Free Louisa Rawlings by Promise of Summer

meantime…” Ducellier stared at her bare legs. His cheeks colored.
    “Oh, I’m warm enough, Monsieur Ducellier,” she reassured him. “I aren’t used to a fire.”
    “It isn’t that.” He dragged his eyes away from her legs and smiled shyly. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. You’ll learn to be a lady soon enough. And my name is Martin.”
    Renaudot grunted. “Yes. I hadn’t considered that. I reckon it’s not too soon for you to begin to think of me on more personal terms, girl. I give you leave to call me Lucien.”
    Topaze smiled tightly, vexed by his overbearing tone. “Until I can think of a more fitting name.”
    He laughed. “A saucy chit, indeed! Véronique seems to have acquired a wicked humor since last we met.”
    “I find it charming,” said Martin, and blushed again.
    They supped before the fire. Martin gallantly wrapped a coverlet around Topaze’s bare legs, served her meat, poured her wine. She still couldn’t believe her good fortune: two fine meals in one day! She prayed that the Givets were supping as well tonight.
    While the men chatted about their plantation, the expenses that the bank loan would cover, Topaze applied herself to her food. Roasted pigeon, a hare pie, a rich cheese. Even sweet little oranges, a rare treat. Absorbed in the pleasures of her senses, she ate steadily and silently, aware—after only a very long time—that the men had fallen still and were watching her.
    Lucien cleared his throat. “After a few days, I trust, the novelty of abundant food will have faded, and you can learn to eat and converse at the same time, as gentle folk do. As Véronique would do.”
    She frowned. “I can do it. I was taught. I aren’t no fool, I told you. I was taught proper behavior.”
    Lucien smirked. “And where were you taught?”
    “I had a governess, I think.”
    “Lord! You? You sound and act as though you were raised in the gutter.”
    Damnation, but she hadn’t realized how much she’d changed! “No. It was just easier, being with the Givets, to talk like they did, copy their ways, so I wouldn’t seem different. It’s habit now, I suppose. But I aren’t…I’m not uneducated.”
    “Better and better. Not so coarse as you seem, after all? It will make our task infinitely simpler. By Lucifer, Martin, I knew this was the right girl for the job.”
    Martin put a sympathetic hand on Topaze’s arm. “But how did you come to be so low? Living with the Givets in such misery?”
    “It weren’t… wasn’t so bad, before Monsieur Givet’s ship was lost. There was food on the table, and firewood, and real beds to sleep in. They can’t read nor write, except for what I’ve been teaching the children. But they’re good and honest and God-fearing folk. I might have done worse.”
    “But how did you get to them? You said, this afternoon, that your name was Benoîte. Your father?”
    “To tell the truth, I don’t know. Benoîte was my mother’s name. Rachel Benoîte. She was an actress. I don’t know if there was a Monsieur Benoîte.” She shrugged. “I would guess I’m a bastard. Your kind don’t marry actresses.”
    Martin looked uncomfortable, as though it was a personal condemnation. “It doesn’t seem fair,” he muttered.
    “You remember nothing of your father?” asked Lucien.
    She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. I remember men, of course. All the time. And fancy carriage rides, tutors, pretty clothes. She was very beautiful. Men paid handsomely for her favors.”
    “Where were you born?”
    “I’m not sure. We traveled around so much.” She laughed. “By Sainte Marie, I’m not even sure when my birthday was! Maman was always too busy to celebrate. ‘You must be thirteen, by now,’ she’d say. Or whatever my age. And then we’d have a party.” She sighed, the laughter fading from her eyes. “I think I was fourteen when we came to Bordeaux. Maman had a good position, in a nice theater. And then she got sick. The poor thing.