Louisa Rawlings (23 page)

“Well, of course, it helped.”

“
Did
you recognize her at the very first?”

“No, but…”

Topaze began to wail. “Where’s my mother? Why won’t you let me see her?” She looked into Hubert’s cold eyes. “Oh, alas! Is…is Fleur dead?”

Madame Revin sucked in a sharp breath. “
Fleur
,” she whispered. “The very name she always used.”

“Damn it,” growled Hubert. “I want this girl out!”

“You’re being unreasonable,” said Bonnefous. “The poor child.” He bent to help Topaze to her feet.

She sniffled, calmed herself. “Thank you, monsieur. Do I know you?”
Of course not
, she thought.

“No, mademoiselle. I’m Blaise Bonnefous, Monsieur de Chalotais’s solicitor.”

What happened to Monsieur Charpentier?”

“He died four years ago.”

She sighed. “Fleur’s dead, too, isn’t she? That’s why he won’t answer me.”

“No. Madame your mother is alive.”

“Oh, joy! Here?”

“Yes.”

“Can I see her?”

Bonnefous turned to the other man. “Chalotais, why not?”

“I tell you the girl’s not Véronique!”

“How can you be sure?”

“Damn it, Bonnefous. How can
you
be sure she’s not just an impostor?”

“I’m not the girl who left here, if that’s what you mean, Beau-Père.” Pity Lucien wasn’t here. He’d appreciate
that
bit of irony.

“Oh, Mademoiselle Véronique…” Madame Revin was clearly touched by her words. Hubert shot her a savage glance, and her drooping lower lip snapped shut.

Bonnefous rubbed his chin. “I suppose she
could
be an impostor,” he said, his eyes filling with doubt. “I’m sure the whole parish has long since learned the details of Véronique’s life. It’s easier to stop a troop of soldiers than to silence a gossip.” He held up a restraining hand. “But I’m not ready to dismiss the girl quite so quickly.”

Hubert scowled. “Well, I am. I should have her flogged and sent to prison, like a common thief. She steals my martyred daughter’s name.”

She gulped at the threat in his words. Lucien hadn’t warned her what a villain Hubert was. Or if he had, she’d simply assumed it was Lucien’s bad memories. “How you must hate me, Beau-Père.”

Bonnefous examined her more closely. “I don’t know. I’ve seen the portrait. And she resembles your wife. Name of heaven, Chalotais, what if she
were
the girl? Would you deny your Adelaïde the joy of a reunion? Especially now? By your leave.” He walked to the mantel and gave two tugs on the bell rope. They waited in silence. Hubert glared at Topaze; she cringed away from him, partly in pretense, partly because he really did make her uneasy. There was a light tap on the door.

Bonnefous held up an admonishing finger. “Hold your tongue, girl.” He nodded to Madame Revin, who opened the door on an old man in grand but fade livery.

Topaze knew him by his rheumy eyes, the flight deformation of one leg. Gilles. Simon de Chalotais’s
valet de chambre
. He shuffled into the room. “You rang, monsieur?”

“This girl. Do you know who she is?”

A bright smile lit the wizened face. “Why it’s Mademoiselle Véronique, come home at last.”

“How are you, Gilles? Still brushing out monsieur’s coats?”

“I can’t move as fast as I used to, mademoiselle. But old Gilles is loyal and true to the family.”

“You see, Chalotais?” said Bonnefous. “It’s more than possible.”

“Bah!”

“Please,” said Topaze. “May I see my mother now?”

Hubert’s eyes were sharp knives, boring into her. “Not yet. Madame Revin and Gilles may be convinced. And Monsieur Bonnefous is softhearted. But you haven’t won
me
over. You said it yourself, Blaise. Gossip in the villages. Family names, nicknames, servants. All the rest of it. She can be a skillful liar, that’s all. I still think a good caning will get at the truth. A dozen strokes or so should loosen her tongue.”

Bonnefous looked doubtful. “Well, perhaps…”

Hubert flexed his cane. “Bend her over that table.”

Her eyes widened in genuine terror. She wasn’t unused to a beating, of course. Like most parents, the Givets were free with a switch when the children misbehaved, and Topaze had earned her fair share, even as an “adopted” child. But Hubert had a cane. And a savage look in his eye. She decided on a bold tack. She hung her head, began to cry again. “Beat me, then. You can’t be more severe on me than life has been. Only let me see my mother afterwards.” She lifted woeful eyes to the two men. Hubert was unmoved. But her plea seemed to have touched Bonnefous.

“Damn it,” said Hubert, “let’s get on with this.”

Bonnefous shook his head. “No. I can’t be a party to this. If she’s an imposter, her own lies will betray her. There are easier ways to get at the truth. If we find she’s lied, whatever her reasons, it will be soon enough to beat her then.”

God bless you, Monsieur Bonnefous!
she thought.

“Very well,” grumbled Hubert. “But I don’t want her near madame my wife. Not yet. I want to speak to Père François first.”

“A wise idea. I’ll have someone ask around in the villages. They’ll know if strangers have been prying about.”

Hubert jerked his chin at Madame Revin. “Take the hussy to the room next to yours. With the servants. I want her kept far from Madame de Chalotais. And lock her in.”

Madame Revin could scarcely contain her tears. “Come along, Mademoiselle Véronique.”

Topaze noted the use of Véronique’s name. The older woman was clearly won over. There was no doubt, either, on Gilles’s face. And Bonnefous, though he continued to waver, seemed good-hearted and inclined to believe her. Well, then what would Véronique do at this moment? She stood her ground, stamped her foot with authority. “
I want to see my mother.
”

Hubert’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Not until
I
decide you may.”

“And who are you, Monsieur le Baron?” she said with contempt, and smiled triumphantly to see Hubert’s startled expression. “I want to see Uncle Simon.” She turned to Madame Revin. “Take me to Monsieur le Comte de Chalotais.”

Hubert’s voice was low and menacing. “
I’m
Monsieur le Comte now. And you’ll do as you’re told, without a whisper of rebellion.” He smacked the cane against his open palm. “Or you’ll have
me
to deal with.”

She gasped. “You’re the comte? Where’s Uncle Simon?”

“Dead. And his harlot as well.” He sneered. “Marie-Madeleine. She was well named.”

“And…Cousin Lucien?”

“You have no Cousin Lucien,” he said coldly.

She began to whimper again. “I don’t understand. I’m a stranger here. Ave Maria, I shouldn’t have come back.”

“Time will tell. Come, Bonnefous. I want to find Père François.”

Topaze followed Madame Revin to the servants’ wing. She took note of everything as they passed, trying to reconcile the imagined Grismoulins of her lessons with the reality of the château and its people. As they passed through the large reception hall, she caught a glimpse of a painting in the place of honor at the top of the staircase. A double portrait. Hubert. And the lady was most certainly Adelaïde. It must have been painted after Véronique vanished; Lucien hadn’t spoken of it. Playing to Madame Revin’s sympathy, Topaze persuaded the woman to allow her to pause, slip up the stairs, and gaze lovingly at her dear Fleur for a few minutes.

Adelaïde de Chalotais was a sweet-faced woman, aged thirty-seven now, though perhaps a few years younger when this portrait had been commissioned. She was delicate and fragile-looking, though her face had an appealing plumpness. Her skin was very white, her cheeks softly tinted, and her unpowdered hair the color of jonquils. Topaze smiled in satisfaction as she followed Madame Revin back down the stairs. It would make it easier to recognize the woman now. Lucien had warned her that Hubert might try to trick her with sham family members.

The room Topaze was led to was small and sparsely furnished. A bed, a chair that did service as a nightstand, a washtub set on a small table. It was chilly as well. She shivered. The Givets’ room in Bourdeaux had been colder than this, but it had been the sound of the key turning in the lock that had frozen her marrow.
You’re well into it now, my girl!
she thought. She put aside her bundle of clothes, and sat down on the bed to try and assess her position. The old valet and the housekeeper believed her. All to the good. They were senior members of the household staff; their certainty would soon bring the other servants around. She and Lucien had worried needlessly about that. Bonnefous was a lawyer, with all the ambiguities of his profession. If his logic told him she was Véronique, he would believe it so; if a new fact came to light, he could as easily prosecute her. Hubert was a devil, and a vicious one at that. She’d have to be very careful with him.

Still… She stared up at the ceiling. A spider was spinning a thread in a dim corner. Hubert seemed to be deliberately keeping her from Adalaïde. More mystifying still was the way he’d talked of Lucien. And his mother.

She heard noises outside her door, and then the sound of the key. She felt the thrill of excitement that had filled her on many a day in the streets of Bordeaux. One more purse to steal. One more scoundrel to outwit.
Do your worst, Hubert!
she thought.
You’ll not daunt me.

The door opened. A portly man came into the room. He was dressed in a priest’s long cassock, with a simple band collar and a short, untied gray wig. Topaze jumped from the bed and sank to her knees before him. “Reverend Father,” she murmured. She’d wondered how soon Père François intended to appear.

He put his hand on her bent head. “Have you sinned, my child?”

He wasn’t wasting a moment! “Oh, Père François,” she began, then stopped. Several dozen of the tiny buttons of his cassock were undone from the bottom. She could see shoes, stockings, the knee bands of his breeches. Strange. Lucien had said Père François was a hypocritical voluptuary, far more interested in the pleasures of this world than the rewards of the next. A self-indulgent man. Then why would he wear plain cotton stockings? Even the poorer actors in Maman’s troupe had allowed themselves the luxury of silk stockings with decorative clocks on the sides. She had a flash of inspiration. She began to weep. “Oh, Father. I’ve been so wicked.” She clutched at his hand and brought it to her lips, carefully examining it as she did so. Her instinct had been right. The hand was rough, with ragged, dirty nails. She looked up at him. A wisp of black hair straggled out from under his wig. She gasped audibly.
Are you listening from the door, Hubert, you devil?
she thought. “Oh, Father, forgive me. I thought for a moment you were Père François.” The man had the grace to blush. Poor creature, she thought. Probably some farmer or lesser servant they’d roped in for this masquerade.

“I’m here, my child.” The man who entered—though he bore a strong resemblance to the first man—was clearly the true Père François. Though he too wore a cassock and band collar, the similarities ended there. A fastidious attention to detail showed in the fine lace at his wrists, his clean and buffed nails, the handsome silver buckles on his shoes. And his stockings, no doubt, were of clocked silk. He nodded at the other man. “You may go.” The counterfeit priest started to bob like a servant, caught himself, crimsoned, and fled the room.

Père François seated himself in the chair and frowned. “For shame, girl. To bring such grief to the mistress of the house. Do you want to kill her? And in her condition… Shame. Shame!”

“Isn’t Fleur well?”

“Madame la Comtesse hasn’t been well for some time. Sick with despair, she grieves for her lost daughter.”

She started to rise. “Ah,
Dieu
. Then let me see her and bring her joy again.”

His jowls quivered. “Do you think for a moment that I believe this imposture of yours? Stay on your knees!”

“Imposture? By Sainte Catherine, how can I be anyone but who I am? Véronique.”

“Be careful, girl. You risk your immortal soul with lies. Why do you swear by Sainte Catherine?”

“Because she resolves doubts. As I hope to resolve yours.” She bowed her head. “Examine me as you will. You shall not find me wanting.”

Père François snapped his fingers. At once a footman appeared, carrying two chairs, and followed by Hubert and Bonnefous. They seated themselves before Topaze. She remembered a painting she’d seen in the
Hôtel de Ville
in Bordeaux—Jeanne d’Arc kneeling before her English inquisitors. She felt a little like the Maid of Orléans with her captors. Père François cleared his throat to emphasize the gravity of the moment. “Véronique was somewhat wanting in her religious studies. Yet you show some familiarity with a saint. Explain that.”

“I’ve been living with a pious family in Bordeaux for four years. I was expected to go to catechism with their children. And church.”

“And confession?”

She remembered what Lucien had told her. She smiled at the priest. “I know I tried to avoid confession when I was a child. I beg your forgiveness for it now. But, yes. I went to confession in Bordeaux.”

“Will you let me confess you now?”

She hesitated. “I’ve confessed my past sins. It was the priest in Bordeaux who urged me to return home.”