Louisa Rawlings (21 page)

“I saw vinegar and olive oil in your cupboard. If I can find enough fresh greens, we’ll have a bit of salad as well. But alas, there’s not a crumb of bread remaining.”
 

“I told you. The baker comes tomorrow. And if there’s more that we need, I can ride into Selommes in the afternoon.”
 

“Milk,” she said. “And more sugar. That way, even if the bread gets stale, it can be salvaged.”
 

“
Mon Dieu
,”
he laughed. “You’re as thrifty and practical as a shopkeeper’s daughter!”
 

She frowned. “And you’re determined to see the worst in me! When I remind you of my station, you do your best to humble me. Yet when I’m practical, you mock me.” She had spoken with some heat, her anger masking the hurt she felt. It was absurd, of course. But she’d wanted to please him.
 

He searched her face, his eyes filled with doubts. Then he laughed ruefully. “To tell the truth, Marie-Rouge de Tournières, I don’t quite know
what
to make of you.”
 

That was honest, at least. The sincerity of his words and the warmth of his gaze were enough to hearten her spirits. Even after he returned to his work, she found herself still smiling as she cleared the table and washed the plates. She tasted the stew, put in a pinch of cardamom, sliced another onion into the pot. She strained last night’s soup through several thicknesses of muslin and added the clear broth to the ragout. It
would
be a fine supper. Then she stood at the door and surveyed the bright day. The sun was warm. Her wash must be dry by now, or at least the bed linens. She strolled to the meadow. Sure enough, everything except her mantua and her quilted petticoat with its thick hip-pads was dry. She gathered in the rest and made her way back to the mill. A small cart with a canvas top stood near the door; it was festooned with copper pots, and the ass that stamped impatiently in the harness was decked with feathers and ribbons and a large brass bell.
 

“Rouge. Cousin,” said Pierre, emerging from the cottage. His arm was draped about the shoulders of a thin little man in a peaked hat, a hat that seemed half again as tall as he was. “Look who is here, sweet cousin. My friend Chatou the peddler. Did I not tell you he would be here…cousin?”
 

Rouge shot Pierre a murderous glance. Each time he uttered the word “cousin” it was in such a tone, his mouth twitching with amusement, that Chatou would have to be a fool not to know it a lie. She smiled sweetly. “Of course you knew he would come,
cousin.
Was it not your own grandmother they hanged for a witch because she could predict the comings and goings of all the village?” She looked with sympathy down at Chatou, who seemed distinctly uncomfortable in Pierre’s hold, yet unsure as to whether it would be civil to break away. “La, monsieur! Did he never tell you? Of course, I’m not related to
that
side of the family. And—thanks be to God!—no one talks of dear cousin Pierre’s father. They had to lock him up, you know. He went a little mad every time he saw…forgive me; Monsieur Chatou…
little men.
He claimed they were agents of the devil, and tried to thrash them.” She suppressed a grin as Chatou violently removed himself from Pierre’s arm. “But fortunately, monsieur, ‘Cousin’ Pierre will behave himself, so long as I am here. If you will but allow me to put away my wash and fetch my purse, I should like to buy a few things from your cart.”
 

In the cottage, however, the carefree smile left her face as she counted out the few coins in her purse. She would have to husband her resources carefully. She emerged again into the sunshine. “To begin, Monsieur Chatou, I should like a chemise.”
 

Safely in his own domain (and with Rouge as chaperone for her mad cousin!), the peddler turned to his cart. “A lovely silk chemise for you, mademoiselle, with a nice edging of bobbin lace.”
 

“No. Plain muslin. Without lace. I prefer something simple.”
 

Pierre raised a mocking eyebrow. “Thrifty and practical?”
 

“Of course. I should not like to be condemned for aspirations above my station…
cousin.
And I want a comb. Not ivory, Monsieur Chatou. Your least expensive will do.” She pointed to a simple wooden comb. “That one. And hairpins. Three, I think. How much is that altogether?”
 

Chatou looked disappointed as he named the price. “That’s all, mademoiselle?”
 

“Yes. No, I need a pair of stockings.” She did some rapid calculations, then smiled at Chatou. “Silk, if you have them.” She could afford it, she decided.
 

She concluded her purchases, paid for them, and was glad to see that she still had several crowns remaining in her purse. She bid the peddler good day and went inside to put away her new things.
 

In a moment Pierre came in, shaking his head. “Farewell, Monsieur Chatou.”
 

“He’s gone?”
 

“Never to return, I fear!” He threw back his head and laughed. “My mad father? Who thrashes little men? My grandmother, the witch?”
 

She smiled in return, her eyes wide with innocence. “Have you not yourself remarked on the clever artifices of a coquette? Perhaps, next time, you’ll not take such delight in ‘cousin-ing’ me!”
 

He laughed again, then frowned, studying her. “Cozen?
Mon Dieu!
You could cozen the world with that face…cousin.” He stared hard and seemed to shake off an unwelcome thought. He turned abruptly toward the mill room. “I have some corn to grind before it gets too late.” With a curt nod in her direction, he was gone.
 

She made up the bed with the clean linens, changed into her new chemise, replaced the neckerchief on her head with her freshly washed steinkirk. Something outside the window caught her eye. She looked up from her chores. There before the mill was a horse litter, like an oversized sedan chair, with two sorry-looking horses in the traces. She had been so preoccupied with her work that she hadn’t seen it arrive, nor its passenger, who was, no doubt, in the mill, speaking with Pierre. Whoever he was, however, it was clear he couldn’t be a man of property: the gilding on the carved door of the litter was worn, the velvet hangings faded. And the two servants astride the horses—one in the fore and one behind—were clad in shabby livery. She thought to leave Pierre to his customers but, curiosity finally getting the better of her, she crossed the room and opened the door to the mill.
 

“I trust you won’t regret your decision, LeBrun!” An angry voice, deep and rumbling.
 

“I don’t know why you trouble yourself to come out here, monsieur. I’ve given you my answer long since.” Pierre’s voice was tight with self-control.
 

“Fool!” The angry voice belonged to a fat, red-faced man in a curly wig and a brocaded suit whose silver-gilt lace had known better days. Beside him was a fragile girl with black hair and large, sad eyes.
 

As Rouge watched, Pierre clenched and unclenched his fists, clearly driven to the edge of his patience by the man’s belligerence.
Ciel!
she thought, this will never do! “It’s turned so warm today,” she said brightly. “Would you gentlemen care for a bit of cool ale?”
 

Pierre turned in surprise. “Rouge.”
 

She sailed across the room, a warm smile on her lips. “Won’t you introduce me?”
 

Pierre exhaled slowly, the tension draining from his face. “Monsieur Jules de Puitsfond, Baron de Ruffec. And his daughter, Mademoiselle Angélique de Ruffec.” He hesitated. “And this is Mademoiselle Rouge…” He frowned in consternation.
 

“That’s name enough,” she said quickly. It didn’t seem the time or the place to play at cousins. But there was still the danger of word getting back to Arsène if she revealed herself to a fellow aristocrat. She curtsied. “Monsieur. Mademoiselle.”
 

The baron leered. “What a charming creature! How came you here, pretty Rouge?”
 

Despite Pierre’s quizzical eye on her, she scarcely blinked. “I met with an accident while coming from Versailles. Mousier LeBrun was kind enough to allow me to stay here for a little.”
 

Ruffec smiled condescendingly. “
You
, at Versailles? But of course you served a great gentlewoman.” He reached out a fat hand and pinched her cheek. “Or a great gentle
man
, my pretty jade?”
 

It was all she could do to keep from striking him. But he was the lord of the village. And even if he were to spare her because of her own noble title, he would surely take his revenge on the miller. Let him think her a servant. “I have been in the household of the Marquis de Tournières for many years,” she said coldly. “The marquis is a man of honor, with a ready sword.” At least it wasn’t a lie!
 

His hand, which had been caressing her chin, was quickly withdrawn. “Yes, of course. I…have heard of him, you understand.” The voice was filled with bluster. “Monsieur le marquis goes often to Versailles?”
 

“But certainly.” She knew, of course, that it would rankle him. As poor as she and Tintin were, they owned land, they could afford to go to court, and they possessed the social skills to acquire prosperous friends and patrons. Whereas the Ruffec line—barring an infusion of fresh capital—would surely become a family of entitled peasants within a generation. “And you, monsieur,” she asked, with more than a little malice, “you visit Versailles often?”
 

He looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat noisily. “Not of late. I know that the king asks after me, but…ahem…when it is explained to him the cares that keep me here at Selommes, he quite understands.” Ruffec waved his fingers grandly. “‘Anon, Sire,’ I say. And I am forgiven.
N’est-ce pas
, Angélique?”
 

The girl looked embarrassed. “Papa, I…”
 

“What? Speak up, child!”
 

Angélique’s mouth was set in a defiant pout, though her words were barely above a whisper. “I never heard the king say that, Papa.”
 

Ruffec glared in fury, then swallowed his anger and turned his attention once again to Rouge. He managed an oily smile. “A father’s trial. But I shall return to Versailles in the near future, as soon as my sweet Angélique is safely in the care of a husband. Knowing her future is insured will free my mind of worry.”
 

And your pocket of debt, thought Rouge with contempt. She glanced at Angélique. Not more than fifteen, she should guess. And the soft eyes, still a child’s eyes, had filled with tears at her father’s words. What was it Pierre had said? The banker in Vendôme. He must be nearly sixty. And Barnabé Grezel sighed with hopeless love for the girl. No, by heaven! Not hopeless! Not while she had the art to lure that fool baron into her trap! She smiled archly. “Will your daughter and her…husband go to Versailles when they are wed?”
 

He shrugged. “It will be entirely up to him, of course. Though I should hope…”
 

“No, Papa. I don’t want to go.”
 

Ruffec scarcely acknowledged his daughter’s words. “You see how stubborn she is. It has taken me six months to persuade her to agree to the marriage. Not even to please me would she yield. And knowing I care only for her happiness. But I’m not a fool. I’ve kept the rod her governess used to chastise her when she was still a child. I shall give it to her husband with instructions to use it, should her stubbornness prove intractable.”
 

Pierre growled low in his throat. Rouge put a restraining hand on his arm, pinching him surreptitiously for a warning. She smiled brightly at Ruffec. “But if your daughter has not been to Versailles in ages, she must not know the latest dances. Will she not shame you? Invite criticism as a country cousin not fit to leave the provinces? Alas, what sport they will have at your expense!”
 

Ruffec frowned, clearly caught in a dilemma. “Well,” he harrumphed, “I could pay for a dancing instructor, to be sure. Better yet, let her husband pay for one!”
 

“Oh, monsieur. But how much more estimable would she be, how much more worthy of her husband’s respect, were she to come to the marriage with all the skills of an accomplished gentlewoman of the court.” Rouge managed a humble curtsy. “
I
should be pleased to instruct her, monsieur.”
 

“You?”
 

“Of course. I’ve watched the noble ladies often enough at Versailles to know how it’s done.”
 

Ruffec looked suspicious. “For money?”
 

“Indeed, no. I’d welcome her companionship. Would I not, Monsieur LeBrun?”
 

Pierre smiled, the light of understanding dawning in his eyes. “Yes. Most assuredly!”
 

Angélique started to protest, but Rouge stifled her. “I can promise you, Mademoiselle de Ruffec, that it will be a pleasant diversion.”
 

“When?” The baron was eager to get on to details.
 

Rouge thought quickly. Barnabé Grezel was returning in three days. “Friday,” she said. “In the morning?” She looked for confirmation to Pierre.