Louisa Rawlings (52 page)

She found it difficult to hold back her tears, hugging him over and over again. Chrétien cleared his throat and scowled at her, though his brown eyes were brighter than usual. “Wicked daughter,” he said gruffly. “To leave me at the mercy of that harridan. And I must pay her for the privilege of being bullied?”
 

She dabbed at her eyes and tried to smile. “Seven crowns a week. And don’t stint, or I’ll come back myself and scold. And then you’ll have
two
shrews to bedevil you!”
 

“One more thing,” said Tintin. “There’s a purse of coins in that table. ’Tis not much, but take it. For your own trifles. You needn’t tell your husband,” he added.
 

They set out at last, Emilie still glaring at Monsieur Colinet. He, on the other hand, was filled with unlimited goodwill, smiling and bounding out of the carriage to help them down each time they stopped to stretch their legs. It only added to Emilie’s conviction that, like his master no doubt, his seeming kindnesses masked an evil heart. She conveyed this thought to Rouge at every opportunity.
 

What nonsense, thought Rouge, seeing the sour looks Emilie cast at the man. She was beginning to feel foolish. All week she’d allowed Emilie’s overwrought suspicions to color her own thoughts. Yet here was Monsieur Colinet, a pleasant man, open and friendly. Would he serve a monster? Perhaps she’d allowed her fears to rule her unwisely in the past few days.
 

Late in the afternoon the carriage pulled into the courtyard of a fine old inn. “Are we stopping to refresh the horses, Monsieur Colinet?”
 

“No. We’re stopping for the night.”
 

“But surely there are a few more hours of daylight left,” she said in surprise. “And aren’t we still a long way from Choisy? It will make tomorrow’s ride exceedingly tiresome if we stop so soon now.”
 

“It will be at least six or seven hours more tomorrow, mademoiselle. But we’re stopping now because Monsieur de Villeneuve is coming from Orléans. He’s to meet us here after noon tomorrow. We shall wait for his arrival.”
 

“He was in Orléans?”
 

“Yes. He had business with the intendant there.” Colinet’s smile grew.
 

Name of God, thought Rouge, shivering. Perhaps Emilie had been right. The more he smiled, the worse things became. If Villeneuve was coming from Orléans, why couldn’t he have come all the way to Sans-Souci? It was only a few more hours’ journey.
 

Unless, of course, he wanted to be sure that Rouge had signed the forms of consent
before
they met.
 

She spent a sleepless night, tossing in her bed at the inn. Her uneasiness had become a large bell in her brain, ringing a warning. She was haunted by Emilie’s words. The spider. She’d been pulled into the web, and now she was helpless, far from home, far from Tintin’s protection, and all but married to a man she hadn’t even met. A man whose past filled her with horror.
 

Before dawn she got up from her bed. It was useless to try to sleep. And the others would be up soon anyway. She could hear the first stirrings of activity in the courtyard outside. She dressed quickly and tiptoed past Emilie on her small cot, moving toward the stairs and the kitchen. She was hungry. Perhaps if they’d begun breakfast, she could get something to eat. The stairs were dark, but a welcoming light shone from the kitchen. She found a sleepy cook who was willing to give her a mug of hot chocolate and some bread and butter. She sat at the large trestle table in front of the kitchen hearth, eating her breakfast and watching the cook pluck a dozen small pigeons.
 

“What a mess of pigeons,” she said. “Are they for monsieur le duc’s arrival?”
 

“No. Monsieur Colinet has asked for a roast. I’ll set that over the fire in a little while. The pigeons are for the passengers of the coach. They’ll be hungry when they arrive.”
 

Rouge put down her mug and looked at the woman. “The coach is coming here? The public coach?”
 

“As it always does. With passengers who are hungry and eager to be on their way again.”
 

The beginnings of an idea were forming in Rouge’s brain. “And when does it arrive?”
 

“A little after nine.”
 

“And leaves again…?”
 

“Half after ten.”
 

She murmured a silent prayer. Merciful heaven, let it be so! “Where’s the coach bound for?”
 

“Orléans.”
 

“And where does it come from?”
 

“Vendôme.”
 

Vendôme! Then it was the coach that passed through Selommes! It was madness, of course. A wild impulse. She’d surely regret it. But… She raced back up the stairs and shook Emilie awake. “Listen to me, Emilie,” she said urgently. “I’m leaving. Villeneuve isn’t expected until after noon today. You must tell Colinet that I don’t feel well, and wish to remain in my room all morning. Lock the door, if you must. And keep yourself inside the room. Have them send up food. But delay them from finding me gone for as long as you can.”
 

“Mademoiselle Rouge, where do you go?"
 

She drew a painful breath, surprised to find that she was trembling. “The public coach goes to Selommes.”
 

Emilie nodded, her eyes filled with understanding. “The miller.”
 

“Yes.” Now that it was too late, she was going to him. She didn’t know what to expect. He might curse her. He might hate her. She only knew she had to see him again.
 

“Will you come back?” asked Emilie softly.
 

“I don’t know.” She fumbled in her purse. “Here. Take some of this.”
 

Emilie’s round face darkened with anger. “I serve you with honor, mademoiselle. I don’t need a tip for doing my duty! The Villeneuves and their servants may be blackguards. The Tournières are not!”
 

Rouge choked back her tears. “I know that. I’d never question your loyalty. But I want you to have it because…because God knows if I’ll ever see you again!” She pressed the coins into Emilie’s hand and embraced the girl.
 

“I wish you Godspeed, mademoiselle. Don’t fret. I’ll smile more brightly than that rogue Colinet while I tell him lies!”
 

Rouge hurried out of the inn and down the road as the sun rose, finding a small thicket where she could hide until the coach had come and gone from the inn. Though she had a wait of some hours, she was too nervous to sleep, but sat, or paced, or rehearsed in her head what she could say to Pierre. Dared she tell him she loved him? Would he believe her? Would he trust her? No. He’d call her a scheming coquette. Best to say nothing. Not unless he pledged his love first. Told her he’d forgiven her.
 

She’d almost repented of this mad scheme and turned back to the inn when she saw the coach approaching. She stepped out into the road and waved it to a stop. She paid for the fare to Selommes, but had the coachman drop her off before they reached the village. It was closer to the mill here.
 

She hurried along the road, filled with hope and the joy of seeing him again, and noted the changes that the months had wrought. The green meadow where they’d frolicked was now a pale yellow, the grasses slowly drying with autumn’s coming. The hedge was choked with a summer’s worth of weeds, and scarlet vines twisted around the trunks of the trees, vivid against the clear blue of the sky.
 

She found herself running as she reached the track that led to the mill. The sight of it took her breath away. It sat, like a dear old friend, comfortably sunning itself in the September light, its golden stones warm and welcoming. The air was filled with the perfume of ripe apples from a small orchard, and autumn flowers bloomed near the door. It was quiet, but perhaps Pierre wasn’t grinding today. Alas! No smoke came from the chimney. Her heart stopped, then she laughed softly. Foolish Rouge! It was a warm day; why should he have a fire? He’d be eating dinner soon: a cold joint, no doubt, washed down with ale.

She burst in at the cottage door. There was no one there. “Pierre?” she whispered. The mill room. No. That was empty, too. She dashed about, becoming more frantic by the moment. “Pierre!” she cried. She searched everywhere, going up and down the ladders half a dozen times, as though this time—this time, dear God!—he’d be there. She raced to the millpond, then down to his favorite fishing spot. He was gone. And the horse and wagon. Not even Jerusalem was about. Sick at heart, she returned to the cottage. He’d neglected it woefully since she’d gone. The dust was thick on everything. Her pretty little cottage.

With a sob, she threw herself across the bed. She hugged the pillow and wept bitterly, her body shaking, until sleep came and blessed her with forgetfulness.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“Oh! What?” Rouge sat up and shook her head. Pierre was there, scowling down at her. She felt numb and confused, her head still clouded with sleep. She rubbed her eyes and looked around her. The shadows were lengthening across the floor; she must have slept for hours. She eased herself out of bed and began to move about the cottage, looking with sleep-drugged eyes for a bucket of water, a pitcher, anything. “Haven’t you a bit of water?”

“No water, except what’s outside. But here,” he said impatiently, “if this will help.” He pulled a small flask from his belt and handed it to her. It was wine, and strong, but it cleared away the last of the cobwebs from her brain. “I asked you what you’re doing here,” he said again.

“You weren’t here,” she said. “And your books are gone.” She scanned the room again, noticing for the first time how empty it seemed, with his chest and some of his personal things missing.
 

“I’ve been away. I’ve lost the taste for milling. But since my rent is paid on the lease until the end of the year, I’ve been trying to find a new miller to work this place. So the villagers don’t have to depend on Ruffec’s mill.”
 

She looked at him. His green eyes were filled with cold anger and rancor. “You’ve given up milling?” she ventured. “But…what will you do?”
 

“Do you care?”
 

She retreated from the challenge of his words. I should never have come, she thought miserably. “Where’s Jerusalem?”
 

He laughed, his voice harsh and bitter. “She ran off. Fickle women do that, you know.”
 

She turned away so he wouldn’t see the pain on her face. “But why did you give up milling?”
 

“I told you. My desire for it was beaten out of me. Or have you forgot our last meeting?”
 

She choked on her remorse. “Don’t. Don’t.” His hatred was too hard to bear. She turned back to him, her eyes pleading for understanding.
 

His face was a hard mask, devoid of pity. “Did you marry him? That vicious little boy?”
 

“No.”

“Arsène de Falconet, then.”
 

“No.”
 

“Poor Rouge,” he said with contempt. “Will no one have you?”
 

“Yes,” she murmured softly, reluctant to tell him. “I’m on my way to be married now. Though I dread it.”
 

“And who’s the fortunate bridegroom?”
 

“I’m sure you haven’t heard of him. The Duc de Villeneuve.”
 

“Everyone’s heard of that rogue. Even here in the provinces.” He laughed. “What a good match for you. You’ll both play at love in Versailles, faithless to each other.”
 

“I don’t want to marry him. I swear that to you.”
 

“But he’s rich,
n’est-ce pas
? Rich enough to keep you in gowns. And pretty little hats with red plumes,” he added cruelly.
 

“For the love of God, Pierre,” she cried, anguished. “I didn’t know he’d have you whipped!”
 

“You haven’t answered me. Why did you come here? Are you running away once more? Escaping the husband you dread? Sweet Jesu, woman, do you expect me to shelter you again? I was accused of stealing your ring and beaten for it. Will you see me hanged this time for stealing a man’s wife? Is that why you came?”
 

“No. No.” Her heart was breaking. “Don’t look at me with cold reproach in your eyes, Pierre. I can’t bear it.” She hadn’t meant to be weak, to show him how much he hurt her. But suddenly she was in tears, on her knees before him. “Look. You see?” she wept, looking up at him. “I kneel before you. As you said I would. I have no shame. I have no pride.”
 

He seemed to be struggling with his own stubborn pride. His face softened, his eyes betraying his vulnerability. “Why did you come?” he said at last.
 

“I’m to be a bride,” she said. Her voice shook with helplessness and grief. “Sold into a marriage that frightens and horrifies me. A stranger’s bride. Oh, Pierre, make love to me tonight, as though…” she sobbed bitterly, “…I wish to God it could be so!…as though I were
your
bride.”