Louisa Rawlings (25 page)

He looked skeptical.
 

“You were a soldier,” she said. “You learned the arts of war and killing. Do you now go forth in the countryside and kill?”
 

He ducked his head in defeat. “
Touché.
The art of love is not the same as the practice. I concede you that. But—devil take me—you
have
learned to kill with your eyes!”
 

She smiled, her soft cheeks dimpling. “Alas. There have been many casualties, but no fatalities. And I’ve learned how to…retreat, should the battle prove too dangerous.”
 

“Into a stormy night, for example.”
 

“Yes.” She giggled. “How Tintin will laugh when I tell him
that
story!”
 

“And still you’ll marry Arsène?” he muttered, his eyes grown hard again.
 

She sighed. “I told you. ’Tis the world I live in. Now eat your dinner, while I get back to my work. Those cobwebs
must
come down.” She turned to cross the bridge.
 

“Rouge,” he said softly behind her. She turned. “I, too, regret what happened,” he said. “I give you my word you’re safe here with me until you return to your Tintin. Or Arsène. Or whoever you set your cap for. I wish you well.” He grinned unexpectedly and dropped down beside the food spread out on the napkin. “I can only pray you don’t leave
too
soon! ’Twill be very difficult to return to my—what did you call it?—wretched cooking!”
 

She went back to the cottage humming a lilting air. They were friends again, the sun was shining, the world was newborn with the sweetness of spring.
 

She was up bright and early the next morning, eager to try the oven. She baked bread, then meat pies, then a fragrant pâté, using the last of the pigeons and the meat scraps from the pies. She covered the pâté with a thin coating of clarified butter and set it in the open casement to cool, scolding the cat Jerusalem each time she ventured too near. Pierre found excuses to come from the mill simply to sniff the tantalizing aromas.
 

“By my faith, woman,” he said, shaking his head, “how is a man to get any work done?”
 

“I’m glad you have an appetite today,” she said. “We’ll have an early dinner, by your leave. I want to sweep out the rushes and be ready to receive Mademoiselle de Ruffec when she comes for her dancing lesson.”
 

He brushed a bit of flour from his sleeve. “You’re set on that, then? Your matchmaking?”
 

“And why not? If the baron needs a wealthy son-in-law, and the Widow Grezel is prosperous, and the only thing that stands in the way of true love is Barnabé’s shyness…why indeed not?”
 

A small frown appeared between his eyes. “My instinct tells me that it’s unwise meddling, but…tell me what I am to do to play my part.”
 

Her eyes widened in innocence. “Why nothing! I shall come to fetch Barnabé when the time is right. You need only detain him until then. Particularly if the fair Angélique is late.”
 

Her mouth sullen with resentment for her father’s schemes (of which she considered Rouge a part), Angélique came early. Rouge was grateful for the extra time. The baron would expect to see his daughter progress with her dancing; the more Rouge could genuinely teach her, the better it would be for all concerned. She began with the gavotte; it was a new dance, only just taking the fancy of the courtiers. But the lively pace, the quick steps—with the feet being raised rather than glided across the floor—served to relax the young girl. Her eyes were still solemn, but at least her body had begun to lose some of its tension.
 

Hearing the creak of a wagon, Rouge glanced out the window. She was pleased to see the flash of bright red hair. Thanks be to God Barnabé had come at last! She turned to Angélique. “Let us begin the minuet now, mademoiselle. A woman who can dance it well is the object of much admiration at Versailles.”
 

The large brown eyes filled with angry tears. “I know not why I can’t merely stay in Selommes and be happy.”
 

Rouge took the girl by the hand. “I promise you’ll not regret learning to dance the minuet,” she said gently. She led the girl into the steps, counting out the three-four rhythm of the stately dance, demonstrating the measured pacing, the pointing of the toe, the balances and bows and curtsies. She could hear the sound of the millstones as they began to grind; the floor quivered with the movement. At her ease now, Angélique had begun to smile, abandoning herself to the graceful patterns of the dance. Rouge smiled too. The girl would never look more lovely, more desirable to a man than she did now: her normally sad eyes were sparkling, and the dancing had brought a becoming flush to her pale cheeks.
 

Rouge frowned and dropped Angélique’s hand. “No, mademoiselle. Your balances are not good.”
 

The smile faded. “Oh. But I thought…”
 

“
Ciel!
’Tis not your doing.
I
am at fault. I have not the strength to support you, to keep you from tottering. It needs a man. I wonder if…” She looked askance at Angélique. “Mademoiselle, would you mind if I asked Monsieur LeBrun to come and help us?”
 

Angélique looked doubtful. “Does he dance the minuet?”
 

“It does not matter. All he needs to do is give you his hand while you do your balances. It will give you the proper feel of the dance. A man is strong and tall. ’Tis much easier to do the steps with the anchor of a man’s hand.”
 

The girl lowered her eyes. “He’s very handsome, Monsieur LeBrun. I don’t think…”
 

Rouge put her hand under Angélique’s chin. “You’re not afraid of him, are you? Come. He’s a friend. You’ve known him for years,
n’est-ce pas
?
You’re not in love with him, are you?”
 

Angélique’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Oh, no! It’s just that…Monsieur LeBrun always teases me. I shouldn’t want him to laugh at my dancing.”
 

“I promise you he won’t laugh. Now practice the pointing of your toe—with grace, remember—while I go and see if Monsieur LeBrun can spare a moment or two from his work.” She went into the mill room, feigning surprise to see Barnabé Grezel there. “Ah, Pierre,” she said, over the rumble of the stones. “You must forgive me. I did not think you had customers.”
 

“Just a bit of work. A
setier
of corn for Barnabé here.” He smiled at Rouge, his eyes filled with curiosity. “And how goes
your
endeavor?”
 

“Well, thank you.” She looked uneasily at Barnabé Grezel. Sweet heaven, she thought, this will never do! He had stood like a stone since the moment she had come into the room. And each time he stole a peek at her his blush became deeper, until his face was almost the color of his fiery hair. “You know, monsieur,” she said, “I have not thanked you for driving away your companions the other day. They gave me a start, I can tell you.”
 

He grunted and looked down at his shoe.
 

Dieu!
She tried again. “No. Truly. I was frightened. Had you not been there…”
 

“They meant you no harm,” he mumbled.
 

Thanks be to heaven he had a voice, at least. “Pierre says you have a fine farm.”
 

He nodded.
 

“Corn?” A tooth drawer would not have more trouble than she!
 

“No. Mostly wheat.”
 

“You must keep Cousin Pierre very busy then, with all the grinding.”
 

“No. We give the wheat on commission to a grain merchant who takes it to Orléans.”
 

“Which supplies Paris.”
 

Grezel looked surprised. “What?”
 

“They are so eager for good white flour in Paris that the bakers have been sending their agents as far afield as Orléans for grain. If you’re paying a commission to a grain merchant, send him direct to Les Halles in Paris. You’ll double your profits and be more than compensated for the cost of the extra day’s travel.”
 

He relaxed visibly, his shyness fading before a topic with which he was comfortable. “How do you know?”
 

She shrugged. “I hear talk.” In truth, she had spent many hours in the gaming rooms of Versailles, listening to the nobility as they gossiped between games of chance. Idly, like gods on Olympus who took only a passing interest in mortals, they spoke of the merchant class, the rising bourgeoisie, the business affairs of Parisians engaged in trade. But more than once she had heard—in the disparaging laughter directed at those who worked for a living—an undertone of envy for their prosperity, while service to the king was beggaring many an aristocrat.
 

Rouge and Barnabé chatted for a few more minutes, until she was sure that she had won his confidence. Then she put her hand on Pierre’s arm and contrived to look startled. “Oh! I near forgot what I came for! I need your help, Pierre.”
 

“I can’t,” he said, looking toward the millstones. “A
setier
takes less than an hour to grind. It will soon be done.” He kept his face expressionless, but Rouge could read the laughter in his eyes. “Can Barnabé help you in my stead?”
 

“Oh. If he would be so kind…”
 

Grezel looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know…”
 

She smiled beguilingly. “’Tis only a small favor. As a new friend. You have but to stand still and lend me your hand. Come”—she held out her own hand to him—“will you?”
 

He hesitated, then allowed her to lead him into the other room. Angélique, concentrating on the steps of the dance, looked up as they entered. She gave a little gasp of surprise at sight of him. Barnabé was rooted to the spot. His face was scarlet.
 

Rouge laughed brightly. “You see, mademoiselle. I’ve found someone. May I present to you…”
 

“It isn’t necessary,” interrupted Angélique. “We played in the village together as children.”
 

“Is that so? Barnabé, is that so?” Rouge prodded him on the arm.
 

He glared at her, his eyes filled with betrayal. “It was a long time ago,” he growled.
 

Rouge ignored his frown. “But then, you’re not strangers. So much the better,” she said. “You promised to help me. Well then, Mademoiselle Angélique is learning the steps of a dance, and needs a man’s hand for support. Is that so difficult?”
 

Angélique smiled, a sweet, tentative smile of encouragement. “Will you, Barnabé? Give me your hand?”
 

He looked as though he would run away.
 

Her lip trembled. “Please? For the sake of those children who played together so long ago?”
 

He seemed to be having trouble breathing. At last, scarcely looking at her, he held out his hand. She put her fingers in his. He shuddered at her touch, then looked her full in the face. Now it was her turn to blush, two vivid spots of color that appeared on her cheeks. They stared into each other’s eyes, oblivious to Rouge, and the mill, and the commonplace sounds that came from the bright April afternoon beyond the door.
 

Rouge looked up. Pierre was watching from the door of the mill room. Finger to her lips, she tiptoed into the other room and closed the door softly on the young lovers. She turned her head away from Pierre, tears welling in her eyes. If her life were different, she, too, might have known the sweetness of love.
 

“
Mon Dieu
,”
said Pierre softly. He reached out and dabbed at her eyelashes. “Will I ever understand you, Marie-Rouge de Tournières? Such a practical nature, such maneuverings that a
maréchal
of France would envy. Yet you weep, all soft and melting, at the sight of those two.”
 

She gulped and sniffed back her tears, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Tintin would rejoice to see me now, crying like a child over lovers! What nonsense!”
 

His eyes went cold. He jerked his chin in the direction of the closed door. “I wonder. Would
they
agree with you? That love is nonsense?” He turned about to the millstones. “I’d best pay attention. The grain will soon be done.”
 

As the days passed, they spoke no more of love. Angélique came to the mill again, at Barnabé’s entreaty. Rouge handed them a basket filled with wine and cheese and sweet cakes, then sent them out to the sunny meadow beyond the millpond. She watched them go hand in hand, stopping now and again for a chaste kiss.
 

April drifted gently toward May. The apple trees lost their blossoms, while the lilacs burst into fragrant bloom. Rouge had never known such contentment. Skilled in the domestic arts, she had always worked hard at Sans-Souci; but there had always been too much work, too much decay, not enough money. For the first time since her mother had died she felt truly lighthearted, free of the worries that had burdened her days. The little cottage shone from the care she lavished on it, and Pierre was warm and appreciative in his praise. He couldn’t get enough of her cooking, only teasing her that her appetite was surely greater than his. With the foodstuffs that he took in barter for his milling, there was more than enough to eat. But sometimes, when his work was finished early, they would go fishing together in companionable silence, or, sitting on the bank and splashing their bare feet in the water, laugh that the fish would surely be frightened away.