Louisa Rawlings (31 page)

“Whatever your customs are,” she said, “I’m sure they’ll please me. And my name is Rouge.”
 

“Why then,” he smiled happily, “I greet you as the May Queen, Rouge.” He cupped her chin in his hands and kissed her soundly.
 

Startled by her second kiss in as many minutes, Rouge looked up to see the Council, goblets in hand, lining up for their greetings. Lawyer and merchant, fat and tall, they smiled in anticipation.
Mon Dieu
!
she thought. Is kissing the custom? She looked to Pierre, her eyes pleading for rescue, as Ruffec stepped to the head of the line and insisted on taking another kiss. He was followed by an old man with gray hair and dry lips. Just as a particularly ugly merchant, reeking of onions and sweat, was about to put his mouth on hers, Pierre snatched her away, his strong arm about her waist.
 

“Messieurs!” he cried. “For the honor you have done my cousin—and my family—I should like to pay for another jug of wine. You there, girl! Fetch the best wine the Red Bull has, and send the sweetmeat seller over here with his cakes. It’s not every day a man can celebrate the beauty of his cousin!” He kept his arm firmly about her waist. The remainder of the Council, intimidated by his size and strength, contented themselves with planting chaste kisses on the cheek of their May Queen. When the cakes—studded with nuts and raisins—were brought and passed around, Rouge had a moment to thank Pierre.
 

“Name of God,” she said under her breath, “is that the custom? All those kisses?”
 

He smiled gently. “I’m afraid not. Until you came, there was no one worth kissing.” His eyes were on her lips.
 

Oh, Egypt, she thought, aching. One kiss today. Just one.
 

There was a loud roar from the Baron de Ruffec. “Damnation!” He stamped his foot in frustration and spit out the sweetcake he had been eating; then he grimaced, his tongue moving furiously in his cheek, and spat again. This time a large chunk of tooth came forth with the bits of chewed nuts and raisins. He groaned in pain, his hand at his jaw, then scowled at the schoolmaster, as though the poor man were to blame for the broken tooth. “You’ll escort the May Queen without me,” he growled. “I intend to take to my bed with a good bottle of aqua vitae. Come, Angélique!”
 

Mother of heaven, thought Rouge. Could anything be more opportune? It was as if the charm were working its magic once again. The chance she’d been praying for. “Wait,” she said. “Monsieur de Ruffec. You cannot think to go home while you are suffering so! I saw a tooth-drawer this morning, unpacking his instruments and nostrums.” She smiled in sympathy. “Let me take you to him. He’s sure to find a remedy or two for your pain. Come, cousin. Help me with the poor man.”
 

Pierre looked at her, bewildered, but he stepped forward to put his hand firmly under the baron’s elbow. While the Council crowded around, Rouge and Pierre supported the moaning man, guiding him toward the narrow booth where the tooth drawer had set up for business. Ruffec sat down heavily in the armchair provided, and put his head in his hands; the councilmen pushed forward, filling the small space, and began to talk all at once, each suggesting a treatment that he swore had been successful on this or that aristocratic sufferer of his acquaintance.
 

Rouge stepped outside the booth and put her hand on Angélique’s arm. “He’ll be too busy—and too unhappy—in a little while to see that you’re gone. Find Barnabé. When you return, if your father should question your absence, say that the sight of his pain made you swoon.” She kissed the girl on the forehead. “Now go.” Filled with joy, she watched a radiant Angélique disappear down the street.
 

“Why are you smiling?” Pierre was at her elbow, laughing down at her. He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “The poor man is suffering, and you smile, woman?”
 

“Pish tush,” she said smugly. “I’m Queen of the May, and I can do as I wish! Even smile, because God has punished that villain Ruffec.”
 

He bowed elaborately. “And what is your wish now, fair queen?”
 

Grandly she drew herself up. “To be escorted to the maypole, as I was promised.”
 

“And you’ve been abandoned—alas!—by that flock of chattering magpies, who’d rather pay court to the
seigneur
than court a queen who’s chary with her kisses!” He grinned and put her arm through his—his touch was warm, burning her flesh, stirring her with deep desires—and led her to the dancers.
 

The afternoon was a dizzying whirl of dancing and laughter and happiness that flooded her soul. She danced with farmers in wooden clogs, little boys who barely reached her nose, and impudent young village cavaliers who begged for a kiss or pinched her bottom as she skipped past in a country reel. And there was Pierre, always Pierre, to smile at her and swing her around the maypole and pull her down to sit beside him whenever she needed to rest.
 

In midafternoon the public coach rumbled into the square, several hours late on its way to Vendôme because of a lame horse. There was a great to-do while the blacksmith was fetched, and another delay while the man, thoroughly drunk, was ducked headforemost into the public fountain to sober him. While the passengers waited for their journey to continue, they alit and joined the revelers, carousing and singing in the tavern, dancing about the maypole. One of the travelers was quite clearly an aristocrat, a coxcomb in red velvet who barked orders and snapped his fingers at the serving girls. The schoolmaster, conscious of the village’s honor in entertaining such an exalted member of the
noblesse
, conferred briefly with Pierre and Rouge and the others on the propriety of introducing him to the Baron de Ruffec; but since that worthy was now writhing in pain, his mouth opened to the various ministrations of the tooth drawer, it was decided that an armchair set near the maypole was enough honor for the visiting gentleman.
 

The afternoon turned warm. Pierre pulled off his coat and his cravat, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The wine and ale flowed more freely, but the fiddler, his face glazed with sweat, was beginning to flag. He played a slow and melancholy air; in response, the dancers formed a sinuous line, one behind another, that snaked its way through the crowded marketplace with its stalls and trestles and mounds of produce. Pierre was behind Rouge, his hands clasped firmly about her slim waist; she found herself smiling at him over her shoulder with every twist and turn of the line.
 

“
Morbleu
! Is this the May Queen, or a goddess?”
 

Rouge looked up to see the coxcomb standing beside her. “Monsieur?”
 

“Come, pretty one. They’re beginning another dance back at the maypole. You shall be my partner.” He took her by the arm and pulled her out of the line, freeing her from Pierre’s grasp.
 

The miller’s brow darkened. “She’s dancing with me.”
 

“Does she belong to you?” The nobleman put his hand inside his coat; Rouge caught the dull gleam of a knife handle.
 

Dieu!
she thought. This will never do! “I belong to no one,” she said lightly. “Let it be, Pierre.” Her eyes held a silent plea.
 

“But you’re dancing with me,” he growled.
 

Name of God, she thought. Does he intend to start a brawl over a mere dance? “Don’t be a fool,” she snapped. “I’ve danced with you all afternoon and will dance with you tonight! While the gentleman will be gone in an hour or two. What harm if I dance with him now?” And scarcely worth a knife in the ribs! she thought, exasperated.
 

Pierre shrugged and turned away. “Do as you wish, woman. It matters naught to me.”
 

“Come along then.” The nobleman pulled her through the square to the maypole and swung her into his arms. She tried to see Pierre among the faces in the crowd, but he was not in sight. Ah, well. She sighed and tried to concentrate on the steps of the lively country dance.
 

The nobleman swore under his breath. He seemed to be having difficulty with the steps. “This isn’t to my liking,” he muttered. “Clumsy village dancing. I should prefer to be doing a gavotte to this air!”
 

Oddly, she felt the insult personally. “Then do so,” she said crisply. “I’ll follow you. You’ll find we’re not so provincial as you might suppose here in Selommes.”
 

“
Hein?
Not only beautiful, but clever as well?” He smiled. “The gavotte it is, then.”
 

He bowed to her curtsy and led her into the gavotte. One by one the other dancers fell back, watching in admiration and awe as they danced the spirited steps. Rouge had forgotten how delightful it was; when the dance ended her eyes were shining. She dabbed at her damp forehead. “By my faith,” she said, gasping, “’tis too hot to do that on a sunny day!”
 

“Then come into the shade.”
 

Still breathing hard, she allowed him to lead her away from the crowd. It was not until he had pulled her into a narrow lane that she realized they were quite alone.
 

He leered at her. “Now, you pretty little creature, if I promise to give you a whole gold louis, will you give me a kiss?”
 

She glared at him, her eyes like cold gray steel. “You miserable wretch,” she said. “Had you asked it of me as an equal, I might have granted it. Because it’s May Day, because we shared a pleasant dance. But to
buy
a kiss? To think me so low? Mother of God! I wouldn’t let you kiss the hem of my gown for a hundred gold louis!”
 

For a moment he looked as though he would begin cursing; then his face relaxed and he laughed. “
Morbleu!
I know you! I should have realized it at once. The color of that hair. And then when you danced the gavotte with such skill… But your simple peasant clothes fooled me. That and the healthy tan on your face. I’ve seen you at Versailles and heard the king praise your beauty. De Tournières, is it not? The fair Marie-Rouge.”
 

“What nonsense do you speak?”
 

He shook his head. “No. The game was up the minute you began to berate me. No country girl would hold her head that way, chin set at a proud tilt, as though she were accustomed to being obeyed. You’re Marie-Rouge de Tournières, or I’m damned.”
 

She shrugged. There was no use to deny it.
 

“What are you doing here?” he asked.
 

“That’s my concern.”
 

He jerked his head in the direction of the square. “Do they know?”
 

“Only my…friend. The one—curse your cowardice!—you would have run through with your dirk had I not intervened.”
 

The nobleman scratched at his wig and looked shamefaced. “A very protective friend, I think.”
 

“He is indeed. And more than your equal in a
fair
fight. Most likely he’s searching for me at this very moment. ’Twere best if you go back to the maypole now, and let him find me alone.”
 

He bowed and took her hand in his. “Mademoiselle. I trust I’m forgiven my presumption.” He kissed her hand. “I’ll not interfere in your schemes, whatever they may be. I pray to see you again at Versailles.” He bowed once more and hurried back to rejoin the revelers.
 

Rouge turned about, meaning to seek for Pierre. She’d really spoken rather sharply to him, but there had seemed no other way to forestall a fight. She knew the stubborn pride of the nobility; had she refused the man, he would have provoked a quarrel with Pierre just to save face.
 

She looked up. Angélique was coming down the street. At sight of Rouge she stopped, blushed, smiled shyly. She hurried forward. “Has my father been asking for me?” she said. She couldn’t meet Rouge’s glance.
 

“I’ve heard nothing. I can only guess he’s still with the tooth drawer. We’ll go together, if you wish.”
 

Her eyes still cast down, Angélique nodded. They had barely gone two steps, however, when the girl halted, threw her arms about Rouge’s waist, and rested her head against Rouge’s bosom. “Oh, I love him so,” she whispered.

Instinctively Rouge embraced the fragile girl. “Barnabé?” she asked softly.
 

Angélique’s voice was muffled against her breast. “We danced, just as if we had a maypole. We both remembered the songs we used to sing as children together, and so we sang them—very softly, so as not to be overheard—and we danced. And then…and then…” The young form trembled in Rouge’s arms. “And then I cried because it hurt, and because I loved him so, and then he was kind and sweet, and he kissed me…” She looked up at Rouge, her tear-filled eyes shining.
 

Rouge swallowed the lump in her throat. She straightened the girl’s fontange, smoothed her black curls. “What will you do now?”
 

“I fear to tell my father.”
 

“Perhaps Barnabé can speak to him.”
 

“He wants to. He says he loves me so much that he wants the world to know it! But I’m afraid. Papa would have him thrashed only for
looking
at me. And marriage? No. When the time is right, I’ll tell him myself.”