Prelude to Heaven

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Her eyes widened a little. “You paid a call on me in Town? You came to see me?”

  “Yes. I left my card. Didn't your butler tell you?”

  “No. Why—” She broke off and took a deep breath. “Why did you call upon me?”

  “I kept hearing rumors of your frequent illnesses and your delicate constitution. So, how ill are you? Have you consulted a physician?”

  “You should not have come to see me.” She paused, her fingers hands clasped tightly together, her body visibly tense. “My health is not your business.”

  “I don’t give a damn if it’s my business or not,” he countered, his voice and his anger rising a notch. “I—”

  “Ssh!” she cut him off, glancing past him toward the open doorway with a look of alarm. “I told you, I’m perfectly well,” she said in a low voice. “I was...ill, but I recovered.”

  He gripped her chin and forced her to look at him, not at the doorway. “What illness did you have? I want to know.”

  “Why?” she asked, a hint of desperation entering her voice, belying her pose of indifferent poise. “What difference would it make to you?” She sagged in his grasp. “Oh, why did you ever come here?”

  “You owe me some explanations, Countess, and I want them. I want to know why you pretended to love—”

  “Don't!” she ordered in a fierce whisper. “Please, don't. Someone will hear.”

  “Your husband, you mean? What’s wrong? Are you afraid he'll find out about us? Afraid he'll learn where you spent those months in France? How did you explain it all to him, I wonder?”

  “Stop!” She pressed her hands to her ears. “Oh, please stop!” She waited a few moments and when he remained silent, she lowered her hands and met his gaze head on. “I want you to leave. Make an excuse to Nigel, and go away from here.”

  “I'm not leaving until I obtain some answers from you.”

  Her chin quivered, and he couldn't bear it. Abruptly, he turned away and walked to the door. “We're finished for today.”

  “Alexandre?”

  He halted at the sound of her voice but he did not turn around. “What?”

  He heard a whisper of silk and then she was beside him. She leaned through the doorway of the conservatory as if to be sure no one else was within earshot, then she returned her attention to him. “How...” She paused as if struggling with what she wanted to say. “How is Suzanne?”

  “She’s as well as any babe can be without a mother.”

  “I know you brought her to London. Is she still there?”

  “No. She is staying nearby, but if you think I would tell you where—”

  “What? Near here?” Her hand gripped his shoulder to stop him as he started through the doorway. “How near?”

  “Not near enough for you to see her.” Unable to bear any more, he shook off her hand and left the room without a backward glance.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tess was only half dressed when the gong sounded, announcing that dinner was thirty minutes away. “Is it half-past four already? Sally, hurry. You know how Aubry hates it when I'm late.”

  Sally fastened the complicated tapes of Tess's willow green evening gown as quickly as she could, but it was still seven minutes later when Tess rushed down the stairs to the drawing room.

  Her husband was a stickler for punctuality, and Tess was expected to be in the drawing room no later than three minutes after the first gong. But when she entered the room, Alexandre and her husband had already enjoyed their first glass of madeira, and Margaret was sipping ratafia.

  “I'm sorry I'm late,” she said, trying to keep her voice dignified when her protesting lungs wanted to gasp for air from her rapid dash down two flights of stairs. “We have been waiting for you, Teresa.” Nigel pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. He noted the time then gave her a pointed glance.

  She walked to the table where a glass of ratafia had been poured for her. “I'm sorry, Nigel. I was unavoidably delayed.”

  “Your abigail again? That girl is very irresponsible. I fear we shall have to find you a new maid.”

  Tess bit her lip, knowing the poor girl would be gone by morning without so much as a letter of character. Hoping to prevent it, she said, “It wasn't her fault. She'd laid out a lovely gown for me, but I decided to change.” Though it galled her to say it, she added, “I wanted to wear this gown instead because I know how much you like it.”

  Nigel gave her a hard stare and she knew he was considering whether or not to let the transgression pass. She found it hard to care either way. After all, if he injured her, then the portrait could not be completed and Alexandre would have to leave.

  “And it is worth the wait, Countess,” Alexandre's smooth voice broke the tense silence, “when the gown's as lovely as that one.” He gave her a gallant bow and gave the other man a smile. “Your wife's beauty does you credit, Aubry.”

  Nigel took a sip of wine, seeming pleased by the compliment, and Tess didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. She took her glass of ratafia and sat down beside Margaret on the settee.

  “How is the portrait progressing, Dumond?” Nigel asked as the two men also resumed their seats.

  “I shall have no difficulty completing it within the week.”

  “Excellent. Perhaps tomorrow or the day after, I'll wander in and have a look at it.”

  “Forgive me, Lord Aubry, but I must insist that you do not.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Nigel set down his glass and eyed Alexandre askance. “I am not permitted to examine what I am paying for?”

  “I never allow anyone to see a portrait until it is finished.” He shrugged. “Call it an artistic eccentricity.”

  Tess remembered how he had locked her portrait away in his studio so that she wouldn't be able to take a look at it, and she smiled at the memory. But when she glanced at Nigel, the irritation that marred his handsome features reminded her that as gratifying as it was to see her husband put out of countenance, the consequences of such a thing were seldom worth the momentary satisfaction.

  Nigel let out a petulant sigh. “Very well,” he conceded. “I suppose one must always have patience with artists.”

  “Merci.”

  “Tomorrow after your session with my wife, perhaps you would like to see the estate?”

  “I should like that very much.”

  “Teresa.” Nigel turned to her. “I believe you should make calls tomorrow. You have not done so since returning home. Mother will accompany you.”

  “Certainly,” she murmured, “if Margaret wishes to do so.”

  “My mother adores making calls. Don’t you, Mama?”

  “Of course.” The lassitude of Margaret’s reply had Tess glancing at her mother-in-law, and the weary resignation she saw there was so like her own inner feelings that Tess had the strange sensation she was looking into a mirror, seeing an older reflection of herself. It was a disturbing image.

  ***

  During dinner, Alexandre couldn’t help casting several puzzled glances in Tess’s direction. He’d come to Aubry Park for answers, but all he had so far were more questions.

  He didn't understand the way she catered to Aubry's every petulant whim, but he had the distinct impression it wasn’t to please him or make him happy. Nor could Alexandre determine with any certainty what her feelings were for her husband, and nothing in her expression gave him any clues.

  “I think you'll enjoy our tour tomorrow,” Aubry told

  him as the first course of Mulligatawny soup was placed on the table.

  “It's a beautiful estate,” he answered politely, picking up his spoon. “I might paint some of your gardens while I am here. They are lovely.”

  “Thank you.” The earl looked at his wife, seated at the opposite end of the long table. “Speaking of gardens, my dear, I took a walk through the new flower bed you had put in. I'm not certain I approve of the design.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Alexandre saw Tess's b
ody stiffen. In the silence, he heard her sharp intake of breath, but when she spoke, her voice seemed natural enough.

  “What is it that you don't like about it, my lord?”

  “It's rather chaotic, don't you think?” Aubry took a sip of his wine. “Far too many varieties of flowers all thrown together with no plan or pattern. Really, Teresa, it looks like a peasant's cottage garden. I would prefer something more formal, more elegant.”

  “But—” Tess paused, and it was several seconds before she spoke again. “What flowers would you prefer?”

  “You don't need to worry about it, my dear,” he said and set down his glass. “I've already given instructions to the gardeners, and they will take care of everything. I should never have allowed you to take on such an ambitious project. You do far too much as it is.”

  Alexandre was watching Tess closely, and though her expression was unreadable, there was something terrible in the rigid stillness of her form. He sensed disappointment in her, and resignation and something else. Anger.

  He didn’t blame her. He felt the same anger burning inside himself. When dinner was over, he excused himself and went for a walk. He'd only been in this house for twenty-four hours and already he found the atmosphere suffocating.

  As the sun set behind the rolling green hills, he strolled through precisely laid-out beds of Michaelmas daisies, roses, and neatly trimmed boxwood. His artist's eye took in the perfection of their symmetry, but his mind was elsewhere.

  Aubry treated his wife with cold disapproval if she was a few minutes late to dinner. He belittled her ability to design a garden or choose a picture for their library. Even if she was standing beside him, he talked to others as if she wasn't there.

  It infuriated him to see her treated this way. But what made him angrier was the way she sat back, tolerating the other man’s behavior without so much as a word of protest. Of course, that could be because of his presence. One didn’t argue with one’s spouse in front of guests.

  He crossed the lawn, making for a boxwood maze about fifty yards away, but he paused as his gaze caught a flower bed nearby, one vastly different from everything else he'd seen at Aubry Park.

  Tall spikes of delphinium and foxglove, fat bunches of white daisies, and graceful spires of pink yarrow were mixed with herbs and other flowers, creating a riot of color and shape. This had to be Tess's special garden.

  Aubry was right about one thing. It was chaotic. But as an artist, Alexandre appreciated at once the forethought that had

  gone into its design. The colors and shapes blended into each other so naturally, it looked as if this garden had come about on its own, through the work of nature rather than man. It was wild, almost primitive, and he found it much more beautiful than all the precise and perfect gardens on the estate.

  Aubry, however, intended to have it taken out, and Tess had reacted to the other man’s decision without any surprise. It was almost as if she'd been expecting it.

  Did she really love that selfish prig? He could hardly credit it. She didn't look like a woman in love, and she clearly wasn’t happy. Was it her unhappiness with Aubry that had sent her into another man’s arms in the first place? Led her to run away to France? Had she gone back with Aubry only because marital law demanded it?

  Alexandre sank down in the grass, appreciating that every time he asked himself these questions about her motives, he attempted more and more to find explanations that would exonerate her. And he didn’t know what was truth and what was simply wishful thinking on his part.

  ***

  When Tess entered the conservatory the following morning, Alexandre was already there, standing by one of the windows with his pencil and sketchbook. Knowing he hadn't heard her come in, she paused in the doorway to watch him unobserved, knowing she might never have another opportunity.

  His hair was loose, and she wondered where he'd left his ribbon this time. As he sketched, she watched his hands, and she remembered how he had touched her with a tenderness she had never known before and would never know again. Never again would he hold her in his arms. Never again would she have the luxury of being cherished. She loved him, but he could never be hers. She could never be his.

  Suddenly, he seemed to sense her presence, for he paused and glanced at the doorway. When he saw her, his lips tighten, as if he didn’t like the fact that she’d been watching him. He left the window, dropping his sketchbook and pencil on a nearby table and moving to where he had set up his easel and paints. “Let's begin,” he said, gesturing to her chair.

  Tess crossed the room and sat down, positioning her body in the same pose she’d assumed the day before. But she must have got it wrong, for Alexandre shook his head as if dissatisfied and walked over to her chair. He bent down, pulling at the folds of her yellow silk gown to rearrange them. When he was satisfied, he straightened, but he did not return to his easel. Instead, he paused in front of her, looking into her face.

  Tess met his gaze, and she had the terrible feeling what she felt was plainly written on her face. But covering her love for him behind a mask of indifference was proving harder each time she saw him, and suddenly, it seemed impossible.

  He reached out his hand toward her. Don't, she thought. Don’t touch me, Alexandre. I’ll come apart.

  His fingertips brushed her cheek and she heard her own sharp, indrawn breath. He ran one finger along the hollow dent of her cheek, and when she opened her mouth to protest, he cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb across her lips to silence her before she could speak.

  Inside, she could feel herself shaking with the effort of holding back. She wanted to fling herself into his arms, kiss his mouth, tell him to take her away...but it was all impossible dreams.

  He tilted her chin up and a bit to the side, then jerked his hand back and returned to his place.

  He began to sketch her image on the canvas, blocking out her shape. “I took a walk in your garden last night,” he found himself saying. “I thought it was beautiful.”

  “Thank you. A pity does not agree with you.”

  He paused. “Nigel,” he said with obvious contempt, “is a fool.”

  He looked at her over the top of the canvas, waiting as if he expected her to defend her husband against such criticism, but she said nothing, and her silence said more than any words she could have spoken.

  ***

  That afternoon, an unexpected matter of business required Aubry to cancel his plan to take Alexandre on a tour of the countryside, leaving Alexandre to his own devices.

  Tess learned from one of the grooms that he had gone riding, and in light of his admission that Suzanne was nearby, she wondered if he'd gone to see their daughter. The groom told her Monsieur Dumond had ridden every morning and every afternoon during his stay, and with that news, she decided to follow him the following afternoon, grateful that Nigel no longer deemed it necessary to keep a footman or maid constantly at her heels. She had her mare saddled, and lingered near the stables but hidden from view behind a thick row of yew hedges. Peeking between them, she waited, and when she saw Alexandre ride out, headed for the road, she mounted her mare to follow.

  Careful to remain a good distance behind, she followed him to the Bells & Motley, an inn on the road to London, and when he went inside, she halted in the grove of trees across the road. She dismounted, tethered her mare to a tree, and sat down to wait, watching the inn from the thick shelter of the trees. She knew she was taking an enormous risk by coming here, but if this was he was keeping Suzanne, if she could catch just one glimpse of her daughter, the risk was worth it.

  It was at least an hour before Alexandre reappeared, but Suzanne was not with him, and she felt a keen stab of disappointment. He mounted his horse and started back toward Aubry Park, but she lingered, staring at the inn across the road. The temptation to go in, ask after her daughter, perhaps even see her, was almost irresistible, but she didn’t dare act on it. Someone would be sure to recognize her, and she couldn't run the risk of Nigel finding out sh
e'd gone to an inn.

  At last, she untied her horse's reins intending to follow Alexandre back to Aubry Park, but as she prepared to swing herself up into the saddle, she caught sight of Leonie emerging from the inn with a toddler by the hand and a baby in her arms, and risks and consequences went to the wall.

  Once again tethering her mare, she glanced about to make sure no one was watching her, then she followed Leonie behind the inn. She had no need to quicken her pace to catch up to them, for Elise’s baby steps were still a bit wobbly, and they had barely entered the grove of trees behind the inn before Tess was close enough to call the other woman’s name.

  Leonie turned at the sound, and her dark eyes widened in shock. “Mademoiselle?”

  Heart pounding, Tess came closer, staring not at Leonie, but at the baby in Leonie’s arms, looking into a pair round eyes as green as her own that peeked at her from beneath a lacy white cap. Joy and love welled up inside her, making her eyes sting. “Oh, she’s so beautiful!”

  Suzanne smiled at her, gurgled something unintelligible, and jammed her fist into her mouth.

  “Why do you come here?”

  Leonie’s voice cut in, disapproving and defensive, and Tess’s joy faded as she watched the other woman step back from her, pulling Elise and clutching Suzanne more tightly to her breast.

  “I know it must be a great shock to see me,” Tess said. “But surely you know Alexandre was here to paint a portrait of me?”

  “Oui. The Comte told me.” She turned her head aside as Suzanne began pulling at her hair, and she shifted the baby’s weight a bit in the crook of her arm.