Humbled

by Renee Rose

  He nodded.

  “Every franc you own?”

  “It does not amount to much,” he said.

  “You did not think to take something from the château?”

  He frowned. “You still think I am a thief.”

  “No, monsieur. I think you are the finest gentleman.”

  She slipped a silver and opal ring out of her skirts without letting him see where it had been. “Me, I thought of it. We can sell this ring for my passage.”

  Jean-Claude’s eyes lit up when he saw the ring, and she thought she had pleased him with the idea of the francs it would bring. He held out his palm. “May I see it?” He examined the jewel, his eyes shining, a smile on his face. “I made this ring,” he beamed.

  She gaped.

  “You see?” he said, turning the ring to show her the tiny fleur-de-lis stamped on the inside of the band. “That is my mark.” She saw immense pride in his expression, and it was well deserved as the craftsmanship was flawless.

  “You truly are a silversmith.”

  He gave a wry grin. “Can a lowly pig-thief ever become a silversmith?”

  She flushed.

  “No, I am a blacksmith, but I have had the pleasure of silversmithing for your father. For some reason, he trusted me to repair his finery, and once he saw I was capable, commissioned some design work.” He turned the ring over in his fingers. “I understood this ring was for your mother. Did you wear it?”

  There was an eager pride there, as if it would please him to know she had worn his ring. She wanted to lie and say yes, but she already knew it did not fit any of her fingers. “I wish I’d had the honor,” she said with genuine regret. “But you are correct. It was my mother’s ring. My maid had the foresight to have me open my parents’ treasure chest and take what was small.” She meant to show him only the one ring, to not reveal her secret cache lest he rob her of it, but shame filled her with self-disgust. Jean-Claude had been willing to spend every coin he had to get her to safety, to repay the debt of his life to her. He had not looked for any gain when he might have stolen anything from the château when he came for her.

  “You have others?”

  “A few,” she said, then blushed, ashamed again at her mistrust.

  He held up a hand. “You do not have to show them to me. I am glad you have something. I was troubled about your future in England. With the jewels, you will have provisions. Still, I think you had best save them all for England. It would be difficult to sell any of them in France without giving you away, and I will not risk your being discovered. No, we will use my francs for your passage out.”

  She could hardly speak she was so overwhelmed with the gallantry of the man she had the fortune of saving as a child.

  * * *

  “How far is it to Le Havre?” Corinne asked when they started out again.

  “Another week, I would guess, though it may be farther. We will avoid Paris and stay closer to the shore.”

  “A week?” Corinne protested.

  “Not one complaint. Not one. I will spank you every time. Do you understand?”

  Corinne threw him a sidelong glance. He thought he saw amusement rather than ire on her face, and it pleased him more than it should have. There was something about traveling together, day in, day out, about sleeping and eating and walking together, that brought them closer. They were not intimate, yet they had intimacy. Something had eased between them. They knew each other’s rhythms and sensed each other’s feelings. Despite all the trouble she was and beyond the undeniable attraction he felt for her, he had come to genuinely care for Corinne.

  That night as they ate by a small fire, she took out the ring and fingered it again. “Jean-Claude, do you think this ring could buy me passage to La Nouvelle-Orléans?”

  “La Nouvelle-Orléans? Do you have family there?”

  “No, but I always loved the way Papa spoke of the colonies—land of possibility.”

  He considered. “Yes, I do think the ring would buy you passage. But what would you do when you arrived?”

  She threw him a condemning glance. “I am sure some nice gentleman will pick me up and bring me home. I am pretty enough, do you not agree?”

  He snorted. “Come here,” he said grabbing her wrist and hauling her over his lap before she knew what was happening. He spanked her with his hand over her skirts. “What I know is you are far too impertinent to impress a husband, and if you do manage to snare one, you will spend ample time over his lap, like this!”

  She giggled, kicking and twisting, fighting him like a cat. He let her up. “I will add sauciness to offenses for which I spank.”

  She gave his shoulder a shove, though it hardly moved him. He made a tsking sound with his tongue. “Pushing will not earn you favors either, mademoiselle.”

  She looked askance at his use of the formal address. It was the first time he had used it in ages, purposely calling her by her given name to impress upon her the new status she had in France. Yet she was a lady. And if truth be told, he would be more comfortable treating her as one.

  He stared into the fire, thinking about Corinne managing La Nouvelle-Orléans. It was too dangerous—too much unknown there. “No. I cannot allow you to go to La Nouvelle-Orléans. England is where you shall go.”

  Her head swiveled, neck long as a swan’s. “The decision is not yours. You are not my husband, nor my master. You will leave me in Le Havre. The rest of the journey is mine alone, is it not?”

  He ground his teeth. She was right, of course. Still, he threatened, “Shall I leave you to the rest of journey here, then?”

  She did not bite, simply blinked her long lashes at him. “Please do not leave me.” She spoke in the tone of someone who already knows her wish will be granted.

  He scowled and put the fire out, his mind turning over all the possible harm that might befall her on such a long voyage to an unknown territory.

  They continued their travel, sharing more of themselves with each other as they walked day after day. Corinne fretted about her parents, but he warned her they could not ask about them without arousing suspicion until she was out of the country.

  An official stopped them outside Rennes. “Papers, please.”

  He made his expression show annoyance rather than anxiety as he pulled out the papers. Please let Corinne keep her mouth shut.

  “Where are you going?”

  He had already thought this through. “My wife and I are headed to Caen,” he said “to visit family.”

  The official peered at him. “What family?”

  “My uncle, Etienne Armand. And his wife Amelie. And my cousins Pierre—”

  “All right,” grumbled the official. “Why would you choose to travel when your country is in the midst of a revolution?”

  He gave a careless shrug. “To find a better life. Like everyone else, no?”

  The official scrutinized his face and the papers, but Jean-Claude kept his expression indifferent.

  “These papers are out of date.”

  Corinne turned to him, her eyes wide and furious. “Imbecile!” she barked, taking on a rustic accent. “What kind of husband are you?” She slapped his shoulder. “I told you, ‘check the papers!’ Did you check the papers? No, you did not. Can you do nothing right on this trip?”

  Jean-Claude did not miss a beat. “Shut your mouth, wife!” He slapped her backside with his hand.

  She screeched indignantly.

  He grasped her upper arm and chased her in a circle, smacking her bottom to the sound of her vociferous protesting. “Enough out of you! You stop it right now or I will cut a switch and give you a real thrashing!”

  “You leave me alone, you piece of swine dung! You complete waste of a—”

  The official grabbed him by the arm, hauling him away from Corinne. “Enough!” he said with disgust. “Go on, but you must get new papers before you travel again.”

  “Thank you, citizen. I understand,” Jean-Claude said with a bow.

  Cori
nne continued her act, throwing him another furious look before dropping into a scrappy curtsy beside him. He grabbed her elbow and yanked her forward. “Come on, wife.”

  When they were out of earshot, Corinne burst into giggles, and he caught her hand, giving it a squeeze. “You were magnificent.”

  She giggled again. “Must you use every opportunity to spank me? I meant it when I called you a piece of swine dung.”

  He grinned. “And I meant it when I said I would cut another switch.”

  She cast him a baleful look, but mirth simmered beneath it.

  Walking beside her, he felt as close to Corinne as he might have his wife. The thought of leaving her in Le Havre already pained him.

  Chapter Three

  “There is a packet leaving for La Nouvelle-Orléans tomorrow,” a dock-worker informed them when Jean-Claude inquired in Le Havre.

  “How do we purchase passage?”

  The worker lifted his chin. “It is that ship over there, and you can talk to the captain.”

  Jean-Claude had said little more about her choice to go to La Nouvelle-Orléans instead of England, and she had been half-afraid he might try to force her onto a ship against her will, but it seemed he had resigned himself to her decision. The grim set of his mouth as they walked toward the packet ship told her he still hated the idea, though.

  “Should we try to sell the ring first?” she asked, her nerves making her heart pump faster than it should. She was close to her escape, yet Le Havre presented more danger to her than she had faced since the attack on Gramont. Police and officials were everywhere, and she dreaded being stopped for papers again and not being able to fool their inquisitor a second time.

  “No,” Jean-Claude said. “Too dangerous. I think we are best making a private deal with the captain. That ring will more than pay for your passage, and chances are he will be greedy enough to accept it without asking too many questions.”

  She hesitated when they arrived at the walkway for the ship. “Well, I suppose this is goodbye?” Her throat tightened around a lump.

  He grabbed her upper arm and hauled her onto the walkway. “Don’t be silly,” he said roughly. “I am not leaving you till I know things have been arranged.”

  She hid a smile, touched by his gruff manner, sensing it hid some feeling akin to her own distress at parting.

  The ship was huge, filled with workers and middle-class merchants. She saw no aristos on board. Or perhaps they were all disguised, like her.

  “Can you point out the captain?” Jean-Claude asked a worker.

  “Citizen Moreau is the captain. He is standing over there,” he said, pointing.

  They thanked the man and walked to the captain.

  “Let me do the talking,” Jean-Claude ordered.

  “Yes, citizen,” she said in mock submission.

  “Give me the ring.”

  She drew the ring from her clothing and handed it to him.

  “Good afternoon, Citizen Moreau,” Jean-Claude said. “We are Citizen and Citizeness Armand. How much is the passage to La Nouvelle-Orléans?”

  The captain turned a beady eye on the two of them, one that made her flush with discomfort, though it was not of an amorous nature—more a scrutiny of her very soul.

  He named an outrageous price, and to his credit, Jean-Claude kept his face impassive. “Would you accept a piece of jewelry worth far more than the price of passage?”

  The captain looked amused and held out his hand. “Show it to me.”

  Jean-Claude dropped the ring in his palm without naming its special characteristics, seeming to know the captain would recognize the value.

  The portly man examined it, then fixed her with the inquisitive gaze again. “Where did you get such a ring?”

  “I made it,” Jean-Claude answered without skipping a beat. “I am a silversmith.”

  Citizen Moreau made a great show of looking him up and down with disbelief. She shifted nervously, knowing what he saw—a silversmith would not be dressed as Jean-Claude was.

  “And you are?” he asked, looking at her.

  “She is my wife.”

  The captain grinned. “Come into my quarters for a cup of tea so we can discuss it.”

  They trailed behind him to the lower level room with a table and maps that served as his office. A young sailor, no more than twelve years old, entered immediately with the tea, served in fine china with a pitcher of cream and dish of sugar.

  She accepted a cup from the boy and served herself the accoutrements, stirring it with a little silver spoon. When she began to take a sip, her pinky lifted in the air, she noticed Jean-Claude staring at her in dismay.

  The captain grinned like a cat with a canary.

  She had just given away her privileged upbringing with a simple cup of coffee. Her heart pounded in her throat. Would he call in the police? Refuse her passage? Would he try to get more money out of her?

  “The ring was yours, mademoiselle?”

  His use of the title pained her ears.

  She shook her head stubbornly. She would not admit to anything. “No, I am just the silversmith’s wife. This ring was not made for my finger. You see?” she said, snatching the ring from him and trying it on each finger. “It does not fit.”

  Citizen Moreau smirked. He sat back in his chair, sipping his coffee. “I will take you to La Nouvelle-Orléans,” he said slowly. “And I will accept the ring as partial payment. The remainder of your passage you will work off as my servants for the duration of the voyage.”

  Jean-Claude sat up straighter. “I am not taking the voyage, citizen. So the ring should more than pay for the—for my wife’s passage.”

  Moreau grinned more broadly. “Your wife, yes,” he said. Then the smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “The ring and your labor as a servant is the payment I require, no matter if you are one or two.”

  She swallowed.

  Jean-Claude darted a look at her, clearly unhappy with the turn of events.

  The captain knew her farce for what it was and wished to see her lowered—humbled. Whether she could trust him not to turn her in, she did not know, but if he demanded her labor, she would show him she was not above it. “I accept your offer,” she said, lifting her chest.

  The smile returned. “Excellent.” He held out his palm. “The ring, please.”

  She handed the ring to him and sat back. “Where is my cabin?” she demanded.

  “Cabin,” he chuckled, and she realized she had just shown her privilege again.

  “Pierre will show you to your berth in the foc’sle,” he said, summoning the boy who had served their tea. “You will report to Citizen Roux for work. She will likely put you to serve in the saloon.”

  She pressed her lips together resolutely. “Very well.”

  * * *

  He followed them out, not about to leave Corinne until assuring himself of her safety. He hated the arrangement—not because he thought hard work would harm Corinne, but because he was not certain her mistreatment would stop there. The captain enjoyed playing games, and making Corinne pay for her nobility was obviously one of them.

  Pierre led them to the foc’sle area—a dank, crowded room with hammocks strung up in a row for sleeping. A foul smell emanated from the room as if the sanitation had not been well-tended. Corinne nodded silently, though he sensed her repulsion. He might be amused over her lowering, except for his concern.

  Yet there was nothing he could do. She made her choice, and the captain had her ring. He had done his part and it was time to leave her, no matter how reluctant he felt. When she arrived in La Nouvelle-Orléans, the nobility there would surely assist her.

  “Would you like to go back out onto land? Take a walk or have a meal in Le Havre before you set sail?” he asked, unable to simply walk away and leave her.

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. It is safer here, unless Moreau plans to turn me in. And I do not want him to leave without me. But I will walk out with you—to say goodb
ye.”

  Goodbye.

  He had not expected to experience such loss at being rid of his responsibility for her. They walked down the platform together, and she stopped on the ground.

  “Well… thank you. I mean—”

  He gave a quick shake of his head. “No need to thank me. I repaid a debt to you, nothing more. Now we are even.” He ignored the sensation of his gut burning. “Be very careful—trust no one.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  Washes of cold made him feel almost feverish. He needed to part quickly with her—dragging it out only made them both uncomfortable. He grabbed her and pulled her against him in a rough embrace. “God be with you, Corinne.”

  “Thank you,” she repeated, her voice sounding strangled.

  He turned and strode away without looking back. Finding a tavern, he entered and ordered a drink, his heart still beating erratically, his chest feeling tight.

  Why did she have to choose La Nouvelle-Orléans? He gave a silent curse and tossed his drink back with a gulp.

  He sat in the tavern until it grew dark, though no amount of time or drink eased the aching under his breastbone, or the curious sensation of longing.

  Did he long for her?

  No, he had never pined for her.

  But that was a lie. She stirred something in him, though he never aspired to be her husband, nor even a lover. As much as he believed in the revolution and the equality of man, Corinne was still a lady to him, and he was nothing more than a pig thief to her.

  He rubbed his face and ordered another drink.

  Damn her. She was not safe on that ship alone. And he could not, in good conscience, leave her to make that voyage on her own. What did he have to return to in Gramont, anyway? His wife and unborn child had died. He had his smithy, he had work, but was it not reasonable to assume he might find that sort of work in La Nouvelle-Orléans? Perhaps he could even apprentice with a silversmith and do the kind of work he loved.

  He stood up, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and marched back to the ship. Night had fallen, the stars hidden by a thick blanket of fog. The ship was gone from its position that afternoon.