Spring came, and the vineyards were green again. The summer passed, and with autumn came a bountiful harvest and a good vintage. When the next year came Autumn, to her delight, found she was with child. After an initial bout of sickness she began to bloom, spending the summer months in her gardens, sewing on tiny garments with her mother and the two tantes from Archambault. She laughed when her parent commented that she had become as swollen as her husband’s grapes.
“I love the feel of new life within me, Mama,” she said. “I am going to have lots and lots of children!”
On the second wedding anniversary of the Marquis and Marquise d’Auriville, September 30, 1653, Autumn was delivered in an exceedingly easy birth of a daughter.
“We’ll have a boy next year,” she told her delighted husband, who wasn’t in the least bit disappointed to have fathered this dainty, dark-haired child. “We shall call her Madeline Marie.”
“Why?” he asked, curious.
“Because the last two queens France gave Scotland were called Madeline and Marie. La petite Madeline was the king’s daughter, but she died, unable to take our Scots’ winters. Marie was Marie de Guise, the mother of our Queen Mary, mother of James Stuart. She was also for a time, France’s queen. So I should like our daughter to be called Madeline Marie,” Autumn finished.
“Mademoiselle Madeline d’Oleron,” he said softly. “I like it.”
The baby was baptized by Pere Bernard, and Red Hugh, Madame de Belfort and Madame St. Omer standing as her godmothers. Autumn’s choice of her daughter’s godfather came as a surprise to everyone.
“I want Adali,” she said firmly. “He is as good a Christian as any, and I have known him my whole life. Madeline could not have a better godfather.”
And so the old gentleman stood proudly in the church at Chermont while Madeline was baptized. He prayed silently that he would live long enough to see this baby grown, but that, he knew, would be a miracle. Still, miracles did happen, although in this day and age they were rare.
Madeline’s first birthday came, and she had grown into a plump baby with dark curls and smoky blue eyes. She walked, and was a most determined child. By her second birthday she was chattering and running. Both of her parents adored her, and everyone who knew her loved her, for Madeline was by nature a very sweet child, despite her resolute nature. It was true she wanted what she wanted when she wanted it, but Madeline never held a grudge, even when denied her heart’s desire of the moment.
Autumn was once again with child. The baby was to be born in the spring. Several days after her daughter’s birthday, a worker came running in from the vineyards, shouting for madame la marquise. Behind him Lafite could see a party of workers carrying something, and as they grew closer his heart sank. His mistress ran from the house, and her sudden screams of grief broke his heart.
The vineyard workers carrying Sebastian d’Oleron upon a board passed him as they entered the house. White-faced, Autumn hurried along with them, her hand upon her husband’s hand comforting him.
“Send for my mother,” she cried to Lafite, “and for a doctor if there is one nearby. Upstairs,” she told the workers, running ahead to show them.
They set the marquis on his bed. Lily and little Orane both burst into tears when they saw their master.
Autumn glared at them both. “Your weeping isn’t going to help,” she snapped at them. “Help me undress my husband. Marc, fetch your master’s nightshirt from his valet.” She bent over her husband. “There, mon coeur, it will be all right. Where does it hurt?” Weakly he pointed to his chest. Orane brought a small cup of wine, and Autumn helped her husband to sit enough to sip the liquid, which he did slowly.
Together the three women managed to get him out of his clothing and into his nightshirt, then beneath the coverlet.
Sebastian clutched Autumn’s hand. “I . . . am . . . dying,” he managed to say to her. The words surprised him even as he said them, but he knew they were true. “A . . . priest,” he gasped to her.
“I’ll go,” Marc said quickly, before Autumn could either protest or give him the order. Marc didn’t like to admit it, even to himself, but he knew his master was correct: He was dying. He ran from the room to seek out Lafite. Finding him, he said, “The marquis wants the priest. Where is he?”
“The church at Archambault,” Lafite said.
The young courier ran to the stables and, taking a horse, rode off at a gallop toward Archambault. In the village church he found Pere Hugo. “Our master, the Marquis d’Auriville, is dying, good father. He begs you come to him at once. Take my horse. I must go and speak with the comte, and he will see me back.” Then he ran from the church and up the hill to the chateau to find the Comte de Saville and his sisters. When he had told them what little he knew, the comte ordered a carriage for his siblings and then hurried off to the stables with Marc to fetch them horses. They rode with all haste back to Chermont.
“Is he still alive?” the comte demanded of Lafite as he and Marc entered the house. “Where is my niece?”
“He yet lives. The priest is with him, and madame,” Lafite replied. “Madame la duchesse has been sent for, monseigneur.”
“Do you know what happened?” the comte asked.
“The vineyard foreman said the marquis was in the fields with them as he so often is at the harvest. Suddenly he clutched at his left arm. A spasm crossed his features. He gave a great cry and then fell to the ground. He could not arise, and so they brought him home.”
“Send Madame Jasmine upstairs as soon as she arrives,” the comte ordered the majordomo.
In the darkened bedchamber, lit only by two candelabra, the Marquis d’Auriville lay quietly, Pere Hugo by his side murmuring his prayers. Autumn sat on the other side of her husband, her face stony, her eyes anguished. The Comte de Saville could see his niece was struggling very hard not to break into tears. In her lap she held her two-year-old daughter. Madeline was strangely silent, as if she sensed that this was a most terrible and momentous occasion. The Comte de Saville put a comforting hand on his niece’s shoulder.
Autumn looked up at him and smiled weakly. Then she shook her head. “I don’t understand,” he said softly. “This should not be happening, Oncle. How can this be?”
“I do not know, Autumn,” he told her honestly, seating himself as he spoke in a chair that Lily pushed behind him.
They sat in silence as the marquis’s breathing became more and more labored. Autumn was trembling visibly as she watched her husband’s life fading before her very eyes. It was like a bad dream, and she kept pinching her arm in hopes that she would awaken. They were so happy. They had Madeline, and had only just discovered that there would be another child in the late spring. He couldn’t die! He couldn’t! There was too much reason for him to live. She started as she felt a cold hand take hers.
“Ma cherie,” he said. His voice was stronger than it had been.
Words failed her as she looked into his beloved face.
He smiled gently at her and squeezed her hand with what little strength he had left. “Je t’aime, et notre Madeline aussi,” he told her. “Je t’aime.” Then his eyes glazed over, and with a great sigh the life flew out of him.
Autumn’s hand went to her mouth to stifle her cry of anguish. The priest stood and made the sign of the cross over the dead man, closing his eyes afterward. Orane, with unusual foresight, took Madeline from her mother’s lap and hurried from the bedchamber with the sleepy child. Only when the door had closed behind her did Autumn begin to weep with great, sobbing gulps of sorrow while Lily and the comte stood by, unable to help her.
“He died shriven and in God’s good grace,” Pere Hugo said in an effort to comfort the grieving woman.
Autumn looked at the priest. “He died too young and suddenly, without warning. What kind of a God does that, mon pere? Answer me that? What kind of a God takes a young man from his family without warning and in the prime of his life?”
“I cannot answer that, madame la m
arquise, but I know that whatever God does has reason, even if we do not see it or understand it,” the priest replied.
“Tell that to my fatherless children,” Autumn said bitterly.
“You will love again one day, madame la marquise,” the priest said.
“You dare say that to me now? Get out! Get out! I will never love again. Never!”
Part III
MADAME LA MARQUISE 1656–1662
Chapter 13
“You cannot hide yourself here forever,” Jasmine said to her daughter. “Sebastian has been dead a year now. You must go home to Chermont, Autumn. Madeline should be raised in her own home, not her grandmother’s house.”
“If I were dead, would you not raise her, Mama?” the grieving widow said to her parent.
“Yes, I would, but at Chermont, not Belle Fleurs,” Jasmine replied firmly.
“You could not live at Glenkirk after Papa died,” Autumn returned.
“I had lived at Glenkirk for over thirty years, Autumn. All my Leslie children but you were born there. But if my children had been young when your father died, I should have remained there. They were Leslies, and entitled to be raised on their own lands. Sebastian’s family have lived at Chermont for more centuries than I can count. Madeline is the last of them. Should she not be raised on her own lands too?”
“I can still see them bringing him home from the vineyards on that board. I see him lying in our bed gasping with every breath. I see him dying there.” She began to weep as she had almost every day since her husband had expired.
Jesu! Jasmine thought irritably. She is making a vocation out of her mourning. I did not think Autumn so fragile, but between Jemmie’s death, Sebastian’s death, and the loss of her baby, it has been too much for her. Was I this heartbroken when Jamal died, and I lost our child? I cannot remember, it has been so long. But she will weep herself into the grave if I do not do something about it. Jasmine took a deep breath, then said, “You are going back to Chermont tomorrow, Autumn. If your bedchamber distresses you, then close it up and choose another chamber. God only knows Chermont has enough of them. I will go with you, and remain a time until you have acclimated yourself once more.”
“I cannot!” Autumn wailed.
“God’s boots, I have listened to you whine and moan for over a year now! I will have no more of it, ma fille! Do you think your tears will change anything? Do you think they will bring Sebastian back to you? Do you think that looking down from heaven he is happy with your behavior, and how you have ignored his daughter in your self-pitying humor? You are not the first young woman to lose a husband after so short a time, nor are you the first woman to lose an expected child. My grandmother mourned six husbands, yet after each loss she survived to live and love again. So will you, Autumn. I am not asking that you forget Sebastian or the happiness you had with him, but it is over. You must get on with your life!”
“How can you possibly understand?” Autumn said tragically.
Jasmine slapped her daughter hard. “How dare you!” she cried.
Stunned, Autumn’s had went to her cheek. “Mama!” she said.
“Do you think my life began with your father?” Jasmine demanded. “I lost two husbands to murder before I married James Leslie. I lost a child in the womb, and another just when she had learned to say, ‘Mama.’ That baby had a smile so sweet it broke the heart each time she exhibited it. You were born to me when I believed I was past having babies. You have been a joy to me, and to your father, may God assoil his good soul; but because your siblings were grown you have been raised as a single child might have been. You have known nothing of real sorrow until now. This is real life, Autumn, not some romantic fairy tale. You must take the bitter with the sweet. If you cannot, then perhaps it is better that you pine away and orphan your daughter entirely.”
“Mama!” Autumn was shocked by her mother’s harsh words.
“Do not mama me, ma fille. Go and tell Lily, Orane, and Marie to start packing. We leave on the morrow.”
Looking at her mother’s face, Autumn realized that there was no argument she could make that would change Jasmine’s mind. She curtsied to her parent and departed the room.
“About time you told her the truth of the matter,” the duchess’s old serving woman, Toramalli, said pithily. “We have all spoiled her rotten in our delight at having another bairn again, my lady. These young women today are nothing like we were in our youth. They seem to lack the strength of character we had.”
Jasmine laughed. “She is young yet. I think she will be all right if we stop cossetting her as we always have done. Now, we must pack if we are to go to Chermont with Autumn. Rohana will come with me. You, Toramalli, and the others can remain behind. There is no necessity for us all to be uprooted, and I intend staying less than a month. Just long enough to get her settled once again.”
“You’ll not travel even so short a distance without Red Hugh,” Toramalli said firmly. “Two women all alone in a chateau without realiable protection? The master wouldn’t have it, and neither will we, my princess. I’ll not trust these Frenchies to look after your safety.”
“Will there ever come a time when you do not consider my well-being, dearest Toramalli?” Jasmine said with a smile.
“We were born to serve you, my lady,” Toramalli said, “and so we will, my sister, Adali, and I, until the day we die.”
The servants at Chermont almost wept with joy as they welcomed Autumn and little Madeline back. It was seeing them that made Autumn realize how selfish she had been in her grief. Lafite and the others had known Sebastian since he was born. They surely had felt his loss almost as deeply as she had, and then she had taken the very future of Chermont, Sebastian’s daughter, away from them, leaving them doubly bereft. Jasmine saw the change in her daughter at once and was greatly relieved.
They were just settled when Lafite came to say that Michel Dupont, the master of the vineyard, wished to speak with her.
“I know nothing of the vineyards,” Autumn voiced the thought aloud.
“Michel is a good man and can be trusted,” Lafite said boldly. “If you wish to learn, he will be pleased to teach madame la marquise. And certainly la petite mademoiselle must learn her heritage. The Duponts have been at Chermont for over a thousand years, madame.”
“He may enter,” Autumn said.
Michel Dupont was a tall man with a robust build. His face was tanned and lined, attesting to his many hours out in the sunshine. His nut-brown hair was peppered with silver, and the blue eyes that briefly met hers were kind. He bowed, cap in hand, and waited for Autumn to give him permission to speak.
“Is the harvest going well, Michel Dupont?” she said, attempting a show of interest.
“Very well, madame la marquise,” he answered with a small smile.
“The vintage will be good?”
“It will be very good,” came the reply.
There was a long silence. Then Autumn said, “I know nothing of the vineyards, but I know I must learn, and when she is old enough, so must mademoiselle. Will you teach us, Michel Dupont?”
“Gladly, madame la marquise,” he said with another small smile.
“Why did you wish to see me?” she inquired.
“The harvest is bounteous, madame la marquise. We have more grapes than we can use this year. Archambault wishes to purchase what we cannot use. I would have your permission before I agree.”
“Our winery is small, then?” Autumn’s interest was now engaged.
Michel Dupont nodded. “We often cannot use all we grow,” he admitted to her. “Monsieur le marquis was thinking of enlarging the winery, but then . . .” He broke off suddenly, looking down at his well-worn boots as he attempted to avoid the unpleasant subject of his master’s demise.
“Are there plans?” Autumn asked him softly.
“Oui, madame la marquise, there are.”
“If my husband thought it advisable to have a bigger winery, then we must have one,” Autumn said s
lowly. “Sell what we cannot use to my cousins at Archambault. Then we must begin digging the foundation for the new winery before the frost hardens the ground. That way the men can work during the winter months, and our winery will be ready for next year’s crop. If we do not have enough laborers, then we shall hire more. There must be men who will be glad of winter employment hereabouts. I do not know a great deal about vineyards, Michel Dupont, but I do know about business and its affairs. We must expand to be profitable.”
A delighted grin split the vineyard master’s face. He bowed to Autumn. “It shall be as madame la marquise orders. I shall keep you fully informed.”
“Then, if there is nothing more, Michel Dupont, you may go,” Autumn said, smoothing the deep violet silk of her gown, well pleased with herself. She felt she had done well.
“One thing, a small thing, madame la marquise. Would you not ride through the vineyards before the harvest is in with la petite mademoiselle upon your saddle? The people would be very encouraged,” he finished meaningfully. “They have mourned too, if I dare to say it.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. God, Autumn thought, I really have been selfish. She blinked the tears back, but one escaped, pearling down her cheek so that she brushed it quickly away. “I will come tomorrow, Michel Dupont,” she replied to his humble request.
He bowed again. “Merci, madame la marquise,” he said, and backed from the room.
Autumn rose and went to the windows. The vineyards were a tired yellow-green in the hazy early October sunshine. Oh, Sebastian, she thought to herself. How I loved you, but Mama is right. You are gone from me, and nothing is going to bring you back. I have to get on with my life, not just for my sake, but for Madeline’s as well. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and felt the tears pricking at them again. Opening them she let the salty drops roll down her cheeks. Adieu, mon coeur. The time has come to let you go. Adieu! Then she turned away from the windows. Strangely, her heart felt lighter.
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