a different matter inside. The walls were paneled in carved oak, and the floor, richly tiled in a pattern of red, blue, and ivory, was strewn with fresh herbs and dried rose petals. The furnishings were elegant pieces of oiled walnut, and included blue-upholstered chairs, a dresser filled with dishes, a long table bracketed by benches, and, on the far side of the room, a luxurious carved bed hung with blue and gold velvet curtains. Its deep goosedown tick boasted a counterpane made of what appeared to be the pelts of white foxes.
There was plenty of dry wood stacked against the wall, and Sandhurst busied himself laying ample fires in both stone fireplaces. Micheline, meanwhile, was opening cupboard and dresser doors to discover all manner of fresh provisions. There were potatoes, apples, carrots, pomegranates, a large chunk of cured ham, eggs, a pitcher of sweet cream, a jar of sweetmeats and dried figs, several stoppered flasks of strong wine, and a dish of butter. In addition, Micheline found four newly killed pigeons hanging next to the back door.
"No one could starve to death here," she remarked, "but I don't see what the queen intends to serve us and the king for dinner."
"Perhaps her servants are bringing it from the chateau. It's obvious that they've been looking after this place. Those pigeons couldn't be more than a day old."
"Everything is quite fresh, especially in this temperature. The cream looks like it's straight from the cow." Micheline went over to the fire, removed her kid gloves, and held her hands out to the leaping flames. The cottage warmed quickly now that both fireplaces were ablaze. Out of the corner of her eye Micheline saw Andrew pause at the window and stare pensively out at the dense flurry of snowflakes. "Are you thinking that the queen may not be coming?"
"It has occurred to me," Sandhurst replied with a dark smile. "If she has any sense, she'll remain at the chateau, and I don't doubt that the king has returned there himself after his ride. The snow's so thick you can scarcely see the trees."
Micheline went to stand beside him. Staring out at the swirls of white flakes that had already completely covered the leafy ground, she found herself acutely conscious of his nearness and the fact that they were alone together in this cottage. There was no one else nearby, nor was there even another chamber to escape to. A shiver of panicky excitement washed over her.
"What shall we do?" she wondered in a small voice.
"I wouldn't subject even the horses to this storm, let alone you," Sandhurst said flatly. "We've no choice but to stay here and hope that the weather clears." He looked over at Micheline, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed, and tried to remember that he was supposed to be a gentleman. "In the meantime, I'm hungry. Let's prepare something hot to eat."
* * *
Two hours later, the snow was several inches deep, the queen had not arrived and seemingly never would, but the cottage was warm and fragrant. Andrew had plucked and cleaned the pigeons, then announced that he would cook them. Peeling potatoes, Micheline had watched dubiously as he shed his doublet and folded up his shirtsleeves. He'd proceeded to combine fresh herbs and bread crumbs, which he then mixed with egg and used to stuff the pigeons. These were placed in a pot with red wine, cloves, and ginger, plus a few scoops of snow, and now it all simmered invitingly over the fire beside Micheline's pot of potatoes and carrots.
Andrew brought cups of wine for the two of them, and they sat side by side in the walnut chairs, their stocking feet sharing the same stool near the hearth.
"Where did you learn to cook?" she asked.
He gave her a mysterious smile. "My mother taught me." Unwilling to lie to her, he realized nonetheless that she would accept this explanation, thinking that his beginnings must be humble. In truth, the Duchess of Aylesbury had been proper in every sense except for her penchant for dismissing the cook and taking over herself. As a little boy Andrew had helped her chop and mix things on rainy afternoons in Gloucestershire, and now those times were treasured memories. His mother had been happy and relaxed, enjoying the creation of a meal, and he had basked in her glow.
"You are very fortunate to have your mother. I can't tell you how much I miss mine."
"We are alike in that, Michelle.