Chapter Eight
Two days later, Constance snipped a miniature peach-colored rosebud from one of the bushes she cultivated with much care in her small greenhouse. She held it up to the filtered sunlight and gazed at it thoughtfully as she puzzled over the problem foremost in her mind. I can take a cutting and help it develop into a thing of beauty, she mused. A little knowledge, some care, and a bit of luck. That's all it needs. But not Noelle. Since she has been here she has shown herself unwilling to accept even the slightest kindness. She bristles when I come near and defies me every way she can. Why? For three days Constance had been asking herself this question, and she was still no closer to an answer.
Placing the tender bud on top of its sisters in a wicker basket, she smiled grimly to herself as she thought of their twice daily mealtime duels. Just today, Noelle had managed to consume an entire lobster stew without once touching fork or spoon. She infuriates me so, I'd like to strangle her, yet I can't remember when I've met a person I admire as much as that girl. She has such fierce determination, such pride. If there were only some way I could pierce her hostility.
Sighing, she picked up the rose-filled basket and walked into her house. It seemed the only thing she'd done right was to put out that ugly old blue dress so Noelle could have a change of clothing. If she could just order some pretty things for her and a few caps to cover that absurd hair, but as she had several times before, Constance abruptly dismissed the thought. Noelle was definitely not a doll to be costumed.
I'm afraid Simon is destined to be bitterly disappointed, she told herself. He'll never be able to convince her to stay here with me.
As she passed the library door she saw that it had been left ajar. Curious, she peeked in.
Noelle, looking very small in the lofty paneled room, was running her hand along one of the shelves. Finally she extracted a dark green leather-bound tome and took it to the library table, where she set it on the tooled leather top. She has spent more time in there these last few days, Constance thought, than she has anywhere else in this house. And every time I look in, she seems to have a different book in her hands.
Constance pasted a bright smile on her lips and entered the room. 'Hello, Noelle, aren't these lovely?' She held out the peach roses for Noelle's scrutiny.
'Yes,' Noelle responded coldly, not bothering to pick up her head to look.
Suddenly Constance felt a great resentment rising within her. She was tired of being rebuffed, tired of Noelle's perpetual rudeness.
'I said, aren't these lovely?' Although her voice was quiet, the tones were icy and commanding.
Startled, Noelle lifted her head to find Constance's green eyes, usually so warm, scrutinizing her angrily. Noelle looked at the rose Constance held extended in her hand. 'It's a beautiful rose,' she said flatly.
Encouraged that the girl had responded at all, Constance pressed on. 'I have noticed, Noelle, that you are spending a great deal of time in the library. I would like to see what you are reading.' Imperiously she held out her hand for the book that lay in Noelle's lap.
Noelle's interest was piqued by her hostess's newfound aggressiveness. 'If you wish,' she answered with seeming indifference.
Constance concealed the tiny stab of triumph she felt as she took the book and then barely hid her surprise when she saw what Noelle had been perusing. It was a work by Schiller, an author much admired by English readers. The book had been a gift from one of Simon's Prussian clients and was written entirely in German. 'Do you often read Goethe?' Constance asked carefully.
'No, I don't,' Noelle answered as she took the book back from Constance and returned it to the shelf. Deciding the encounter had lasted long enough, she turned and left the room.
Her roses temporarily forgotten, Constance stared thoughtfully at the empty doorway. Finally she picked up the wicker basket, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. This had proven to be a most informative encounter, most informative, indeed. Perhaps something could be made of all this yet.
Constance had almost finished her consomme when Noelle made her entrance for supper ten minutes late. For once Noelle was not being deliberately rude. It seemed the more of Constance's food she ate, the more her body wanted to rest. This time she had slept away the whole afternoon.
She immediately noticed that Constance had again made changes in the dining room. The silver epergne was gone. In its place was a simple blue glass vase that held the peach rosebuds Constance had shown her in the library that afternoon. But it was the second change that made Noelle uneasy: Her place had once again been set directly to the right of her hostess.
She darted a curious glance at Constance and then took her chair and studied the soup. She could almost hear Constance's silent command,
Noelle picked up the shallow bowl in her hands and defiantly drained the savory contents.
Constance gave no visible sign that she had noticed Noelle's behavior. Instead, she spoke impersonally, her tone more formal than it had been in the past.
'I'm pleased you have been using the library. It used to be my favorite room, but now'-she shrugged her shoulders philosophically-'it reminds me too much of my late husband, as he was before his illness. He spent so much time in that room. Now I much prefer reading in my sitting room.'
Constance nodded to a chastened Molly, standing silently in the corner of the room. The girl removed the bowls and set a fluffy omelette
'I find it most relaxing in the evening to read before I retire. Of course, it's not without risks. I was so enjoying myself last night that I just couldn't bear to turn out the light. Alas, it was past two o'clock before I was done, and I suffered a beastly headache all morning as a result. Faith, it was worth every minute. I can't think when this past year I've been so entertained.'
Noelle was faced with a dilemma, and a small frown etched two verticle lines between her eyebrows. Finally she raised her head and, in a tone so casual that she hoped her question would seem inconsequential, asked, 'What were you reading?'
Constance watched Molly fill her tulip-shaped crystal goblet with a delicate sauterne and then took a small sip before she responded. 'Moliere's
Again Noelle kept her manner offhand, as if she were merely being polite. 'I don't believe I've ever read Moliere. Do you read many plays?' She thrust an overly large bite of omelette into her mouth.
'A great many recently,' Constance responded casually. 'I miss attending the theater. For the past few months I've principally been reading comedies: Shakespeare, Goldsmith, Sheridan, Moliere.'
'Moliere. His name sounds French,' Noelle muttered.
Constance took a bite of the fragrant omelette and nodded. 'He is undoubtedly the greatest playwright France has ever produced. Oh, some will extol the tragedians: Racine, Corneille, Voltaire. But for my taste, Moliere tells us more about the human spirit than all of them. Of course, we are very lucky to have his plays. It is really only by chance that Moliere was in a position to write as he finally did.'
'What do you mean?' Noelle could not entirely conceal her curiosity.
Constance touched her napkin to the corners of her mouth. 'For most of his creative life, Moliere had been touring the French provinces as an actor. He and his fellow actors performed tragedies, intrigues, and an occasional farce. Finally Moliere began to write for the company himself. He wrote comedies that became very popular. Eventually he was invited to perform before Louis XIV. Alas, Moliere made a mistake that was to prove almost fatal to his company. Instead of choosing the farces that his company did so well, he selected a tragedy for them to perform.'
Constance took another sip of wine and consumed the last bit of her omelette. Noelle had stopped eating, so totally lost was she in the narrative.
