***
Alexandre tried to keep thoughts of what had happened between them out of his mind. That evening, he sought refuge in his studio, but not even his work could keep him from thinking of her.
The following day, he walked into the village on the pretext of needing paint supplies, his true reason to avoid her, but as he walked the road into Saint-Raphael, he could not stop reliving the kiss they had shared—the warmth of her against him, the fragrance of her hair, the sweet taste of her mouth. She was pregnant with another man's child, and his own feelings of desire shocked him. Yet, he ached to hold her in his arms once again, to see the answering desire in her eyes, to kiss her again, to believe in love again.
He had to keep some distance between them; he had to shore up his protective walls. Eventually she would learn what had happened to Anne-Marie, and when that happened, he would see the same condemnation in her eyes that he saw in the eyes of the villagers. He would see her fear of him return, the same fear that had caused those two boys to run away from him. She would stop believing in him, stop trusting him, and he couldn’t allow himself to care enough for that to matter.
He wasn't what she thought he was. She thought he was some sort of hero. Foolish, foolish man, he told himself, knowing that when he'd held her in his arms, he had believed it, too.
***
Tess dropped the baby's cap she'd just finished into her sewing basket and carried the basket upstairs. A simple cap, yet it had taken her all morning to complete it, for her attention had continually wandered from her sewing to Alexandre. It seemed as if she’d paused with every other stitch to savor the wonderful feeling of being in his arms, of feeling cherished—something she’d never imagined.
She passed through her bedchamber into the tiny adjoining nursery and set the basket on the small table she’d brought in from her own bedchamber, but she didn’t depart. Instead, she paused to study the cradle for a moment. She knew that if his wife and baby had died, it must have been very painful for Alexandre to give that baby's cradle to her.
She thought of the laughing eyes and beautiful face of the girl in the portrait. Jealousy, an intense, unexpected jolt of it, shot through her, and startled by it, she walked out of the nursery, out of her bedchamber. But she didn’t go downstairs.
Instead, she went to the rooms at the very end of the corridor, the ones that were always locked, staring at the heavy oak panels. She had never been more than mildly curious about these rooms before, but suddenly she was driven to know what was inside.
Turning back, she went into Alexandre's room and began to search for a key. She knew she shouldn’t. Whatever lay within the locked rooms of his home, it was none of her affair. But the wicked imp of curiosity and jealousy pushed aside the virtuous upbringing of a vicar's daughter. She had to know.
The key was tucked away in a drawer, far in the back, beneath layers of Alexandre's clothing. She grabbed it before she could change her mind, went back down the corridor, and unlocked one door.
She found herself in what was clearly a woman's room. The quilt on the huge bed showed a floral design in pastels, muted by a layer of dust. A jewel case of carved ivory sat on the dressing table. The armoire contained a few dresses, but most of them were probably now in Tess's own room. The drawers were filled with an untidy jumble of delicate lacy undergarments, ribbons, handkerchiefs, fans, and other falderals, faintly scented by the faded fragrance of lemon verbena.
At one end of the room, a door led into a wardrobe chamber, and beyond it was another door that led into and adjoining bedchamber, one furnished in a much more masculine style.
These were the connecting chambers of a married couple, and it was clear her guess had been right. He was grieving for a dead wife, and she wondered how she could compete with another woman's ghost. With that thought came another: the realization that she wanted to.
She wanted to drive that other woman out of his mind, out of his heart, because she wanted to take her place. She was in love with Alexandre.
How had this happened? A few months ago, the thought of a man, any man, had been enough to frighten her out of her wits. A man’s love was something she had ceased to believe in.
But Alexandre had changed all that. Changed it with hands that were strong, but tender. A voice that was as rich and warm as the Provence sun. One by one, he had taken away her fears. Day by day, he had demonstrated that a man could be protective, thoughtful, and caring. He’d shown her—
“What are you doing in here?”
Tess jumped at the sound of his voice and turned to find him standing in the doorway, and one glance at his face told her how angry he was to find her here.
Tess drew herself up with as much dignity as someone caught where she didn’t belong could muster. She didn’t reply, for what could she say? But as she met his angry gaze across the room, she felt no fear. She trusted him. She knew that no matter how angry he was, he would not hurt her. She loved him. She knew that no matter what he said to her now, her feelings would not change. She trusted him completely, and as she looked at him, she wished he could trust her, too, trust her enough to tell her about these rooms, about his wife.
“You have no right to be in here,” he told her, slamming his palm against the door, sending it swinging back to hit the wall. The sound made her jump, but she didn't shrink back, for she wasn’t the least bit afraid. “Who was this woman?” she asked, grasping a fold of her dress. “Was she your wife?”
“Yes.” A harsh, clipped syllable of an answer.
She drew a deep breath. “What happened to her?”
“She died.”
He folded his arms across his chest, look straight into her eyes, his own as dark as an abyss. “I killed her.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tess staggered back as if he'd slapped her. Of all the things she might have expected him to say, that wasn't one of them, and for a moment, she felt a shimmer of an old, familiar fear.
He saw it at once. Pressing his lips together, he turned and walked out.
Tess pressed a hand to her mouth, feeling sick at the guilt she’d seen in his eyes. But after a moment, that image faded and others took its place.
She thought of how he’d handed over fifty francs for a donkey he didn't even want and rubbed ointment into its wounds. She heard again the fear that had been in his voice when she'd taken that tumble in the stream bed. She remembered his fingers moving with gentleness over her sprained ankle, and she saw the awe on his face when he'd felt her baby kicking. And as she recalled these moments, she knew beyond doubt that what he’d just told her couldn't be true. She had to tell him that, tell him that she wasn’t afraid of him, that whatever had happened to his wife and child, she knew he hadn’t killed them.
She ran out into the corridor to tell him all these things, but he was already gone. She started toward the stairs to follow him, but changed her mind after only a few steps. Running down stairs in her condition was not a wise thing to do, and besides, she knew chasing him down would be futile. If he wanted to be alone, she would not find him. And even if she did, she knew all the reassurances in the world couldn’t erase the fact that for one terrible moment she’d been afraid of him, and he’d seen her fear.
A soft meow sounded behind her, one that to her ears sounded as forlorn as she felt, and glanced down to find Augustus sitting at her feet. With a sigh, she picked up the kitten and buried her face against the soft orange fur. “He'll be back soon,” she said, but the words sounded hollow, and they gave her no comfort.
***
Alexandre walked without any conscious idea where he was going, but no matter how far or how fast he walked, Tess's appalled face stayed with him.
This was what he’d been dreading, and though he’d known it would come, had tried to prepare for it. But nothing had prepared him for the pain that had sliced through him when he'd seen the look on Tess's face.
I killed her. I killed her. His harsh self-accusation
kept time with
his long strides as he walked through the meadow where he had painted Tess’s portrait. His steps slowed at the edge of the meadow, and he sank beneath the plane tree where he had kissed her only yesterday, feeling a hint of despair, for no matter how far he walked, he could not escape the brutal truth that he was responsible for the deaths of his wife and child.
***
She didn’t see him again that day, but the next morning, there was water was outside her door. She found a basket of vegetables on the worktable when she came down to the kitchen, but Alexandre was not waiting there for her with freshly brewed tea. When she went outside to do her morning chores, she glanced up at the tower and saw him by the window, bathed in the light of lamps still lit from the night before. He must have seen her, too, for as she paused in the courtyard, he turned away.
As she went about her daily tasks, Tess wondered what she could do to bridge the chasm between them, and she knew the best thing was to let it rest. Talking about it certainly wouldn’t help. If he hadn’t told her to leave after he’d caught her poking and prying in his rooms yesterday, he didn't intend to, and perhaps, over time, he would forget the past and come to love her as she loved him, accept her and her baby as his new family. It seemed a dim hope, but it was all she had.
That evening, however, something happened that put her troubles with Alexandre out of her mind, at least for the moment. She had just brought in the animals and was just leaving the barn when the clatter of horses' hooves and carriage wheels stopped her. A traveling carriage, its top lowered, was coming down the lane toward the stables, and the moment she saw it, Tess was seized with a sudden flare of panic. What if the British authorities had found her?
She ducked back into the barn, concealing herself behind the bottom half of the Dutch door, but she dared to take a peek above it as she heard the carriage coming closer, and when she perceived a man and a woman seated in the vehicle, her panic eased. If a constable had come to arrest her, he would hardly bring a woman with him. And as the carriage passed the barn, heading for the stables beyond, the trunks strapped to the back of the vehicle gave her even more reassurance, and she concluded they were probably travelers who had lost their way.
Though she was reasonably sure she was not about to be arrested, her heart was nonetheless pounding with apprehension as she exited the barn and circled around to the stables where the carriage had come to a halt.
The man was assisting the woman to alight from the vehicle, and as she approached them, the couple noticed her. Tess was close enough to see astonishment cross their faces, and then they exchanged a quick, puzzled glance.
The woman stepped forward first. “Good day, madame,” she greeted Tess in French. “Would you know if Monsieur Dumond is at home?”
It was Tess’s turn to be astonished. These people had come for a visit? “You wish to see Alexandre?”
She didn’t miss the raise of the woman’s dark brows at her use of Alexandre’s Christian name, nor the quick appraising glance she cast over Tess’s pregnant form.
Heavens, she thought, coloring up. What must these people think of me?
Whatever the woman might think, she was quick to conceal it behind a polite mask. “I am Madame Caillaux, and this—” She paused to place a gloved hand on the arm of the handsome man who had stepped up beside her. “This is my husband.”
He bowed. “Madame.”
“My...my name is Tess,” she stammered out, still trying to assimilate the fact that Alexandre had visitors. It seemed so incongruous. “I am...the housekeeper.”
The pair exchanged another quick glance, then Madame Caillaux repeated her question.
Tess flushed, knowing she must seem like a complete idiot. “I believe he is in his studio. If you will follow me?”
Madame Caillaux nodded and moved to go with Tess, but the man did not.
“I will take care of the horses,” he said, “and then join you.”
His wife followed Tess as she turned toward the château, but neither woman spoke. The nearest entrance to the house was through the kitchen, but she could not take a guest that way, and she started to take Madame Caillaux around the walled courtyard toward the front of the château, but the other woman stopped her.
“Through the kitchen is quickest,” she said, and smiled at Tess’s surprised glance. “Yes, I’ve been here before, many times. Alexandre and I are family, you see, so there is no need to stand on ceremony and take me through the front doors.”
Family? Tess’s mind was reeling as they made their way through the kitchen and down various corridors, but she knew it was not her place to ask questions. She led Madame Caillaux across the great hall, but when she started up the staircase that led to the drawing room, the woman did not follow. She stopped one foot on the stairs, and turned to find the woman staring at the portrait of Tess that hung on the wall. “When did Alexandre do this?” she asked.
“He finished it a few days ago,” she answered, her face burning, for the portrait only reinforced the notion that must already be going through the woman’s head that she was Alexandre’s mistress. Tess turned away. “If you would care to follow me to the drawing room, Madame,” she mumbled and turned her face away. “I will tell—”
“Bonjour, Jeanette,” Alexandre’s voice interrupted her, and both women looked up to find him on the landing. He descended the stairs and passed Tess as Madame Caillaux turned away from the painting.
“Alexandre!” the woman greeted, clasping his hands in hers. “It is wonderful to see you at last. But what is this all about?”
He kissed her on both cheeks. “I hadn't expected you to arrive so soon.”
“Well, what did you expect, then?” She laughed. “You insisted upon haste in your letter, so Henri and I did not wait a moment. We packed our trunks and, voila!” She broke off, raising one hand in a delicate flourish. “Here we are, dying to know what has caused this need on your part for an immediate visit.”
“Where is Henri?”
“He is putting the horses in the stable. He will join us shortly.” She gave him a stern look. “If you had servants—”
“I do. I have a housekeeper.”
“Yes, so I see.” Her glance slid speculatively to Tess, who was feeling more and more the desire to sink through the floor with each passing moment. “Still,” Madame Caillaux went on, “one housekeeper hardly constitutes a household staff. I can't understand—”
“Jeanette,” he interrupted, “now is not the time for one of your lectures about my way of life.”
“Well, you could at least have allowed me to bring servants of my own.”
Tess watched the two of them talk with easy familiarity, more bewildered than before. Alexandre had written to them, inviting them to come here, an event that in any other family would be a commonplace occurrence. Yet the woman’s surprise indicated his invitation to be something quite out of the ordinary.
“Come.” Alexandre's voice brought Tess out of her reverie, and she glanced at him as he linked his arm through the woman's. “There is much we must discuss.” Over his shoulder, he told Tess, “We shall be in the drawing room. Would you send Henri there when he comes in? And make a pot of tea.”
He walked up the stairs arm in arm with his guest, leaving Tess staring after them in dismay. It was stupid to mind being treated as a servant, she knew, since that was exactly what she was, and yet, unreasonably, she did mind.
The reason was obvious, she acknowledged with chagrin. She wanted to be so much more to him than that, and she wasn’t. She was just the housekeeper. That, she supposed, was all she would ever be.
***
“What is this all about, Alexandre?” Jeanette asked, leaning back against the brocade sofa, facing him as he took the chair opposite her.
He didn't quite know how to begin. “Perhaps we should wait until Henri comes in. There is much I have to tell you.”
“I should say you do!” Jeanette removed her hat and tossed it to the other end of the sofa. “We were d
elighted to receive your letter, of course, but we could scarcely believe it.”
“You are my family. Is it so astonishing that I should write you a letter?”
“Since we receive no more than one or two letters from you each year, it is always astonishing! We haven't heard from you since Christmas, by the way,” she reminded, pulling off her gloves and reaching up to smooth her chignon of dark brown hair.
He felt a rush of affection at this good-natured lecturing, knowing the concern for him that lay behind it. As he looked at her, he caught the hint of silver at her temples, making him appreciate just how quickly time slipped away. “It’s good to see you, Jeanette.”
She sniffed, trying to seem unimpressed by that. “Yes, well, we do live in Marseilles, not the other end of the world. You could come visit us occasionally, you know. And write more often.”
“Is my wife lecturing again?”
Henri’s voice caused them both to turn toward the doorway and Alexandre rose to greet him as he entered the drawing room “You're looking well,” he said, opening his arms to embrace the man he had always considered to be his brother, though they were not related by blood. “It's been a long time.”
“Too long,” Henri agreed, stepping back to study him. “And you are looking better than I expected, although I see you still don’t seem inclined to have your hair properly cut. Last time I saw you, you hadn't shaved for a month. You hadn't a clean shirt to your name and—”
“Now who is lecturing?” He smiled. “I’m glad you came, Henri. Thank you.”
The other man removed his wife's hat from the sofa and sat down beside her. Alexandre also resumed his seat, and all of them were silent for several moments, none of them seeming to know quite what to say next. Jeanette, as usual, spoke first.
Prelude to Heaven Page 13
