Merle stood up and shut the laptop. She walked out the kitchen door into the garden, lit by a few neighbors’ lamps and the moon. It was a sliver of new moon, a crescent, silver and bright, with the dark, shadowed side a deep midnight blue. But it was there, obviously, that dark side. Was it telling her to look beyond the bright and shiny? That there was more to life than the obvious? Was it telling her— here is the whole picture? Not everything is seen. In fact, very little is as it seems. Waiting for you is the rest of the story. The unknown. The future. What’s coming.
She shivered. It was cold in the Dordogne in December. Not unexpected, even by Americans abroad. The wood stove was to be installed last week, but of course there had been delays. This week? Maybe. In the meantime, there were blankets and those tiny space heaters. At least the laundry had been finished. It sat dark and quiet in the garden, the newly-painted blue door reflecting the moonlight. Strange how having a laundry made a woman feel complete. She smiled at her silly, womanly self, at her feminine maison. Her Maison Chanceuse. She looked at a star and made a promise to never forget how lucky she was.
The sound of the window latch, then the hinges creaking. She looked over her shoulder at the bedroom window. Pascal was leaning out, his forearms on the sill, his face cut through by shadow from the moonlight. He was smiling down at her.
“Chérie? Are you coming to bed?”
Odette and the Great Fear
part nine
Days passed, cold and rainy, full of the deep mist of the mountains that chilled to the bone. Odette took her goats far, searching for Ghislain in caves and along riverbanks, in abandoned bories, the beehive stone shelters for sheepherders. She looked in them all and sometimes napped there, out of the wind that blew down from the Alps.
The days were long because of her wandering and she often returned in the dark, exhausted. It was easier too, to avoid the maids and the cook who had taken against her. They were no longer friendly since her comment about the cook’s cousin, the horrible Toussaint. She knew her days were numbered here. She also knew there was no one to replace her and the goats would suffer without grazing.
One morning she slept late, too tired to rise for the communal meal and too despondent to care about a tongue-lashing. The kitchen was deserted when she arrived. She poured hot water into a cup and rummaged for some herbs to make it seem like something decent. A single crust of bread lay on the sideboard. She dipped it in the water she called ‘tea’ and ate quickly.
Outside in the yard Margot from the milking shed stood with her hands on her hips, talking to a man. His back was toward Odette and she didn’t recognize him. While Odette grabbed her coat he turned and was gone by the time she stepped into the chill. She caught up with Margot inside the shed.
“Ah, good, you can help me today. I am so tired I could fall asleep against these beasts.” Margot handed her a bucket. “Take Eloise for me.”
Odette didn’t argue. Her goats could wait a bit. She fixed her stool next to the big nanny Eloise and set to milking. In a moment though she had to ask: “Who was that man? The one you were talking to?”
“Oh, just now? Someone from the provincial government. They’re looking for that soldier, the one you rescued from the woods.” Margot stuck her head out from behind her nanny goat. “You haven’t stashed him away somewhere, have you?”
“Me? No. I haven’t seen him at all.”
“Is that a fact?” Margot went back to her business, the sound of liquid hitting the pail a clatter in the background. "Because the word is that he's been seen in these parts.”
Odette startled and stopped squeezing teats for a moment. “Oh?”
Margot poured the goat milk into a tall can. She put her hand on Eloise’s rump. “Don’t you want to know where?”
“I can see you want to tell me,” Odette said.
“All right then. It was near here all right. In the woods, somewhere. Vague, a bit. No one ever gets directions in the woods correct. But it sounded like where you found him in the beginning of all this.”
Odette said nothing, just finished milking Eloise. She felt her heart race. When she was pouring the milk into the can Margot stepped up beside her, taking the pail from her trembling hands.
“That’s enough for today, mon amie.” She gave Odette a knowing grin. “Sortez d’ici — get out of here.”
The goats found him.
It was past midday and warm in the sunshine. But the goats needed grass that still grew green and thick under the alders so Odette let them wander. She was not very attentive to the goats. She had one thing in mind, finding Ghislain.
And then, with a shock of recognition, near the tree where she’d found him months before, there he was. He lay on his side, his great coat wrapped around him, clutching a wooden staff. She crouched beside him quietly. His eyes were closed, his head resting on his arm. Was he asleep— or? She raised her eyes to the sky, sending up a prayer. When she looked down at his kind face again, his eyes looked up at her.
She couldn’t speak for a moment. He reached out with a trembling hand and she grasped it tightly. “Are you all right?”
“Help me up,” he said in a weak voice.
She helped him sit up, leaning against the tree. He looked exhausted. “Have you eaten? Do you have water?”
“Until yesterday,” he said. “Or the day before.”
“Wait here. I will fetch you something.”
She began to rise and he caught her hand again. His face contorted. “Don’t leave me.”
“You must have food. I will return very soon. I will leave my goats here to protect you.”
Odette brought back a hunk of cheese, two apples, and a bucket of water. No one on the farm looked at her twice. She walked slowly through the yard, then broke into a run when she neared the woods. She raised the pail to Ghislain's lips and let him drink. After he had eaten the apples and the cheese and quenched his thirst, she sat back and looked him over.
He was wearing both his fine leather boots, and the same clothes he’d worn the first time she’d seen him at the Count’s chateau, the green jacket and the white starched shirt now filthy with road grime. His dark trousers were torn and dirty. No wound was visible.
He closed his eyes again, leaning his head against the tree trunk. She let him doze. When he opened his eyes again they looked brighter, the brilliant blue she remembered.
“What are you doing here, Ghislain?” she asked quietly. “What happened?”
“They came for the Count. You know he is a friend of Robespierre?” She nodded. “An angry mob arrived late one night with torches, ready to burn the rest of the chateau. They accused him of harboring royalists and being a traitor to the Republic. I know, it makes no sense but in these times, nothing makes sense.”
“But I didn’t hear— did they take the Count away? Did they take him to the guillotine?”
Ghislain shook his head. “He talked them out of it. At least for now. All the nobles will suffer, that is a certainty. He will lose his land to the people, and who am I to say he shouldn’t? But he was good to me. He helped me as much as he could, to mend and be well.”
“The Count told you to leave?”
“He was a friend but now I am a liability. I had to go. Being his friend was not going to help me in the end.”
She glanced at his leg. “How are you mending?”
“It was bad for awhile, Mademoiselle Odette. Before you came to see me last a contamination set in. Fevers, chills, the wound was poisoned. The people there, the Count’s people, they worked hard and pulled me through. It is better but not healed.”
“There is a story going round that you lost your foot.”
He grinned then and Odette felt her heart lift. “Feel it.” He wiggled toes in both boots. “Go ahead.” She squeezed the toes of each of his boots.
“I am so happy for you.” They stared at each other for a moment. In that pause in conversation she knew she wouldn’t go back to her garret in the Daguerre farm, ton
ight or any other night.
Odette took her goats back at the usual time and ate her soup in silence with the maids. Everyone was quiet tonight, no gossip and chatter. Someone said that the wheat prices were good but only because there was so little wheat. The domestic help knew nothing of grain prices so that ended the conversation. When Margot got up to leave Odette followed her outside.
“Helping with the evening milking, are ya? Can’t get enough of the teats?” Margot said, tucking her hair under her cap while striding toward the milking shed.
“Wait,” Odette said, taking her arm. She dragged Margot into the barn. “I found him.”
Margot held up her hands. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of. Do not tell me, Odette.”
“I want someone to know. I leave tonight.”
“Again.” Margot put her fingers in her ears. “I don’t have any idea who took the horse.”
Odette blinked, glancing behind her at the stalls. A small black horse had his head out over the gate, nickering at them. She jerked her head toward him. “Yes?”
Margot bit her lip. “I must go.” She hugged Odette. “Blessings and godspeed.”
The moon had not yet risen when Odette led the black horse out of the back of the barn, through the sheds and the orchard, and into the woods. She picked up windfall apples, stuffing them in the feed sack she’d purloined. How long could one live on apples? They may have to find out.
Ghislain was standing when she returned, holding onto the tree. He had heard the horse coming and was ready for a fight. When he saw Odette he groaned and fell into her, holding her tight. She stiffened, unaccustomed to so much hugging. Then Ghislain let her go, mumbling apologies, embarrassed. He tugged his forelock. She pulled him back to her. It wasn’t her first kiss but it was the first one that meant something. The first with a promise.
“Can you mount the horse? He is not so large and they say very gentle.”
Odette led the horse to a fallen log and with help Ghislain stepped onto it then swung up on the horse. There was no saddle, only a bridle and a blanket, but he declared it fine.
“He’s a good one, Mademoiselle Odette,” he said, stroking the horse’s neck. “He will carry us far. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. What would you call him?”
He reached for Odette’s hand on the reins. “Chanceux? Because tonight I am the luckiest man.”
Epilogue
The holidays came hard and fast upon Merle Bennett, as usual. No matter where she was or what she was doing, she was never truly prepared and often in a state of panic. This year in particular everything was chaos. Reining in the mayhem took every ounce of her prodigious planning abilities.
The email that she eventually sent to Lillian Warshowski was not too hard to write. She simply turned in her resignation. She hadn’t been getting paid these last few months anyway. Her vacation days had run out weeks ago. Merle hadn’t figured out what she’d do for income yet but her sister Annie was starting a new consulting business and they’d been discussing working together. Nothing could be better than working with her favorite sister.
Merle and Pascal would return to the States for two or three weeks. She wanted a specific return date but he convinced her to be flexible. She might want to stay longer, get her house in order, put things in storage, find a renter, do whatever it might take to make the transition less stressful. Tristan might need her. Her parents might demand her time.
He was right as usual. But before they left she wanted to visit Irene Fayette. It was frosty in the hills of the Dordogne, with mistletoe growing in balls high in trees and holly sporting red berries. Pascal needed to arrange some work to be done on his cottage as well, to get it ready for use as a rental. He already had several reservations for later in the spring. So, they traveled south to the hamlet on the hilltop a few days before they were scheduled to fly west.
Irene had told them Louise was going to be home for the holidays so they weren’t surprised to see three cars in front of the low-slung stucco farmhouse. They parked Pascal’s green BMW, recovered and running like a top but in need of a new glove box, in the dry grass and knocked on the door.
Louise greeted them warmly, giving them air kisses and thanking Merle profusely for all her help this year. Irene was getting around very well now with only a slight limp, hardly noticeable. They found her in the kitchen, cooking as usual. The smells of garlic and butter filled the air.
“And look who else is here,” Louise said.
Jacques, Irene’s elderly cousin with the mischievous smile, raised his beret in greeting. “Bonjour! Joyeux Noël!”
Irene, dressed in Christmas red, turned from the range and gave everyone hugs. Her cousin, she told them, had come to live with her. There was no point in him getting lost again. He was good company and a little help around the chèverie even if she didn’t let him drive farther than the goat shed. He had found her someone to milk the goats, and another person to sell cheese at markets. He had many friends.
Pascal was pressed into telling his story of abduction and rescue over a not-so-simple lunch of hachis parmentier, a sort of delicious shepherd’s pie with layers of mashed potatoes and lamb, served with crusty baguettes and olive tapenade. Wine flowed, as is the French way, then came the crème brulée for a sweet finish. Jacques told his tale of survival by goat cheese as well. Everyone enjoyed the drama and offered many compliments for the chef.
As they left Merle brought out a print-out of Odette and the Great Fear, loose pages wrapped in a rubber band. She pressed the stack on Louise and asked her to translate it for Irene.
“Nothing fancy, just in front of the fire some night, tell her the story.”
Louise’s eyes widened. “You wrote this?”
“There are goats involved,” Merle said. “And a handsome stranger.”
Louise pressed it to her chest. “I will do my best, Merle. Thank you for the honor. My mother will love it.”
In the car as they buckled themselves in the seat belts and waved to Irene and Louise on the porch, Pascal said, “What a meal, mon Dieu. So delicious. She did us such a courtesy. It was like my mother’s cuisine, full of love and respect. You know what this means. These are your people now.” He touched her shoulder. “Our people, blackbird.”
Merle smiled. “Our people. I like the sound of that.”
Read the next Bennett Sisters Mystery
Blame it on Paris
Chapter One
Paris
The sky hung gray and low over Pont Neuf. No twinkling sunshine on the thousands of padlocks attached like barnacles to railings on one end of the bridge. Just the oppressive dark of winter. Francie frowned at the romantic display of the so-called locks of love, more crass in person than she imagined. How did defiling a historic old bridge make love last, lock troubles out of your heart? Were the French so naïve? She wished she had some wire-cutters in her bag.
Her sister Merle stood next to her, an orange scarf blowing in the breeze off the Seine— rather foul today— looking for all the world like a Frenchwoman. Francie had bought a new red trench coat for Paris. Redheads— or strawberry blond as she preferred— weren’t supposed to wear red but she loved it, the vibrancy of vivid color spoke to her. But it was her older sister who looked the part of the chic sophisticate. Why do I always try too hard, she mused. A real Frenchwoman would simply embody savoir faire.
“What is it?” Merle asked. She always knew when you were annoyed, or blue.
Francie gave her a smile. “You look like a real Parisienne.”
Merle chuckled. “It’s the scarf. And the messy hair.” Francie agreed amiably. “No, really. What is it?” her sister demanded.
Francie thought of shrugging it off, the way she did most problems. She was strong and capable. She could deal with things; she didn’t need to burden her sisters. But the sudden trip to France was already hanging in the ether, the question of why now. It was late March, hardly the most delightful time in Paris. It was ra
iny and cold. The flowers were still a wish. The trees were struggling to break out of winter’s doldrums. Maybe that’s all her problems were— winter blues. Cabin fever.
But no. She slumped against the railing, clanging the love locks. It was more than just the winter.
Merle nudged her. “Come on. Tell me.”
“Office politics. Boring stuff.” Francie kept her eyes on the river.
“Out with it,” Merle demanded.
Francie took a deep breath. “So Old Ward had a stroke. You heard about that?”
“No! He was a good old boy, wasn’t he? The last of the originals?”
“The other one, Bailee, retired a few years ago. There’s some new partners. Two golfing buddies, typical Rotary Club types but good guys, good lawyers. Plus Brenda McFall. You remember her? She hired me.”
“Of course. Brenda’s great.” Merle glanced at Francie. “Is she still great?”
“Absolutely. She helped me with the promotion which has been good, more money and all that.” She paused. “Managing the junior associates is a real pain in the ass though.”
They watched the couples walking along the bridge, arm in arm. Merle had her Frenchman, Pascal. They could legitimately put a lock of love on the bridge. But who did Francie have? She shook off the feeling. She’d never been one for negative thoughts. There just wasn’t the energy, or the time.
“Managing partner is a big deal.”
“Assistant managing partner.”
Merle nodded but she wasn’t giving up. “So that’s it?”
“There are some problem children. They’ve gotten under my skin. Real hand-holding cases. If there’s anything I can’t stand it’s an associate who has to be told and shown everything, point by point, step by step, ad nauseam.” She glanced at Merle. “So I decided to take a little time off and wash off the stink. That’s all.”
Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6 Page 25