Of One Heart

chapter 17





March 30-31, 1533



Micheline was dreaming about Rabelais. His face, alternately whimsical, serious, and laughing, advanced and retreated, telling her over and over again, "You've only one life, and then comes the great perhaps. Do as you please... do as you please..."

She awoke covered with a sheen of perspiration, her eyes wide and alert.

"Aimée, I must see M'sieur Rabelais!"

"Cherie, you cannot! He left Fontainebleau two days ago." Aimée pressed a cool cloth to Micheline's brow. "Why on earth do you want to see him!"

"I hoped to seek his advice—about love," she whispered.

"What knowledge could Rabelais have on such a topic? The man's a monk!"

"Yes," Micheline agreed as her stomach began to gurgle in a familiar way, "but he seemed to know about all of life...."

Aimée watched as her friend turned her face away to stare out the window, her eyes filled with melancholy. It hurt Aimée to see her like this, but she told herself that it would be better in the long run. Andrew Selkirk was only an infatuation. Why, Selkirk's own manservant sang the praises of the Marquess of Sandhurst! What better recommendation could there be?

Micheline drifted back to sleep throughout the day, waking only to take periodic nourishment. She had been very ill and remained extremely weak. Remembering the horrors of the first day, Aimée could only thank God that her friend had lived.

In the evening Suzette came to relieve her mistress so that Aimée might sup with her family.

"You must call me if Madame Tevoulere becomes ill again," Aimée told her softly. "And she must be left alone to rest. If anyone calls, tell them she cannot have visitors yet."

"Oui, madame." Suzette nodded.

It was past eight o'clock when a knock sounded at the door. Micheline was sleeping fitfully, tossing and making sounds, but she did not awaken. Suzette went to answer the knock.

"I wish to see your mistress."

It was Andrew Selkirk, the Englishman who had kept every female servant on pins and needles since his arrival at Fontainebleau. Suzette had been married for over six years, but she was no exception. Blushing, she smiled dreamily up at Andrew.

"I wish I could oblige you, m'sieur, but I've orders that Madame must not have visitors."

Sandhurst was all too familiar with the maid's expression. Usually he was loath to take advantage of feminine weakness, but this case did seem to be special.

"You seem to be a girl of extraordinary beauty and understanding," he murmured, his brown eyes melting her defenses. "Couldn't you make an exception in my case? I'm certain that Madame Tevoulere would thank you for it. You see, I'm leaving Fontainebleau tomorrow, and this is my only opportunity to tell her good-bye."

"Oh... well... I suppose, in that case—" Suzette found that she could scarcely speak in his presence. "The thing is, she's asleep, and I don't know if it's wise-—"

"I promise to be careful, mademoiselle. I won't disturb her. If she doesn't awake, I'll leave quietly."

"D'accord," Suzette replied weakly.

"I'll be only a moment." Sandhurst gave her a potent smile. "You'll trust me alone with Madame Tevoulere, won't you?"

The girl was still nodding when the door closed and she found herself alone in the corridor.

On the other side of the door, Sandhurst turned to behold Micheline lying in a great testered bed, looking extremely pale and small against the pillows. He was ashamed for ever suspecting that her illness might have been a lie, but his guilt was quickly replaced by concern. He crossed to the bed, perched on the edge, and took her limp fingers between his two tanned, strong hands.

"Fondling, can you hear me?"

After a moment Micheline blinked and smiled weakly. The dreams improve, she thought. How real he seems!

"I have to talk to you, Micheline. It's very important. Do you understand?"

She beamed at him and nodded slightly.

"I have to leave Fontainebleau tomorrow, but I couldn't go without seeing you. Have you reconsidered? Is there anything you want to say to me?"

His face swam before her. So many thoughts were tangled in her mind that she couldn't sort them out. Rabelais. Yes, that was what she wanted to tell Andrew.

"Do as you please," Micheline whispered, smiling.

"I see." A muscle flexed in his jaw. "Well, then, good-bye."

Her eyes were closed. "The... great perhaps..." she seemed to murmur.

"Quite." Sandhurst stood, then stared down at her lovely face for a long moment. "Adieu, Michelle."

* * *

That same night Sandhurst sought out Aimée de St. Briac, who assured him that Micheline was in no danger any longer. She was weak from the two long days of profound upset to her digestion and the king's physician had recommended these vast quantities of rest.

"Does he have any idea what caused this?" he asked, his brows knit with concern.

"The physician says it could only be something Micheline ate, but since everyone else at the table partook of the same foods, we are all quite mystified."

"Very odd indeed," he murmured.

"Was there something else, m'sieur? My daughters are waiting to be kissed good night."

"I ought to tell you good-bye, madame. I return to England tomorrow."

Aimée felt a sharp pang of sadness. It was a shame that things couldn't have turned out differently. If only Andrew Selkirk were another sort of man...

"We shall miss you, m'sieur," she said sincerely. "It has been a pleasure to know you, and I wish you good fortune."

Lifting her hand, Sandhurst kissed it lightly and managed to smile. "I return your sentiments. Good-bye, my lady. Kindly make my farewells to your family."

"I shall. Au revoir, m'sieur."

* * *

Lying warm and naked in the great testered bed, Aimée watched her husband undress in front of the fire. In spite of her mixed feelings about Andrew Selkirk, now that he was leaving, a burden seemed lifted from Aimée's shoulders. At least there was no choice anymore. Micheline would have to marry the Marquess of Sandhurst, and some sixth sense told Aimée that all would be well. She could return her attention to Thomas, and this seemed a perfect time to begin.

"Mmm," she purred, "I've missed you...."

"Have you!" St. Briac glanced over at his wife, his mouth flickering with amused surprise. "I'm shocked that you have time for such selfish emotions."

"If you are referring to my preoccupation with Micheline, I can happily report that matters seem to be resolving themselves without me. She is nearly good as new, and Andrew Selkirk leaves tomorrow for England. There's nothing left for me to worry about—at the moment at least!"

Thomas stopped in the act of unlacing his breeches. "Did you say that Selkirk is leaving?"

"That's right—in the morning. He asked me to tell you good-bye."

St. Briac reached for his shirt and put it back on. "I ought to speak to him before he goes."

"What! Now?"

He arched a brow, smiling. "Now you're getting a taste of what I've been enduring these past months! Rather unpleasant, isn't it!"

"You're being hateful."

"Not at all. It's just that I happen to like Selkirk. I'd like to remind him that he had at least one friend here at Fontainebleau." Pulling on his doublet, St. Briac leaned across the bed and dropped a kiss on his wife's pouting lips. "It's time you learned patience, miette. You're much too spoiled."

In the doorway he glanced back and caught sight of a pillow flying from the bed. St. Briac dodged the missile just in time, and then the sound of his low laughter drifted back to Aimée from the other side of the door.

Thomas discovered Andrew Selkirk in his modest room, folding shirts and drinking wine.

"You ought to leave that to your manservant," St. Briac remarked.

The thought of Jeremy's reaction to such a statement made Sandhurst smile. "Oh, Playfair is off making a long farewell to a little saucemaker he's gotten to know rather well. In any case, I don't mind. The activity distracts me."

Thomas didn't need to ask what the Englishman needed to be distracted from. "Have you seen Micheline? Does she know you're leaving?"

"Yes on both counts." Andrew proffered a goblet of wine to St. Briac. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not discuss it."

When the shirts were folded and stacked, the two men took chairs in front of the fire. The flames leaped and danced, gilding Sandhurst's hair and handsome profile. They talked for a time about horses and England. At length, Thomas inquired, "Are you familiar with Paris? I can recommend excellent lodgings."

"I'd appreciate that. The auberge we picked at random on the way here left much to be desired." Ironically the Duke of Aylesbury owned a magnificent house in Paris, but Andrew had no intention of going there. He didn't want word to reach his father that he'd been in France at all. "We ate cold vegetables and hard bread on a greasy board and the wine was piquette. Playfair and I had to take turns sleeping during the night to ensure the safety of our belongings. Needless to say, I shall be grateful for your recommendation."

"My sister, Nicole, is married to an artist named Michel Joubert. They live quite comfortably on the Right Bank, and I can assure you that they would be more than happy to give you rooms for a night."

"But it would be too great an imposition! They've never met me."

"Trust me, my friend. My sister enjoys guests above all else. I will write a message for you to take to her. She will be delighted to welcome you—and equally delighted to hear all the news of my family."

"Well, if you are certain..."

St. Briac laughed. "Absolutely!"

"In that case, I am grateful."

The two men rose and shook hands. "It is late," said Thomas. "I'll say adieu now and wish you godspeed."

"I've enjoyed knowing you, my lord," replied Andrew.

"I have to tell you that I am sorry your story with Micheline could not have had a happier ending. I only hope that my wife is right and that Micheline will not have cause to regret her choice."

"My lady is for Lord Sandhurst?" Andrew inquired, his brows flicking upward.

"She heard that he is everything wonderful in a man." Thomas shrugged. "And I'm sure that if you care for Micheline, you also must wish her happiness in her marriage."

Sandhurst watched as the other man went to the table and took up a quill to write a brief message to his sister. On another sheet of parchment he wrote her name, address, and directions to help Andrew find the house.

"Don't look so angry, Selkirk," Thomas admonished when he put down the quill. "After all, the lady had already given her word to marry Lord Sandhurst before she ever met you!"

When Andrew spoke, there was an unmistakable edge of steel in his voice. "You're right, and I do hope that Micheline will be happy, but it won't be with the Marquess of Sandhurst. Of that much I'm certain."

"Why do you say that?" St. Briac demanded, utterly taken aback.

"Forget it. I was just raving."

Andrew laughed then, but Thomas felt uneasy. After they exchanged farewells again and he took his leave, he walked only a few paces down the corridor before stopping. Raking a hand through his crisp hair, he ran the Englishman's words through his mind over and over. Sangdieu! What could he have meant?

"Greetings, my lord!"

St. Briac looked up to see Jeremy Playfair, weaving slightly as he approached.

"Playfair!" he exclaimed softly, elated. The young man looked more than slightly intoxicated, which was just fine. Taking Jeremy by the arm, he drew him farther away from Andrew Selkirk's door. "I have something to ask you, and I must demand that you give me an honest answer."

This Frenchman had always appeared merry enough to Jeremy, but now he towered over him in a manner that seemed altogether menacing. "Certainly, my lord! If I can!"

"A few minutes ago your master said that he wished that Micheline Tevoulere might be happy, but that it wouldn't be with the Marquess of Sandhurst. He emphasized that he was certain about that. What did he mean?"

"Why—why—it's because he don't intend to go through with the wedding!"

St. Briac's confusion grew. "Who doesn't?"

"Lord Sandhurst!" As soon as this was out, Jeremy's eyes nearly crossed as he realized what he had said, but Thomas was still in the dark.

"How would Andrew Selkirk know that?" An absurd notion occurred to him. "That is, unless... you don't mean—"

"I can't say another word, my lord! If he finds out, he'll see me hanged! He'll have me drawn and quartered! I must go now."

St. Briac caught the young Englishman by the collar of his shirt. "Be easy, my friend. I give you my word that I will not betray your confidence."

"Do you swear? Swear that you won't tell a soul in all the world that it's been Sandhurst himself here at Fontainebleau!"

So there it was, a truth that left Thomas stunned. "I swear," he sighed.

"He meant no harm! The marriage was being forced on him by the king and the Duke of Aylesbury. He considered refusing outright, but the stakes were high, and so we thought it might be prudent to at least have a look at the chit. You see, I'm not Playfair, either; I'm Sir Jeremy Culpepper, Sandhurst's friend."

"I think I can guess the rest. Your friend fell in love with Micheline, and his pride was stung when she continued to choose a stranger over him. I can imagine how he must feel."

"Sandhurst's always been cynical about love and marriage, but now I think he'll never take a wife. A shame, isn't it?"

"Yes, M'sieur Culpepper, it is a shame. I must be off now. Thank you for your time."

"You won't forget?"

"My oath? Rest easy, m'sieur; my word is good."

* * *

Before Chateau de Fontainebleau awoke at six o'clock, Andrew and Jeremy mounted their horses and clattered over the moonlit Oval Courtyard.

"God's toes!" exclaimed Culpepper. "I don't know about you, but I shall be bloody glad to be back in England. France is well enough, I suppose, but there's no place like home."

Sandhurst looked up at Micheline's darkened windows and expelled a harsh sigh. "Indeed..."

* * *

It was still dark when Micheline awoke. She had tossed fitfully all night, not because of illness but because she was feeling herself again and had had enough sleep to last a lifetime.

As soon as the first pink streaks stained the eastern sky, Micheline roused Suzette and told her she wanted a bath. This was soon accomplished, and as she scrubbed herself in the cuve, Micheline rehearsed every word that she would say to Andrew. All the time that she'd been sick, she had dreamt of him. Since her conversation with Rabelais, everything seemed to make sense. The monk's pronouncements had been unorthodox, yet perfectly suited to Micheline's problems. She had allowed silly fears and events from the past that had nothing to do with Andrew cloud her judgment. Rabelais was right. Micheline would only have one life, and now she was determined not to waste it. Andrew was everything Bernard couldn't be; his strength and tenderness emanated from a steel core, while Bernard had been innately weak. Now that Micheline's eyes were open, she knew that she would never compare the two men again.

Suzette fretted aloud as Micheline dressed, worrying that she should not have gotten up and that this sudden burst of energy might trigger a relapse. The younger girl placated her by nibbling on some bread and sliced orange, but she would not be persuaded to return to bed.

Finally, clad in a gown of buttery-yellow silk, her freshly washed curls spilling loose down her back, Micheline was ready. It was past seven now. Andrew would certainly be awake.

"There's someone I must see, Suzette. Don't worry—I'm not going outside!"

"But, madame, what if my mistress should come? What shall I say?"

"Aimée never leaves her own rooms until eight-thirty, but if she should appear before I return, simply tell her that you couldn't control me. Tell her I was incorrigible!" Laughing gaily, Micheline opened the door and came face to face with St. Briac.

"Bonjour, monseigneur!" she greeted him. "I've recovered!"

"So I see." His smile was distracted. "Micheline, I need to talk to you."

"Can it wait? I was on my way to speak to Andrew Selkirk."

"Save your breath, cherie. I hate to tell you, but he's left for England."





Part III





Lord, what is this world's bliss,

That changeth as the moon?

My summer's day in lusty May

Is darked before the noon.

I hear you say farewell. Nay, nay,

We depart not so soon.

Why say ye so? Whither will ye go?

Alas! what have ye done?

All my welfare to sorrow and care

Should change, if ye were gone,

For in my mind of all mankind

I love but you alone.

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