Love's First Light

by Jamie Carie

  Christophé shielded his eyes as if he was looking directly into the sun.

  Stacia urged him up the steps to the front door, tried it, and gave a little prayer of thanks that it wasn’t locked. She pulled Christophé into the suite of rooms that belonged to Robespierre.

  A tiny laugh escaped her chest as they cleared the threshold. They’d made it. And more . . . it was the last place on earth Robespierre would look for his enemy.

  Scarlett’s screams were evident the moment they entered Robespierre’s sitting room. Christophé looked down into Stacia’s face, his features intense, but the color had returned to his face and Stacia thought he had gained some of his strength back. “Take me to her.”

  “I wouldn’t consider anything else.” Stacia assured him, then leaned in and whispered. “But first I must rid the room of the other women. We must keep you a secret.”

  “Who is with her?”

  “My mother and the midwife. She has been laboring to have the babe for a long time.” Stacia motioned him to follow her. “You will be seen if you stay here. Follow me.”

  Stacia took him to Robespierre’s bedchamber. When she started to lead him to the bed, Christophé shook his head. “I’ll just sit down over here.”

  Stacia nodded. “I won’t be long. Rest for a few minutes.”

  Her mother and the midwife looked up as she opened the door to the bedchamber that Scarlett, her mother, and she shared.

  “Stacia.” Her mother motioned her over. “I can’t believe you have slept through the last hours.”

  Stacia shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Let me talk to her. I want to be alone with her for a few moments.”

  The two other women looked at her askance. “The birth is at any minute. We cannot leave her.”

  “Leave me!” Scarlett shouted with more vehemence than any of them had ever heard come from her red lips. “Leave me with my sister.”

  The midwife frowned at her mother. Their mother’s face paled as she looked back and forth between Stacia and Scarlett.

  “Mother, please. I will fetch you if Scarlett needs you.”

  Her mother pressed her lips together, worry lines framing her mouth. “For a few moments only, Scarlett. The child is coming very soon.” She threw up her hands as she left the room, saying to the midwife, “She has no idea. No earthly idea what’s to come.”

  As soon as the door closed, Stacia rushed to Scarlett’s side and grasped her quivering hand in a tight grip. “I found him. He’s injured . . . a rather nasty gash on his head. But he walked here . . . for you, Scarlett. He walked here on the strength of knowing that you need him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In Robespierre’s bedchamber. It was the only place.”

  Scarlett looked ready to cry and shake Stacia at the same time. “Are you insane? He could come back at any moment and find him. We have to move him!”

  “Don’t worry about Robespierre. I don’t think he will return any time soon.”

  Scarlett could only stare at her as if she’d gone mad while panting through the next contraction.

  “I will bring him. He is waiting to see you. But the women will come back at any moment. Oh, I have so much to tell you! Robespierre . . . he was there. In the chateau with Christophé. I think he thought he had killed him. You were right. We have to escape. All of us. And we must help Émilie get away from him!”

  Scarlett reared up suddenly and curled around the mound, grasping her upraised knees. She gasped out. “Bring . . . Christophé . . . to . . . me.”

  Stacia ran to Robespierre’s bedchamber, then grabbed and pulled on Christophé’s arm. “Come. Now.”

  CHRISTOPHÉ STRUGGLED AGAINST the sudden dizziness as he stood. His head was still sore, but he at least had most of his strength back. Stacia grasped his hand and led him through the dark rooms to Scarlett’s bedside.

  “It’s coming. The baby is coming,” Scarlett gasped out as they entered the room.

  “I’ll go and get mother and the midwife.”

  “No. Wait!” Scarlett no sooner got the words out before she bore down again.

  Christophé dropped to the foot of the bed. He lifted the sheet covering Scarlett’s body. The babe’s head was crowning. “Let it come.”

  She heaved up and curled over the ball of her stomach as her hand reached out for Stacia’s. Christophé sensed everything within her body focusing on the push as she took a great gulp of air. Her face turned as red as her lips, her breathing suspended. He held his as well, knowing he was witnessing a miracle.

  Then Scarlett groaned and pushed with all her might, Christophé came alive. He could feel the life-flow rush back through his veins and into his heart, sending it pounding so he thought it might burst through his chest. He watched, shivers slipping up and down his spine as the baby’s skull ruptured through membrane and flesh and blood.

  Serendipitous laughter broke from his chest as the head broke free. He stared at the closed slits of the eyes, the tiny bluish lips, the soft cheeks.

  He looked up and saw Scarlett, this women who had become such a part of him, gasp. Their gazes locked as she took a giant gulp of air and then bore down against gravity and space and mass and any calculations he had ever imagined. She became everything in creation at that moment.

  She became the giver of life.

  He gasped, a profound shiver traveling up and down his frame, as the babe’s shoulders broke free, slick and alive and moving. His throat tightened as the rest of the body slipped as silent as time into his hands.

  Thy kingdom come. Thy kingdom come. He knew the words like an ancient chant and in them found peace. He looked down at the child whose veins carried the blood of Robespierre—and then saw himself and knew. Fool. Utter fool. That’s what he’d been. So focused on destruction and revenge. On death. When what mattered was here.

  Love. Life. Renewal.

  Thy will be done.

  He would not kill Robespierre. He would not seek revenge. For as he gazed into the tiny infant’s face, he knew the power of life . . . sensed the sure presence of the Giver of life . . . and it changed everything.

  As the infant’s wails filled the room, two women, one Scarlett’s mother and another he didn’t know, burst through the door.

  “Christophé!” Mrs. Bonham’s hand rose to her throat.

  He turned, her grandson cradled in his hands. “Ma mère.” The words he hadn’t been able to say for so long broke free from his heart. From now on this woman would be his mother. “Grandmère . . . it is a son.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Scarlett fell back against the pillows. She closed her eyes briefly as a small smile played on her lips. She heard the midwife come forward to cut the cord and opened her eyes to watch her mother take up the baby and wrap him in a soft blanket. A few moments later the afterbirth was delivered, and then the midwife, quick and efficient, cleaned Scarlett and placed fresh sheets underneath her.

  Stacia reached for and squeezed Scarlett’s hand. “You were right, Scarlett. A boy.”

  Christophé clung to the bed as he made his way toward her and sat on the edge next to her.

  Scarlett’s heart panged in her chest as she saw how thin and tired he looked. His hair had been shaved and was now tiny bristles; there was dried blood on his head and on his cheek. “You are hurt. You need a physician.”

  “No.” He looked over toward the babe who was being cleaned with a cloth and warm water. “I just need to rest.” He looked back at Scarlett and gave her that half-grin that made her stomach flip. “He’s wonderful, Scarlett. You did well.”

  Scarlett felt tears spring to her eyes. She looked up as her mother brought over her son and settled him into her arms. “Meet your son, my dear.”

  As she brought the tiny baby into her chest and felt Christophé at her side, staring down at both of them, she was filled with love for both.

  “What will you name him?” Stacia studied the tiny babe, eyes wide.

  “André.” Scarlet
t traced his rounded cheek. “André Robespierre.”

  “Brave.” Christophé leaned in to look at the child. “André means brave.”

  Scarlett gazed into Christophé’s eyes. “He will need to be brave in such a world as we now live. It is a good name.”

  Christophé reached toward her, his fingers making a light caress against her cheek. “Yes.”

  Scarlett looked to her mother. “Please look at Christophé’s wound.” She turned back toward the man she loved—the man for whom she had many questions. But they could wait. His wound couldn’t.

  The midwife came around the bed, felt Christophé’s forehead, and studied the wound on his scalp. “The cut is deep. We’d best fetch the surgeon to stitch it up.”

  Christophé roused, shook his head. “No. Find Jasper. The apothecary on Rue de Laine. He will know what to do.”

  The midwife angled a look at him. “Jasper Montpelier? I know of him. I have bought remedies of his over the years.” She tapped her fingers against her folded arms. “He was arrested some time ago, I think. But if I recall, they let him go.” She looked at Scarlett’s mother. “I will show you where it is, but then I must leave. I have another patient to see today.”

  Christophé’s head had jerked toward the midwife. “Was Jasper imprisoned?”

  “For a short time, I believe. But I have been to his shop since and he seemed the same as he has always been. Irascible creature.” The midwife looked over at her mother. “Come along, Mrs. Bonham. It’s not far.”

  Her mother fluttered her hands in the air and sputtered. “I can’t leave Scarlett. What if something happens? I need to be here with her. You never know what might go wrong with a newborn. I need to watch over them.”

  Stacia spoke up. “Mother, go. I will take care of Scarlett and the baby.”

  When she still looked torn, Stacia continued. “I will better deal with Robespierre if he comes home. We must keep Christophé hidden from the man. No one must know he is still alive and in Paris. Do you understand, Mother? You must not speak of him. Robespierre cannot know that we have ever met him.”

  Their mother looked ready to burst into tears. “You are keeping secrets from me, and I can’t bear it. Why is Christophé’s past so mysterious? Does he know your uncle, Scarlett? Scarlett?”

  Scarlett looked long at her mother and decided she must tell her. “Christophé is Christophé St. Laurent. A count’s son. He was hiding in Carcassonne.”

  Immediate understanding showed on her mother’s features. “The castle.”

  “Yes. He has been there for a long time.” Scarlett’s voice lowered. “I don’t know why he returned to Paris.” She looked at Christophé, but he remained silent.

  “Well, it sounds as if he has trouble enough on his own, dear. Don’t expect men to tell you everything. They never do.”

  Scarlett exchanged a frustrated glance with Stacia.

  Determination filled her with renewed strength. “Mother, please. Go and fetch his friend, Jasper. Tell him what has occurred. If Christophé is asking for him, I’m sure he can be trusted. If Robespierre returns we can say that Jasper is my physician.”

  Scarlett scooted to one side of the bed, André in her arms. She touched Christophé’s arm. “Lie down here and rest until they return.” Turning to Stacia she said, “Get him some water, please. And a cloth. At least we can wash some of that blood away.”

  Scarlett settled back into the pillows and closed her eyes, exhaustion overwhelming her. She could only hope that when she awoke, Christophé would tell her why he ran from Carcassonne . . .

  And if he was running away from her.

  RAP. RAP. RAP. Jasper heard the sound somewhere in his consciousness, but couldn’t place it. He bent back over his experiment. Could this chemical really dissipate into a vapor that was more effective when inhaled? What if, when compounded, it was injected? That would make it penetrate the systems more quickly and effectively . . .

  Rap. Rap. Rap. The sound came louder now. Stroking his chin, he stood and cocked his head. Ah. The door. Someone was knocking.

  He hated to leave his experiment at half mast, but he had visitors at this hour so rarely he reasoned it must be of some import. Wiping his hands on the long, stiff apron he wore to protect his clothing he pushed his spectacles up upon his balding brow and headed to the door.

  Rap. Rap. Rap! Whoever it was, they were of a persistent nature. He pulled the heavy door open and stared at the two women on his threshold. One was older, impatience pinching her face. The other woman was, well, rounded in a way that he recognized in some distant part of his brain as pleasing. And her face . . . well . . . he couldn’t quite explain the impact of that finely sculpted face. So he stood there, dumbfounded.

  Clearly they were waiting for him to speak. “Yes?” It was the best he could manage.

  The sour woman exchanged glances with the other woman. “That’s him.” With that, she turned to go. Jasper watched her retreating back, confusion mounting, then turned toward the pleasant one.

  “Yes?”

  The woman looked as confused as he. Like she’d been led to his door on a lark and now didn’t know what to do about it.

  “Would you like to come in?” Jasper ventured, trying to help them both. “My shop is closed for the night, but if there is something you need? Something I can help you with?”

  The woman rushed inside nodding, a gushing of sentences coming from her mouth. “Oh, sir. Are you Jasper? I don’t recall your surname, so I do apologize. Christophé . . . he just sent me here and well, I-I’m not very sure what I’m here for except for that nasty gash on his head.” She was looking about the place as she spoke and then spun toward him, voicing her perplexity. “You have no wife?”

  Jasper didn’t know quite what to make of the tumble of words, or the question. Was something wrong with his shop? Normally, he wouldn’t care what someone thought of it. But this time . . .

  He didn’t want her to leave.

  That had never happened to him before with a woman, but he turned his thoughts from that to the one thing he recognized as sense. “Christophé, did you say? Do you know him?”

  “Oh, my, yes. Well, we’ve met on occasion. I don’t know much about him, not very much at all really, but he is . . . well . . . courting my eldest daughter, Scarlett, and she just had a baby. Oh, that doesn’t make any sense does it? Scarlett is a widow. We have recently come to Paris from Carcassonne. But Scarlett was here before, a few years ago, and married. He died. Well, of course he did, as I said Scarlett is a widow. And she met this man who claims to be a scientist named Christophé. Charming man—showed me the stars through his telescope. May the Lord be merciful! I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life! Well—”

  Jasper interrupted her tirade. “Is Christophé here? In Paris?”

  “Well, yes, of course he is in town. He is in Robespierre’s bedchamber! Which is very inconvenient as the man might come back at any moment and discover him.” She smiled up at him, satisfied. Clearly she felt she had explained everything.

  Jasper choked back a chuckle even though her story sent shafts of panic through him. She was truly deranged and just so . . . lovely. He found it hard to concentrate on anything but the idea of taking down her silver threaded brown hair and seeing what it would look like framing such rosy, rounded cheeks.

  “Madame, please, follow me and let me provide what meager refreshment I can.” He led her through the shop and then up the stairs to his private apartments. She followed him into the salon, while he glanced about the room. Now that he’d invited her, did he even have anything to offer? When was the last time he went shopping? He honestly couldn’t remember. Brushing those thoughts aside, he poured her a cup of cold tea and pressed it into her hand, directing her to an over-stuffed chair he had found from a refuse heap many years ago.

  He blinked, as though seeing it for the first time. The piece looked like it belonged back there. He turned to hide his embarrassment, and after a moment of se
arching he found another cup. Pouring his own tea he sat across from her, brows drawn together so tight he could feel the tension line in between. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Your name, madame?”

  “Oh, you mustn’t call me madame, sir. Haven’t you heard? We are all called citizens now.”

  Jasper brushed away her concern. “I am too old and stubborn to change my form of address to a lady. So, your name?”

  “Suzanne Bonham. From Carcassonne, as I said. I am here in Paris to help my youngest daughter, Stacia. She’s quite beautiful and so smart, and it is our hope she will find a husband.” She leaned in and spoke in a conspirator’s voice, shaking her head. “I can tell you, it is not going very well. Why, with this Révolution taking up everyone’s attention and things so . . . so unrecognizable. What are we poor women to do? We did bake bread for a time, keeping to ourselves, supporting ourselves, but then Robespierre wrote that he couldn’t send more flour, and what were we to do but come to Paris and make Stacia a match? Scarlett said it was the only thing left to us.”

  Jasper started. “Did you say Robespierre?”

  “Yes, yes. Scarlett’s uncle by marriage. She is a widow now, as I said, but Robespierre is the only male relative we have left and with the flour gone, we really had no choice.”

  “And Christophé? Did he come with you?”

  “Oh, good heavens, no. Christophé had disappeared from Carcassonne, breaking my poor daughter’s heart, though she didn’t show it, but I knew. I had little hope of ever seeing him again.” She took a quick sip of her tea and then wrinkled her nose and sat the cup back on the tea tray. “He was living in that ancient castle. Why, it’s a wonder the whole monstrous roof didn’t cave in on his head. Scarlett said he was doing—” she lowered her voice to a whisper—“some sort of experiments there. I don’t know what that is about, but after we arrived in Paris, Stacia somehow found Christophé.” She clasped her hands in her lap, the trail of words coming to an abrupt end, and then, “He is hurt. Badly hurt. He sent me here to you. To Jasper.”