Lion of Languedoc (10 page)

His feelings were mixed when Jeannette had told him that she had asked Marietta to stay and help her prepare for the wedding. He was honourable enough to feel a measure of relief that she wouldn't be leaving Chatonnay without means of support. His mother's idea that she employed herself making collars and cuffs in
point de Venise
was a sensible one. The smallest amount of such lace would fetch a high price. Yet she brought out in him feelings that were not fitting in a man approaching marriage. He remembered the tantalising smallness of her waist and the way her hair had glinted a thousand shades of red in the candlelight, hanging down to her waist in gleaming waves and curls without even a ribbon to restrain them. No wonder the Huguenots said a woman's hair was the work of the Devil. Marietta could tempt even a saint from the path of virtue, and Léon de Villeneuve had never aspired to sainthood.

‘I need her,' Jeannette had said simply and Léon, looking down at her, knew that it was true and that he was glad of it. He groaned inwardly. The sooner he was married the better. Celibacy was no way of life for a man who had spent six years at the court of Louis XIV.

Despite her lack of sleep Marietta rose early. The clink of the keys at her waist gave her confidence. She had two weeks to effect a transformation at Chatonnay; there was no time to lose lying abed. Mathilde and the serving maids were outraged at having their presence demanded in the kitchen at such an early hour, and it was Marietta who cooked Léon's breakfast, though she handed it to Mathilde to carry through to the dining table.

Léon sat down to it with relish. Mathilde's breakfasts were usually notoriously slipshod.

‘You've surpassed yourself this morning, Mathilde,' he said, giving her a smile that made even old Mathilde wish she were a young girl again.

‘Wasn't me,' she admitted reluctantly. ‘Seems we've got a new
châtelaine
here, though Heaven alone knows why. Forty years I've been here and never a word of complaint, and now a slip of a girl is given Madame's keys and is ordering us about left, right and centre. She'd cooked a whole batch of bread before I got down this morning, as if the bread Lili and Cécile made yesterday was not good enough.'

She left the room muttering angrily beneath her breath. Léon was unable to sympathise. He had never tasted such good bread; Marietta obviously had talents other than lacemaking. He had no time to waste in telling her so, however. Elise was waiting and so was the
Abbé.
There was a wedding to arrange and he still had to coax Elise into agreeing to it at the earliest opportunity.

By the time he strode across to the stables and a waiting and saddled Saracen, Marietta had already sent an eager Lili down into the village to request the help of her sisters, and had cleared the whole contents of the kitchen into the yard, sweeping every inch of the stone flags with a broom. The dust rose in choking clouds, sending Mathilde scurrying for cover.

‘Whenever I see you,' Léon said, a wide grin on his face as he paused at the doorway, ‘you always have a dirty face!'

‘And you always have bad manners!' Marietta returned, wielding the broom with gusto so that a cloud of dust threatened to spoil the perfection of his dove-grey tunic and white leather boots. He retreated hastily and Marietta continued her sweeping with angry force. His precious Elise would look like a goose-girl too if she had such a kitchen to contend with! She looked so fierce as she ordered Cécile to begin sluicing the flags with scalding hot water that Cécile did not dare demur. By midday scoured pans gleamed, the giant wood table was near white and the flags were not only washed but whitestoned. A large jug of flowers stood on the window-sill.

Lili's two sisters were only too happy to work and Marietta sent them to the upstairs room, beating carpets, airing beds, scrubbing floors. Linen-cupboards were turned out and Mathilde was set the task of darning and patching. The chicken that Marietta put in the pot, aided by a bunch of herbs growing wild in the garden, tasted more appetising than anything ever before served on the de Villeneuves' dining table.

By the end of the week even Mathilde had been won over, and with the help of Lili and her sisters the château was spotlessly clean, the rooms for Elise and her maids prepared, and the fragrance of fresh flowers mingled with that of new-baked bread and the enticing odours of a perpetual stockpot. She had gone to Armand next for help, explaining that she needed the kitchen garden cleared and the fruit gathered in. An hour later an army of ragamuffins between five and ten years old descended on the wilderness of the garden, and under Marietta's direction began to clear it. Cécile, once shown how, proved an excellent jam-maker and under the blazing southern sun Marietta laboured happily in the garden, rescuing what she could of the herbs, bringing about some semblance of order.

‘But what about your lacemaking?' Jeannette had protested as Marietta sat sewing new curtains for Elise's bedchamber.

‘Tomorrow,' Marietta said, and then without looking up from her work, ‘Cécile is going to watch me. She should be an apt pupil. She's quick and intelligent and clever with her fingers.'

Jeannette looked over at the Titian-haired head bending low over her needlework, knowing what an enormous gesture it was for her to show anyone but another Venetian the secrets of her craft.

‘Change your mind and stay, Marietta. I shall miss you dreadfully when you leave.'

‘No. Elise will be here to keep you company.' She pricked her finger on the needle and blamed that for the sudden rush of tears to her eyes. What was she doing sewing bed-curtains for Elise's bridal chamber?

She blinked the tears away. She was sewing curtains to help Jeannette. She must not dwell on the use to which they would be put, but hard as she tried she could not help it. With her own hands she was labouring to make the new bride's bedchamber as pleasant and comfortable as possible. The room faced south, full of brilliant sun and the sound of birds. It was there that Léon and Elise would lie together, there that their children would be born.

There came the sound of a door slamming and Léon's footsteps across the hall. Hastily Marietta picked up her work.

‘I'm tired. Goodnight Jeannette,' and she hurried from Jeannette's small drawing-room only seconds before Léon entered.

Jeannette knew the reason for her speedy exit and her heart ached for her, but there was nothing she could do. Léon wanted to marry Elise. Had always wanted to marry Elise. She sighed and turned to meet him.

Léon sat down on the red brocade chair that Marietta had just vacated, and was instantly aware of the disturbing fragrance of faint lavender. He stretched his long, booted legs out to the fire and frowned, his forehead deeply furrowed. Jeannette eyed him curiously. It seemed to her that for a prospective bridegroom Léon was showing disturbing signs of boredom.

He poured himself a goblet of wine, took a sip and raised his eyebrows.

‘It's cinnamon-scented,' Jeannette said in answer to his unspoken question. ‘Marietta made it.' Léon made no comment, but she noticed that he helped himself very quickly to more.

‘Le Duc de Malbré and Raphael arrive tomorrow from Paris.'

Léon nodded, pleased. The Duke was an old friend of Jeannette's and Raphael a companion he had played and wrestled with as a child and drunk and womanised with as a man. They were the first of the wedding guests to take up residence at Chatonnay, and Chatonnay—to Léon's relief—was now fit to receive them. Despite his pleasure his brow remained furrowed as he said:

‘Armand's daughter has gone down with fever.'

Jeannette's face whitened. ‘Is it smallpox?'

‘Armand says not, but she's eating and drinking nothing. He will need to stay with her for the next few days.'

Jeannette did not feel reassured. Two village girls had died of fever in the last three months, but there was no point in worrying Léon with such knowledge.

The wine mellowed him, and he gazed around his home well pleased. It would be good to have Raphael's company, and tomorrow night Elise was dining with them. Candlelight shone on polished wood, and a magnificent vase of flowers crowned the table. Thanks to Marietta, Chatonnay was fit to receive anyone who chose to come. Her cinnamon wine was good too, and the Duke had an appreciative palate. He poured himself another goblet full, whistled his dogs, and made his way to bed.

Marietta, on hearing of Armand's daughter's illness, had immediately visited her. The girl was raging with fever and thin to a point of emaciation. She ordered Armand to feed her goat's milk and honey, and was horrified when Armand protested that they had no such luxuries.

‘Anyone can keep bees!' she told Jeannette indignantly. ‘And as for goats…'

‘But we
have
a goat,' Jeannette protested weakly.

‘What good is one? What about the villagers? They are too poor to buy their own. What do they do for milk?'

‘I'm sure that now Léon is back he'll…'

‘Pah,' Marietta said, her hands on her hips, her eyes flashing. ‘Léon is too busy paying court to Madame Sainte-Beuve to worry his head about goats! I'll drive the cart to Montpellier and bring back a dozen of them. There are children in Chatonnay dying for lack of milk, and the least the de Villeneuves can do as Seigneur is to provide that for them!'

Weakly Jeannette agreed, handed Marietta a purse full of
livres
and wondered exactly where Marietta intended penning the animals once she had bought them.

On seeing her march purposefully across the cobbled yard to the stables the stable boy brightened up considerably and moved towards the mare, intending to saddle it. ‘The cart,' Marietta said briefly, ‘and both the mules.'

The stable boy stared.

‘Oh for goodness' sake be quick about it,' Marietta said exasperatedly, ‘ or it will be noon before I leave!'

The stable boy debated whether it was worth risking a thick ear by letting his hand linger on her waist on the pretext of helping her into the cart, and was cheated of the chance as she sprang on to the rough wood seat unaided and grasped the reins. He stared fascinated at well-shaped bare feet. No lady would travel thus, and yet the de Villeneuves treated her as an equal and she certainly had high ideas of herself. There was as much chance of tumbling her in the straw like Cécile or Lili as tumbling Madame de Villeneuve herself.

Intrigued, he watched as the shabby cart trundled out through the courtyard and across the drawbridge. Barefoot or not, Marietta held herself like a queen. He wondered if the Comte had enjoyed the pleasures so firmly denied himself and grinned lasciviously. There could be no other reason for her being at Chatonnay. Hell and the Devil, but he wished he'd been born a man with money! The sight of Marietta's high rounded breasts had put all thought of work out of his head.

He threw the saddle he was cleaning to one side and crept round to the kitchen door. With a bit of luck Cécile would be able to slip away from Mathilde's suspicious eyes and sneak into the back of the stables with him. She was short and dumpy, but it was dark in the stables and a man had to use his imagination. When the Comte had had his fill of the Riccardi wench she wouldn't be quite so high and mighty, and could very well be glad of his attentions.

Living in hope, he whistled softly through the open back door and was rewarded by seeing Cécile's plain face light up as she gave a quick look round to ensure no one was watching, and then hurried towards him.

Montpellier was hot and crowded, and it took Marietta the best part of the morning to haggle for the goats she wanted. The stupid animals had no desire to jump into the cart voluntarily, and only with much help and ribaldry from the local stallholders did she manage to herd the protesting goats into the wooden cart. Even then her troubles were not over. The animals smelt abominably and nosed their way over her shoulder and beneath her arm as she urged the mules through the narrow streets and out on to the dusty road to Chatonnay.

If she'd had any sense she would have stayed with Ninette Brissac and asked Armand to bring the wretched animals himself, she thought savagely as an ungrateful animal gave her a nip on the arm.

It was past midday, and the light was clear with a luminosity that Marietta had never seen anywhere else but in Languedoc. The sun-scorched track wound through olive groves and fig trees, and Marietta raised her face to the sun and tried to ignore the reek and clamour of the goats. From behind her came the thundering of hooves and the crack of a whip and she turned her head to see an outrider and a team of beautifully matched greys with scarlet plumes drawing an impressive carriage. Hastily she urged the mules out of the way to let the splendid equipage pass.

It didn't. Instead it halted and the outrider, magnificent in black velvet with falls of lace at throat and cuff and knee-high boots of gleaming black leather reined in and said furiously, ‘What the devil do you think you are doing?'

Marietta gritted her teeth, pushed an inquisitive goat away from her neck and said: ‘Providing Chatonnay with goats for milk, which is something
you
should have done long ago!'

Léon's face was white with anger. ‘ Hell's light, aren't there men enough to ferry goats without you making a public spectacle of yourself?'

From the windows of the coach two occupants watched, one in amusement, the other in admiration. The Duke de Malbré's lips twitched at the sight of his elegant young friend being spoken to in such a way by a peasant girl. His son, Raphael, was staring with blatant admiration.

There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, the hem of her gown was thick with dust, yet she was the most ravishing creature he had ever seen. Green eyes slanted tantalisingly upwards, bright with anger. Olive skin gleamed flawlessly, and for the first time in his life Raphael de Malbré decided that the women of Versailles were fools. Why strive with creams and lotions for a face as white as death when there was beauty such as this in nature?