Louisa Rawlings (36 page)

“Give me a kiss, wench,” he said.
 

“
Ciel!
Let me put this down first and wipe my hands.”
 

She rubbed her hands on her apron while he fetched down the cask that held his store of coins. He pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked the box, shaking the small sack of coins in his hand. “They paid well for that grinding.” He smiled. “If a peddler comes by tomorrow, I’ll buy you a trifle or two.” He locked the cask and replaced it on the shelf, then grinned, his eyes twinkling. “But I want that kiss now.” She nestled into his arms, welcoming the thrill of his lips. He kissed her gently, then not so gently. “You taste of flour,” he murmured.
 

“As do you.”
 

The smile faded from his face, his green eyes troubled as a stormy sea. “You’re leaving soon, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
 

Her heart twisted in pain. “I must. You knew that from the first.”
 

“Don’t leave,” he said hoarsely. “My sweet Rouge, I don’t want to lose you.”
 

She was filled with a bittersweet joy to hear such words on his lips. She smiled at him, her eyes misty, longing to tell him that she loved him, that he was dearer than life to her. “Pierre,” she whispered. Perhaps there was still a bit of gypsy magic left to bring her happiness.
 

And then he spoke, his words reminding her how futile was her dream, dragging her back to the reality she’d managed to keep at bay all these weeks. “Marry me, Rouge,” he said. “Be my bride.”
 

All was desolation in her heart. “I cannot.”
 

His eyes were hard. “Cannot? Or will not?”
 

“I beg you, don’t ask for more than we’ve had. Pierre, let this be enough.”
 

“The favorable marriage, is that it? And that bastard Arsène?” His voice had turned cold. She nodded unwillingly. He shook his head in disgust. “I can’t believe it. Are you willing to play the whore, sell yourself, for that damned crumbling château of yours?”
 

“You don’t understand. I have no choice.”
 

“And these last few days. Do they count for naught?”
 

“Of course they do,” she choked. Why was he making it so difficult for her?
 

“But not enough to give up your ambitions,” he said sarcastically.
 

She turned away in frustration. “You’re just like Tintin,” she burst out. “Do you never think of the morrow? Must the worry, the burden be mine? Someone must be practical!” She felt a surge of anger, a wrenching bitterness toward Tintin for the ruin of all her dreams. “Why must it always be me?”
 

“Damn it, Rouge! I’m not an improvident fool! I’m not asking you to stay
here
with me. I have money. Surely your burden isn’t so great that we can’t make Sans-Souci prosper again.” He swung her around and pulled her into his arms. “Say that you’ll marry me. I promise you’ll not regret it.”
 

The sincerity in his eyes only added to her desperation. She felt trapped between her deepest longings and the reality of her dilemma. “I can’t! I
can’t!
It’s more than Sans-Souci.”
 

He shook her roughly. “What is?” he demanded.
 

She stared at him, seeing with aching clarity the differences in their lives. He was an honest tradesman, with a good, simple life. He worked hard, earned his livelihood by his own efforts. How would he begin to understand the size of Tintin’s gambling debts? How could she explain her father’s weaknesses without painting him as a fool or a villain? How could she tell him of the easy deceptions, the little ruses, the cheating that had, of necessity, become a shameful part of her life at Versailles? And surely she couldn’t reveal the threats of prison that bound her to Torcy, forced her to do his bidding. Name of God,
anything
she told him of Torcy could affect Tintin’s very freedom and safety! Arsène was a man of the court. But even he had been disgusted and horrified by the scene with Don Lopes. How could someone like Pierre—so good, so honorable—understand what it was like to be trapped in a web of intrigue? Even if she were free to tell him? She sighed tiredly. There was nothing she could say. She pulled away from him. “I think it best that I leave tomorrow,” she said softly. Surely she’d hear from Tintin on the morrow.
 

“No. Stay for a few more days. Perhaps I can yet persuade you.” It was clear he was trying to be reasonable, despite the disappointment of her refusal.
 

“I can’t. I must return to Versailles in another week or so. I’ll scarcely have time to put things in order at Sans-Souci before I must leave again.”
 

“You
must
return? Why?”
 

A voice within her screamed out in silent frustration. She tapped her clenched fist against her forehead. “Mother of God, because I
must
! Let that be answer enough!”
 

“Does it hold such charm for you? The king’s palace? Are you, after all, the pampered, spoiled court lady I first took you to be? A lady who fears to see her pleasures vanish for the want of a few gold louis?” His lip curled scornfully.
 

“How can you say that? Damn you, how can you say that, when I’ve lived here in this rude cottage without complaint?”
 

“But this was just a diversion,
n’est-ce pas
? You were playing at simplicity for a week or so. Easy enough to endure, when you knew it wouldn’t last. Pity the humble peasant who can’t escape his cares so blithely.”
 

The cruelty of his words was unwarranted. “Name of God, Pierre,” she reproached him.
 

He ignored her, warming to his anger. “I think it must feed your vanity to play such a bucolic scene. Does it give you a heightened sense of your own nobility, that you graciously mixed with the rabble for a little? Ah-h-h!” He turned away with a grunt of disgust. “I think it a wonder you don’t choke on your vainglory.”
 

She stared at him, at the stranger he had become. “Do you think my happiness was feigned, these weeks with you?”
 

I don’t know,” he growled.
 

“But I granted you the last favors. I never did before. For any man.”
 

He laughed sharply. “I doubt you could have turned me aside that night. For all your clever artifices, your feints and dodges. I think you knew that.”
 

Oh! It was impossible to talk to him. “Curse you!” she cried. “You think I haven’t the art? I could have refused you, humiliated you that night, and all the nights that followed, were I as false as you imagine!”
 

“Why?” he sneered. “Why should you do so? I pleasured your body. Wasn’t that reason enough for you to return to my bed? Didn’t we both get what we wanted?”
 

She drew herself up, glaring at him with hurt and outrage. “You whoreson.”
 

He shrugged. “And now that I’ve taught you the skills to please a man in bed, you can return to Versailles, more prized than ever by the selfish, careless courtiers who throng that sewer of dishonesty and corruption. Enjoy your life of meaningless pleasures and easy betrayals.”
 

The venom in his voice filled her with horror. “Do you think that’s what I am? Do you think so?”
 

He sagged into his chair, the anger draining from his face. He leaned his head back and stared up at the beams of the ceiling. He drew a ragged breath. “I don’t know what you are,” he said at last. “I’ve seen you as innocent as a child, laughing and happy, filled with the joy of simple pleasures. But I’ve also seen your scheming, your little tricks, the subtle ways you beguile a man. You’ve made no secret of it. You’ve said it yourself. A skillful courtesan. Damn you, woman,” he exclaimed, his soft eyes filled with bewilderment. “How the devil do I know you haven’t just been playing with
me
?”
 

“Because I tell you so,” she said softly. Because I love you, she thought. And dare not break my heart to say the words in vain, knowing I must go.
 

He stood up and put his hands on her shoulders. His fingers dug into the soft flesh. He gazed into her eyes, as though he sought her very soul. “Then swear you’ll not return to Versailles,” he said. “For my sake. Swear it. Swear it, Rouge.”
 

Her glance faltered. Torcy had defeated her. “I can’t,” she whispered.
 

He released her and strode to the door of the mill room. He laughed bitterly. “
That
seems honest, at least.” He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
 

She sank down in his chair and put her head in her hands. Dear heaven, what could she do? There was nothing for it except to pray that Tintin would return home quickly and send her money. The sooner she could escape the torment of loving Pierre—knowing she could never be his, unable to tell him why—the better it would be for both of them.
 

She didn’t know how she endured the long afternoon. Like an automaton she tested the bread, pulled the loaves from the oven, baked the meat pies. She let the hearth fire die down and opened the door wide to cool the warm kitchen. The stones still rumbled from the mill room; in all likelihood, Pierre would find grain to grind until dark. Twilight fell. She set out a cold supper and went unhappily to fetch him to table.
 

She found him, a heavy sack on his shoulder, pouring the golden wheat into the hopper. “I'll not eat,” he said sullenly. “I’m scarcely hungry.”
 

She hadn’t the courage to look in his eyes, but fled to her kitchen. She picked at a bit of supper; then, sick at heart, she gave up and put the food away. She prepared for bed, stripping down to her chemise. Her heart was filled with longing; on her knees, she prayed that Pierre would come to her. A vain hope. The stones still ground, noisy and implacable. She hugged Jerusalem to her bosom, then gave in to her despair, throwing herself across the bed and sobbing out her grief until blessed sleep overtook her.
 

She woke to a strange sound. A sharp, high-pitched scraping noise that set her teeth on edge. The floorboards still trembled from the vibration of the stones, but now it was an uneven rhythm, with a hard thump punctuating the ordinarily steady rumble. She sat up in surprise. Name of God, the stones! The grain must have run out! Though the room was now in darkness, there was some light from the moon. Quickly she located her shoes, slipped into them, and rushed into the mill room. The screech of the stones was fearsome. Bright sparks shot out from the eye of the top stone, and the room smelled of smoke and hot quartz. She cursed herself for not having lighted a lantern, racking her brain to recall the location of the lever that cut off the water leading to the millwheel. There! She could just make it out against one wall. She raced to it and pulled against it with all her strength. It resisted her efforts for a moment; desperate, she tugged again and the lever moved. She held her breath. It would take a few minutes, she remembered, before the sluice was drained and the wheel stopped; in the meantime the stones were still sparking dangerously. Pierre had warned of the risk of an explosion. It was too dim to see if there was much flour dust in the air. She clasped her hands together and murmured a silent prayer until the protesting stones ground to a stop.
 

She looked about, her eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom. Where was Pierre?
 

She took a moment to inhale deeply. The room didn’t seem to smell too heavily of flour; the dust, such as it had been, must have settled long before the friction of the stones had created dangerous sparks. There was a lantern on a shelf in this room, she knew. She groped for it, found flint and stone, and lit the candle. She held the lantern high and looked about the room. “Pierre?” she said softly. No sign of him. She went down the ladder to the room below. The outer door was open. But then he always left it open until the end of the day. She moved cautiously past the machinery and peered into the larder. Nothing stirred. Jerusalem rubbed up against her skirt. “Where could he be?” she asked the cat. She retraced her steps and moved toward the ladder. She stopped at the door. Out of habit she closed and bolted it, as she had seen Pierre do many a time.
 

She returned to the mill room and mounted the ladder that led to the small storage attic above. Save for the mound of empty sacks and a few grain bins in need of repair, the place was deserted. She felt a sudden thrill of fear. Pierre would never have left the mill unattended; even if he had been as distracted and unhappy as she, he still would have returned as soon as the stones began to scrape. Dear heaven, she thought, where
is
he?
 

She passed through the cottage room, then went out into the night. The moon, though on the wane, still cast a glow on the grassy knoll, and the shape of the stable was intensified by the dark shadows that traced its stones and deep eaves. The door was open, a black yawning rectangle; she heard a muffled crash from within. She moved forward cautiously. He would scarcely be there without a lantern! “Pierre?” she ventured.
 

She raised the lantern. Pierre was sitting on a pile of straw against the far wall. She looked down. At her feet and just inside the door were the remains of a stone crock, shattered into bits.