Louisa Rawlings (41 page)

She looked surprised. “You?”

He glared at her, hands on hips. “There
are
times when I remember to be a father!”
 

“I know,” she said, chastened.
 

“Well, then. There’s not much to tell of Arsène. His family is very wealthy, have always been so. He served briefly in the military, without distinction. His habits are simple, his vices few, beyond the occasional mistress. He does visit Paris from time to time. I’m sure the king is displeased, but since Falconet spends as much time at Versailles dancing attendance on Louis, nothing is said of it. Besides, Arsène’s great wealth makes it unnecessary for him to beg favors, which must be a refreshing change for his majesty. Little is known of Arsène’s friends. He is discreet, they say. Civil to all, warm to none. When he entertains at his
hôtel
—where you and I dined—he is careful to vary his guests so none feel favored or excluded. A very politic man. If he entertains at his château, Rochenard, Nathalie has not heard of it.”
 

“How strange. You paint a picture of restraint and prudence. The man I”—she almost said, “fled from,” then stopped herself—“abandoned had too much passion to suit me.”
 

“Perhaps, my beautiful daughter, you’re his one passion. At any rate, there’s not much more to tell. There are cousins, I think, but no close relations. The de Falconets once had a hereditary governorship of a seaport—Nathalie didn’t know which one—and collected a commission every year on the traffic. But Arsène’s grandfather was part of the Fronde insurrection that fought against Louis in ’fifty-two. For that outrage to the crown, the king took back the seaport. Nathalie seemed to think that he had given it to his own son when the dauphin came of age.”
 

Rouge shrugged. “That was a long time ago. And scarcely my concern, even if I had married Arsène. He was a difficult man. I think Girard will be more tractable.”
 

Tintin looked morose. “I don’t suppose it’s
love
.”
 

“No.”

“You know how I feel about that.”
 

“And you know my feelings, Tintin. The man who marries me, frees you from your debts for my sake, and restores Sans-Souci, is the man I can learn to love.” If I can forget Pierre, she thought unhappily.
 

She wrote to Girard that very night, telling him she would come for a visit in two days’ time, after she had had time to welcome her father home. If, after several days with Girard, she found that they were congenial, she was prepared to accept a betrothal to him, and marriage as soon as he wished it.
 

She hadn’t quite decided on the matter of Tintin’s debts. If she waited until after they were married to wheedle the money from Girard, she might, in the meantime, be forced into some new indignity by Torcy that would jeopardize the marriage. On the other hand, it might be possible to demand a dowry of 125,000 livres before the wedding. She wasn’t sure, but she thought Girard could be bullied into it.
 

She packed with great care: all her mantuas and the beautiful court dress that Torcy had paid for, as well as the bright red riding habit Tintin had brought. It was designed to mimic a man’s costume, with a long, fitted coat over the full skirt, a man’s black silk cravat and white steinkirk at the neck, and even a small black three-cornered hat, a dainty imitation of a man’s hat, with a bright red plume. Though Tintin still wanted to buy her a horse for riding, she refused him, assuring him that Girard would have a horse for her use. And Tintin could use the money to fix the roof over the
galerie
, which would please all the servants, who had to empty the buckets on rainy days.
 

With Tintin beaming with pleasure, she set out at last in the splendid carriage, Emilie sitting awestruck opposite her; they were met by Girard himself on the avenue of trees leading to his château. He dismounted from his horse and snapped his fingers to Rouge’s footman; the servant leaped at once from his perch and opened the door of the carriage. Girard scowled. “
Morbleu!
What is this creature doing here?”
 

Rouge bristled. “This is my maid Emilie. Was she supposed to ride with the coachman?”
 

“Of course not. But let her do so now.” He waited impatiently until Emilie had been helped up to the coachman’s seat, then he got in beside Rouge.
 

Not a very promising beginning, she thought. “How have you been, Girard?” she said in a cool tone.
 

He smiled. “You look beautiful. That mantua becomes you.” He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently. “I’ve been counting the hours until your arrival.”
 

That was a little more encouraging. “What have you planned?”

“To begin, I want you to see the changes I’ve made here since you saw it last. And then I thought we’d ride tomorrow and have a picnic. I have a superb horse I want you to try. Tonight, you and Marguerite and I will have a quiet supper together.” He made a wry face. “That is, if Marguerite is able to be quiet!” He appraised her costume again, his eyes obviously cataloguing every detail. “You’re not wearing my brooch.”
 

“I’ll wear it tonight, at supper. With a handsome
habit de cour
that will, I think, meet with your approval. It will do very well at Versailles.”
 

He nodded. “Yes.” But it was clear to Rouge that he intended to reserve judgment until he had personally examined the gown and pronounced it suitable. “I’ll have another jewel for you tonight,” he said. “My mother’s diamond cross. For a betrothal gift.”
 

She clicked her tongue. “Name of heaven, Girard, you’re being overhasty again! I haven’t given you an answer yet. Nor shall I until I’m quite ready!”
 

“Am I to anticipate a scolding wife?” he asked, and lapsed into a sullen silence.
 

She put her hand over his. There was no point in upsetting him. “I meant only that the brooch is lovely. I’m quite content with it for now.”
 

He brightened at that, leaning back and straightening the cuff of his coat. “I’m pleased you like the brooch. It was sent from Paris. I ordered it to my design the very day I met you in Montoire.”
 

A little flattery, she thought, would further smooth his ruffled feathers. “To your own design? How clever of you! And it arrived in such good time?”
 

“’Tis not such a difficult matter, if one knows the right people. As I do.”
 

“And you bought it the very day we met, you naughty boy. Were you so sure of me?”
 

She meant it as gentle raillery, but he only looked surprised. “No. I’m sure of myself! Why should you refuse me? I’m ambitious, and I mean to make a name for myself. And you never were a fool, for as long as I’ve known you. I knew you should see very quickly the wisdom of marrying me.”
 

She smiled weakly and leaned back against the cushions. Would she ever get used to his youthful complacency?

He spent the afternoon showing her around his estate, proudly pointing out the changes and improvements he had begun to make. He had already redone his own
appartement
, he said, and was only waiting for several pieces of furniture to arrive. “Copied from designs at Versailles,
naturellement
,” he said with satisfaction.
 

Supper was more difficult than she would have imagined. He had obviously pored over the pages of the
Mercure Galant
half a hundred times; the stifling formality of the meal was worse than anything she’d ever endured at Versailles. The servants bowed and cringed endlessly, parading each dish about the room twice and thrice, until Girard declared himself satisfied that the food was fit to be served. Rouge didn’t know if she was dying of hunger or impatience. But perhaps when he arrived at court and saw that such rigid behavior need not be observed, he would be amenable to the changes she intended to make in their lives. To add to the misery of the meal, Marguerite
was
a silly goose, far worse than Rouge had remembered, who chattered on endlessly until Rouge thought her head would burst. On that score, at least, she agreed with Girard; the girl needed a strong husband, and quickly!
 

After supper they retired to the salon to play cards. Rouge had the skill to allow herself to lose, but Marguerite took great pleasure in besting her brother, then laughing in giddy delight at his chagrin. By the time Rouge begged to retire for the night, he was in a foul mood.
 

“If you’re weary of playing cards with me,” he said petulantly, “by all means, go to your
appartement
.”
 

“I’m merely tired, Girard,” she said, putting a gentle hand on his arm. She stood up from the card table. A lackey who had been standing by the door rushed forward to pull out her chair; in his haste, he knocked the chair with his arm, sending it crashing to the parqueted floor.
 

Girard leaped to his feet, his face red. “You clumsy fool,” he said, smacking the servant on the side of the head. “Have I taught you nothing of how to serve a lady?”
 

Rouge whirled to him, her eyes burning. “Perhaps it is you who should go to your
appartement
,” she said tightly. Turning on her heel, she stormed from the salon.
 

All the while Emilie helped her dress for bed, she kept remembering what Tintin had said about the seventeen-year-old Girard. A peevish and self-centered boy. Perhaps there was still more boy than man in him. It didn’t help that Emilie, in her frank fashion, had made it clear she didn’t think much of Monsieur le Marquis de Saint-Esprit.
 

There was a soft tap on the door. Emilie helped Rouge into her dressing gown, then opened the door to Girard. He too was in a dressing gown, a handsome garment of heavy brocade. He had put aside his brown wig; his head, completely shaved, was covered with a small cap. The bareness of his scalp only served to accentuate the sharp lines of his thin nose. “Will you receive me?” he said.
 

“Of course.” She waved Emilie into the other room.
 

He moved awkwardly into the middle of the room and turned to face her, his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed caught between embarrassment and the need to maintain his pose of authority. He cleared his throat. “You’re angry with me.”
 

“There was no cause to strike your servant,” she said.
 

His chin jutted with belligerence. “I played badly. ’Tis not my usual way at cards. And Marguerite deliberately shamed me in your eyes.”
 

Dieu!
It was clear she’d have to train him with gentleness. She moved to him and patted his hand. “Skill at cards doesn’t make the man, Girard. But a
true
gentleman can be as gracious to a servant as to a great lord.”
 

At once he was the little boy. He hung his head. “Am I forgiven?”
 

“Of course.”
 

He breathed a sigh of relief and unfolded his arms. He stared at her in gratitude, even managing a small smile. Rouge was struck again by his youth, the difficult time she would have in learning to love him. “You’re very beautiful,” he said at last. “We shall have handsome children. I dreamed of you while I was in New France. How beautiful you were, even as a girl. How exquisite you would look at my side. And how the world would envy me.” Unexpectedly his arms shot out, and he clutched Rouge to his breast. His strong grip was painful. He kissed her roughly, his tongue thrusting impatiently against her closed lips.
 

She broke free of his grasp and put her hand to her mouth, wiping it across her wet lips. “Name of God, Girard,” she exclaimed in annoyance. “That’s a kiss you’d give a whore! Have you never kissed a gentlewoman?”
 

He averted his gaze, his face flaming scarlet.
 

She sighed and stared up at the coffered ceiling. What have I done? she thought. It was clear that he was green in more ways than she had supposed! The harlots of New France had perhaps been good enough for him, but not the gentry. And the
Mercure Galant
could scarcely help him in matters of courtship, or how to kiss a lady! “Would you like to try again?” she asked softly.
 

He looked at her with sullen eyes, clearly wrestling with his pride, then allowed her to slide her arms around his neck.
 

“You can embrace me,” she said, “but please remember that I’m more fragile than you are. And if I want more” (dear heaven, how was she to put this delicately?) “more than just your lips, I’ll give you a sign.”
 

He hesitated, then put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her, his mouth closed, his touch gentle. At the end of the kiss, taking pity on him, she parted her lips slightly. He barely inserted the tip of his tongue into her mouth; then he withdrew it and lifted his head. His face was filled with boyish delight.
 

She smiled. “You never kissed me years ago. Nor even tried.”
 

“Your father was always about. And you were young, and I was afraid you’d not welcome my kiss.” This confession seemed more open than he had intended. He drew himself up, the look of haughty superiority returning to his face. “Besides,” he said, “I expected that when you were ready, you would be pleased to sue
me
for a kiss.”