Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6

by Lise McClendon

  The next days went by in a whirlwind. The household servants were in a dither about the unconscious man, speculating about him, making up tales. Odette still had to milk her goats, get the milk to market or deliver it to Madame Daguerre’s oldest daughter who made the cheese at her own farm down the road, plus take the goats out to graze. Madame declared herself chief nurse to the man they simply called ‘L’Étranger,’ the stranger. They asked his name several times while his eyes were open but he was out of his head with fever.

  Between milking chores Odette tried to help with the nursing but Madame was protective, only allowing the girls to do minor cleaning chores around him. On the third day, in the night sometime, the man’s fever broke. The kitchen was deserted except for the Stranger. His eyes were clear as she arrived after morning’s milking to wash at the pump. She turned to him, drying her hands, and was surprised to see him eyeing her back. His eyes, she couldn’t help noticing, were an intense dark blue.

  “You look better,” she said, smiling. His skin had color again. “Feel better?”

  He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the kitchen with its smoky fireplace, whitewashed stone walls, and small, leaded windows. It was a pretty space to Odette, although rough. She wondered what he thought of it. Was he used to something more grand?

  “Where am I?” he said, his voice scratchy from disuse. “Where is this?”

  She named the village. “You’re in Périgord, monsieur. Is that where you were headed?”

  He flopped back on the cot as if disgusted with the countryside, or just Périgord, then threw back the blanket covering his injured leg. He poked at the bandage experimentally.

  “It was a bad wound. Madame Daguerre, the farmer’s wife, treated it with various pastes and poultices.”

  He wiggled his toes, poked some more, and covered his leg again, seemingly satisfied with the shape of his wound. “And who are you, mademoiselle?”

  “My name is Odette. I too came down from the north, escaping the violence.” He glared at her accusingly. Why did she think he was like her? She was a stranger too, a foreigner from the city who didn’t belong here, who had memories from terrible times. Did he not remember her wheeling him out of the woods into shelter? Of course he didn’t.

  “Pardon, monsieur. I make too many assumptions.”

  She turned away, folding the hand towel over the edge of the sink. Now that the man was cleaned up, his face washed, his chin shaved, his hair combed and tied back with one of Perrine’s blue ribbons, now that he was awake and alive, his eyes seemed too bold to Odette.

  “You’re correct. I did come from the north,” he said finally, without detail, she noticed.

  “And what is your name, monsieur? You have been with us four days and we know not your name.”

  “My name is Ghislain. That is all I can say.”

  “And why is that?”

  He smiled. “Because you have only given me your first name.”

  For a man only recently out of his wits he had gotten them back quickly. That smile was too charming after days of fever. Odette began to wonder about him more particularly. How old was he? Impossible to say. He was tall and, if not for his injury, no doubt hale and hearty. His shoulders looked very strong. She offered him soup and bread and helped him sit up on the cot to eat it. He ate it hungrily and asked for more. When he was done she took his bowl.

  “Did you make that yourself, Mademoiselle Odette?” he asked, lying back again, eyes closing. “That delicious stew?”

  She took the dishes to the sink. “No, monsieur. I am the goat girl. I herd and milk the goats. I do not cook. Of course I know how to cook—”

  But he was asleep again, snoring, his hands laced over his blue coat. She adjusted his blanket. His eyelids were bluish and delicate, papery thin, a dark beard growing back on his chin. She watched his chest rise and fall, like clockwork, reassuringly. He was not hard to look at, she mused.

  In another time, another place— well, no spilt milk, ma petite. She turned away from him so not to tempt her daydreams. This was the time they had. If the last few years had taught her anything, it was that this moment, this present time, could be all anyone had on this earth.

  At supper that night the whole staff of the farm, some nine or ten of them, talked to and about Ghislain, exclaimed over his recovery, joked and poked him, and generally treated him like a curiosity, something from a traveling show. He seemed to enjoy the attention, charming the women, but offered few details of his journey except to say that there was much fighting in the streets of Paris, street by street, block by block. This was not news. They were all aware of the chaos in the city. The news sheets had been full of it, even though they were weeks or months old by the time they reached Périgord.

  No one, not even Perrine who tried with all her might, could get Ghislain to tell about his part in the fighting, or how he ended up in their fruit store with a hole in his leg. Was he a partisan? Was he a royalist? Was he a noble? Was he brave? Where was his sword? Did he kill the other man? Did he lose his horse somewhere? What sort of hat did he wear? The questions went from serious to ridiculous. Did he crawl into their fruit store? Where had he been previously? How long was he there? Odette stayed silent. He didn’t remember her part anyway.

  Too painful to recollect, he repeated when asked of his travels and travails. His wound was also off-limits as a topic of discussion. Madame Daguerre demanded he tell her if it was a knife or a musket ball or the horn of a cow or a sword blade or a pitchfork. He did not, would not answer. This made the Madame a bit angry. After all, she had worked hard to nurse him back to health and felt she deserved answers, a juicy bit of story to explain her saintly sacrifice to her friends, to burnish her nursing reputation, to make both of them a little heroic.

  But he said nothing. That made Madame curious. Her eyes narrowed as she walked away from him that night, hands on her hips. Odette could see her mind whirling: he is a fugitive, a criminal, a deserter. Someone with something to hide. Even a murderer on the run.

  And perhaps he was. It was not up to Odette to say.

  But the next morning when she got up in the dark, made her way out of her hard bed under the rafters, stepped down the many stairs, tossed the piss-pot outside, pushed through the kitchen and out toward the milking shed, glancing where he slept, Odette knew one thing about Ghislain, her stranger.

  That he was gone.

  SIX

  Market day was always a cause for celebration in the countryside, as the daily routine was broken by social interaction and a chance for flirting and gossip in the village. Since the Revolution the market in the Périgord village near where Odette had landed was on octidi, the eighth day in the new regimen of ten-day cycles called decadi. The old Roman week with its strange gods was no more.

  Every day for the entire year had a new name on the Republican calendar but no one could remember them. It was too much bother. Getting the church out of the calendar was not that welcome in this region either but as part of France there was no choice. There was no longer a Sunday for mass, or a priest either.

  At the octidi market, the second in the month of Fructidor, the giving of fruit, the fruits of the land were plentiful. The stalls were full of apples and pears, walnuts and strange nuts Odette had never seen. There were vegetables from large gardens in the region as well: broccoli, tomatoes, aubergines, celery, potatoes and other exotic specimens that had begun to be grown in France.

  The rumors were that the market would be bleak, because of the unseasonably cool summer weather. But someone had done well enough somewhere because the market bustled, a block of stalls in front of the village church with full wagons and aggressive barkers. Lettuce appeared to be a beneficiary of the cool summer and was available at many stalls.

  Odette had volunteered repeatedly to work at the market but this was the first time she’d been chosen. Her two months in Périgord had come and gone and now autumn was upon the hills. She arranged the goat cheese in the ce
ramic pots and covered them with a linen cloth to keep the flies off. Beside her stood Perrine, scrubbed and curled as she never was around the farmhouse. She was a pretty girl but vacuous, in Odette’s opinion. She intended to ignore the girl today.

  Business was brisk for a few hours. Mid-morning, everyone went off for a cup of something. Odette wondered if anyone had real tea, or even coffee, here at the market. She couldn’t see anyone selling imported goods. The turmoil in Paris, at the seaports, at the borders, had shut down commerce. She hitched herself up into the back of the wagon and sighed. She would have killed for a cup of real coffee. Memories of the petit noir, the little black cup, from the vendors in St-Germain almost killed her with longing.

  Perrine spent much of the market time whispering and giggling with other girls. She had grown up here and knew almost everyone. There was a lull when her friends wandered away and she turned to face Odette.

  “They tell me the grapes are dying,” Perrine said. “They look fine then they fall off the vine when you touch them.” She sighed. “Another bad harvest.”

  “No wine for you,” Odette said. Perrine wrinkled her nose and turned away.

  “You wouldn’t know because you don’t live here but my father works the vines for the Count,” the girl said. “He’s very important.”

  “Excellent. Then you will have wine after all.”

  Perrine pretended not to hear. “My father’s vines are not doing badly. He told me himself.” She squinted at the sky. “I hope it doesn’t rain more though. The storm hurt the grapes.”

  Odette had told none but Margot about being in the Count’s vineyard, and his kitchen. She folded her arms silently.

  “My little cousin works in the château, you know,” Perrine rattled on importantly. “Her mother was a favorite of the old Count. I wish I worked in the château.”

  “Why?”

  “The food, of course. There are rumors of tall cakes with sugar icing, and flavored ices. Can you imagine?”

  “It’s not good to dream like that, Perrine.” Odette had dreams of food like everyone else. Occasionally she would wake up licking her lips, tasting a macaron as plain as life. It was painful.

  Perrine continued, “I dream about dates. They say the dates grow in the south, near Spain. Do you think they do?”

  “I’m sure. When you grow up you can go on a mission to find date palms.”

  “When I grow up?” Perrine laughed. “I am fully-grown, Odette.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen. I will be married before you, mark my word. I was told I would marry at seventeen.”

  Odette blinked; she was seventeen. Maybe she looked older. The revolution had taken years off her life, no doubt. She waited for Perrine to ask her age but she meandered on, talking to and about herself, as if everyone was fascinated with her.

  During a pause Odette asked, “And who will you marry, pray tell?”

  “A soldier. Like Monsieur Ghislain, someone tall and brave and strong.”

  Odette blinked, glancing at Perrine. Was the girl saying she knew something more about the handsome stranger?

  “Oh, was he a soldier?”

  “Of course he was. You saw his boots.”

  “My dear flower, those are just riding boots. Many men wear them.”

  “Well, he must have been a soldier. How else would he get wounded?”

  This required no answer. The ways to injure oneself were myriad. “Where do you think he went?”

  Perrine’s eyebrows twitched in delight. “Some say to the sea. Others say to the mountains. No one thinks he went back to the Army or to Paris.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of the stories he told. He must be a deserter. He may be handsome but a bad soldier. A coward.” Perrine inched closer, a smirk on her pretty face. “Where do you think he went?” Odette hitched her shoulders. “Will you go look for him, Odette? Hmmmm?”

  Odette threw her a look of contempt and the girl shrieked with laughter, gaining the attention of three old women and a farmer selling mushrooms.

  “I am not going anywhere,” Odette said quietly. And meant it, in her way.

  SEVEN

  The goats were docile on the day Odette prodded them up the hill toward the château. She had a desire to see it again, to see if her memory of the rainy day was accurate or she was having strange dreams of shadowy spaces for nothing. And then there was the Count himself, with that nasty scar on his face. It was intriguing to think of him in duels at royal estates, even if it was something more mundane that had maimed him. She thought she wanted to know what had happened, but maybe she didn’t. She was still a bit afraid of le comte. Everyone in the village feared him. His temper was said to be vicious.

  Odette trudged up the hill, holding her skirt up to keep it out of the mud. Since the rainstorm she’d learned a few more things about the Count. At the octidi market she’d spoken to Estelle who sold eggs. The current Count was the son of the old Count but he didn’t really like being a noble. He wanted to do something worthwhile to help society so he had gone to Paris and joined his friends at the Commune after the storming of the Bastille. He knew many fancy people, it was said with awe. Odette had no use for the elites, even the ones who were now crafting the new republic out of thin air. Their hearts might have once been pure but time had passed and they were different now.

  Was the Count like that, she wondered, poking a bush with her stick and knocking off the last of autumn’s orange leaves. She paused to admire their color against the black earth. If she were an artist she would paint them, so bright and tiny and perfect. But she was not an artist nor was she likely to become one. Her future was murky. She couldn’t stay on as the goat girl forever. It couldn’t last. As kind as Monsieur and Madame were, she didn’t really belong here. She would always be an outsider.

  At the top of the hill she stopped, rounding up her goats for a chomp on the grass. Was this the Count’s land? The villagers said the old Count tried to keep them off it for many years, or make them pay a tax to graze their animals. But the top of any hill should belong to the people. It should be for everyone, to let their spirits soar. Let the nobles have the bottoms where the rich soil grew plump grapes and golden wheat. The people would take the high ground.

  She sat down on a log under a withered tree and shut her eyes for a moment. Sleep was a luxury on the farm. There was never enough of it. Always more work waited. She felt the sunshine on her face and smiled. Where was Ghislain then? How far had he gotten on that bad leg? Had he jumped in a wagon and disappeared forever?

  She felt, deep down, that he would be back. She wanted him to heal and come back for her. It was a wild, ridiculous thought but she was still a girl, despite all her troubles.

  A shadow crossed her face, taking away the warmth of the sun. She blinked and opened her eyes. A tall man stood over her, staring. The silhouette of him against the sun, his hat, his long coat— she stiffened, startled, struggling to her feet. She tugged at her skirt and curtsied.

  “Monsieur le Comte,” she stuttered.

  Now that she was standing she could see his face better, that horrid scar on his cheek, dragging down one eyelid. He had no expression, not anger or revulsion or haughty disregard. Still she wondered again if she’d trespassed on his land improperly.

  He said nothing, just nodded at her. He was not even middle-aged, she realized, examining his good side that was smooth with youth. He turned slightly to hide his bad side, something he probably did unconsciously.

  “Pardon, monsieur. I am from the Daguerre farm. I do not know the hills so well. Am I in the wrong place with the goats?”

  “I remember you,” he said quietly, staring at her in an intense, uncomfortable way. “That day in the rain.”

  “Yessir. Thank you again for allowing me shelter. It was most kind.”

  He waved a hand impatiently. He glanced at her black and white goats, back to her, and stalked off down the hill, his hands thrust into his pockets.r />
  What an odd man. A sad one as well. The villagers all hated him, thought him ugly, a monster of sorts, someone who demanded outrageous rents and taxes they couldn’t pay. They considered that he had probably done something sinful, something against God Himself, to get that scar.

  Odette didn’t think he was a bad person. Anyone could get a wound under the right circumstances. He probably was in a glorious battle of some kind. You shouldn’t judge someone by their outward scars, should you? But she never argued with the villagers. They were gossips like all country people. All French people, to be sure.

  It was a week later, in the village, that she learned something more about le comte. She had taken the goats milk to Madame’s daughter who lived on the edge of the cottages. Her daughter was older than Odette but not so much. She had two small children and kept bees for honey and made cheese for her mother. She was pale with blonde hair and looked very tired to Odette, like she was happy to have an excuse to sit for a moment. She offered Odette a small piece of bread with cheese and they sat outside on stumps.

  Madame’s daughter relayed the latest gossip, as was expected. A story was circulating that the Count was harboring a thief, a deserter, a man wanted by the Army. The villagers also feared the Army. The government was conscripting any able-bodied man, and some who were barely old enough to leave their mothers. The Army was preparing for war on all fronts, with all comers. The hated Army together with the hated Count: it was the perfect rumor.

  Could it be Ghislain? Odette ate her bread and said goodbye, heading out into the street again. As she did Estelle, the egg vendor, approached her excitedly.

  She had heard the same news. A few more details though. Estelle, a tall, wiry girl in a shift dotted with pin feathers, knew someone who knew someone who’d seen the deserter at the Count’s château, eating in the kitchen. He was handsome, Estelle declared, but very bad. He had left his fellow soldiers to die alone, undefended. It was a travesty. Odette’s heart thumped. Why was the Count helping a deserter? Or a thief or both? Could it be Ghislain?