Gilbert tilted his head. “Were you not also told that you must marry me? Besides, when I saw what a good and gentle heart you have, it was a command I was pleased to obey.”
How I wanted to believe it! “You had no choice . . .”
“There is always a choice,” he replied. “I could have run away.”
“Then you would have been disowned and penniless.”
He shrugged. “I have not always had so much money,” he said. “I cannot be glad of how I acquired my fortune, nor am I willing to sacrifice much to keep it. Yet I am glad it made you my bride.”
I broke into a grin but did not wish to seem prideful. “Surely there are other reasons to be glad of a fortune.”
“Yes. At Chavaniac I could barely afford my own horse, much less to repair the castle or provide for the hungry peasants. Now I can afford to make improvements, so when I close my eyes, I build dream castles where all shall be happiness and pleasure.”
Happiness and pleasure are what we shared as innocents in the marriage bed, tentative and tender. I did not cry out at the pinch of pain, because I did not wish to do anything that might vex him. I had already decided that no matter what my father said the purpose of marriage might be, I did not want mine to be only a contract to make children and advance family glory. Perhaps I was a silly and selfish girl, but from the boy next to me on the pillow, I wanted so much more . . .
When Lafayette drowsed, his copper eyelashes quivered. And thinking he was asleep, I whispered, “Je t’aime . . .”
These words roused him and elicited a grin. “You love me? Do you really?”
“I do,” I said, as if making our wedding vow anew, because if I did not love him already, I would make myself love him and make him love me too. I would be somehow so good a wife he would never wish for us to be apart.
And as if he wanted this too, he said, “Many exchange vows, rings, and kisses, but let us exchange hearts. That way you will never be alone; I will always be with you, for you will have, and be, my own dear heart.”
Truly touched, I reassured my orphaned husband that he too would never again be alone, for now he was one of us—one of the Noailles. “No,” he replied, tucking a tendril of my dark hair behind my ear. “I am a Lafayette and now so are you.”
I didn’t yet know what it meant to be a Lafayette, for none of us had any idea that the redheaded boy I had married burned for freedom like an ember escaped from the fiery mountains of Auvergne, from whence he had come. Or that his spark would set me ablaze for freedom too. Certainly, I could never have guessed that he would change the world . . . or that I would help him do it.
THREE
MARTHE
Chavaniac-Lafayette
December 1940
“She was only fourteen when she married?” Anna asks as she helps me cart a box of research books into the tower chamber with its two sunny windows and recessed crystal chandelier. I’ve been telling her about what I’m learning for my new series of sketches, and she asks, “Can you imagine being ready for marriage at such a young age?”
I don’t even know that I’m ready now, I almost say. I might not have accepted Henri’s proposal if not for the war. I certainly wouldn’t be taking on a project to make the preventorium over in Adrienne Lafayette’s image. And I wouldn’t have a fancy studio like this.
I wouldn’t want to sculpt stone here—the dust would get into every crevice of the canopied bed and antique furniture—but it’s a perfect place to sketch.
It looks like the preventorium’s president took most of her belongings with her when she returned to America in the summer of ’39—but she left behind some books on the shelf, old hatboxes under the bed, and framed photographs on the wall.
The books are a mix of Shakespeare’s plays, Balzac’s novels, and Anatole France’s poetry. The hatboxes are filled with old letters. And most of the photos are of Madame Beatrice posed in outrageous hats with famous people. There’s also a photo of a clean-shaven young legionnaire and a wily-looking game hunter, one or the other of whom I assume must be her late husband. Her empty wardrobe smells like mothballs, but the signature scent of Madame Beatrice’s powdery L’Heure Bleue perfume still lingers on her embroidered armchair. And it looks so warm and inviting that I want to curl up in it—especially since outside, hard-packed snowdrifts have smothered the mountains, closing roads, and ice hangs like daggers from every tree.
It’s been such a cold winter that the windows are frosted shut. We’ve got firewood, but not enough coal. And to keep the children in the preventorium warm, we bundle them under the blankets, in sweaters and thick wool socks. As for my own socks these days, they’re increasingly threadbare, and I’m not sure how many more times they can be darned. My toes are aching from the cold. Fortunately, my new studio has a big fireplace. Anna helps me pull dust sheets off the furniture and make room for my things.