Louisa Rawlings (22 page)

A gentle smile played around his mouth. “No. In the afternoon. There’s too much work to be done in the morning. The afternoon. About one of the clock,” he added pointedly.
 

Rouge turned to Ruffec. “It’s agreed, then? You’ll send Mademoiselle Angélique to me? You need not come, of course. There will be far too much female giggling and silliness for your taste, monsieur le baron.”
 

He hesitated. “Oh, but…”
 

She gave Ruffec her most dazzling smile. “Think how proud you’ll be, monsieur, when the king himself admires your daughter!”
 

The battle was won. With a pleased smile, Ruffec nodded and swept out to his litter. There was only one seat. Angélique, obedient to her father’s will, sat on the floor at his feet. The baron clapped his hands and the horses moved off.
 

Rouge made a face. “What a vile man.”
 

Pierre grinned. “What a matchmaker. What an exquisite liar! If I weren’t so covered with flour, I’d shake your hand.”
 

She was already beginning to regret her action. “’Twas a foolish impulse. If he should find out about Barnabé…” She frowned. “A vile man. And short of temper, I have no doubt. I heard you quarreling when I came in.”
 

“Yes. He owns the only other mill in Selommes. What few tenants he has, of course, are obliged to take their grain to the
seigneur
’s
mill. But he cheats them, and his miller takes the blame. It’s hardly surprising that when the rest of the villagers need custom milling, they most often come to me. Since Ruffec takes a percentage of his man’s custom milling trade as well, he begrudges every customer of mine.”
 

“What does he want of you?”
 

“To become his miller, while he turns his fellow out.”
 

“Why should they come to you under those circumstances? If you cheat them upon his orders, you’ll soon lose their trade.”
 

“Precisely. But it’s an argument that seems to escape the man. And so he comes out here now and again to hector me.” LeBrun wiped his hand across his mouth, as though Ruffec had left a foul taste. Then he looked at Rouge and smiled unexpectedly, his eyes twinkling. “On the other hand, whether or not I cheat them, I’m such a charming soul…”
 

She snorted. “And modest, of course!”
 

“And modest,” he agreed. He ticked off the points on his fingers. “A good catch, a fine miller, a…”
 

“Now, by my faith,” she sputtered, choking back her laughter. “I’ll cook your supper; I don’t intend to listen to your
gasconnades
!” Still chuckling, she left him and returned to her stew pot. After she’d built up the fire again she went outside, moving toward the apple trees. A diligent search on the ground turned up a patch of dandelions and some wood sorrel; hooking up her apron into a pouch, she soon had it filled with the succulent leaves. Just the thing for her salad. She looked up. The apple blossoms were beautiful, pink and fragrant, whispering of spring. On an impulse she snapped off a few branches and carried them back to the cottage, finding a stone jug that would hold them very well. She smiled in satisfaction. They made a pretty display on the supper table. She was aware, suddenly, that the mill was silent. It was later than she had supposed, the shadows creeping into the corners of the cottage. Pierre would soon want his supper.
 

She remembered her gown and petticoat, still out in the meadow. She hurried toward the millpond and the footbridge.
Dieu!
She caught her breath and shrank back into the line of trees. Pierre was standing naked on the edge of the pond, shaking the flour from his garments. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen in her life, like the perfection of the Greek gods whose statues dotted the parks of Versailles. His body was strong and tanned and wonderfully formed; she had not thought the sight of a naked man could set her heart to pounding so violently. She put her hand to her breast to still its unexpected fluttering.
 

The miller cast down his clothing and dived into the millpond; his lean strength cut the water in a clean slice. As he rose to the surface again, tossing the wet mane of his chestnut hair, Rouge emerged from the trees, striding purposefully as though she was unaware of his presence. After a few steps she made as if to notice him. She laughed lightly. “
Ciel
,” she said, “but that looks inviting.”
 

He moved gently in the water. She could see the outline of his long limbs beneath the clear surface. His eyes were warm on her face. “I don’t think that it would be wise to join me.”
 

Sweet heaven, what could he be thinking? “Is that a threat? Would I be compromised? I didn’t think I was your type of woman.”
 

“You’re not. But the water is cold. It wouldn’t be good for your health.”
 

She found his words oddly disappointing. She swept past the millpond to the bridge, crossing over quickly to retrieve her clothes. “I wonder you’re not a physician instead of a miller,” she said sharply. “Do hurry with your bath. Supper is nearly ready.”
 

She had recovered her good spirits by the time he returned, wringing the water from his hair. They ate a leisurely meal, and washed it down with the rich wine that he had fetched from the larder. They laughed a great deal over trifles, smiling warmly at each other as the shadows deepened and Pierre lit the candles. Rouge had never felt more comfortable, more at ease in her life; they seemed like old friends in such a brief span of time.
 

“Not another mouthful,” he said at last, sighing in contentment. “You’ve more than learned the domestic arts—I could wish for the capacity to eat what remains in the pot!”
 

“It will still be here for breakfast.”
 

He laughed. “Always the practical one.” He indicated the apple blossoms on the table. “But what a waste
this
is,” he chided, half serious. “Every blossom is an abortive apple I’ll not enjoy come fall!”
 

The warm mood vanished. “Ah, yes,” she said. “I’d near forgot what you think of me, in the main. A pampered voluptuary—wasn’t that what you said?” She rose from the table, fighting back the foolish tears. “Forgive me. I thought the flowers were lovely. I thought you’d enjoy them.” She turned on her heel and hurried from the cottage.
 

The night was sweet, with a pale crescent moon that hung low in the sky. She smelled the
muguets
, heard the peep of frogs from the stream. There was a soft step behind her.
 

“There’s a time for thrift and a time for frivolity. And sometimes a man’s too much a fool to know the difference,” he said gruffly. “Here.”
 

She turned about. He held out a small packet. She took it with hands grown suddenly unsteady, and unwrapped it. In the light from the open door she saw a length of exquisite lace, thick with embroidered blossoms and leaves.
 

“For your new chemise,” he said. “Monsieur Chatou didn’t mind selling his best lace—even to a madman.”
 

“Oh!” she gasped, too moved to say more. “Oh!” She put her hand on his arm. He stared intently for a moment; she almost thought that he would kiss her.
 

Then he stiffened. “It cost me a pretty penny,” he said. “But I can afford it.” He laughed and shrugged good-naturedly. “In Selommes I spend my money in a different fashion. But it seemed to me, smelling the ragout cooking, that a full belly was infinitely better than…other satisfactions!”
 

Devil take him. “You needn’t pay for your meals in such a manner! Save your coins for the creatures who enjoy being bought!” She swirled on her heel. “I’m going to bed! I’ll give the supper scraps to Jerusalem while you feed your horse.”
 

She lay in bed for hours, unable to sleep. He had bought the lace only as payment for a well-cooked supper. He had no interest in her, that was clear enough. And wasn’t it all for the best? She was safe. Unlike Arsène, the miller posed no danger in the middle of the night.
 

Then why should his indifference bother her so?
 

Chapter Six

She woke in the morning feeling stronger than she had since her illness, and eager to set about the cleaning of the cottage. She raked out the cold ashes from the fireplace, stacked it with fresh wood, heated the stew for their breakfast. They ate in silence: the miller seemed preoccupied, and she had nothing to say to him. Breakfast done, and Pierre engaged in replacing a wooden cog on one of the gears that ran the machinery, Rouge turned her attention to the cottage. She found a stiff broom and swept out the old rushes from the floor; a quick trip to the stream—armed with a sharp knife—produced enough rushes to carpet the wide planks with a fragrant layer of pale green ribbons. Next, she set to work on the windows, opening the casements and polishing them with a large cloth until the glass sparkled in the morning sun. She sighed in satisfaction and glanced about the room. It was beginning to look a little better. The pots were next. And the pewter plates. There was a high shelf in one corner of the room; the plates, properly gleaming, would look splendid marching across its length. She piled every bit of tarnished metal she could find into the largest copper kettle; straining with its weight, she half dragged, half carried it downstream to where the water ran over a golden spit of fine sand. She spent the morning scooping up handfuls of the sand into a rag and scrubbing with all her might to bring out the shine of the metal.
 

She glanced up at the sun, then down at her arms, rapidly turning pink under its rays. She touched her face; her cheeks felt warm.
Ciel!
She laughed to herself. She’d be brown as a berry before this adventure was done! And scarcely fit to win back Arsène or any other man! Well, she had no fear that she’d find an unguent to restore her fashionable pallor as soon as she returned to Sans-Souci.
 

Pleased with the bright pots and dishes, she started back to the mill with her burden. She looked up, startled, at the sound of cursing.
 

“Cosme, you idiot! You cabbage-head! You son of a one-eyed, piss-poor thief! There’ll be a sound drubbing for you when we get home!”
 

“Beat me as you will, Master Billot”—this was delivered in a tone of deep resentment—“but if you want the horse to move, beat
him
!”
 

In front of the mill was a horse, a wagon loaded with large sacks, and two men. Rouge nearly laughed aloud at the sight of them. They were as different as they could possibly be. The one who seemed to be shouting the louder was large, fleshy, pallid except for the spots of angry red color on his pasty cheeks—like a fat plum tart that had been taken out of the oven too soon. The other was thin and wiry, with eyes that darted suspiciously, and a sharp nose that fairly twitched with indignation. He looked so much like a rat that Rouge half expected to see a long tail emerge from his loose smock.
 

In a moment it was clear to Rouge what had happened. From the front of the mill the wide cart track descended in a gentle downgrade to the side door, one floor below. Above this door was the hoist and tackle that Pierre used to haul heavy sacks to and from the milling floor above. It appeared that the men had tried to back the wagon down the hill so that it could be unloaded. The heavy sacks had weighted down the wagon, the wagon had begun to slide, the horse, in terror, had tried to scramble back up the hill, the wagon had slipped into a rut and was now leaning at a strange angle. And the horse steadfastly refused to budge.

“Dolt! Dunce! Fool!” The portly Master Billot had begun to beat the rat-faced Cosme about the head. “Every time, the horse goes down first! Every other time! But today…today, my fool of a
compagnon
, you must do it the other way round! Sweet Jesu! Of all the bakers in this realm, why was
I
cursed with you for a journeyman?” He was about to kick poor Cosme down the hill when he spied Rouge. The expression on his face changed at once. He grinned broadly, his fat chin quivering. “Ah! The beautiful cousin of my good friend LeBrun!” He turned to his helper and cuffed his ear. “Cosme!
Foutu misérable!
You see what a burden she has? The pretty cousin? Go and help her.”
 

“Yes, master. But the horse…”
 

“I’ll turn him around myself. Alone.
Merde!
What can be keeping my good friend LeBrun”—he crossed himself and cast his eyes heavenward—“who gives me credit when I need it—from helping me today?” He grunted and indicated Rouge’s heavy pots. “Well, help the cousin on her way to the cottage, Cosme. And tell my sweet Jacquelan to have done with unpacking her basket and go and find the miller.”
 

Cosine hurried to Rouge and lifted the kettle from her hands, then followed her into the cottage. Rouge was surprised to see a large basket on the table, filled with half a dozen loaves of crusty bread. She frowned at Cosme and looked around the empty room. “Jacquelan…?”
 

He smiled a rat’s smile and placed a finger alongside his nose. He lacked nothing save long whiskers. Without a word he went to rejoin his master.
 

She sighed with exasperation. She was beginning to have her fill of rustic types! She certainly had no interest in formally meeting the baker Billot; and whoever Jacquelan was, it was of no concern to her! She looked at the fire. It was almost out. There was still a bit of stew left; with the loaves the baker had brought they could dine adequately. By the time she had the fire going and the stew reheated, the plum tart and the rat would have unloaded their wagon and gone. Rouge chewed on her lip, thinking. But there was nothing to drink. They had finished the
clairet
for breakfast, thinned with a little warm water and flavored with a scraping of nutmeg. Well, there must be more ale in the larder, she thought. She found a clean jug and went into the deserted mill room, crossing to the ladder that led to the machinery floor and the larder below. She descended slowly; unless the outside door was open, it was dim here—a damp, cellarlike space filled with wooden cogwheels and lantern pinion gears that converted (so Pierre had told her) one slow turn of the waterwheel into twenty-five turns of the millstones. Still perched halfway down the ladder, she stopped, listening. A soft rustling, somewhere in the gloom, near the larder.
Dieu!
she thought. Mice? They would have to stop feeding Jerusalem so many table scraps! What was the point of a mouser if she didn’t earn her keep?