Dreams So Fleeting Read online

  Dreams So Fleeting

  Sylvia Halliday

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1985 by Sylvia Halliday

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition January 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-541-4

  Also by Sylvia Halliday

  The French Maiden Series

  Marielle

  Lysette

  Delphine

  Dreams So Fleeting

  Gold as the Morning Sun

  The Ring

  Summer Darkness, Winter Light

  To my former husband and dearest friend, Sid, who encouraged and supported me, and never once complained when I dragged him to see just one more “old French church”; and to our wonderful children, Doug, Fred, Rog, and Julia, who launched their own futures with such confidence and independence that “Mother” was able to become “Writer.”

  “…a company of strolling players…rather disreputable, slightly noisy, full of swaggering triumphs and ignominious flights, of kisses and brawls and boastings and jealousies and loves and feuds…all enhanced by dramatic art;…the actor hardly knows if he is acting or not.”

  Molière, The Comic Mask

  by D. B. Wyndham Lewis

  Prologue

  1670

  “‘…and the handsome prince lifted the princess to his saddle and carried her away with him to the beautiful château that overlooked the wide river.’”

  The little girl smiled in wonder, her blue eyes shining. “Oh, Maman! I liked that one the best of all! The prince was so noble and fine. I thought of Papa as you told it. Did you not think of Papa?”

  “I did indeed, my sweet.” Ninon closed the book and stood up, smoothing the pale green satin of her skirt. There was no need to summon a servant; her few movements alerted a young girl who stood politely under an elm tree, at some distance from the stone bench upon which Ninon had been sitting. Ninon handed her the book. “Merci, Charlotte,” she said. “Would you tell Girard I wish a table for supper to be set out here in the garden? It is such a pleasant evening. The children and I should enjoy it for a little longer. God willing, Monsieur my husband is finding the weather in Paris as delightful as it is for us here.”

  As the maid curtsied and withdrew to the château, Ninon smiled down at the little girl. “Come, Rachel, let us walk down to the fountain where the boys are playing.” The child nodded her head, deep red curls bobbing vigorously. Ninon stroked her downy cheek, seeing in the eleven-year-old face the first contours, the first hints of the woman she would become. Hand in hand, they strolled the length of the garden, chatting about the stories they had read together, passing beds of nodding spring tulips and crystal ponds sparkling with brightly colored fish.

  The two boys, sleeves rolled up, were deeply engrossed in a game they had devised, setting paper boats on the top tier of the fountain and watching as the flow of the water swept their fragile craft over the rim and into the next brimming basin.

  “Ha!” crowed the elder, a lad of about ten. “My ships have taken much more buffeting than yours and still are at the top!”

  The other boy, perhaps two years younger, thrust out a belligerent chin. “I spit on your boats! You cheated!”

  “Arnaud! For shame,” cried Ninon. “To speak so to your brother!”

  “Well, he did cheat, Maman. He put his wax seal on his ships—they don’t fall as easily as mine.”

  “Then put a seal on your own ships to give them weight.”

  The younger boy pouted. “He said only a vicomte may use a seal.”

  “Nom de Dieu! Pierre-Augustin, did you tell your brother such a thing?” Pierre-Augustin blushed guiltily.

  “It isn’t fair that he should have a title,” grumbled Arnaud.

  “Hush,” Ninon chided. “Your father gave him the title of Vicomte de Bovier on his tenth birthday as an honor. It is his birthright. The eldest son in the family has always held that title. It was your own father’s, while his father was alive.”

  “Shall I have a title someday?” asked Arnaud, still sulky, “or must I be only ‘Chevalier,’ with no proper title or seal?”

  “There is no shame in being called ‘Chevalier’ with your father’s honorable name appended. But I think, in time, Papa will give you one of his titles—and the lands to go with it. In the meantime ‘Vicomte’…” she turned to Pierre-Augustin, frowning, “if you use your title to cheat at your games, or carry your brother with a high hand, I myself shall lay a switch to your lordship’s backside that will make your tutor’s thrashings seem mild by comparison!”

  “I shall be a princess someday,” piped up Rachel, by way of bragging to her brothers. “A woman is so much more fortunate. She can pick and choose. I shall marry into a fine title, as you did, Maman.”

  Ninon laughed gently. “And love, Rachel? Is there no place for love in your dreams?”

  “Oh, Maman! I shall love him at once—like the stories. And he will be a handsome prince.”

  Ninon gathered her children to her. “Come,” she said. “I see that supper is prepared. Let’s enjoy our good fortune and the beauty of the evening. Never forget, while you are quarreling over titles, that you are God’s favored few in this land. There are far too many Frenchmen who would sell a title—if they had it—for a crust of bread. Come along.”

  They supped quietly on river trout and squab, a fine bouillon, and pain de rive, a golden crusty roll baked gently at the edge of the oven. The wine they drank, watered down and sweetened with honey for the children, was from their own vineyards. Filled with peace and contentment, Ninon leaned back in her chair and breathed deeply of the sweet night, watching the first star appear in the sky.

  “Do you dream of your lover, madame?” The voice was rich and musical and faintly tinged with mockery.

  “Papa!” Rachel shrieked in delight, rushing from her chair to embrace the tall man who strode toward them in the twilight.

  Ninon stood and turned, feeling her heart catch in her throat, the thrill she always felt at the sight of him. As his wife, she had shared his bed for twelve years, and still she found herself speechless, her heart too overloaded with love for words. She waited until he had greeted the children, then she smiled shyly and held out her hands. He bent and kissed her fingertips, then frowned and kissed them again, his tongue flicking across the soft flesh.

  “Hm!” he said, straightening and smacking his lips. “Too much mustard in the fish sauce.”

  She found her voice at last. “Buffoon!” She laughed. “But I had not expected you for another three days!”

  “Alas! Must I return to Versailles? Of course, there was that charming Madame de Grignot, and a sweet comtesse, and…”

  “Enough! You may stay.” She kissed him primly on the cheek. “But tell me, how did you find the king?”

  “Louis is well. And deep in his plans for the improvements at Versailles. I saw the pavilion he is building at Trianon for Madame de Montespan—he calls it a charming little cottage, but I found it a palace.” His eyes glittered wickedly. “But then a mistress, at least, is worth the expense!”

  “That insult will cost you dear, my sweet husband!”
>
  Like a magician performing a trick, he snapped his fingers and rummaged in a pocket of his coat, producing a diamond-and-sapphire brooch. When Ninon would have reached for it, he shook his head, his hungry eyes sweeping her body. “In payment,” he said, his mouth twitching, and replaced the brooch. “By the by, while I was in Paris to register the leases on the new property, I took the occasion to see Molière and his latest play. Very amusing.”

  Ninon smiled. “He is truly a brilliant man, a genius. Next to him, the rest are hacks.”

  “All of them?” he challenged.

  Evading a reply, she asked, “Have you eaten supper?”

  “No.” He shook his head, his eyes smoldering. “But not now. I have other hungers.”

  Ninon felt her cheeks turn pink, and cleared her throat nervously, conscious of the children, who were listening intently. “Charlotte,” she said to the hovering maid, “take the children to their apartements. It is late and they have had a long day.” Despite complaints and protests, good-nights were said and the children were bustled off to their rooms. She turned to him, her eyes warm with love. “Welcome home, my husband,” she whispered.

  He pulled her into his embrace, his mouth crushing hers, his arms tight and possessive about her lissome waist. She slid her arms around his neck and pressed against him, abandoning herself to the sweet warmth that had begun to pulse in her loins. He kissed her until she was breathless, then stepped back and bowed elaborately, his face a mask of propriety. “Madame,” he said grandly, “would you care to accompany me to the château for some…negotiations? There is the matter of a brooch, I believe…”

  She giggled. “This?” And held up the bauble.

  “Pickpocket! Thief!” He lunged, but she was swifter than he. She pocketed the brooch and lifted her skirts, fleeing toward the château. He nearly caught her in the ground-floor vestibule, and again as she sped up the broad marble staircase, but his sheathed sword, banging against his leg as he ran, slowed his progress. As she reached the first floor, he overtook her and swept her into his arms, ignoring her squeals of protest as he carried her to the door of his apartement. The servants in the passageway discreetly averted their eyes—it was none of their concern if the master and his lady chose to behave like children!

  He kicked open the door with his booted foot and carried her inside, nodding curtly to his valet de chambre, who had sprung forward to be of assistance as soon as the door opened. “I shall not need you tonight, Achille,” he said, his voice rumbling with dignity, as though he were not carrying a squirming woman in his arms. “Be so good as to open the door to my bedchamber, then close it behind me. And set out a cold supper here in my antechamber before you retire.”

  “Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”

  “Oh. And one more thing.” There was laughter behind his serious tone. “Dismiss madame’s maid. She…has found another for the night!”

  Achille nodded and left them alone.

  “Dieu du ciel!” laughed Ninon, as her husband tossed her unceremoniously on the large bed. “What must they think of us?”

  “What can they think,” he said, dropping down beside her and stroking the delicate line of her chin, “but that I love you very much?” He kissed her gently, then reached up and untied the lace kerchief about her shoulders. “Now…I told Achille I would be your maid, and so I shall!” Strong fingers unhooked her stiffened and boned bodice, and pulled it open to reveal the white silk chemise beneath. He stroked her breasts through the fabric, feeling her nipples harden at his gentle touch. “Mon Dieu,” he breathed, “why do you women keep your bosoms caged?”

  She sat up and shrugged out of the green satin bodice, pulling free the tabs that were tucked into her skirts at the back. “’Tis a sweet cage,” she said, “filled with remembrance. Look you. I have had my busc carved especially.” Her fingers probed the lining of the bodice until she found the open seam, and withdrew the busc, the long piece of whalebone, some three inches wide, that ran down the front of the bodice from the low-cut neckline to below the waist. The busc was carved, in the current fashion, with flowers and birds; turning it over, Ninon showed him what was written on the other side.

  “‘Take not the roses from my days…’” he began, reading aloud, then stopped, his eyes warm with love. “You remembered the verse.”

  She dimpled prettily. “My cruel master would scold me in the old days if I forgot! He was always a tyrant.”

  He stood up. “Your master has better things to do now,” he said, taking her about the waist and swinging her off the bed to stand before him. “Turn around.” When she complied, he began to unhook the skirt fastenings at the small of her back. “By all that’s holy, ’tis worse than peeling an onion!” He loosed the long trailing overskirt of green, the pale yellow underskirt, and the lace-trimmed petticoat. He untied her padded hip roll and finally reached a plain linen petticoat, tugging impatiently at it so that the drawstring snapped and the fabric fell about her knees.

  “Sweet Madonna, what a clumsy maid,” she said, stepping away from her skirts to smile wickedly at him. She was clad now only in her full-sleeved chemise, which reached to her thighs, and her shoes and stockings.

  “Sit down, wench!” he growled, pushing her onto the bed.

  “And insolent besides!”

  Ignoring the challenge, he knelt before her where she sat, and removed her high-heeled shoes, then unfastened the ribbon garters at her knees and pulled off her stockings. Anticipating the final assault on her chemise, Ninon untied the ribbons that held the billowing sleeves tightly to her wrists, then gasped in surprise. He had buried his face between her bare thighs, and now his lips moved slowly upward, a tantalizing journey to the quivering core of her. She moaned softly and fell back against the pillows, while his mouth and hands teased and tormented her, and her insides turned to liquid fire.

  At last he raised himself and smiled down at her, seeing how she trembled and sighed, how she opened for him in hungry anticipation. “My God,” he said. “How I love to love you!” Quickly he tossed aside his sword and shed his garments, then returned to her and ravaged her mouth with his burning kisses, while his hands slid under her chemise to caress her heaving breasts. Remembering his last duty as her femme de chambre, he pulled off the chemise over her head; then, aroused beyond endurance by the sight of her pale body lying beneath him, he entered her. She cried aloud in exquisite joy, feeling the silken slide of his hard shaft, stroking slowly and rhythmically until she thought she would go mad with the sensation. Almost imperceptibly his movements quickened until his thrusts were hard and strong, and his hands on her buttocks pressed her ever closer to his pulsing loins. She clung to him, her hips moving with his rhythm, her senses spinning out of control. They climaxed together, a wrenching spasm that left them drained and limp, and gloriously fulfilled.

  After a little he stretched and yawned, and rolled lazily out of bed, bending over to kiss Ninon once again before padding, barefoot and naked, into his antechamber to fetch the food and wine that had been left for him. He carried the tray back to the bed and lay, like a contented sybarite, while Ninon stripped bits of cold squab from the bones and fed them to him.

  “For such a homecoming,” he laughed, “I should journey to Paris more often!”

  “No,” she said, suddenly serious. “My heart yearns for you too much while you are away. I cannot manage the household, I cannot talk to the children, without thinking of you, seeing you everywhere.”

  “The children do not suffer, I think. They seem well and happy.”

  “Yes.” She smiled, her eyes misty and faraway, as though she paraded the children before her mind’s eye. “Rachel especially brings me joy at this age. I was telling her the old stories today, the contes and romances.” A soft laugh. “She asked me if dreams come true.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “To keep her dreams, for they will nurture and protect her through the years.”

  He sat up and poured himself another cu
p of wine. “How strange for you to say that!”

  “Why strange?”

  He smiled a wry smile, his eyes almost sad. “Your dreams did not come true!”

  She put a hand to her mouth, her blue eyes filling with tears. “Oh, my dearest love! Here am I, safe in your arms, my heart bursting with joy and tenderness…How can you say such a thing?”

  “But…”

  “The truth is not that my dreams did not come true. Rather, I clung to the wrong dream for such a very long time. I did not know when I had found my Prince Charming!”

  “Ninon,” he murmured, “dearest, dearest Ninon…” He took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, stroking back the copper curls from her forehead.

  She sighed, snuggling against his broad chest. “Let Rachel have her dreams. Life will show her the sweetness of reality.”

  Chapter One

  1654

  “Ninon!”

  Jacques Baugin’s harsh voice cut through the spring twilight, routing the startled doves from their perches beneath the thatched eaves of the old inn.

  “Ninon! Devil take that lazy girl! By the spires of Reims Cathedral, I’ll have the brat’s skin when I find her!”

  Crouched among the high grasses that covered the hill behind the inn, Ninon Guillemot cursed under her breath. She would have to hurry now. Surely her stepfather would want to know where she had been. Thanks be to le bon Dieu, she had had time this morning to gather a small bundle of kindling and put it aside; it would give her a plausible excuse for her disappearance.

  Staying low so that she could not be seen from the innyard, she moved toward the crest of the hill and the ruined shack. Something hidden among the tall grasses caught her eye and she nearly cried aloud for joy: a spring dandelion, its one blossom withered, but with three bright leaves, spike-edged and succulent. Carefully, so as not to uproot the plant, she plucked the leaves and wiped them with the corner of her apron, then nibbled daintily at them, savoring each bite as though she were a princess at a banquet. They barely touched the hole in her empty belly, but she smiled in pleasure, knowing them a harbinger of spring and—God willing—of future secret feasts. She removed the seeds from the dandelion flower and strewed them among the grasses, saying a prayer for a speedy harvest as she pressed them into the soft soil.