Louisa Rawlings (11 page)

“You have more gossip for me?” asked Torcy.
 

“No. Not really. I have heard the Duc de Bleyle talking about some place called
Val d’Amour
, the Valley of Love…”
 

“I know of no such place. Or château,” interrupted Torcy.
 

“Nor I. And since he was speaking of affairs of the heart at the time, I assume it’s his pet name for a place of assignation. At any event, I thought I’d tell you it, since you’re interested in Bleyle’s doings.”
 

“No more than any other. It was only when you told me he had denied knowing the Duc de Chartres that I was intrigued. To whom did he mention
Val d’Amour
?”
 

She pursed her lips, thinking. “No one special, as I recall. His servant, perhaps.”
 

“Well, no matter. Why did you want to see me, then?”
 

“I want to go home to Sans-Souci. There’s planting to be done. And the tenants seem to work more industriously when the
seigneur
—or his daughter—is there. Have I your leave to retire from Versailles?”
 

He hesitated, then nodded. “I can spare you for a few weeks, I suppose. But I want you back here by the middle of May, at the very latest. Do you understand? And you’ll go home by way of Orléans. The papal envoy will be passing through Orléans in a few days, on his way to Rome. I should like him to have messages for the Pope himself, reiterating France’s desire to keep Spain Catholic when Charles dies.”
 

His cold calculation never ceased to amaze her. “I wonder if Austria knows how you outmaneuver her at every turn.”
 

He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers together. “She’d do the same, if she could. However, it’s not your concern. You’ll deliver the messages. And maintain secrecy, if you please.”
 

“I won’t forget, monsieur,” she snapped. “I’m not a fool!”
 

“Indeed, no, mademoiselle. I find myself increasingly grateful to your father for his…weaknesses. We take what we can in this business. We buy. We coerce. It doesn’t always bring us the most competent agents.”
 

She smiled mockingly. “If you mean that as a compliment, monsieur, save your breath. I despise you and what you make me do. I’d be quit of the whole dirty business tomorrow, if I could!”
 

“Perhaps someday you’ll come to look upon it as worthy service to your country. In the meantime…” He outlined the plan for her. She was to go to Orléans, to a certain tavern, where she was to take supper. She would be joined at supper by a young man—another agent—who would identify himself by giving her a bouquet of violets. To the world at large, they would seem to be like lovers meeting clandestinely. She was to underscore the image by behaving like a woman in love. “I think you know how to play the part,” said Torcy, his mouth curving in a sardonic smile.
 

“I wonder you don’t ask me to write ‘whore’ across my forehead.” Oh, why was she cursed with a wanton’s face?
 

He shrugged. “I suppose I disapprove of you as much as you do of me. Well, it scarcely matters. We both have our responsibilities. During supper, you’ll pass several packets of letters to the young man. He will be staying at the tavern. You are to seek lodgings elsewhere for the night. If it should come to discovery, I wouldn’t want you to be found in the same place.”
 

She frowned. “A moment. Orléans is out of my way. It will take me twice as long to get home.”
 

He stared at her as though she were an idiot. “I know that. Instead of going southwest to Sans-Souci, you’ll go directly south to Orléans, and from there across to your château.”
 

She sighed in exasperation. How simple it was for people who didn’t have to concern themselves with the matter of money! “You don’t understand. The journey will be twice as long. That’s twice as much money for the public coach. And the direct route to Sans-Souci requires only one night’s stop at an inn. Now I must be lodged for two nights. One in Orléans, and one on the way to Sans-Souci.”
 

He shook his head. “And, I suppose, you’ll need money,” he grumbled.
 

“Yes.”
 

“I like it not, mademoiselle. First the new gown, and now your charges for the journey. Your father is more thriftless than I thought. By God, I’ve half a mind to see him thrown into prison, to keep him from the gaming tables.”
 

She drew herself up, her eyes shooting cold gray sparks. “You do so, Monsieur de Torcy, and Spain might find herself with another agent!”
 

He looked at her with grudging admiration. “You’re a loyal daughter, I’ll grant you that. Very well. I’ll see that Albret brings you a small purse when he delivers the packet.” He scowled. “But this is the last time, Mademoiselle de Tournières. You’re clever enough to cheat, and to spirit away keys, and to break hearts in this court. You’ll rely on your wits, not on me, the next time you find yourself short of funds!”
 

For the journey, she dressed comfortably in a mantua, a simple garment of heavy brown silk twill, which opened in the front to reveal its own matching petticoat. The ease of the mantua allowed her to keep her stays loosely fastened. Her starched linen fontange was of a reasonable height, her shoes were sturdy. About her neck she wore a twisted neckerchief, the casual steinkirk that the women had begun to borrow from the men’s fashion. She kept out a cloak, in case the weather should turn cold, and packed the rest. With an extra day of travel, she didn’t intend to be burdened with more clothing than was comfortable.
 

The problem of her money was a different matter. The public carriages were safe enough, she supposed. France was not overrun with highwaymen, as England was reported to be. Still, she was a woman traveling alone. She hung a brocaded purse from her waist, filling it with a handful of coppers; the coins would do for tips and minor expenses on her trip, after her fare had been paid in advance. The bulk of her money (and Torcy had been surprisingly generous) she tied up in a handkerchief and tucked into the pocket of her stiff under-petticoat with its thick hip pads. When she was safely in her room at the inn, it would be time enough to retrieve her gold and pay for her lodgings.
 

The trip to Orléans was uneventful, though far from comfortable. The public coach was bumpy and crowded, with two grinning farmers, their wives who reeked of garlic, and a lecherous old merchant who kept trying to put his hand on Rouge’s knee. She stared out of the window at the sunny day, feeling again the tug of spring, the yearning to be free. It scarcely helped to remember that she was soon to play the part of a woman in love. If only she had a lover to bring her violets, and take her to supper, and… She shook off the fantasy. She thought: Don’t be a romantic fool, Rouge! It’s only April whispering in your ear!
 

The coaching inn at Orléans was large and welcoming, its inner courtyard cobbled and set with small tables for dining alfresco. Satisfied with it, she arranged for a room, and had her small hamper brought in. It held her comb, a change of linen if she should need it; her large trunk and boxes would remain on the coach until they reached Sans-Souci. She found the tavern that Torcy had instructed her to visit, warmly greeting the young man who approached her with the violets. Supper with him was a tedious affair. Clearly he was as unwilling to serve Torcy as she was. And the strain of pretending to adore him was almost more than she could bear, remembering again her lost opportunity with Arsène.
 

She slept with the violets on the pillow next to her. It was a fanciful gesture, but it helped to ease the vague ache in her heart.
 

She dressed quickly in the morning, instructing the maid who had brought her light breakfast to carry her hamper down to the coach. She sighed, looking out the window at the tables in the courtyard. She always seemed to be hungry; she would have enjoyed the luxury of a leisurely breakfast. But the coachman had said eight of the clock, and it was nearly the hour now.
 

“Mind you see that my hamper gets tucked safely into the coach,” she said, pressing a sol into the maid’s hand.
 

The girl nodded, pushed at her tousled curls, and picked up Rouge’s straw hamper.
“Nom de Dieu,”
she said, puffing, “what a morning! I’ll be happy to see the coach leave. No offense, mademoiselle.”
 

Rouge remembered the farmers and their wives. She wouldn’t have thought them to be difficult patrons. “Are there other guests at the inn?”
 

“Indeed, yes! I scarcely had a wink of sleep! Late last night a carriage arrived. A noble gentleman, with his coachman and his lackey and his team of horses. All needing food and rest. The gentleman was in a fine temper! Monsieur the innkeeper cast us all out of our beds in the middle of the night to prepare their rooms and serve up supper. The cook is still out of sorts. She boxed the stableboy’s ears, and chased me from her kitchen with a broom!”
 

Rouge clucked her tongue in sympathy, then turned back to the small mirror on the wall when the maid had gone. She pinned on her high fontange, arranged her silver-blond curls on her forehead in the matching crescents called
favorites
, and left several long tresses loose on her shoulder. It seemed a foolish vanity to take such care just for a tedious carriage ride, but it cheered her spirits. Picking up her cloak, she hurried down to the courtyard, where the coach was now awaiting its passengers.
 

“Mademoiselle de Tournières!” She turned at the sound of her name. The innkeeper, a red-faced man with a stubble of beard, was bustling toward her. “Mademoiselle. There’s a gentleman asking for you.”
 

“For me?”
 

“The gentleman who arrived last night. Like a bat out of hell, in the midst of the best sleep I’ve had in months! And he wants to see you this morning.”
 

“Surely you’re mistaken. Why should anyone ask for me? No one knew I was here.
Mon Dieu
, I did not know myself I’d be lodging here!” For the first time, she felt the edge of fear. Perhaps being Torcy’s agent held more danger than she had supposed. Who could he be? This disagreeable nobleman who had turned the inn upside down in the middle of the night?
 

“The man said he asked at several inns to find you. That was why he arrived so late. But he charged me, on pain of a beating, that you were not to leave until he saw you.”
 

She shook off her uneasiness. Why should she feel so disquieted? Perhaps Torcy had further errands for her. That’s all. “Show me to him, then. But see that the coach doesn’t leave without me, if you please.” She followed the innkeeper’s directions to a small room on the ground floor, going in and closing the door behind her. She gasped at the man who rose from his chair and came toward her. “Arsène! What are you doing here?”
 

He smiled, the corners of his handsome mouth turning up in a grimace that seemed a shade less than friendly. “You left Versailles. I told you I’d follow you.”
 

“I scarcely thought you would have cared.”
 

“I was, perhaps, hasty in my assessment of that…unfortunate night.”
 

“And hasty in your epithets?” she asked coldly, remembering that he had called her “whore” and “slut.”
 

He shrugged. “
Ungallant
in my epithets.”
 

She noticed that he hadn’t apologized. Devil take him! “Well, what is it you want?”
 

He smiled more gently, and a bit of the tension left his body. “Your beautiful gray eyes are like a winter’s day, freezing my heart. I see I shall have to atone for my cruel words. I’m minded that you like your food. Have breakfast with me in the courtyard.”
 

Still no apology. “Why should I?”
 

“Because, though it pains me to admit it, I still adore you. I still want you. Nothing else would have sent me dashing about the countryside like a mad fool.”
 

She sank into a chair, waves of gratitude and relief washing over her. He still wanted her. “Oh, Arsène!” She felt she owed him
some
explanation for that regrettable scene. “Don Lopes was drunk. It seemed a silly game at first, taking off bits of clothing. He, with his coat, I and my laces…”
 

He held up a hand in admonition. “I don’t want to hear.”
 

“But you must. I couldn’t bear for you to think…Don Lopes and I…it’s too dreadful. He was helping me with my shoe. Before I knew it, it was no longer a game, and he…”
 

“I told you, I don’t want to hear it,” he growled. “Make no mistake, Marie-Rouge. Innocent or lewd, that scene still haunts me. If I could forget you, I would, God knows.”
 

His obvious anguish tore at her heart. “It
was
innocent, Arsène,” she whispered. “I swear it.”
 

“Beautiful Marie-Rouge. And never more so than when your eyes are filled with earnest disavowals.” He sighed deeply. “Take breakfast with me.”