To Dance With Kings, page 51
Violette flounced away upstairs and shut herself in her room. She did not emerge again that day or the next. Madame Govin made no attempt to intervene, well pleased with things as they were. Jasmin paced the floor, distressed that the precious hours were slipping away, but it was an impasse she did not know how to break. On the evening of the second day, with her departure looming on the morrow, she took Violette’s supper tray from Madame Govin and went upstairs with it. When she entered the girl’s bedchamber she saw that Violette’s eyes were swollen with weeping and mistook the reason. She set down the tray and held out her arms, fully prepared to forgive.
“Let us never quarrel again, Violette. I know you didn’t mean what you said.”
Violette uncurled her legs from the bed and slid her feet to the floor. She would never have given in and gone downstairs to apologize. Her mother could have left again without their further sight of each other as far as she was concerned. Her tears had been for the gifts she had fully expected her mother to take away again as a punishment, several beautiful gowns of silk and velvet this time, and the prospect of that loss had gone hard with her. Suddenly she saw a chance to turn the situation to her advantage.
“Take me away with you tomorrow and then we’ll never quarrel again,” she implored, running forward to be embraced. “I can stay with that lady of quality you have mentioned! I’ll be good and never cause the slightest trouble. Say you will, Maman! If you love me you’ll do this for me.”
Jasmin hugged the girl, kissing her forehead and smoothing her hair. “I can’t, my child. Even when you are betrothed it will be risky enough to have you there until the marriage band is on your finger. That is why I’ve always impressed upon you that I shall choose just the bridegroom I know will be good to you, because there will be no time for a lengthy courtship. Even if it should be the eve of your wedding and my husband found out about it, he would not hesitate to devise a terrible future for you as his revenge on me.”
The girl gasped fearfully. “What would that be?”
“Anything! He could have you driven publicly out of the city with a whipping or thrown into prison on some trumped-up charge. He could marry you off to one of his old and lecherous friends or have you shut away in a convent from which you would never get out and I should never see you again.”
Shudder after shudder ran through the girl’s frame and she drew back to stare with dilated eyes at Jasmin. “Could he really do those things?”
Jasmin nodded wretchedly. “I have to tell you all this for your own good, and that’s why when you do leave here your marriage must be conducted as soon as possible without the least delay. My husband is the cruelest man it’s ever been my misfortune to meet.”
“Why didn’t you leave him and go away with my father?” The girl’s eyes were accusing. “Then I’d never have had to face that danger. My father would have protected me.”
Jasmin blanched at the venom directed at her. For the first time she saw how wide the gulf had grown between them. “There comes a time in most people’s lives,” she said with a weariness that came from suffering, “when a decision has to be taken for the best, even though much heartache may follow in its wake. That was what I had to do when your father asked me to go away with him. It is my earnest hope that you will never be faced with such a dilemma. If ever you should be I pray you will make the right choice and be granted the strength to overcome the aftermath.”
Violette withdrew another step and tossed her head, the smooth fair hair dressed close in a passable imitation of the current mode worn by Jasmin. “I intend to manage my life far better than you have done yours.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult,” Jasmin remarked wryly, almost to herself. She held out a hand coaxingly, no longer caring that she was making all the effort to meet her daughter across the dividing gap. “Leave that tray and come down to eat supper with me. I have to go again in the morning.”
Violette did not take the proffered hand, although she accompanied her mother downstairs. Now that she was confident the gifts would not be taken away it was worth the effort to hide her true dislike of this woman for a while longer. She blamed Jasmin for everything. It was a direct result of her mother’s folly that she herself was exposed to the dreadful risk of vengeance by that unknown man. That was something she would never forget.
Jasmin was almost thankful when it was time to leave the next morning. There had been no real reconciliation, only politeness on her daughter’s part, and the strained atmosphere had remained. She was well aware that Violette would not have given her a kiss of farewell if Madame Govin, curiously triumphant and condescending, had not prompted the girl in a whispered aside.
“I don’t know when I’ll be able to get here again,” Jasmin said from her seat in the hackney coach in the last moment before departure.
Madame Govin answered through the open coach window where she stood with her hand resting possessively on Violette’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, madame. I’ll look after your daughter as I’ve always done. I think of her as my own.”
It was a parting shot. Jasmin almost recoiled from the painful truth of it and all that was implied. She waved through the coach window, half expecting Violette to go back indoors, but the girl remained on her own by the gate to wave in return, perhaps once again on the instigation of her foster mother since her face was stony and dry-eyed. Jasmin went on waving until a bend in the lane hid away the slender figure with the silken skirt billowing in the wind and the fair hair dancing.
A year went by during which it would have been impossible to get away for more than two or three days, which made a visit to the Govins’ far distant abode out of the question. Jasmin toyed with the idea of having Violette brought to Périgueux and meeting her there, but the danger was too great. There was nothing for it but to be as patient as she had once advised her daughter to be. In the meantime she could begin to take steps toward finding a husband for the girl. She had met several suitable candidates in the social circle centered at Périgueux into which she had been drawn long ago through card parties and entertainments provided by quality folk whom Sabatin considered too far below him to become involved. It had suited her to have a number of places where she could enjoy herself without his dampening presence.
Madame Gérard, who had acted as intermediary for many a mariage de convenance, was also a good friend. Yet even she did not know the truth and understood the future bride to be Jasmin’s godchild. The simple deception would be easily maintained, Jasmin having no doubt that Violette’s fear of a hitch to the ceremony, with its possible consequences, added to her quick wits, would enable her to carry it off then and afterward. It was with Violette in the role of her godchild that Jasmin expected to welcome her and her husband to Château Valverde.
Eventually the young man most suited to the role was decided upon. He had pleasing looks, good height, and a fine physique. A struggling lawyer, eager to branch out on his own, he was ripe to accept a personable bride with a handsome dowry, Jasmin having recently sold several of the less cherished pieces of jewelery inherited from Marguerite for this purpose. Discreet investigations had shown that the young man had all the qualities necessary to make a good husband, kindness being a special attribute in his favor. He was unattached, ambitious with excellent prospects. In particular he had greatly admired the specially painted likeness of Violette.
Madame Gérard had insisted that a portrait was essential. Fortunately a few months after receiving Jasmin’s request, Madame Govin overheard two women in the local market praising a traveling artist then in the neighborhood. She located the young man, commissioned him immediately, and sent the surprisingly good resultant painting to Périgueux. In time the young lawyer would be able to provide Violette with the luxuries of life, something Jasmin knew to be essential to her daughter’s happiness. All that remained was for Madame Gérard to make the right approach, and once the matter was agreed all the papers of the contract could be drawn up and the date set for Violette’s sixteenth natal day.
Jasmin felt far more at ease in her mind with the investigations behind her and Violette’s future all but settled. At Château Valverde she had her hands full, for preparations were going ahead for a grand ball to coincide with a visit from Frédérick, whose regiment was on eight weeks’ maneuvers, some taking place not all that far from the Govins’ home. She wished it could be possible to find some excuse to travel back to the camp with him and see Violette. Then she could tell her that all was arranged, even deliver the ring of betrothment, for by then everything would be signed and sealed.
Finally she hit on a solution. She would simply confide in Frédérick. He was a man of honor and if she first asked him never to reveal her secret, he would die before he would betray her. What was more, she knew she had his sympathy. He was courteous to Sabatin at all times, but much about her husband was offensive to him, something she had deduced a long time ago. If Frédérick simply invited her to view some of the maneuvers Sabatin would not be able to refuse without appearing ungracious; also there would be no question of his accompanying them, for his gout was too painful for jolting in a coach over rough roads.
Frédérick arrived on the eve of the ball. He was unusually tired from the long ride on horseback, quite a gray tinge to his complexion, and he retired early after supper much to Sabatin’s disappointment. He had been looking forward to a drinking session. Next morning Frédérick appeared recovered and was in good spirits. Jasmin, busy supervising last-minute preparations, had almost no chance to talk to him except for a matter of minutes when they met by his bedchamber door.
“Tomorrow, when the festivities are over,” she said, “I should like to talk to you on your own for a little while.”
His dark eyes pierced into hers. “Are you in any trouble?”
She shook her head smilingly. “Not at all. I’m going to seek a favor.”
“You know I am your servant at all times.”
That evening as she took her place beside Sabatin to welcome their many guests, she felt excited and lighthearted. She was certain of Frédérick’s support and with the happy arrangements that had been made to Violette’s advantage, she was sure there would be no more adolescent animosity on her daughter’s part. There was even the chance they could begin to become friends again, the natural transition that she had witnessed in the daughters of friends once all the youthful hysterics and rebellions were at an end.
Guests complimented her on her appearance. She supposed that some of her inner gaiety was showing through to give an added sparkle to her eyes. Her hair followed the style that Madame de Pompadour had made fashionable, dressed smoothly back with clusters of curls at the nape of the neck and powdered white, ribbons held there by a diamond clasp. Marguerite’s magnificent sapphire pendant and matching eardrops glittered spectacularly at her cleavage and in her lobes, and her gown was of silver gauze with panniers puffing over the side hoops that had widened considerably during the past decade.
There was no dancing the opening measure with Sabatin anymore, handicapped as he was by his painful foot. He, in his favorite black velvet, and leaning on a gold-headed cane, offered his arm to her at the right moment. Then they paraded slowly down the length of the ballroom floor to be applauded by their guests as if they were royalty at a public function, her suspicion being that Sabatin had stationed servants to start the clapping, although she had never managed to prove it. At the far end was a canopied chair on a dais, an innovation installed for these events since he had given up going away, giving the hint that he might be of royal descent. Jasmin found the charade embarrassing, but nobody else seemed to mind and Sabatin reveled in it, beaming and nodding as if he were the most benevolent of men. He had created his own Versailles at last and she alone suspected that he was in reality snubbing the king.
There was no chair on the dais for her, something for which she was thankful, and having seen him hobble into his thronelike seat of gilt and scarlet velvet she descended the two steps again to start the dancing with the guest of honor. This evening it should have been Frédérick who came forward to take her hand, but he was nowhere to be seen. Quickly she signaled with her eyes to a friend, Brigadier Cloquet, and he was at her side immediately to lead her onto the floor, having observed that something was amiss.
“Have you seen Colonel de Valverde?” she asked him, looking about her.
“Not this evening,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping to have a chat with him about the regiment. We once served together.”
Just before supper when Frédérick had still not made an appearance, Jasmin became anxious remembering that he had not been all that well the day before. She left the ballroom and hurried upstairs to tap on his bedchamber door. His servant opened it.
“My master is unwell, madame,” he said at once, his face worried. “He has a fever.”
She went past him into the room and crossed to the bedside. Frédérick lay flushed on the pillows, sweat running in beads down his face. Swollen glands in his throat made talking difficult for him, but he croaked a protest.
“You shouldn’t have left your guests.”
“They’ll not miss me for a little while.” She took up a candlestick and brought it forward to let more light fall on his face. He blinked painfully and she set it back again, filled with dismay at the dreaded telltale rash that she recognized only too well. Smallpox!
“Is it what I fear, madame?” The servant had spoken behind her.
She spun around with a nod. He had a deeply pockmarked skin himself that was the result of a past attack of the disease and he would be immune, as she was, to any infection. She had treated many cases over the years and the age-old rule of isolation was the only effective way of controlling an outbreak. She beckoned him out of earshot of the man sweating in the bed.
“Attract the attention of one of the footmen in the hall, but don’t go near. There may be infection on your clothes. Tell him to fetch Monsieur le Duc from the ballroom and then let me know as soon as my husband is at the foot of the stairs.”
While the servant went to carry out the errand she hurried off in search of all she would need for nursing the patient. Clean linen, sheets to hang over the door to help keep the infection from seeping out, ointment for the blisters, potions to ease pain and induce sleep, and various other lotions and medications that she kept ready in a large basket that she always took with her to the sick.
“Why the devil have I been called out here?” Sabatin’s exasperated tones boomed up the stairs to Frédérick’s servant standing at the top of the flight. “Where is your master? Fetch him at once!”
Jasmin went forward to the balustrade, sending the servant back to the bedchamber, and looked down at her irate husband. It was instinctive for him to jerk his face away from the sight of her, a habit formed over the years of their marriage, but her next words stilled him midway.
“Frédérick has smallpox.”
He turned as white as paper, the mottled veining of his pendulous cheeks standing out against his pale skin as if inked and his eyes widened in horror. All the footmen on duty by every door in the great hall heard her words and exchanged nervous glances. Two stood as if transfixed when Sabatin swung round to them and gestured fiercely.
“Get my guest out of his bed and into a carriage! I want him gone from here!”
Jasmin had already descended a few steps. “No! Frédérick shall not be moved! God alone knows what his chances are, but I will not have him die on the road. This is not Versailles!”
Sabatin, ignoring her, mistook his servants’ failing to jump to his orders, not realizing immediately that their fear of infection was greater than their awe of him. “Take no notice of Madame la Duchesse! Obey me! Now! At once, damn you!”
He struck out at them with his cane and they scattered, not toward the stairs but in the direction of the kitchens, such panic in them that the rest of the footmen on duty bolted from their posts and followed suit, leaving him and Jasmin alone in the great hall. He stood leaning on his cane and glaring up at her, swearing under his breath. His color had surged back on the force of his rage, reaching an ugly purple. From the ballroom several salons away there came the sounds of music and jollity, suddenly incongruous in view of the disaster that had befallen the château.
“Go and tell our guests to go home, Sabatin,” she said evenly. “The longer they stay under our roof the greater their danger. Let them leave by the ballroom doors onto the terrace. I don’t want anyone to come into this quarter of the house.”
To her astonishment, instead of turning to make his way back to the ballroom he limped swiftly across the hall and wrenched the entrance door wide. As he went stamping out into the night she heard him shout for his carriage. He was losing no time in getting away from the infection himself, caring nothing for anyone else.
She ran back up to the landing and along to her bedchamber. In the anteroom she paused breathlessly. Her maid in attendance had sprung up from a chair in the bedchamber beyond and Jasmin indicated that a distance be kept between them.
“Don’t come near me. I want you to go down to the ballroom and seek out Brigadier Cloquet. Tell him that Colonel de Valverde has smallpox and ask him to get the guests to leave without arousing panic. As a military man he should manage that well. Also let him advise the servants to stay where they are and not to leave. If any of them have been infected the disease will only be carried further afield, even to their families if they should go home.”
Her maid, although scared, kept her head. “Yes, madame. Is there anything else I can do?”
“Yes. Throw one of the simple calico gowns I use for nursing out to me and later put out others. Then stay away from this floor and see that everybody else does. Trays can be left at the foot of the stairs.”
In the sickroom she had to get Frédérick’s valet to unlace the back of her gown and then she changed behind a screen. After donning a large apron she reemerged to begin her fight for Frédérick’s life, thankful as she had been many times before that her mother’s own good nursing had brought her through an attack of this awful disease in her childhood and given her the immunity to care for so many others. The odds were always against her, but she had been successful on many occasions and even those who could not be saved had their suffering eased by her constant watchfulness and gentle attention when even their closest kin would not come near. Already the blisters, which could leave such disfiguring scars, were beginning to cover Frédérick’s face and body, making him groan with pain and fever.
