Valentina (6 page)

It was daylight, and she had been locked in her room for over twelve hours. She had dragged herself off the bed and wrenched repeatedly at the bell-cord, but no one came. There was no sound outside her door, no passing steps, no voices, nothing. She was faint with hunger and miserably thirsty; as it grew dark the room was cold, and there were no flints for the candles. Valentina had no tears left to cry; her whole body was trembling with hurt and shock. It was the worst experience of her five years of marriage, that savage, brutal assault by a man she now hated with all her soul. It had been done to break her spirit, and it had failed completely. His further cruelty of leaving her without food or water or attention would fail also. She crawled under the bedclothes and slept.

It was mid-morning when the door opened, and when she saw him standing there she dragged herself up on the pillows, the covers wrapped round her to the chin. He came into the room, close to the bed, and stood looking down at her. Her hair was loose and wild round her shoulders; in spite of her extreme pallor and the black shadows under her eyes, he thought dispassionately that distress and disarray became her best of all. ‘I've come to see you,' he said, ‘because I am very occupied today and I've no time to waste. Will you do as you're told, or shall I send to Potocki word to have that sister of yours arrested and brought here to stand trial? Come, I want an answer!'

Valentina pushed the hair back from her forehead; the movement showed a livid bruise on her upper arm.

She answered him calmly; he was surprised and angered at the lack of fear in her eyes and the contempt in her voice. He had imagined her cowed and weeping.

‘After what you did to me yesterday I know you're capable of anything. Even the murder of my sister. I'll go to bed with anyone you choose, so long as you promise never to touch me again as long as I live. Now leave me, please.' She turned away from him.

‘I'm glad you see sense,' the Count said. ‘I'll send your maid in to you. You must be at your best tonight.'

When Jana came in to her, she was already up, brushing her hair. ‘Madame,' the maid said, and her eyes were full of tears. ‘Madame, forgive me for leaving you … the Count gave orders and I didn't dare …'

‘Don't cry,' Valentina said gently. ‘I know you'd have helped me if you could. I know what he would have done to you. I'm all right, Jana, don't worry about me now. Help me to bathe and dress.'

The maid came up and quickly knelt beside her. She caught Valentina's hand in hers and kissed it; her cheeks were wet with tears.

‘He hurt you,' she whispered. ‘I can see he did. Ah, the devil, how I hate him. God forgive me, how I hate him.'

‘You mustn't,' Valentina said quickly. ‘You mustn't say that, Jana. It doesn't matter. He'll never be able to hurt me again.'

‘I remember my Eugene,' Jana said fiercely. ‘He got drunk and took a stick to me night after night. Sometimes I starved … my child died. I prayed for his death. I prayed and God heard me! He'll hear you too, my poor dear lady; you're so sweet and good, and you won't be left to suffer long. Give me that brush, Madame, and let me do it for you. Come now …'

She looked after her as gently as if her mistress were a hurt child, and all the time she muttered under her breath, and sniffed back tears. At last Valentina stopped her.

‘If you feel sorry for me, Jana, I shall begin to feel sorry for myself, and that won't do. That way is weakness. I must be strong from now on, and you must be silent and discreet. I may need a lot of help in the next few days. Will you help me, Jana? I have no one else in the world I can trust.'

The homely round face grew pink with emotion.

‘You can trust me to the death, Madame. What do you want me to do?'

‘Nothing yet,' Valentina said. ‘There is a big dinner party tonight. We can do nothing till tomorrow. I've made up my mind, Jana.' The lovely white face in the looking glass stared back at her, drawn with resolve and a new courage, born of that last, unbearable outrage.

‘After tomorrow we're going to leave this house for ever.'

Chapter 2

There were thirty guests seated at the table; eighteen of them French officers of the highest rank, including two Marshals, Davoust and Berthier, and the King of Naples himself. The guest of honour sat on the right hand of his hostess, and from the start of the dinner party he had begun to enjoy himself. He had dressed for the occasion in a uniform of purple velvet coat, frogged in gold, white breeches and silk stockings with diamond buckles flashing on his shoes. He wore rings on his fingers and his scented hair was puffed and curled down to his brown cheeks. He had never looked more outrageous or more handsome and he was in the best of spirits. He leant so close to the Countess Grunowska that he presented his back to the lady seated on his other side; she was the extremely pretty wife of a Polish provincial governor, but Murat had failed to notice her existence.

His infatuation was not surprising; every man in the room was watching the Countess Grunowska at the head of the table; only her husband's glance was cold and full of malice. She had dressed deliberately in virgin white. White chiffon covered her shoulders, and he knew the reason for this concealing arrangement. The chiffon parted at the base of her throat, revealing a deep décolletage. The white silk dress was cut so low it exposed her breasts three-quarters naked, and she wore a single diamond on a chain that flashed and glittered like a star between them. She wore no petticoats under the dress, and from the way the material clung to her, he suspected that she had followed the whorish French fashion of a few years ago and damped the cloth. Her hair was dressed very high and there was rouge on her cheeks; her eyes were too bright and her laugh too loud. She wore heavy diamond pendant ear-rings in her ears and bracelets encircled one arm from the wrist almost to the elbow.

She had come down to the Salon late, a few minutes before the guests arrived, and when he told her what she looked like, she shrugged.

‘You told me to play the whore; very well, I've got to look the part!'

The Count had been watching her the whole evening. Had anyone told him she was capable of this vulgar flirtation he would never have believed them. He was torn between fury because she was making a fool of him in front of the insufferable French, and gratification that she had bewitched Murat completely. The Marshal gazed at her, and shook his head. The scent of his pomade was so strong that Valentina almost sneezed in his face.

‘It's incredible, Madame,' he said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Unbelievable. I can't get over it!'

‘What is so incredible, so unbelievable, Sire?' She asked the question lightly, dropping her voice as he had done.

‘The transformation in you,' he said. ‘Last night you were a rose; beautiful and stately, damned prickly too, from what me old friend De Chavel told me—sent him off with a bug in his ear, didn't you? Tonight—by God, Madame, you're magnificent!' His eyes went downwards and stayed there. She felt like dashing her glass of wine into his face. But she smiled, and touched his sleeve with a finger, drawing it along to the edge until she lightly brushed his wrist.

‘I lost you the other night,' she said. ‘I was heartbroken. When I received your lovely roses I was overjoyed. Is it true that women find you irresistible?'

He raised his brows, the impudent grin grew wider on his lips; they were thick and over red and his strong white teeth reminded her of some kind of animal.

‘I find
women
irresistible, I can tell you that,' he said. ‘And none more so than you. Why are you so adorable? Are you going to torment a poor soldier who may go off to war and never come back? Are you as cruel as you're beautiful?'

She looked into the dark, hungry eyes, burning with drink and sensual expectation, and hoped to God she was playing her part properly. She felt so repelled by him, by the mixture of strong scent and masculine odour, the coarse strong hands and the flushed face, that she felt sick at the thought of being touched by him. But her plan depended on the loathsome charade; she had no alternative and she needed to lull her husband's suspicions. ‘I could never be cruel to you, Sire, or to any soldier fighting for His Majesty Napoleon. If there is any little favour I can show you …'

‘There is.' He lifted his full glass and drank a silent toast to her. ‘You've invited me to this excellent dinner. Let me give you supper.'

‘Tomorrow?' Valentina murmured.

‘No.' The glass came down empty. ‘Tonight. It's all arranged.'

‘I can't.' She made a great effort to keep the dismay out of her voice, but she had changed colour.

‘Tonight is impossible. Tomorrow I will come. Any time tomorrow evening.'

‘Why is tonight impossible, Madame?' he asked gently. ‘Why do you refuse me, and fob me off with tomorrow when you know I am dying for love of you? There's no difficulty.'

‘There is,' she said desperately. ‘I have my guests to consider—I can't leave them.'

‘I can assure you they will leave when I do,' he said. ‘Your husband won't object—he's an understanding fellow—and, besides, I know he's meeting your excellent Count Potocki at midnight. He told me so. There's nothing in the world to stop you having a little supper with a lonely soldier. I insist.'

‘I'll think about it,' Valentina said. ‘I can't answer you now. Don't press me, please.'

Murat had drunk an enormous quantity of wine and brandy but he had a head like teak. He was never drunk and he never missed a point or overlooked a change of nuance. He saw the coquettish mask slip but he gave no sign. He was getting a little tired of the game they had been playing; he decided to put it to one final test before making up his mind about the way to play the final move. He glanced down the table at the husband sitting at the other end, watching his wife being seduced under his nose, and mentally called him an obscene Gascon name. He felt irritated with them all, the damned Poles and their damned women, laying themselves out for the French like virgin martyrs to the Roman swords. They were lucky to have French protection and to fight alongside the best soldiers in the world under the greatest of all soldiers. Lucky to have a Frenchman for a lover, any of them. Who precisely did they think they were going to make a fool of with this stupid intrigue? Murat? Murat, who had risen from the ranks of the Revolutionary Army to being a King and Napoleon's brother-in-law? He felt tempted to rise and tell them what he thought of their impertinence, but his sense of mischief had prompted him to plan an intrigue of his own. She was very lovely, this Countess, and he longed to have her in his bed and teach her not to play tricks with Joachim Murat. He bore her no ill will for trying to catch him. If she passed his final test he would even agree to be caught. For one night on his own terms.

‘Very well, adorable lady. Give me your answer later.'

Soon afterwards Valentina gave the signal to rise and the company went through into the withdrawing room. It was a beautifully proportioned room, with formal French furniture and a pianoforte and a harp. It was the custom to have a musician play for the guests after dinner, and the Count had engaged a young pianist to entertain them. He came up to Valentina as she seated herself; Murat had the place of honour beside her but he had lagged behind. Personally he hated music and was prepared to close his eyes and doze till it was over.

‘Well?' the Count said. ‘You've made progress, haven't you?'

‘He's invited me to supper.' She could hardly bear to look at him.

‘Excellent. Tonight, I've no doubt. I've had one or two hints to stay out of the way. You've accepted?'

‘Not yet,' she said. ‘Go away, he's coming now.'

‘You're to go.' The Count said it very quietly. ‘He won't ask you again, and he'll never forgive a refusal. You go tonight or your sister dies. Ah, Sire, let me make way for you. I hope our little entertainment will amuse you.'

‘How could it fail,' Murat answered. He made a gallant bow to Valentina. ‘The loveliest hostess in the city, the most obliging host'—he saw the Count wince and proceeded blandly on—‘magnificent food and beautiful music. I'm overwhelmed, my dear Count. You're too generous to me. But I must crave a favour. May I retire after an hour? I've a dawn appointment tomorrow with His Majesty and he doesn't appreciate yawns. It will kill me to leave you, but in one hour I must.' He gave a slow smile full of meaning.

‘Have you considered my invitation,' Murat whispered, as the recital began. ‘It is yes, isn't it? You won't reject me?'

‘No, I won't,' Valentina said. ‘I'll come to supper with you, Sire. I couldn't refuse the bravest soldier in all France.'

He slipped his hand over and squeezed hers. ‘Not in all France, Madame,' he corrected. ‘In the world.'

Five minutes later he was dozing peacefully, while the flood of pianoforte music swept on. At the end of an hour the Count made a sign to end the recital; the Marshal awoke without appearing to have been asleep, and whispered to Valentina that he wished to see the garden before leaving. She excused herself from the company and they made their way to the french windows at the end of the withdrawing room. These opened out on to the garden, and they were beautiful indeed under a full early summer moon. She stood in the doorway with Murat beside her. She felt his hand on her arm. ‘Step outside, Madame, so we can see better.'

She sensed what he was going to do, and when he touched her she was stiff and tense. His mouth closed over hers and she felt the hot taste of him on her lips, and the pressure of his kiss trying to make them open. Quite suddenly he let her go. He stood back from her in the bright moonlight, and made her a little bow.

‘I'll send a coach for you in an hour,' he said. ‘I shall be waiting for you, Madame. We must go back and make our farewells in public. I owe special thanks to your husband.'