“Richard, you must promise me something.”
“Anything, Bella,” he said, carefully smoothing the curls back from her face.
“Promise me you’ll be very careful.” She had to stop a moment and blink back the tears. She was determined that today, of all days, he would not see her cry.
“I promise.” He started to kiss her, but she pushed him away.
“There’s something else. You must also promise me that if Christina wants to leave with you, you won’t hesitate to bring her here.”
Richard frowned. If such a thing should happen, how could he possibly do that to Arabella?
“Bella…”
“No. Promise me. Promise me you won’t make things hard on yourself out of deference to me.”
It was obvious any protest would be futile. “Very well, I promise.” Then he did kiss her, holding her tightly until the bosun’s call signaled the ship’s impending departure.
Richard was welcomed aboard by the crew, but he quickly separated himself from the men and moved to the back of the ship where he could see Arabella as they sailed out the long, narrow neck of the harbor.
Arabella watched the ship until it disappeared behind the steep line of cliffs. When she finally turned away, heading back along the
quais
, she remembered the tiny, leather pouch. She stopped and loosened the drawstring, shaking the contents out into her hand.
It was a lovely gold ring, set with what Arabella thought must be a diamond, the band worked in a pattern of intertwined flowers. As she turned it between her fingers, she noticed the delicate script on the inside of the band. Richard must have meant it to be her wedding ring, for the spidery letters of the inscription read:
To A. my beautiful wife, R.
Guy smiled as he regarded his wife. Christina sat beside him in the carriage as they moved at a steady pace through the streets of Arles. He was relaxed and not at all concerned that she seemed oblivious to his proximity.
When he finally brought her home from the abbey, he’d amused himself by devising various ways to try to penetrate her altered sense of reality. But he’d tired of the game quickly because none of his attempts, including a few sound beatings and even the occasional threat of bringing home another lover, could shatter her concentrated retreat into the past. Even humiliating reminders of Stefano failed to elicit a reaction. Christina’s reality simply didn’t include anything that had taken place since her marriage to Guy. Whenever he was rough with her, verbally or physically, she just seemed to drift away, refusing to acknowledge what was happening to her.
On the other hand, when Guy treated her with consideration and courtesy, she behaved as though he were a dear childhood friend, waiting—as she was—for Richard’s return.
It didn’t take very long for Guy to see the advantage of having a compliant and seemingly carefree wife. Though it was nearly impossible for her to arouse him sexually, given that she no longer feared him, he solved that particular problem with regular visits to Madame Dijol’s establishment, which of late seemed even more anxious to cater to his increasingly exotic tastes.
No, Guy had few regrets about the diminishing aspects of that part of his marriage. Instead, he’d been able to find new pleasure in appearing with Christina socially. She now behaved charmingly whenever he took her out, though people were beginning to notice that she seemed a little distracted. So much the better. Guy realized questions about Christina’s mental stability now brought him sympathy and understanding from acquaintances and business associates where he’d previously found very little. He was enjoying his new role as a devoted, long-suffering husband.
Since Guy no longer worried that she might try to leave him, he was planning to take her to Venice with him for the winter. In anticipation of their six-month stay in that city, he’d selected the fabrics for her new wardrobe himself. No more of the pastels and soft, watered colors she’d worn for as long as he could remember. Instead, he’d chosen richer colors: burgundy, green, midnight blue—colors he thought would show off her pale skin to greater advantage. Guy was confident the new gowns, along with the new cosmetics that Christina’s maid, Marie, had used to finally put a little color in her cheeks, would make his wife the toast of Venice in the coming season.
He spent a good deal of time contemplating the image of the new Christina. Sometimes, late at night, when he’d had a little too much to drink, he imagined having a portrait painted of her in the most provocative of the new dresses. He fancied sending it to Richard and the whore he was marrying as a wedding present. Why not? Richard always chose whores. Why shouldn’t he have a lasting reminder of one of those he’d left behind?
The carriage stopped at
Hôtel Tallandier
, the most exclusive dressmaker in the city. The proprietress had a sister living in Paris who constantly supplied her with drawings of the latest fashions from both the elite of that city and the Court at Versailles. Her sister’s designs, combined with her own considerable talent and that of the women who worked for her, enabled Madame to produce the very latest in fashion for her clients. Consequently, she had developed a formidable reputation throughout Provence and was in demand by anyone who could afford her now very costly services.
Guy escorted Christina through the courtyard and up the stairs into the reception area of Madame’s sizable establishment. He left her and promised to return later that afternoon. The thought of Christina in her new gowns had piqued his appetite. He returned to his carriage and directed his driver to another establishment of a quite different reputation.
Christina hummed happily to herself as the women fussed over her hemline and adjusted the lace on the bodice of the last of her new gowns. She knew this one was the most special because this was the dress that she would wear to Cybelle’s big summer party, the dress she would wear for Richard when he returned. She thought it strange that the dresses were being made for her at this time of the year, but Guy had assured her that it was so difficult to get an appointment with Madame Tallandier, she should be grateful to be there at all. And so she was content. The dress would keep and she would have other, lovely new things to wear throughout the long, lonely winter. Meanwhile, she was quite willing to stand as still as a stone statue while the seamstresses finished their work. She wanted this particular dress to be perfect.
Christina was mildly concerned by the way the women kept looking at her face when they thought she wouldn’t notice, but she assumed that it was because the dress was so beautiful. It had to be. It was for Richard.
When they were finally finished with the last adjustments, they turned Christina toward the three mirrors that were hung in such a way in the well-lighted alcove as to provide the customer with an endlessly repeating image of herself and her gown. They stepped back and waited for Christina’s reaction, not a one of them pleased with the dress, though it did seem strangely appropriate to the heavily made-up woman who now regarded her reflection in the glass.
Christina, realizing they were waiting for her response, looked into the mirror and found herself amazed by the width of her skirt. She was then momentarily fascinated by the intricate pattern of black beads that bordered the fabric before she realized something was wrong. Someone had made a very serious mistake. This couldn’t possibly be her dress. The color was all wrong. The claret color silk was beautiful, certainly, but not hers. She had chosen ivory, pale green, and pink. She was sure of it.
Her eyes traveled up to where the wide skirt narrowed to a tiny waist, then up the elaborately beaded
stomacher
to the black lace ruffle that did little to disguise pale pink nipples.
She was confused. Then she saw the startled face in the mirror and immediately a flood of relief washed over her as she realized the reflection belonged to someone else, someone with quite a bit of rouge and a rather vulgar diamond shaped beauty spot high on her cheek, just below her eye.
But finally it was the eyes—pale green, so very like her own—that caught her attention. Christina stepped closer to the mirror.
How interesting…but it’s impossible…isn’t it?
She leaned forward, until her nose nearly touched the glass.
The seamstresses hoped she would be pleased with the gown, the most elaborate of those her husband had ordered, though they all thought it too extreme for Christina’s delicate beauty. Still, they wanted no trouble with the volatile Monsieur Jonvaux. Most of them had experienced his temper at one time or another and they were not likely to forget it. While they all felt some amount of sympathy for Christina, none of them dared to do anything that might upset her husband.
Therefore, it was with some trepidation that they waited for her reaction to their work. But as Christina stared at her reflection, she seemed even more confused than usual and she was obviously no longer paying the slightest attention to the dress. Nervous, the seamstresses began to whisper among themselves and thus Madame Tallandier found them when she entered the room. Guessing the nature of their unease, she dismissed them, determined to deal with Madame Jonvaux herself.
Christina touched the glass.
How strange that woman has my eyes.
She ran her fingers over the reflected cheek and then came back and touched her own. Her heart stopped as the strange woman in the glass mimicked her gesture. Something was terribly wrong.
“Madame
?
” Madame Tallandier spoke softly, lightly, as if nothing at all was amiss.
Christina looked beyond her reflection to see Madame Tallandier standing behind her in the doorway, but she immediately returned her attention to the strange woman in the low-cut gown. There was confusion in those familiar eyes now.
“Madame Jonvaux, is something wrong?” Martine Tallandier was concerned. Christina’s behavior had been peculiar of late, but she seemed far more distracted than usual.
Perhaps it was the words, “Madame Jonvaux” addressed to her precisely at the moment when she realized it was, indeed, her own reflection. Whatever the cause, in that instant Christina’s comfortable illusions evaporated, leaving her quite alone in what she suddenly recognized as a very unfriendly reality. She remembered it all and was horrified by what she saw reflected in the mirrors. The paint on her face made her look like one of the women who frequented the
quais
, consorting with the sailors and dock workers. The dress was a costume for one of the dissipated women at court. It all must be part of yet another of Guy’s disturbing fantasies. It wasn’t her at all.
“No,” she whispered to no one in particular. “NO!” This time she screamed the word as she struck out with her fist at the offensive images that echoed endlessly in the glass. The mirror before her shattered and fell to the floor as Madame Tallandier screamed.
Maryse Chabannier was in the next room, looking at samples of fabric. She’d tried to ignore the whispered conversations of the women who carried in the various bolts of cloth for her approval, though she was aware they were discussing the appearance and questionable emotional state of another of Madame Tallandier’s clients. Maryse made a mental note to mention it to the proprietress. Such gossip was unseemly in front of patrons and could be bad for business. No woman wanted to believe she might be the topic of discussion in such a place unless, of course, the remarks were complimentary. What Maryse overheard was certainly not complimentary.
She heard the scream and the shattering glass and hurried out into the hall. Because of her diminutive stature, she couldn’t see over the crowd of employees and several patrons who blocked the doorway to the next room.
“It’s such a shame, what he’s doing to her,” said one of the seamstresses standing immediately in front of Maryse. “Why does he want to dress her like a whore?” The girl glanced back over her shoulder and her cheeks turned scarlet when she saw Maryse, whose background was no secret in Arles. The girl immediately looked away.
“Leave me!” Christina screamed at Madame Tallandier. When the older woman failed to move, Christina bent down and picked up a long, pointed shard of the glittering glass. She lifted it toward the frightened woman, unaware of the sharp edges cutting into her own fingers.
“Get out!”
Madame Tallandier turned and left the room, closing the doors behind her. She had no wish to have either the patrons or the employees who were crowding the hall see any more of the inexplicable disaster. The thing foremost in her mind was what might be done to return things to normal before Monsieur Jonvaux returned to pick up his wife.
“Back to work!” she said to the crowd in the hall, clapping her hands for emphasis. “
Allez! Vit!
” The commands were followed by a brief apology to the several patrons for having such a “small accident” disturb them.
The women returned to their work, herding their clients before them. Soon, only Maryse was left standing in the hallway with Madame Tallandier.
“May I help?” Maryse asked, seeing the tears in the older woman’s eyes. “Who is it?”
Madame Tallandier looked at Maryse. Before her stood the only client she had who might understand what it meant to have to cater to the whims and eccentricities of the public. Perhaps she
could
help.
“I don’t know what to do. It’s Madame Jonvaux…”
“Christina?” Maryse asked, startled.
Madame nodded. “And her husband…he’s not a very understanding man. He’s bound to be…” She looked at Maryse, wondering how much she dared to reveal. “He’s bound to be upset.”
“Let me see what I can do,” Maryse said, placing a comforting hand on her wrist. “Madame Jonvaux and I are acquainted.”
She went to the door and slowly pressed the handle. Madame Tallandier was right behind her, nervously wringing her hands. Maryse motioned for her to remain in the hall.
Christina had collapsed on the floor in front of the two remaining mirrors, her
paniers
and boned underskirts causing the dark fabric of her gown to spread out around her at odd angles. She was crying, her hands covering her face, but she looked up as Maryse entered the room.