Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(86)

“Damn,” Guillaume said appreciatively, eyeing Rand with speculation. “I have only one foil to practice with, monsieur. But if you could lay your hands on one and would ever care to engage in a bout . . .”

“It sounds like an interesting possibility,” Rand admitted. In London he was known foremost as an excellent shot, but he was a proficient enough swordsman, having been trained in his youth and teens until he had gained the capability to fight his way out of a rough spot.

“I hope you will consider it,” the younger man replied sincerely. “As I indicated, the need to improve is always a pressing one for me.”

“Tell me,” Rand said, a mild frown working between his strongly marked brows, “is Mireille often exposed to these situations in which you—?”

“Only two or three times in her life,” Guillaume replied instantly. “Only when absolutely necessary. I do not like to expose her to brutality or violence.” Slowly he added, “Not when she was forced to see so much of it as a little girl. Our mother was a whore, you see.” This last was said matter-of-factly, in the way that he might have said “our mother had red hair” or “our mother liked sweetened porridge.” Rand smiled inwardly, for he had just reason to say the same thing about Helene Marguerite in much the same manner. There were many different kinds of whores, only some were far more hypocritical than others.

“We both look like her, Mira and I,” Guillaume continued, “even though our fathers were different. She is dead now . . . caught servicing a room full of enemy soldiers in a hideaway in I8I2. It was then that I took Mira under my protection . . . dubious as my protection may be. I’ve never completely abandoned her, though God knows she’s had to learn to take care of herself.” Guillaume smiled reminiscently. “Feisty little morsel . I saw her for the first time when she was not quite twelve years old, raging in the corner because she had been told that she would have to start servicing customers to take up the slack that our mother had left behind.”

Rand tried to envision Mireille at twelve. If she were this tiny and fairylike at fifteen, how could any rational being have suggested then that she could have taken a full-fledged man between her thighs and survived the first night? Guillaume saw the question in his eyes and smiled again, this time less pleasantly. “Female customers,” he said. “At least that was the intention Apparently it didn’t appeal to Mira.”

“Outwardly she seems untouched by all of it,” Rand said, taking the foil from Guillaume and absently testing its balance in his hand.

“Don’t you believe that she doesn’t remember every shred of it,” Guillaume said with certainty. “She has a mind like a dry sponge, remembers everything, especially things you don’t want her to know. Like a little cat creeping around the corners to see what’s what. And what’s worse, the older she gets, the worse her scrapes are.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Rand said, shaking his head ruefully. “I don’t doubt it at all.”

Rosalie and Mireille had spent the morning altering one of Rosalie’s thin white cambric gowns. The weather had been consistently warm and dry for the past several days and showed every promise of continuing in such a manner. That and the fact that Rand was gone on a trip to Havre had caused Rosalie to sleep poorly. Knowing that he was sleeping at the Lothaire that night, so far away from the château . . . so far away from her . . . caused a mild depression to hang over her like a cloud. The minute he had left after brushing a perfunctory kiss on her forehead, a large gap had been created in her world that would not be filled until he was back. During the days that he was gone, Rosalie had endeavored to occupy herself by fixing her mind on other things. After asking into the state of Mireille’s summer clothing, for the girl seemed to possess nothing lighter than a gown with elbow-length sleeves, she had been horrified to discover the limited extent of Mireille’s wardrobe. It contained almost nothing suitable for a hot climate except a brown dress that was shamefully tattered.

Unfortunately, after the monumental task of forcing Mireille to accept the gift was accomplished, altering the gown appeared to be yet another mountain to climb. It was not merely a matter of shortening the hem and taking in the bodice. The entire dress had to be remade to properly fit the girl’s diminutive dimensions.

After hours of diligent cutting and sewing, careful fittings and many frustrated exclamations, the job was done.

They decided to go for a walk to stretch their cramped limbs. Rosalie felt no small measure of satisfaction with herself as she saw Mireille promenade carefully along the garden path, lifting the hem of the lace-and-cambric dress at every grain of colored sand that strayed in her way. She wondered how long it had been since the girl had had a new gown, but forbore to ask in deference to Mireille’s privacy. As they neared a patch of Gloire de Dijon roses they heard the noises of industrious pruning and clipping. On the other side of the thicket they found Guillaume, who greeted them with a slightly crooked smile and then succumbed eagerly to their pleas to join them under the shade of a cool peach tree for an early-afternoon break. Rosalie’s unease and unanswered questions concerning the strained relationship between Mireille and Guillaume had long since disappeared. The brother and sister had rapidly gained an ease together that bespoke a long and familiar acquaintance. Perhaps Mireille’s first startled reaction to her brother’s presence at Château d’Angoux could be explained by the mere surprise of seeing him when she had not expected him. In any case, they had become much more companionable since Guillaume had first appeared.