The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds by Iris Johansen
“Claire won’t let me consort with the servants’ children and there’s no one else.”
“I have no friends at the palace either. Not that I care. They’re all very stupid.” Juliette turned to look at Catherine. “Will you be staying at Versailles long?”
Catherine shook her head. “We leave for Jean Marc’s house in Paris directly after he has his audience with Her Majesty.”
Juliette tried to ignore the sharp thrust of disappointment she felt. She had no need for friends as long as she had her painting, she told herself. And she certainly had no need for a friend who couldn’t see the ugly truths behind the veil of feigned honor and pretended virtue. She would no doubt be constantly arguing with the ninny if she stayed around.
“Do you know Her Majesty?” Catherine asked. “Is she as beautiful as everyone says?”
“She’s not unattractive and she has a lovely laugh.”
“You have affection for her?”
Juliette’s expression softened. “Yes, she gave me my paints and had me taught by a fine teacher. She even hung one of my paintings of the lake in the billiard room at Petit Trianon.”
Catherine was impressed. “You must be pleased. That’s a great honor.”
“Not really. It wasn’t a particularly good painting. I painted the lake at sundown and it looked …” Juliette grimaced as she finished. “Pretty.”
Catherine giggled. “You don’t like pretty things?”
“Pretty is … it has no depth. Beauty has meaning, even ugliness has meaning, but pretty is …” She scowled. “Why are you laughing?”
Catherine sobered. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I find you a trifle peculiar. You’re so serious about everything.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Not like you. I’m not at all like you. I like pretty things and I hate ugly ones.”
“You’re wrong. You shouldn’t hate ugliness. It can be very interesting if you look at it the right way. For instance, I once painted an old, fat count who had a face as ugly as a frog, but every line told a story of its own. I tried to—” She broke off as she heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. “The servants must be bringing your trunks. I’ll see.” She frowned as she got off the bed and moved toward the door. “I suppose you’ll wish me to leave you to rest?”
Catherine shook her head. “I’m not tired.”
Juliette’s expression brightened. “Then perhaps you’d like to go for a walk with me before it gets dark and I could show you what I mean. There’s a sway-backed horse in the field beyond the inn that’s as ugly as sin itself but he’s far more interesting than the more handsome ones.” She opened the door. “Change your gown and meet me in the common room as soon as you can.” She looked back over her shoulder, suddenly uncertain. “If you want to come with me?”
A radiant smile lit Catherine’s face as she rose to her feet. “Oh, yes, please. I do want to come with you.”
FOUR
May I speak to you, Jean Marc?” Catherine stood in the doorway, her hand nervously fiddling with the knob. “I know you’re working and I promise I’ll take only a moment. I have something to ask of you.”
Jean Marc carefully smothered his impatience and pushed the papers in front of him aside. “You wish to know when we’re going to Versailles? I should be well enough to travel within a few days. Have you been bored here at the inn?”
“No, I’ve been very happy here.” Catherine closed the door and came forward to perch on the edge of the chair beside his bed, clasping her hands together on her lap. “It’s … different being with Juliette.”
Jean Marc chuckled. “I’d say different is an apt word to describe Juliette. You’ve certainly spent enough time with her in the past two days to judge.”
“I like her, Jean Marc.” Catherine’s hands twisted together. “She does not deserve—” She broke off. “Have you ever noticed she always wears gowns with sleeves down to her wrists?”
Jean Marc’s smile faded. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Marguerite.” Catherine met Jean Marc’s gaze. “Why would she want to hurt Juliette? I haven’t been punished by Claire since I was a small child.” She paused and then said in a rush, “Juliette’s arms are covered with bruises.”
Jean Marc went still. “You’re sure of this?”
“I’ve seen her arms. They have terrible bruises. I felt ill.…” Catherine shook her head. “I asked her what happened and she shrugged and said Marguerite had been bad-tempered since she had been forced to leave the palace and stay at the inn.”
The intensity of the anger searing through Jean Marc astonished him. Christ, Juliette had said Marguerite was not pleased to be here, but he had paid no attention. He had joked and dismissed the subject. Why in thunderation hadn’t she told him what the blackhearted bitch was doing to her?
“I didn’t know what was for the best,” Catherine whispered. “She told me I could do nothing and to forget it. But it isn’t right. Can you help her, Jean Marc?”
“Yes.” What he’d like to do was break that harridan’s scrawny neck, he thought grimly, a solution that was clearly impossible under the circumstances. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
“Soon?”
“Tonight.”
“Thank you, Jean Marc.” Catherine stood up and moved hurriedly toward the door. “I’m sorry to have troubled you. I’ll leave you to your work now. I only thought …”
The door closed behind her.
It had not been easy for Catherine to come to him, Jean Marc thought as he stared absently at the panels of the door. She had always been a shy, gentle child and, for some reason, particularly intimidated by him. Perhaps some of Juliette’s boldness had rubbed off on her during their association of the last few days.
Or perhaps she had been so horrified by Juliette’s mistreatment she could not bear the thought of not doing something to help her.
Think of something beautiful.
No wonder Juliette knew so well how to combat pain. She had obviously experienced it for the major part of her life.
His grip tightened on the coverlet as he remembered Catherine’s words.
“Terrible bruises.”
“I felt ill.”
“The wound’s healing very well.” Juliette tied the fresh bandage, helped Jean Marc into his linen shirt, and began to fasten the buttons. “You should be able to travel soon.”
“Day after the morrow, I believe,” Jean Marc said without expression. “I’ve arranged for a carriage to send you and Marguerite to Versailles tomorrow morning.”
Juliette’s fingers froze on the button she was fastening. “Tomorrow?” She shook her head. “Next week, perhaps. You’re not well enough to—”
“You leave tomorrow.” Jean Marc’s lips thinned. “And your kindly Marguerite can toddle happily back to your mother instead of devoting her questionable attentions to you.”
Juliette frowned. “Catherine told you? She shouldn’t have done that. Bruises are nothing—”
“Not to me.” Jean Marc cut fiercely through her words. “I’ll not have you suffer for my sake. What do you think—” He broke off. “You leave tomorrow.”
Juliette’s fingers fell away from his shirt as she gazed in wonder at him. “Why are you so angry? There’s nothing to be upset about.”
Jean Marc was silent for a moment, his expression shuttered. “Good night, Juliette. I’ll not say good-bye because I trust we’ll see each other at Versailles.”
“Yes,” Juliette said dully. It was over. The days of companionship with Catherine, the hours of exhilarating conversation with Jean Marc. She tried to smile. “I cannot persuade you how foolish it is to rush your recovery in this fashion?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll not waste my time.” She started to turn away.
He caught her hand. “Not yet.” His usually mocking expression was surprisingly grave. “Not before I express my appreciation.”
She determinedly blinked he
He looked sick. “I did that?”
“You didn’t mean to do it. I told you, one has only to touch me to leave a bruise.” She tried to keep the desperation from her voice. “So there’s no reason for you to press on to Versailles until you’re entirely well.”
“No reason at all,” he said thickly, his gaze never leaving her arm. “Except that I’ve always thought you had the most exquisite skin I have ever seen. Roses on cream … glowing with life. I find I can’t bear this atrocity. I can’t stand seeing …” He trailed off as he turned her arm over and stared at the marks on the more delicate flesh of her inner arm. Then, slowly, he lifted her arm and pressed his lips onto one of the most livid bruises.
She stiffened in shock, staring down at the dark hair of his head bent over her arm. She was suddenly acutely aware of the scent of tallow of the candles on the table by the bed, the play of light and shadow on the planes of his cheekbones, the sound of her own breathing in the silence of the room. His lips felt warm, firm, gentle on her flesh, and yet they caused an odd tingling to spread up her arm and through her body.
He looked up and smiled crookedly as he saw her expression. “You see? Who knows? If you stay, there may come a time when I’d be more dangerous to you than your dragon, Marguerite.” He released her arm and leaned back against the headboard. “Bonne nuit, ma petite.”
She didn’t want to leave him. She wanted him to touch her again with those strong, graceful hands. She wanted to tell him …
Merde, she did not know what she wanted to tell him. It was clear he wished to be rid of her and she would not beg him to let her remain.
She turned on her heel, the skirts of her black gown flying. “I didn’t really want to stay. You’ve been nothing but trouble to me and Catherine is only a stupid girl who knows nothing. Nothing!” She grabbed her painting from the easel and strode toward the door. “Marguerite said the queen is at Le Hameau now. She can be at ease there with few of the strictures of the main palace and will probably receive you at the queen’s cottage.” She opened the door and glanced at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. “But it will do you little good to see her. She will never give you the Wind Dancer.”
Juliette stood with spine straight and head high, waiting on the wooden bridge leading to the queen’s cottage as Jean Marc, Catherine, and Philippe strolled into view.
Jean Marc experienced a mixture of sharp pleasure and deep regret as he saw her. He had carefully avoided thinking of the girl since the evening three nights past when he had told her she must leave the inn. Now the sight of her was like a sudden blow.
“Juliette!” Catherine rushed toward her. “I was so afraid I wouldn’t see you again. Why did you leave the inn without a word of farewell?”
“I knew I’d see you here.” Juliette smiled at her. “I couldn’t allow you to see the queen without me being present.” She gazed challengingly at Jean Marc over Catherine’s head. “Jean Marc would probably have managed to get all of you put into chains.”
Philippe chuckled. “You clearly have little respect for his tact. I assure you Jean Marc can be very diplomatic when it serves him.”
“But he likes his own way and so does the queen. I’m not about to let him throw away his life after I’ve worked so hard to save it. Come along. She’s on the terrace.” Juliette turned and walked quickly across the quaint bridge arching over the mirrorlike lake. She led them over carefully tended lawns toward the queen’s cottage.
The cottage actually consisted of two buildings linked by a gallery that could be reached by an external spiral staircase, Jean Marc noticed. He had heard much of this village the queen had built at such extravagant expense a short distance from the small palace of the Petit Trianon. Le Hameau was everything he expected—charming, bucolic, a fairy-tale peasant village where the animals smelled sweet and the containers used to milk the cows were of fine Sèvres china.
A fleecy snow-white lamb wearing a pink bow lay at Marie Antoinette’s slippered feet, and a brown and white milk cow grazed a few yards away from the terrace. Yellow silk cushions occupied the space directly in front of the queen, and sprawled on the cushions was Louis Charles sound asleep.
Jean Marc stopped in surprise, then recovered and moved forward. Le Hameau may have been predictable, but Marie Antoinette definitely wasn’t what he expected. The woman sitting beside the rosewood table appeared almost matronly in her simple white muslin gown with its white silk sash. The only note of fashionable extravagance about her attire was her huge straw hat with its curving white plumes. The queen’s ash-brown hair was unpowdered, but pulled back in the currently fashionable style.
She looked up with a teasing smile when Juliette approached and curtsied. “So you have seen fit to escort your brave rescuer into my presence, Juliette.”
“This is Monsieur Jean Marc Andreas, Your Majesty.” Juliette sank to the terrace beside the heap of pillows, her expression reflecting her disappointment as she looked down at the sleeping child. “Oh, he’s taking his nap. I wanted to play with him.”
The queen shook her head in amusement. “Why are you so fond of babies when you have no use at all for older children?”
“Babies don’t know how to be cruel. I guess they have to learn it. I like babies.” Juliette gently stroked the little boy’s silken hair. “And Louis Charles likes me too.”
The queen gazed over Juliette’s head at Jean Marc. “Bonjour, Monsieur Andreas. You’re most welcome at Versailles. Such a brave man always is. And we are greatly in your debt.”
Jean Marc bowed low. “Your Majesty is very gracious to receive me. I was happy to be of service.”
“But not so happy you do not wish a reward. Juliette tells me you have a boon to ask of me.” Marie Antoinette reached down and patted the head of the pink-ribboned lamb at her feet. “What can I grant you that my husband cannot?”
Jean Marc hesitated and then said in a rush, “The Wind Dancer. I wish to purchase it.”
The queen’s eyes widened. “Surely you jest. The Wind Dancer has belonged to the court of France for almost three hundred years.”
“And it belonged to the Andreas family much longer than that.”
“You’re challenging our right to the statue?”
Jean Marc shook his head “It was given to Louis XII by Lorenzo Vasaro in 1507, who had been given the statue in turn by Lionello Andreas. However, we do wish the statue returned to our family. My father has a passion for antiquities, and it’s always been his fondest wish to find a way to repurchase the Wind Dancer. He offered to buy the statue from His Majesty’s father but he was refused. And I’ve made two offers myself.” He paused. “I judged this an excellent opportunity to repeat the offer.”
The queen’s lips tightened. “You have no need for another treasure. The Andreas family is rich as Croesus with all their shipyards and vineyards, and you yourself have tripled the family fortunes since you expanded your endeavors into moneylending and banking.”
Jean Marc inclined his head. “Your Majesty is well informed.”
“I’m no ignorant fool. My husband relies heavily on my judgment and advice.” She frowned. “I have no intention of giving you the Wind Dancer. I have a great fondness for it and I believe it brings good fortune to the royal household.”
“Indeed?”
Marie Antoinette nodded emphatically. “My husband’s father gave the statue into the custody of Madame Du Barry a short time before his death. Do you not think that is significant?”
“Men do die. Even kings are not immortal.”
“
“So I heard.”
“It’s not a matter for your amusement.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I admit the thought of Jeanne Du Barry in a convent strikes me as a trifle humorous. You, too, must have come to believe the convent a highly inappropriate abode for her as you released her after only a short time in which she could consider her wicked past.”
“I am not unkindly.”
“I’m sure you’re the soul of mercy and nobility.”
“Well, I was very happy myself at the time,” she said, mollified. “I knew the statue would bring good fortune back to the royal household, and I was correct. Only a few years after I retrieved the Wind Dancer I discovered I was with child.”
Jean Marc quickly suppressed a start of surprise. It was common knowledge Louis had not been able to consummate his marriage until he had undergone a surgical procedure, yet the queen sounded as if she truly believed she owed both the consummation and her beloved children to the Wind Dancer.
“May I suggest it could have been due to circumstances other than the recovery of the Wind Dancer that—”
“No, you may not,” Marie Antoinette interrupted sharply. “And I will not relinquish my statue.” She smiled with an effort. “However, I cannot turn you away with nothing after your service. Suppose we give you a patent of nobility? As a nobleman you will no longer have to pay taxes, and you cannot deny it is a great boon I grant. I understand you bourgeoisie are always clamoring to avoid paying your rightful share of the tariff.”
“Your Majesty is too kind.”
“Well, then you will take the patent,” the queen said with satisfaction. “It’s settled.”
He shook his head regretfully. “I’m a simple man and would feel uncomfortable in such august company.”
Marie Antoinette’s gaze narrowed on his face. “Are you mocking the honor I give you?”