Louisa Rawlings (24 page)

Poncelet, the stone-dresser, appeared at the cottage door the very next morning. At his side was a rawboned youth, awkward and ungainly, his long face marred by adolescent blemishes. Poncelet explained that the boy, Jean, was the ironmonger’s apprentice; once the stones of the oven were reset, Jean could repair the hinge of the door. Rouge found it disconcerting the way Jean stared at her. She was accustomed to masculine appraisals, of course; Poncelet himself had admired her with his eyes before turning to the work at hand. But there was something in the way Jean looked at her that made her uneasy. She said as much to Pierre, pulling him aside as the workmen arranged their tools.
 

“Nonsense,” he said. “It’s just that they’re in awe of you. A stranger is great cause for curiosity in a small village. Particularly a stranger who looks like you, and calls herself my cousin.”
 

“
You
were the one who called me cousin,” she said indignantly.
 

He chuckled. “So I did. In any event, you shouldn’t have left your hair uncovered this morning. Most of the women—with ill-favored hair—wear caps.” He indicated her silken blond curls, held loosely by her hairpins. “That color is a tempting sight to a country man. But the villagers are harmless. Have you forgot how Barnabé Grezel and his companions leered the other day? You’ll have to get used to the men here. They have the same admiration for a pair of bright eyes as any courtier in Versailles. They’re just not as dainty about it.”
 

Poncelet and Jean repaired the oven in short order, assuring Rouge that she could use it the very next day, if she had a mind to it. Pierre pronounced himself satisfied with the job and counted out payment, giving an extra crown to Jean for a tip, since his master would, of course, take the fee. He clapped Poncelet on the back. “When will you come back to grind my stones, friend? I think the bedstone is beginning to wear.”
 

Poncelet made a face and rubbed his groin. “Unless the stones are beyond use, wait a month or so. I near ruptured myself in Vendôme, helping a miller turn his stones.”
 

“Well, if it must be done before then, I’ll get someone from the village to help with the lifting.”
 

Rouge had been inspecting the oven. Now she turned to Poncelet with a smile. “How pleased I shall be to bake! Thank you, Monsieur Poncelet. I could wish for as fine a stonemason for the walls of my own home.”
 

Flustered by the unaccustomed compliment, Poncelet began to stammer like a schoolboy. “’Tis not my trade…you understand…I’m a
rhabilleur
, but I…”
 

“And a fine one, too, I am given to believe. Cousin Pierre says you are the most skilled stone-dresser in the whole of Orléanais Province.”
 

Poncelet blushed and kicked at the rushes on the floor.
 

Pierre laughed. “Come,
mon ami
, no false modesty. Show her your metal.”
 

Still blushing, Poncelet rolled back the sleeve of his left arm and held it out to Rouge. His forearm and hand were a peculiar shade of blue, the result of the bits of stone that had become embedded in his flesh after many years of dressing millstones, chipping the surfaces into sharp furrows that ground the grain. “You see,” said Pierre, “
there
is a man who carries his experience with him!”
 

Rouge managed to look sufficiently impressed, exclaiming in wonder at the testament to his proficiency, and praising him once again for the repairs to the oven. It was all Poncelet could do to get himself out the door without tripping over his own feet.
 

As soon as they had gone, Pierre began to laugh. “You’re a sorceress, or I’m damned! Poncelet and Jean. Grezel and his companions. And the Baron de Ruffec, who could not keep his eyes off you. Even Billot the baker, while we were carrying sacks of flour yesterday, inquired of me—with rare timidity—whether I thought my cousin might take a fancy to him. By Saint Martin, will you break every heart in Selommes before you leave?”
 

She smiled tightly at his dispassionate eyes. “Not every heart.”
 

He shrugged. “No. I think not.” He turned toward the door. “The stable door needs a nail or two. Come and tell me when dinner is ready.”
 

The more she thought about it, as she went about the business of preparing their meal, the angrier she became. Sweet Jesu, the whole world stopped to admire her, from the loftiest courtier (and the king himself, name of God!), to a country apprentice. It was not her pride that told her so; it was her common sense, the evidence of her own eyes. She had been born with a face that turned men’s heads. A curse and a blessing, her mother had often told her, cautioning her against overweening vanity. It was God’s gift, and to be accepted as such. Her character, her qualities as a woman were the things over which she had control, and for which she was to be commended or condemned. And so, quite in the natural order of things, she was accustomed to reading admiration in men’s eyes. But, curse him,
he
was as impersonal as a brother! He never looked at
her
the way he had looked at that overripe creature Jacquelan! My God, she must be near twenty-five! And the way he’d held her, kissed her, his mouth claiming hers…
 

She slammed the crock of butter down on the table with such force that the cutlery rattled. No. She certainly wouldn’t break
his
heart! Still frowning, she laid out the rest of the meal from the foodstuffs he had bought the day before, then went to fetch him. He was still at work on the open stable door, replacing a wooden crossbeam. He didn’t bother to look up when she announced that his dinner was waiting; he merely grunted in acknowledgment. She watched him for a moment, waiting for him to stop his labors, to
look
at her, for the love of God! He continued hammering. She swept past him into the dim stable. It was cool within its stone walls, and the straw that lay about in clusters smelled fresh and sweet. She chewed at her thumb in resentment.
He hadn’t even looked at her!
Somehow that was the final insult. His horse, in its stall, nickered. Yes, my friend, she thought, reaching out to scratch the animal’s ear. He’d look at
you
if you passed him!
 

At last Pierre came into the stable, carrying his hammer, which he placed on a shelf with his other tools. On an impulse, Rouge recrossed the small room and stood in the doorway. Pierre turned, then stopped, waiting for her to move. Instead, she came close and put her arms around his neck.
 

“Kiss me,” she said softly.
 

He hesitated, then bent his head and put his mouth on hers. He didn’t bother to embrace her, but kept his hands at his sides; and the pressure of his lips was slight, as though he much preferred to be doing something else.
 

It only made it worse that her heart had begun to pound the moment his lips touched hers, and that a pulse beat wildly just below her ear.
He
wasn’t even breathing hard. When she finally broke away from his kiss and looked at him, the detached curiosity on his face was like a sharp slap across her cheek. Nothing. She read nothing in his hazy green eyes, not passion, nor concern, nor any other emotion she’d hoped to see. Gathering her tattered pride about her, she smiled grandly. “Thank you,” she said. It was astonishing how disinterested she could make her voice when she set her mind to it. “I was curious to see what your kiss is like when I’m not about to swoon with fever.” She turned toward the door. “Will you come to table now?”
 

“You little bitch,” he muttered. He reached out and pulled her back to him, slamming her hard against his body. His arms circled her waist in a savage embrace, and his mouth ground down onto hers. She could feel the pressure of her own lips against her teeth, and the taste of blood in her mouth. His hands dropped lower, cruelly pinching the soft flesh of her buttocks as he pressed her hips into his hard loins. She struggled fiercely against him, feeling shamed and degraded by a kiss that was clearly meant to punish her, to hurt and humiliate her. When at last he released her she fell back a step, gasping, and clapped her hand to her bruised mouth. He eyed her scornfully, then pointed to a pile of straw on the floor. “Lie down and lift your skirts,” he ordered.
 

Her eyes widened in horror. “Pierre, for the love of God…” she whispered.
 

“I wondered how soon you’d tire of playing the country maid,” he growled. “The joyful scrubbing and the cooking. My God, you even managed to sing while you worked, like a contented milkmaid! But now the game bores you? Is that it? Now you’ve decided the game of coquette is more to your liking?” His eyes narrowed, studying her. “What were you thinking? That when the playing was over you’d go back to your world and I’d remain here in mine? That false world of yours, that corruption which is Versailles?” He turned about and spat on the floor. “But perhaps you wanted to take back an amusing story or two for your friends at court. A rustic trophy. The country bumpkins who sigh and stumble over their own feet. A few yearning smiles, a few tender kisses. The besotted miller who’s no match for the practiced courtesan! Well, I’ll not oblige you! If you play with
this
fire, you might get burned. So choose! Keep your distance, or”—he indicated the bed of straw—“be prepared to play with
my
stakes!”
 

Trembling, she fled. Up the hill, past the millpond, where the woods began and she could find a dark spot to hide her shame. She sank to the ground beneath a tree, fighting against her tears. What could have possessed her? What mad impulse had driven her to such foolish behavior? He was a fiercely proud and independent man; what in the name of heaven had she expected of him when she’d demanded his kiss?
 

She sat for a long time under the tree, watching a bee collect honey from the scattered meadow flowers. Somehow she would have to make her peace with him. As much to ease her conscience as to insure her remaining here until Tintin returned to Sans-Souci. She knew she could apologize to him (God knows she was sorry for her imprudence!), but she wondered if he would accept her contrition, or still see in it some coquette’s game.
 

After a while she got up and returned to the cottage. She was surprised to see the food untouched. She had thought he would have dined by now. She heard a noise from the brook. Crossing to the window that looked out over the waterwheel, she saw Pierre standing in the stream beneath the wheel; he was barefooted, his breeches rolled up to his knees. He held a small spade with which he was engaged in clearing the silt that had accumulated at the bottom of the wheel. He attacked the work with a savagery that had nothing to do with the task at hand.
 

She sighed. There was no point in postponing the colloquy. Best to confront him directly. And with food as a peace offering. She found a small basket into which she put bread and cheese and a cold pigeon, a linen napkin, utensils. She added the jug of ale to the basket and went outside. Below the waterwheel was another bridge that crossed to the opposite side of the stream. She passed over it and came to where Pierre was working. She took a deep breath. Ah, well! “You cannot labor all day without food,” she said crisply. “I’ve brought you something to eat.”
 

He put down his spade and stared at her. His eyes were like jadestones, hard and cold. He stepped out of the stream and waited, frowning, while Rouge laid the napkin on the grass and spread out his dinner.
 

She straightened and indicated the food. “If there is aught you need, I’ll be inside. But I want you to know”—she met his gaze directly—“that I’m most humbly sorry for what happened. A wild impulse, no more. It was foolish of me.”
 

His expression softened slightly. “And dangerous.”
 

“And dangerous,” she repeated. God knew it was so. He might have raped her! And all because of a moment’s madness. “I am given to flights of fancy at times. It’s an unfortunate weakness that dismays me. As you yourself have noted, I’m usually sensible and practical. And now, if you please,” she added briskly, “let us speak no more about it.”
 

“Except the why of it.” His hand on her arm stopped her, his eyes, his strong presence demanding an answer.
 

She chewed at her lip. “I…
was
playing the coquette, of course. A woman’s foolish pride. It’s only that it’s not my habit to…to be ignored.”
 

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling; then he reached out a long finger and touched the beauty spot beside her mouth. “’Tis no simple matter to ignore you, woman.”
 

She held her breath, surprised by his words, his gentle touch, the warmth of his smile. She felt a hot flush creep up from her throat, flooding her cheeks with a fire that almost brought tears to her eyes.
 

He laughed softly. “Now, by Sainte Geneviève, is that a maidenly blush? I knew the mistresses of Versailles had their artifices, but to conjure up a virginal blush and put the lie to that face… Small wonder your Arsène desires you so!”
 

“
Dieu!
For the last time, I’m not his mistress! I’ve never been
any
man’s mistress!”
 

His mouth twitched in mockery. “Truly?”
 

“Oh! You are a thick-headed dolt! You’re learned, well-read. I should think you’d understand more than an illiterate peasant! It’s in a woman’s best interests to learn to play the games of love. The coy smiles, the knowing looks, and all the rest of it! It’s the way she teaches a man to do her bidding, knowing that he dreams of the triumph of his eventual conquest. But if a woman has any wit or skill, she can avoid granting the last favors.” Dear heaven, how ugly it suddenly seemed. She ached to be free of the hollow life that trapped her. “’Tis the world I live in,” she said, feeling the need to defend herself. “But a courtesan need not be a whore.”