Louisa Rawlings (20 page)

He shook his head. “No. The Widow Grezel always sends over some foodstuffs when her men come for the flour. I charge her less than my usual toll of one-twelfth of the grain, and take the rest in barter. And since one of her cows has stopped giving milk, I’m guessing that we’ll have a nice piece of larded beef to last us for a day or two. If you can work miracles with humble bread, my mouth is already watering at the thought of what you can do with the beef!”
 

She stood up from the table. “Well, first the dishes must be washed. And the laundry. You must tell me whether I can do the wash upstream or down from the mill. And—dear heaven—this floor! Have you a broom?”
 

“Of course.”
 

“Unused, I have no doubt! And I
must
do something about those windows…”
 

“No!” His voice was an angry growl. He stood up, towering over her. “It may please you to deride my housekeeping, but I’ll not have you doing more than you’re fit for. I have no intention of nursing you through another illness.”
 

The effrontery of the man! She was quite capable of running her own life. Hadn’t she done it for years? And Tintin’s, too, for that matter. She stuck out a belligerent chin. “I do as I please.”
 

“Damnation! Are you always so willful? You said you wanted to do laundry today. Very well. Do it. But not another chore! Do you understand? Or else, I promise you, Rouge, I’ll tie you into that bed! Perhaps a few hours of staring at the rafters will teach you to be sensible.”
 

She tried to frown back at him, but found that she could not. He was right, of course. It was foolish to overdo. But his high-handed attitude… Welladay, Rouge! she thought. She had wanted to be free of responsibilities and burdens for a little while; she’d scarcely expected a courtly miller to
wrest
them from her! She laughed softly. “No, please, Pierre. I shouldn’t care to stare at the rafters. There are far too many cobwebs up there that will have to be swept away. But not today,” she added quickly, as he frowned again.
 

She washed the dishes in a little warm water she had heated up, wiped out the skillet again, and sat down to write her letter to Emilie. It was filled with instructions. Emilie was to give the enclosed letter to Monsieur de Tournières as soon as he returned. She was to see that Sans-Souci was run as well as possible, with a minimum of thievery from the cook. If it was absolutely necessary to communicate with her, she could be reached in care of the Miller LeBrun in Selommes. And, most important, if a Monsieur Arsène de Falconet came seeking her, he was to be informed that she was away with friends, and refused to see him. And
under no circumstances
was Emilie to reveal her mistress’s whereabouts.
 

The letter to Tintin was briefer: a plea for money to get her home as quickly as possible. But she didn’t fail to send him her love before she folded and sealed the missive. She wondered how he was progressing with his affair of the heart. Tintin and the wealthy Nathalie. Pray God he came home a bridegroom!
 

While the miller bagged the flour he had ground the day before, Rouge stripped the bed, gathered the linens in with her clothing and a shirt of Pierre’s that needed washing, and picked up a small crock of soap. She carried her burden out into the sunshine, following the brook upstream—as Pierre had directed her—to a small millpond surrounded by cattails. The pond was man-made, formed by a wooden dam that partially blocked the free flow of the stream. The miller had cautioned her to leave the dam in place: because of the heavy rains, the pond was full to overflowing. Were the dam to be opened fully, the rush of water would turn the millwheel too quickly to grind a proper bushel of grain. Rouge chose a spot on the edge of the pond where several large rocks jutted out into the water; the more stubborn stains in her wash could be beaten out against the rough surface of the stones. She found herself humming as she worked, enjoying the steady rhythm of dipping, soaping, scrubbing; the warmth of the April sun on her shoulders, the sound of insects buzzing.
 

When all the linen had been scrubbed to her satisfaction, she stood up and looked about her. Just above the millpond, where the stream narrowed again, was a small footbridge; on the far side there was a wide green meadow, dotted with gooseberry bushes. The perfect place to lay out her wash to dry. The wet bedding and clothes were heavy; it took several trips to carry the whole load. She gave a final wring to each garment, shook it out, arranged it across the bushes. Her back was stiff from so much bending. She straightened, stretching her arms over her head to work out the knots.
Ciel!
Her eyes flew wide. She was being watched! Three men, who appeared to be farmers by their wooden
sabots
and sun-bleached felt hats, were occupying the footbridge, gazing open-mouthed at her. Two of them were of an indeterminate age, their roughened skin the color of tanned leather; the third, obviously quite young, was a sweet-faced man with bright red hair, who couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. At Rouge’s glance, the two older men nudged each other in the ribs and cackled, their faces split by toothless grins. Rouge felt a pang of unease. She looked toward the mill and cursed softly to herself: a clump of trees hid it from her view. If Pierre had begun milling again, moreover, he would no more hear her calls over the noisy stones than see her. And if the farmers intended her harm, she was no match for them. Well, there was nothing for it but to brazen it out. There was no other way to get back to the mill. Boldly she approached them. “Will you let me pass?”
 

One of the older men turned to his fellow. “There be a pretty turtledove!" He held out the skirts of his farmer’s smock. “Will you let me pass?” he simpered, mimicking her. The other man let out a shout of laughter and doubled up, clutching his sides.
 

Mother of God! Rouge turned to the young man and smiled as charmingly as she could. “I appeal to you, monsieur.”
 

He blushed to the roots of his flaming hair. Sweeping his hat from his head, he bowed awkwardly, then turned and began to beat his companions about the ears and shoulders with the soft felt. Driven like cattle, but still cackling, they abandoned the bridge; the three of them crossed the field and tumbled into a large wagon that waited at some distance on the wide track that led to the highroad.
 

As soon as they had driven out of sight, Rouge ran to the mill. Pierre was outside, fastening the rope and pulley that he used to hoist the heavy flour sacks. “Those men…” she gasped.
 

“Did they frighten you? They meant you no harm. The Widow Grezel’s men. They just came to pick up her order.”
 

“But they gaped and sniggered and…” She drew in a deep breath, stilling her thudding heart.
 

He smiled ruefully and scratched his chin. His hair and clothing were pale with flour. “I’m afraid I was the cause of that.”
 

“You? What do you mean?”
 

“I told them you were my cousin. A pretty fiction. They didn’t believe me, of course.”
 

“Dieu!”
She rolled her eyes to heaven. “The way you doubtless told it, I’m
sure
they didn’t believe you!”
 

He grinned. “Of course not. Here are we, alone together. Here am I, a healthy man with healthy appetites. There are you, wearing my shirt and washing my linens. What do you expect them to think?”
 

“God save me from rustic gossip!”
 

He shrugged good-naturedly. “Allow them a little scandalmongery in their lives.”
 

She snorted in disgust. “I wonder you didn’t simply tell them I was your doxy.”
 

“That would take all the joy from them. To
know
wickedness is not as delightful as to
suspect
it in others. The deception adds the feather to the cocked hat. To think that I’m a wicked fornicator makes them feel quite superior to me. But that I would
lie
about my shame…
Quelle horreur!
It makes them feel positively sainted!” His green eyes twinkled roguishly. “Besides, if I told them we were lovers, it might distress several charming wenches in the village.”
 

“Who would prefer to think me your cousin? And not their rival in your bed?” she smirked.
 

“Most assuredly. Of course,” he laughed, “the invitation still holds. To share my bed.”
 

She tossed her head in mock disdain. “It’s
my
bed now.”
 

“For which I expect a fine cooked supper. As I knew she would, the widow sent over a piece of good fresh beef. And a large sausage. Barnabé put them on the table inside.”
 

“Barnabé?”
 

“Barnabé Grezel. The widow’s son. You cannot have missed him. The one with the bright red hair.”
 

Rouge smiled, remembering the young man’s blush. “The one who is so shy.”
 

“Yes, alas. I fear that shyness will break his heart in the end.”
 

“How so?”
 

“He yearns for the daughter of the
seigneur
.”
 

“And she?”
 

“I’ve seen her making sheep’s eyes at him, but I doubt if they’ve spoken.”
 

“And all for the best, I suppose. Why should the
seigneur
allow his daughter to entertain a romantic attachment for a peasant?”
 

He smiled tightly. “Spoken like a true aristocrat. In point of fact, the Baron de Ruffec is in a state of near-bankruptcy. There’s scarcely a farm in the whole parish that still belongs to him. And so he’s determined to sell his daughter to the highest bidder.”
 

She frowned. His criticism had hurt. “Spoken like a man who has nothing to lose,” she said. “But there’s nothing dishonorable in an arranged marriage!”
 

“To a rich banker from Vendôme, who’s four times her age?”
 

Rouge thought of Tintin and his debts, and her hopes for marrying Arsène. “But if the banker is rich, and the baron is desperate…”
 

“Oddly, the Widow Grezel is very wealthy. Perhaps as wealthy as the banker in Vendôme.”
 

For some reason that pleased Rouge. “Why then,” she smiled, “let love win out!”
 

“You underrate the haughty pride of your own class. The Baron de Ruffec doesn’t mind a rich bourgeois for a son-in-law, particularly an old man who’s bound to die soon. But a rich farmer…I think the idea would stick in Ruffec’s craw. Besides, Barnabé won’t speak up in his own behalf. Name of God, not even to the girl, though he sighs like a furnace when she’s near!”
 

His resignation to the whole affair was maddening. Rouge felt a stab of sympathy for the young lovers. “Have you spoken to the boy?”
 

Pierre shrugged. “No. Why should I? It’s scarcely my concern. And I doubt he’d heed my advice.”
 

Rouge was thinking. “When do you expect him to return?”
 

“In three days. The widow has a
setier
of corn she wants ground. But surely, you don’t intend…?”
 

Rouge looked innocent. “Who knows?”
 

“Now, by my faith,” he burst out, laughing, “if you are not the most astonishing creature…!”
 

She giggled. “If it can be arranged, I’ll do it.”
 

“Wait,” he said, the smile fading from his face. “Barnabé is young, vulnerable. He’s no match for you. No doubt you practiced on his like from the cradle! Take care, while you’re persuading him to open his heart to love, that he doesn’t find
you
more charming than the fair Mademoiselle de Ruffec.”
 

Damn the man! Would he never see her as she was? Would her face always proclaim her a practiced coquette, full of guile and deception? “Don’t trouble yourself,” she snapped. “I’ll not corrupt an innocent! Now,” she squinted up at the sky, the sun overhead, “it must be well after twelve of the clock. You said that there are meats from the Widow Grezel. If you have an onion or two in your garden, I’ll fry up the sausage for now and set the beef to stewing for tonight’s supper.”
 

In the little garden near the stable she found onions, a few succulent herbs, a carrot that had germinated from the previous year’s seed. Pierre had scarcely begun his spring planting, he told her, nor was he likely to spend much effort on the garden. There was always fresh produce to be had on market day in Selommes. His cupboard held spices and little else; indeed, though there was a larder on the lower floor, carved into the stone wall next to the mill’s machinery, he confessed with a shrug that he used it only for ale and wine, and the occasional jug of milk. “When you remember to put it away,” teased Rouge, and laughed to see him squirm.
 

Despite the limitations of his kitchen, Rouge did the best she could; the stew smelled delicious as it began to bubble on the hearth. As he wolfed down the fried sausage and onions, Pierre glanced longingly toward the stew pot. “I intend to work up a hearty appetite for tonight,” he said. “There’s some good Beaune
clairet
in the larder that’s been waiting for a worthy occasion…or a worthy meal.” He sniffed appreciatively. “Can there be a better time?”