by Nikki Poppen
She could have her share of his fortune if she’d just give in. But her father had instilled in her the family motto: La verite ou rien, “The truth or nothing.” The truth was more than simply telling the truth. It was living the truth of your convictions through daily choices. There could be no deviation.
Weary and wet, Cecile climbed the steps to her room. Light peeped out from under the doorway. She rejoiced. Etienne had built up the fire. The little room was warm when she entered. One benefit of a small home was that it didn’t take as much wood to heat, she reminded herself.
Etienne was still awake, propped up on his pillows, his face glowing and his eyes suspiciously bright. Cecile flew to his side. “Are you well?” She pressed a cold hand against his forehead, searching for fever.
“Of course, silly.” Etienne struggled under her fussy ministrations.
Cecile stepped back. “You looked feverish, was all”
“I look excited. I couldn’t sleep until I told you the news. Madame Claubert stopped to look in and she told me. The Panchettes are gone. You know, the bakers that used to run the patisserie.”
“Gone? How do you mean?”
“They’ve disappeared, like their cousins did last month. There’s no sign of them. Their clothes are gone too. Do you think the man you met today has anything to do with it?”
Cecile was immediately worried. “You didn’t tell Madame Claubert about my encounter did you?”
“No. Madame Claubert is the worst gossip in the neighborhood.”
Cecile breathed easier. The New Regime might have abolished the Tribunate and given power to the Senate to protect the people, but there were still plenty of tools at its disposal for oppression. The New Regime didn’t tolerate dissent any more readily than the old regime. She’d heard the generals remark at the dinner table once that Napoleon was different than poor Louis XVI, because he didn’t make the mistake of standing by and letting the people criticize him. She’d seen what oppression had done to her parents in their old village. She wasn’t about to risk trusting anyone with anything that might somehow incriminate her.
Etienne was growing sleepy now that he’d shared his news. He yawned. “CeeCee, since the Panchettes are gone, do you think we might be able to rent their rooms? I remember they had a lovely window on the top floor that let in the sun. We could use some of the extra money”
Cecile pushed back Etienne’s mop of dark hair. There were only five years difference in their ages, but she often felt more like his mother than his sister since their parents had been killed three years ago, forcing them to eventually make their way to Paris. She looked at her brother’s droopy blue eyes. “Yes, I think that’s a fine idea. I’ll make inquiries tomorrow.”
Cecile went to her own bed across the room and changed into a nightgown. In spite of the day’s excitements, sleep came easily. That night she dreamed of a tall, honey-haired man who walked through the city tossing livres behind him like the pied piper. And she followed him.
Alain paused for a moment, sweating with exertion, his work shirt damp from his labors. He’d spent the bright April morning working beside the bricklayers and watching the foundations of the new buildings rise from the trenches they’d meticulously dug. He turned at the sound of horse hooves clattering on the cobblestones and shielded his eyes against the sun in order to make out the rider.
“Alain! When did you return?” Daniel swung off his horse in a lithe move, his sandy hair tousled from the breeze. “Are the Panchettes safe?”
“We arrived yesterday evening. They are happily rejoined with their family after a mild crossing of the Channel. You see, everything went off without any trouble and I am now the proud employer of not one but two excellent pastry chefs. Care to dine with me tonight and taste my success for yourself?” Alain greeted his friend in high spirits. The mission had gone well. He hadn’t expected many problems beyond disguising his British citizenship. The blockade situation between France and England made it impossible to simply sail his yacht across the Channel with the Union Jack flying high.
“Not one thing out of the ordinary?” Daniel queried in disbelief.
“Not one thing.” Alain confirmed. Unless one counted the prideful sherry-eyed miss he’d encountered in the street. She was absolutely out of the ordinary with her defiantly tilted chin. The floppy mob cap she wore could not hide the lustrous chestnut curls of her hair. He had been seized with a mad desire to pull off her cap and free her tresses from their confines. He was sure if he did, her hair would fall to her waist in a glorious spill of silky curls. It was not to his credit that he’d dreamed of her ever since their meeting. Alicia had only been dead a month. He owed her memory more devotion than to dream of an unknown French girl whose name he did not know and whom he would never see again.
Daniel gazed at him thoughtfully, causing Alain to shake himself back to the present. “You seem disappointed I don’t have tales of derring-do with which to dazzle you.”
Daniel clapped him on the shoulder. “I am only glad enough that you don’t have such tales to tell. I’ll let you get back to work. I have to ride over to Romney this afternoon for a client. I’ll call at The Refuge for supper when I get back”
Alain watched Daniel go, envious of his friend’s opportunity for a leisurely ride to Romney on such a brilliant spring day. He had managed to arrange for his morning to be taken up with the business of bricklayer, but he could not put off the responsibilities of the estate. He would spend the afternoon poring over ledgers and bills in the estate office. Alain raised his arm, signaling to the foreman that he was leaving. He would treat himself to a stroll down the promenade before going home to The Refuge.
The breeze off the Channel cooled his heated body, drying the splotches of sweat in his shirt. Alain scooped up a handful of pebbles as he walked and skipped them in the water. On such a clear day, the coastline of France was visible. Only twelve miles separated France from where he stood.
Unbidden, his thoughts dared to drift towards the enticing stranger from the streets. What was she doing now? Was she spending the money on useful items? Was she saving it? Had she squandered the francs on a fancy new gown and girlish fallals? He hoped she would spend it prodigiously. He’d discerned she had great need of it. He’d witnessed the fleeting struggle she’d had with herself over trading the money for information about the Panchettes. Her pride and integrity had won. Those were the qualities that impressed him most, beyond the rich brown pools of her eyes and the pearly translucence of her skin.
His conscience nagged at him for thinking of her at all. Alain threw the last pebble and headed back towards High Street. From High Street, the town rose in a pleasant hodgepodge of houses and shops. The tower of St. Leonard’s church halfway up the hill drew his attention. He resolved to stop and say a prayer to quiet his heart.
The interior of the church was dim and soothing. Alain ran his hand over the smooth stones of the arches. The church had been built in Norman times under the edict that every town must have a stone church. The church had lasted for centuries. Alain sank into a polished wooden pew. He hoped his resort would last half that long. He hoped people would come to it to escape the rigors of everyday life.
He fervently believed that all people needed time to discover themselves beyond the drudgery of daily routines. The advent of the new world would make that possible by creating machines that used time more efficiently than manual labor. People would be free to do something besides work. They’d be able to spend time educating themselves and studying their world through travel and books. They would come to Hythe and have the summer adventures he’d had with his friends, roaming the hills or swimming in a river. What would the French girl think of his grand vision for the future? Would she enjoy hiking through his hills and splashing in his rivers or would she, like Alicia, shun such boisterousness for more sedate activities?
That was patently unfair, Alain reprimanded himself. He didn’t even know the girl and he was constructing a personality abou
t her. It should not be a mark against Alicia that she preferred needlepoint and flower arranging to vigorous walking and swimming. It was those delicate qualities that had endeared her to him. He’d grown up with a sister who was all hoyden and horses. Alicia with her fragile brand of gentility was an exquisite novelty to be cherished. Alain knelt swiftly and offered a prayer for the dearly departed.
“You are the most blessed man in England!” Daniel exclaimed, pushing away from the table and patting his flat stomach. The dessert plate in front of him was nearly devoid of any signs it had held a hefty serving of peches et creme gratin. “I couldn’t even tell the peaches were from last year’s preserves. I wouldn’t have known the difference at all if your chef hadn’t sent his regrets”
Alain dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin, chuckling at the recollection of Armand Panchette fretting over the lack of fresh peaches for the evening’s dessert. The good man had been so worked up over wanting to make the dessert special as a thank you for delivering his brother and family safely from France. “I insisted Monsieur Panchette didn’t need to put himself out on dessert, but he’s a perfectionist and a man who is aware of his obligations. He said it was a matter of honor.”
“I’d say he upheld his honor quite well”
A knock on the dining room door interrupted their conversation. Harker entered, looking somewhat put out. “The monsieurs Panchette would like a word with you, my lord.” His opinion of interrupting the baron at dinner was evident in his tone.
“Send them in. I’ll be glad to speak with them,” Alain said, willing to overlook the oddness of the request in light of it being Armand’s brother’s first night here. He expected the brother, Arnaud, wanted to thank him more formally, although he had told Arnaud earlier it was not necessary.
The two brothers entered. Armand still wore his huge white apron. Arnaud twisted a cap nervously in his hands. Armand’s son, Gascon, followed. The two men bobbed and nodded until Gascon stepped forward.
“My lord, my father and uncle wish me to speak for them since their English is poor,” he began, waiting for Alain’s permission before continuing. “First, my Uncle Arnaud wishes to thank you again. He is deeply indebted to you. We all are, which is why we hesitate to ask for one more favor.” At this, the boy swallowed hard, his overlarge adolescent Adam’s apple rising and falling with his efforts.
Alain exchanged a quick look with Daniel. “I cannot promise anything beyond listening to your request, but that I will do gladly”
The boy translated for his father. An animated conversation broke out between the threesome. Finally, the boy turned back to Alain. “My uncle Arnaud’s wife has a cousin who has run afoul of some dangerous people in France. He works in the household of a man named General Motrineau in Paris. It would be a great relief to have him here with us. We fear he may be arrested and imprisoned.” The boy gave a thoroughly Gallic shrug of the shoulders to indicate the hopelessness of imprisonment.
Alain twirled the stem of his empty wine glass. “I must know more about the situation. Who is this cousin? What is his position in the household? What sort of people has he fallen in with?”
Gascon translated and the men nodded their heads in vigorous agreement. Another lengthy conversation ensued in low, fast voices. Alain’s French was good but he couldn’t keep pace with the rapid exchange.
“My lord, the man we speak of is Pierre Ramboulet. He is a secretary for General Motrineau. He has become disillusioned with Napoleon’s regime and has fallen in with Les Chevaliers de la Foi, a secret society dedicated to the Bourbons.”
Alain gave the boy a quizzing glance. “How does one simply `fall in’ with such a league, if they are indeed secret? How is it that he cannot extricate himself?” Alain found it quite telling that the boy shifted from foot to foot at his questions and turned pleading eyes on his father.
This conversation was not long. “You guess correctly, my lord, that our cousin is not an ordinary member of Les Chevaliers. He moves in the inner circles. Lately, there has been worry that his involvement may have been betrayed to Motrineau, who has Napoleon’s ear.”
Alain nodded sagely. “You want me to rescue him? This will be much more difficult than simply spiriting away a family of bakers whom no one of note will miss.” He spread his hands on the pristine damask table cloth. “You are asking me to abet an individual who is actively committing treason against the French government. This is serious business indeed. I will need to infiltrate the general’s home, ascertain said individual, and make arrangements for a discreet departure. If he suspects betrayal, he already knows he is being watched.” Alain sighed heavily. “I will think on it.” He nodded his dismissal to the Panchettes.
Daniel fairly burst when the door shut behind the family of pastry chefs. “You can’t be seriously considering it!”
Alain grimaced. “I hadn’t planned on doing such a thing again but I have to say it was a grand adventure, something to fire the blood. I hate to see a man languishing for his convictions when I could free him.”
“Or languish in the cell right next to him,” Daniel said cynically.
“Still, Daniel, I can’t say that I support the politics of free expression and equality for the masses and do nothing when a man risks imprisonment because he voiced his beliefs.”
“The man wants to bring back the Bourbons!” Daniel retaliated hotly. “It’s not as if Les Chevaliers want to establish a parliament and have men voting for themselves”
Alain shook his head. “He is still a man with an opinion and he should not be imprisoned because of it, regardless of what it is.”
Daniel fell silent in the wake of Alain’s convictions. Acknowledgement registered on his face. “Then you’ve decided. You’re going to go?”
Alain’s voice was firm when he spoke. “Yes”
There was a new man among the regulars gathered in General Motrineau’s drawing room for his evening soiree. Out of the corner of her eye, Cecile caught him staring at her while she tuned her violin. He was younger than the others and exuded a sense of vitality at odds with the stiff reserve of the other menalthough the others lost their starchy formality once they’d drank enough wine, Cecile reflected sourly. Their often ribald comments later in the evening bore little resemblance to the serious conversations they conducted on military matters. Tonight she hoped the men would be on their best behaviors. Many had brought their wives.
Cecile laid her violin on the pianoforte bench and smoothed the skirts of her pale blue satin gown. The gown was demurely attractive with its soft ecru lace trim around the sleeves and neck. The general had chosen well, as he always did, when it came to gowning her. He did not dress her in gaudy clothes but in styles that befit a young lady her age. Cecile tugged at the neckline. Despite the general’s excellent taste, the cut of the gown revealed the swells of her breasts, and she knew the men would ogle. She couldn’t fathom young girls wearing such daring gowns and putting themselves on display.
“Ma cherie, are you ready?” General spoke at her elbow. “Everyone is taking their seats. After your performance, I will take you about. You need not feel awkward. I will keep you by my side all evening.”
“Thank you, but that is not necessary, General. I don’t need such a reward” Cecile tried to get out of spending a long evening in the general’s company. She was tired. She wanted to go home and sleep. There were a hundred errands that needed doing on the morrow.
“Au contraire, ma cherie. Everyone will want to meet such a talented young woman.” The general tapped her on the nose. “Besides, you may meet someone who could provide you with excellent connections, although I’d be loathe to let you leave. You must consider that Napoleon will not leave me to keep order in Paris forever. Someday I’ll be called to the field and unable to use your services.”
“As you wish then, Monsieur General,” Cecile said with a gracious nod. “You are kind to consider my welfare”
The general’s dark eyes softened. “You know I wish things
were different between us, Cecile. I could give you much if you would just take it.”
Cecile dropped her gaze to the floor, fighting the urge to fidget under the naked affection evident in his intimate voice and in his gaze. Her employer was not an unattractive man. He was a fit man in his midforties, gray just beginning to show in his deep brown hair. And he was kind. But he supported a regime that gave itself airs and pretended to be a new order when it only aped the old. She could not give in to a system that saw her parents killed and her father’s business destroyed. She was saved from the general’s uncomfortable scrutiny by the approach of the young man she’d noticed earlier.
“General Motrineau, is this the lovely violinist I’ve heard so much about?” The man’s French was formal and perfect, too perfect. He wasn’t a Parisian. But that wasn’t unusual. She knew Napoleon had troops from all over Europe like the Polish Lancers.
The general was introducing her. Good manners forced her to look at the newcomer. Her perfunctory greeting froze on her lips. The newcomer was none other than the man she’d encountered in the street two months ago. She had not expected to see him again except in her dreams. Her first thought was how handsome he looked in his uniform, the gold buttons on his blue coat shining beneath the light of the general’s crystal chandelier, and his white breeches spotless. Her second thought was how right she had been to resist giving him information about the Panchettes. He’d been a soldier in disguise that day. No good could have come of telling him what he wanted to know.