a kind of frenzy, obsessed by the vision before him. The need to paint had been coming on for days. Filled with restless energy, he had tramped through the hills, walked along the coast, and prowled through the nearby forests, searching for what he envisioned on the edge of his mind, not knowing what it was but certain he would know when he saw it. Until this afternoon, everything he saw had left him dissatisfied, but then he had sensed a new sharpness in the breeze, heard a change in the sound of the sea, inhaled the scent of a storm, and he had discovered what his mind had been searching for.

  He frowned at the canvas. Something was wrong with the cliff that jutted out to meet the waves. The angle was wrong. He applied touches of black to the shadows, gradually altering the perspective. Voilà! It was coming, he was getting it. Just a few moments more.

  Without warning, the rain began, pouring from the sky like the tears of a thousand angels, soaking his rumpled white shirt and paint-spattered trousers. But he kept painting, knowing the rain would not hurt the oils. He only needed a little more time to capture the storm's essence on canvas; he could finish the painting in his studio.

  Another powerful gust of wind erupted, tumbling both easel and canvas to the ground. “Sacré tonnerre!” he cried and threw aside the brush, watching in helpless agony as the rain poured over the canvas, which now lay face down in the mud.

  It was over. His artistic agony faded, leaving him bereft and empty. The obsession would return, but for now it was gone, washed away with the rain.

  Alexandre wrapped the ruined painting in a cloth, gathered his brushes and supplies, folded his easel, and carried them home through the pouring rain. These were the moments he dreaded, these quiet times after the passion to paint had spent itself, when he could not drown out the echoes of other passions lost.

  He could not forget. That was the problem, he supposed, as he began the steep climb toward Château Dumond. Many times he had sworn he would leave this place, but leaving here would mean leaving Anne-Marie, and that Alexandre was not prepared to do.

  As he reached the top of the cliff, he paused. Ahead of him, the path wound through the overgrown garden to the empty château, and he almost expected to see her standing by the gate, waiting for him.

  Sometimes, he heard her voice, soft and filled with teasing laughter. Sometimes, he even answered her. Sometimes, he could swear she walked beside him.

  Three years. Three years had passed since her death, and still he could not let her go. She was dead. That was his fault. He was alone. That was his punishment.

  Alexandre kicked open the decrepit gate and walked toward the château, oblivious to the rain washing over him. Realizing he hadn't eaten all day, he paused in the garden. He set down his ruined painting and supplies, then pulled a fistful of tarragon from among the weeds.

  He had no idea what he would flavor with it. Potato soup, perhaps. He could cook a chicken, if he felt like chasing down one of the damn things, but he decided it wasn't worth the effort. Soup would be easier, and he liked the sweet, fresh taste of new potatoes. He ventured a few steps further into the garden in search of thyme, when a low moan stopped him.

  “Mon Dieu,” he whispered and froze. Certain his mind was playing tricks on him, he tried not to listen.

  The moan came again and with it the guilt. Still clutching the tarragon, he slammed his hands over his ears to stop the sounds. Moans of pain just before death. He had heard those moans in his dreams many times. Was he now hearing them when he was awake as well?

  After a moment, he dropped his hands and waited, but he heard nothing except the falling rain. Relieved, he took another step forward and bent down to pull some thyme from the weeds.

  That was when he saw the woman. She was lying on her side several feet away, unconscious and unmoving, with one cheek in the mud. He stopped again, staring into a tired, delicate face he’d never seen before. He straightened and moved closer, then knelt down beside her.

  Her hair was cropped short, and she was wearing men's clothing. His gaze flew back to her face, then traveled down the length of her body. The clothes were a man's but, rain-soaked, they clung to her in all the curving feminine places. In one hand, she clutched a half-eaten potato. The other hand was spread protectively over her rounded stomach.

  She was pregnant.

  Memories swamped him, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep the past at bay as he reached for the woman's limp wrist.

  Her pulse was weak but steady, her breathing shallow but even. She felt hot to his touch, even with the dampness in the air. Lines of weariness were carved in her pale, heart-shaped face. He gently turned her onto her back, put one arm beneath her knees and one behind her head, then lifted her from the weeds and mud as she let out
another soft moan.

  Even pregnant and soaking wet, she didn’t weigh much. He carried her through the courtyard, also overgrown with weeds, and into his crumbling château. He entered the kitchen, ascended the back stairs, crossed the empty hall, then carried her up another flight of stairs to his bedchamber.

  He could feel the heat of her fever through her wet clothes. He laid her on his disheveled, unmade bed and desperately began to strip away clothing. Piece by piece, the sodden garments were removed and tossed aside onto the dusty floor. A cursory glance confirmed that she was very thin and definitely pregnant.

  He found a goose-down quilt somewhere amid Anne-Marie's stored-away wedding linens and an old nightshirt he never wore. He pulled the nightshirt over her shivering body and tucked the quilt’s thick folds around her. Unable to do more at present, he stared down at her unconscious form, wondering who she was and what the hell he was going to do with her.

  Her head moved restlessly on the pillow, and she cried out in her sleep. He reached forward to brush back a short auburn curl that had fallen over her eyes. “Pauvre petite,” he murmured, running one finger down her hollow cheek, then he let his hand drop. Abruptly, he turned and left the room.

  ***

  The face of an angel hovered above her. A handsome, golden-haired angel, holding out his hand, offering marriage, taking her to heaven. But the hand always moved so quickly; in the wink of an eye, a tender touch became a vicious slap.

  Her head rocked sideways from the force of the blow. The baby. She had to protect the baby. She sank to the floor, curling into a tight ball. She felt the kick in her kidneys, and her body twitched convulsively, but she did not cry out. She curled herself tighter, tighter, squeezing her eyes shut.

  The second kick forced a cry of pain from her lips. She knew she should say something, try to stop him. Tell him about the baby, her mind screamed. But she knew even that wouldn't stop him. When he was in one of his rages, nothing would stop him.

  The third kick was too much. She uncurled her body and began to squirm away, crawling across the polished parquet floor on her belly. She felt his hands seize her, hold her down, and she knew there was no escape from a nightmare where angels were really devils and heaven was only hell in disguise.

  ***

  Alexandre watched her crawl across the bed in her delirium and managed to catch her before she fell off, pulling her away from the edge and turning her onto her back. Her arms flailed wildly, and her fist slammed against his cheek before he caught her wrists in his hands. He kept hold of her, waiting, until at last she quieted, overcome by exhaustion.

  He let go of her wrists and turned away to dip a rag in a pail of cool water. After wringing it out, he sat down in the chair beside the bed and placed the rag against her hot forehead. She immediately pulled the cloth away and threw it across the room. He didn't bother to retrieve it.

  Through the night, he watched her. She shivered, rolled, and tossed in the bed. She cried out, sometimes in anger, most often in fear or pain. Sometimes she spoke. He understood her mumbled English words, but the sentences had no meaning. Every time she threw aside the covers, he pulled them back over her. Several times during the night he tried to get her to drink some water, but she always pushed his hands away. Toward dawn, he finally drifted off to sleep to the distressed sounds of her unknown demons.

  ***

  She couldn't escape him. She felt the shattering pain of another blow, and she screamed for help, but it was useless. The servants would never intervene. There was no one to help her, no one to defend her.

  She saw Lucifer in his angel-blue eyes, and she knew that this time he was going to kill her. He would kill the baby, too.

  She couldn't let him. She clawed, she kicked, she fought, but he was so strong. Her fists seemed such futile weapons. She managed to raise her knee between his legs, and when he doubled over in pain, releasing her, she saw her chance to run.

  But there was nowhere to go. She saw him struggling to rise, and that was when she remembered the pistol. She could only pray that it was loaded. Yanking open the drawer of his dressing table, she grabbed the pearl-handled weapon and whirled around to find him standing in the doorway of the dressing room, watching her.

  He looked so surprised. She lifted her chin, returning his astonishment with defiance. She watched as his expression changed, softened. The devil was gone, and the angel was back, but she was not fooled. She raised her arm, cocked the pistol, and fired.

  ***

  Something woke him. Alexandre sat up abruptly, grimacing at the pain that shot through his neck. Chairs were not made for sleeping. The rain had stopped and bright morning sunlight flooded the room, causing him to blink.

  He looked at the woman, watching as she raised one trembling arm toward the ceiling. She jerked suddenly, her arm fell limp to her side, and she quieted.

  She was shivering violently now. He noticed that the covers had once again been tossed aside and now lay in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed. “Imbecile,” he muttered—uncertain if the criticism was directed at her or himself—and rose. He pulled the covers over her and felt her forehead. She was still feverish.

  He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, wondering if perhaps he should fetch someone from the village, but he discarded that idea almost at once. There was no doctor in Saint-Raphael. Only a midwife, and he doubted she would come with him in any case. No one else would come either. Most of the villagers thought him very odd. Some were afraid of him. Besides, it was a long walk down to the village, and he didn't want to leave her.

  She stirred, rolling her head restlessly from side to side. Her face was ashen gray, and her skin felt like parchment to his touch. Her lips were dry and cracked. Though she was now sleeping quietly, her expression was far from serene. There were shadows of fear and lines of strain in her face, making her seem painfully vulnerable. He found himself staring down at her, wondering what journey had led this young, pregnant woman to his door, to collapse in his garden. Who was she?

  He closed his eyes and turned away. He didn't want to know anything about her. He didn't want to care what happened to her. He wasn't fit to care about anybody. He couldn't even care about himself. But when he carried her muddy clothes downstairs to wash them in the kitchen, he found himself examining them closely for clues to her identity.

  They were the clothes of an aristo, well-made and of fine materials, though they were now tattered and stained and too big for her. There was no tailor's label on any of the garments, but they were of English style and workmanship. The boots of black leather had straw stuffed in the toes. The contents of her pockets revealed five francs, a linen handkerchief, and a pistol, along with a half-empty powder flask and a handful of bullets.

  It was sensible, he supposed, for a woman traveling alone to carry a pistol. He examined it curiously. It was expensive, pearl-handled, and of English make. He put the weapon and ammunition in a drawer, along with the money and handkerchief.

  He washed the mud from her clothes and hung them in the sun to dry. He walked out into the garden but could find nothing more that belonged to her. He brought in the supplies he had left among the weeds the evening before, throwing his ruined painting into a corner of the kitchen with a snort of disgust, then he went back into the garden with a basket to rummage among the weeds for herbs and vegetables.

  He returned to the kitchen and started a pot of soup. As he worked, his thoughts invariably returned to his unexpected guest, his curiosity roused. She was pregnant, but wore no wedding band. A servant, perhaps, who had made a mistake and had run away, unable to face the shame. She had probably stolen the clothes and the pistol from her master, thinking they would give her some protection traveling on the road alone. He felt a stab of pity and wondered again why he should care.

  He began slicing vegetables with a vengeance. He didn't care, he reminded himself as he dumped potatoes, leeks, carrots, and herbs in a pot of water, concentrating on indifference. She would probably die, he
told himself, adding garlic to the pot, and he refused to take responsibility for her death. He already had more than his share of that.

  When the soup was bubbling over the fire, he went back upstairs, but she was still sleeping. He took that opportunity to fetch water for a bath and a shave. Then he changed into a clean shirt and trousers and tied back his newly washed hair with a fresh ribbon. When the soup was ready, he took it to her. She was still asleep, but tossing again, slapping her hands in the air at imagined adversaries. He tried to spoon-feed her, but she refused to eat. He doubted she even knew he was there.

  ***

  Wherever she ran, he followed. Everywhere she turned, he was there. Again and again she shot him, she saw him fall, she watched his blood spill across the floor. Still, he came after her. God, could she never be free of him?

  She felt his hands again, on her face, opening her mouth. Forcing liquid down her throat. She spit it out, certain he was trying to poison her. She pushed his hands away.

  ***

  Alexandre stared down at the soup all over his shirt and sighed. He dipped the spoon into the bowl and tried again. Three times, she spit out the soup and pushed him away. The first time, he was patient. The second time, he was frustrated. The third time, he was angry. “Mille tonnerres!” he exploded, grasping her chin between his fingers and turning her face toward him. “Do you want to starve to death?”

  She stared at him with glassy, unseeing eyes. She opened her mouth as if to answer, and he shoved in the spoonful of soup. He forcibly closed her mouth with his hands until she swallowed, impervious to the blows she struck him with her fists.