Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(91)

There were many things that Helene Marguerite did not appear to have in common with her elder son. She did not have his wide, expressive mouth, nor did it seem that she could have produced anything resembling his wry, flashing smile. She did not have faint laugh lines radiating from the corners of her eyes, nor the brilliant mixture of sun and amber in her blond hair. There was no gentleness in her expression. Helene Marguerite looked capable of passion, mockery, and even anger, but not love. You hurt him when he was vulnerable to you, Rosalie thought, and that simple basic reaction overrode her every other impression of his mother. She could find no sympathy in her heart for a woman who had carelessly hurt those who loved her. She turned away, casting the portrait a glance of purely irrational dislike.

“Interesting,” Rosalie said, her voice dry. “Unfortunately it was probably a good likeness.”

“Mademoiselle?”

“Let’s go. There are a hundred other things I’d rather look at.”

“We could go to the kitchen to see Madame Alvin,” Mireille suggested, happily abandoning her position in front of the portrait to open the door with care.

“Why?” Rosalie asked as the girl peered down both ends of the hallway.

“Perhaps,” Mireille said, popping her head back into the room, “you would like to ask her for an English tea today?”

“An English tea? Why . . .” Rosalie paused, wondering where the girl had gotten the idea from. In France, tea was brought out only in the dire circumstance that there was no coffee to serve. Then she chuckled softly. “Is it because of the description in the book we were studying from today? Don’t tell me you’ve never had one before.”

“I have not, but if you say to Madame Alvin that you miss this custom of tea, I would be happy to join you for—”

“Of course I will,” Rosalie said. The range of things that aroused Mireille’s curiosity never failed to amuse and surprise her. “Let’s go to the kitchen, then.” They crept out of the room furtively, closing the door on the portrait of Helene d’Angoux.

The kitchen was unusually calm, its only occupant being the solid figure of Madame Alvin. After spending the morning organizing the servants to clean the château, she sat with a cup of coffee, stirring crushed sugar in it and regretting the lack of cream to be had with it.

“The girl who comes by with the milk each morning is late,” she informed the two visitors, taking a sip of the brew and sighing. “I am waiting for her . . . that girl is so slow! Talking to every man on the way, and waiting to flirt with Jereme after he cleans the stables—”

“That Jereme needs no encouragement,” Mireille said, her chocolate-colored eyes dancing. “One little smile, not even a very friendly one, and he sticks like a fly in honey!”

As Madame Alvin laughed uproariously in agreement, slapping her plump knees with both hands, Rosalie cast a glance of new understanding at Mireille. “So that’s why you’re so cool to him,” she murmured. “Yes,” the girl replied in disgust, “but like all men, that makes him cling even more. Ah, he thinks he is a man full-grown, and he is only a year or two older than me. Conceited boy . . . he tried to kiss me the first time I visited the stable, as if I were to be had there with all the horses looking on! Can you imagine it?” “Dreadful,” Rosalie said, flushing with sudden dis comfort.

Just then a knock sounded at the kitchen door and Madame Alvin bustled down from her stool with the pronouncement that it was the hapless milkmaid. After berating the girl for her worse-than-usual tardiness and sending her on her way, Madame Alvin skimmed a little cream for her coffee and set the milk on a counter. As a warm, comfortable conversation ensued, the subject of an English tea was brought up and soundly approved. Madame Alvin thought it would be an entertaining project, since she herself had never done it. They discussed the menu with increasing enthusiasm.

“In the book,” Mireille said, “they had little . . . things, little . . .”

“Sandwiches,” Rosalie supplied. “Cucumber and watercress, and perhaps cheese would be nice—” “And they had gingerbread,” Mireille continued, seeming very young in her excitement, “and little cakes, and sugar buns, and—”

“Madame,” Rosalie interrupted gently, “do not go to trouble. Whatever you wish to provide will be more than adequate. This is just so that Mira can see what it is like to have tea the way they do in England.” “Like the grand ladies,” Mireille said, beaming mis chievously. “I will be the comtesse, and Madame Alvin will be the duchesse, and you . . . ah, what would you be if you married Monsieur de Berkeley?”

“If I what?” Rosalie asked faintly.

“Mira!” Madame Alvin exclaimed, and proceeded to scold Mireille for having asked such a tactless question, even if it had been meant as teasing.

Rosalie colored, reflecting on the fact that marriage to Rand was fast gaining in appeal, no matter what the drawbacks. It was becoming rapidly apparent to her that if he asked her to be his wife again sbe would most likely accept before he could finish the sentence.

“I would be Lady Berkeley,” she said gravely. “Just like Helene Marguerite,” Mireille mused. “Non!” Madame Alvin said sharply, shaking her silver-brown head for emphasis. “Not like Helene, not at all.” Mireille and Rosalie waited with baited breath for her to continue, but Madame Alvin appeared to be completely through with the subject. “Now, Mira,” she inquired, “what else did the book say about English tea?”