Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6

by Lise McClendon

  He checked himself and opened his eyes. He must face reality.

  Laurent Bonfils never intended to come back here. When he heard the villagers had set fire to the château he rejoiced. Someone had made the decision for him. The family pile would burn to the ground and never be spoken of again. Then word came that his men had put out the fire, that only the chapel had burned and that repairs to the main living spaces would be done in weeks.

  That was months ago. He clung to the hope of his estate’s demise while in Paris, trying to make sense of events, of conspiracies and intrigues that spun out of control. His friend, Robespierre, had managed something no one thought possible. He had put a King on trial and established a republic for France, for all people of France. Then, just when things were going well, they shifted. Greed, the thirst for power, the ambitions of small men, all had ruined their dreams.

  Also the thirst for blood. One couldn’t dismiss that, not with the King losing his head and many more as well. And then, the final blow, Robespierre himself. It was time to go. Even if he hated this estate, at least he had a place to come home to when the knives came out.

  He turned back to the room with a sigh, the voice of his steward rising.

  “The portions will be scarce this year, my lord. Half of a normal year.” The steward’s face was grim.

  “Figure it out then, D’Anton. Make it work.” Laurent had no head for business. Never had, never would. Maybe the estate would go to ruin. He didn’t care.

  The steward bowed his way out. As many times as Laurent had told him to stop bowing and scraping, he kept up the charade. It wasn’t worth mentioning yet again.

  The Count of Beaulieu— who did not think of himself as a Count, that was his father— sat down on the chaise to think. What did the future hold here? How was a man to survive with his wits intact? With his head intact? The political climate worsened daily. The newspapers he had expressed to him from Paris told of priests and nobles captured, run off, and worse. Would the villagers here continue their burnings, their vendetta against elites? This part of France was rife with rebellion but also a contingent of royalists like those farther north in Vendée who had been hunted down by the Army. The Périgord was caught between the two factions, hosting feelings on both sides. How it all ended, no one knew.

  If only his older brother had listened to reason. When their father died of typhus both his sons were away. Claude, the eldest and heir, had joined the Army of the King as soon as he was eighteen. Their father hadn’t been pleased with that. The heir should stay at home and learn how to be a good shepherd of the land and estate, how to manage the staff, how to balance the demands of villagers with the needs of the château. How to live in harmony with the land and conserve it for future generations.

  Things were easier for Laurent, at least when he was young. There were few expectations. He could become a soldier like Claude, or a swordsman, or a farmer, or a priest. He could fall in love with a milkmaid, that was the message he’d gotten. He hadn’t much use for vapid young women but he knew he’d marry if he had to. At first he chose the seminary but the priesthood didn’t suit his rebellious nature. Too many rules for the boy who liked to run through the hills barefoot. When the revolution came he left the church for good.

  He considered becoming a sword-for-hire, traveling the world. He enjoyed swashbuckling, the challenge of the blade . He was good, he thought, but perhaps not good enough to survive that way. The blade that came too close had taught him that. When his schoolmate wrote to ask if he could join him in Paris for important business of state, to save France from the tyranny of kings, he went gladly.

  For two years Laurent was part of Robespierre’s circle of councillors, with an ear and a voice in the new Republic. Thrilling days they were. His father died during this time but Laurent did not return to the estate. His brother Claude was called home to inherit, to manage the transition. But before he could return, Claude, still in service to Louis despite massive defections after the Revolution, was killed in a skirmish, somewhere in the west.

  And then they took his friend. Maximilien Robespierre had lost his own head in July of this year. Somehow Laurent had managed to stay out of the limelight, behind the scenes. Enough that he wasn’t put on any lists, so far.

  And so, he was back at home. The last of the family. Now a Count, called as such by all as if to be noblesse was actually a noble endeavor. It was an accident of birth and nothing more.

  Laurent had no idea how to manage an estate that ranged over many hectares and included wheat fields leased out to villagers, vineyards coddled by madmen, sheep tended by loners, and orchards neglected by all. It was too much for one man, even the steward who had been doing it, albeit rather badly, for years. One look at the accounts was enough. If they survived the winter he would rejoice.

  He contemplated leaving for the winter. It would be cold. This rain today had been a portend of damp, chilly days to come. The château was drafty and old. The Spanish coast would be quite pleasant. But what would happen to the estate if he chased the sun?

  He glanced back out the window, his eyes following the path of the girl. What was her name? Odette. A pretty name for a pretty girl. He’d never seen her before in the village but he kept to himself, even there.

  He felt curiously drawn to her. A silly notion. What if—? No, he couldn’t go there. To think about this girl was madness. He would have to marry some daft heiress with money, lots of money, if he was going to save this estate. Did he care about saving it, that was the question.

  Maybe he did, after all.

  He rubbed his eyes impatiently, feeling as always the destruction of one eyelid. Perhaps there was something he could do for the girl. His mind was blank. There was nothing he could do for any of these farmers except keep the estate alive. Without the benevolence of the estate, such as it was, the countryside would suffer. His father had always said as much. They need us as much as we need them, the old man would say.

  As he stood at the chilly window he realized he missed his father. As much as Laurent hated the inheritance, it had been his father’s pride, this estate, and his father’s before him.

  Now the son must figure out how to honor that legacy. If he can.

  FOUR

  The goat sheds smelled a bit rich for a girl from Paris. They were clean enough, they had to be for the milking, but still there were many smelly animals in close proximity.

  Odette was learning to milk the goats, an intense, round-the-clock activity on the farm. The ones she took out to pasture in the hills were the young kids and males. They didn’t have an immediate function to the farmer, Odette’s employer, the Daguerre family. So she was entrusted with their safety. That had gone fairly well, except for rainstorms and getting lost once or twice.

  She hadn’t told the Daguerres that she’d met Le Comte several days before. It still surprised her that a Count would open the door for her as she cowered there during the strange icy rain. He was tall and broad-shouldered but stooped a little like the weight of the world sat on his shoulders. As she left the château she looked up the stairs and saw him standing there, staring down at her. His face gave her a fright. Now she understood why he always faced away from her. He might have been handsome once but now he had a horrible scar.

  It was a long, angry wound that raked one side of his face, from lower eyelid to chin. He seemed self-conscious about it, always turning away. Then, on the stairs, she must have surprised him. He surprised her as well, shocked her really, with that scar. He wasn’t particularly friendly but he did talk to her for a moment before sending her back outside in the rain.

  The only person she’d told about meeting le Comte was Margot, who ran the milking shed. A pleasant, smiling girl, strong and buxom with flaxen hair, who taught Odette everything there was to learn on the farm, Margot had promised to keep her secret. Everyone would want to know that the Count was definitely back from Paris. It wasn’t common knowledge yet, although rumors abounded. If the villagers foun
d out Odette had met him she would be deluged with gossips. He was an important man here, a noble, but hated by some. Odette didn’t mention the scar; Margot didn’t have time for gossip. She needed Odette to learn milking fast because they’d lost another farm worker. He had run off to Spain where he heard things were better. Where he’d got that information was unknown. Armies had amassed there for battle. It wouldn’t be easy for anyone.

  Odette gripped the teats of the goat as she’d been taught. The animal twitched and attempted to get away but she was tethered well. Odette patted her neck and spoke soothingly, the way Margot had taught her. A calm goat is a good producer, she said. Soon Odette was expressing milk into the pail. The rhythmic sound of the liquid hitting the metal was very satisfying. She forgot about the heavy odor of the animals completely.

  After the evening supper Odette stepped out of the kitchen to check on her herd. Just because she was milking in the morning and evening didn’t mean she could neglect her regular responsibilities. She was tired but it was good to be helpful and she didn’t mind the hard work. A ten-year-old boy could tend the goat herd but there wasn’t one available. So many men had been conscripted into the Army or gone to fight with the partisans. Or run off to Spain.

  She walked past the milking shed and the grain store. The summer crops had been a disappointment. At least no nobles had come to confiscate their wheat— yet. There were tales circulating still, of heavy-handed tax collectors and hated elites who either burned the wheat stores to the ground or seized grain from farmers for themselves. Did le Comte do horrible things like that? She had no one to ask.

  The harvest here wouldn’t go to market. There wasn’t enough. They would grind it and make bread for the farm. Odette wished she worked in the kitchen sometimes. She adored making bread with her mother as a child, the texture and sweetness of the dough. But too much bread making was like too much anything, she mused, remembering the young girl in the Count’s kitchen. With repetition it all becomes simply work.

  She reached the gate that led to the pastures. The light was fading and she could only make out a group of six goats in a nearby field. She kept walking, making the little clicking sound that sometimes made them come to her. More often they ignored her but it was worth a try.

  Odette hadn’t heard from her parents in over a year, when she was still in Paris. They wrote from Normandy then but said they would soon move on as there was no work. They didn’t know where she was either as she couldn’t write to them. It was very sad. She’d had one letter from her younger brother who was attending classes in Lyon. Somehow, during all the turmoil, the university kept its doors open and its students fed. It was a blessing. Her brother was so smart. Odette’s heart swelled, thinking of him as a scholar and a thinker. He would be a great man one day. When all this was done, she hoped to go to Lyon. She wanted to see him in action.

  Something moved off to the left by a copse of trees. How could the goats have gotten so far on their tether? They were full of mischief. She headed across the pasture and reached the trees. Shadows were deep here. She paused, peering into the dark.

  “Come here, my pets,” she cooed. “Time to go home.”

  A grunt came from behind a tree, followed by rustling of leaves and a groan. She startled. “Who’s there?”

  “Aidez—“ A voice whispered. “Aidez-moi.”

  Who needed help? Odette couldn’t see anyone in the shadows. She stepped toward the voice. “Where are you?”

  “Ici. Here.”

  She almost stumbled over his leg, outstretched from behind a tree trunk. “Oooh. Pardon.” She leaned down. He was slumped to one side, holding his other leg. “Are you injured?”

  “My leg,” he whispered.

  A cloth was wrapped around his thigh. His face was taut with pain. His long black hair was tangled with leaves. How long had he been out here?

  “I’ll be back in a moment. Stay right here,” she said stupidly. He wasn’t going anywhere. She ran back to the barn, struggling open the heavy door. She found the wheelbarrow tipped up in a corner, righted it, and pushed it outside.

  The old thing was heavy and clumsy to maneuver through the lumpy pasture. Finally she was back at the copse. She left the wheelbarrow and stepped in to the darkness, hoping the man was still alive.

  “Allo? Monsieur?”

  “I am here.” His voice was very weak. “Can you help me? I need water.”

  “We must get you inside. I have the wheelbarrow if you can stand—“

  “No. Not inside. Too many questions.”

  Was he a criminal? Who was he? How had he been injured? Where was he from?

  Those questions, she assumed, the same she had.

  Finally she was able to reassure him that she would only take him to the barn. It was too cold to spend the night outside in his condition. She would bring him food and water to the barn and keep his presence a secret, if that was what he wanted. For some reason he believed her. Maybe he had no choice.

  With her help he rose on his good leg and hopped to the wheelbarrow. He was tall and muscular, easily a foot taller than she was. It was awkward with him draped over her shoulders. She pushed him into the wheelbarrow. He moaned in pain but held on to the sides as she managed to get him back across the pasture, through the gate, and into a little-used fruit store that smelled of fermented plums. It was clean enough and she brought over some hay from the barn for him. Then she went back to the house, let herself in the kitchen, pumped water into a bucket, and stuck a small piece of cheese in her skirt pocket.

  He was asleep, or unconscious, when she returned, his dark hair splayed across his face. It was a handsome face of a man not old but not young either. His hands were black with dirt, the way hers had looked when she walked south. Water was for drinking not washing. She set down the bucket and left the cheese wrapped in a handkerchief. If only she had a blanket. The nights were getting cold. But he was well-dressed in a coat and trousers. His boots of good black leather looked much nicer than her walking-south shoes. She looked at his wound under his hand. Old blood stained the tourniquet around his thigh. Tomorrow, when he was rested, she would see about getting him help with that.

  “Merci, mademoiselle,” he croaked as she stood to go. “Merci.”

  She blinked. His eyes were still shut but his manners were nice enough.

  “Dormez bien,” she said. Sleep well.

  FIVE

  Dawn was breaking over the eastern hills when Odette straightened her back, stretching, and massaged her painful hands. Milking took hand strength she never realized, and obviously never had. Sustained clenching of the fists, the squeezing down of the teats, the endless teats: it was tedious labor, probably why it was usually given to women. She frowned at the goats as she untethered them, one by one, and led each one back out into the pasture to graze. They were slave masters, her goats, demanding creatures.

  She was sitting in the kitchen, nursing a weak cup of milky chicory, warming her sore hands on the cup, when she heard the shouting. One of the farmhands, an older man with a bad limp, was excited about something outside, calling to Monsieur Daguerre, the farmer. Monsieur came at a trot, with another man at his heels.

  Odette went to the window. The three men rounded the goat shed and walked quickly toward another barn. Her heart skipped when she realized they were heading directly to the old fruit store where she had hidden the man. My man, she thought possessively. My patient. What were they going to do with him?

  She threw open the door and ran outside, following the farmer and the others around the milking shed. When she rounded the corner of the weathered fruit store she saw the three of them standing in front of the open door, the very door she’d opened last night. The wheelbarrow sat next to it. She hadn’t put it away last night, it was too dark, too late.

  She pushed aside the third man, someone from the village. He was dressed like an important man. She apologized to him but still moved in front, peeking over the farmer’s shoulder. Why hadn’t she mov
ed the man this morning? First thing, she should have seen to him, brought him more food, moved him somewhere safer. But the goats… the damn goats needed milking.

  The farmer crouched down on his haunches and touched the man’s neck. “He is warm,” he said quietly. “Not dead, Alfred.”

  The man with the limp, Alfred, stepped closer. “Ah, good.”

  “He is injured, monsieur,” Odette said. “Look at his leg.” Perhaps better that they think he wandered in on his own.

  M. Daguerre brushed bits of straw off the man’s leg, exposing the stained bandage. “Come. We must take him into the house. Madame will nurse him.”

  It took the four of them to carry the man across the yard into the house. Odette might have mentioned the wheelbarrow but instead took a leg and brought up the rear. The man didn’t wake. His skin was very pale, almost blue, and he looked like death. But maybe they could warm him up inside and treat his wounds.

  There was much commotion inside the house with the arrival of the unconscious stranger. The house maid, Perrine, was a silly thing but she set about boiling water and taking the man’s filthy boots off. Madame Daguerre found a cot and set it up near the big fireplace, stoking the flames with more logs. The men lifted the patient carefully onto the canvas cot and grimaced at the poor devil. They left, satisfied they had done everything possible for him, even though all they’d done was move him.

  Madame not-too-delicately cut the leg off his trousers, exposing a gaping wound congealed with blood. The treatment of the wound made the man come round, groaning and thrashing in pain. Odette held his shoulders down while Perrine took his feet, letting Madame clean and do whatever it was she did to the wound. It looked like a gunshot to Odette, a round hole similar to the musket ball wounds she saw in Paris. But she kept her speculation to herself.