Louisa Rawlings (57 page)

She frowned, thinking. “The old miller who went blind. You told me once he was pensioned off by a nobleman. Was it you?”
 

“Yes. He and his wife had been kind. They didn’t know who I was, you understand. I arranged the pension through Colinet. He didn’t know why. He hadn’t been with my father at the time of my disgrace, and knew few of the details of my life. Certainly not that I was a miller. But he managed it cheerfully, in his usual fashion. He made up a story about a nobleman who had passed through Selommes years before, and had been treated well by the miller. The old man couldn’t remember the incident, of course. Nor his wife. But they assumed that it was so, and that they’d simply forgotten.” He stared out of the window at the dark night.
 

“And you’ve been there ever since.”
 

“Almost five years. At first I saw the work as a kind of penance, no more. But after a while I was filled with the joy of my labor, the contentment I’d found. The simple life and the people of Selommes. In the last year or so, whenever I visited my father here at Choisy, he urged me to come home. But I was loath to give up my serenity.” He turned to her and smiled, his eyes warm with love. “And then one night it rained. And the storm blew to me a lovely creature who disturbed my serenity forever.”
 

“Oh, Pierre.” She stood up and melted into his arms, welcoming his tender kiss. Even after their lips had parted, she remained in his warm embrace, thinking of all he’d told her. “But that night,” she said suddenly. “Arsène. Had you met him at court?”
 

“Once or twice. I didn’t like him then. I don’t like him now.”
 

“But why didn’t he recognize you? Why didn’t anyone, in five years? There were noblemen who came through Selommes all the time.”
 

“I looked very different in those days. A fop as well as a rake. I was given to elaborate wigs and ornaments.”
 

She laughed softly. “I don’t think I should have liked to have known you then. But did you stay at the mill until your father died this summer?”
 

“No.” His voice was strained. “After I met you again with Saint-Esprit, I no longer found solace. Not even in the mill.” His eyes clouded over. “’Tis a hard thing for a man’s pride. To be whipped. I came home to Choisy to be with my father. I’m grateful for it now. I had a month before he died to be the son he’d always wanted.”
 

She moved slowly out of his arms, frowning at him. She’d been so concerned for him, with the painful story he’d had to tell, that she’d forgotten everything else. “And then you went to Sans-Souci,” she said, feeling her own hurt for the first time, “and bought yourself a wife.”
 

“No, Rouge, I…”

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were? In the mill, when you asked me to be your wife?”
 

“Perhaps I wanted you to love the poor miller,” he said. “I hoped to make you understand without telling you. I said I had money for Sans-Souci. If you’d accepted my proposal at that moment, I think I should have revealed myself. But you made it clear that it was more than money. That you wanted to go to Versailles. The place that I hated so, for what it represented to me.”
 

“No! I told you I
had
to go. I was forced to go! Had you told me then that you were Villeneuve…” Her mouth curved in bitterness. “But you saw me always as a frivolous, wicked court lady. You treated me so.
You
, with your own shameful past!”
 

It had been a cruel thrust, and he flinched. “I’d seen too many women like you,” he said defensively. “I couldn’t trust my own heart.”
 

“But after the May fair…those sweet days… Were you still so mistrustful?”
 

He hesitated. “No. That is… God, I don’t know! You played such games with my heart. When I proposed, I thought—if you loved me, if you agreed to marry me—I could tell you then.”
 

“And last night—curse you, did you need further proofs of my love? Why couldn’t you tell me last night?” she demanded.
 

He reached for her hand and pulled it to his lips, kissing it fervently. “Last night. My dear love. I almost did tell you. Then you lied to me about the marriage settlement. A few thousand livres, you said. My God,
I
paid that settlement! I knew how much it was! And I thought…even if you loved me, it wasn’t deep enough for you to be honest with me. So I kept silent. Besides, I couldn’t forget that, if I’d ‘bought’ you, you’d allowed yourself to be bought. By a stranger. I didn’t know about your father’s debts until your letter this morning. I only knew you’d accepted Villeneuve’s offer—unseen.”
 

She remembered Tintin signing the contract in her name, taking from her any choice she might have had. But Pierre must have thought she’d agreed to it of her own free will. A woman willing to sell herself. “How little you trusted me,” she said sadly. “Even after last night.”
 

He frowned. “Wasn’t I justified? I arrived at the inn yesterday, and you were gone. I kept thinking of the game you’d played with Arsène. Leading him on, using him for your own devices, then running away. I thought you’d gone for good. Betraying Villeneuve in the same way, to find someone new. It wasn’t until I was on my way home to Choisy that I thought of the mill. I turned back at Marchenoir. Hoping. Cursing myself for a fool for hoping.”
 

“But you were angry at the mill. Cruel and heartless.”
 

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Sweet Rouge. I didn’t know why you’d come, at first. To use me as your shield, as before? I didn’t know. And then you must remember that I thought I’d lost you forever. I wasn’t myself that day.”
 

She shook off his hand. There was still much for him to explain. “A lame excuse,” she said sharply. “And you were vile at the inn. Oh, yes! Colinet told me how you raged and swore!”
 

He looked shamefaced. “I do confess it. You’d driven me quite mad.”
 

She was warming to her anger. “So you took it out on poor Emilie!”
 

“I didn’t want liars in my employ,” he growled. “I told that to Colinet!”
 

“You?” she scoffed. “Who lied to me so often?”
 

His eyes narrowed angrily. “I never lied to you.”
 

“You never told the truth, either! And Emilie didn’t deserve such treatment.”
 

“Dammit, I sent her home well paid!”
 

“And the beating?”
 

“What?”
 

“Colinet whipped her with a switch. On your orders, he said!”
 

“My orders?” He looked bewildered. “I told him to give her what she’d earned, and send her home. Sweet Jesu, I meant her wages! I never ordered him to beat her! By God, he’ll apologize to you for that, or answer to me!”
 

“Well…” she said sulkily. It sounded believable. She’d never seen him lift his hand to anyone’s servants, not even the meanest tavern girls or lackeys in Selommes.
 

“I’d like to make amends,” he said. “If you want Emilie here, send for her.”
 

She snorted in indignation. “If she
wants
to come. That brute Colinet! When I think of him at the inn, questioning her unmercifully, at your direction…” She stopped, frowning in thought. The inn. Pierre at the inn. “Emilie said once that I was trapped in a web, and helpless,” she said slowly. “It was so at the inn. Wasn’t it?”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

“You came to the inn as Villeneuve. Not Pierre. You didn’t know I would run to Pierre. You said so yourself. And Villeneuve planned to greet his captive bride at the inn. With the forms of consent conveniently signed in advance.”
 

“Rouge…” He reached out to touch her arm.
 

She pushed his hand away. “Now, by my faith, don’t you touch me,” she hissed.
 

“Rouge, my love…”
 

She stared at him, her swirling thoughts crystallizing into an ugly picture. “From the first. In Girard’s stable. I’ll break your pride, you said. You swore it. Did you plan this then? Is that why you returned to Choisy right after that? So you could be restored to your father’s favor? And have the money to buy me?”
 

“Name of God, Rouge…”

“You always thought me a woman with a whore’s soul, waiting only to be bought. What delicious revenge for what Girard did to you on my behalf! You
bought
me.” She laughed bitterly. “And then the trickery. To be sure that I’d sign the forms of consent before we met! My God, had Tintin known of your deception, he would have run his sword through your black heart!”
 

“Stop this,” he growled.
 

Her pain and outrage were carrying her beyond reason. She no longer knew who he was. She no longer cared. He had deceived her. Had tricked her. How could she believe in his love now? “You villain!” Her voice rose shrilly. “Tell me, what was our meeting to be like at the inn? You must have played it out in your imaginings a thousand times! How was I to be shamed for what I’d allowed Girard to do? Brought to my knees? Was I expected to beg you to forgive me? Was that what you’d planned?”
 

“Of course not! I was eager to see you!”
 

Her lip curled in anger. “But not too eager to keep me from suffering these past weeks, wondering who—and what!—was the man I was to marry. Living with the stories I’d heard, trembling in fear and horror. Oh, it was an exquisite plan! How it must have pleased you! And then the added torment when you didn’t come to Sans-Souci. Did you even plan to reveal yourself at the inn, after all? Or did you want me only to learn of your rage that day, and add to my terror?”
 

“Oh, God, Rouge,” he groaned. “I didn’t stop to think of what you must have been wondering. I only wanted your love. As I love you.”
 

“Bah!” She swirled away from the hand he held out in reconciliation. “It wasn’t my love you were seeking! It was my humiliation and shame!”
 

“No. No.”
 

“But you humbled me anyway. Not the way you counted on. It makes me sick to remember how I fell at your feet in the mill. Sobbing out my fear. Thinking I was married to a monster! And all the while, you knew that
you
were that monster! Were you pleased to see me that low?”
 

He turned away, his eyes avoiding hers. “No.”
 

“But still you didn’t tell me who you were.”
 

“I told you my reasons.”
 

“Reasons be damned!” she spat. “It was your revenge!”
 

He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and shook her. “Stop it!” His mouth was set in a hard line. “This is madness! I told you that I love you.”
 

She broke free of his grasp and smiled in mockery. “Do you? Then tell me—if you’re innocent, if you didn’t intend to buy me, to shame and humble me—why did you give the proposal to Tintin? Why didn’t you come to me directly? It would have been a simple thing. Rouge, you might have said, I’m not Pierre the miller. I’m the rich Duc de Villeneuve. You want money. I want you. Marry me.” She laughed harshly. “Since you thought that my need for money was what had kept me from accepting your proposal at the mill, it would have been a simple solution,
n’est-ce pas
?”
 

“That’s nonsense,” he growled.
 

“If you didn’t plan it for revenge, why didn’t you come to me?” The sudden flash of uneasiness in his eyes tore at what was left of her heart. “
Did
you plan it this way?”
 

“Listen to me,” he said gruffly. “I
was
angry when I made my plans, when I…”
 

“Bought me?” she finished scornfully.
 

He looked away. “If you will. Bought you to humble you. It was in my thoughts, after Saint-Esprit. I confess it. But the closer the time came, the more I knew I couldn’t hurt you. I wanted only to love you. To have you love me in return.” He looked at her steadily, his face filled with hope. “And you do. You told me here tonight. And in your letter. And in your eyes, last night before the fire.”
 

“No.” Her voice was like ice. “I despise you. I thought I loved Pierre the miller. But he no longer exists. I can’t love a liar. A cruel deceiver. A seducer of women.”
 

He turned pale. “I told you,” he said hoarsely, “that’s in the past.”
 

“I didn’t mean Madame de Levreux, or all the rest.
I
was seduced. The reputation of Villeneuve, and my fears—carefully nurtured—drove me into Pierre’s arms last night. Fear of the one led me to the bed of the other.” She whirled to the table and picked up the rose, brandishing it before him. “You couldn’t have done it better with a thousand gifts! Had I not feared Villeneuve, I would never have humbled myself to Pierre. Never!”
 

His eyes were filled with remorse and pain. “And now?”