Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(77)

“Mireille,” Rosalie said pointedly, “you are a little cat.” Although she spoke in English, Rosalie knew from Mireille’s widening grin that she understood the gist of the statement.

Unfortunately, as day followed day and week followed week, Mireille had much less cause than she had originally thought to tease Rosalie about Rand. The truth was, Rand was seldom with them. He was gone most of the time, overseeing matters concerning the management and upkeep of the château. There were many concerns that had been put off year after year— repairs, bills and obligations that had finally accumulated in a pile that the Alvins were not capable of dealing with. He seemed to enjoy the challenges that were presented to him, but Rosalie sensed that something was constantly bothering him. He would come in sometimes after hard, long rides, his hair and skin damp with sweat, his face taut with frustration. He refused most of the time to meet her eyes, yet his conversation and his smiles were easy, glib, automatic. His attitude toward Rosalie became less and less that of a lover, more that of the fictitious cousin. He seemed bent on erasing any lingering traces of closeness between them, never seeing her alone except for the minute or so each morning when he stopped by after riding to inquire dutifully after her health. Each night Mireille, Rosalie, Rand, and the Alvins shared the dinner table together, for in some aspects the château was run with notable informality. But even then Rosalie could not speak to Rand about anything other than the commonplace, because after the last course was done most of the residents of the château retired at nine o’clock. There was never an opportunity for her to share a private moment with him. To her disgruntled surprise Rosalie realized eventually that he seemed to prefer it that way! She alternated between resenting him and wanting the special intimacy they had once known, but to all appearances Rand did not seem to miss their closeness. At first she was bewildered, then desperate for his attention, then dully resigned to the fact that she was not going to get it. Despite her dissatisfaction with personal matters, Rosalie’s health improved rapidly. In a miraculously short time she bloomed with vigor again, a condition she credited almost entirely to Madame Alvin’s cooking. She had never eaten so well before. Everything was fresh and carefully prepared, seasoned and garnished with the vegetables and herbs and spices that grew in the sprawling garden behind the château. There were smoked ham rubbed with salt, cloves, and anise, turkey stuffed with raspberries, fried sole and roasted meats of every variety. Each meal was preceded by a delicious soup, such as potage à la Monglas, made with truffles and mushrooms, or à la Crecy, with sweet orange carrots . . . or pumpkin soup, Rosalie’s favorite because it was served in a hollowed-out glazed pumpkin. Next came the entremets, a dish that was served between courses. Usually it consisted of light, pungent concoctions such as ember-roasted truffles, pineapple cream, or tiny souffles. Desserts were always varied and abundant: Orleans pudding, a smooth custard layered with crushed biscuits . . . apricot fritters and marzipan tarts cunningly shaped like hearts . . . heavenly pastries composed of layer upon layer of flaky dough filled with delicate creams and fruits.

Rosalie noticed that Mireille was also benefiting from the food and the extra sleep. She was becoming less an unnaturally poised child and more a rowdy, healthy girl, her feet barely touching the floor as she raced around the château and the grounds. Together they walked through the grounds, talking excessively and never running out of conversation material. But they never discussed Rand or the obvious fact that Rosalie longed to reawaken his former interest in her, until finally one morning Rosalie broached the subject glumly while Mireille was twisting and pinning her hair at her bedchamber dressing table.

“Mireille, it’s not going to work,” she said, sighing as she met the girl’s eyes with her own disconsolate blue gaze. “It’s useless to try to attract his attention. You might as well let my hair alone and lay out sackcloth for me to dress in. The kinds of feelings he had for me in Paris are completely gone. The way he talks to me now, the way he looks at me . . . absolutely different from then. Dieu, he is so damned kind and brotherly that I want to choke him!”

“Oh, mademoiselle . . . “ Mireille said, her smile very wry as she set down the lacquer-backed brush and leaned a hip against the table. “How can it be,” she asked, fixing Rosalie with a steady gaze, “that I am fifteen and you are twenty, when I am so much older than you? How can you not see what is so obvious to me and everyone else here?”

“And what exactly do you see?”

“Perhaps it is true, that love makes one blind . . . if so, I hope I never fall in love, for vraiment, it makes such fools of men and women! Of course monsieur wants you! He does not in the least think of you as a brother would . . . don’t you ever turn quickly and surprise the look in his eyes? When your head is turned, ma foie, how he stares at you.” Mireille’s voice lowered, and she went to close the door. When she returned, Rosalie’s head was bent.

“What more can I do?” she asked, her voice almost quivering with pained eagerness. “I hang on to every word of his, I smile at him, I touch him, and he pulls away so politely . . . he must know how I feel, for he is perceptive and hardly inexperienced!”

“Mademoiselle, I do not know what has happened between you and him. I know you a little. I know nearly nothing about him. But I can say without doubt that he is waiting for you.”

“Waiting? For me to do what?” Rosalie asked blankly. “To decide what you want from him, and what he is to you, and he will approach you only when you have made up your mind, C’est ça. It is very simple.” A long silence reigned in the room, and slowly Rosalie lifted her eyes to Mireille’s. As the girl read the doubt in Rosalie’s blue gaze, she sighed and made the motion of hitting her own head with a spread palm. “Bah!” she exclaimed. “I have said too much.”