Louisa Rawlings (39 page)

“It leaked last winter.”
 

“This is a new leak.”
 

“Alas. Anything more?”
 

Emilie’s face brightened. “I nearly forgot! The tenant Martin paid his arrears. A nice fat purse.”
 

“Thanks be to God!”
 

“I didn’t want to give it to Brocq. He would have given it to the first creditor who came crying at the door. I knew you’d want to spend it in your own fashion, mademoiselle.”
 

Rouge laughed wryly. “Brocq, like my father, never
was
very stone-hearted.”
 

Emilie looked hopeful. “Will you have the leak in the roof fixed now?”
 

“Yes.” She reconsidered. “No. I have reason to hope my father will return with some money. The roof can wait until then. I have another use for Martin’s rent.”
 

“Oh, but…”
 

Rouge held up her hand. “Not a word. I’m going to my
appartement
to change my gown. Come and help me. And bring the purse to me there.”
 

She was pleased to see that there was enough money to pay back what she’d stolen, with a few coins left over for the immediate needs of Sans-Souci. She wrapped Pierre’s money carefully to send by post, and included only a brief note: “Forgive me. For everything. Rouge.”
 

What else could she say that wouldn’t just bring them both more unhappiness?
 

The days passed slowly, filled with cares and worries. There was still no word from Tintin. Mid-May, he had said, but still he hadn’t returned. She knew Torcy expected her at Versailles. She cursed him silently, then told herself she wouldn’t return to the palace until he demanded it of her. And devil take the man!
 

Sans-Souci had become a constant source of concern to her. The walls were crumbling, the plaster falling away from the bricks. The tenants were slow in paying their rents, particularly when Tintin was loath to assert his seigneurial rights. The economy of France was changing: a nobleman could expect only a lessening return on his holdings from year to year, and many of the old feudal dues—that brought him income—had been discarded. Trade was barred to him, and the civil-servants were drawn from the bourgeoisie.
 

The family had managed well enough while
Maman
was alive; Tintin seldom gambled then, and he still had a small pension from the king for his last military campaign. He was charmingly improvident in those years, but his wife had controlled the purse and kept his wilder impulses in check. But when Madame de Tournières had died three years ago, her husband had become a reckless child again, a carouser, a rakehell, a gambler who lived for the moment. Now Rouge sat for hours at a time in her father’s library, sifting letters from creditors: “Monsieur, can you not grant me the favor of a reply to my entreaties?” “Will you come to my shop to settle your accounts?” “It is four months now, monsieur le marquis, since you promised to pay.” At the end of her first week at home, she had managed to collect a few more rents, and had paid several of Tintin’s smaller bills.
 

Her only release from her burdens was in work. She had half the château closed off to save on fuel and labor; still there were more tasks than the few servants were able—or willing!—to perform. Rouge found it simpler to don her oldest gown, pin up her hair and her skirts, and wield the brush or mop herself.
 

This was how Girard de Saint-Esprit found her one day, her hair in disarray, the sleeves of her faded gown rolled up above her elbows. Informed by the stable boy that a gentleman awaited her outside, she hurried out to the garden to be greeted by Saint-Esprit in all his splendor.
 

“Morbleu!”
he exclaimed at sight of her. “I had thought to take you for a ride in my calèche today. But I can see…”
 

She frowned at him, annoyed that she should have been surprised in such a state of déshabillé. “Is that all the greeting I’m to get? When you didn’t even have the
civility
to inform me you were coming?”
 

His face fell. He was clearly not in the habit of being scolded. (A useful trick to remember, thought Rouge, if she should ever want to get her way with him!) He bowed low, his cheeks coloring with embarrassment. “You must forgive me. I thought only to see you. Will you stroll with me? I have much to speak of.”
 

“Well…” She patted at her hair, took off her apron, smoothed her skirts. “I suppose I forgive you.”
 

He smiled and led the way down a narrow path. “How it will please me to see this old château as it was when your grandfather was alive. I think we’ll drain the moat and fill it in. A large flower bed, perhaps. Or a reflecting pool. Would that please you?”
 

She gaped at him, her jaw dropping.
 

He took a silver snuffbox from his pocket, tossed back his wrist ruffles, and delicately placed a small pinch of snuff on the back of his hand. He sniffed, wrinkled up his nose, and muffled the sneeze in a fine silk handkerchief he had drawn from his sleeve. “Marguerite is delighted, you know.”
 

She stared in bewilderment. “Marguerite is delighted?” she echoed.
 

“Of course I’ve told her we’ll not spend too much time here in the country. I want to advance my fortunes, and I know too well what his majesty says about a
campagnard
: ‘He is a man I never see.’ And then the poor fool might just as well hang himself from the nearest tree! For there will be no recognition, no pensions, not the smallest favor for a man who absents himself from the royal presence. No. We will spend a great many days at Versailles, I promise you.”
 

“In the name of heaven,” she said, “what are you talking about?”
 

“Why, when we’re married, of course.”
 

“Girard! You can’t be serious. I never said I
would
!”
 

He brushed a leaf from the toe of his high-heeled shoe. “But you will.”
 

“Such unseemly haste,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”
 

“I spent five years in New France, chafing with impatience,” he said sulkily. “Will you tell me I must wait for what I want? And if you intend to marry me sooner or later, why not now? At once.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large gold brooch, finely wrought, with a luminous, tear-shaped pearl hanging from it. “Will you wear this?”
 

She eyed it with suspicion. It was not so dear that she couldn’t accept it in the name of friendship. Still, “Does this mean I’m pledged to you?” she asked.
 

“No. Merely a token of my affection for you. But if you accept it, I’ll take it to mean that you are considering my proposal of marriage.”
 

She hesitated. Marriage to Girard. She
had
been fond of him when they were children, attracted by his maturity, his air of confidence that had been magnified in her mind by the three-year difference in their ages. But his confidence seemed to have grown into smugness, and the adolescent’s preoccupation with his looks had become vanity. Still, he was very young and full of bluster; for all his pose of sophistication, she had known footmen at Versailles more worldly-wise than he. Perhaps all he needed was a wife’s guidance. He was still holding out the brooch. Rouge frowned, wondering if she ought, after all, to take it. “Girard…”

Emilie came hurrying down the garden path. “Mademoiselle. Forgive me for disturbing you. But a packet has arrived. I thought it might be important.”
 

Rouge saw the look of consternation on Girard’s face. His cheeks reddening with annoyance, he quickly pocketed the brooch. She pulled Emilie aside. “Name of God,” she whispered angrily. “Could it not wait?”
 

Emilie’s eyes flashed. “You may fool the world, mademoiselle, but you don’t fool me! I’ve known you too long, and your little ways. You think I haven’t seen you in tears all this week when you thought no one was about? And your silence when I ask where you were? The packet is from the man whose name was in your letter to me. The miller LeBrun in Selommes. I thought you’d want to see it at once.”
 

Rouge felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She nodded. “Please take Monsieur de Saint-Esprit into the hall and tell him I’ll rejoin him in a moment. If we have a few sweetcakes that aren’t stale, offer him some with wine.”
 

“Of course. I put the packet in your study.”
 

Rouge sped up the stairs to her
appartement.
On a little table in her study was an oilcloth package, wrapped and tied and sealed. Her name was written on it in a florid hand, with Pierre’s above. She had never seen his handwriting; it was as full of strength and comely grace as the man himself. Hands trembling, she tore open the packet. Within was a silk chemise, beautifully trimmed and embroidered, and a small leather purse. She spilled out its contents to find a handful of coins. “No. Please, no,” she whispered, even as her mind told her it was the money she had stolen from him. Was she to have the added burden of
that
on her conscience?
 

There was a letter besides. She dreaded to open it; his refusal of the money had been wound enough. She tore it open and read it with an aching heart; the beautiful script was a mocking counterpoint to the cruel words.
 

Mademoiselle:
 

I return to you the money you took from me. Your need of it, as you made clear on many occasions, is greater than mine. There are few amusements at Versailles save those which must be bought. How our country pleasures must have bored you. I trust this missive finds you happily among your kind once again.
 

I send you also a new chemise to replace the garment that was ruined. I do regret my behavior that night, I assure you. More especially since I had pledged myself to your safety, and allowed my passions to override that pledge. But a man in his cups is a fool who speaks foolishly of love.
 

When I found that you had taken money for the coach at Selommes, I understood what I should have guessed at once. That you were almost destitute the while you were here. More deceitful and perfidious than I had supposed, you lied to me from that very first day. Arsène, I see now, was your only means of getting home. I had sent him away; then, all unknowing, had spent the last of your money on the shoes.
 

Now I find myself assailed with questions. What were your plans, I wonder? To wait and hope for Arsène’s return? Despite your tale of escaping him for a while? Was your father to send you money when he returned? Or did you hope to find another cavalier? And missed your opportunity at the May fair? Or had you always intended to take my gold, only waiting until you had the chance to escape in safety?
 

Poor Rouge. Did you force yourself to be pleasant to me, amusing yourself as best you could while you schemed and plotted for a way to leave? You should have swallowed your pride and your lies, and simply asked me for money that first day. God knows I would have been happy to be quit of you at once.
 

Pierre
 

She sank into a chair, fighting back the tears. If she allowed herself to weep now, she would never stop. And Girard was waiting below. Waiting for her to accept his gift, to promise herself in marriage. She had no illusions on that score. If she took the gift, he would, soon enough, expect a betrothal. “Oh, God,” she moaned aloud, “what difference does it make?” It was more sensible to marry Girard than Arsène. The Saint-Esprit money could pay off Tintin’s debts just as well as Falconet money. And Girard had more interest in preserving Sans-Souci. And unless Tintin ever married again and had children,
their
children would own both estates, which were near to each other. She shivered. The thought of having children reminded her of the sweetness of lying with Pierre, her horror at imagining another man’s touch. No! She shook away the dismaying thoughts. It must be so. It was sensible and practical. She had no choice. With heavy heart, she descended the stairs to where Girard waited.
 

“Well?” he demanded impatiently. “Will you take the brooch?”
 

There were still lingering doubts. “I’m not completely sure,” she said. “I’ll…accept your gift. But as for the rest of it, give me time to think.”
 

“How long?”
 

“At least until my father returns. I should like to talk to him about it.”
 

“And then we’ll announce the betrothal.” He nodded in assurance. The matter was clearly settled for him.
 

“And then I’ll give you my answer,” she corrected.
 

He seemed not to hear that. He frowned at her, examining her faded and rumpled gown. “I trust you have finer gowns than
that
for Versailles. Otherwise”—his face relaxed into a magnanimous smile—“it will be my pleasure, after we’re married, to instruct you in the nicer details of a court lady’s wardrobe.”
 

She smiled thinly, wondering if she wasn’t making a grievous mistake. She sighed. Ah, well, if she married him, perhaps she could teach him a little humility.