Louisa Rawlings (70 page)

Colinet was there, his hand on her shoulder. “Madame, you must sleep.”
 

“I cannot. I keep thinking…” She sighed. She’d been reliving their carefree days at the mill, those happy days of love and laughter. “Colinet,” she said suddenly, “have you a free purse here at Choisy?”
 

“Within reason, madame. What do you need?”
 

“It’s not for me.” A mad, wild impulse. “But in Selommes, there’s a mill.”
 

“I think I know it, madame. Monsieur de Villeneuve once sent me to the old miller to give him a pension. Is that the one?”
 

“Yes. The…new miller is away. But his lease is paid until the end of the year. I’ve heard that there was a fire. It’s a foolish expense, perhaps, but…would you…could you see to the mill’s repair? It’s quite useless now, they say. And the villagers are forced to pay dearly for the use of the
seigneur
’s mill. I should like them to have another mill again. They were good to me once, the people of Selommes.”
 

“It can be done, madame. I can authorize such an expense. But won’t the miller want to know of it first?”
 

“No. he’s…away. And has lost the taste for milling. I want this for the villagers, not for him. When the mill is repaired, you and I can search for a new miller to take over the lease.”
 

“I’ll see to it, madame.” He smiled. “But only if you try to sleep.”
 

The days dragged on. It was nearly two weeks now since Pierre had been wounded. The fever persisted, and he stared at Rouge with blank eyes as she came to change his bandages or dab his burning forehead with cool cloths. But the doctor had given him medicines to ease the fever, and he assured madame that monsieur her husband was now well out of danger. There came a morning—when she went to feed him some broth, lifting his head gently as she held the cup to his lips—that his eyes met hers in recognition. He laughed softly, a strange croak in his throat. “You stay, wife? For all your hatred of me?”
 

She murmured a prayer of thanksgiving for his life. “I don’t hate you,” she said softly.
 

He shook his head and winced at the pain it brought to his shoulder. “Another lie? ‘I hate you,’ you said that night.”
 

His words were like a knife. She wished to heaven she could take back that night. “Oh, Pierre, I didn’t mean it. It was a wild impulse. Only to hurt you. Forgive me. You know I’m given to mad impulses.”
 

His green eyes were sad. “But not without cause. Not without cause. I can only assume you meant it. But now that Arsène is gone, you regret your impetuous words.” He turned his head aside from the cup, and sighed bitterly. “Send Colinet to me as you go.”
 

She stumbled from the room. He would never forgive her. Not for Arsène. Not for her hateful words. I don’t belong here, she thought. Not anymore. She needed time to think, to make sense of her life. To call forth the old practical Rouge, who would know how to deal with things.
 

I’ll go home, she thought. Home to Sans-Souci.
 

She and Emilie were greeted at the door of Sans-Souci by François, but a François they scarcely recognized. His face was scrubbed, his golden hair was neatly combed and tied with a ribbon, and he bowed politely as he escorted them into the château. “Shall I fetch your father, madame la duchesse?” he inquired.
 

Rouge looked around in wonder. She had never seen such orderliness in Sans-Souci, not even while her mother had been alive. In one corner of the vestibule, a maid was scrubbing a tiled floor that already seemed to be spotless; another maid busily arranged a bouquet of dried flowers in a large vase, and a footman polished the brasses at the fireplace. She nodded to François. “Yes. Please tell Monsieur de Tournières that I shall visit him in his
appartement
directly.” She turned to Emilie. “Have my portmanteaux brought in, but wait to put them away. With all these changes, my
appartement
may no longer be my own!”
 

François had barely taken two steps, however, when Rouge heard a voice from the landing above the wide staircase. “Damn it, woman,” said her father’s voice, “you’ll not drag me to mass again tomorrow!”
 

“But think how it looks to the servants to see the master taking such an interest in prayer. ’Tis a fine example, Chrétien. And salvation for your immortal soul as well!” Madame Graves’s voice, thought Rouge. And pushed to the edge of exasperation, that was clear. Though she
had
called him “Chrétien.”
 

Tintin groaned loudly. “I have saved my immortal soul a hundred times in the last month or so! With no new sinning to make it worth my while!”
 

“Not for the want of trying. Bah! Pretending to sleep when the maid came with fresh pillows, so you could steal a kiss! And when I’d promised her mother that I’d…” Madame Graves shrieked loudly.
 

Emilie giggled. “He’s still pinching,” she whispered.
 

Madame Graves appeared at the top of the stairs. For all her blush of indignation, brought on by Tintin’s assault, she looked remarkably well. Her black dress had been replaced by a simple but handsome plum-colored mantua that showed her full figure to advantage. She stopped, smiled at Rouge, and primly adjusted her lace cap. “Madame, how good to see you.” She looked toward the landing. “Chrétien, come and see! ’Tis your daughter.”
 

Tintin’s voice was joyous. “My daughter? Give me a hand, Hélène.” So it’s “Hélène” now! thought Rouge. Tintin came hobbling down the staircase, leaning heavily on a cane and Madame Graves. “Rouge, my dear.”
 

“Tintin.” She embraced him warmly, fighting against her tears. She was home. She was loved.
 

“Now that’s quite enough walking around for one day, Chrétien,” said Madame Graves. “Come and sit in the small salon to visit with your daughter. I’ll have some refreshments brought in.”
 

Tintin smiled his most engaging smile. “A nice cordial would be pleasant.”
 

“’Tis too early in the day. I’ll send you in some thinned wine.”
 

His face was a mask of woe, begging to be loved and understood. “Oh, Hélène…”
 

Madame Graves put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you ‘Hélène’ me. I have no doubt you’ve already drunk half a jug of strong spirits today!”
 

“You wrong me, madame.” Tintin pointed to his injured leg. “How could I get them?”
 

“You sent that imp of yours to the kitchen, as you always do. And don’t look innocent! I’m not fooled by that look. Now come along. Come along.” She helped Tintin into the salon, then turned to Rouge. “Shall I have your trunks brought to your
appartement
, madame?”
 

“If you please, Madame Graves.”
 

“And how long will you stay?”
 

How could she answer that? “I’m not sure,” she said at last.
 

“Well, I’ll leave you and your father to your talk.” Madame Graves nodded politely and left them alone.
 

“You’re looking well, Tintin.”
 

“Hah! That witch torments me every minute of the day! Do you see this suit?” He pointed to his green velvet coat and breeches.
 

“Very handsome it is.”
 

“Hah!” he said again. “‘A little gold braid,’ says I. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Not for sitting in front of your own hearth and toasting your feet! It’s a waste of money!’ As though it were
her
money! The witch!”
 

Rouge bit her lip. “Oh, Tintin, I’m sorry. I should never have hired Madame Graves. Truly I’m sorry.”
 

“Yes, she makes me suffer, that’s true enough.” He was clearly enjoying her sympathy. “She makes me exercise my leg every day. My poor broken leg. Whether I will or no! And if I balk, she threatens to withhold my supper! She counts my coins, drags me to mass, chooses my clothes, refuses to allow my friends to come and gamble at Sans-Souci…”
 

Rouge began to giggle. “…runs your château, trains your servants, and takes care of you better than you’ve ever been taken care of. And all for the princely sum of seven crowns a week, and all the pinches you can filch! Poor Tintin.”
 

He grinned wickedly. “I think she lets me pinch her.”
 

“Well, you’re looking hale and hearty. It shouldn’t be long before you can dismiss her.”
 

He leaned forward and patted her on the hand. “To tell the truth, I don’t think I want to. She keeps my blood stirred, the witch! I haven’t missed a hand of
brelan
or piquet yet!”
 

“And
amour
?”

“With this leg, I don’t feel fit for anything yet. But the thought of wrestling with that Amazon sets my heart to pounding. I’ll trap her yet, the virago, and then you’ll hear shrieks…!”
 

Rouge smiled. How she loved him, for all his rogue’s ways! “You ought to marry her, Tintin.”
 

“Perhaps I shall.” He returned her smile. “But you, Rouge. How are you?”
 

“Very happy. But I missed you,” she said quickly.
 

“And your husband? Is he everything I promised you?”
 

She blinked back her tears. “How wise you were, Tintin. You gave me a husband I could love.” If only he loved her in return. But it was too late.
 

“You love him?” asked Chrétien softly. She nodded, unable to speak. “But he’s made you unhappy, the wretch! I can see it in your eyes. Don’t pretend to your Tintin. Well, I’ll not countenance that! The moment I’m well enough, I intend to cross swords with the villain! I’ll not have my little girl unhappy!”
 

“Bless you, Tintin,” she whispered. “Just let me stay here for a little while.”
 

She thought she could be happy again here at Sans-Souci, but as the days went on, her melancholy grew. The weather turned cold. Long, dismal November days. She walked in the park for hours amid the bare trees, the frozen ponds. She seemed incapable of deciding what to do. But it was clear she no longer belonged here. She was a stranger. For all their lusty quarrels, Tintin and Madame Graves were more than fond of each other. Sooner or later they would marry. She felt sure of it. And have children perhaps. Madame Graves seemed healthy enough, and clearly young enough still to bear children.
 

Children. Perhaps she should return to Choisy-aux-Loges and tell Pierre what she now knew for a certainty. She carried his child. But if he couldn’t forgive her for Arsène, if he still hated her, how could he love the child? Accept the child? Maybe she’d go away until the child was born. She had enough money to take care of them both; though he was too discreet to ask her plans, Colinet had insisted on giving her a generous purse before she left Choisy. After the child was born she’d return to Pierre. Once he saw the babe, he couldn’t set his heart against it. Perhaps then he’d accept her as his wife if only in name for the sake of the child.
 

Yes. That’s what she’d do, she thought, coming in one afternoon from a drifting snowfall. She shook the flakes from her mantle, stripped off her gloves, and handed her fur muff to Emilie. The girl helped her off with the mantle and put it across one arm, then reached into the pocket of her apron. “Madame, a letter came for you.”
 

Rouge sat before a warming fire and tore open the letter. It was from Torcy: “Madame. Once again I summon you. Come to Versailles.”
 

Chapter Fifteen

“I don’t like it, madame! All this moving around. Truly I don’t!” Emilie’s voice was a complaining whine. “And to go by public coach, when I’ve got used to Monsieur de Villeneuve’s nice carriage!”
 

“Oh, hush, Emilie! I sent it back to Choisy because I don’t know how long we’ll be here.”
 

Emilie looked about at the cramped room, the uneven parquet floors of the old château. “But what a place to be! We come to Versailles, and the moment I’m unpacked you tell me that we must come here to Fontainebleau! To this ugly little room!”
 

Rouge sighed in exasperation. “Because the court moved to Fontainebleau.” Truth to tell, she was a little weary of traveling herself. Torcy had summoned her to Versailles. But the choice of palaces, of course, was up to the king; this week he’d decided to come to Fontainebleau, one of the older royal residences. Still, this sort of complaining wasn’t like Emilie. She was usually quite cheerful when they moved about. “Try to be a little more agreeable about it, Emilie.”
 

“I don’t see how I can, when I hate it,” pouted the girl.
 

“Name of God, what ails you, to be so peevish?”
 

Emilie looked as though she’d cry. “I don’t know. I’m just so lonely. I miss…I miss Choisy.”
 

“You? I thought you hated Choisy, and Colinet, and everything.”