He imagined it as a starving man imagines a tantalizing meal. He felt a hunger just as strong. He wanted it, all of it, for the rest of his life. That was why the baby’s name mattered so much—because he wanted the baby to be his. He wanted Tess beside him as they watched their daughter grow up. He wanted the future he could see in his mind to become a reality. Most of all, he wanted Tess. He loved her. But it was nothing but fantasy.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, the scene he’d imagined was gone, but the desire for it still remained. “Suzanne,” he said as he turned away from the window. “I think her name should be Suzanne.”
“Suzanne,” she repeated, considering, then she nodded. “I like it.”
She gave him a radiant smile, and suddenly, the sight of her there, smiling at him, with the baby in her arms was too much to bear. It made him happy in a way he hadn’t dared to be happy in a long time. He blinked and looked away, walking to the door. “Rest,” he told her. “At least a few more days.”
He left the room without a backward glance. He knew what he’d seen on the hillside, the future life he envisioned, was nothing but a fantasy, and fantasies seldom came true.
***
Alexandre got his way about the baby’s name, and about Tess not resuming any housekeeping duties. He also got his way about more rest, but only for another day. At that point, Tess found her confinement unbearable and rather silly, and when Suzanne was eight days old, she simply refused to endure another moment of it.
“I am getting out of this bed right now,” she told Jeanette and suited the action to the words, ignoring the luncheon tray the other woman had brought. “I am perfectly well, and I cannot tolerate lying here one moment longer.”
She paused by the armoire and turned to glare at Jeanette, prepared for an argument, but Jeanette looked at her for a moment, and then she sighed, lifting her hands in a gesture of capitulation.
“If you’re well enough to scowl at me so mutinously, I suppose you’re well enough to be up and about,” she conceded and set the tray down on the dressing table.
“Leonie?” she called as she pulled a dress from the armoire, and glanced up as the maid entered from the nursery. “Come help me dress. I am going for a walk.”
“Don’t go far,” Jeanette cautioned as Tess started downstairs a short while later. “Or you’ll overtire yourself.”
“Fuss, fuss, fuss,” Tess murmured to herself as she left the house. She knew Alexandre and Jeanette meant well, and they could not know that being waited on hand and foot and made to stay in bed was like anathema to her. However well-intentioned their concern, the past week had brought back powerful, painful memories of her life at Aubry Park, where servants had hovered over her every moment of the day and bed rest had often been required so that injuries could be hidden until they healed. That life was something she wanted no reminders of ever again.
It was a beautiful October afternoon, sunny and warm. The mistral had gone, and a light breeze brushed over her as she left the château and started across the meadow, successfully blowing the past from Tess’s memory. By the time she reached the forest, her black mood had lifted.
As she entered the grove of chestnut trees, voices echoed to her, coming from what seemed to be the pond, and as she drew closer to it, she recognized the voices as belonging to Alexandre and Henri. When she emerged from the trees into the clearing surrounding the pone, the first thing she saw caused her to stop and catch her breath, for Alexandre was standing hip-deep in the water, facing her, his bare torso gleaming in the sunlight like well-polished leather, every muscle of his wide chest and strong arms defined by the sun reflecting off his dampened skin.
In front of him, a child lay face-down, naked in the water, turning his head to the side occasionally to breathe and kicking with his feet. Alexandre had one hand beneath the child and one hand on his back to hold him in place. Beside him stood another boy, watching and listening to Alexandre’s instructions, and as she looked at his face, Tess gave a gasp of surprise.
It was Pierre, one of the two boys who she’d seen running from Alexandre that day in the courtyard. The boy floating in the water must be Pierre’s brother, Jean-Paul.
Alexandre was teaching these boys to swim? Tess moved a little closer, hardly able to believe what she was seeing, for she clearly recalled how these same boys had run away in fear at the sight of him that day in the courtyard. How, she wondered in amazement, had this unexpected turn of events come about?
She watched as Alexandre helped Jean-Paul regain his feet, and as he stepped back, another voice spoke, coming from the bank nearby. “We should have brought a picnic.”
Tess glanced in that direction where she saw Henri leaning back against a rock, watching the others. “This shall take all day, I think,” he went on, laughing. “The three of you will be prunes when you come out of the water.”
“This wouldn't take so long if you'd stop being lazy and help me,” Alexandre countered and beckoned to Pierre, who came to stand before him, only his head and shoulders visible above the surface.
“Oh, no,” Henri answered with a chuckle. “This is your project.”
Alexandre ignored his brother's amused laughter and lifted Pierre to lie on his back in the water and resumed the lesson.
“Don't be afraid. Just close your eyes and relax. There? Can you feel how the water holds you up?”
Pierre evidently did not, for his body dipped slightly and the water washed over him, causing him to thrash a little as if trying to regain his feet.
“It's all right,” Alexandre said, lifting him to a standing position. “It is very important that you trust me about this. The water will hold you up. Watch.”
When he moved to lie on his back in the water, Tess realized that he was completely naked. That rush of warmth came over her like a flood, and though he was speaking to the boys, Tess couldn’t a word he was saying. She could only stare, enthralled by the sight of his naked body in the water, remembering every detail of how he had kissed her in the meadow only a few yards away. The blissful feel of his mouth on hers, the joy that had opened up inside her like a flower.
She pressed her fingers to her tingling lips, watching as he stretched his arms behind him and explained something to the boys, and she remembered how his arms had held her, making her feel like a precious treasure to be cherished.
But Tess also remembered the day after that. Her hand fell to her side and the flush of joy and warmth vanished as she recalled with painful clarity how less than twenty-four hours after he’d kissed her he had made it very clear that any future with her was impossible.
The problem, Tess knew, was that she wanted the impossible. She wanted him to forget Anne-Marie. She wanted him to forgive himself for whatever he thought he had done. She didn't care what action lay at the heart of his guilt. That was in the past, and it was only the future that mattered. She wished she could make him see that.
Tess drew a deep breath and turned away. She knew, better than anyone, that wishing for things didn’t make them happen.
***
Nigel looked up as his valet entered the sitting room of his hotel suite in Lyon. “Yes, Sullivan, what is it?”
“Sir, Martin Trevalyn is here. He has brought with him a...” There was a pause. “A man, sir.”
Nigel's eyebrows rose. Sullivan had the useful talent of conveying a wealth of information merely by the tone of his voice, and the heavy disapproval in it made Nigel discern at once that the man Trevalyn had brought with him was a peasant. “Show them in, Sullivan.”
The valet bowed and departed, returning moments later to announce, “Mr. Martin Trevalyn and Jacques Beauchard.”
Nigel wasted no time on unnecessary preliminaries. “Well?” he asked, giving Trevalyn an interrogatory glance.
The attorney gestured to the man beside him. “This man has seen her.”
Nigel studied the man. His blue gaze moved from the man's mud-encrusted boots to his weary fac
e, noting with disdain the linsey-woolsey trousers and sweat-stained shirt. Yes, definitely a peasant, and one who seemed unable to use his tongue. After a few moments of silence, Nigel gestured impatiently. “Well, speak up, man,” he said in French. “You've seen her? Where? When?”
The man twisted the wool cap in his hands, clearly nervous. “I own a small farm outside of Valence. Five months ago, I caught the girl stealing eggs from my hen house.”
“And?” Nigel prompted when the man paused.
“I allowed her to do some work for my wife in exchange for food. We barely have enough for ourselves, monsieur, but my wife and I felt sorry for her.”
Nigel's anger flared at the man's words. The idea of his wife, his countess, doing farm labor in exchange for food was appalling. The knowledge that this peasant had felt sorry for her was degrading. When he found Teresa, he would lock her in her room for the rest of her life.
He reached for his money purse and removed a napoleon. He held it up for the man to see. “How long did she stay with you and your wife? Where did she go when she left?”
“She stayed five days, monsieur. She did not say where she was going, but I saw her walking toward the road to Marseilles.”
Nigel tossed the napoleon to the man, who dropped his cap to catch it. “You may go,” Nigel told him.
The man pocketed the coin, bent to retrieve his cap and departed. When the door had closed behind him, Nigel turned to Trevalyn. “We will both proceed to Marseilles. We'll leave in the morning.”
Chapter Nineteen
Alexandre set aside the brush. He'd been trying to paint all morning, but he couldn't concentrate. Henri had told him that morning that he and Jeanette would be leaving for home within the week, and he knew the time had come to urge Tess to go with them.
A month had passed since he’d stood at the window in her room, looked out at the sea, and imagined her walking on the shore with Suzanne. A month since he’d dared for just a moment to believe in the impossible.
She could make a life for herself and Suzanne in Marseilles. Jeanette and Henri would willingly make a place for her in their household. She would have friends to care for her. She might even find a man to marry in Marseilles. She would have a future there. She had none with him.
He wished it could be different, but he had nothing to offer her and the baby. Nothing but a crumbling château and an abandoned winery. And himself. They added up to very little.
He turned away from the easel and left the studio. Downstairs, he found Leonie in the kitchen making tea. “Where is Tess?” he asked.
“She and Jeanette took little Suzanne and went for a walk.” Leonie gestured toward the back door. “They said they were going to the rose garden.”
He started for the door, but Leonie's voice halted him. “Monsieur, if you're going down there, would you tell them their tea is ready?”
He nodded and left the château, taking the path that led toward what had once been an impeccably-tended rose garden. Now, it was a sprawling mass of canes. A few late roses still bloomed, but most were over, their petals stripped by the fierce winds of the mistral, or shattered by the onslaught of autumn. As he walked along the overgrown paths, he could hear the voices of the two women, and with each step closer to them, he felt dread settling deeper and deeper into him.
He found them near the center of the garden, seated on a stone bench. Tess was cradling Suzanne in the crook of her arm, and though the baby wore a cap, Tess had forgotten a hat for herself, reminding him of the day he’d caught her weeding the vegetable garden in the hot summer sun. How angry he’d been with her that day, but now, he was glad she wore no hat, for in the brilliant October sunshine, her hair glinted like burnished copper.
She was singing to the baby, and Alexandre paused several feet away to listen. His eyes were on Tess, and though Jeanette sat right beside her, he forgot the other woman was even there.
“For my fair lady, Greensleeves...” She paused to brush a kiss across Suzanne's forehead, then she resumed the song, and his throat tightened as he watched her, for he knew how empty his life would be when she left. How odd that he had once craved solitude so much, yet now, faced with it again, he felt bereft.
The song ended, and he drew a deep breath and stepped forward out of the shadows, his boots crunching on the gravel. Tess saw him first.
“Good afternoon,” she said as he approached, giving him a warm, welcoming smile. “We've been taking the air. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
He couldn’t quite meet her gaze. Instead, he turned to his sister-in-law. “Leonie told me to tell you that your tea is nearly ready.”
“Excellent.” Jeanette rose. “Shall I bring our tea out here?” When Tess nodded, she moved to depart, but Alexandre stopped her. “Jeanette, would you mind taking Suzanne with you?”
He felt Tess's questioning gaze on him, but she handed the baby over to the other woman. He sat down on the bench beside her, waiting until Jeanette had left the garden before he spoke. Still not looking at her, he said, “Henri and Jeanette are leaving in a few days.”
“Yes, I know. Jeanette told me.”
Careful to keep his tone indifferent, he said, “You could take the baby and go with them.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Why would I want to do that?”
“I'm sure Jeanette would have you to stay with them as long as you like. If you needed an occupation, I’m sure Jeanette would be able willing to make a place for you—governess to the children, perhaps.”
He didn’t look at her, and the silence seemed interminable until she finally spoke. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to stay here.”
“There is nothing for you here. No future for Suzanne. In Marseilles, you could—”
“Marseilles is a wonderful place, I'm sure,” she interrupted him. “It probably has a great deal to offer. But there is one thing Marseilles does not have, one thing that is very important to me.”
He stared out over the garden—the wild tangle of rose bushes, the cracked flagstones of the path, and the fountain that had been dry for two years now. He thought of the crumbling château, the deserted vineyard. “I can’t imagine what could hold you here,” he muttered.
She laid a hand on his arm. “Can you not?”
The inference was clear, but he shook his head slowly, refusing to believe she meant him. Did she think that what he'd told her about Anne-Marie wasn't true? “Tess, you don't understand. I told you about me in the nursery that day—”
“I know what you told me.”
“And you don’t believe it?” He jumped to his feet and started to walk away, but her voice stopped him.
“Don't go.”
He stopped and forced himself to turn around. She had risen and her hands were stretched out to him, beckoning him back, and he took a step toward her. He felt like a moth blundering in the light, flying into the candle flame, knowing his fate and unable to resist it. He took another step toward her, then another.
The wind teased a curl that had fallen over her brow, and he reached out to brush it back. His fingertips trailed down her cheek and lingered there too long. Before he could think, before he could reason, his arms wrapped around her, he bent his head and kissed her.
The taste of her lips went to his head like strong wine, making him dizzy. Dormant for so long, desire now pounded through his body, and he lost whatever thin grasp he had on restraint. He pulled her closer, plunging his tongue into her mouth, savoring the sweet taste of her.
Her body pressed against him and her hands caressed his back, sending delicious shivers through his body. He tore his lips from hers and muffled a groan against her throat. But if he thought to walk away, he was mistaken, for her silky skin proved to be an even greater temptation than her lips, and he nibbled at the base of her throat, feeling her pulse race.
Lost in the maelstrom, he didn't feel the sudden resistance at first. But her hands came up between them to push him away and her frantic whispered words fi
nally penetrated his drugged senses.
“Stop, Alexandre, you must stop.”
He forced himself to draw back, and it felt as if he were tearing himself apart. When she stepped back, his arms fell to his sides, and all the emptiness he’d felt before came rushing back.
“Jeanette's coming,” she whispered between gasps for breath.
“What?” He shook his head, trying to clear it.
“Jeanette's coming up the path, bringing the tea. I can hear the tea thing rattling.”
The moment Jeanette came into view and saw him, she stopped. Their eyes met for a moment, then she came and set the tray on the bench, mumbled something about not having enough milk, and departed again.
He drew a deep breath, striving to regain his control, waiting until Jeanette was out of earshot before he turned and faced Tess again. “I think you should go to Marseilles.”
She looked down at the ground, then back up at him, her green eyes wide. He could see pain in their depths—he could see it, he could feel it. “I don't want to go,” she said after a moment.
“You have to.” He watched her shake her head, and he began to feel a bit desperate. “If you knew the whole story about Anne-Marie, you'd go quickly enough.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I don’t care about that. The past doesn't matter. For...for either of us.”
“It doesn't matter? I killed my own wife and you say it doesn’t matter?”
She didn't answer, and he rushed on, “It was all my fault to begin with. I wanted a baby. I knew she was afraid, and I didn't care. We had moved into separate rooms...we'd never had separate rooms...and I tried to understand, tried to be patient, but one night she locked her door against me, and I couldn't take it anymore. I broke the door down.”
He turned to her. “Do you understand? I forced her.”
Tess felt her cheeks flush at hearing these intimacies between a husband and wife spoken aloud, but she knew all about being forced, and she knew Alexandre. She also knew what Jeanette had told her about Anne-Marie. “I think,” she said softly, “that I understand very well. I think you had never tried to do such a thing before. I think that you both lost your heads in—” She paused, blushing furiously. “In the heat of the moment. And I would wager that she never said no, but that she held it against you afterwards. Didn't she?”
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