Louisa Rawlings (17 page)

Well, it would be simple enough to invent a story, appeal to the rustic sense of chivalry she’d seen in LeBrun’s manner. He had, after all, been surprisingly tender this morning when he’d combed her hair. She sighed. There were more practical concerns to occupy her thoughts. Her clothing, for one. Her trunks and boxes were safely at Sans-Souci by now; all she had were the clothes on her back. She’d need stockings, another chemise, at the very least. And hairpins. Thanks be to God the weather was warm; her cloak was probably still in Arsène’s carriage. If he hadn’t torn it to shreds by now in a fit of frustrated passion! Well, perhaps she had enough money in her purse to buy the few simple items of clothing she needed. She’d have to ask the miller about a shop in the nearby village. Selommes, she thought he’d said.
 

And then, of course, there was the matter of her maid Emilie, who would be concerned if the mistress’s clothing arrived without the mistress. Rouge glanced about the room and saw paper, ink, a quill pen. Good. She would write to Emilie this very day, assuring the girl that she was well, and expected to stay away from home until some time in May. She would include a sealed message that was to be given to Monsieur de Tournières as soon as he returned, in which she would tell Tintin of her situation and urge him to send her, in care of the miller, her passage home.
 

It seemed a wise solution. She stood up and put on her brown silk gown, hooking it snugly over her stays, then tied her steinkirk about her neck. She saw that the miller had carefully folded her fontange, but without starch, the cap was useless. Perhaps in a few days she’d make a flour-and-water paste to dip it in. She found LeBrun’s comb and crossed to a small mirror on the wall, frowning and peering at her reflection. Her pale gray, almond-shaped eyes were clear, though they still held the ghost of shadows beneath them. She pinched at her cheeks to bring back a little color, and nibbled at her lower lip.
Mon Dieu
, not even a pot of rouge to help her! She combed out her hair, teasing the short locks on top to produce the height that would ordinarily have been her fontange. Without hairpins, she was forced to let her hair hang loose. But in a final touch of fashionable artifice she shaped several blond tresses into long, tight curls to fall forward onto her breast.
 

She was surprisingly lighthearted as she left the mill in search of LeBrun. Despite the limitations of her wardrobe, she felt quite attractive, ready to charm the miller into allowing her to stay. And it might turn out to be a very pleasant interlude, at that. She had had enough of responsibilities for a while—Tintin and his weaknesses; Sans-Souci with its crumbling walls, needing more and more money to stave off the decay; Torcy, who demanded obedience, however distasteful the chore he might set for her. For a little while, at least, she could forget them all. I shall be a child again, she thought happily. Without a care. Without a thought for the morrow.
 

She found LeBrun a short distance downstream, kneeling on a grassy bank beside the water. In front of him were several small fish that he was in the process of cleaning; next to him Jerusalem waited, her cat’s eyes shining, for the heads and tails that were her due.
 

“Monsieur LeBrun. The sport of fishing is good hereabouts?” It seemed a harmless way to begin the conversation.
 

He looked up, smiling. But as his eyes took in her garb, they cooled perceptibly and the smile faded from his face. He put down his knife and the fish, then stood up. He bowed elaborately and deferentially, his arm sweeping the air in obeisance. There was nothing humble in the gesture, however, and his tone was sharp. “Mademoiselle de Tournières. You look like a court lady again. God save me, I’d almost forgotten.” He jerked his head in the direction of the fish. “I don’t fish for the sport. That, with soup, will be supper.”
 

She ignored the mockery in his voice, the suggestion that she was careless and rich and idle
.
It had been a mistake to linger over her toilette; whatever his taste in women, it was clear that he didn’t fancy the charms of an aristocrat. She sat on the soft grass and smoothed out her skirts. Her smile was as friendly and democratic as she could make it. “I know you said you’re not a good cook, but I’m certain that the fish will be delicious.”
 

He softened at that, and knelt again to his task. “How do you feel? Do you think it wise to be up and about?”
 

“I feel wonderful, thanks to your kind ministrations. And I must begin to think about giving you back your bed.”
 

He looked over at her, his eyes glittering like emeralds. “Tonight? Perhaps even to share?” Was that a taunt? Or an invitation?
 

She turned her head away.
Ciel!
she thought, how difficult this is! It had suddenly occurred to her that, if she asked to stay, he might consider the granting of her favors as his right! Surely she hadn’t run away from Arsène’s lustful desires only to be trapped by the miller’s! She plucked at a blade of grass. “By your leave, I’ll usurp your bed for one more night. In the morning, when I feel stronger, I can wash the sheets and air the bedding for you. It’s the very least I can do.”
 

“And then you’ll go back to your perfumed sheets and silken bed hangings? And your easy life with your noble lovers?”
 

Why should it matter what he thought of her? But her lip trembled as she faced him again. “You wrong me, monsieur,” she murmured. She clasped her hands together. “May I speak plainly?”
 

He nodded, clearly shamed by her reproach. “Of course.”
 

“My father is not as wealthy as you might suppose. Despite his lands and title. It’s up to me to marry well. No matter what you have seen or imagined, Monsieur de Falconet
has
asked me to marry him. It would be a fine match.”
 

“If you favor vipers,” he muttered.
 

“A fine match,” she repeated. “I’m very fond of him. But you can see that I’ve angered him. I’m not sure that…he still wishes to marry me. Truth to tell, I’ve considered your words. A little mystery. Isn’t that how you put it? If…I were to…stay here and Arsène could not find me for a few weeks, he might be more eager for marriage.”
 

His lip curled in disapproval. “You’re a clever coquette. I’ll grant you that. But why don’t you simply go home? Play out your game there?”
 

“My father is away. I don’t wish to be at the mercy of Arsène’s passions. He might come looking for me there. And without my father’s protection…”
 

The miller snorted. “You don’t seem that helpless to me!”
 

“Perhaps I’m just being cautious. And then, his concern for me will ripen his love.”
 

LeBrun rinsed the cleaned fish in the stream, put them into a small bucket, and stood up, pocketing his knife. “You’re too seductive a wench to need such a simple approach.” The indifference in his eyes put the lie to his words.
 

Her pride stung by his obvious distaste for her, Rouge rose to her feet and glared at him. “
You
don’t seem particularly seduced,” she said. Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.
 

He shrugged, his eyes coolly appraising her. “I’ve known my share of charming women. But a fickle coquette who plays with a man’s heart, and then runs away, is not exactly to my taste.”
 

“Good! Then we needn’t talk again of sharing your bed! I shall give it back to you tomorrow. If you agree to my remaining here, the straw pallet on the floor will serve me quite well!”
 

He turned about and began to walk toward the mill, the cat scampering along behind him. It was all Rouge could do to keep up with his long strides. “How long did you intend to stay?” he asked.
 

She remembered Torcy and her burdens. “I must be back at Versailles by the middle of May. But if I hear from my father before then, telling me that he has returned home, I’ll go at once, of course. If the letter can be posted, I’ll write to my servant this evening, informing her of my whereabouts.”
 

He accepted that in silence, merely clearing his throat. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I’m not an innkeeper. I told you before.”
 

Her heart skipped a beat. “Do you expect to be paid?” If he said yes, what in the name of heaven would she do?
 

“Not necessarily. I’m not
that
uncharitable. But I don’t intend to feed you unless you do your share of work. A miller’s life doesn’t suit itself to that of a pampered and spoiled voluptuary.”
 

It had been a cruel thrust. She stopped, the tears springing to her eyes. “And I told
you
before,” she whispered, “you wrong me.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not helpless.” Her voice was stronger now, edged with anger. “You’ll find your shirt and stockings mended!”
 

He frowned and stared at her for a long time, the mossy haze of his eyes seeming to plumb her very soul. Then, shamefaced, he smiled crookedly. “
‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’
I’m well rebuked. Forgive me. I’m sure I can be comfortable on the floor until you leave.”
 

“Oh, but…”
 

“Hist!” He held up a hand, silencing her. He seemed to be listening. Without another word, he handed her the bucket of fish.
 

Set into the grassy slope of the knoll were stone steps that led to a lower level of the mill. LeBrun took the steps two at a time, leaping downward, and entered the mill through a small door below the main floor.
 

Alarmed by his haste, Rouge ran in through the cottage entrance. She dropped the bucket on the table and rushed into the mill room. LeBrun had just ascended the ladder from below. “What is it?” she gasped, out of breath.
 

“Damn!” he muttered, racing to a large wooden lever against the wall. He tugged on it with all his might, locking it into a horizontal position. Nothing else appeared to happen, but the miller seemed satisfied.
 

“But what is it?”
 

“Can’t you hear it? The grain is running out. The stones sing a different song when the grain runs low.”
 

Everything sounded the same to Rouge. “But nothing has changed, nothing has stopped,” she said, mystified.
 

“I’ve cut off the water leading to the wheel. It will be a few minutes before the sluice is drained. Then the wheel will stop, and the millstones will stop.”
 

“And if you hadn’t heard the sound?”
 

“The grain would have been ground, and the stones would have begun on each other.”
 

“Is that such a terrible thing?”
 

“At best, the stones would lose their edge and have to be dressed again. At the worst, they would begin to wobble and scrape dangerously.”
 

Rouge raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Dangerously?”
 

“Here. Give me your hand.” The miller took her fingers in his and placed her hand, palm down, on the wooden casing of the millstones. Rouge was surprised at the heat. “Yes,” he said, reading the expression on her face. “That’s how hot it gets when the stones are grinding properly. With no grain, the heat would become so intense that you couldn’t touch the casing. And in a while, the stones would begin to throw off sparks. Do you see the dust in here? It’s cornmeal dust, and heavy. But if I were grinding wheat and let the stones go…” He shook his head. “I’ve seen a mill blown to the skies, as if it were filled with gunpowder, when a spark touched off the flour dust.”
 

He was still holding her wrist. Her breath caught in her throat. She was aware of the warmth of his hand, the rough texture of the long fingers that encircled her wrist. What was the matter with her? He was just a country miller. A man she’d never see again. A man who hadn’t the slightest interest in her, beyond the concern he’d give to his cat, or to any other living thing!
 

He frowned. “You’re as pale as tallow. You should never have run like that. You’ve just come from your sickbed. Here.” He pulled at her hand and led her into the other room. “Sit you down while I start the fire and cook up the fish.”
 

“Have you finished your grinding for the day?”
 

He looked toward the open door. “Yes. It will soon be dark. I spent longer at my fishing than I had intended.
Eh, bien
, I can bag the flour in the morning. Before the Widow Grezel sends her men to pick it up.” He indicated the armchair. “Sit down, I said.”
 

“In
your
chair?” she teased.
 

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling with the jest. “Just for tonight. In payment for the mended stockings.”
 

While she watched, he took flint and steel and knelt to the hearth. He brushed aside the morning’s ashes, stacked some fresh wood and kindling, and added a bit of dried moss. Striking a spark into the moss, he blew on it until, with a puff that dissipated the thin wisp of smoke, a bright flame appeared. He nursed the fire for a few moments, then turned his attention to the soup pot that hung in the fireplace. He threw a handful of dried beans into the thin broth, stirred it once or twice, then swung the pot over the flame. Rouge was struck again by the grace and ease with which he worked, bringing to his humble tasks a quiet dignity. The courtiers of Versailles, with their self-conscious airs and affected movements, seemed clumsy oafs in comparison. “You live in Montoire, then?” he asked, still absorbed in building up the fire.