Love's First Light

by Jamie Carie

  “And what brings you to the city?”

  Stacia glanced at her mother, seeing no help there. She shrugged, “We’re come to see my sister’s uncle, Robespierre.”

  The room itself seemed to gasp, and now all eyes and ears truly were on her face.

  After the startled expression left the giant man’s face, a look of speculation crossed over it. “And what business do you have with Robespierre?”

  Stacia’s heart was pounding in her chest. Something told her the next words she uttered were very important to the room full of people surrounding her. Something else told her it would be better to charm than rile. She dimpled prettily and shook the curls resting against her bosom. “Why, good sir, Robespierre is a distant relative, and my mother and sister and I heard of all of the excitement happening here and decided we couldn’t miss another moment of it.”

  She leaned forward as if to tell him a great secret, smiling slightly and allowing the feeling of suppressed glee to enter her eyes. “He was rather put off at first. He can be so terrifying.” She shrugged delicately tilted her head to one side. “But he seems to be coming around.” She glanced at her mother, hoping and praying she would understand what Stacia was doing and play along. “He’s grown quite used to us by now, hasn’t he, Mother?”

  Her mother looked alarmingly perplexed, so Stacia plunged forward before she could speak. “Why—” she paused as the whole room waited, clearly in anticipation of further shock—“I do believe he’s becoming quite . . . hen-pecked.” She turned back and let the corners of her mouth rise in a triumphant gesture at the room. “All bark and no bite, that sort of thing.” She stared at them, smiling and blinking and waiting.

  Finally the man beside her burst into laughter. It seemed a signal of some sort, as the other men and women seemed to allow their tension out in a wave of giggles and laughter. Stacia knew they were laughing at her, not with her, but that had been the goal: to make herself look like a half-wit, a young woman incapable of political intrigue.

  She was only too pleased it had worked.

  Turning back around her gaze briefly rested on Madame Récamier. The woman smiled with closed lips at Stacia and gave her a little nod. Stacia looked away, but knew there was one woman in the room she had not fooled.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Émilie St. Laurent. Yes, that was her name. Scarlett—the pretty woman who had plunged into her life like a breath of fresh air with open, unafraid eyes and a stomach so large Émilie could hardly tear her gaze from it—had said it. Reminded her who she was.

  She wasn’t a servant girl. Not that she thought she couldn’t be or wouldn’t be again. It wasn’t that she deserved any other place in the world. She was lucky to be alive. But those words. Those three words had reminded her that she didn’t belong in Robespierre’s household. Somehow, in the blur of the last few years, she’d forgotten the girl she had once been.

  Émilie made her way down the narrow street, the place where her brothers used to play, preferring the bustling life there above their quiet chateau gardens. She’d peered out of the tall, mullioned glass of an upstairs window, sewing her sampler—or pretending to do so, but really wishing, wishing so hard, that she could be allowed out there with them. A boy’s freedom. How she’d longed for it.

  Christophé had led her down this same street that night. The night they ran from their family ruin. She looked back and forth, still puzzled by his words. Shouldn’t there be a red door? Had she heard him wrong?

  It was the only place she could think to go now. To the red door down this quaint, familiar street. Since fleeing the marketplace and Scarlett and everything familiar, she’d come back to this place. Since running away from Les Halles she’d waited in the shadows of the gardens of the chateau until dusk, when she could move about without fear of being captured.

  But as she searched yet again, she found the same hopeless answer: There was no red door.

  At least, none she could see.

  As she’d returned to this street over and over, knowing her brother would never have lied to her, memories stirred. It was strange. Color. She had noticed at an early age that people would point to something and say it was red or green . . . but she had always seen blue or gray where they pointed. She’d not thought too much about it until now. But her fruitless search tickled her memory, forcing her to recall that she’d always seen colors in a different way.

  A little girl was walking ahead of her. She was playing alone along the path by her home, rolling stones as far as she could across the cobblestones. The girl’s mother appeared from around the front door and called to her in a sharp voice.

  “Rinslet? Come in, child. It grows dark.”

  The woman took a long, suspicious glance at Émilie, who waved as if she knew the woman to put her off. Rinslet started to run away, but something in Émilie rose up, some fear of being left alone on this street looking for the door again. With all her strength she pushed air and sound out of her throat, speaking for the first time in years. “Rinslet?”

  The girl stopped and turned toward Émilie. “Would you like to play a game?” Her voice sounded raspy from nonuse, but the child nodded eagerly, forgetting her mother’s demand.

  Émilie bent to the girl’s level. “The doors on this street. Are any of them red?”

  The girl was about eight and looked up and down the street in concentration. “I don’t think so.”

  “Run quickly up and down and see if you can find a red door.”

  “What will you give me as a prize if I find it?” The child quirked up her nose at Émilie.

  Émilie dug into her pocket and pulled out one of Robespierre’s coins. She held it out in her palm, letting it shine in the fading light. “If you run very fast, I will give you this.”

  The child took hold of the challenge, looking at Émilie with certainty in her young eyes. She did run fast, faster even than Émilie could have run. She ran all the way down the street to the end of the block, looking at every door, then crossed the street and ran, lightning fast, down the other side. She arrived at Émilie’s side huffing and puffing, trying to catch her breath. “There it is—” she pointed just down the street on the other side. “It’s faded red, but it’s a red door.” She held out her hand for her prize.

  Émilie handed over the coin, emotion clogging her throat. It was just where Christophé had pointed that night so long ago. “Merci.”

  The child bounded away, as she gained entrance to her house, Émilie heard the complaining of a mother with a dawdling child.

  Her heart pounded in her chest as she made her way, step by slow step, toward the pointed-out door. It did look different than the brown doors. A grayish sort of green. And so her suspicions were finally confirmed. She didn’t see things as others did. It explained her mother’s exasperation at her attempts at needlepoint and sewing of any kind. It explained why she sometimes seemed befuddled by instructions that others found no difficulty following. It explained why they said her father had green eyes but she’d only seen a grayish color.

  Father . . .

  Thinking of him had the usual effect. She wanted to back up from life, crawl into a hole, and hide forever. He’d always been the one to bend down and whisper sweet words into her ear. He was the one she loved to tilt her head back so as to admire how tall he was, how grand. He was the one to sit in her little chairs and attend her tea parties, pretending as she did that the dolls were real and the tiny cups held enough tea to fill them. He brought flowers each time she invited him. Varying colors that she only now realized must have looked different to him. But he hadn’t cared. He wouldn’t care now . . . if he were alive. He’d just loved her.

  Émilie fought back the tears, demanding of herself some inner strength that she knew she shouldn’t need at her age. But she wasn’t one to feel sorry for herself. Instead, she walked up to the door, took a deep breath, ignored the pounding of her heart in her ears, and knocked as hard as she could.

  There was no ans
wer.

  She beat again, looking over each shoulder to see if anyone was coming down the street. She did not want to hide in the bushes of this street in the dark ever again.

  Nothing and no one.

  She tried the latch and found it firmly locked. Looking side to side, she saw that a low window was cracked open, letting in the evening breeze. Taking courage—and her skirt—in hand, she shimmied around some bushes and pushed the window open. It took a few tries as the casing was rusty and old, but finally it was open enough to allow her slim body to slip through.

  Let it be Christophé’s friend. Please God. Let it be my brother’s friend. It was her only thought as she slipped through the opening and slid to the floor.

  The room was a wreck of glass tubes and bottles, stacks of books and notes, barrels of odd-looking plants, some green and alive but most brown and dead looking. The room smelled of a combined strong smell that reminded Émilie of medicine.

  Where was she?

  There was a very low fire burning in the grate. She went to it, found the poker and a stout piece of wood, which she threw on the flame, igniting it into a blaze. The room turned into shadows and dancing light. Whenever she moved, a great shadow leapt across the ceiling and far wall. She laughed a little, thrusting out the poker like a sword, watching the shadow match her moves. Then she realized how loud the sound must be and quietly put the toy away.

  She was in the shop part of the house, she realized as she wandered into the large room. Off to the side was a flight of steps and a long, narrow handrail against the whitewashed wall. She grasped hold of the railing.

  The steps creaked a little and she stilled, waiting for any sound from the living quarters. When none came, she crept on. At the top of the stairs was a closed door. Slowly, quietly, she pressed her thumb against the latch. The door creaked open, leading to a short landing and then opening into a hall. She crept down it, step after step, not knowing if she walked into another trap or the haven Christophé spoke of so long ago it seemed a part of some dream.

  There was a half-empty glass on a table, a low fire in the grate, as down below, and no one. No sound. She must be alone.

  She crept further into the room toward the warm glow, which gave the room a sense of sanctuary. She turned from the fire’s brightness and saw a shawl on the settee. It looked strangely familiar. She stepped toward it, reached out and grasped it to her chest, then raised it to her face. She buried her face in the softness and the scent.

  It smelled like Scarlett.

  How or why that could be, she couldn’t fathom, but she felt it was a sign from God. Sinking down on the settee, she felt bone weary. She curled onto the settee, wrapping the scarf’s long, colored length around her as she laid her head on a pillow, stared into the yellow flames and felt her whole body go lax. She didn’t know why, but for the first time since that terrible night . . . she felt safe.

  JASPER WALKED THE short distance from the market to his door with light steps. After their visit in Madame Récamier’s salon, he had taken Suzanne and Stacia for an early dinner. The afternoon had had mixed results. On one hand he could hardly believe how well it had gone with Suzanne, though Stacia said she was unimpressed with any of the men she’d met today. But he hadn’t any luck finding clues to help him with Émilie’s disappearance. He’d dared not bring up the St. Laurent name, but had asked about the Duplays’, where Robespierre lodged. The men he’d spoken to seemed bored with the topic, and he’d let it go.

  Still, he couldn’t help but feel a rising, expanding joy in his chest as he thought of Suzanne. Her presence was a pure delight. How soon could he see her again?

  And where could he find a girl hiding in a city as huge as Paris?

  He turned the long, old key in the lock and strode into the shop, where he unwound his scarf and hung up his best waistcoat. He fingered the coat . . . thinking he might want to investigate his closet for something appropriate and, well, dapper to wear the next time he saw Suzanne. For he surely would see her again.

  With that thought bracing his steps, he took lively strides up the stairs toward the sitting room, thinking to get a drink of water before finding his bed. The fire was very nearly down to ash. He started toward it, then a movement caught his eye. He thought, at first, it was his cat, Simone. But no, his pet died many years ago.

  Suddenly alert to danger, he shrank back, waiting while the shadows in the room stilled. There was a soft sound, as if someone was breathing. The sound came from his settee.

  He crept forward, fearing one of Robespierre’s henchmen had come and fallen asleep awaiting his arrival. But no. His gaze took in a girl. She was curled up like a cat, her head resting on a long arm, her legs curled up by her stomach, her lashes long and flickering in the shadow light.

  She was a pretty thing.

  That was his first thought. His second thought was that she looked just like Christophé when he’d fallen asleep on this very piece of furniture. They’d had a late night discussing the mathematical equations of calculus. He’d only been fourteen at the time, and Jasper remembered how astounded he’d been at the boy’s mind.

  And how proud he’d been.

  How odd that this girl resembled that young Christophé.

  “My dear?” He gently shook the thin shoulders.

  She didn’t at first respond, so deep asleep and at peace she was. He stared at the bright curls against his pillow and something inside him stopped. Those golden curls . . . the same shade as the girl who climbed the guillotine steps . . . her face, so like Christophé’s . . .

  “Mademoiselle?”

  She roused, turned, and then sat up, terror in her wide, staring eyes.

  Jasper held out a calming hand. “Please. Do not be afraid.”

  She clutched the pillow to her chest. “Are you . . . Jasper?”

  “Yes.” He sought to make her at ease. “I am Jasper. And who might you be?”

  She glanced about the room, as though ensuring they were alone. Her voice sounded strange, croaky—as if it had been unused for a long, long time. “I am Émilie.”

  The words hit him like a blow. His legs failed him, so Jasper knelt down beside her. His movements slow and reverent, he took up the child’s hand. “Christophé was right,” he whispered in awe.

  Her voice quavered. “You are Jasper? My brother’s friend? With the red door?”

  “Yes. Christophé is one of my very best friends. Did he send you here?”

  “Yes.” She pulled her hand from his grasp, using it to brush the curls away from her face. “A long time ago. I hope I’m not too late.”

  “Of course not.” He paused, not knowing if he should say the next but then deciding that he should. “We thought you were dead, you know. We watched in a crowd as a girl, who looked just as you do, took the steps of the guillotine.”

  She looked up into his face and he saw her eyes in the flickering shadows of the firelight. So like Christophé’s face, but younger. Still so innocent despite everything. “I don’t know why, but Robespierre kept me alive, in his house. I was his servant.”

  Jasper pretended this news was of no great import, although it ascertained that the man in charge of the Révolution was, indeed, going mad. What kind of man, who held no punishment back from an aristocratic neck, would take this girl into his household to serve him? Jasper was afraid to ask and know what Robespierre might have done to this innocent child. Instead, he focused on the good news. “We are so glad. I’ve seen him, your brother. He is looking for you.”

  “Christophé is dead.” Her voice was dead, too, as she said it.

  “Émilie, listen to me, my dear. Christophé is here. He is alive and searching for you.”

  She shrank back into the cushions of the settee, distress warring with disbelief on those delicate features. “No.” She shook her head, fingers turning white as they clutched the pillow to her like a beloved doll. “He wouldn’t have left me.”

  “He thought you were . . . guillotined. Like the rest
of them. We watched it together. We both thought it. But your brother, he came back. He is even now in Paris. He knows you are alive. Scarlett told him that you are alive.”

  “Scarlett.” The name escaped her throat like a plea.

  “They want to find you. I am so glad you remembered to come here.” He stood up and then sat beside her, taking hold of her hand. “In the morning. We will tell them. We will go to them . . . together. You are not alone anymore.”

  She shuddered and then reached for him and fell into his old arms. She clung to him as if she had finally found a safe place, a place to release all the tide held back until she was home. “Christophé!” Her tears wet his shoulder. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

  Jasper clutched her thin shoulders as she trembled in his arms. His heart broke anew. “My brother said the man with the red door would help. It just took me a long time to find it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Scarlett woke to a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” she called out, thinking it was her mother or Stacia.

  The door opened, and she sank within to see Robespierre enter, nattily dressed, peering at her from his odd green glasses.

  “Scarlett, how are you?” He came further into the room and stood against the door as if uncomfortable. “Might I see him?”

  Scarlett motioned him in, though everything within her wanted to send him away. But they were living in his house and there should be no reason for her not to show him his great-nephew. So she pasted a smile on her face and motioned him closer. “Of course. Come and see.”

  As he neared, she suddenly remembered. Christophé! Where was he? He had been sitting beside her and she must have drifted off to sleep. Had he left while she was still asleep?

  Turning her fears aside, she focused on the task at hand. She held the babe, wrapped in a blue blanket her mother had made months ago out of the softest yarn, against her chest. As Robespierre perched gingerly on the edge of the feather ticking, just at her side, she looked up into his eyes and watched the play of emotion cross his face. Robespierre leaned forward, his chin a little at an angle so that he could see down through his glasses.