There was talk of harvests and wheat prices and the collapse of the grapes. The Count of Toulouse mourned the losses of many sheep and a few cows. The lament ran the rest of the page. Ghislain skimmed through it then turned the paper over.
“In these troubled times we must stand together. Soon, I am told, the republicans will come for my vineyards. Yours as well. They will break them up into small parcels and divide them among my children and other citizens. We must not condone this but I cannot see fighting the new governors either. We know where that leads.”
A rant about the wayward nature of justice and beheadings by guillotine filled the rest of that sheet. Ghislain picked up the next.
“And so we must look to the future, clear-eyed and with confidence. In that spirit I have a proposal for you. My youngest daughter, Suzette, is a homely thing and just sixteen. I will not tell you she is a great beauty because I do not make promises I cannot keep. I enclose her governess’s drawing which does her no great favor. Someday, perhaps, she will grow into her looks but at the present she is what you might expect: ill-informed, silly, and talkative. But she will make a good wife to you, if you are so inclined. I have a decent dowry for her, saved these many years from her mother’s family, including a diamond necklace that has been passed down.”
He mentioned a figure here, one Ghislain thought not that grand but perhaps enough for a man with little to recommend himself in attractiveness. It was all very much like selling cattle. She would also get a portion of the vineyards when the time came for dissolution of the estate. The Count of Toulouse ran on about her qualities, mostly negative, but said she was a stout girl, healthy and presumably fertile, although still an untouched flower of course.
Ghislain folded the packet back together and handed it back to Laurent.
“What is your opinion?” le Comte asked.
“Sounds like a fair bargain.” The necklace, he thought, would at least be pretty.
The Count nodded gravely and returned to the window. “If only my mother were still alive to advise me.”
“Have you arranged a meeting with the girl?”
“Not yet.”
“It is not so far to travel, is it?” The Count shook his head. “You should see if there is any compatibility. That would be the first step, I would think.”
Laurent glanced at him, eyebrows drawn. “Does that matter, under the circumstances?”
“Perhaps not. But it would be pleasant, wouldn’t it?”
The Count sighed, putting the letters away. “How long, do you think, before the republic breaks up the estates? Have you heard anything in your travels?”
“No, sir.” He was assuming that Ghislain would be privy to such matters, which he was not. Perhaps le Comte wasn’t as worldly as he appeared. And how had he gotten that horrible scar?
As if reading Ghislain’s mind, the Count said, “And your injury? Your leg improves?”
“It does. Thank you.”
“Then you will come down to supper. I will send my man to help you dress. You are taller than me, but so was my father. The clothes he left are out of fashion—“
“Anything will be very fine to me, Laurent. Merci.”
“Wine at seven then.”
ELEVEN
The skies were dark with rain again, pressing low into the hillsides. Another summer that didn’t live up to the usual heat, another bleak harvest, more rumors of famine, illness, and degradation. The villagers were on edge, sharp-tongued toward each other. Odette tiptoed through them most days, hoping not to cause notice or aggravation.
She had a taken a detour through the village on her way to Madame Daguerre’s daughter’s house with the milk. She sometimes felt so lonely at the farm that she craved the company of anyone, no matter how stupid. It had been a mistake. She felt it as soon as she entered the main street.
The small gathering in the Place de Ville made her hesitant to move past but she put her head down and skirted the people. What were they doing? She could hear a voice above the others, chastising someone. At the far edge of the crowd, holding her can of goat milk close to her chest, she stopped.
A young woman stood in front of the crowd with a large man in a dark coat behind her. Odette craned her neck to see better. She didn’t know the girl who looked close to her own age. The girl’s beautiful face was ashen but her large, blue eyes looked defiant. What had she done? The villagers were prone to citizen justice in these parts. Odette’s stomach clenched. This would not end well.
The man was unknown to her too. He wore dusty working man’s clothes, plain and sturdy, with heavy boots. He stood behind the girl and yanked on her hair, pulling it out of its pins. She had thick hair, glossy and brown. But the man grabbed it, tugging her from side to side menacingly. He sneered at her: “A traitor, that’s what she is. Any tramp that comes through, she sleeps with him for the money. For the food. And now she sleeps with soldiers for the revolution. Men who killed the King, who chopped off his head, who paraded his head around Paris! The scourge of France— the worst sort of Frenchman.”
Odette dropped her chin to hide her expression of outrage and disbelief. She knew that royalists abounded in the countryside, even here in the Périgord, yet she hadn’t known they were so brazen, so open about their beliefs. Surely someone in the crowd will set this bastard right. Someone will tell him that the King had to go so that the people could rule themselves in the new republic. So that rights and laws were for citizens, not royals.
But the crowd was silent on that point. They jeered the girl, calling her a putain and an enchantress. Someone pulled on her dress hem, tearing off a section and waving it over his head. Even the women spit on the girl. What was wrong with them?
Odette stepped backwards, away from the crowd. It was an ugly sentiment she wanted nothing to do with. And yet, that girl. Was she guilty of something? Had she betrayed France by sleeping with a soldier? Odette’s dreams flashed through her mind, of Ghislain. Was he the one she’d lain with?
The big man with the awful voice brought out a large pair of sheep-shearing shears, holding the big scissors above his head. “What do we do with traitors?”
Odette set down her milk can on a doorstep. They would chop off her hair, just like that. This was too much. She moved into the crowd, watching as they egged on the big man, telling him to cut off the whore’s hair. The clamor grew louder as she reached the front of the crowd. The girl’s head was pulled sideways, the man pulling on her long hair and dramatically displaying the shears as he cackled with delight.
“Stop!” Odette said, stepping into the clearing. “This is wrong. You must stop.”
A gasp and a pause quieted the crowd. Then the big man snipped off a long hank of hair and threw it toward the people. They cheered for more.
Odette spun toward the villagers. “You must see that this girl does not deserve this! How do you know that she is a traitor? Let the officials deal with her, if she is guilty. It is not your place to condemn her.”
An old man in front of the crowd began to laugh. “If it isn’t the Queen herself!”
This was a bad development. Marie-Antoinette was soundly disliked by all and in prison in Paris awaiting her beheading.
“I am not— I am just like you. A paysanne. A goat herder. But I know mistreatment when I see it. Look at this girl! She has not been found guilty by anyone but a bully with a pair of shears! I demand you let her go!”
Another section of brown hair flew over the crowd. Odette turned to the odious man with the scissors and told him again to stop what he was doing.
Suddenly the hands were on her. The crowd pushed Odette toward the young woman and the bully, chanting that she was a traitor too. “Cut off her hair,” they demanded.
With a few last slashes the bully finished with the young woman, leaving her on her knees with her hair nearly gone. The last few inches of it stuck out awkwardly from her scalp and she put her face in her hands, humiliated.
The crowd kept pushing Odette fo
rward until the man grabbed her around the waist and pulled her off the ground. He crowed that she was his, a captive, and would receive the correct punishment of all traitors. Two women came from the crowd and began to pull the pins from Odette’s hair. She was frantic, pushing their hands away while trying to kick the man in the shins as he held her against him.
The roar of the crowd grew as more villagers joined the show. The stores emptied, the barn doors opened, the horses stopped. Odette thrashed wildly, trying to free herself, getting more angry and desperate with every second. “Let me go!” she repeated as the man holding her laughed in her ears.
“She’s a fine little rebel, eh? Do you hate the King too? Do you sleep with the soldiers for the revolution?” He taunted her, building the crowd’s ire.
She was tiring. The man was too strong, too tall. He could hold her off the ground for hours. She balled her fists and tried to smash his face behind her but he kept laughing. The crowd laughed with him, enjoying the show.
Her hair was loose now, a ready target for his shears. But he couldn’t grab it without putting her down as his shears were in his other hand. So she kept kicking and screaming and kicking and screaming. Would no one help her? She pleaded with the crowd of toothless men and scrawny women.
“That’s enough.” The voice carried over the crowd. Finally, Odette thought, someone has come to their senses.
Everyone turned to the south, the direction of the voice. The black hat was apparent before the rest of him: le Comte had arrived.
The crowd parted, suddenly silent. The Count walked forward, dour in a dark coat and riding boots. His hands were balled into fists at his sides. Everyone bowed slightly at his presence.
The man holding Odette dropped her unceremoniously. She fell into the other girl and sat down next to her in the dirt. Odette took her hand and whispered that it was all right now. She pulled her hand away and glared at Odette. Her face was streaked with tears but still her eyes were hard. She stood up and ran quickly away from the crowd, down the street. Everyone watched her go then turned back to the Count.
“Help her up,” the Count demanded of the man. The bully sneered at the Count, swaggering for a moment, then dropped his shears. He leaned down and put his hands under Odette’s arms and popped her up to her feet. She straightened, pushed back her hair and realized a foot-long section of it had been cut. It came off in her hand.
“Look what you’ve done, Toussaint,” the Count said, shaking his head. “I have told you how many times now— I am the law here. Not you, not your vigilante justice. You are just a man, not the law.”
Toussaint clenched his jaw and said nothing. An old woman in the crowd whispered something and the Count turned toward her.
“You wish to speak, madame?”
“Oui! You haven’t the church to stand behind you anymore, Monsieur le Comte. Be careful.”
The people shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the noble with distaste. His scar was highlighted as the sun sliced through the clouds, hitting his face. A few more gasps in the crowd.
“Thank you for the advice, madame. And I will remember your words when it is time to allocate the harvest from my lands.” More gasps and murmurs. Odette frowned. That seemed excessively cruel, threatening the old woman with starvation.
He turned to Odette. “You are the goat herder.”
She nodded, fingering the lock of shorn hair.
“You will come to tea this afternoon, mademoiselle.” It was not a request. “Four o’clock.”
He looked out over the villagers. He commanded that they go home and to try to behave as good citizens in the future. He watched Toussaint shuffle off. Then he tipped his hat to Odette and turned on his heel, striding out of the crowd toward his horse.
TWELVE
Odette took a last look over her shoulder at her goats, tethered together on the side of the hill facing the château. She would not be long, she promised them silently, hoping no fox or boar came along and got them tangled in a frenzy. She crossed her fingers behind her back and knocked on the heavy wooden door.
She had learned at the farm that the Count was once a priest. He was the second son and had gone into service to the Lord while his older brother was groomed for inheritance. When the revolution broke out he had cast off his robes if not his faith and joined the friends of Robespierre who were fashioning the new laws of the Republic. His brother had died last year of cholera or gunshot or something, the rumors varied, and now the second son had the inheritance.
It was not an auspicious time to be a noble. His grand château, with its burnt chapel, would soon be taken from him, if the wags were correct. The priests had run away from the church, the monks were gone, the nunneries shut. The King was dead, the Queen scheduled to die, her little children in prison as well. All the old routines were broken now. It was a new world. There was no doubt the Counts and Dukes who had ruled the countryside, who had meted out a measure of grain here, a jug of wine there, were done for. Yet, for a moment, there was still some respect, some law, embedded in the office of nobility. And she was grateful for that. And for her hair being mostly still in place.
The footsteps approached. This section of the manse was intact, according to the Daguerres, but they recounted with relish the destruction to the chapel and some adjoining wings after the first flush of the revolution. Someone had set fire to it, and the ensuing bonfire was a cause for much celebration. Some said it was while fighting that fire that le Comte had been badly burned, the cause of his disfigurement. Others said he was in Paris then. So many stories.
Odette straightened, queasy with anticipation. The Count was a terrifying figure, with or without his scar. The maids at the farm had peppered her with stories about his cruelty. It was all idle gossip. Surely. He was stiff and formal but he didn’t scare her. Not much.
The heavy door swung open and an elderly man escorted her into a drawing room off the main hall. She was told to sit and showed a hard chair by the window. A large clock ticked off the seconds and she became restless. How long was she to sit and wait? Her goats could be in distress. She turned to the window, pulling back a musty drape. The view was stunning, the sun piercing the gloom, the orange of the autumn grapevines set a glow. But her goats were somewhere in the mist, out of sight.
“Mademoiselle,” a voice behind her said. She turned to see the Count, now without his long coat and top hat, standing just inside the door. “I’m glad you could join us. If you would come this way—” He gestured toward the hall.
He led the way to the dining room, a grand room that had seen better days. Wallpaper peeled from the upper edges of the high walls, near the ornate carved ceiling where a sooty chandelier hung. The table itself was still very elegant with curved legs and at least twelve high-backed chairs. Odette followed the Count down the left side, admiring the silver and candlesticks and white linens. Was she to eat a formal dinner at this hour, in this dress? Another jolt of anxiety ran through her.
When she was halfway down the table she registered the presence of someone else, a man, sitting at the table at the end of the opposite side. She faltered at the sight of Ghislain, upright and seemingly healthy. And as handsome as ever.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, nodding. “You will forgive me for not standing. My leg is not as it once was.”
She blinked, flustered, muttering something inane. The Count pulled out a chair opposite Ghislain for her, pushed her close, then seated himself at the end of the table. A maid appeared with a tray, carrying a silver teapot and china cups. Odette was grateful for the distraction of pouring and stirring. She kept her eyes down, afraid to stare at her stranger, or the scar on the Count’s face.
After introductions where she learned Ghislain’s surname was Leclair and he learned her full name, the Count sat back silently, sipping his tea. It seemed he had arranged that the two of them would meet again. He looked back and forth between them, quite pleased with himself.
“Pardon, monsieur,” Odette said finally to G
hislain. “Have you been here all these weeks?”
The Count spoke then. “One of my workers found him. Half-dead near the river.”
Ghislain smiled. “Half-dead but half-alive. The Count has been so kind as to allow me to stay here and mend.”
“Anything for a soldier of the revolution,” the Count said. He stood then, set down his tea cup, and walked to the door. “You will excuse me. I have matters to attend to. I will return shortly.”
As soon as he left the maid returned, refilled their tea cups and offered a plate of shortbread biscuits. It had been three years since Odette had tasted such a delicacy. She dipped one in the hot tea, closed her eyes, and savored the melt of the biscuit on her tongue.
“He feeds his people well,” Ghislain offered, watching her.
“It has been too long. I’m sorry— I—” She blushed then, which only complicated her feelings.
“No need to apologize for enjoying the finer things.” Ghislain was clean-shaven now and ruddy, the color back in his cheeks, his dark hair clean and combed over his collar. He wore a green jacket and white shirt with a stiff collar, like he might have borrowed from the Count. Of course he had, she thought, smoothing the skirt of her muslin gown, washed so much it was almost transparent.
She lifted her chin and pondered his comment. “You have been converted to the noble cause?”
He laughed, his eyes crinkling and his white teeth flashing. It was musical and enchanting. “No, mademoiselle. Just eating their food. Besides the Count is on our side. He was in Paris with Robespierre. He did well to leave though. Things are bad in the city. The new government is chaotic and vengeful.”
Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6 Page 30