Louisa Rawlings (28 page)

“Now who’s the braggart?”
 

She affected an innocent expression and tucked a sprig of lilacs into the lace at her bosom. “Is it bragging when I speak truth?” She giggled suddenly, reveling in the morning, his company, the prospect of
the May fair in Selommes.
 

He tied a lace-edged cravat about his neck and reached for his hat. “Then
I
shall tell them the truth. That you have affection for me.”
 

The smile still remained on her face, but her heart thumped alarmingly. Could he have read her eyes, the secret in her heart? “I?” she said lightly. “Affection for
you
?”
 

He indicated the lilacs arrayed about the room. “’Twas May Eve last night, and you brought me flowers. A sure sign—so the legends say—that you bear me affection.” He was trying, with some difficulty, not to laugh.
 

“Pish tush!” She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. “If I had thought for a moment that you would take it for a sign—according to the legends—I should have left a bunch of nettles at your doorstep this morning, Monsieur Don Juan!”
 

He took on an air of solemnity as he studied her face. “There are many May Day legends. Are you sure you didn’t steal out at dawn to bathe your face in dew, as the maidens do? I swear you’re looking more beautiful than ever, though I had not thought it possible. Is it May magic, or some alchemy of your own?” He shook his head. “
Mon Dieu
,
if the villagers don’t choose you Queen of the May, they’re purblind fools!”
 

She turned away, anguished. She longed to believe his sweet words, but she knew he was only teasing her. His mock admiration was like a sharp arrow, coming perilously close to her vulnerable heart. “What a rogue you are,” she muttered.
 

He laughed aloud at that. “Well, now that I’ve completely unsettled you, woman, are you ready to go to the fair?”
 

They set out for Selommes. Rouge had slipped a crown into her pocket from her meager store of coins; it was all she could spare. Though Pierre had made it clear, in his usual authoritative manner, that he expected to pay for her, she disliked feeling beholden to him for every trifle that might catch her eye.
 

It was a beautiful morning, and early enough so that the meadows still sparkled with dew and the mists clung to the shady dells and deep green thickets. A cuckoo sang beyond the rise in the road, and every bee seemed to be up and about, buzzing among the flowering shrubs that lined the way. Pierre whistled tunelessly under his breath, letting the horse have its head.
 

Rouge was filled with a delicious excitement: this was Saint Nicholas Day, her birthday, every happy time rolled into one. She felt such gaiety—it was a child’s holiday, long after her childhood. Yet there was sadness as well. For none of this could last. Carefree May would turn to cold December, and the man who sat beside her, whistling and smiling, would find someone else to share his laughter.
 

Though it was still early, the square in front of the church in Selommes was already filling up with carts and wagons and brightly decorated stalls. A fat old fish seller, barrels of salted herring piled high beside her, quarreled noisily with a toothless peasant in a blue smock who was engaged in setting out slabs of butter on a wooden plank. To the accompaniment of many curses (
“Vieille carcasse!” “Foutue coquine!”
) he swore that she must move, that the stink of her fish would taint his sweet butter; she denied it just as heatedly. The shrieks and oaths of the two joined the symphony in the marketplace: catcalls and shouts, braying donkeys, the cackle of caged chickens waiting to be sold. The draper from Marchenoir, laying out his bolts of fabric, waved a greeting to Pierre as they drove around the crowd, looking for an open spot for the wagon. They passed the village fountain with its trickle of clear water, and the open dirt-packed clearing that would soon hold the maypole, then found a place at last, on the edge of the square. They climbed down from the wagon and Pierre unhitched the horse. He motioned to a nearby knife grinder—idly turning his wheel until the customers should arrive—and left the wagon in the man’s care while he and Rouge went off to stable the horse. They pushed their way through the bustle of farmers and merchants and peddlers with some difficulty.
 

“Ciel!”
exclaimed Rouge. “And the day has scarcely begun?”
 

Pierre laughed. “It will be a great deal noisier when the young people come from the woods with the maypole!” He hailed the cobbler, busy arraying his boots and shoes, sidestepped a farmer with a wheelbarrow of golden cheeses, and led Rouge off to a side street where the blacksmith had his stable. He turned to Rouge and grinned. “Did you see them all? Whispering and staring? Poking one another in the ribs? If there were any in Selommes who were unaware of you until now, they are no more! I saw the midwife Jeannot hanging out of an attic window. She’s the best gossip in the village! She has, no doubt, already catalogued your hair, your eyes, your face and limbs, and the several items of your clothing, including the lace on your chemise.” He smiled warmly, his eyes filled with pleasure. “Which looks charming, I might add.”
 

She returned his smile. “Thanks be to the giver.” She waited until he had handed over his horse to the blacksmith’s apprentice, then indicated the distant square. “Will you set out your sacks of flour to sell now?”
 

“No. I want to see if there’s any good grain to be bought first. And then,” he teased, “I saw your eyes straying to the peddler with the sweetmeats. It’s time to feed you, I think! The Red Bull Tavern makes a fine meat pie. What say you?”
 

She nodded in agreement. Breakfast had been a hasty affair, and she was hungry again. “And some cold tisane, if they have any.”
 

The Red Bull was hardly crowded at this hour; they found a small table and sat down. Rouge was aware that, though the patrons in the tavern sidled over to gape at her, they stayed to share pleasantries with Pierre. She felt honored to be at his side, to be taken for his cousin by these simple rustics. Cousin—or whatever else they thought her! It was strange. When people assumed her to be a courtesan at Versailles, a woman of many lovers, she resented it. Now it warmed her heart merely to think that the villagers believed she belonged to Pierre.
 

“Ah! There you are, LeBrun!” A beefy man with a shiny bald spot came hurrying toward them, wringing his hands. “I’ve been looking all over for you! Berthe, my wife, has sent me to find you. God help me, I think she’ll die of apoplexy someday!”
 

“Is there trouble at your inn, friend Dugard?”
 

The man nodded his head to Rouge, acknowledging her, then turned back to Pierre with a frown. “My Berthe appears to be the only woman in town who didn’t know you’d be coming with your cousin! And now she’s in a state! She kept your usual room free, of course, knowing how you like to…
Dieu!
” He rubbed the top of his head and looked nervously at the miller.
 

Mother of God, thought Rouge, suppressing a giggle. Pierre is blushing! The temptation to twit him was too great. She looked blandly at the innkeeper. “He likes to…what, Monsieur Dugard?”
 

Dugard began to stutter. “He…he takes a room on market days…Berthe always holds it free…”
 

Rouge shrugged innocently. “Well, after all, a man never knows when he’ll need a bed, for
whatever
purpose,
n’est-ce pas
? Why should today be any different?”
 

“But, mademoiselle, you are here…and not expected…that is, you are most certainly welcome, you understand, but…”

“But…?”
 

“You see how crowded the village is today. There’s not another room—no, nor bed!—to be had for you.”
 

“Go back and tell your Berthe not to fret. I’m sure the one room will serve us very well.” As Dugard scampered out of sight, Rouge turned to Pierre. His face was still flaming. “How
busy
you must be on market day, Monsieur Lebrun,” she said, enjoying his discomfiture.
 

He tugged at his earlobe. “I fear I’ll not be busy for a good long time after this! You’ve just condemned me to curses from at least half a dozen sweet young creatures in Selommes! Dugard will tell Berthe, and Berthe will tell Jeannot the midwife, and in a twinkling the whole village will know! Ah, well.” He sighed in resignation, the color beginning to fade from his cheeks. “What, by the bye, do you intend to do about the room?”
 

“I didn’t know you wanted to take rooms. I had thought we’d go back to the mill tonight. But if not,” she laughed wickedly, “you can sleep on the floor.”
 

As they finished eating, they heard the sound of drums. Pierre paid for their food, took Rouge by the hand, and pulled her outside. Coming up the street alongside the church was a crowd of merry youths: laughing girls, and bright-faced young men. Rouge knew that most of them had spent half the night in the woods, frolicking and running about and chasing one another. From the high color on the cheeks of some of the girls, and the beaming satisfaction of more than a few of the men, it was clear that they had stopped sometimes for rest—and other things. She eyed them wistfully. How fortunate they are, she thought, to have simplicity, the sweetness of country pleasures, the age-old rites in homage to spring and youth and fertility. She looked up at Pierre, standing tall and handsome beside her. If
we
had gamboled in the woods, she thought, I should have let him catch me! And devil take tomorrow.
 

He smiled down at her. “You look pensive. And a little sad. When the maypole is up, I’ll take you to the gypsy for a happy fortune.” He pointed to where the crowd had parted. “But look! There it is!”
 

Behind the group was a flower-bedecked ox, its horns draped with multicolored garlands. To the sound of the drums, which now were joined by a cornet and a fiddle, the ox was dragging a large tree that had been stripped of most of its branches. As the procession made its way around the square, the laughing couples danced about the tree and tucked flowers and herbs into its bark and the remnants of its branches, until the maypole was bright with blossoms and greenery. At last they reached the clearing and the pit that had been dug for the maypole. With rope and tackle, and much straining and cheering, the pole was set upright and anchored firmly in the ground. The couples gathered about the maypole, joined by a swarm of young children who had just been released from their lessons in the nave of the church, which served as the schoolroom. Faces shining, they all clasped hands, formed a circle, and began to sing a lilting song in praise of spring.
 

Watching with rapt joy from the edge of the clearing, Rouge questioned Pierre. “Will they dance now?”
 

“No. Not in this village. The custom is for them to go about the village singing and leaving garlands of flowers at each cottage.” He laughed. “They’ll beg a few coins, of course, and as much food as they can. The dancing will begin in the afternoon, when the May Queen is chosen.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Will you join them? Begging food, that is? While the rest of us thrifty and industrious souls try to earn a few livres?”
 

She gave him a withering look. “I had best stay close to you. The first maiden who comes skipping to buy flour will turn your head, and then
I’ll
be the one to spend the night on the floor of the inn!”
 

He winced at that. “Despite what Dugard said, and what the village may think, I happened to sleep alone most of those nights.”
 

She snorted her disbelief. “And now you wear the cloak of virtue?”
 

There was laughter in his green eyes. “I didn’t say I was
virtuous.
Merely discerning.” He indicated the revelers. “Will you stay and watch for a bit?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“Then I’ll return to my goods.” He disappeared into the crowd.
 

Rouge listened to the songs for a while, then, as the group reformed into a procession and wended its way down a narrow lane, she turned about to rejoin Pierre. A flash of bright red hair caught her eye. “Barnabé,” she exclaimed.
 

Leaning morosely against a doorway, Barnabé Grezel looked up. “Mademoiselle.” He scraped off his hat and made a little bow.
 

“So gloomy on such a merry day, Barnabé? Will you not join the singers?”
 

He kicked at a pebble. “She has not come.”
 

“But she must! Her father is the
seigneur
of the village. Isn’t it his duty to preside over the fair?” She patted his arm. “As soon as I see Angélique, I shall tell her you’re seeking her.”
 

His eyes were filled with pain and longing. “What matter? He’ll never let her out of his sight. And, oh, Mademoiselle Rouge, how I yearn for her! When I see the others…” He sighed. “And I’ve had no more than kisses.”
 

She pursed her lips in annoyance. “Then speak to him! Ask for her hand.”

“No. Not yet. Angélique is afraid he’ll send her away if he learns that we’ve been meeting when we can.” He frowned. “And his mind is set on that pig of a banker in Vendôme, curse him!”