Free Lion of Languedoc by Margaret Pemberton Page B

Mathilde that Léon will not be in for most of today? He has gone to Lancerre.’
    Reluctantly Céleste left on her errand. Really, it was too bad, she thought. Whenever things were beginning to get interesting she was sent out of the way!
    Jeannette led Marietta out into the brilliant sunshine, saying when they could not be overheard: ‘There’s no need to feel uncomfortable because of the state of your clothes when you arrived. My son told me what happened to you, and I understand.’
    Marietta drew in her breath sharply. It had not occurred to her that the serene-faced lady who had treated her with such kindness was Léon’s mother.
    Jeannette led the way through a tangle of wild flowers to a garden seat half submerged in trailing ivy. She sat down weakly, and at the sight of Jeannette’s pale face Marietta immediately forgot her own troubles.
    â€˜Are you ill? Can I help you?’
    Jeannette shook her head, motioning Marietta to sit beside her while she rallied her strength.
    â€˜The slightest exertion leaves me as weak as a new-born babe,’ she said after a few minutes, ‘ but there was nowhere in the château we could talk and not be overheard, and Léon was insistent that there should be no rumours regarding the circumstances in which he found you. The peasants of Chatonnay are as gullible as those anywhere else, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜That is one of the reasons I want to leave. Léon … your son … the Comte ,’ Marietta floundered. After all they had been through together it seemed perfectly natural to her to use his Christian name, but that had been before she had known his station in life. When he had been a bloodied young man who laughed easily and angered easily; now he was an elegant stranger.
    Jeannette patted her hand.
    â€˜Léon is a perfectly acceptable form of address for you to use; at least when you are talking about him to me. And if you are leaving because you are frightened of the rumours that may start if you stay, then put such nonsense out of your head.’
    â€˜No, madame. It isn’t only that.’
    A butterfly fluttered past on azure wings and against the cloudless sky the white stone towers of the château gleamed brilliantly in the hot sun.
    â€˜Then what is it? There is no need for you to leave Chatonnay. I would like you to stay.’
    Marietta, too, would have liked to stay. But not if it meant seeing Léon constantly at the side of the beautiful widow Sainte-Beuve. She bit her lip, saying so quietly that Jeannette could hardly hear her, ‘There is no place for me at Chatonnay. There will be a new mistress here soon, and I doubt if she would welcome my presence as you so kindly do.’
    Jeannette looked at the carefully averted face, and at the nervous twisting of her fingers. So that was how the land lay. She felt a wave of compassion for the red-haired girl at her side. Léon was a notorious breaker of hearts, but so far the ladies had all been sophisticates of the court. He had no right to toy with the affections of a girl whose position was as vulnerable as Marietta’s. Why, the child had no home, no family, no friends. Nothing.
    â€˜My son tells me you are a lacemaker.’
    Marietta nodded, her head lifting slightly. That at least no one could take from her.
    â€˜And that you know the secret of making point de Venise? ’
    â€˜Yes. My grandmother was a Venetian, and one of the most skilled of that city’s lacemakers.’
    Jeannette had found her son’s careless reference as to Marietta’s abilities far more interesting than he had. Indeed, she had stayed awake most of the night pondering on the possibilities that it might hold.
    â€˜I never go to court,’ she continued, ‘mainly because my presence is never requested, and if it were, the effort would kill me. There are so many thousands of courtiers at Versailles that most of them are hard put to it to find