Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(92)

“What do you mean, not like Helene Marguerite?” Mireille countered.

Sighing, Madame Alvin compressed her mouth into a tight, firm line. “I should not say more.”

“There are no strangers here,” Mireille said persuasively. “Why would it hurt to explain to mademoiselle something that she is curious about?”

“There is nothing to explain,” Madame Alvin replied, her eyes taking in Rosalie’s absorbed expression. “You, mademoiselle, are not the kind of woman that Helene was.”

“You were here while she was growing up?” Rosalie asked, her serious tone contrasting sharply with Mireille’s cajoling.

“Since she was born. I was here when Monsieur Robert de Berkeley came to France to court her and when they were married, and also when she brought her first son to show to the marquis. I was here during all the times that she came back here to visit. She did not like England except for London. The more time she spent there, the more she changed. I have often thought that London must be a very evil place.”

“Not really,” Rosalie said thoughtfully. “No more so than Paris. Parts of it are bad, I suppose . . . especially for an impressionable person. It is fast-paced and full of people who have nothing to do except amuse themselves.”

“Helene was brought up here in a very quiet way,” Madame Alvin said. “In the style of the old French noblesse. She was very sheltered, a good girl . . . but she longed for excitement and wanted to move away from the quietness of country life. She married as soon as possible to the first man who asked—Monsieur Robert de Berkeley.”

Rosalie nodded, feeling a reluctant twinge of understanding for Helene. She knew how it felt to be stifled by monotony and to dream of change and excitement. “But surely a husband and children, and all the activities that are involved with occupying her position should have satisfied her,” Rosalie remarked. “It would have been a very busy and full life—not only would there have been hundreds of responsibilities involving her family and the community, but countless parties, fêtes and balls—”

“She did not like the responsibilities,” Madame Alvin said, smiling with wry sadness. “But she did like the parties. I have heard that there were many scandals in London that she was involved in—I will not repeat any of the stories, for I do not know if they were true or not. But almost every two years or so she would come back to France to stay without her husband or children, and I think it was to let the gossip and troubles die down before she went back.”

“And you noticed during these visits that she had changed?” Rosalie prompted, fascinated. “Ah, oui . . . she began to think of no one but herself.

She had the château redecorated in the latest fashion and the grounds landscaped many times, spending huge amounts of money, and worse, executing the corvée to do it.”

Mireille clicked her tongue in appalled shock. “What? What is a corvee?” Rosalie asked. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

“That is because they no longer have the wretched custom,” Mireille replied, her small face wrinkling with disgust. “A corvée was the right of the French nobility to command the peasants from all the neighboring villages to work for them without pay. Whenever they wanted a road built, or a garden laid out, or additions built onto the château, the nobility forced the peasants to leave the fields, even if it was in the middle of harvesttime. The food and grain would rot out in their fields as the peasants worked on the lord and lady’s pretty garden.”

“How awful,” Rosalie murmured.

“Yes,” Madame Alvin said, her voice lowering with a touch of shame. “Many people starved in the winters because of Helene’s whims. She was not a popular figure here. But the marquis, her father, would refuse her nothing.” The elderly woman sighed deeply. “The unhappier Helene Marguerite became, the more cruel she was. She finally abandoned her sons and husband, coming back here to have a child. She died in labor, and the baby along with her. My husband and I have wondered for years how her children were—I am glad to see that monsieur was not badly affected by all of it.”

Rosalie was silent for a long moment. Not badly affected by all of it, she thought with bitter distress, wondering what Madame Alvin would say if she knew the kind of abuse that Helene had left her sons to face. What would she say if she knew that Rand had been a drunkard when he was only a boy and that he and his brother had survived a deplorable childhood? Rand had grown up to be a reckless hellion, while Colin, from what little she had been told, had become a fastidious dandy, a fashion plate.

“I do not think many women are good mothers,” Mireille finally said, resting her chin on her hand and staring distantly at the copper pots and pans on the wall.

“Mine has been good to me,” Rosalie replied, thinking of Amille and feeling an ache in her chest. “She is a very kind woman . . . and she has always despaired of the fact that I am not easily contented with what I have. She said it would lead to trouble. I think she was right.” Suddenly Madame Alvin chuckled in a jolly way, breaking the tension that seemed to have settled over them. “Mothers always like to think they are right,” the older woman said.

“Yes,” Rosalie agreed with a quick smile.

Rand walked into the sitting room, pausing in front of the glass-paned doors to regard the scene with warm interest. It was half-past four, and Rosalie and Mireille sat at a lace-covered table having tea. Serenely Rosalie poured the freshly brewed liquid into china cups as Mireille carefully dabbed a scone with clotted cream. The picture they presented was quaint and charming as they engaged in a language lesson, causing Rand to smile slowly. His eyes traveled over Rosalie appreciatively. She was dressed in a flowing pale blue gown, the color enhancing the blue of her eyes until they were almost painful to behold. Her hair was pulled on top of her head in a deliciously demure fashion that tempted him to sink his hands into its gleaming softness and pull it all down. She looked like a perfect lady, and there were few signs in her appearance that betrayed her lively temper and passion . . . few signs, unless one knew where to look. Gradually his gaze moved from her face and settled on the trim, neat curves of her figure and the swell of her br**sts. He would have trouble keeping the men away from her in London, for hers was the kind of fresh, passionate beauty that no one could resist.