Daughters of the Storm (6 page)

Today two things were going to happen. She would be introduced to Sophie Luttrell, her cousin, and she would be betrothed.

A familiar dread washed over her.

‘Remember, your duty is to us,' she heard her mother, the Marquise de Guinot, admonish in her repressive manner.

‘But, my dear child, this marriage will further our interests greatly. In fact it is due partly to Monsieur le Comte de Choissy that I have been able to take up this post as minister. You must be reasonable.' Her father was less cold but equally implacable on the subject.

Reasonable! Héloïse's opened her eyes. Was it fair that she was about to be sacrificed to her family's ambition? But, if it wasn't fair, it was unavoidable. The de Guinot family conducted themselves with assurance, ignored the wishes of everyone except themselves and had grown used to being close to the seat of power. Personal feelings did not enter into the intricate business of dynastic marriages and Héloïse was a fool if she imagined that they did. Both foolish and impractical.

There was a scratch on the door and Marie-Victoire entered. Héloïse let out a tiny, frightened sigh. She could not escape.

By ten o'clock she was dressed in a charming half-morning toilette of lavender silk over a white satin petticoat, which was laced at the back and drawn in tight at the waist with a fringed silk sash. At half-past ten precisely the hairdresser bustled in, clutching the instruments of his trade in one hand while he swept a bow with the other. Close behind him surged the perfumier and the glove-maker, and Héloïse was forced to endure their chatter while they busied themselves about her. If she had wanted... if ... Héloïse could have caught some interesting tit-bits. But she didn't , and their clacking voices and stifled giggles jarred on her nerves.

The sound of a coach arriving outside gave her pause. It stopped. Héloïse started. The hairdresser tsked disapprovingly. His hands darted around Héloïse's carefully coiffed hair as he tucked a final ostrich plume into her diamond aigrette, and coaxed a curl to lie just so. Then, with a flourish, he removed the sheet that covered Héloïse's shoulders and entreated mademoiselle to gaze at herself in the mirror.

Pale and wooden, her face stared back and Héloïse made an inarticulate noise. Worried by her mistress's pallor, Marie-Victoire hastened to shoo the coterie out of the room. When, at last, she had closed the door on them, she went over to Héloïse.

‘There, mademoiselle, they've gone. Let me get you some wine.'

Héloïse bent her head and tears ran unchecked down her cheeks and splodged on to her gown. Marie-Victoire hesitated. Then, she sank to her knees and took one of Héloïse's hands in her own. Her gesture was so unexpected that Héloïse did not respond for a moment. Sensing her surprise, Marie-Victoire withdrew her hands but remained kneeling.

‘Mademoiselle, can I do something?'

Héloïse shook her head. Her maid was scarcely the person to help her. But the sight of Marie-Victoire's anxious and sympathetic face triggered a fresh storm of tears.

Héloïse was aware of a pair of arms stealing round her waist as, heedless of custom, Marie-Victoire drew her close. The kindness of another giving comfort penetrated through her misery and calmed Héloïse. Gradually her sobs quietened. Marie-Victoire got to her feet and left the room. Presently she reappeared with a tray. She poured some wine into a glass and gave it to Héloïse, who accepted it gratefully.

‘Thank you,' she said. ‘This will not happen again.' She cradled the glass between her hands. ‘It is only...'

‘Would you like to tell me, mademoiselle? It might help.'

Héloïse set down her glass and searched on her dressing table for her handkerchief. I have told no one of this,' she said, conscious that Marie-Victoire was not the right person to unburden herself to, but enormously relieved at being able to do so, ‘but you remember the day my grandmother died at La Joyeuse?'

Marie-Victoire nodded. ‘Very well.'

‘I had gone into the garden. It is a favourite spot of mine...'

She remembered as if it were yesterday that day in June at La Joyeuse, picking her way through the walled kitchen garden. There were gillyflowers, she remembered, and herbs – all of them giving off different aromas. A butterfly had tipped her hand before flying off.

Inside the house her grandmother, the maréchale, lay dying and the de Guinots were clustered in the death-chamber, surrounded by candles and almost stifled by the smell of hot wax.

She had stood for some time gazing at the house and its surrounding lands. It was a satisfying vista of well-tended meadows and woods set off by a series of formal flowerbeds that swept up to the house in an orderly fashion – the maréchale had not permitted the Parisian rage for anything English to invade her domain. La Joyeuse was a neat place: the cattle in the field were sleek, the crops sturdy and the fields well managed. Only in the village, a straggle of buildings further down the valley, did a contrast intrude. Here the cottages were pock-marked by damp and decay. Their dark interiors opened on to pitifully small patches of garden where the children, who played in their dirt, were thin and sore-encrusted. They plagued by flies which swarmed everywhere: over the middens, into the houses and on to the prematurely old faces of their inhabitants.

Héloïse had not always been happy at La Joyeuse, but it was dear to her and she looked affectionately at its tall, classical outline that rose to the sky. Her bitterest regret was that one day she would leave it in order to marry. Still, she would inherit a very pretty house near Neuilly from her grandmother and she looked forward to making that a place of retreat.

Time to go. Héloïse rose to her feet. If she was not careful she would be missed and her mother would reprimand her. She lingered for a moment longer by a large stone urn placed at the end of an avenue of rare rose-bushes. The early blooms were a riot of scent and colour, delicious variations of pink, white and red, and she smiled with pleasure.

The stranger who wandered into the garden, crushing some petals between his fingers as he went, noted with approval the picture Héloïse presented. In her black dress, trimmed with a wide ribbon sash, and with her hair swept up to reveal a white neck set off by a necklace of pearls, she was a charming picture. Bending, she snapped off a dead flower and he saw that she had a features that showed great promise. Waiting beneath their youth and vulnerability was a woman who had as yet to grow into her beauty, but his experience (both long and thorough) of women told him that maturity would make that beauty exquisite.

Héloïse turned to retrace her steps and stopped abruptly. What was a stranger doing here? Worse, he looked as though he owned the place, almost as if he had the right to be there? He wore a well-cut coat, an extravagant lace cravat and... she noted... a look of amused arrogance. All the same, but for the lines of dissipation and a curious discontent, he would have been extraordinarily good-looking. In that first moment of appraisal, it seemed to her to be a cruel visage and he was a man who knew too much to be at ease with the world or with himself. Héloïse sensed also that here was someone used to having his own way. She shivered, but recalled her manners and stepped forward to enquire if she could be of any help.

The stranger bowed. ‘Beautiful gardens and beautiful women always go together,' he said, and bent to pick a particularly fine rose which he presented to Héloïse with a flourish. Slightly impatiently, she accepted it.

‘No,' he rebuked her. ‘You must not treat such a fine specimen in such a cavalier fashion,' and leaning over he retrieved the flower and tucked it into her sash.

Héloïse wondered if she was dreaming, for his hands lingered over her body in an intimate way that suggested – almost – that he owned her. He took his time and adjusted the bloom to the angle that set it off best.

She took a step backwards. ‘Monsieur, I would prefer it if you didn't do that,' she said coldly.

He appeared not to hear her. ‘That's better,' he remarked. ‘Although on reflection it is not the precise colour I would have chosen to compliment your complexion.'

Héloïse's tone sharpened. ‘I think, monsieur, whoever you are, that you had better take your leave. Your presence is not welcome.'

There was no mistaking the anger in her voice. The stranger laughed and Héloïse saw that her anger only added to his enjoyment.

‘Spirit
and
beauty,' he said, and before she knew what was happening he had drawn her to him.

‘How strange,' he said in a light and teasing way but his eyes were cold. ‘You remind me of my mother. She was a remarkably beautiful woman.'

Héloïse was left with the impression of white skin and a pungent musky smell before she wrenched herself away.

By now, she was so angry she found it hard to speak. ‘My father, Monsieur le Marquis, will hear of this.'

‘Your father, my dear, would approve. I speak with the highest authority.'

He bent his face to hers and kissed her so ruthlessly that it was impossible for her to prevent him. Her hands flailed at her sides while his mouth used hers with an expertise that betrayed extensive practice. Only then, did he release her.

‘Delightful,' he said, in the same soft voice. ‘Quite delightful. Fresh, young and innocent.' But his expression said something else – which she did not wish to know.

‘You should not have done that,' Héloïse managed to say and tried to wipe away the imprint of his mouth on hers. ‘I presume you are a visitor here,' she said. ‘But you have behaved like an animal and betrayed our trust.'

She tore at the rose in her sash. It was no crushed beyond recall and she threw it to the ground. To the sound of the stranger's soft laughter, she turned on her heel and walked away, praying that her trembling knees would hold her up. Once out of sight, she pressed her hands to her cheeks, gathered up her skirts and fled, heedless of any onlookers, towards the privacy of her room.

‘You will understand how I felt', she said to Marie-Victoire. (Whenever she closed her eyes, she could the man's laughter reverberating in her ears) ‘when I discovered him to be the man my parents had chosen for me to marry.'

Marie-Victoire adjusted one of Héloïse's stockings.

‘I do understand, mademoiselle. Very well,' she said, drawing it up Héloïse's thigh.

Héloïse sighed and went very still. ‘Dear Lord,' she said. ‘What... what can I...?'

The stocking was now correctly in place. Marie-Victoire rose to her feet and went over to the walnut armoire that held Héloïse's clothes and retied the embroidered ribbons that held them in tidy piles. Tucking some rose-petals into the folds, she closed the doors.

‘ Marie-Victoire what would you do if you were me?'

It was an odd question for Héloïse to ask, and threatened the balance between maid and mistress, but it slipped out before she could prevent it.

Marie-Victoire thought before replying. ‘They say...'

Héloïse gave a wry smile. Of course, the servants always knew everything first.

‘They say that Monsieur le Comte de Choissy is rich, that he keeps two mistresses and his first wife died of a broken heart.'

‘That does not surprise me.'

Marie-Victoire turned to face Héloïse. ‘But it has always been so, has it not, mademoiselle? You must marry and take your place in society. These are things you must do. You are not free to choose... It's a shame,' , she added almost to herself. ‘And difficult.'

Swivelling around on her stool to face the mirror on her dressing table, Héloïse peered into it. What she saw troubled and dismayed her. ‘Marie-Victoire, thank you. You have such good sense.' An idea formed and with it was lit a tiny light over her future. ‘Will you remain with me in Paris?' she asked. ‘I know it would mean leaving La Joyeuse for good, but we shall visit it often. I can arrange it with Madame la Marquise, and I would like it very much.'

Marie-Victoire hesitated only for a moment. La Joyeuse was too full of unpleasant memories for her to remain. Also, the prospect of introducing a breath of air into her life was one she would not pass up.

‘Of course, mademoiselle. It is as my mother would have wished. I shall do my best to serve you well.'

Half an hour later, they were summoned downstairs. Marie-Victoire whisked the hare's-foot over Héloïse's face while impossible notions of flight winged through Héloïse's mind. Could she plead illness, or faint? Anything! Sanity intervened and her pride resurrected itself. After all, she was a de Guinot and cowardice was not one of her failings. She held out her hand for her fan.

Outside the closed double doors of the salon there was a rise and fall of voices. The doors opened and the marquise stood framed in the doorway. She had taken trouble today and her jewels sparkled on a magnificent silk dress embroidered with a black and white feather pattern, worn over an underskirt of white satin sewn with spangles and gold thread. Her normally severe countenance wore a smile.

‘Come, daughter,' she said and held out her hand.

Héloïse did not move.

‘Chut,'
said the marquise, her smile vanishing and her face hardening. ‘You are not about to disgrace us, Héloïse, I hope. Remember your father and I have looked very carefully into the financial arrangements of this marriage and they suit us. You will be rich and your position will be as it should.' She furled her fan and tapped Héloïse hard on her shoulder. ‘Remember also,' she added in an undertone. ‘If you and Monsieur le Comte do not suit, then you can choose to live apart. Nobody will expect you to be in each other's company all of the time.'

Under the pretext of arranging Héloïse's sash, Marie-Victoire gave Héloïse the tiniest push. Gathering her courage, she began the long walk down the salon filled with onlookers, negotiating the slippery parquet de Versailles in her high-heeled shoes with care.