Love's First Light

by Jamie Carie

  “In this time, dear one, we could be anyone.”

  “Like Christophé? They are looking for someone like him?”

  “Exactly.”

  They were quiet and solemn as they traversed the bridge to the other side of Carcassonne. They were careful as they slipped passed the twin walls and entered the old castle. Then they stopped.

  “This way to Christophé’s laboratory. Come. Quiet though.” Scarlett grasped her sister’s hand in hers. A flock of dark birds took sudden flight, up and then out of the broken roof, frightening them both. Stacia pressed her hand against her mouth, eyes wide with mirth and fright.

  “Come,” Scarlett directed.

  They padded across the stones of the once-great hall of a medieval castle, made their way down a narrow passage . . . then Scarlett stopped.

  Smoke. Fire. The smell was strong and undeniable. She swung open the door, and they both put their sleeves to their faces as a charred room came into view. The stones were coated with black. There was shattered glass on the floor, and all around they saw devastation.

  “What happened?” Stacia questioned around her forearm.

  Scarlett looked around the room. Saw the charred remains of the table she knew was Christophé’s work table on the floor. “I don’t know.”

  She turned and hurried to the room where Christophé used to sleep. Flinging open the door, she rushed in. The bed was rumpled, but nothing else was there. All his clothes, his belongings were gone. She walked further in and turned around, finally seeing her sister in the doorway.

  “What happened to him?” Stacia asked.

  Such a simple question.

  But she had no simple answer.

  Except: “He is gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yes.” She knew it as deep as she knew the babe inside her.

  Christophé was gone.

  LATER THAT MORNING Scarlett announced her plan.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  She’d spent the hours after returning home packing her trunk. If there was one place Christophé would go, it was back to Paris. She wasn’t going to stay behind while her sister found a husband . . . and Christophé deserted her without even a word of explanation. He had to be in Paris.

  Her mother stared at her, aghast. “But Scarlett! You cannot travel so far! The child is coming soon!”

  “The babe is not due for another month, and I feel fit. I do not want to be left alone here. And you will need me to speak with Robespierre, to convince him of his duty to help us.”

  Her mother looked unconvinced, so Stacia intervened. “Mother, she will be fine. We need her. You know we will do nothing but worry about her the whole time we are gone. Just think. She will have the baby in Paris—with us to help her.”

  Scarlett’s mother looked at her daughters, and both Scarlett and Stacia knew they had won. “Very well. If you think you can travel such a distance.”

  Scarlett laughed and gave her mother a hug. “I’ve already packed.”

  THE WOMEN ROSE early the next morning and carried their trunks to the front door where they set them down. They had arranged for a neighbor to tote them by cart to the inn where they would meet the morning stage.

  Their mother looked around the house one last time, making sure the fire in the kitchen was completely extinguished, and reached for a basket of food. She bustled into the parlor, out of breath, her cheeks flushed pink. Looking at Scarlett, she stopped. “My dear. Are you certain?”

  Scarlett crossed her arm over her chest. “I am.” She wasn’t, though. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  Her mother shook her head and gestured with a hand. “I can hardly bear leaving you behind and was glad of your decision, but now. It will be taxing. You might fall into labor on the way and then what will we do?”

  Scarlett let out a laugh. “I truly hope not. But if it occurs, we can only pray a doctor will be traveling with us that day.”

  Stacia grasped Scarlett’s arm. “Come, worrying will do us no good.”

  There was a knock on the door. Stacia tied the ribbons of her hat under her chin as she walked to the door and opened it. “Oh, Pierre. Thank you for taking the trunks. We wouldn’t get very far if we had to carry them ourselves.” She smiled at him prettily, which had the man nodding and stammering.

  “It’s nothing, mademoiselle. Just sad to see you ladies leaving for Paris.”

  Stacia dimpled at him. “It will only be for a little while. You will watch over the house? See that ruffians don’t move in?”

  “Of course.”

  Stacia lifted the lightest trunk and followed Pierre out to his horse and cart. Scarlett and her mother walked beside the slow- moving animal.

  The inn was bustling with activity when they arrived, in the early light of morning. Scarlett pulled the brooch from her pocket and held it out, staring at the simple flower design that was so elegant, the stones flashing in the light. Her heart leapt in her chest as she remembered Daniel giving it to her on their wedding day. His brown eyes had held her gaze for a long moment, with such a look of happiness in them. The recollection brought sudden tears. “Oh, Daniel . . .”

  Gathering her resolve, she took the jewelry to the innkeeper. “Might I buy passage to Paris with this?”

  The man took the brooch between meaty fingers and turned it this way and that. He grinned at her revealing crooked, yellow teeth. His gaze taking in her rounded form. “Looks like a fine enough piece, madame, but you sure you want to travel all that way in your condition?”

  Scarlett pressed her lips together, looking down at the brooch in the man’s hands. “Yes, I must get to Paris.”

  “Well, you bought yourself a ticket then.”

  Stacia leaned forward and gasped. “Not your brooch, Scarlett!”

  Scarlett turned and led her away from the counter. “I have no choice. We were struggling to come up with the funds to send you and Mother. I had to do it.”

  “Oh, it’s so unfair.”

  “Yes, dear sister. Sometimes it is.”

  As the carriage clattered over the cobblestone road they saw the old pigeon towers, the place where their ancestors had trained the birds to fly with messages of news of the world. They now stood empty, like church spires, some round or square, tall, reaching into the blue of the sky, and roofed with slate or tiles. Their thick, old stones knew stories that Scarlett could only imagine.

  It wasn’t too long before they began to pass through the towns and villages of southern France. At the larger towns they would stop where the passengers could purchase food or drink, take care of necessities, and walk the kinks from their legs. The horses were watered or changed out for a fresh set, and then off they went again.

  About eighty miles southeast of Paris they stopped in Orléans. It was an ancient city, the city of the famed Joan of Arc, built on the bank of the Loire River. They stopped at the Hotel Groslot as Scarlett had heard that it was being turned into a town hall for the Révolution. The use of Robespierre’s name easily bought them a quiet room in the back, complete with a comfortable bed, firewood for the fireplace, and a decent meal.

  “How did you know about this place?” Stacia fell back on the bed with a contented smile.

  Scarlett shrugged. She didn’t really know. Some lost memory of a conversation had surfaced as soon as they’d arrived in the river town. “The Révolution has arms stretching all over France. I remembered the name being discussed.”

  Stacia propped her hand against her cheek. “Scarlett, what do you really think of this Révolution?”

  Scarlett turned from the full-length mirror where she was removing her hat and the pins from her hair. As the long, heavy length fell against her back she brushed it back with her fingers and looked at her sister. She paused, not sure how to answer. She saw her mother looking silently between her daughters.

  Scarlett finally shrugged, her hand curving around her rounded stomach almost unconsciously. “When I heard Daniel speak of it, I thought them
so noble. I thought he was so good. And that what he said about freeing the poor people from the excesses of the aristocrats was so true. Now—” she shook her head—“I don’t know. They are doing such horrible things in the name of freedom. When I think of the senseless deaths . . . I think there must be another way. It can’t be right.”

  Stacia nodded, accepting Scarlett’s words. Then she grinned. “Well, at least for tonight we have a comfortable place to sleep.” She spread her arms out on the bed and sighed with contentment. “I’m glad you came, Scarlett,” she said with a smile directed at the ceiling. “Mother and I would be sleeping on the ground or some hard floor without you.”

  Their mother shook her head. “You girls need to sleep. We have another two or three hours of travel to Paris tomorrow, and I want you both feeling your best.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The carriage clattered over the Pont-au-Change, an enormous stone bridge that connects the Right Bank to the Île de la Cité, the island in the middle of the Seine. Stacia hung her head out of the open window and gasped at the sights. “Scarlett, is that Notre Dame?”

  Scarlett leaned around her sister’s shoulder the best she could. “Yes. Isn’t it grand?”

  Stacia looked all around. “It is so huge! And the city is amazing! Look at all the houses and shops. I cannot believe you lived here for nearly a year.” She turned her head to look at Scarlett. “It must have been like a dream.”

  “Yes—” Scarlett sighed—“it was.”

  They turned west on Rue de Rivoli, passed the Tuileries Gardens with its round pools, ornate shrubbery and statues, then came into an octagon-shaped square. Summer had come early, and the lilacs and flowers were in full bloom, making a glorious sight.

  A little further down, Scarlett gasped. “They’ve torn down the King Louis statue.” In its place sat an enormous scaffold—and the guillotine. Looking at the blood-stained monstrosity, a shiver ran down Scarlett’s back.

  Stacia wrinkled her delicate nose. “What is this place?”

  “It is called Place Louis XV. People often gathered here and in the gardens.”

  An older gentleman seated across from them spoke up. “Don’t let anyone hear you call it that now, citizen. It has been renamed Place de la Révolution and is the place where the king was guillotined along with anyone they find supporting him.” He paused and Scarlett fought a shiver as his gaze traveled the three of them. “Be very careful what you say, even to each other. There are eyes and ears everywhere in Paris and soldiers just waiting to arrest and imprison their next victim.”

  Stacia stared, wide-eyed, at the man and then at Scarlett.

  “My thanks.” Scarlett’s mother nodded to the man. “I have not been to Paris in many, many years. So much has changed.”

  The man blinked several times at her, then crossed his arms over his chest and pressed his lips together as if fearing to say more.

  They drove north through the square and Scarlett pointed to one of the buildings. “There, the Duplays’ house. I hope that is where Robespierre is still staying.”

  The carriage pulled up, and Scarlett and her family disembarked. She had never known such nervousness as she did walking up the steps to the door. What if he turned them away? No. She was family, which made her mother and Stacia family by association. He would have to help them.

  The door was opened by a pretty young woman with dark hair and intelligent eyes. “Yes?”

  “I am Scarlett Robespierre, here to see Maximilian, my uncle.”

  “Citizen Robespierre is not in at present.” Her eyes dropped to Scarlett’s protruding stomach. “He usually returns at the dinner hour.”

  “Might we wait for him?”

  The woman looked appalled at such an idea, so Scarlett quickly added. “We have traveled so far, all the way from Carcassonne. Please. He would appreciate your care of his relatives, I am certain.”

  The woman looked torn, obviously not wanting to displease Robespierre. She muttered something under her breath and looked about to break out in a sweat. “I will send a note to his office. Until then you are welcome to take refreshment in the salon.”

  Scarlett inclined her head in agreement. It was as good an offer as she was going to get.

  The women settled in to wait, Stacia exclaiming, albeit quietly, about the grandeur of the city while they took tea and delicate, petite cakes and pastries. When the serving girl had departed, Stacia leaned over and whispered to Scarlett. “That was brilliant.”

  Scarlett reached for another cake, not remembering when anything had ever tasted so good. “What?”

  “The part about ‘taking care of his relatives.’ I think she would have kicked mother and me out immediately. I’m so glad that you came.”

  Her mother agreed. “Yes, dear me, Scarlett. I am so glad you are here.”

  Scarlett smiled, grateful to have overcome the first obstacle—but painfully aware the greatest one was yet to come.

  Over two hours later, Robespierre finally made an appearance. He looked worse than she remembered—his pockmarked face the pallor of souring milk, his thin lips compressed. He wore the powdered wig of the old Regime, and his neck and shoulders twitched, causing his head to move about in an odd, grotesque way.

  Scarlett swallowed the giant lump of nerves in her throat and rallied. She rose as he strode into the room, held out her hands toward him, and saw him recoil as if a serpent reached for him. He made an abrupt move with his head and then turned away from her toward a settee. “Citizen Scarlett,” he exclaimed as he sat across from them, “whatever are you doing here? I find it shocking that you are traveling in your . . .” He couldn’t seem to finish the statement. His gaze darted toward Scarlett’s rounded stomach and then quickly back up at her face. But not once did the man look into her eyes.

  “Maximilian,” Scarlett reseated herself and clasped her hands together. “It is so good to see you again. Are you well?” She delivered the question with a slight tone of correction and offense.

  He seemed momentarily at a loss for words. “Yes, merci. And this must be your mother and sister.”

  Stacia bowed her head and gave him that graceful, sweet smile. “So good to finally meet the man who has taken such good care of us all these months. We are indebted to you, Deputy Robespierre.”

  Their mother joined in a little too brightly. “Indebted, indeed, Deputy Robespierre.”

  Apparently feminine praise did not sit well on the man’s shoulders. He fidgeted. “Well, yes. Just doing my duty. But, why have you come?”

  Scarlett gained his attention with a delicate clearing of her throat. “Dear uncle, what choice did we have? With the flour depleted, we have no way to carry on. As my only surviving male relative, we were hoping we could further depend upon your good will.”

  “You should have stayed, my dear. Paris is no place for you to be. The Révolution commands all of my energies. I have little time to see to your welfare.”

  Scarlett chuckled. “We have little need of your time, uncle. Only a roof over our heads and the basic sustenance deserving of any relative. We have come to find Stacia a husband and as such, add to our resources.”

  Robespierre’s gaze swung to the young woman. “Ah.” But he looked even more disturbed. “The moral character of the nation should be every citizen’s chief concern, not domestic happiness.”

  “Of course,” Scarlett replied in a low voice. “I suppose living on your charity is nobler than a future husband for Stacia.”

  Before Robespierre had time to respond to Scarlett’s impertinence, she plunged on, intent and determined. Her smile never wavering, looking him directly in the face for a silent second, she waited for his gaze to reach hers. When it finally did she asked softly, “How is Daniel’s aunt? Your dear sister, Charlotte?”

  Robespierre rose, the nervous moving of his neck and shoulders worsening. He made for the door with a mumbled excuse. “Haven’t seen her. Pressing business. Must get to my writing.”

  As h
e opened the door to leave them, Scarlett called out to him. “Uncle, shall we stay here?”

  He paused as if remembering the reason they had come and his responsibility of finding them lodging for the night. He turned his head toward them, then back around, and then toward them again as if he didn’t know which way to go. “For now.”

  As the door closed, Scarlett’s mother’s mouth fell open. “Good heavens!”

  It was the only thing any of them could think to say.

  THE CHATEAU WAS boarded up, pitch dark and as still as the death it had witnessed. Christophé closed the door through which he and Émilie had escaped that night so long ago and leaned against it for a moment, getting his bearings. He felt his way along the wall to the back stairs of the mansion and mounted them. A feeling of unreality assailed him as he groped through the dark toward the main quarters. The air in the place was stale and damp; he couldn’t quite breathe deeply enough, and panic grew in his stomach.

  He found the library though, made his way to a long window, and drew back the curtain. Moonlight spilled into the room with such a cold light that it only added to his unease. He turned from it, needing a candle. The room had been gutted of anything of value. Even the rugs had been ripped from where they’d lain, soft and pliant under their feet for so many decades. Christophé limped toward the desk, the injury from his journey flaring up. He cursed the ill luck of buying a horse with the last of his stash of coins only to have it slip on the muddied road and fall, landing on his leg. But at least it had been he who was injured and not the horse. As unmanageable as the mare had been, she’d had the strength and stamina to get Christophé to Paris in a little over a week.

  A search of the desk proved that whoever had looted their home had been thorough. There wasn’t even a dust mote to be found.

  Giving up, Christophé made his way slowly to his bedchamber. As he did so, something nagged at him. A memory long buried . . . The room was completely dark and he was forced to go by touch alone. There. There it was. He pulled a deep box from a space behind the bed. He was surprised they had missed it.