Louisa Rawlings (61 page)

His face turned white. “You bitch,” he hissed. He strode to her and slapped her hard across the face, knocking her to the floor.
 

She struggled to her knees and gasped, tears springing to her eyes. “Villain!” she cried, beginning to weep. “You swore you’d never…”
 

“Oh, God.” He reached down to her, his hand at her elbow. “Rouge…forgive me,” he said softly. “I…”
 

“Get out!” she shrieked. “I hate you! I
hate
you! I wish I’d married Arsène. I wish I were dead. I’ll never forgive you…” She buried her face in her arms, sobbing out her grief. When she heard her door close, she crept to her bed. She hadn’t thought there were so many tears in her. Each time she calmed, a fresh wave of misery overwhelmed her, and she wept anew, choking on her tears. It was hours before she found sleep and peace.
 

In the morning the chambermaids avoided looking at her. With a start she realized that her bedchamber adjoined the passageway. By now, if someone had been listening at the outer door, every servant in Choisy would have learned of their quarrel. She picked at her breakfast; she still felt the edge of nausea from yesterday’s drinking. Irritably she waved to the servant to take away her food. “And send Monsieur Colinet to me,” she snapped. She had no patience this morning; her emotions were stretched taut. When Colinet appeared, his plain face wreathed in a smile as usual, she glared at him. “Where’s Emilie?” she demanded.
 

“We expect her before ten, madame la duchesse.”
 

She remembered Pierre’s cunning plan. “Was that when the coachman was instructed to announce that the road was clear?” she asked with sarcasm.
 

“Oh, you mustn’t be concerned for her, madame,” he said brightly. She noticed he dodged the question. “The Three Dogs is the finest inn at Sully. She’ll have spent a pleasant evening.”
 

Rouge stared at him. “You don’t like me very much, do you, Monsieur Colinet?”
 

He smiled. She was beginning to think that his cheerfulness masked all his feelings. “It’s not my place to like or dislike you, madame.”
 

“But surely you have an opinion.”
 

“If I may be so bold. I’m a simple man, madame. To me, a woman either loves her husband, or she doesn’t. If she does, so much the better for both of them. If she doesn’t, she still owes him respect and civility. He shouldn’t be forced to be the butt of gossip among his own people.”
 

“Then let him put a stop to it. I don’t enjoy it, either.”
 

“’Tis hard to silence them when they see the
seigneur
is—by your leave,” he grinned, “not welcomed by his wife, if you take my meaning. Only
you
can put a stop to that gossip, madame. I scarcely know what monsieur has done to earn your disfavor, but a man doesn’t deserve to pace outside his wife’s room all night, listening to her weeping.”
 

She felt the sharp edge of guilt. She’d spent half the morning nursing her own wounds; she hadn’t given a thought to Pierre’s. “He did that?” she whispered.
 

“I don’t know very much about him, madame. I served his father. But I wonder if you know him. Or any man. A man has a strong body, but a fragile heart. Far more fragile than a woman’s, I think. You see it sometimes, if you’re looking carefully. A mote in the eye, a speck of softness, for all the
gasconnades.
I was pleased when monsieur announced his marriage, madame. He had come home to his father this summer an unhappy man, a man filled with griefs. And it was whispered—though I cautioned his
valet de chambre
to keep silent—that monsieur bore fresh scars on his back.”
 

She turned away, filled with remorse. “And on his heart, I think.” And she had continued to bring him pain. Her own foolish pride had made her cruel and cold. As though she were the only one with grievances, name of God! He’d been whipped because of her! And he’d forgiven her. Were his deceptions more terrible that she couldn’t forgive him, start afresh as he wished?
 

And the things she’d said to him last night. Never had her wild impulses, her emotions, so betrayed her good sense. He had trusted her with his deepest feelings, his secret shame; she had used his own trust as a weapon against him. Her heart twisted with guilt. To remind him of Madame de Levreux in that way! How could she have done it!
 

And he’d been right, of course. She’d been angry at herself when she’d lashed out at him. Unwilling to see her own part in what had happened. She’d
chosen
to marry him—then blamed him for it. She’d made love to him last night because she’d wanted to, drunk or not—then blamed him for it. She turned back to Colinet. “Will you beg monsieur to receive me this morning?”
 

“I can’t. Monsieur is gone,” he said cheerfully. “To Paris.”
 

Her heart sank. “To Paris? Why?”
 

“He has business in connection with his father’s will. And then he’ll see the Bishop of Paris. I myself wrote out his letter of introduction to monseigneur the bishop.”
 

“For what purpose, do you know?”
 

“I can only guess, of course, madame, but I think he wishes to discuss the possibility of an annulment of your marriage. Monsieur le duc is a reasonable man. I’m sure he doesn’t wish to keep you against your will.”
 

“Oh, alas.” She began to weep. What had she done?
 

For the first time, Colinet looked abashed. “Don’t cry, madame. He’s only gone to consult with his grace. I don’t think he’s ready to make a decision. And he’ll be home in a week or so.”
 

She sniffled. “You think so?”
 

“As I said, madame. Monsieur is a reasonable man.” He smiled. “Far too reasonable to
my
way of thinking, but that’s another story. I told you, I’m a simple man.”
 

She sighed. Perhaps, in his own way, Colinet had the right idea on how to treat a wife. God knows Pierre had been
too
understanding, had allowed her to sulk like a petulant child all this time. But it would be different when he returned. She loved him. And whatever she must do to earn his forgiveness, she would do. She smiled at Colinet. “You’re a good man, Monsieur Edouard Colinet.”
 

He grinned. “I doubt that your maid will ever think so!”
 

For just a second she saw—in the depths of his dark and laughing eyes—a speck of softness. A mote of vulnerability. Perhaps, after all, Emilie was a fool.
 

Chapter Thirteen

The days passed slowly for Rouge. She longed for Pierre’s return, reliving again and again that terrible night when she’d spoken so cruelly, hurt him so. Because of her pride. Like a fool, she’d allowed herself to exaggerate all the wrongs she’d catalogued against him. Meaningless grievances; foolish pride. She’d knelt to him at the mill out of love, name of God! It was only afterward that she’d felt shame. But the shame was for herself, if she looked at it honestly: she’d accepted an unknown suitor to save Tintin and Sans-Souci. And to save her own conceit, which rankled at Torcy’s hold on her.
 

Even Pierre’s attempt to rape her she had thrown in his face, conveniently forgetting that when it had happened, she’d felt pity for him. An understanding of the pain and heartbreak behind the drunken attack. Yet she’d used it to hurt him, knowing how his own guilt tormented him. Oh, Pierre, she thought. My love. Forgive me. Forgive me.
 

As October arrived and the last of the harvest was brought in, she found herself admiring Colinet more and more. He bustled cheerfully about the estate from morning till night—competent, efficient. Far more than just a secretary. And a good and loyal man, whose love of Choisy was in everything he did. She tried to tell Emilie as much, but the girl had long since closed her mind against him.
 

“He’s a villain, madame,” said Emilie sharply. She had just come in from taking the new puppy for a run, and her cheeks were red from the cold. “And he’s ugly! By my faith, he’s the ugliest man I’ve ever seen! And I’ve told him so!”
 

Rouge frowned. “That was unkind. And if he were a villain, monsieur le duc wouldn’t have him in his employ.”
 

“Pah! Monsieur le duc! He recognizes his own kind. That prick-louse, that rogue who goes away and leaves you alone, madame!”
 

Rouge glared at her. “Now, by heaven, why haven’t I ever noticed before what an impudent tongue you have? I’ll not have it, Emilie! I’ve allowed you to speak familiarly to me, but I’ll not have insolence against your master! You’ll speak no more wickedness about monsieur my husband.”
 

Emilie looked hurt, surprised that her loyalty was called to question. “I thought you didn’t like him, madame. That’s the only reason I spoke against him.”
 

“You’re mistaken. I’m very fond of him.” She sighed, filled with an aching desire to see him again. “Very fond of him,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
 

“Oh, madame! Forgive me. If you say so, he’s the finest man in all the world!”
 

Rouge dabbed at her eyes. How foolish! Her lover would be home soon, and she’d be in his arms. There was no point in blubbering like a child before her maid. Not when she was trying to scold the girl! “You might try being nicer to Monsieur Colinet as well,” she added.
 

“Pah! I don’t have to be nice to
him
!”
 

“Then I suggest you not be
un
kind to Monsieur Colinet. He doesn’t care for sauciness. Or have you forgot?”
 

Emilie snorted. “Nothing can happen while I have your protection, madame. And the rogue knows it. I’ve told him so!”
 

“Now, by heaven, I’ll not protect you if you provoke him anymore, Emilie. To call him ugly to his face! For shame!”
 

Steadfast in her loyalty to her mistress, Emilie retracted all the wicked things she had ever said about Monsieur de Villeneuve. In the next few days she took every opportunity to praise his handsomeness, his virtues, the splendor of his estate; and to curse the evil people who had, no doubt, gossiped falsely about him in the past. Rouge found it amusing, this sudden reversal—but disquieting as well. It only made her yearn for him all the more.
 

She sat one chilly morning in her small study, gazing out of the window at the gardens, where Emilie romped with the puppy. Rouge had found it too tiring to do so, leaving it up to the girl. She was content to sit here and admire the view: the trees that blazed with autumn color, the beds of late-blooming flowers, the pools that reflected the clarity of the blue October sky. As always, her thoughts were on Pierre. Colinet expected him back at Choisy any day now.
 

“Madame, there’s a gentleman below who craves a few minutes of your time.”
 

She looked up, startled out of her reverie. A pageboy waited politely. “A gentleman?”
 

“He begged me to give you this.” The boy held out a silken handkerchief.
 

Rouge took it and turned it about in her hands. There was a small crest embroidered in one corner.
Ciel!
she thought. The Falconet crest! She’d seen it often enough on Arsène’s coach, the livery of his servants. If Arsène was below, and waiting to see her, what in the name of heaven could he want? And, more to the point, what was his disposition? He’d never acknowledged her letter telling of her marriage. She had no way of gauging his mood. She’d never known him to rage wildly; still, his controlled fury the night she’d run away to the mill had held the edge of danger.
 

She hesitated for only a moment. It would be unconscionable to refuse to see him. She
had
jilted him, after all, and in a most cruel and capricious fashion. She’d sent him home to await an expected bride. A bride who had never come. Who had married another. She owed him, if not an apology, at least the opportunity to vent his anger to her face. She nodded at the boy. “Show him into the marble room off the vestibule. If there’s no fire, light one, if you please. It’s cold today. And one thing more.” It didn’t hurt—remembering Arsène’s unbridled passion for her—to have a bit of insurance. “If I’m still closeted with the gentleman after a quarter of an hour, have Madame Benichou come to me on some pretext.”
 

She took a moment to pat at her silvery curls and pinch a bit of color into her cheeks, then she descended to greet Arsène de Falconet. He was standing before the fireplace, warming his hands. As she came into the room he turned and bowed elaborately. “Madame la Duchesse de Villeneuve. You’re looking charming, as always.”
 

“Arsène.” She smiled uneasily. She wasn’t sure if his greeting had been friendly.
 

“Beautiful Marie-Rouge. Beautiful and tantalizing. Do you torment your husband as you tormented me?”
 

“Don’t, Arsène. I told you in my letter. Through no fault of my own, I wasn’t free to marry you.”
 

“But such a cold, unfeeling thing. To send a letter.”