Authors: Lorena Dureau
He checked himself. It was becoming more and more
necessary to remind himself that the girl was his ward. How different
things might be if he could court her openly. But he was a fool! Why
look on her as anything more than the spoiled brat she was? Even if he
weren't her guardian, what difference would it make? She obviously
couldn't stand the sight of him. She preferred that pale, freckle-faced
Maurice!
The boy had been polite enough when he had spoken to him
yesterday afternoon. Maurice had accepted without protest the
announcement that in the future it would be necessary to ask for
permission first before seeing Monique, but Vidal had sensed a guarded
hostility beneath the young man's courteous exterior that foreboded
possible problems. He sighed. Whatever could a girl like Monique see in
a popinjay like that?
Of course, she was still so young and inexperienced. What
did she know about judging men? He was sure she had never known such
emotions as love and desire. He wondered how she'd react if the woman
in her were really roused. She was so intense, so impulsive in
everything she did. He sensed there were great wells of passion waiting
there within her to be explored. The thought both pleased and
frightened him. Most certainly it was all the more reason to keep a
short rein on her, for the girl really did need someone to look after
her… someone to protect her not only from those around her
but from herself, as well.
He tried to catch a glimpse of her once more, and this
time he realized that the seat at the end of the row where she had been
sitting was vacant. Now where had that skittish little ward of his gone
off to this time? Perhaps she, too, had found the room overly close and
felt the need for fresh air. She might not be feeling well…
But no, if she were really ill, her sister would have accompanied her,
yet there was Celeste still sitting quietly next to her dozing
grandmother, appearing rather nervous, but not as though her older
sister might be fainting away outside.
No, Monique had probably just wanted a little fresh
air… or perhaps there was another reason?
Vidal felt the sudden urge to investigate. Knowing his
impetuous ward as he did, he found himself wondering what new mischief
she might be up to at that very moment.
Feigning a few discreet coughs into the linen handkerchief
he had been using to keep his brow dry, he murmured his excuses to the
governor and slipped off down the side aisle of the improvised church
toward the rear exit. The sonorous tones of the priest's voice
resounded throughout the room as his thunderous tirade continued to
barrage the assembly.
As Vidal reached the arched doorway he nearly collided
with the drab figure of Padre Sebastian, who was standing there staring
out into the bright morning sunlight with fixed fascination. Whatever
the friar was looking at seemed to be holding his undivided attention.
Vidal followed the Capuchin's intense gaze to where
Monique stood in the shadow of an arch engaged in earnest conversation
with a slim, sandy-haired young man whom he immediately recognized as
Maurice Foucher. In her long flowing gown of pale yellow lawn, topped
by the burst of her bright gold hair, no longer hidden beneath the
black lace of her headscarf, the young girl seemed like a blazing torch
in the dazzling light of the noonday sun.
Vidal couldn't blame the padre for staring at so
delightful a picture, yet there was something in those deep-socketed
eyes that made him uneasy. Even as he made his way angrily toward his
capricious little ward, Vidal found himself fleetingly thinking how
strange it was that this somber monk so often seemed to be around
wherever his cousin Monique happened to be.
"I'm
so glad you understood my signal to come outside," Monique
was commending the freckle-faced young man standing tall and gangly
before her in his Sunday finery. He held his high-crowned felt hat
respectfully in his hand as he gaped adoringly at her.
"You know I'm always at your beck and call," he assured
her. "I've been desolate all this past week, now that you can no longer
come out of your house at will."
"I know. I feel like a prisoner these days."
"I'd like to visit you, but frankly, my dear, your
guardian doesn't strike me as the type of person who will welcome many
callers. I don't know what to do."
"He's promised to allow my friends to come to the house,
but I'm sure he'll only frighten most of them away," lamented Monique,
tragedy written across her dimpled face.
"Perhaps you could sneak out as you used to do?"
"No, that's impossible now. Celeste and I are going to
have a new governess beginning tomorrow."
"Is he abusive? I mean, he hasn't tried to strike you or
anything, has he?"
"Oh, no, he's never done anything like that. To the
contrary, sometimes I've had the impression that he goes out of his way
not to touch me."
"Well, after all, he is a man, and there are no real blood
ties between you."
Monique was thoughtful for a moment. The fact that Miguel
Vidal was a man had also occurred to her, and it was rather
disquieting. Actually, it often aroused strange, confusing feelings
within her. Celeste was always saying how handsome he was, and Monique
had to admit that, even if he was a Spaniard, he could hold his own
with any of her French beaux, perhaps even surpass them.
It was true about his never touching her, and his seeming
hesitancy to do so only made her wonder all the more how it might feel
if he ever did. She had never before thought about any man the way she
did about Miguel Vidal.
At that moment the object of her curious musings came
marching over to them and, with no preamble, proceeded directly to the
point.
"I thought I'd made myself clear yesterday afternoon,
Senor Foucher, yet here I find you sneaking behind my back again,
trying to see my ward."
Before the startled Maurice could reply, however, Monique
sprang to his defense. "Please, Cousin Miguel, it's my fault. He came
out because he saw me leave the church and was afraid I was ill."
Her guardian cast a skeptical look at both of them.
"Indeed? Don't tell me!" he quipped. "Well, I'm not interested in
arguing the point. The important thing is I want these impromptu
meetings of yours to stop. You're not to see my cousin again for any
reason, senor, without my permission. Is that understood?"
Maurice had regained his composure now, and, pulling
himself up to his full height, he met Vidal's dark, penetrating gaze
with his own unflinching blue one.
"Yes, Don Miguel, I understand perfectly," he replied
calmly, "And since you say I cannot see your cousin without your
permission, I am requesting that permission here and now. Tell me a
time when I may call on Mlle. Monique that will meet with your
approval, and I'll be there."
"Frankly, senor, it's not that simple," retorted Vidal,
although he liked the boy better now for this new stand he was taking.
"You see, I'd prefer that my cousin have no young men calling on her at
the moment. Believe me, there's nothing personal when I say I'd like
you to wait at least a few months before asking for permission to visit
her. It's simply that I'd like to be certain first that my ward is
mature enough to be receiving calls from members of the opposite sex.
Actually, much will depend on her deportment in the future."
Monique was fuming. "I told you, Maurice. I may as well be
in a convent!" she murmured between clenched teeth.
"Not at all," Vidal assured her. "The only thing I'm
asking is that you wait a little until you're more accustomed to your
new mode of life and have demonstrated that you're a well-disciplined
young lady instead of just an irresponsible child."
The final blessing of the church service was just
beginning, and Padre Sebastian, abandoning his post in the doorway
where he had been watching their discussion, made his way toward them.
His eyes were fixed on Monique as he spoke. "I see you flee from the
sermon, my child," he said, a recriminating tone in his dry, cracked
voice. "It's a pity, for one should never turn a deaf ear to the word
of the Lord."
Monique's rosy cheeks flushed to a deeper shade as she
lowered her gold-tipped lashes and acknowledged her guilt.
"Forgive me, Padre," she replied meekly. "I meant no
disrespect. It's just that I… I felt faint from the
closeness of the room and came out for a breath of air."
The monk gave a smile that bordered on a sneer. "Don't add
lying to your list of sins, Monique Chausson, for the Lord is looking
down on us and can see all."
Vidal suddenly felt sorry for his poor ward as she stood
there so obviously uncomfortable beneath the monk's accusing gaze.
"Don't worry, Padre. I'll get to the bottom of this," he
quickly assured the friar. "After all, Monique is still quite young and
unfortunately has been without much discipline until now. But things
will soon be different. I've finally found another governess for the
girls—a fine Christian woman, fluent in both French and
Spanish, who will start with us tomorrow. My ward is not really a bad
girl, Padre. She may be a little too frisky sometimes, but she's really
good at heart, I assure you."
"Don't be too certain of that," snapped Fray Sebastian,
still not taking his dark, accusing eyes from the girl's highly colored
face. "A pretty girl is always easy prey for the devil. She makes a
handy instrument for Satan."
He turned suddenly to Maurice, who was standing back
abashed now, not knowing quite what to say. "And you, young man," the
monk added stonily. "If you value your immortal soul, stop letting
pretty young girls distract you from the word of the Lord."
The congregation was beginning to pour out of the building
now, so Vidal welcomed the excuse to be free of the monk's disturbing
presence. Celeste came anxiously toward them, carefully leading her
grandmother by the arm, while the latter blinked dazedly in the bright
sunlight.
Just as Miguel was trying to think of some way to break
away from the overzealous friar, the latter suddenly murmured a quick
blessing and walked abruptly off, losing himself in the tide of
dispersing townsfolk.
Miguel paused only long enough to catch the eye of Celeste
and her grandmother. Monique felt his hand tighten on her arm, and the
strength she sensed behind it awed her. So he was touching her at last,
but in anger. For some inexplicable reason, her legs seemed to be
buckling beneath her. She stumbled in momentary confusion as he pulled
her in the direction of Rue Roy ale.
Vidal looked down questioningly at her. Perhaps the girl
really didn't feel well, after all. "Are you all right?" he asked, his
voice suddenly less stern.
She nodded her head feebly, unable to find enough voice to
reply at that moment. The spot where his hand circled her arm seemed to
be on fire.
"Then come along," he urged. "When we get home, we'll talk
further." He didn't want to say anything more for fear of upsetting
Grandmother Chausson, who fortunately seemed unaware of anything having
been amiss.
As they walked back to the town house Miguel kept a firm
grip on Monique's arm, as though half afraid she might try to slip away
from him even then. By the time they had reached the town house,
however, the annoyance he had felt earlier had subsided somewhat. After
all, it was true what he had said to Padre Sebastian in the girl's
defense. She was really still so young and naive. She simply didn't
realize the consequences of some of her impulsive actions.
How smooth and sensuous that little arm felt! Here was a
skin that invited caresses. In spite of himself, he couldn't help
thinking that the rest of her body must be like that, too. If she had
been any other woman but his ward, he would have permitted the desire
he felt for her to continue to mount unchecked, anticipating with
delight the moment when he could at last share it with her in a
paroxysm of delight in each other's arms; but quickly he quenched his
thoughts with the cold water of reality. Why let a passion that could
never be slaked go on building up within him?
Deliberately he reminded himself how soft and small that
same arm was… how fragile and vulnerable. Even as he
released it he noted how a red ring still marked the spot where he had
held her so tightly. Above all, he didn't want to see her
hurt— not by anyone, not even himself. He must try to be more
patient with her, less emotional. He couldn't bear it when those
disturbing gray eyes of hers looked at him with such contempt. Sadly he
recognized that with each passing day his little ward's opinion of him
mattered far more than he cared to admit even to himself.
Much
to the chagrin of her unhappy charges, Mlle. Arthemise
Baudier was a martial-looking matron who took her post very seriously.
A tall, angular woman with bulging eyes, beak nose, and firmly set jaw,
the middle-aged spinster had long since resigned herself to being a
governess for life, so she practiced her profession with the utmost
zeal.
After a long talk behind closed doors with the head of the
Chausson household, Mlle. Baudier had sallied forth with an
uncompromising resolve to obey to the letter Vidal's instructions
concerning the education of his wards. Actually, she was so
over-zealous that even Vidal had to tone her down a bit on several
occasions.
There was the time he had asked Mlle. Baudier to send for
the dressmaker to make the girls some new gowns and had suggested
discreetly that she see to it that the necklines not be cut too low.
The conscientious governess had immediately ordered chin-high yokes of
white lawn added to all the girls' dresses. The shrieks of protest had
so filled the house that Vidal had rushed up the stairs two at a time
to see what was happening.