Prelude to Heaven (22 page)

Tess shivered and opened her eyes to find Alexandre watching her, and as their eyes met over the baby’s head, she watched a slight smile tilt his lips, banishing any thought of Nigel from her mind in an instant.

***

Tess set aside the currycomb and gave Betsy an affectionate pat. “There,” she said, “you look much better.”

Betsy did, indeed, look considerably better than the day Tess had found her in the vineyard. She had gained weight, and her wounds had healed. Her scars, however, would never go away. Tess knew that from experience.

She glanced over her shoulder to the open door at one end of the stable, expecting Jeanette or Leonie to catch her out at any minute and give her the customary lecture about doing too much. In the week since Paul and Leonie's arrival, the two servants had taken over all the household chores, supervised by Jeanette, and Tess had been relegated to “lying-in,” which meant doing absolutely nothing.

While she appreciated the assistance she was being given, she was also bored beyond belief. In coming out here to groom the donkey, Tess felt as if she were savoring a stolen treat.

As if Jeanette and Leonie fussing over her wasn't enough, Paul and Henri were just as bad. Paul was constantly fetching her footstools or cushions, and Henri insisted upon accompanying her for walks and generally behaving like an overprotective elder brother. The only person not fussing over her was Alexandre.

With servants in the house to look after her, it was as if he felt he'd passed the responsibility for her welfare onto others. He was gone most of the time, and though sometimes Henri accompanied him, often he went alone, and his withdrawal hurt Tess more than she would have thought possible.

She sighed, remembering their picnics and cooking lessons with longing. For a short time, he’d let her into his solitary world, but now, they were like the strangers they’d been when she first arrived, and it was as if the camaraderie they’d shared had been nothing but a product of her imagination.

Tess’s melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the loud, indignant honking of Mathilda and a string of passionate French curses. Tess hurried out of the stable and around the corner to the goose's pen, wondering what was going on to cause such a fracas.

She soon found out. Alexandre was standing in one corner of the pen, a strip of linen binding in his hand, Mathilda in front of him, emitting loud, belligerent honks. Every time Alexandre tried to move, the goose nipped at him or beat at his legs with her good wing.

Tess couldn't help it. She burst out laughing, causing Alexandre to cast an exasperated glance in her direction. “You think this is amusing?”

“Yes,” she admitted, smiling broadly. “I do.”

Mathilda took another nip at his leg, and he jerked back to evade the animal. “Tess, if you don't get this goose away from me, I'm going to wring its neck and cook it for dinner!”

She stepped into the pen, and as she came closer, Mathilda quieted. “What are you doing in here?” she asked as she paused beside him.

“I was trying to have a look at its wing to make certain the bindings were still secure when it suddenly attacked me.”

Tess shook her head, giving an exaggerated sigh. “I don't think she likes you. I can't understand it.”

“It hates me,” he answered. “I don't know why, and I don't care. Put it back inside.”

Tess shooed the goose toward her coop and closed the door once she was inside. She turned back to Alexandre, still smiling, but her smile faded at the smear of red on his hand. “Did she bite you?”

“Of course she did,” he muttered and began to use the linen strip in his other hand to dab away the blood. “It’s her favorite pastime.”

“Let me see it.”

She reached out, but her fingers had barely touched his before he pulled back. “It's nothing.”

He started to move past her, but she couldn’t let him. She wanted to break down this wall that had come between them. She reached for his hand again, grasping it in both of hers to keep him from pulling away. “Let me see it.”

This time he let her, rigidly still in her hold. “It appears to be just a scratch,” she said after a moment and began to bandage it with the strip of linen.

“I told you it was nothing.”

“Still, we should put some of that ointment of yours on it.” She tied the bandage in place, but she did not let go of his hand. Instead, she slowly slid her palm over his to entwine their fingers.

He jerked his hand away as if her touch burned him and moved again to depart, but she reached up to put her hands on his shoulders, as if by sheer strength she could somehow hold him there. “Don't do this,” she said. “Don't avoid me.”

He moved within her grasp, but he did not pull away. “You don't understand,” he said without looking at her.

“No, Alexandre, it’s you who doesn’t understand,” she contradicted softly. “You don’t understand that I need you.”

“There are servants to do the work. Jeanette is here to look after you.” He stared over her head as if fascinated by the wall of the barn. “My presence is not necessary.”

Her hands left his shoulders to cup his face. “It is to me,” she said. “I need you to be what you have been from the beginning. My friend, my companion, my protector.”

He shook his head. “No. You don't know about me. You don't know—”

“It doesn’t matter. I know that I need you.”

He shook off her touch and stepped around her before she could reach for him again. “Then God help you,” he muttered as he walked away. “God help us both.”

***

The tide was going out. The waves washed gently over the pools formed by the rugged coastline, depositing in their wake a treasure of mussels and other shellfish. Crabs crawled amid the kelp festooned over the rocks as the sun set beyond the hills of the
Massif des Maures
.

Alexandre sat on a rock high above the water, his arms resting on his bent knees, his gaze fixed unseeingly on a pair of bickering crabs in the tide pool below, her words of a short time ago echoing in his head.

He didn't believe her. It was as simple as that. He was willing to acknowledge that she had needed him for a short time, but that time was past. That thought did not make him happy. It didn't even bring a sense of relief. All it brought was the painful reminder that he could never be what she wanted him to be.

She didn’t know about him, and thought she’d said that didn't matter, he knew it did. It mattered more than she could possibly understand.

Perhaps it would be best if he sent her to Marseilles with Jeanette and Henri after her babe was born. They already had a housekeeper, but he was sure Jeanette would willingly provide her with some form of employment.

He didn't want to think about what it would be like when she left. He didn't want to think about what it would be like to return to the days when he fetched water in the mornings only for himself, when it was as quiet in the château as a tomb. He didn’t want to think about how lonely he would feel, or how empty his life would be.

He closed his eyes, wishing he could see himself the way she saw him. But he was afraid of believing in that, why not admit it? He was afraid to believe in love or believe in himself.

A startled cry broke into his thoughts, and Alexandre opened his eyes. Scanning the rocky coast below, he could see someone flailing in the water some distance from shore. Without further thought, he jumped to his feet and scrambled down the hill, pausing only long enough to pull off his knee-high boots before plunging into the water.

He could see the figure more clearly now. It was a child. He began swimming in that direction with the powerful strokes he'd learned from a lifetime spent on the coast.

He paused, treading water, and glanced around. He felt a moment of panic, thinking the child had gone under. But then he saw the boy's dark head bob above the water only a few yards away and he swam in that direction, reaching the child just as he disappeared once again beneath the surface.

Alexandre lunged forward, grabbing for the boy, pulling him up by the shirt. The child let out a terrified cry and flailed at him in a panic, but Alexandre held him fast. “It's all right. I have you. I'm taking you back to shore.”

He felt the pull of the undertow and swam parallel to the shore until he was out of it, the frightened boy clinging to him like a barnacle. He then started for shore. Only after he had pulled the child up onto the rocky peninsula did he realized this was Jean-Paul, one of the two boys who had invaded his courtyard six weeks before. “Are you all right?” he asked, breathing hard as he dropped onto the rocks.

Jean-Paul was staring at him, his dark eyes wide. “You're the man in the castle,” he panted between gasps of air.

Alexandre raked back his hair and rubbed the water from his face. “I am.”

“You don't seem like a monster.”

Another man might have laughed at such a comment, but Alexandre found nothing amusing about it. His lips tightened slightly. “You think not?”

“You saved me. Monsters don't save people, do they?”

“No, perhaps they don't.”

Both of them fell silent for several minutes, regaining their breath, and then Alexandre spoke again. “You shouldn't be out in the sea if you don't know how to swim.”

“I know.” Jean-Paul pointed to a chain of rocks that led out into the sea. “I was fishing over there. I slipped on the rocks and fell in, and then the water just carried me away.”

“The undertows are very strong here. If you are caught in one again, swim along the shore, not towards it, until you are out of the strong current.”

“I can’t do that because I don’t know how to swim.” His tone was wistful.

“Every child who lives near the sea should know how to swim. My father taught me when I was a boy even younger than you.”

“My father doesn't know how, so Pierre and I don't know how either.”

“Pierre is the boy who was with you when you came into my courtyard? He is your brother, is he not?” Receiving an affirmative nod, Alexandre went on, “You should both learn.” He added in an indifferent tone, “I could teach you.”

Jean-Paul hesitated. “My mother wouldn’t like it. People say you're a bad man.”

Alexandre tried not to let the boy's words bother him. He ought to be used to what so many of the villagers thought by now. But he wasn't. “What if we don't tell her?” he suggested, knowing the mother’s wishes did not outweigh the dangers of living near the coast without knowing how to swim. “We'll keep it a secret, just between us. Agreed?”

Jean-Paul studied him a moment longer, then he nodded. “Agreed.”

Alexandre rose and reached out a hand to pull Jean-Paul to his feet. “Come to my château on the next sunny day, and we will go.” He stared down at the thin boy before him. “You don't have to trespass anymore. You and your brother may come and go on my land as you please, if you promise you won't go down to the sea again until I’ve taught you how to swim. And you don't have to be afraid,” he added. “I'm not as bad as they say.”

Tess went into labor the following night. As if to announce the impending birth, the mistral began, sending dry, bitterly cold winds down from the north.

Alexandre and Henri had been in the village most of the day. By the time they returned, night had fallen, the cold winds of the mistral were rattling the windows, and Tess was having contractions every quarter-hour. Jeanette sent the two of them to the library, where all they could do was wait. This was the time when the women told the men what to do, when women ruled the house, and bewildered men were relegated to the library. They were expected to get beastly drunk, boast of their male prowess, and celebrate.

Celebrate.
Mon Dieu
.

Fear was like a stone in his gut, for he had been through this once before. Waiting hour after hour, frustrated by his own uselessness. He stared into the fire, drowning in memories, knowing there had been no celebrations three years ago. There had been guilt and pain. There had been screams, followed by cold, deathly silence. There had been accusations and blame, followed by a funeral.

The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter hour, and Alexandre glanced at it, startled. Had it only been fifteen minutes since it had chimed last? It seemed like a month. He glanced at Henri, who sat in the chair opposite him by the fireplace. Their eyes met, but neither man spoke, and after a moment, Alexandre returned his gaze to the fire in the grate.

He didn’t see the flames. Instead, images of Tess flashed before him, one after the other, as if he were flipping the pages in his sketchbook. Her face streaked with the mud of his garden. Her delighted expression the first time she'd succeeded in milking that goat. The soft way she smiled whenever she talked about the baby. Her hair shining like copper in the sun of the meadow. Her eyes telling him how much she needed him.

She'd brought laughter to his house and purpose to his life.
I need you...my friend, my companion, my protector
.

The wind slowed, and in the momentary silence, a cry of pain echoed down from overhead. Alexandre's insides clenched at the sound, and he jumped to his feet. She needed him, but he wasn't there for her. He was down here, watching the clock tick.