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I suppose, if I live to be a hundred years old, I may some day forget some slight detail of that long journey, with Étienne, to the Château Des Cars.
At first I wondered why we did not travel by the railroad, which would take us there in three days. But Étienne, with the bland acceptance of the aristocrat, took it for granted that he should travel in his own coach, at his own pace. It made me think of the tales I had read of the days before the Revolution.
Yet no one could have been kinder, or more considerate toward horses and servants than Étienne. Annette rode with the coachman, on top of the carriage, so that Étienne could further instruct me in the part I must play; yet when a spell of bleak November rain turned the countryside to gray and dripping chill, he stopped the coach and kindly insisted that she must ride inside, with us. And every night, at some small country inn, he insisted that a bed be placed for her in my room, and inquired carefully about the quarters and food for the coachman and the horses. He evidently made a great effort to show me the gentlest consideration, even when we were unobserved; not once during the first week of that long trip did the black and sullen anger settle over his face.
I saw it again on the night we came to a small gray inn. There had been long delays during that day, with great muddy chuck-holes in the road, and a thick fog that slowed the horses to a walk, and it was long past dusk when we came to the inn and alighted.
The proprietor of the inn literally wrung his hands in despair. If only he had known that M’sieur and M’dame had intended to honor his poor house, but it was a fact that there was a fair in the town and every room was filled to bursting. He could not oust them at this late hour when they had paid for accommodation and were already asleep; it was not a thing to be thought of! He was desolated, absolutely desolated....
Étienne cut off the stream of apology and excuse with a harsh curse. “What in God’s name are we to do, then?” he demanded. “The horses are weary and footsore, my coachman is wet through from the rain and needs rest, and Madame is exhausted.” There were dark shadows of weariness around his own eyes, but he said nothing of himself. He glowered at the luckless innkeeper, who quailed and stammered excuse after excuse. For the coachman they might make room in the hayloft, Madame’s maid might share half of his own daughter’s bed, but for Monsieur and Madame there was nothing, nothing, far less the two rooms with fire which Étienne had commanded. Étienne swung around to me, swearing under his breath.
I said quietly, “Perhaps we could go on to the next town?”
He scowled. “And lame the horses? And you look tired to death. No, damn it, the man must have some place he can put us.”
The innkeeper’s wife, a heavy fat woman, ran up behind him, plucked at his sleeve and whispered in his ear, then dropped me an abashed curtsy. “Please, Madame, I have sent the girl to my sister’s house nearby. It is not what Madame is used to, but she lives alone with one old servant and there is a good room empty. She will not take in lodgers, but I am sure that she can accommodate Madame and Monsieur in comfort, at least....”
Étienne grumbled harshly, but it became obvious that this was the only thing to be done. The next village lay six miles away, a long drive over muddy roads, menacing with unseen ruts and holes. We could hardly reach it before midnight. Rather curtly, he accepted the offer. Dinner was long past in the inn, but while the coachman and my maid had been given bread and cheese and hot soup in the kitchen, we were brought steaming onion soup and slices of cold roast mutton which had a faint but pleasant scent of garlic. When we had finished, the innkeeper’s daughter came to tell us that Madame Kerval could find room in her house for us and that we were heartily welcome.
“I will send for Madame’s maid,” the girl said, “and when she has done, she may come back here and sleep in my bed.”
But when Annette came from the kitchen, yawning, her hair half down her back from the dampness of the road, her face reddened from the cold, I had not the heart to keep the poor woman from her bed. “Never mind, Annette,” I said, “go and sleep, I can manage for myself this one time.” Secretly I was a little relieved. I had always been accustomed to dressing myself, doing my own hair, and it had taken an effort to learn to stand like a doll being dressed, and allow her to dress me. Annette went, with curtsies and thanks, and I turned and saw that Étienne was frowning bleakly.
“What is the matter?” I asked, but he made an imperious gesture for silence as the stableman came with a lantern, offering to assist us to the house of the Widow Kerval. He took my arm, guiding my steps through the mud-rutted street, but his mouth was taut and I could feel the clenched anger in him. It somehow roused anger in me, too. So he had to give way for once, and behave like an ordinary man? Maybe the Revolution had done some good after all; in the old days of absolute power, I suppose, some poor farmer and his wife would have been turned out to sleep in the barn so that Monsieur the Count and his lady should have a suitable room.
The house of the Widow Kerval was scrupulously clean, as only the houses of poor women can be clean, and she greeted us with rather awe-stricken welcome. Étienne brushed away her many courtesies with a brusque plea that Madame was tired and would like to go to her room.
The room we were shown to was large and simply furnished, the lamp on the dresser giving out pale light on the whitewashed walls. Everything was covered with coarse handwoven coverlets and rag rugs. There was an immense towering armoire in the corner, a chest of drawers with a wavery old glass mirror, and a huge double bed covered with an embroidered spread. When I saw it, I felt the color rise in my face; I heard Étienne stiffly bid the woman good night, and close the door. Then he took my shoulder in one hand and turned me around.
“Now do you see, you idiot child, why I was angry when you sent Annette away?”
I bent my head, hectic color scalding my cheeks.
“I didn’t realize—”
He frowned, that strange withdrawn anger still brewing. “Shall I go back and sleep in the hayloft with the coachman, then?”
I drew myself up, my own anger coming to stiffen my backbone. “Most certainly you shall not,” I said sharply. “Monsieur the Count may sleep in comfort on the good woman’s bed, and I shall loosen my stays and sleep on the floor.”
“Don’t be a little fool,” Étienne said sharply, “No man worthy of the name would allow such a thing, even if he were aged and infirm, and I am neither. You shall sleep in comfort, of course, and I shall take one of those down featherbeds and sleep on the floor. I have slept in worse places.” He took my chin gently in one hand and raised my face to his. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “Remember our bargain? You are my sister—are you afraid of your brother?”
Silently, I shook my head, snapping open my small valise. Embarrassed, I decided not to undress, but simply to take off my shoes and loosen my dress. But Étienne turned his back politely to me. He said, firmly, “I am—I have been—a married man and there is nothing new to me in the sight of a petticoat. Make yourself as comfortable as you may, child; if you sleep in your traveling dress, it will be wrinkled in the morning and then there will be a scandal for the entire village.” He kept his back to me.
My face burning, I took off my jacket and skirt, and removed my stockings, then twisted to unfasten the buttons on my basque waist. I made a small sound of consternation, and Étienne asked, “What is the matter? Shall I turn around?”
I said, in a small voice, “I can’t unfasten the buttons. Before this, I’ve always had dresses I could put on and take off myself, but Annette always has to help me with this.” In my mind I was consigning the whole wardrobe of the Countess to perdition.
I heard him make a small sound like stifled laughter.
“Turn around, then, and I’ll unbutton them for you.” He anticipated my protest. “Don’t be a little fool. When I was a boy, my sister and I used to go swimming when she could run away from her governess; and a good many times I’ve buttoned and unbuttoned Lisette’s dresses.”
“I did not know you had a sister,” I said.
“I don’t now,” he said. “She died when she was fifteen.” I heard him just behind me, and his big hands began the undoing of the buttons. His voice was sad. “No, I have not a single living relative but my child. And Monique’s family, who despise me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said very softly.
He released me. “Is that all right? The buttons, I mean? Is there anything else I can do? I have also untied the laces of your—your corset.”
Blushing, I thanked him. I finished undressing to my chemise and petticoat, then drew a thick, voluminous dressing gown over them. I sat down at the toilet table to loosen my hair into braids. In the mirror behind me, I saw Étienne removing his tie and collar, his coat and waistcoat. I had never before seen him in shirt sleeves—or any man except my father. I looked away again. He put on a silk dressing gown over this, and came toward me. He said in a low voice, “You are more than ever like Monique—though you seem older, somehow. She was like a child—a sweet child, a plaything to be caressed. What has made you older, Laura?”
“Being brought up to look after myself, and earning my own living,” I said crisply. “I spent two years in Milan as a student, and students are too poor to afford ladies’ maids and cooks and footmen.”
Slowly, he nodded. “It is very late. Will you not go to bed now?”
“You must take enough blankets to make yourself comfortable,” I objected, and when he hesitated, I took the feather comforter and two of the huge old-fashioned pillows and spread them on the floor for him, briskly. “Will this do?”
“More than enough,” he said, and sat down on the improvised pallet. I sat on the edge of the bed, my bare feet dangling; then, hastily, shoved them under the covers.
“Good night, Étienne.”
“Good night, Laura,” he said softly. And for once I was glad he had not called me Monique. I felt very small in the immense bed, and a little frightened. It was a strange thing to do, to sleep in the same room with a man. And yet this man was legally my husband and I was his wife....
He had lowered his head to the pillow and fallen immediately asleep. I sat up in bed, listening to his quiet breathing with an unfamiliar, yearning emotion. It seemed to me that I had never felt so close to anyone as to this strange man whom I had known only a week or less. And now he was, strangely enough, my husband—
No. He was married to a ghost, and her name was Monique. And for that reason he could unbutton my dress, and untie the strings of my corset, and go quietly to sleep not far from my bed. Monique! He cared only for Monique....
But why did that thought make my eyes water and my throat close as if in pain?
What was happening to me?
And as if in answer Étienne murmured in his sleep. But the name he spoke was a whisper of longing: “Monique! Monique—”
I buried my head in the pillow, fearing suddenly that I would sob aloud. Would he never see me for myself? Was I nothing but a ghost, the ghost of a dead woman? And did I want to be anything else to him, to this strange angry man married to a ghost?
And why?
