Louisa Rawlings (38 page)

“I was seventeen.” He put his hand on hers. “And wildly in love with you.”
 

She managed to extricate her fingers without seeming to rebuff him. “You never told me,” she said lightly.
 

“I never had the opportunity. That was the year my father obtained a post for me with the governor of New France. And there I’ve been ever since.” His eyes traveled over her face in an unhurried appraisal. “And still dreaming of you.”
 

She stirred uneasily in her chair. His ardor was disconcerting at a time like this, when she was still filled with grief and confusion over Pierre. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen your sister in years,” she said quickly, changing the subject. “I was at Versailles when your father died, and was able to pay my respects only in a letter to your sister.”
 

He shrugged and brushed a speck of lint from his brocaded sleeve. “Marguerite is as silly as ever, if that’s possible. And totally unfit to choose a proper husband. As the new Marquis de Saint-Esprit, I thought it time to come home and see to a good match for her.” Again he scanned her face. “And perhaps for myself.”
 

“Did you like living in New France? You were in Québec, I think your father once said.”
 

He straightened the lace ruffles at his sleeves. “I despised it. I had thought the provinces were dull and unfashionable—as Boileau says, ‘Bad taste takes refuge in the provinces like a banished courtier’! But next to New France, the provinces are a paradise of urbanity. I could scarcely wait to come home! In New France—
mon
Dieu!
—a man considers himself your equal if he owns a large plantation. Never mind that his grandfather might have been a tosspot knave, and his mother a harlot! Save for the few true aristocrats who have not forgotten the refinements of French life, the people cultivate the land—and the manners of the peasant. Coarse dances, common amusements and fêtes, food that’s fit only for a day laborer.”
 

It sounded wonderful to Rouge, like the simple, happy life she had shared with Pierre. “Why did you stay, if it displeased you so?”
 

“Because the governor of New France is held in great esteem by the king. I have not been idle all these years. I have read the
Mercure Galant
religiously, albeit some months late.” He indicated the splendors of his toilette. “You see,” he said smugly, “even without a Parisian tailor I have outfitted myself to take my proper place in Versailles. Don’t you agree?”
 

“Indeed,” she said. “’Tis the very latest mode.”
 

“And I can converse wittily on the topics of the day, and know what rules of etiquette may not be breached, and whose ears to whisper into for entrée into the best circles.”
 

Name of God, she thought, what an arrogant fop! She smiled sweetly. “But why are you here, when Versailles awaits you?”
 

He tried to look modest. “I’ve only just returned from the New World. There’s my father’s estate—now mine—to put in order, and, as I told you, the matter of a husband for Marguerite. Besides, if I wait a few weeks, my introduction to the court will be even more magnificent. As well as the governor’s letter, I have several friends who have promised to put me into a favorable light with the king.” He leaned forward, his eyes bright. “I can tell you, strictly between us, of course, that I anticipate a high court position in good time.”
 

“How agreeable a prospect. Your future is guaranteed.”
 

He beamed. “Yes. In particular because my father had the adroitness to manage the estates well. And my knowledge of running them surpasses his.
This
Marquis de Saint-Esprit will be far wealthier than the last! But tell me, what do you here in Montoire? I asked for you as soon as I returned, but they told me you were away.”
 

“Yes. I…was with friends in Vendôme. I’ve just now returned, and thought to hire a horse to take me to Sans-Souci.”
 

“
Hire
a horse?”
 

“Tintin is away with the carriage and team,” she said smoothly. An exquisite lie: they hadn’t had a coach for a year now!
 

“Now fortune has smiled upon you today. My calèche is here, my time is my own, and I am at your service. Ride with me.”
 

“Oh, Girard, I couldn’t…”
 

“But of course you can! I haven’t had my fill of looking at you. I thought you were charming at fourteen, but now…have you turned nineteen yet?”
 

She nodded. “Three months ago.”
 

“And more beautiful than I could have imagined, all those times when I conjured up your face before my eyes.” He held out his hand. “Come. If you’ve finished eating, my coach awaits you.”
 

“Of course.” She stood up and smoothed her skirts. A pleasant ride in a fine calèche was preferable to a bumpy one on a rented horse!
 

He looked around. “And your boxes and trunks?”
 

“Sent on ahead.”
That
wasn’t a lie, if they’d arrived safely at Sans-Souci.
 

It was a short journey, several leagues. He stared at her the whole time, his eyes warm with frank approval. At last he leaned back against the cushions, crossed one silk stockinged leg over the other in studied indifference, and cleared his throat. “Before I left for New France, my father told me he had had some discussions with your mother. It was her fondest wish, he said, that you and I should marry someday. Did she speak to you of it?”
 

“Not at length—I was still a child. But she mentioned it. And you know she died before I was old enough to be considered marriageable.”
 

“But it’s a sensible idea,
n’est-ce pas
?”
 

Sensible. Her mother had always been sensible. Hadn’t she taught her daughter to be the same? Still, Rouge liked to think that
Maman
, had she lived, would have given her the choice of bridegrooms. “Perhaps,” she said.
 

He smoothed the folds of his cravat. “No. Eminently sensible. Our two estates almost adjoin; we share the same parish; both the Tournières and the Saint-Esprits have been buried in Montoire for centuries.” He smiled. “And then, of course, I adore you.”
 

“Don’t be foolish, Girard. You don’t know me. You fell in love with a fourteen-year-old girl. I’m a woman now, and quite different, I’m sure, from the child you remember.”
 

“Then let me court the woman. And woo her and win her. I should be pleased, Rouge, to take you in triumph to Versailles. As my bride. All the court would be at your feet then.”
 

It was clear this preening peacock had never learned humility. As if she needed
his
name to win the notice of the court! “How fortunate I would be,” she said, careful to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
 

They were coming at last to Sans-Souci. Beyond a vista of green meadows and a tiny village it stood alone, a white stone building beneath blue-gray slate roofs. Built originally as a small, outlying fortress to protect Montoire, it still retained its moat, though the drawbridge had long since been changed to a permanent arched roadway over the water. As Saint-Esprit’s carriage passed over the bridge, Rouge noted with dismay that bits of garbage floated in the water along with twigs and dead blossoms from the fruit trees. By heaven, she would take a stick to the chambermaids for throwing refuse out of the windows! As it was, the gardener couldn’t keep the water free of
nature
’s leavings! The carriage passed through the entrance archway to the central courtyard and the newer additions to the château: two low, graceful wings that contrasted oddly with the round turrets and fortified gatehouse of the original building. The carriage rocked slightly as it made its way across the courtyard; the sparse gravel had long since been pressed into the dirt, leaving bare spots and bumps and indentations. They pulled up before a small side door.
 

“Sans-Souci has declined since last I saw it,” said Girard.
 

Rouge smiled as though she were indifferent to the condition of the château. “It’s only that Tintin has no heart for it, since
Maman
died. And when I’m away…” She
shrugged helplessly. “You can see how the servants neglect their work.” How easy it was to lapse into lies, to save Tintin’s pride.
 

He folded his arms grandly across his chest and frowned at her. “It wants a man of maturity,” he said sternly. “As does a woman who goes traveling about the countryside unescorted!”
 

Rouge nearly laughed aloud at that. Girard’s smooth face scarcely seemed to have known a razor. Twenty-two was not exactly her idea of a man of maturity! “I’d ask you to come in,” she said, “but I’ve been away for so long. Heaven alone knows what difficulties await me.”
 

He rapped on the top of the coach so his footman came around to open the door for Rouge. “Perhaps in a few days?” he asked.
 

“Perhaps.”
 

He leaned forward suddenly and clasped her hand, bringing the fingers to his lips. He kissed them fervently. “Say the word and I’ll marry you tomorrow,” he said.
 

She laughed airily and stepped out of the coach. “Name of God, Girard, is this what they do in New France? Pursue a woman with such zeal?”
 

He looked incredulous. “You
refuse
me, then?”
 

She hesitated. He was green with youth, vain, arrogant, pompous. He was also rich…and fancied himself in love with her. She had no idea what frame of mind Arsène was in. It wouldn’t pay to shut the door on Girard. At least not for the moment. She smiled her coquette’s smile. “I haven’t refused you, Girard. I simply haven’t accepted you yet. But…who knows?” Laughing, she escaped into the château.
 

Her maid Emilie met her as she crossed the tiled vestibule. A girl of seventeen, she was round and robust, with a plain, cheery face and a sunny disposition. Her family had served the de Tournières for generations; what she lacked in intelligence, she more than made up for in loyalty. Since Rouge’s mother had died, she had found herself confiding more and more in the girl, turning to her as a friend. Emilie curtsied quickly. “Oh, mademoiselle, what a surprise! I thought, from your letter, that you wouldn’t return until after monsieur le marquis did.”
 

“You still have the letter that was to be given to my father?”
 

“Of course.”
 

“Well then, I should like you to tear it up. And say nothing to my father when he returns.” Rouge smiled sheepishly. “Truth to tell, I’d prefer my father to think I’ve been home for weeks. That’s the reason I’ve come home now.” It was a lie, but she truly
didn’t
want Tintin knowing about Pierre. He would scold her for turning her back on love. It would break her heart even more. Yet how could she tell him of the past few weeks, and pretend that it had only been an amusing diversion?
 

Emilie nodded. “I’ll say nothing, of course, mademoiselle. But where have you been? Your trunks arrived, and then your cloak…”
 

“Was there any message with the cloak?” Had Arsène sought her?
 

“No. But it was delivered by a fine carriage, and the footman demanded to give it to you in person. He was quite put out when I said you weren’t here, and went back to the coach and talked at some length to a man inside. Very red-faced he was when he came out again and hopped up behind the coach. As though his ears had been boxed!”
 

So Arsène had come looking for her. And in a fury. Thanks be to God she hadn’t been here!
 

Emilie frowned. “But what were you doing, mademoiselle? And without all your fine gowns?” She indicated Rouge’s mantua. “Was that what you wore all these weeks? And only look at your face, tanned as a village milkmaid’s and covered with freckles!” She shook her head, protective and reproachful all at the same time. “What misadventures have overtaken you?”
 

The memory of Pierre suddenly overwhelmed Rouge. She blinked back her tears. “Perhaps I’ll tell you someday,” she said softly. She sighed and shook off the mood. “Well, there’s work to be done, I’m sure. How is Brocq?”
 

“Not well. He’s too old, mademoiselle, and not fit to manage an estate like this. Forgive my bold words, but I scarcely know why your father keeps him on. The stable boy laughs behind his back and the chambermaids toss their skirts at him. A strong hand is needed to stop such insolence.”
 

“I know. But he was my father’s equerry through so many campaigns. Tintin can’t bear to let him go.”
 

“It was different when your mother was alive.”
 

Rouge sighed again. “Yes, I know. Well, perhaps when Tintin returns I can persuade him to bring in a housekeeper, without replacing Brocq.” If we can afford it! she thought. “What else has happened since we were away?”
 

“My sister was brought to bed with her child. A healthy boy.” Emilie crossed herself. “The old horse died. Now there are only oxen to pull the wagons. And the roof over the long
galerie
sprang a leak.”