"Oh. I should prepare the apples. Then we'll eat."
"Yes," he murmured, suddenly ravenous for Micheline. "I suppose we shall."
Chapter 14
March 11, 1533
Dusk was wrapping the cottage in a mauve embrace. Micheline looked out the leaded-glass windows as she put dishes and candles on the table and thought that the snowflakes looked like fluttering pink primroses against the twilit sky.
"That was part of the reason I learned other languages," Micheline explained, her hair agleam in the candlelight. "Papa speaks and reads everything from Latin to German, so our library was filled with books in every language. I loved to read so much that once I'd exhausted every printed word of French, I begged him to help me with the others."
"How old were you?"
"Oh, still a child. I remember speaking English quite competently even before Maman died. I must have been seven or eight when I began exploring other languages." She paused, sipping her wine with a smile. "I think it's easier when one is very young, don't you?"
"Yes, and easier still for the child who has the desire to learn. Languages were forced on me by tyrannical schoolmasters, so naturally I hated every minute."
"Typically male!" laughed Micheline. She wanted to ask him about his education, even about his childhood, but feared that he might be embarrassed to tell her. She had concluded that Andrew's family had been part of the lower class, and that he had raised himself this far by dint of hard work, innate intelligence, and talent. It was a pleasant surprise to hear that he had gone to school.
"I brought my parents considerable grief in that respect, I'm afraid," he was saying reflectively. "I never wanted to do what I was told; I always had a better plan. Now, of course, I'm grateful that an education was pressed on me against my will. If I'd never learned to speak French, I probably wouldn't be here, would I?" He gave her a smile across the candles, but his thoughts were far away, remembering the years he'd spent at Corpus Christi College at Oxford. So much of the time Sandhurst had rebelled against being told what to read, write, and learn, for he often had interests in any subject except those being taught at the moment. The rift between him and his father had widened dangerously during that period, since the duke had insisted that he stay. They had been on such bad terms when he finished at Oxford that his mother had arranged the year of art study in Florence. Now, after talking to Micheline, Sandhurst momentarily softened toward his father. He'd been fortunate to have received so fine and extensive an education, and fortunate to have a parent who did not bend under the unusual force of his son's will.
Micheline rose to cut wedges from a cylindrical Auvergne cheese. She arranged them on a plate with sweetmeats, then split a pomegranate and placed it in the center. At the table Andrew was pouring more wine for both of them, but he glanced up as she approached, noting the gentle sway of her hips. He envied the emerald that nestled warmly between her breasts, its delicate gold chain glinting in the firelight.
Micheline's cheeks warmed under his gaze, and suddenly she wondered how they would pass the hours that stretched before them.
"Do you play chess?" she asked abruptly.
Sensing the reason for her question, Sandhurst warred unsuccessfully with an amused smile. "Naturally, madame."
"I saw a lovely carved board and ivory pieces in the chest!" she exclaimed. "Would you care for a game?"
"Your whim is my command."
Micheline rushed to bring the board and pieces while Andrew casually selected a wedge of cheese. He'd never seen anyone look as relieved as she did as she placed the board between them and divided the white and black pieces. Smiling to himself, Sandhurst thought that he ought to be offended, but oddly enough her eagerness to seek a diversion from being alone with him only warmed his heart. How different Micheline