Louisa Rawlings (59 page)

She and Pierre dined together, they supped together. They managed to exchange mindless pleasantries that brought them no closer, but at least didn’t estrange them further. To Rouge’s own surprise, she had begun to call him Pierre again; but when he smiled and expressed his pleasure, she turned away coldly. She couldn’t forgive him. Not yet. She couldn’t forget the abasement of her pride in the mill, the picture of herself on her knees.
 

They sat one evening at supper, at a table set out on the lawn to enjoy the last light of a golden autumn day. Pierre sipped his wine and looked at her. “I have unhappy news,” he said. “I’ve learned that the mill at Selommes burned. A bolt of lightning struck it.”
 

She felt an odd tug at her heart. “Is it…completely gone?”
 

“No. Most of the cottage is intact. But the waterwheel is gone. And the millstones fell through the floor and were smashed.”
 

Her dear cottage. “What will happen to it now?”
 

“Nothing. The good fathers of St. Estephe, who own it, don’t seem to think it’s worth repairing. I suppose it will crumble away.”
 

“Oh.” She blinked, surprised at the sudden rush of tears.
 

“Rouge,” he said softly, and reached across the table to cover her hand with his own. “We had happy days there. Did we not?”
 

She looked at him, splendid in his brocaded coat and laces, his chestnut hair unbound and lightly dusted with powder. He had refused to cut his hair and wear a wig, to return to something that represented his shameful past to him. She sighed. The days in the mill seemed so remote from this man, this setting, this civilized park with its trimmed hedges and fountains. Another lifetime. With another man. Perhaps it had only been a dream. She pulled her hand from his. “It was only the magic of May. And spring.”
 

“Do you think so?” His eyes were sad.
 

“I don’t know what I think,” she said. It was true. The magic of May. Perhaps she only imagined she’d loved him. They’d never recaptured the love and innocent joy of those days. Summer had come and gone. Their last meeting at the mill—for all its passion—had been bittersweet, and tinged with anger, fear, hopelessness. And now her heart was cold and empty. She wondered if she could ever love again. She rose from the table. “It’s getting chilly. I’m going inside.” She sighed again. “You would have done well to send me home to Tintin.”
 

Emilie arrived a few days later. Madame Benichou brought her to Rouge’s study. She curtsied politely as the housekeeper left the room, then threw herself into Rouge’s arms and embraced her warmly. “Oh, mademois…
madame
! How glad I am to see you!” She looked about the study, then scurried to the door of the bedchamber and exclaimed in delight, “It’s so beautiful and grand! Every bit of it!” Her face
darkened. “I haven’t seen Monsieur de Villeneuve yet, but I saw that villain Colinet! Still smiling, curse him!”
 

Rouge frowned. “He’s to apologize to you for the beating. As soon as possible. You must tell me if he doesn’t.”
 

Emilie snorted. “He’s the most insolent rogue I’ve ever met! He begged my pardon for the beating, sure enough. Then he smiled and reminded me of the kiss he’d given me that day! As though I’d forgive the one because of the other!” Her round face was pink with indignation. “But tell me about monsieur le duc. Is he as wicked as they say?”
 

“He claims to be reformed. And I think it’s so.”
 

Emilie smiled. “Why then, are you happy, madame?”
 

Rouge shrugged. “I’m content, if this is to be my lot in life.”
 

“Pah! I know what your father would say to that! He wants you to have
love
!”
 

“How is Tintin?” said Rouge quickly. “Does his leg pain him? His letters are only filled with complaints about Madame Graves.”
 

Emilie laughed. “She’s a terror, that woman! I haven’t seen Sans-Souci run so well since your mother died. And she scolds monsieur le marquis day and night, and chides him for every sol that he wastes!”
 

Rouge giggled. “Poor Tintin.”
 

“But poor Madame Graves as well! Your father has got Brocq to make him up a chair with wheels, and he has himself wheeled around Sans-Souci by François. He follows Madame Graves all day, and picks quarrels with her at every opportunity. And then, when she’s quite red in the face, he manages to get around behind her and pinch her!” Emilie rolled her eyes. “Between the scolding and the shouting and the shrieks from his pinches, there’s never a quiet moment in the château. Truth to tell, madame, I don’t think your father has time to notice if his leg pains him!”
 

Laughing, Rouge kissed the girl on the cheek. “Oh, Emilie. What a joy it is to have you here. I’ve missed your cheery voice. Come and talk to me while I walk in the garden. This room is too close for me today. It’s making me sleepy. I want some fresh air.”
 

They strolled in the gardens together, while Emilie told Rouge all that had happened at Sans-Souci in the fortnight since they’d been parted. The day was sunny, the gardens were cool and refreshing. Turning a sudden corner at the end of a line of hedges, they came upon Pierre and one of his servants. Blunted foils in hand, they were engaged in fencing. Rouge knew that Pierre had been practicing every day, trying to recapture the proficiency that had been his in the past. At sight of her he stopped, mopped his forehead, and saluted her with his blade. “Have you come to watch my defeat, madame?”
 

She shrugged. “It scarcely matters, if you don’t plan to go to war.” She regretted her words the moment she’d said them. It was cruel, to remind him of those days that had brought him such pain.
 

Only the flicker of anger in his hazy green eyes betrayed the accuracy of her thrust. “I don’t plan to go to Versailles very often, either,” he said coldly. “Unless the king commands it. But I thought to sharpen my skills in any event.” He smiled mockingly. “There were so many
amours
in those days, I still must be on my guard against vengeful husbands.”
 

She bit her lip. It was her turn to feel pain. And jealousy. “You haven’t met Emilie,” she said. “She’s only just arrived.”
 

He smiled. “Welcome to Choisy-aux-Loges, Emilie. I hope we can make you forget our earlier cruelty. That, we much regret.”
 

Emilie curtsied, then turned to Rouge, her eyes wide with surprise. “He looks just like your miller, madame! The one who was whipped!”
 

Rouge felt her face coloring. Pierre stared at her, one eyebrow raised in curiosity, waiting for her response. “Don’t be ridiculous, Emilie,” she snapped. “You only imagine a resemblance.” The less Emilie knew and chattered about, the less painful it would be to forget those days.
 

But her words clearly had had an effect on Pierre. He smiled sardonically. “Your miller? A secret love, madame? From your wicked past?”
 

“Damn you,” she whispered, and turned away. “Come, Emilie.” They retraced their steps through the garden, meeting a smiling Colinet as he hurried out to his master. He stopped and bowed to Rouge; then, a bright grin lighting up his plain features, he winked at Emilie and continued on his way.
 

“The rogue!” Emilie sputtered. “A pox on the lot of them! I heard the way Monsieur de Villeneuve spoke to you! Bragged about his…
amours
! I’m glad to be here with you in this horrible place, madame! To keep you company. The less we have to do with Villeneuve and his lot, the happier we’ll be!”
 

For the next few days, at Emilie’s suggestion, she kept to her rooms. She was feeling tired. Besides, the strain of seeing Pierre, having to be pleasant, had begun to wear on her. She had Madame Benichou send a little folding cot into her bedchamber for Emilie’s use, and the two of them spent quiet days at cards, or sewing, or just chatting. They strolled in the gardens together, and dined and supped in Rouge’s study. Pierre sent Colinet to find out why she wasn’t joining him at meals anymore.
 

“Have I been commanded?” asked Rouge, frowning at Colinet. He really was impossible, the way he looked at Emilie. He might have apologized, to be sure, but there wasn’t a shred of remorse in him!
 

Colinet beamed. “Commanded to join monsieur?” he said. “Of course not.”
 

“Then I’ll not come. I prefer Emilie’s company, and my
appartement
.”
 

“As you wish.” He bowed exuberantly and bounded from the room.
 

Emilie, of course, had noticed at once that the duc didn’t visit his wife’s bedchamber at night. And that he and Rouge were barely civil. “He doesn’t deserve any better, madame,” she sniffed. “He and that grinning brute of his! Let him go whoring, as he did in the past!”

The next day it rained, a cold, steady drizzle that seeped into Rouge’s bones. She had the servants build up the fire in her bedchamber, until the room was snug and warm. She didn’t even bother to put on stays, but sat before the fire in a chemise covered by a thick quilted dressing gown. Late in the morning Madame Benichou appeared at her door. She begged Madame de Villeneuve’s pardon, but monsieur le duc had a favor to ask. It had been his pleasure to buy Madame de Villeneuve a charming little puppy dog to keep her amused. For the present, the animal was in the keeping of a widow in Sully. Would madame’s personal maid be so kind as to go to Sully and fetch the animal?
 

“He wants Emilie to go?” said Rouge.
 

“Since the creature has only just been weaned, monsieur felt that it would feel more secure in the arms of the one who will be charged with its care.”
 

Rouge crossed to the window. “But on such a day?”
 

“It will only take a couple of hours, madame. And Colinet will have a heated stone put in the carriage for the girl’s comfort.”
 

“Oh, let me go, madame,” said Emilie. “It will be a nice change, since we can’t walk today. And I’ll enjoy fetching the little thing. I’ll be back in time for dinner. You’ll see.”
 

Rouge sat in front of the hearth, her slippered feet propped up on a little footstool, enjoying the warmth of the fire while she read a book. She nodded to the servants who came and set up a table for dinner, instructing them that they needn’t bring the food until her maid had returned. She didn’t like dining alone, and always invited Emilie to sit at table with her.
 

She read a bit more, then put down her book, frowning. She was really getting quite hungry! Where was Emilie? It must be well past one by now! She heard the clatter of dishes from her study. Emilie must have returned and was bringing dinner with her. Thanks be to God, she thought. Her stomach had begun to growl. “Emilie?” she called. “Have you brought the pup?”
 

“Emilie isn’t here.” Rouge looked up. Pierre was standing in the doorway, smiling. Beneath his simple waistcoat, his shirt was open at the neck. Rouge could see the fuzzy red-gold of his chest hairs. He motioned to a lackey who carried a large tray piled with steaming platters of food. “Over here, Baptiste. Lay out the dishes, then go. I’ll serve madame myself.”
 

“Where’s Emilie?”
 

“We’ve just had word that the road was washed out. The carriage won’t be able to make it back here this afternoon.”
 

“What’s to be done?”
 

“Don’t be alarmed. It happens all the time. The coachman will know to take Emilie to a fine inn at Sully and see to her food and lodgings. You’ll see her in the morning.” He indicated the table set for dinner. “But when Madame Benichou told me that you were waiting for Emilie’s return to dine, I thought to save you.” He laughed softly. “I haven’t forgot how you like your food!”
 

She smiled. “That was kind of you. And I thank you for the gift of the dog, as well.” She hesitated. It really had been kind. “Have you dined?”
 

“No.”

“Will you join me? I’ll have them bring another cover.”
 

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
 

“Of course not.”
 

His mouth twitched in a devilish smile. Rouge’s heart stopped. She’d almost forgotten that expression on his face. “To be sure,” he said, “I could always ‘command’ you to allow me to dine with you.”
 

She felt her face burning with shame. “That was unkind of me, wasn’t it.”
 

“Yes,” he said gently. He held out his hand to her. “Now, madame, will you join me at table?”
 

He’d planned the meal with care, that was apparent. A fine roast,
potage à
la Jacobine
,
sweets, a large jug of rich wine. They ate in companionable silence. Rouge felt mellow with contentment. The room was cozy, the food delicious, the wine warming. The cheery fire blazed, while, beyond the shelter of this room, the afternoon rain beat in vain against the windows.
 

Pierre grinned and refilled Rouge’s wine cup. “I’ll never get used to how much you can eat!”