Louisa Rawlings (51 page)

“You wrong me, my sweet. I settled him in the tavern early on, with a good plate of food. He curled up and slept near the fire, and only awakened when Madame Graves sent for him.”
 

Brocq, the old steward, came slowly from the château, followed by two strong servants bearing a litter. “Alas, monsieur,” he said, wringing his hands. He seemed completely helpless.
 

“Zut!”
cried Madame Graves. “Stop looking so unhappy and bring that litter over here!” Like a general taking command, she barked orders to the servants. “Over here. Careful! Move him slowly.” She watched from the cart as Tintin, teeth clenched in pain, was lifted out and placed on the litter. Then she climbed down and took Brocq by the arm. “Show me where his room is.” Rouge had nothing to do but walk behind the procession, marveling at the woman’s easy authority. As soon as Chrétien had been settled onto his bed, Madame Graves turned to Brocq. “The man should have something to eat, to keep up his strength. A little broth, perhaps. And some wine and biscuits.”
 

Brocq stared at her. “The cook…” he began.
 

“Oh, never mind,” she said, taking him by the arm again. “Show me the kitchens. I’ll prepare the food myself!”
 

Tintin leaned back against his pillows and closed his eyes. His face had begun to show the strain of his ordeal. Rouge waved the servants away, then pulled up a chair to his bed and sat near him, stroking his forehead. “Poor Tintin.”
 

He opened his eyes. They were filled with pain and sadness. “Poor
foolish
Tintin. What a trial I am to you.”
 

She smiled gently. “And still I love you.”
 

“But what’s to be done? Villeneuve arrives today.”
 

“Then we’ll send him home again.”
 

“No, Rouge. There’s no sense to that. To send him away, and make him come back again. Where’s the point? It could be months before I’m able to walk. Certainly weeks before I can travel in any comfort.”
 

“What are we to do?”
 

“Go with him. Today. You won’t be alone. You’ll have Emilie. And if I see you off safely in the duc’s keeping, I’ll be content. You’ll write to me and tell me about the wedding. Every detail, mind! And tell me you’re happy. As soon as I can, I’ll visit you in your new home.”
 

She frowned. “And what about you? And Sans-Souci? Brocq, the dear man, is helpless! Emilie has shown some skill—she did very well last spring while you and I were at Versailles. But she’ll be with me. I don’t know, Tintin. I hate to leave you…”
 

“Here we are. A good bowl of broth!” Madame Graves bustled into the room and marched over to Tintin’s bed. Rouge stood up and gave her the chair, watching with some interest as the lace seller spooned the broth into Tintin’s mouth, ignoring his protest that he was quite capable of feeding himself. Her movements were surprisingly gentle, for all that she kept up a steady stream of complaints. “That kitchen is a disgrace, monsieur. Half a dozen silly creatures running about, and not a soul knows where to find a thing! But they’re bringing up a large beaker of aqua vitae. My late husband, during his final illness, always said it eased his pain.”
 

“You have a shop, Madame Graves?” asked Rouge.
 

“I sell the finest laces in Montóire, if I do say so.”
 

“But then you’ll be eager to get back this morning to open up for trade.”
 

“No. My son and his wife will open the shop. They do very well.” She stood up and put aside the empty bowl. “And well they might, since it will belong to them someday.” She looked down at Tintin. “It’s time to get you properly into bed. After you’ve drunk your cordial, you can sleep. Will you find his nightshirt, mademoiselle?” she said to Rouge.
 

Tintin began to sputter. “Madame Graves, I do protest!”
 

“Bah! You didn’t mind undressing for that hussy up in her garret room!” She clicked her tongue. “We’ll have to cut the breeches. We’ll never get them past the bandage. And the barber had to tear them anyway. Do you have a pair of scissors, mademoiselle?”
 

“Cut the breeches?” said Tintin. “Cut them? My very best suit?”
 

“If they were so good,” she snorted, “why were you climbing the roofs in them? Have you no sense? Such a waste of money!”
 

“By God,” growled Tintin. “Am I not to be master in my own house? To be undressed against my will and scolded by a shrew? I wonder your late husband didn’t put you in your place every day of the week, madame!”
 

She glared back. “He wouldn’t have dared!” Their eyes locked, then Madame Graves looked away. “Well, if you prefer to be put to bed in your shirt, it will do just as well.”
 

In the end, with some difficulty because of Tintin’s pain, Rouge and Madame Graves got him undressed down to his shirt and tucked beneath the coverlet. Dutifully he drank the cordial at Madame Graves’s direction. He urged Rouge to wake him as soon as Villeneuve arrived, sighed once, closed his eyes, and slept.
 

As soon as they had left his room, Madame Graves turned to Rouge. “The barber said it was a very bad break, mademoiselle,” she said, her eyes filled with concern. “He’ll need a great deal of care, the poor man.”
 

“Alas, madame, this very day I’m embarking on my wedding journey. I dread to leave him alone. You’ve seen how helpless Brocq is.” She hesitated, biting on her thumb. “I…don’t mean this as an insult, madame. But would you…could you be persuaded to care for Tintin while he recovers? Your son, you said, tends the shop. You’d be so much more than a housekeeper, of course. Someone to look after Tintin, and Brocq, and the estate…I mean no offense by this.”
 

“I don’t take it for an insult, mademoiselle. There’s no shame in earning a living. I was housekeeper to Monsieur Graves before he married me.” She nodded briskly to Rouge, the matter clearly settled in her mind. “It would be instructive to see how my son manages the shop alone. Shall we discuss terms, mademoiselle?”
 

“Six crowns a week for as long as he needs you.”
 

“Would you expect me to live here in the château?”
 

“Yes.”

“Seven crowns, then. Your father’s a devil, and I’m sure I’ll not have a minute’s peace.”
 

Rouge smiled her relief. “I’ll tell him when he wakes.”
 

Madame Graves put a gentle hand on her arm. “No. I’ll tell him. I want to watch him as he sleeps, in case he wakes in pain.”
 

Thanks be to God, thought Rouge as she returned to her rooms to dress and finish her packing. She could leave Sans-Souci with a clear mind, knowing that Tintin would be cared for. She laughed softly. Though poor Tintin might not find it to his liking to be under the watchful eye of Madame Graves!
 

It was not until after she’d picked nervously at her dinner, her mind filled with the dread of meeting Monsieur de Villeneuve, that Emilie came and told her that a large carriage had just crossed the bridge. She hurried to the window to see. It was a splendid coach, with two footmen in dark green livery, as well as the coachman himself. As it pulled up before Sans-Souci, Rouge shrank back into the window draperies to examine, unseen, the man to whom she had been pledged.
 

He hopped quickly from the coach. He was a man of medium height, with short legs and a broad chest. His simple wig was deep black, and though she couldn’t see the color of his eyes from the window, they seemed equally deep. His cheeks were surprisingly rosy, and his wide mouth—set in a rather ugly face—was stretched in a good-natured grin. He seemed older than Rouge would have thought, perhaps thirty-five, and the jauntiness of his step as he strode to the door scarcely matched his sinister reputation. A very ordinary man. And hardly the well-favored man Tintin had described! She gulped, feeling a disappointment that surprised her.

Beside her, Emilie sniffed. “He looks evil. Just as they said!”
 

“Nonsense. He looks no such thing. Have him escorted in here.” She waited, her heart thumping, until the man was led into her presence.
 

He took his hat from under his arm and saluted her with a flourish. “Mademoiselle de Tournières.”
 

She curtsied. “Monsieur.”
 

He continued to smile. “You needn’t bow to
me
,
mademoiselle. It will be my honor to serve you.”
 

“How kind of you, Monsieur de Villeneuve.”
 

The smile broadened. “I? Mademoiselle, may I present myself? Monsieur Edouard Colinet, secretary to Monsieur le Duc de Villeneuve. At your service.”
 

She felt almost relieved. “But…monsieur le duc?”
 

“He begs your forgiveness, mademoiselle. But he was called away at the last moment on a matter of urgent business.”
 

She frowned. “He’ll not be here?”
 

“Alas, no.”
 

“I like it not,” she said. In truth, she found herself growing increasingly concerned. What kind of man was this husband of hers?
 

“If you’ll allow me. In the coach is a small token that monsieur has sent to you. He begs you to accept it, with humblest apologies for his absence.” He bowed and left the room.
 

“I don’t like him,” hissed Emilie. “He never stops smiling. Like a big, ugly spider waiting to trap you in the web! Without a doubt he procures for the duc—a party to his lechery—and never stops smiling!”
 

“Emilie! What a thing to say!”
 

Emilie snorted. “
You
may have forgotten the story, but I haven’t! The lady was carrying the duc’s child. And she killed herself.” The girl’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “At least, that’s the story they gave out. But who knows?”
 

“The woman may have had other cause for suicide. Who can tell?” It sounded hopeful, but she scarcely believed it herself.
 

“There was another story as well that I never told you. After a night of drunkenness, one of his friends was found drowned in a fountain at Versailles. And Villeneuve refused to speak of it. They called
that
death an accident!”
 

“Oh, Emilie, be still!” Rouge frowned at her, more disturbed than she cared to show. “Go and tell Madame Graves to wake Tintin.”
 

Monsieur Colinet returned carrying a small packet, which he presented to Rouge with a bow and another smile. She unwrapped it, peeling back several thick coverings, and found within a porcelain rose, sized to the life, and painted in the most exquisite shades of pink. Every petal curled naturally, and even the stem—with its clusters of green leaves—was studded with delicate thorns. It was the most fragile and beautiful thing she had ever seen. She stared at in wonder. It was a delicate gift, touching and intimate, and not at all what she would have expected, given the extravagance of the man’s previous gifts. She turned away, filled with confusion. What was he, this man?
 

Emilie bustled into the room, sweeping past Monsieur Colinet with a disdainful toss of the head, and announced that Tintin would receive them now. Tintin was sitting up in bed. He looked far better than he had in the morning as he greeted Monsieur Colinet warmly. “How nice to see you. I regret not to see the duc again, however.”
 

Colinet expressed his own regrets at Tintin’s unfortunate accident, and prayed
le bon Dieu
that it would not be long before monsieur le marquis would be able to visit his daughter at Choisy-aux-Loges. He smiled more deeply and pulled a sheaf of papers from his large pocket. “And now, mademoiselle, in the presence of your father as a witness, will you be so good as to sign the forms of consent for your marriage? You will see that monsieur le duc has already signed before a notary.” He held out the papers to Rouge.
 

“Now? I’m to sign them now?”
 

“If you please, mademoiselle.”
 

“Why?”
 

“So that the final ceremony of the Nuptial Mass need not be delayed when you arrive at Choisy.”
 

She felt a current of uneasiness go through her. “Sign it now? Before we’ve even met?” So she couldn’t change her mind?
 

“If you please.” The pleasant expression never left his face. “Monsieur le duc insists upon it.”
 

Emilie came up behind Rouge and whispered in her ear, “Once you’re trapped, the smile will vanish!”
 

“Come, Rouge,” said Tintin. “Monsieur le duc will think you’re not willing.”
 

Ah, well. She brushed aside Emilie—and her own doubts—and signed the paper as Colinet indicated. She saw to the packing of the rest of her clothes and gifts, cautioning Emilie to take special pains with the porcelain rose, and arranged to have Colinet and his men fed while she went to say her farewells to Tintin.