Merle was squinting at her, unconvinced, but she didn’t ask again. Five asks must be her limit. Francie straightened, glad the interrogation was over. She just wanted to enjoy Paris. She hadn’t been here twenty-four hours yet. To the left was the tip of the little island that was the ancient center of the city, Île de la Cité. She thought she made out the white blush of a blooming tree and took it as a positive sign. Spring was coming.
“Shall we walk along the river?” Merle asked. They were near the stone steps to the walkway below. Francie glanced down. She wasn’t wearing the best shoes for cobblestones. As she hesitated, peering over the stone balustrade, she saw a man on the sidewalk, next to a green bookseller’s stand. He was staring at them. She blinked and looked away.
Weird but— “Sure, why not.”
They walked toward the steps. When they reached the sidewalk, Francie looked up again. The man was still there. And still staring, hands in his jacket pockets. He looked familiar. Francie grabbed Merle’s arm.
“Wait.” She turned her sister toward her. “You see that guy? Staring at us? Don’t look. You see him?”
“How can I see him if I don’t look?” Merle whispered.
“Just a glance then.”
Merle flicked her eyes over Francie’s shoulder. “Which guy?” she whispered.
“Dark hair, glasses, leather jacket, jeans. Ogling us.”
Merle pushed back her hair and took another look. “Oh, the ogler. How rude. Do you have a stalker? Is that why you came to Paris?”
Francie smiled. “No, silly. That’s— I think that’s Dylan Hardy. From law school?”
Merle looked skeptical. “Someone you know from home? That’s unlikely. Anyway, who is Dylan Hardy from law school?”
Francie grabbed her sister’s arm and turned them back the way they’d come. “There are stairs on the other side of the bridge, right?”
She hustled her sister back across the street and down the opposite steps. The wide cobbled walkway wasn’t as romantic in the dreary gray light as it looked in movies, no magical glow and white dresses. But it was still lovely, like a walk through history. Except for the rotting banana peels under the bridge.
Merle came to a halt. “Okay, who is Dylan Hardy and why are we avoiding him?”
Francie pouted. “I never mentioned him?” She knew she hadn’t. It was so long ago anyway. Merle put her hands on her hips impatiently. “So, you remember Annie’s short engagement during law school? The one she never told us about?”
Merle’s eyes widened. “You were engaged to Dylan Hardy?”
“Not quite.” She shrugged and looked at the dirty water of the Seine rushing by. “Almost but no. It was around the time you were pregnant with Tristan. A long time ago.”
“Eighteen years, give or take.”
“We dated during second year. Some of third. It got pretty— intense.”
“Too intense?”
“For me, yes. He was fantastic in bed, honestly. Completely focused on— you know, all the right stuff.”
“But—?”
“We were polar opposites.”
Francie looked at her sister, silently begging her to understand why she could have broken up with such a— how to describe Dylan? A decent man. Even though she didn’t really know why she’d broken it off herself. Yes, Dylan Hardy was a good man. He didn’t get the best grades in law school because he had to work nights, paying his own way. But he was honest, solid. Was he too boring for her? Not in bed.
She suddenly felt a little lost. And stupid. God, she was an idiot in her youth.
“In what way?” Merle asked.
“Oh, you know me. Flighty and superficial. A social butterfly. Always the good-time girl.” As she said those words the law firm problems hit her hard. She was too flirty, too nice to everyone, trying to charm everyone, male and female. Why was she so eager for everyone’s good opinion? She was to blame for many of the things that happened. “And he was serious. Intense and serious.”
Merle tipped her head thoughtfully. “You know, he looks a little like Tom. Tall, dark, and handsome. He’s a little gray now though, over the temples.”
Tom Ramey was Francie’s ex-husband, and, although they’d been divorced for ages and he’d died a year ago, Tom was nevertheless the reason she found herself in Paris. She really had to tell Merle all about that.
She sighed. “Maybe I married Tom on the rebound. Or maybe that’s just my type.”
“He’s aged well, Francie,” Merle whispered, looking over her shoulder. Francie straightened and spun around. Dylan Hardy stood a few feet behind her.
He stared into her eyes, causing her to be momentarily speechless, an odd feeling for Francie. She always had something to say.
“Bennett,” he said in his low, musical voice. “I thought that was you.”
BUY IT NOW
Blame it on Paris
Volume Two
ODETTE AND THE GREAT FEAR
Contents
Odette and the Great Fear
Preface
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
Epilogue
A Little about France
About the authors
Also in this series
Also by Lise McClendon
Keep in Touch
Acknowledgments
Also by Lise McClendon
About the Author
Odette and the Great Fear
The Complete Story
a novel of the
French Revolution
a Bennett Sisters
Mysteries Bonus
© 2017 by Lise McClendon
All rights reserved
Sometimes on a barren rock I meet
A sweet thing -
fifteen, blue eyes, barefoot goat herd
She lives deep in the blackest clef
In an old thatched house that lights the sky at night.
I still can hear, however far away,
The sweet goat herd’s song from
The valley’s working day.
Victor Hugo
ONE
Somewhere in Périgord
As they rounded the hillside, the fifteen goats in their patchy black and white coats, bells jingling around their necks, Odette felt her stomach clench. She doubled over in pain. She had been hungry so long. Her insides had shrunk to nothing and her clothes hung on her like sacks.
Now she had food. Bread even, a miracle. She patted the parcel slung across her shoulders, the hunk of hard bread, the bruised apple, the bit of cheese. It was a miracle, this food, but one her stomach wasn’t prepared for. Her body had prepared for the end, for starvation, for no more sustenance. Shutting down the juices, she called it. When food came again, so unexpectedly, her body didn’t know what to do.
But her mind did: Drink some water from the goatskin. She obeyed her mind, hoping the pains would go away soon. She’d been in southwest France now for two months, after the long and dangerous journey from Paris. Along the way she’d seen so much deprivation: dead children, slaughtered animals, wandering women out of their minds, men in fancy silks chased by peasants with pitchforks. She tried not to think of it. Instead she concentrated on the kindness of the family who had taken her in, given her work. They gave her food and a reason to keep living.
The day had begun warm and breezy. Autumn was coming but slowly. She poked her staff into the dirt under the oak tree. She wished she knew how to find the famed truffles under the ground, or had a pig to do the digging. How did the pigs smell through all that dirt? It was a mystery.
Not much sustenance in a stinky truffle but some silver perhaps. She had exactly two sous to
her name, sewn into her skirt hem. Once, with her family in Paris, there had been plenty of food and even money for sweets. Her father knew a sugar importer but the man had disappeared, arrested and sent to prison by the revolutionaries. Her father was also a merchant, had been forced to house so many rebels in their modest townhouse that the brigands stole or broke everything of value. He and Odette’s mother had fled to the north, to the coast, where it was said one could subsist on fish and pears.
She tapped the upturned tails of the goats, moving them around the hill. Why had she not gone with them? She missed her parents but it was time. She was grown now. Everything was changing in Paris. Life would never be the same. She begged to stay behind and then that decision turned against her.
Below the hill were vineyards already yellowing with autumn. The harvest was poor, she’d been told. The weather had been odd since the mountain unexpectedly blew up in Iceland, a volcano sending ash and clouds to cover the usual sunshine. Although years had passed, the countryside had still not recovered. The weather had changed. Wheat had withered and died. Odette had heard of people eating potatoes but the idea was ridiculous. Bread was the engine that ran France. For bread, wheat was necessary.
Then came the Great Fear. The people of Paris became hungry, then alarmed. The nobles were trying to starve them out, hoarding wheat or burning it so that the paysans, the common man, would die of starvation. Would not have the strength to rise up in anger. Was it true? She didn’t know but it didn’t matter. The panic seized them all.
Odette had marched with the other women to Versailles, to tell the King to stop the nobles’ evil plan. It took them two long days to walk from Paris. At first they had been full of indignation and fury. Then they were hungry and their feet were bleeding. After delivering their message to the King at the magnificent palace they still had to walk home.
She looked down at her feet now, in the yellow grass on the hillside. Her shoes had worn through four times as she walked south. She lined them with paper, strapped them with twine. Finally they fell completely apart. These boots were a gift from the family who had rescued her. They were too small and pinched her toes but she didn’t complain.
Paris seemed so far away. Occasionally a tax collector would come to the village and give them news of events there. But mostly they lived out their country lives like they had for generations here, raising chickens, picking fruit, milking goats. It was both a blessing and a curse to be so far from Paris. Country people could be so insular, so ignorant of events that would overtake them if they weren’t careful.
She looked at the sky. It was later than she thought, she must have been daydreaming again. A dark cloud was headed for her hill, and it wasn’t far away. A gust of wind smelled like rain. The goats jerked their heads up in alarm. Two suddenly bolted down the hill, causing the others to panic and follow. Odette swore, calling to them to stop as she ran after them.
Goats did not like to follow orders. This was something she’d learned in the last two months. Through the vineyard rows she ran after them. They split up, going in several directions, bleating loudly. The hill flattened out for awhile then dipped down again. The goats disappeared over the edge, kicking up their heels in the chase.
The heavens opened: a hard, cold rain falling. Bits of ice mixed with raindrops. They pelted her arms, her head. Odette had never heard of ice falling from clouds before. Damn Iceland! She felt sure it was the end of the world.
Through the rain she saw the old château ahead. It was rumored to be vacant, that le comte — the Count— or his son or someone had gone to Paris for the revolution and never returned. The peasants wanted his property, that was evident. They wanted him to be sent to the gallows or whatever new death sentence the rebels dreamed up. The guillotine, that was it. They hoped he was now head-less and they could take his land. It wasn’t an original idea.
She ran under an arch, a carriage porte of some sort, huge stone thing. She had to huddle against the main wall of the château, in the door frame, to get out of the rain. It slanted in with such velocity, kicking up pebbles and ice. She was drenched to the skin, shivering.
And the goats were lost.
Oh, mon Dieu! How would she explain this? She had to find the goats. But in this rain? This strange icy storm of autumn?
She took strong breaths to calm herself. The shivering continued. She wrung out her skirt hem and her cuffs. Then, without warning, the door she was leaning against opened, sending her tumbling backwards into the château.
TWO
Odette fell to the floor with a wet floc. The jarring thud of landing on hard stone flags resonated up her spine, rendering her momentarily senseless. Her soaked dress clung to her legs. She cried out then stifled herself. Someone was looming over her.
A tall man shut the door as she scooted backwards, away from him. She struggled to her feet, pressing down her hem.
“Pardon, monsieur. Il pleut beaucoup.” The rain was not her fault.
The man who had opened the door didn’t face her, keeping one hand on the massive iron latch. He muttered that, yes, it was definitely a big storm and that she could sit in the kitchen until it passed. He glanced sideways at her soaked attire, then at her face. He dipped his chin and motioned her to follow him as he stepped away, down the service hall.
The kitchen was large and medieval with an open hearth, baskets of produce, and four or five servants scurrying around, preparing meals. The tall man commanded their attention without a word. They paused in their work.
“This is—“ He glanced at her quickly.
“Odette, monsieur,” she said with a quick curtesy.
“Mademoiselle Odette. Find her a chair by the fire so she can dry herself.” The man, obviously the lord of the manor, spun on his heel and disappeared back into the hall.
An older woman stepped forward and led Odette to a low stool by the hearth where a few coals still glowed. The woman handed her an iron poker. “Stir it a bit, dear.” Then everyone went back to their tasks, rolling pastries, washing dishes, laying out plates, and other chores of the scullery.
It surprised her that so many people worked in the château. The rumors were numerous and varied, that the Count was dead, the estate was abandoned, the Army was living here, only ghosts lived here. But unless she was hallucinating at least six people lived here, flesh and blood people. These five in the scullery plus the tall man.
She was curious about them but they ignored her, busy with their chores as dinner loomed. She should get home. She turned to the window to see rain and ice still pelting the wavy glass panes. She inched closer to the fire, trying to dry her skirt. Finally three of the servants left the kitchen. Immediately a young girl sat down next to the fire with a sigh.
Odette smiled at her. She couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, her limbs gangly and cheeks sunken. But she looked healthy enough, her raven hair pinned up under a scarf. The girl returned the smile and whispered, “Do you live in the village, mademoiselle?”
“No, on a farm near here. I tend the goats.” She sat taller, anxious now for her lost animals. “I should go find them.” She stood up.
The girl stood as well, stepping closer to touch her hand. “I wish I could go with you. You’re lucky to be outside, to have freedom.”
Odette frowned. Was the lord cruel to them? “It’s cold and wet out there,” she said. “Who was the tall man? The lord of the château?”
The girl nodded, her brown eyes wide. “That’s the Count. He’s just been back for a few weeks. Most of us just started working here. The food is good, I shouldn’t complain. But I was tending babies at the church and now I have to wash and wash. It’s so tedious.” She held out her red, roughened hands. “I like babies.”
There would be no schooling for girls here, just like Paris. This one looked smart, and spoke very well. Odette asked, “What’s he like, the Count?”
“He is very somber, possibly he is ill or injured, I wouldn’t know. He walks around just fine. But
I wonder.”
“You wonder what?” Odette could hear footsteps approaching.
The girl’s eyes darted to the hallway and she dashed away, back to her washing. The cook and an older man entered. It wasn’t the Count, someone else, possibly a butler or valet, a short, nasty-looking man in pressed, navy and white livery. They were talking, discussing dinner, when the man stopped and stared at Odette. “What is that?”
“The Count found her outside. She got caught in the storm,” the cook said. She looked like a kindly woman to Odette. Like Mama.
“Merci, madame,” Odette said quickly, inching toward the door. “I must go. Thank you.”
“Here, petite. Take this.” The cook tore off a hunk from a loaf of bread and held it out.
The nasty man grabbed the cook’s arm. “What do you think you’re doing? We don’t condone beggars here.” He glared at Odette. “Be gone, child.”
THREE
The Count stood at the window in his parlor and watched the girl run across the vineyard. She disappeared at the bend in the hill. She would be gathering her charges, the goats, calling them home.
He closed his eyes and willed down the feeling of desperation that passed over him. The days of his childhood were far gone now, when he too could run free and follow the trails, do as he pleased.
Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6 Page 26