Page 11 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Gilles blinked and scanned the factory to see if anyone had heard. The men went about their duties without interruption. She was not one for subtlety, it would seem. He cleared his throat. “Bien sûr. I wished to speak with you about that. Will you walk with me?”
Luc and some of the others watched them, and Gilles was glad for the heat of the factory to mask the warmth creeping into his ears. Mademoiselle Daubin walked on. Gilles swiped his shirtsleeves down, fighting to button them while keeping hold of the ledger under his arm and matching her pace. “I can send someone to fetch your father, if you like.”
“If my father is not here, I will meet him at theparfumerie.” She surveyed the workroom, with its tall ceilings and rising steam. They reached the end of the line of cauldrons, and she paused at the last. The workers tending it had broken their methodical mixing to drink water. She grabbed the end of one of their stirrers and passed it from one hand to the other, examining it as though she had never seen one before. Gilles stepped closer to her, and she flinched away, lip curled. “I said I did not want your—”
He held up a hand. “I wish to apologize.”
Her dark brows rose. “Apologize?”
“I acted poorly. Last week, in the office. I never should have tried to kiss you, and I am sorry.” Her hard stare bored into him like cutting lines through a fresh batch of soap. Gilles fidgeted. Should he wait for her to respond? Change the subject? Excuse himself to find her father? She traced her hands down the handle of the stirrer, worn smooth with use. Then she grasped it and pulled, as the workers were doing around them. The pole wavered in her hands, moving much slower than the employees’.
“Is that what you say to all the girls?”
“What girls?” Gilles asked. She was going to flip the muddy-looking paste all over her pristine dress if she wasn’t careful, and while he would be hard pressed not to laugh heartily at the scene, he’d put himself in enough trouble with her last week.
“All the other girls you kiss in your little games.”
He opened his mouth to protest. None of the other girls took such offense at the thought of kissing him.
“Or do you apologize because I am your employer’s daughter, and you only hope to keep your position?”
“Certainly not.” He shook his head quickly. Of course, over the past seven days he had frequently feared he would be reprimanded, but that had not pushed him to this apology. He hadn’t thought much on what she might say in response, only that for some reason he wished to be in her good favor. He would have taken gratitude or a sweet smile. “I was speaking with my mother—”
She tilted her head, a condescending smirk on her lips. “Ah, you are asking forgiveness because Maman instructed you to do so. What a good boy.”
Gilles groaned inwardly. Did she not see his sincerity? He forced a grin and winked. “I always listen to my mother.”
The workers assigned to this cauldron moved back toward them. He took hold of the handle just above her hand, stilling the stirrer. “You must take caution,mademoiselle. This is where we combine the olive oil and soda to prepare it for soap making. The mixture is getting quite hot from the fires below it, and I would hate for you to burn yourself or ruin your gown.”
She instantly released the handle and stepped away. Gilles nodded to the workers and handed the pole back to them. When he turned to Mademoiselle Daubin, she had her arms folded across her chest.
“The paste is not hot.”
Gilles shrugged. “It could be.”
“It isn’t. The fires were lit this morning and the materials just poured in. We have some time before the paste reaches temperature.”
Well, yes. She was right on that account.
“And, I will have you know, I have five methods to rid clothing of soap-paste stains. I’ve stood at the cauldrons stirring them with my father since before you were born, so do not try to impress me with your two years of knowledge in soap making,s’il vous plaît.”
Then perhaps she would help him rid his clothes of the stains after he dove into the paste to avoid her withering glare.
“I do not know what sorts of girls you chase after, but if they are anything like the ones my brother fancies for his escapades, allow me to assure you, I am not one of those girls.”
Time to tack this ship and flee. Once again he found himself in a fight he could not win with this lady. He only hoped the Daubins had invited enough guests to tomorrow evening’s dinner that he would be able to easily avoid another confrontation. Gilles rubbed his brow with his sleeve. How had it grown so hot in the factory so quickly? The fire tenders must have added more fuel. “Then, if I may be so bold, what sort are you?” He should not have asked.
Mademoiselle Daubin squared her shoulders. “The sort who does not appreciate when young men assume she has only a handsome face and pretty figure, with no knowledge, conviction, or opinion to make her worthy of being considered a rational human.”
Gilles retreated a step. She was accusing him of thinking himself above her. She, aroyaliste? And for simply trying to explain when she had seemed unfamiliar with the process before them. He chewed the inside of his cheek while she looked down her pleasingly straight and saucily upturned nose at him.
She sauntered back toward the door, inspecting each cauldron as she passed with the same strict expression her father wore during his examinations. Gilles shuffled behind her, making the last marks in his ledger to finish the initial notations for this batch. Had she learned this superiority during her time in Paris? Émile did not exude supremacy wherever he went. He did not care whether he spent time with a mariner’s son or a duke’s, so long as he had a yearning for revolution.
As they arrived at the door, the fresh breeze dispelled some of the thick air from the workroom. Gilles sucked it in to cool his frustration.
A rat skittered around the corner of the door. As one, Gilles and Mademoiselle Daubin shied away, nearly knocking into each other as the creature vanished into a shadowy corner. She did not immediately retreat from the closeness. The glare from the bright sunlight outside haloed her straw hat as she met his gaze. When she spoke, her voice had lost some of the brash tone. “Thank you.”
“For ...”
