Free Louisa Rawlings by Promise of Summer Page A

It was so slow, so painful for her. The dying. Her admirers vanished, of course. It took every livre she’d saved, those last months. For the doctors, the medicine. While she was breathing her last, the creditors came and stripped the room. They took everything. Her clothes, the bedhangings, the furniture. Everything. Ave Maria, when she was dead they came and took the sous from her eyes! And put her in a pauper’s grave. I wandered the streets for days. I had no food, no money. I went to the theater to find a job. But they said I was too plain. Too young. They sent me away. I begged a few coins. But mostly I was ignored.” She smiled, a gentle wisp of a smile. “The world can be an uncaring place. Do you know that?” She meant it not as a complaint, but merely a statement of fact.
    Lucien’s laugh was sharp and cynical. “You learned that lesson young. All the better. The creature is safest who walks alone.”
    “No.” Her amber eyes were thoughtful. “I walked with God, I think. There came a day when hope failed me. I’d been without food for nearly a week. There seemed no other choice but to take to the streets, sell my body for a crust of bread.”
    Martin groaned and put his hand across his eyes. “How old were you?”
    “By Maman’s haphazard reckoning, fifteen.”
    “And then?” Even Lucien’s voice held an edge of sympathy.
    “The first man I approached was Monsieur Givet. The first man. Wasn’t that God’s blessing? He was horrified that I should be forced into whoring, and took me home at once to his family. And there I’ve been ever since.” She nodded for emphasis at Lucien. “A good girl. A virtuous girl, for all your wicked thoughts. I took an oath on it to the Givets.”
    He grinned. “But a thief.”
    She ignored that. “Alas, the poor family. I don’t think Monsieur Givet will return. The ship has been gone for too long.” She sighed. “You see, I have my own reasons for wanting the Chalotais money.”
    Lucien stood up and stretched. “Then the sooner we transform you into the fair Véronique, the sooner we’ll all have our heart’s desire. Lord, I’m tired. Martin, will you get the candles?” He kicked off his shoes and crawled between the sheets of the large bed. In a moment his deep breathing announced that he was asleep.
    Topaze stared forlornly at Martin. She felt as though she’d been dismissed, like a puppy dog, a creature who was worth no more than a casual nod of his head. For the first time, her courage failed her. Her lip began to tremble. She stood up abruptly and covered the remains of supper with a napkin. “I’ll get the candles,” she said. She moved about the room, extinguishing the candles, leaving one single lighted chamberstick, which she placed on the mantel.
    “Shall I put the truckle bed near to the fire?” asked Martin.
    “Please. After this winter, I think I’ll never be warm enough again.”
    He pushed the little cot nearer the fire, and saw her settled in. “Good night,” he said, tucking the blanket about her shoulders. On an impulse, he knelt beside her. He hesitated, a shy smile on his face, then smoothed back a curl from her forehead. His warm brown eyes were filled with pity. “He doesn’t mean to seem uncaring. I’m sure he was as troubled as I. It was a sad tale.”
    She shook off her dark mood. “I don’t dwell on the past. It’s not my way. I put my faith in God for a better future. That’s all.”
    “Damn it,” he growled. “I should have married you myself.”
    She laughed softly. “No. I’m a saucy chit. And a thief, with no conscience. I’d break your heart.”
    “And Lucien’s heart?”
    She snorted. “I doubt he has a heart to break, that devil!” The pity in his eyes turned to something else. Something tender and gentle and infinitely caring. He searched her face, his soft regard coming to rest on her lips. “I should have married you,” he said with regret.
    She blushed, flustered by a look she’d never