Louisa Rawlings (54 page)

“You’ll be mine forever, my love,” he said softly. “I promise you.”
 

She woke in the morning alone in bed. It was cold. She could hear the familiar clack of Pierre’s axe outside, and his tuneless whistle. She stirred lazily beneath the coverlet. He hadn’t forgotten his promise of a warm fire for her in the morning. She stretched luxuriously and smiled, remembering their night of love.
Dieu!
The smile faded from her face. She’d never told him she loved him! But she would, this morning. Whether or not he pledged his heart in return, she would tell him. They would sit and talk for hours, and she would tell him. And then? And then they would stay here together, secure in their love and happiness. And wait for Villeneuve to find her? And take his revenge? Oh, God, no! They’d run away. That was the answer. Someplace where no one would find them. Across the sea to New France, perhaps. A miller, with his trade, could always find work. Yes. Yes! They’d make a new life for themselves, and raise children, and be happy, and…
 

And Tintin would go to prison.
 

The dawn had come after all. There was no holding it back. She was surprised that her eyes were dry. No tears. Only a cold certainty, a dull ache in her heart. She had always known what she must do. She’d denied it when she ran away, denied it as she lay in her lover’s arms. But it had been there all the same. She had a duty to Villeneuve, to Tintin, to her own honor. And to Pierre as well. If she stayed with him, they’d be hunted animals. And if they were caught…she didn’t like to think about it. If Villeneuve could have her and Tintin sent to prison, and they members of the nobility, what could he not do to Pierre, who had fewer protections under the law?
 

But she couldn’t face Pierre. He’d said, last night, that they’d be together always. God knows what mad scheme he had in mind! And if they spoke of it, she’d do as he asked, though reason and common sense fought against it. No matter how mad his plan. Because she loved him. No. She couldn’t talk to him this morning.
 

She jumped out of bed and dressed with haste. From the window she could see that he had just begun to chop the wood. He’d be there for a good half hour. And his back was toward her. She could slip out of the mill from the lower door, cross the bridge, and follow the stream until she was out of his sight, then turn back toward the road to Selommes. She was glad now for Tintin’s purse of money. She would wait in Selommes for a coach. If she found one that was going back to the inn, she’d take it. Or, if there was one that was heading east, she might go in that direction. She wasn’t sure, but she thought Villeneuve’s château was near Sully. Once she got to Sully, she could have a message sent to Choisy-aux-Loges.
 

She sighed. She wasn’t sure what she’d say to her intended husband. She had no idea what mood he’d be in. He would have arrived at the inn and found her gone. If he was a man of pride, it might have put him into a rage. She gulped nervously. Best not to think of that. Perhaps it would be wise of her to play the coquette, take the offensive and accuse him of caring so little for her that he couldn’t come for her himself. Yes. That might do. She’d pout and sulk, and tell him that she ran away because she was angry and wished to make him suffer.
 

But what could she say to Pierre? How to tell him? She struggled against her tears. No, she thought, feeling her heart breaking. She couldn’t weep now. She had to be strong, and leave quickly, before the sight of him, of his dear face, weakened her resolve and she stayed. And then they’d both be doomed.
 

She pulled down the ink and quill from their shelf, and rummaged about in the cupboard till she found a scrap of paper. She had not time to write a long message, but she wanted him to understand everything. “Dearest Pierre,” she wrote, “forgive me for leaving you once again. I must return to him. I have no choice. If I don’t marry Villeneuve, Tintin will go to prison. And I would likely join him.” She hesitated. Fool! This was no time for false pride. “I lied to you last night. Out of shame. Villeneuve bought himself a costly bride. Tintin had debts of more than a hundred thousand livres. If I could have paid them and been free to marry you, I would have been yours from the moment we met. I shall never stop loving you. Rouge.”
 

Chapter Twelve

She walked slowly along the road to Selommes, forcing herself to think of the future. It had saved her before, this ability to focus on what was practical and sensible. It would do so again, in the months and years ahead, while she tried to live without Pierre.
 

She put her hands to her head; her hair was tangled and wild from their night of love, and she had not been able to find Pierre’s comb. He was probably carrying it in his saddle, now that he stayed so seldom at the mill. She could buy a comb in Selommes, of course, but in the meantime… She had a sudden thought. Her dark red mantua had a decorative apron, a large square of black silk taffeta, scalloped and embroidered with blossoms. Fastening it to the top of her head with a hairpin, she arranged it in a loose hood that framed her face with the scallops and tied under her chin. Hoods were quite the fashion at the moment; she imagined it looked very well, and covered her tousled hair at the same time.
 

On the road she stopped a farmer with a wagon full of hay; though he swore it was his pleasure to take the lady into Selommes, she insisted on paying him for his trouble. Along the way he told her how good the harvest was this year, how bountiful God’s blessings, how pleased he was that France was now at peace and could begin to thrive. He spoke of his cows, his wheat, his children who would be the comfort of his old age; the simple ordinariness of his conversation, his existence, soothed her troubled spirit.
 

Selommes was bustling. A group of children ran and played where the maypole had stood in the spring. It was a market day; the square was filled with carts of produce. She almost went in search of the gypsy, then changed her mind. It would be too painful to bring back the memories. And there was always the chance that Pierre would come riding into the village, looking for her in spite of her letter. The less she was seen before the coach arrived, the better it would be. She crossed the church square, avoiding the Red Bull Tavern, and chose instead a small wine shop that was not so busy. Several of the patrons stared at her, then shook their heads and turned away. If they saw their May Queen in this grand lady, their faces seemed to say, it was surely a coincidence. And with her distinctive hair covered by the hood, there was less to jog their memories. She put her hand to her face as she passed them, unwilling to be recognized. It seemed dishonest and cruel to be among them now, after the honor they had paid to what they thought was a simple peasant girl. They would see her as an aristocrat and think that she had mocked their May revels.
 

She chose a small table near the window, where she could watch for the coach, and ordered a cup of wine. It was delivered, much to her surprise, by an elegant-looking gentleman in green velvet. By the plumes in his hat and the sword at his side, she took him to be a nobleman. “Mademoiselle,” he said, putting down the wine and sitting opposite her. “How grateful I am to see a woman of your rank in this foul village!” He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and sniffed delicately at it. The perfume was so strong and oversweet that Rouge could smell it across the table.
 

She looked at him with surprise. She hadn’t invited his attentions. “Monsieur?” she said coldly, hoping that the tone of her voice would encourage him to leave.
 

He sighed. “Mademoiselle, have pity on me. I haven’t seen a soul I could talk to since yesterday evening! It was my misfortune to have a horse that insisted on dying beneath me not two leagues from here! And I’m trapped until the
public
coach”—he made a face to show his disgust—“comes to rescue me and return me to Paris.”
 

“I wish you a safe journey.”
 

“I beg you. Don’t dismiss me out of hand. I shall die of boredom if I don’t talk to someone!”
 

She frowned. This popinjay was becoming tiresome. “Selommes is filled with people. Go and talk to them.”
 

He was obtuse as well as tiresome. “I thought at first to visit the local
campagnard
,” he went on, as though he hadn’t heard her, “with the idea that even a rustic gentleman is better than nothing. But alas! Château Puitsfond is falling into ruins, and the Baron de Ruffec could scarcely greet me properly. Besides, his brain was addled with too much wine. Our host in the tavern tells me that that is his usual condition.” He helped himself to some snuff and sneezed gracefully. “Lord, but I die of weariness! I wonder if the king knows how low his country gentlemen have sunk, with nothing but their rusty swords to distinguish them from the rabble!”
 

She leaned forward with sudden interest. “You saw Monsieur de Ruffec?”
 

He rolled his eyes heavenward. “My dear, I
supped
with him! If you can call it that. The meat—such as it was—was nearly raw, the bread was stale, the soups were hot water, and the wine was muddy and sour. And to make it all the worse, the meal lasted forever, while Ruffec drank like a fool and bored me with tales of the richness of his harvest, when even a blind man could see that half his land hasn’t been worked in years! My God, what a night! I escaped this morning after sleeping in a cold and lumpy bed, and fled to this place.” He smiled and lifted his hat to her. “Where I was fortunate to meet you, mademoiselle!”
 

She frowned. “Did you…meet, or see, the baron’s daughter?”
 

“Alas, no. The only woman there was an ugly old housekeeper who scratched at herself the whole time! If I return to Versailles with fleas, I shall curse her roundly! But a daughter? No, mademoiselle. A pity. It might have been amusing. The daughters of
campagnards
are usually so innocent, so susceptible, if you know what I mean.” He leered at Rouge and winked. “Not like yourself, mademoiselle. I knew in a moment that you didn’t belong in this loathsome village.” He pointed out of the window at the crowded market and laughed unpleasantly. “Look at them. Have you ever seen such a collection of bumpkins? Of common trash?”
 

The pig, she thought. They had been her friends, the people of Selommes. They had welcomed her, danced with her, kissed her. Loved her. She looked at him with steel in her eyes. “Monsieur. Go away. You’re not fit to wipe the boots of a single person in this village.”
 

“But…but mademoiselle…” he stammered.
 

Her hands were fists on her lap. “Quit my sight, you swine,” she said tightly.
 

She turned her head away, glaring angrily out of the window until he had stalked off. Then she sighed, thinking of what he’d said. Angélique must still be in her convent, while Ruffec sank into ruin. And Barnabé Grezel? What of him? She stared in shocked surprise. Was she seeing things? A figure across the square. Pierre had said Barnabé had enlisted in the army. But surely no one could have hair as red as that! She jumped up and hurried out of the tavern, catching him just as he turned down a narrow lane. “Barnabé! Name of heaven, is it you?”
 

He bowed politely, his face turning scarlet. “My lady,” he stammered. “Do I know you?”
 

“Am I so changed that you’ve forgotten Pierre the miller’s cousin?”
 

“Mademoiselle Rouge?” The blush was replaced by a shy smile. “What a grand lady you’ve become.”
 

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you were in the army.”
 

“They’ve given me a leave. My mother died. And with the harvest, someone had to see to the farm. I go back in a week.”
 

She put her hand on his arm. “I was sorry to hear of Angélique.”
 

His young face darkened. “I wanted to kill Ruffec when I found out what he’d done to her. But someone reached him first.
I
should have killed him outright.”
 

“And hanged for it,” she said gently. “But it wasn’t you who beat him?”
 

“No. I think it was the miller, though the assailant was masked. But Pierre was very angry at Ruffec.”
 

“And Angélique?”
 

“I tried to see her at the convent. I stormed the walls and frightened the poor sisters half to death. They sent for my commanding officer, and I spent nearly a month in prison.”
 

Her heart ached for him. “Oh, Barnabé. Can you write to her?”
 

“They won’t give her my letters. On Ruffec’s orders. But I bribed a fishwife who sells at the gate of the convent. She sends me news when she can.” He swore under his breath. “Ruffec can’t afford to keep her in the convent anymore. Not as a lay boarder. But he refuses to bring her home.”
 

“Then what’s to become of her?”
 

“They said she’s working in the kitchen to earn her keep. As best she can, with…with her broken arm. And she talks of taking the vows.” He blinked and cleared his throat. “Forgive me,” he said gruffly. “I must go.”
 

She stared at him, feeling the anger building in her. “Go? And abandon Angélique? Damn you, Barnabé! Don’t you love her?”