Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(19)

“Please take me below,” she muttered, and he knew it had cost her no small measure of pride to ask. Suddenly Rand felt a bewildering twinge of tenderness as he saw what was in her eyes. She was intimidated and a little afraid of him, trying to conceal it by arguing with him, finally driven to ask for his help even while hating him for what he had done to her. He knew of nothing to say that she would not take as condescending, and so he remained silent, brushing away the hair that stuck to her damp forehead and sliding his cool hand behind her neck. Rosalie sighed as the feel of it momentarily eased her sickness a degree. Then his hard arm slid behind her back, and Rand helped her to the cabin with a consideration that most who knew him would not have recognized.

The cliffs and receding hills of Havre rose before the sloop like a massive gateway, white and brown and green. At low tide the port was inaccessible to any kind of naval craft, congealed with soft, heavy mud; however, now, in late morning, it was possible to enter the lock. Havre was the seaport at the mouth of the Seine, the wide river that narrowed at Quilleboeuf and continued to flow past Rouen until it reached the teeming city of Paris. Paris, the capital of wine and silk, fashion and fragrance, art and decadence, less than one hundred and ten miles away from Havre. The quay was crowded with officials who boarded the boats before anyone was allowed to disembark. The ship and its passengers were checked for contraband and smuggled goods, and only then were they free to enter the country.

Rand watched the process of inspection with interest, his hazel eyes taking in the various scenes being enacted in and around the customhouse. At a readily visible distance were native coastal merchant ships waiting for the signals from shore to bid them admittance. Somewhere among them was a Berkeley frigate, all eight hundred tons of her waiting with futile patience for permission to dock, her belly loaded with English textiles and suspect American cotton.

“Welcome to France,” Rand murmured to Rosalie, who looked about with wide eyes, her ears pricking at the fluid sounds of the Gallic language that came from every direction. The quay was buzzing like a disorderly hive, people quarreling, gesturing, waiting, moving. No one seemed to be certain of what was going on. In a strange way Rosalie found the dirt, the color, and the action of the scene fascinating. Nearby a child waited on the dock with one hand clasped in her mother’s, the other clutching a brioche. The sight of the soft sugar glazed roll caused a distinct rumble of hunger in Rosalie’s stomach. Feeling the excitement and unease of being in an unfamiliar place, she remained silent as they took a coach to the inn where they would stay. The vehicle bumped and jostled along the roughly paved roads, clattering past rows of stone buildings and open cafes.

The Lothaire, a small, elegant inn of two floors, displayed its name by means of a sign with small wrought-iron brackets, and a small porch settled beneath the entrance doorway was sided with more beautifully turned iron. The assembly room, or “long room,” where political and social meetings were sometimes held, was located on the first floor, as was the newly installed coffee room. Flanking it was a corridor with a large window through which luggage was unloaded from the top of the coach. Rosalie was to find with delight later on that inside the inn reposed a tiny ballroom, shaded in white, pink, and gold, with a marble fireplace and a musicians’ gallery. Beyond the yard was a small walkway lined with colored sand and porcelain ornaments, and a small kitchen garden from which the warm breeze brought hints of mint and thyme, dill, and ripening vegetables. “You’ll like it,” Rand said, helping her from the coach, her elbow caught firmly in his hand. “It’s as much English as French. Every convenience is available.”

“I’m certain it will be fine,” Rosalie answered, thankful for any place in which she could find a bed and a bath. “But didn’t you mention yesterday that we were going to the Hotel d’Angleterre?”

“I was given a tip on board the ship that they’ve been having a few problems.”

“Poor service?”

“Bugs,” he said, devilry sparkling in his eyes as he watched for her reaction of consternation. Although Rosalie shuddered inwardly, she refused to gratify him by allowing any dismay to show on her face. They were to occupy a suite, two bedchambers flanking a central room. It was fit for a husband and wife on familiar and unromantic terms with one another. Rosalie supposed it would also be suitable for two strangers who wished to keep their lives and their beds separate.

The rococo style, of short-lived popularity in England, had enjoyed a much healthier and fruitful existence in the architecture and the furniture of France. It was predominant in their suite, its main characteristics being those of baroque curves, gaudiness, a voluptuous sense of movement, and a peculiar lack of symmetry. All of the pieces, even the goldframed fire screen, contained designs of shells or birds, leaves, flowers, wings. The carpets beneath Rosalie’s feet were of the finest Venetian make, the windows adorned with delicately sculptured grating. The beds were covered with soft down mattresses, icy linen sheets, and Marseilles quilts and counterpanes. Rosalie had never slept in such an elaborate place. She hoped suddenly that it was not something one could become accustomed to easily, for it was unlikely that she would ever have such an opportunity again.

“I assume you’re in the habit of bathing regularly?” Rand inquired, having ordered a high-sided tub brought up to the suite.

“Frequently,” Rosalie answered immediately, having always had the desire if not the opportunity to develop such a habit. For the servants in the Winthrops’ employ, soap was expensive, time was rare, and heating enough water was a difficult process. She was by nature, however, a fastidious woman.