Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(78)

“No,” Rosalie said quickly, “you haven’t. I need someone to help me think through this. I can’t quite believe that Rand might still want me as he once did.” ” I saw him in Paris,” Mireille said quietly, “when he thought you might not wake up ever again. He was fou, and that is no exaggeration.”

“Fou?” Rosalie repeated, frowning curiously. It was a word she had not come across before.

“Mmmmn . . .” Mireille bit her lip as she considered how to explain it. “Yes, fou—when things are not right in the head or the heart. When something is wrong with the thinking . . . ”

“Crazy,” Rosalie said, and her eyes became round as she stared at the small maid. “Rand was—”

“Yes. Completely.”

“Well, I am fou right now. Completely. Because my heart does know what I want from him, and my head tells me all the reasons why it is wrong. Ever since I met him, my thinking and my feelings have been at crosspurposes, pushing me toward him, pulling me away from him.”

“And you wonder why he is cool to you?” Mireille pointed out gently.

“Are you suggesting that he has avoided me because he’s protecting himself?”

“Mais oui.”

“Then how do I—?”

“I am the wrong one to give advice,” Mireille said, suddenly standing up and brushing at imaginary dust on her skirts. Rosalie groaned and leaned her forehead against her hands.

“The problem seems so complicated, but it’s ridiculously simple. My heart wants him for forever but my mind tells me that I can’t have him that long, and so it would be better not to have him at all. Isn’t the solution self-evident?”

“Yes,” Mireille said, and suddenly she looked haunted. It was an odd expression for the face of a little sprite to wear. Her eyes turned dark with memories of a short but complicated past, which she refused to confide in anyone. “Yes, the answer would be easy for me to choose, mademoiselle. Happiness blows away as easily as feathers in a strong wind. It is not solid and complete . . . it comes in little pieces. Collect them when you can. It is worthless to spite the bits and pieces that you hold because of all that you cannot have.”

“I’m sorry,” Rosalie whispered. “I must seem very selfish to you.”

“No.” Abruptly the glimmer in Mireille’s eyes disappeared, and she picked up the brush to resume arranging the locks of long, gleaming hair. Abruptly she changed the subject. “I heard in the kitchen this morning that Jereme saddled one of the horses in order for Monsieur de Berkeley to visit Monsieur Lefevre, the local tax collector. He should be back early this afternoon. If you wish, you can see him then.” “A tax collector? I thought Rand had taken care of the unpaid taxes weeks ago, when he came here to put the château up for sale.”

“I have heard that Monsieur Lefevre is a very bad man, a greedy man. After Monsieur de Berkeley sold the d’Angoux land to the tenants who worked it, Monsieur Lefevre raised the land taxes. But the peasants cannot afford to pay him more.”

“Why would Lefevre do that?” Rosalie wondered aloud, frowning. “Rand told me that land taxes are already heavier on the peasantry than on the rich landowners. You can’t squeeze blood out of a stone.”

“The peasants have no voice. This far from Paris the local men of importance can do whatever they want.

The villages are their own kingdoms. Last night a group of peasants came to the château to ask Monsieur de Berkeley to speak to Lefevre on their behalf, since he is the highest-ranking man living in the district now, and they remember his kindness in selling the land to them at such a low price.”

“I didn’t hear a thing—”

“We had already retired,” Mireille said, and then gave a smug little smile. “But I know everything that goes on here because Madame Alvin is a talkative woman. And what she doesn’t reveal, Ninette or Eleazar tells me.”

“Rand certainly didn’t mention anything about it to me,” Rosalie said, folding her arms and staring at the mirror in disgruntlement. “But then, he probably wants me to turn my attention to some other matters that I’ve put off for a long time.” She felt a quake of apprehension in her stomach, and determinedly squelched it. “Mireille . . . after you finish my hair, I need some time alone. I have . . . a letter to write, and I don’t know how long it will take.”

The floor was littered with crumpled attempts, each one more difficult to begin than the last. Rosalie refused to leave her desk until the job was done. She had never envisioned herself in such a ludicrous position. How could she write a letter asking her mother if she were indeed her mother? Would Amille be hurt by her questions, would she be angered by them? And how did she feel about the fact that Rosalie was living under a man’s protection in France? Maman . . . it is not that I have abandoned the rules of morality you tried to teach me, Rosalie thought, wishing that she could talk to Amille face-to-face instead of writing a stilted message. But, Maman, you never told me what to do when something else seems more important. I have not been deluded by love, or passion . . . it’s just that I have begun to realize there is no happiness in safety. I have to take chances.

When the letter was done, she folded and sealed it carefully, tucking it into a stocking bag and tying the purse to the waist of her jade-green gown. Suddenly she noticed that because of the hours spent in the sunny garden, her skin had warmed from its usual fairness to a light peach color. “Good Lord,” she said, examining her face, arms, and bosom critically in the thickly ornamented mirror, “I’ll get as brown as Rand if I’m not careful.” The sun had also illuminated her cheeks with bright pink crescents, causing her to sigh in dismay. “Brummell’s daughter,” she muttered, inspecting her nose to see if it had also been reddened by the sun. “If that’s what I am, I’ve inherited the faults and none of the perfections.” Slowly she raised a slender hand to her neck, touching the place where her gold circlet had so often hung on a ribbon. An odd chill ran through her as she realized that the father she had once cursed for not being alive might be in Calais that very moment. George Brummell—George Belleau . . . if they were one and the same, then how could Amille have kept the knowledge from her? “Maman,” Rosalie said, reaching inside the stocking purse to feel the edge of the letter with her fingertips, “how could you be the former governess to my real mother?” With a quick shiver she released the letter and went to call for Mireille. Rosalie followed Mireille’s more forthright pace into the stable with a more cautious step, for it was unfamiliar territory. The stable smelled good, of hay, horses, leather, and feed, and she peered curiously at the spacious interior. She had never seen so many horse stalls. Even with Rand’s recent purchases, only a small fraction were actually occupied. Jereme, a red-haired youth of eighteen, sat on a small stool in the act of carving nameplates for the new additions to the stable. At the entrance of the two women he stood up with a start and whipped off his hat.