by Jamie Carie
He was there.
The stranger from the market knelt beside Daniel’s grave. But rather than facing the grave, he faced the sunrise. His head was uncovered, revealing the choppy cut of shoulder-length, straight hair draped like a curtain around his face.
Her heart beat in her chest. What was he doing there? Was he hoping to see her? She hesitated, ready to slip away before he noticed her, but stilled as his deep voice rang out against the dead ones’ stones. “And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, ‘this is my body which is given for you: do this in remembrance of Me.’” He held a piece of the bread she’d given him up into the dawn light, then brought the small lump to his mouth, his head bowed. Next he took up a cup. She gasped at the golden cup, embedded with precious jewels that sparkled in the dim dawn light—and then hoped he hadn’t heard her. But he had. He turned, but didn’t rise. Instead he held his hand out to her.
She should turn back, run away. He could be dangerous. But she found herself rooted to the path, staring into his eyes. He looked sad, bereft, and so alone.
He dropped his arm back to his side and turned a little away from her. Scarlett took a long breath and a step closer. “What are you doing here, sir?”
He didn’t look back at her, only said in his deep voice, “I am taking the sacraments of Communion.”
She took another step. “Why?” She had only done so in church, and there weren’t any churches open anymore, so it had been a long time. Another part of the Révolution.
He turned then and looked into her eyes. She saw him struggle with an answer and then smile a little. “It helps me remember.”
She took another step forward. “Remember what?”
“All that I’ve lost, I suppose, and all that He lost. I like to think God felt alone for a time, until His Son rose again and then went back to heaven to sit at His right hand.” Sadness weighed his smile. “I like to think He has a plan for me too.”
Scarlett walked the short distance to her husband’s grave, sank down beside the stranger, and set the basket on the ground beside her. She turned her face toward his and saw that there were tear tracks on his lean cheeks.
He repeated the phrase, “This is my body, which is broken for you; do this in remembrance of Me.” He tore off a hunk of her mother’s bread and held it out to her.
Scarlett reached for it. The man watched her while she placed it into her mouth, knowing how it was made, knowing all the ingredients and the hands that had kneaded it, but feeling that somehow, with this prayer, it had become sacred. She closed her eyes. She chewed and thought of Christ’s body. Given for her. There, as they sat together, it was suddenly real.
The man lifted up a golden goblet embedded with gemstones. Scarlett stared at the beauty of the cup and couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling that it had once, long ago, belonged to a king.
The man’s voice was a little stronger as he recited to her and the dead that seemed to be listening, “This cup is the new covenant in My blood, which is poured out for you.”
She watched as he lifted it up and he held it out to her, his gaze intense in the early morning light.
She felt him watch her as she took a sip, then lowered the cup and her gaze, the liquid sloshing over the edge onto her fingers. Scarlett took a deep, long inhale. When she looked back into this stranger’s eyes, her breath caught. There was a spark of joy in his eyes now. It made him look, almost, a different person.
“Who are you?” She asked, clutching the heavy, golden goblet in her hands.
“I am Christophé St. Laurent. The last of the house of St. Laurent.” He reached out and took the cup from her hands, making her a little afraid again. “And you must tell no one that I am here.”
Names and faces and titles rolled through her brain. She’d lived in Paris long enough to know some of the names of the hated aristocrats. This man, as frail and shattered as he was, should not be alive.
Christophé watched the play of emotion on her face and hoped he hadn’t made a terrible, deadly mistake. It was just that he needed so badly to tell someone the truth. It was as if he didn’t tell her, then he would cease to be, just slip away into nothingness.
Her words slipped out on a solemn whisper. “I won’t tell.”
He believed her.
Christophé leaned in, his hand coming alongside her cheek in a light caress. She stiffened, and he supposed he couldn’t blame her. He must appear half insane. He couldn’t remember quite how to act with a woman, not that he’d ever been very good at that anyway. But now, he didn’t even remember how to show her how much she meant to him without coming across a lunatic and frightening her away.
As if to prove his point he kept staring at her lips. They were so sweetly made and . . . prominent, heaven help him. Red lips against a pale, serious face and long, thick, curling dark hair. He’d always wondered what was wrong with him concerning women. They were a laughing, silly mystery to him. He always preferred the solitude of his experiments and laboratory work. But now, this woman . . . she had become light to him. She was all he saw in light and its refraction and the splitting of colored rays. She filled his mind almost as often as his calculations. “Comment t’appelles-tu?”
She pulled back a little and gazed at him with both fear and fascination. “Scarlett. My name is Scarlett.”
A feeling of falling beset him. He shook his head. “Are you certain?”
She laughed, a lilting sound that rang around the stones and brought warmth, true warmth, to his belly. “My mother says I was born with red lips. She wanted to name me Cerise.” She smiled, her hand held to her chest. “Cherry. Can you imagine such a name? I am most thankful that father said no, I should be called Scarlett.”
He didn’t say anything, could only try and still the dizzy rush that assailed him. He must have looked frightening as she looked up uncertainly and rushed out, “It’s a silly story.”
“No. It is a perfect story.”
He watched while she brought a basket forward. “Are you hungry?”
He was always hungry, although he often didn’t notice it. “You don’t have to share it.” He’d sounded harsher than he meant. He tried to fix it. “I meant, you brought that for yourself.” He looked down at her round stomach.
Scarlett laughed, low and quiet. “I must look as if I need it.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “I am eating more these days, but there is plenty for two. I fear my eyes were bigger than my stomach.” Then she laughed again, a little louder. “Well, not bigger, that would be frightening, wouldn’t it?”
A rush of joy jolted through him and he hardly recognized the emotion. She was so light, so free, laughing at herself. He was truly going to be besotted if he spent another moment with her. If he had any sense, he would leave at once.
“Well, in that case”—his voice was warmer than he remembered it being in a long time—“I’d be happy to share your repast.” He felt almost normal, the way he’d been before the ruin of his family.
She handed him a hunk of bread and cheese, and some roast duck. He pulled out a water cask for them to wash down the food. They sat side by side, quietly eating and watching the sun rise above a castle that had withstood Constantinople’s army, impenetrable to all except time and God’s own elements—both of which had taken a toll.
Then, slowly—as this woman who seemed a dream-gift, became more comfortable with him—Scarlett began to speak of everyday things. The old Cité and its crumbling ruin and history. The marketplace and how she and her mother and sister sold bread three days a week. The coming winter and how it was going to be hard to keep the town from starving.
Christophé responded when necessary, but he was almost too happy to speak. He could barely get the food down his tight throat. It was as if his world was being righted, as if he was coming out of darkness back into the land of the living. He was afraid for her to leave.
Then Scarlett paused. “Where do you live?”
Christophé po
inted toward the castle.
“Not in the castle? It can’t be safe.”
“I am a descendent of the Trencevals. The castle in Carcassonne was where my father directed I go . . . before he was guillotined.”
Scarlett stared at him for a long moment. He found he couldn’t turn away from her tender gaze. “I am sorry. And the others? Your mother? Your siblings?”
“All guillotined that day. Except for Émilie. My little sister.”
Scarlett pressed her lips together, a look of profound sadness on her face. “What became of your sister?”
He shook his head. He couldn’t speak of that, not even to her.
Taking the last bite of duck he wiped his hands on the cloth she’d laid between them and stood. He held out a hand to her and helped her rise. She was so round and awkward and . . . beautiful. His hand tentatively reached toward her rounded stomach. New life. All he knew was death and more death. What he wouldn’t give to have such a fresh start knowing all that he now knew. He barely touched her, more a skimming of his fingers against her dress. “When will the baby come?”
“About two months.” She looked up into his eyes and he saw there a trust growing that he knew he didn’t deserve. But he wanted to. He wanted this chance she represented. A place to belong. A family to love and care for.
Someone to need him again.
I’ll do better this time!
Chapter Seven
Scarlett returned home to find her mother crying into a lacy handkerchief, her little sister patting her back.
Alarm filled Scarlett as she pulled off her cloak and tossed it to a chair. “What is it?”
Stacia looked up and pressed her lips together. “A letter arrived. From Robespierre.” The name sent a shiver up Scarlett’s spine. Robespierre was responsible for much of the terror of this Révolution and, after hearing Christophé’s side, she was beginning to truly loathe her husband’s uncle.
Stacia rose, strode over with a determined air, and grasped the opened parchment from a round, dark table near the door. She thrust it toward Scarlett. Before she could open it and read the first line, her mother wailed the news. “He’s cutting off the flour, Scarlett. Only one more month. What will we do?”
Suzanne Bonham had never been one to accept sudden change with grace. It always came as a shock to her. Somehow, Scarlett just rolled with it. Stacia, though, seemed to thrive in the challenge of it. Between them, they had weathered their father’s death, Daniel’s death, Scarlett’s pregnancy—and now they would have to cope with no means to continue their income.
Scarlett scanned the letter, heart sinking. Their allotment of flour was being brought to an end due to increasing demands in Paris. She felt less like crying than like throttling the man. She knew him as these others in the room did not. He was a clever, manipulative man who, she was certain, could provide them with anything he wanted should he want it badly enough. When Daniel died he assured Scarlett that, as she was carrying the Robespierre heir, he would ensure her future. Even in such turbulent times as these, he’d assured her that when she returned to the safety of the southern countryside, he would provide for her and her family.
She carefully folded the letter and pressed the wax seal against her thumb, then set it back on the table. With slow steps she walked toward her mother and sank down, placing her hands in her mother’s lap, gaining the attention of her tear-stained face.
“What will we do?” her mother repeated.
Scarlett stared at her mother and then her sister. An idea formed, and she pressed her lips together, studying her little sister. “We still have one asset.”
Stacia raised a single dark brow at her. She tilted back her head, a laugh escaping. “Is it husband hunting time?” She clasped her hands together in dramatic glee. “I have been waiting for the day.”
Scarlett gave her sister a serious look. It would have to be Stacia. Not only was Scarlett round with child and in little position to go husband hunting, she feared it was too late for her. Scarlett couldn’t tell them that she thought she was in love with a madman, a beggar, someone who needed saving instead of the other way around. It was impossible. She was loathe to put this burden on Stacia. But what choice did they have?
And, to make matters worse, there was only one place to find a good match for Stacia: Paris. In Scarlett’s condition, there was little chance she could travel such a distance. They would have to go without her. But how to convince her mother?
She rose and slowly paced the length of the room. “You and mother will go to Paris. I will write a letter for you to give to Robespierre—”even saying the name aloud made her shiver, but she plunged on—“reminding him of his promises to us.” She put her hand on her stomach. “He will take you both in, having little choice.”
“If only your cousin Louisa was still in Paris,” her mother moaned.
“Yes, it is too bad Louisa went back to Martinique. She couldn’t stomach the Révolution. Regardless, you must be strong. You have to go.”
Her mother stared up at Scarlett, brows wrinkling. “We cannot leave you alone! What will become of you?” Her shoulders slumped. “What will become of us?”
Scarlett sat down beside her mother and took her hand. Since her father’s death, her mother had been more the child than the parent when something outside the daily running of the household happened to them. Scarlett had been the one to pick up the role of her father, taking odd jobs before she married Daniel and managing the family’s bigger decisions.
She squeezed her mother’s hand. “I will be fine. There is a good doctor here, as you know. And you and Stacia will find opportunities for her that she will never have here.”
Her mother raised her head, blinked out tears, and blurted out. “I never thought, when I married your father, that he would leave us to do this alone.”
Scarlett leaned into her mother’s side, their heads touching. “I’m sure he didn’t dream of this either.” She paused, tearing up herself and catching Stacia’s gaze. “God will give us strength for what is to come.”
Stacia walked over and knelt down in front of them. “We should pray.”
Stacia prayed like no one else Scarlett had ever heard. She prayed the same way she’d always spoken to their father. Like God loved her beyond measure, like she was a valued and precious part of creation. Scarlett had always felt a little afraid of God. What if she asked for something that wasn’t His will? What if she made some mistake approaching Him? She loved hearing Stacia’s freedom in prayer. If only she could have more of that in her own prayers.
“Yes. Please pray, Stacia. Ask God to supply what we need. He will hear you.”
Stacia bent her head and closed her eyes. “Dear heavenly Father. Dear Creator of all life. Help us as we, as I, go forward as an ambassador of this family. Scarlett must stay behind and have her baby”—she brushed a hand across Scarlett’s knee—“but we are much afraid and do not know where to turn but to You. Be our guiding light as Mother and I go to Paris. Let me find a husband, if that is Your will.” She laughed. “And let him be fine in every way. Thank You for Your perfect plan for all our lives. Thank You for Your love for us.”
They all let out a little laugh. Lightness filled the air and their spirits as they opened their eyes and said together, “Amen.”
They spent the rest of the evening planning. Stacia went through her wardrobe, and Scarlett went to great lengths to find the perfect dresses for husband lure. They decided that some of Scarlett’s elegant Paris clothes could be remade for Stacia, which should only take a few days. Scarlett figured the household accounts and went through each line of numerals with Suzanne. There was enough saved back to keep Scarlett for a few months, as long as she embraced frugality. The rest would be used for traveling expenses.
Finally they all collapsed into bed. Stacia excited. Suzanne exhausted. And Scarlett, as she wrapped the covers around her shoulders and curled into her babe, felt the taut roundness of her stomach and the ache in her back, sad
and afraid.
“I miss you,” she whispered to Daniel’s ghost. And she was glad to feel in that moment that she did.
But she wouldn’t show it.
She would not tell them how afraid she was to be left alone.
A WEEK LATER Scarlett woke in the middle of the night. Was it a cramp? A nightmare? She couldn’t grasp what had her wide awake and sitting up, swinging her feet over the edge of her bed and reaching for a dressing gown.
She stood awhile, regaining the real world around her. What time was it? Was is early morning and time to visit Daniel’s grave?
Before she was even fully awake, Scarlett had her shoes on and was outside taking in the chilly night air. She looked up into the dark sky, studied the placement of the stars, and realized that it must be the middle of the night. She smoothed her hands across her stomach and shook her head. “We should go back to bed,” she whispered to the babe, but it didn’t move and she was wide awake. Before she knew it, she was walking in the direction of the old Cité.
She watched the dark water of the river, heard it slosh over the stones and ebb against the banks as her feet rang, too loud, against the stone bridge. On the other side she paused. Her footsteps would normally take her to the right and toward the graveyard. But this time . . .
She turned to the ancient castle. The original Carcassonne.
As she neared, the old stones seemed to whisper their legendary past. Built during Roman times, the city saw its greatest glory during the Middle Ages and the dynasty of the Trencevals. Scarlett had heard the tales of troubadours and knights and the grand tournaments held within the castle walls. But soon after, the Cathars—Christians who were viewed as heretics by Pope Innocent III—brought wrath and crusades to the town. Upon their defeat, Carcassonne was given to the French king.
In the years that followed, the second wall was built and Louis IX built a new town across the river. As the new town grew, the Treaty of Pyrenees after the Hundred Years War came into being, changing the southern border and ending the Cité’s strategic stronghold. The old Cité fell further and further into ruins. Scarlett couldn’t remember hearing of anyone living in the castle for over a hundred years. But as she gazed at it, she could still feel its greatness, its history leaking from the stones.