Louisa Rawlings (73 page)

Emilie’s jaw dropped. “Your wife?” she whispered.
 

He grinned. “Of course. I knew the first day I saw you that I wanted you. A man doesn’t take just any woman across his knee to improve her disposition! Only someone he cares about!”
 

Emilie smiled shyly and put her arms around his neck. “Your wife?” she said again.
 

He kissed her softly. “Now you tell her you want to come home to me.” He sighed. “Maybe it will bring her to her senses. God knows
he’s
blind, though I’ve tried to talk to him often enough!”
 

Rouge tiptoed away from the door. She was an intruder. There was no place for her in that happy scene. She envied them so. If only her quarrels with Pierre could be resolved so easily. But there were too many hurts, too much pride, to save her love now. Heavyhearted, she wandered the corridors of Versailles, avoiding the festive knots of people, the laughter and the joy that could no longer reach her.
 

“Madame de Villeneuve, will you come with me?”
 

She frowned. A young page waited politely. She followed him to a handsome suite of rooms, and sat in the chair he indicated, before a table set for dinner. For two people. The page bowed and left her alone. Name of heaven, she thought, what new mystery is this?
 

“Forgive me for keeping you waiting. But it’s an unusual day, you understand.” The Marquis de Torcy came hurrying into the room. “I thought it was time to feed you in my own
appartement.
I’ve imposed upon Albret de Montigny often enough.” He sat opposite her and poured some wine.
 

“Am I to be forced into some new indignity by you?” she asked coldly.
 

“I have no hold on you. And even if I did, I should hesitate to take advantage.”
 

“Then why am I here?”
 

He indicated the food. “To dine with me. I haven’t forgot that eating is one of your pleasures.”
 

She shrugged and helped herself to the food. She
was
hungry. She guessed that—were the sky to fall—she’d still be eager to eat. “You’ll forgive me, however, if I’m not overjoyed at the company, monsieur.”
 

He smiled gently, a smile that softened his rather severe features. “One of the advantages of having a network of spies, madame, is being able to learn many things. Sometimes they’re things that dismay. As, for example, what a husband may say to his wife in a moment of anger.”
 

She turned her head away and closed her eyes, her heart overwhelmed with grief. The tears burned behind her lids.
 

“I think I misjudged you from the first,” he said quietly.
 

She opened her eyes and stared at him. Of what use to her was his regret now? Angrily she brushed away her tears. “We see what we want to see. And believe a truth we’ve already fixed in our minds.” As had Torcy, thinking her a whore because of her ripe beauty. As had Pierre, the moment she’d left Choisy for Rochenard.
 

“True enough. But now I see—you must correct me if I’m wrong—I see an unfortunate estrangement. And two lovers kept apart by…pride?” His eyes were filled with understanding.
 

She sighed. “Perhaps. Or a skein of misunderstandings that becomes too difficult to unravel. He sees what
he
wants to see.”
 

“Because of what you did for me?”
 

“He’s misjudged too many things. And it’s a bit late to begin with explanations.”
 

“And I am the cause.”
 

“There were many times in the past six months when your instructions…”
 

“Went against your desires?” he finished.
 

“It’s only that too often I was…Torcy’s agent. Forced to lie. And he saw me only as a dissembling woman.”
 

“He knew nothing of your involvement with me? Ever?”
 

“No.” She frowned at him, still feeling the dregs of resentment toward him. “Your threats were very effective. I was always afraid to tell him. Or anyone. Because of my father. And now…?” She shrugged. “It scarcely makes a difference.”
 

“Go home,” he said. “Let me talk to him. I owe you that.”
 

“For services to the realm?” she said with bitterness.

“No,” he said gently. “Because I misjudged you. It pricks at my conscience that I’ve treated you with less gallantry than I should have. Go home and allow me to send your husband to you.”
 

She felt her heart swell with a sudden hope. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. But there was pain as well. That Pierre hadn’t had enough faith in her love to trust her. “No,” she said. “I’ll not go home. If you speak to him, tell him only that I’ve gone. If he still cares for me, let his heart seek me out.”
 

The public coach bumped along the road. Rouge sat huddled in a corner, her thoughts swinging wildly between joyous hope and apprehension. What if Pierre didn’t believe Torcy? What if he no longer cared? She had treated him so badly at Choisy, filled with her own resentments those first few weeks. And would he find her, if he did care?
 

She had ordered Emilie to take most of her things to Choisy, giving the girl a purse large enough for her traveling charges. Emilie had smiled, her eyes shining with happiness. “Will you stay at Choisy, madame?”
 

She’d kissed Emilie on the cheek. “
You
will, never fear. I don’t know about me. Only time will tell.”
 

Let it be so, she thought, shivering against the cold of the day. She’d just begun to nod off when the carriage jerked to a halt. The coachman rapped on the roof. “Selommes,” he called. “All those for Selommes!”
 

She alit from the coach and directed that her portmanteau be unloaded and carried into The Red Bull. She ordered something to eat; she’d barely eaten breakfast at the inn where the coach had stopped for the night. As she ate, she called the proprietor to her table. His eyes didn’t flicker, not even in momentary recognition; blooming May and her queen were far from this cold November afternoon. And she had a generous purse; he was more eager to do the great lady’s bidding than to look carefully at her face.
 

“I should like the hire of a horse and wagon,” she said. “Is there someone here in Selommes who can see to it? He need only take me to…my destination, and return at once to Selommes.” She put several crowns on the table.
 

“Madame, it will be a long winter. There’s many a farmer with horse and wagon to spare now that the harvest is in, who’ll welcome a little insurance against starvation.”
 

“Will you see to it, then?” She pushed an extra crown toward him. “And I need someone to make some purchases for me. A bit of bread, some meat and vegetables. Firewood. If someone can do that, I’ll give him a list of precisely what I need.”
 

He rubbed his hands. The lady’s purse was evidently fat. “My own wife, madame, will be happy to see to your needs. Only tell her, and it will be done.”
 

While the tavern keeper and his wife scurried about filling her requests, she finished the last of her meal. Her mind was crowded with doubts. Would she ever learn to control her mad impetuosity? She had no idea of the condition the mill was in; she’d never even bothered to ask Colinet if he’d seen to the repairs! And if Pierre didn’t come, she’d be stranded out there. She’d walked to Selommes in the spring, on a warm, sunny day; it would be far less pleasant on a day like this. She crossed to the door of the tavern, opened it, and looked out. The sky was overcast. God help her if it snowed! Perhaps she’d have the wagon return to the mill tomorrow, on the chance that she’d want to leave.
 

“Mademoiselle Rouge?”
 

She looked up. Angélique was hurrying across the square toward her. She was bundled in a heavy cloak, her dark hair covered by a fur hood; but the voluminous folds of the mantle could scarcely hide the bulge beneath her breasts. Rouge smiled a greeting. “Angélique! Is it you?” She laughed and pulled the girl into her arms, hugging her warmly. Then she stepped back and rubbed the girl’s belly. “Barnabé’s?”
 

Angélique nodded shyly. “The day of the May fair, I think.”
 

Rouge tugged at her sleeve. “Come inside and talk to me. You look so happy. Tell me how you are.”
 

“I only have a moment. There’s so much to do today.”
 

“But…how come you here? When I saw Barnabé in September, he told me a sad tale. You in the convent, scrubbing floors.”
 

The girl’s dark eyes shone. “It was like a fairy tale. And he was my noble prince. He came to the convent and carried me away. Oh, he was so noble!”
 

“And your father? What did he say?”
 

“I learned afterward that Barnabé had stormed into Château Puitsfond and thrown down a purse before my father. He threatened to buy up every bit of land around the manor house and ruin my father, if he didn’t at once agree to our marriage and write a letter to the sisters to release me! Oh, he was so bold and brave. I love him so!” She sighed. “But poor Papa. He drinks all the time now. He sits in the wine shops and tells drunken stories from morning till night. All about the past glories of Puitsfond and the Ruffecs. If it weren’t for Barnabé’s money, we should have lost the château by now.”
 

“Then you and Barnabé are married? And living in Puitsfond?” She smiled. “Like the fairy tales, you live happily ever after?”
 

“Alas, no.” Angélique’s face fell. “After he rescued me, Barnabé had to go back at once to his regiment.”
 

Rouge frowned. “And now you must wait? In spite of the baby?”
 

Angélique giggled. “I was teasing you. Only yesterday I had a letter from him! By some miracle—thanks be to God—he’s been released from the army! That’s why I’m so busy today. We’re to be married tomorrow. As soon as he arrives!”
 

Rouge blinked back the happy tears. God bless you, Monsieur de Torcy, she thought. He hadn’t failed her. She could only pray that he’d be as successful for her as he had been for Angélique.
 

“Oh, Mademoiselle Rouge,” said Angélique. “Will you be here? Will you come to our wedding tomorrow?”
 

Rouge looked up. The tavern keeper was signaling to her that her wagon and supplies were ready. “Perhaps I shall, Angélique. But I have business of my own first.” She kissed the girl and hurried out the door. “Say a prayer for me, Angélique,” she whispered, so the girl didn’t hear, “as I prayed for you.”
 

As the wagon approached the mill, she could see that Colinet had been as good as his word. The roof over the milling room was obviously new, though the stones around the windows still bore black smudges from the smoke and fire. She jumped out of the wagon as it slowed, too impatient to wait. She asked the farmer to put her supplies into the cottage while she ran below to inspect the mill rooms. The machinery had been spared most of the fire, though it still smelled of smoke in the empty larder. She climbed the ladder to the floor above. Here the new millstones still lay on the floor, waiting to be put into their casings. The workers hadn’t quite finished yet. But when she looked out of the window she saw a bright new waterwheel sitting in the frozen stream, and only waiting for a thaw to begin its work. She lingered in the mill room until the farmer had come in and announced that all her goods were unloaded. She didn’t want to see her dear cottage until he’d gone. If it had been damaged in the fire, she wanted to weep alone. She paid the farmer, listened for the creak of his wagon wheels to signal his departure.
 

She took a deep breath and crossed to the threshold. She knew in that moment that it hadn’t been an impulse to ask Colinet to repair the mill. Somewhere, in the depths of her being, she’d always known she’d come back. Back to the peace and serenity of this cottage—the balm for her soul, the refuge for her poor bruised heart.
 

Except for the thick layers of dust and sawdust from the repairs, and a few dried leaves that had blown in at the door, the room was as she remembered it. The table, the bench and chair, the bed. The straw
paillasse
, still on the floor, where they’d made love that last night. Her tears began to flow, remembering.
 

“Name of heaven,” she muttered, drying her eyes. “Don’t be such a fool! There’s work to be done!”
 

The first thing was the fire. She couldn’t begin to cook and clean if it was too cold to take off her cloak! She cleaned out the hearth and started the fire; while it heated the little room she took a bucket and went out to the millpond, breaking a small hole in the ice so she could scoop out some water. By the time she returned, the cottage was warm and cozy, the cheery fire brightening the gray afternoon. She stripped off her mantle and jacket, and rolled up the sleeves of her chemise. Best to start supper first. She used a bit of the water to clean out one of the pots, wishing she had time to scrub it first. How they’d shone in the spring, all her pots! She had a piece of beef that she set to cooking, adding the vegetables that she’d bought; she smiled in pleasure to find a few dried herbs hanging from the rafters. They were old, but still aromatic.