Beyond paradise (5 page)

Jervais, who was not at all troubled by angry glares, barely noticed that he was receiving one. "You were in here so long, I thought something might've happened," he said, glancing suspiciously at the prisoner's manacles. "You're certain everything is all right?"

"Yes, yes," said Sylvie. "Everything's just fine."

"Well, then," he nodded with authority, "we should go."

Elizabeth Doyle

"Yes, yes. Go. That's what we should.. ."—she looked anxiously behind her—". .. should do."

When the door was shut and the key was turned, it made Sylvie a little weak, for she was so grateful to be on the correct side of the slammed door. She could not even bear to think how it would feel to be left alone in the darkness, manacled. It was almost too awful to imagine. But as she and Jervais ventured along, their footsteps echoing eerily in the dank corridor, her dazed state of mind took her back not to his torment, but to his face. So beautiful.

The jailer greeted the couple gruffly. "So Jervais tells me you are to be married," he said. He was trying to make pleasant chatter, but pleasantries did not come easily to him. Whether he knew it or not, he sounded as though he were accusing her of something wretched. Sylvie did not hear at first, she was so involved with her own emotions. But his next question made it through. "Are you looking forward to your wedding?" he asked, causing her to stretch her eyes.

"My what?"

"Your wedding?"

Sylvie shook her head, a puzzled expression crossing her face. "Oh, my wedding," she said at last. "Yes, my wedding. I am looking forward to it." She cast one last glance behind her, where somewhere in the darkness behind piles of stone, lay a bronzed, beautiful stranger. "It seems I can think of nothing else."

Six

"I become more enchanted every time I meet with you." Sylvie was not the only one having trouble keeping her mind on marriage. Her fiance was also doing a fair job of avoiding the proverbial wedding jitters.

"You shouldn't say such things." A raven-haired beauty was his quarry on that particular day. Her slick, black hair was striking against her snowy skin, her dark eyes like oil. But she did not believe in her beauty, and needed constant reassurance that the looking glass did not deceive her, that she really was as desirable as her peers would have her believe.

Etienne was a master at granting ladies just such reassurances. "But how can I resist?" he asked slyly. "How can I keep my lips sealed against what my heart knows so well?"

She tried not to blush, but failed. It was true, a voice deep within her breast assured her—she really was pretty. She must be. Otherwise, he would not say such things. "Still, Monsieur," she ventured coyly, "I wonder that you do not call for me at home. Is it right that we should always happen

Elizabeth Doyle

upon one another like this, without the introduction of our families?"

Etienne would not be so easily trapped. He knew the pitfalls of being a ladies' man, and one of them was this. All women wanted to be the only one, but how could each be the only? Rather than change the subject, which would have drawn attention to his unease, he thought quickly enough to gently modify the subject at hand. "But we do not happen upon each other," he objected with a curl of his lip. "Do you think I would allow fate to decide whether I see you again? What if it should say no?" He shared a smile with her, pleased to see that her teeth were very straight. He liked good teeth on a woman. "No, no," he said, "I have followed you, I have watched you, as though you were a rare bird in flight. I have made certain that we would meet, so enchanted am I by your beauty." He lifted her gloved hand and kissed it suavely, deciding he should press further and add, "as well as your grace." Grace was a nice, vague compliment for a woman he really did not know.

Veronique was now smiling stupidly. She could scarcely remember to be coy when his stunning blue eyes were squinting at her so invitingly. His face was not remarkably handsome, for it was rather too long and narrow. But his friendliness sprang from confidence, and that confidence peeked through his slyly smiling face. There was no doubt she was attracted. "You shouldn't flatter me," she said, for somehow, she thought it was appropriate.

"There are many things I shouldn't do," he answered, lifting her gloved hand once again to his mouth, a deliciously evil expression in his eyes.

Veronique didn't know what that sentence meant, but she liked the impassioned aura of it. She liked the way his wig fell about his shoulders in such perfect ringlets. She liked his

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slender waist and his grand height. But she suddenly wished he would let go of her hand. The way he was squeezing it was moving from demanding to absolutely painful. And it was odd, the way his lips had frozen in midair. She tried to pull herself delicately from his clutch, but could not. So she gave her hand a good yank. He was still frozen in mid-kiss, a wide and very unappealing stare crossing his eyes. Veronique looked over her shoulder.

Sylvie had both hands on her hips, and looked eerily calm. Her cinnamon hair was blowing naturally in the breeze, her dark brows furrowed over her determined blue eyes. In her plain gown and apron, she looked like a peasant in comparison to the elegantly dressed Veronique, flapping her fashionable fan before her milky face. Yet somehow, Veronique was wise enough to be appropriately intimidated by their unexpected voyeur. She suddenly felt as though she had done something very, very wrong, and was about to pay for it.

"Why, Sylvie!" cried Etienne, straightening up at last. "What a surprise to see you. You're, uh ... looking ..."—he examined her pitiful country gown with distaste—"lovely as always," he finished with as sincere a smile as he could manage.

"Please leave us," Sylvie said gently to Veronique, her eyes fixed firmly upon her betrothed.

Veronique looked at Sylvie, and then at Etienne. But nobody looked at her. "But I..." She hardly knew where to begin. She didn't feel she should have to leave upon request. Yet, something was telling her to do so. "Who is this?" she asked Etienne.

He hedged. "Well," he said, tilting his head from side to side, "technically, I suppose she is my, uh . . . well, in a very technical sense . . ."

"Unfortunately," Sylvie interrupted calmly, "I am his

Elizabeth Doyle

bride-to-be. Now please leave us." She had no quarrel with Veronique. She knew who had betrayed her.

"Bride-to-be!" cried Veronique, spinning to face her untruthful suitor. "Why, no wonder you would not meet my family! Is this true?"

He managed a weak smile. "Well, yes, but you see ..."

"Yes, I do see!" she cried. "Indeed I do! Of all the ..."

"Now, wait," he called after her, trying to catch hold of an elbow or at least a piece of cloth before she could depart forever. "It isn't so terrible as all of that, is it? I am only going to be married, not dead. I..."

But she was gone. Etienne took a deep breath as he watched her disappear along the dirt road, far from the hustle and bustle of town, and into the forest beyond. He was disappointed, yes. And for a full count to five, he really did mourn. But he then felt it was time to recover from his grief and live again, so he faced Sylvie. "Oh, well," he sighed, "she really was a nice girl. So how are you?"

"Why must you embarrass me?" she asked, sparing him not a spark of the wrath which gleamed in her eyes.

"Embarrass you?" he asked. "What do you mean? You mean ... oh, that?" he asked, pointing at the road. "Oh, no, no. You misunderstand. You see, I was merely helping her..."

"Answer my question," she demanded.

Several expressions crossed Etienne's face, one at a time, and quickly. First, he looked innocent of his seemingly innocuous crime, then thoughtful as he pondered a better lie, then miserably caught upon the realization that Sylvie would not believe it, and finally, falsely angry. "I should ask you the same thing," he demanded. "Where have you been? Gallivanting about when you should be at home, preparing yourself for our marriage? You look filthy. How do you think I feel, when my bride flits about this island as though she were a free vessel, and not studying to better serve me? Don't you

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have cooking and sewing to learn? And look at you—your clothing is better suited to a peasant."

Sylvie was offended, for she did not own any beautiful gowns, and Etienne knew it well. Her family was poor, though titled, and provided for her as well as they could. But they did not have the sort of money he did. Still, she would not allow the change of subject, even after being so provoked. "I know you don't care for me," she announced.

"Don't care for you?" he asked, reaching for her hand. "How could you say such a . .."

"Don't coddle me," she warned, yanking away her hand. "I did not choose this marriage, either. But I expect that we should grant one another dignity."

"But what do you mean? I—"

He knew what she'd meant, and so she walked away. There was nothing else to say here. She had made her point, and any further discussion would only give him the opportunity to tell more lies. She offered him only her back as he continued to prattle off excuses and pleas. She was glad that he at least felt the need to explain himself. It was a good sign. It meant that he knew what he had done wrong, even if he didn't quite care. "You heard me!" she called one last time before moving out of his ear's reach. And then she was alone in her anger.

The walk home gave her ample time in which to fume. The ever-present breeze carried the crisp scent of ocean mixed with the fresh smell of healthy leaves. As always, the temperature was perfect, the sun gentle. She passed moist, black fields of sugar, speckled by one-room wooden huts. The peasants, covered in dirt as though it were soot, sometimes bowed as she passed. This always brought an awkward smile to her lips. She wanted to receive their kindness, and yet, she did not wish to appear deserving. She had never believed that she deserved anyone's bow. As much as possible, she tried

Elizabeth Doyle

to keep her gaze straight ahead. If she avoided their eyes, perhaps they would not feel the need to gesture. And really, their stillness would make her feel more at ease.

The daughter of nobility. It was a joke. She had no money, no breeding, and had never been to Versailles. She wouldn't even know how to behave if she stepped foot in the palace. She would probably be expelled immediately, for it was well known that Louis IX was positively dictatorial when it came to manners of his urban nobility. But Sylvie's father was nothing but a country squire. In theory, he was just as important as the elegantly dressed lords and ladies of Versailles, but in reality, he could barely provide for his family. Hence, Sylvie's impending marriage.

It was well known that Etienne was beneath her station. But no one could argue that this child of the bourgeoisie had the money Sylvie's family so desperately needed. It was not a matter of pride. They were having difficulty surviving. And Sylvie had been happy to help. After all, she'd never heard of a marriage which hadn't been arranged by parents. It is true she had always hoped they would choose someone wonderful, with whom she might fall in love. But she hadn't expected it. She had only hoped. And she knew well that Etienne was no happier about the match than she was. She really didn't blame him for seeking out other women. Goodness knew, she had been tempted herself. But it was the shame with which she could not live. If he were going to carry on affairs, that was fine. But couldn't he afford her the dignity of doing it quietly? Wasn't it enough of an injustice that while he would surely stray during their dull marriage, she would be forever bound to her loneliness? For surely, women were not afforded such understanding when it came to infidelity. From men, it was expected. From women, it was forbidden. Wasn't that bad enough?

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Late at night, Sylvie's house grew quiet. Her parents always retired when there was no more light, and rose at the first sign of its reappearance. She and Chantal shared a wide bed in the third room of the house. It was a cozy but plain room which smelled of wood. There was a tiny window through which the girls could see the moon beaming through the trees. Sylvie always let Chantal have the side of the bed near the window, but kept her gaze toward the moon until she was too tired to stare. "Something happened to you today," said Chantal once the blankets had been lifted to their chins.

"What makes you say that?" yawned Sylvie. "And don't pull the blanket so securely. You'll kick it off in the night, and then you'll be cold."

Chantal adjusted the blanket, but persisted. "I could tell," she said, "you had a look in your eyes all night. Something happened."

"Well, even if it did," said Sylvie gently, "I wouldn't be able to tell you."

"I can keep a secret!" she promised. "Really, I can."

"No, it wouldn't be fair. You're too young to keep a secret. I'd have no right to be angry with you for telling. You're too young to resist the temptation."

"I could!" cried Chantal. "Please trust me."

Sylvie cast her a sympathetic glance. It was plain to see that it would mean a great deal to her to be trusted. "Very well," said Sylvie, "but you have to promise."

"I do! I promise."

"All right, then. I..." She glanced irrationally at the door to make sure her parents weren't somehow standing in it. "I met a pirate at the jail."

"A pirate!" asked Chantal, curiosity tickling her belly. "Was he frightening?"

Elizabeth Doyle

Sylvie let out a breath which resembled a quiet laugh. "No, he's not frightening, silly. The pirates are in jail. They're the ones who are scared of us, not the other way around. You might as well fear a bear with his foot in a trap."

"But did he wear lots of gold?"

"I don't know," she answered quietly. "Everything was taken from him when he was brought to the jail, I suppose." A cool breeze blew into the room, bringing smells of grass and leaves. There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Where do they put the gold?" asked Chantal.