Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  As he neared, Mama waved her scarf at him from the front door. “Dinnertime!”

  After taking care of his bag’s contents, Johan washed at the well, pouring the cold liquid over his hands and wiping them dry. He strode to the house and entered the kitchen.

  Mutter handed him a pork-laden platter and he brought it to the table. She followed him, carrying a wooden bowl piled high with rolls, which she set before his father, who beamed up at her.

  Johan lifted one leg over the trestle bench to sit adjacent to his father.

  “Son, are you ready to go to Aachen Cathedral again?”

  He paused for a moment before he brought his other long leg over and sat. The holy shrine for Catholics—yet his family was Lutheran. But with his great-uncle a priest there and with Aachen a meeting point for Protestants heading to the American colonies, the ancient cathedral stood as a welcoming beacon. “Ja, Vater, why?”

  His older brother, Nicholas, mumbled something.

  The two of them almost hadn’t returned from their last foray. Then again, they weren’t supposed to have journeyed on from the shrine to their great-aunt’s home in eastern France.

  “We’ll speak of it later. Bow your heads.” Papa blessed the meal.

  Mama passed a bowl of turnips to Johan. “You’ll go on horseback with a pack, as we discussed.”

  He’d never gone alone. His brother had been furious when the French soldiers almost caught them.

  “This is important.” His mother patted his hand. “I need to send word to Father Vincent now that the roads are sound.”

  “We know we can trust you.” His father beamed approval.

  Knowing his father relied on him filled Johan with warmth.

  Nicholas scowled as Papa handed Johan a mended halter.

  Taking the halter, Johan ran his hands over the sturdy leather. “Danke—you fixed it well.”

  Papa cut his meat into small pieces. “Tomorrow you go to our kinsman.”

  “Johan, your great-uncle is an old man.” Mama’s own hair had begun to show streaks of gray. “Aunt Louisa and I are his only family left. She hasn’t been able to send anything in a great while.”

  Aunt Louisa—he longed to check on her. To see if the French girl still came riding to her cottage in the woods.

  Nicholas shoveled a forkful of mashed turnips into his mouth and glared at him, as if he could read his mind.

  Every day Johan prayed for the peasant girl. Sometimes he prayed that she was a Protestant, like himself. Other times, he prayed, for her sake, that she wasn’t.

  ~*~

  “Suzanne!” Maman’s voice called out from shadows adjacent their building. “Come.”

  Heart hammering, she went to her mother and embraced her. “Maman, what do we do?”

  “Chin up. Act normal.” Maman took her hand and pulled her onto the walkway, handing her a small travel bag.

  Six metal cage baskets flamed adjacent to the drive as they strode alongside. Firelight illuminated the gold markings of her godmother’s own brougham.

  A burly man jumped down from the carriage and Suzanne gasped as he hoisted both Maman and her bag up inside the coach and then Suzanne.

  Her mother opened her mouth, as though she meant to protest something, but said nothing as the doors were closed on them. “Madame DeMint takes too great a chance, letting us use this coach,” Suzanne whispered to her mother as she settled onto the dark leather seat. She prayed the King’s guard wouldn’t harm her dear godmother.

  A muscle jumped in Maman’s cheek. “The DeMint carriage will ensure our safe exit from Versailles—as we get past the guards.”

  Suzanne tried to settle back, but the cushioned bench was so deep that her trembling legs dangled. She set her bag beneath her feet so they could rest atop her few possessions.

  The carriage creaked, the wheels crunching steadily over the cobblestones, its lanterns casting eerie shadows on either side. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears in time with the horses’ hoof beats. A short distance ahead, she saw the closed gates, with several guards posted.

  “Cover your face.” Her mother handed Suzanne a loo mask and raised one to her own eyes. “Act like you drank too much of that punch you told me about.”

  “You expect me to act intoxicated?” How nonsensical. Suzanne was more likely to have a seizure, she shook so hard. And she was so furious with Maman and Papa. She wanted to run from the carriage and scream that her parents’ Protestant beliefs were a mistake.

  “Here, lean against me.” Maman’s command and her firm hand stilled her, brought her against the fragile frame, once so strong.

  A guard yawned and then peered in. His prominent nose was red, likely from drinking on duty. He affected a slight smile at her. She could run, jump down, and go to Etienne. She’d beg him to protect her, to keep her there. Oh, Lord, I don’t want to die.

  “First ball—too much excitement, I fear.” Her mother’s laugh tinkled. Maman was a far better actress than Suzanne had realized.

  The soldier grunted in amusement. This was their great protection at Versailles? Suzanne grasped the loo mask with both hands, the one hand shaking so hard she had to calm it with the other.

  “Bon chance!” He tipped his hat toward them before calling up to their driver, “Not too many people leaving yet, so take care on the roads.”

  “We will.” The coachman called down in a gruff voice. “Bon nuit, or rather I should say bon matin?”

  Pale pink light would soon rise in the east and jeopardize their journey.

  “Should be quite safe between here and Paris. The king’s men will be guarding the roads.”

  Her mother’s benevolent smile wavered.

  The carriage lurched forward, and with it, Suzanne’s heart. She turned around. Rows of torchères lit the palace entrance, which disappeared into the night. She could jump out, run back, and beg Etienne’s favor as her oldest friend to marry her. Why hadn’t she told him at the ball? He could take mistresses—no, she couldn’t bear that. She was losing her mind—this couldn’t be real. Whatever came to pass, she couldn’t leave her mother. Guillame would come to them. He’d put things right.

  “Your father was arrested and imprisoned by King Louis. They’ll no doubt execute him in the morning.” Her mother’s hollow voice sounded much like a recitation of their menu for dinner. Maman must be experiencing the same shock now settling over her.

  Suzanne’s empty stomach squeezed into a knot. Executed. Not Papa. Such a good man, a devout Protestant, the best father. Her mother’s glazed eyes gave her the appearance of a madwoman, but Suzanne’s entire world seemed to have gone insane. Maman slumped back against the cushion as a strange deadly calm settled over Suzanne. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be true. This was a nightmare from which she would awake on the morrow.

  Maman ran her tongue over her dry lips. “Even now, they must be looking for us.”

  To throw them in prison as well. To kill us. Her hands were like icicles and Suzanne began to tremble all over.

  “This cancer claims me, my dear.” Her mother threw a hand toward Suzanne, as though apologizing.

  She grasped it, the dry skin loose on her mother’s flesh. What would she do if her mother died? She sucked in a breath. “Maman, what can I do for you?”

  “Make sure they get me home, to Grand-mère’s, to the country.”

  They? “Who, Maman?”

  Her dark eyes, full of despair, searched Suzanne’s face. “I thought I had our escape, a new life, figured out—what to do—but now I’m not so sure.” Her bony fingers kneaded her silk handkerchief, over and over, until it appeared she would work a hole into the delicate material. “I sent word to Anne DeMint for help. I cannot go on to Aachen, much less the colonies, and now Guy is with Rochambeau.”

  Her godmother could sponsor her; Suzanne was young enough she could be protected despite her family’s beliefs. Some Huguenots had been spared execution when a devout Catholic fostered them. Was that why Rochambeau had sent fo
r Guillame? But her brother was too old for such an arrangement.

  Suzanne stared out the window into the darkness, watching the miles slip by. Having chewed her lower lip until the skin tore, she finally asked her mother, “Guillame said he’d come to us as soon as he can. What is his plan?”

  A gentle snore was the only response she received. Tears pooled in Suzanne’s eyes. She couldn’t feel this pain—its intensity would overwhelm her. Fingering the smooth rosary beads at her neck, she prayed. This had to work. She closed her eyes and repeated her special prayers, the rhythm soothing the pain—the unremitting grief she’d experienced since her beloved Grand-mère had died and Maman had taken ill. Her head began to nod.

  The coach hit a rut, rousing Suzanne, her thumb still looped through Grand-mère’s rosary. Oh, Lord, this nightmare is real. They should be near Paris by now or even past the great city. Her mouth dry, she retrieved a mint from the bag, the sugar coarse yet pleasant on her tongue.

  Maman squeezed her hand, and a thrill shot through her. She was still with her. Suzanne handed her a pastille.

  Both watched as they drew closer to the great city, one they would never see again. Too dark to make out the church spires and tall buildings, though. The road grew more crowded and the driver had to move over to wait for passing coaches in several areas where the road narrowed.

  Through the carriage window, many torches shone—some bobbing over throngs of men on foot and dressed in peasant garb. Their gaunt faces announced them as the poor from the countryside around Paris. At least in Grand-mère’s district, much farther east, most people were well fed.

  She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with so great a number of people surrounding them. “Maman, would Madame DeMint care for you, if you need to stay?” Her mouth was as dry as parchment. Where were the oranges she smelled? She needed one of those or a drink.

  “I need to get home. I wish to be buried there.” Maman’s face was set.

  Torchlight identified a column of French soldiers.

  Suzanne tried to catch her breath. No, they couldn’t be looking for her and Maman, for they surrounded a long caravan of large carriages. One was a funeral hearse, with a gilded crest illuminated by one of its side lamps.

  Heart pounding, she slid to the edge of her seat. The erect bearing of the rider, and the glow of light on his mustard vest, revealed her brother.

  Their driver moved off the road to let the crowd past, rocking her mother against her. Dear Lord, don’t let them harm us. Protect us.

  Men, lining the sides of the road, called out. “That’s it.”

  Nausea welled up in her. Their carriage swayed as the frenzied mob swarmed around.

  “Haul her out of there.” They surged toward the funeral procession. Would they attack them, too?

  Suzanne held her breath. Dizzy, she fell against her mother, who moaned. “Maman! What should we do?”

  “It will all be over soon, Suzanne.” Her mother’s almost weightless hand patted her shoulder through the cape and rubbed her back. “Close your eyes.”

  She wished her mother’s words were true. Dread took hold of her and shook her shoulders. She sat up on the edge of the seat and peered out.

  “We know what to do with the body of the King’s harlot.” Curses and terrible oaths continued as the rabble shouted their plans for Louis XV’s deceased mistress. The woman’s own sister had already taken the dead lady’s place at court. Perhaps the people in the countryside couldn’t stomach such debauchery.

  What did they intend to do to the woman’s corpse?

  Their carriage lurched forward, and the frightened beasts snorted as they pulled on past the crowds, into the fields surrounding the spectacle. Soft soil spit up at the windows.

  Soldiers on horseback struck down at the rioters, who swarmed like ants on honey.

  A shot rang out, and Suzanne’s shoulders jerked. She leaned across her mother and pressed her hands and face against the cold glass window. Splotches marred the pristine mane of Guillame’s horse as her brother struggled to remain upright. A dark stain spread across his chest, illuminated by the torch before it fell from his hand.

  “No!” Her mouth wide, Suzanne gasped for air. Lord, don’t let him die!

  The mob pulled Guillame down off his mount. Every fiber of Suzanne’s being longed for her to launch herself from the carriage and go to her brother. But she could not. She began to sob.

  Tears trailed down her mother’s face. “I don’t wish for my entire family to join me where I’m going. Pray God spares your brother.”

  They bowed their heads, held hands and prayed together as the brougham rolled on.

  ~*~

  With daybreak came the realization that her mother’s soul might soon leave the earth. Pink tendrils of dawn’s first light battled to bring joy to the emptiness in Suzanne’s heart. What she saw along the roadway broke her heart. She bit back the desire to share her observations with her mother. Bedraggled peasants, children whose faces bespoke poverty and deprivation, and mothers whose blank expressions announced their despair, lined the roadway.

  “Don’t think too badly of me when I am gone.” Maman leaned against the window, her feverish head fogging the glass.

  “Why?” She must be delirious to think such a thing. Oh, Lord, please don’t take her.

  “I feel I’ve made a terrible mistake.” Her mother coughed and then gasped for air.

  “About what, Maman?” Dear Lord, forgive me for not telling her about Guillame.

  “I wanted to go home but I didn’t intend for you to come with me.” Maman’s guilty expression revealed her plan. “Your father and I finally agreed that if he was taken then you’d be safer to remain with your godmother instead of going to the colonies—especially if Guillame couldn’t immediately accompany you.”

  Heat spread across Suzanne’s cold cheeks. All their plans for naught. Guillame must survive. I cannot bear to be without them all.

  “I knew you’d want to come, as we’d planned, but I thought remaining with your godmother might be best.”

  Part of her wished to stay with Madame DeMint, but she couldn’t abandon her mother. Remaining at her godmother’s country estate appealed. With all its comforts, she could await being returned to Versailles at a later, and possibly safer, date. The idea of her mother unable to get to her childhood home, denied the right to die there in peace, disturbed her. What if her mother insisted Suzanne stay at the DeMints’ chateau while she, dying, tried to go on alone. How could Maman manage?

  “I cannot stay there.” Suzanne clasped her mother’s hands. Every muscle in her body ached. She tightened her gown in her fist as hard as she could. She must quell the idea of being totally alone that tore her to shreds inside.

  Maman stroked Suzanne’s hair, as she had when she was a child. “Papa and I disagreed about some things.”

  Suzanne had overheard a loud argument when they’d returned to Versailles. “Oui.”

  The tree line thickened as they rode farther away from the city. Bright new spring buds covered many formerly naked trees while those with fine, dark needles formed a backdrop of consistency in the changing forest.

  “I know you loved your grandmother, so much.”

  Suzanne nodded.

  “Wanted to be like her.” Maman gave her a quick squeeze.

  Staring out the window at the countryside, Suzanne struggled to find words to explain, to apologize, for the differences between herself and her mother. Nothing came as the carriage continued.

  “Your secret was always safe with me, you know.”

  Suzanne’s breath caught in her throat, but she fixed her eyes on the woods beyond. Her hand wrapped around the rosary beads and caressed the smooth stones. Saying nothing, she noticed her mother’s breathing had become more labored.

  “I love you, Maman.” Turning to her, she threw herself into her mother’s arms, holding fast. Refusing to leave her mother behind, she determined to see her on to Grand-mère’s estate.

&nbs
p; Her mother patted her back.

  “Suzanne, wake me when we get to the crossroads. The other carriage should be waiting.” Maman planted a kiss on Suzanne’s forehead.

  “Yes, Maman.” Sliding over against the end of the bench, she made room for her mother to lie down.

  Her mother curled up on the seat, her head on Suzanne’s lap. Despite the light streaming in through the windows, Suzanne slept—dreams of betrayal, disease, and death tormented her.

  ~*~

  Following his nose to the wonderful odors coming from the kitchen for breakfast, Johan found his mother seated alone by the fireplace. Warm brown eyes searched his face before she pressed an envelope into his hands.

  “No one, not one soul other than Father Vincent, reads this.” Her dark eyebrows rose high in warning, her lips pursed. Behind her, bacon sizzled over the fire, its tempting aroma making Johan’s mouth water.

  “What if…” He stopped himself, knowing his mother didn’t like his lists of questions. But he needed them answered. Wanted to be sure he did exactly as he was told.

  Mother shook a finger at him. “No what-ifs!”

  Johan folded his hands around her pointing finger and squeezed it, then pushed her hand down gently.

  She laughed. “Oh, Johan, I can never be too serious with you. But listen, you cannot let anyone else read this. Doing so could mean danger for the people Father Vincent helps.”

  Quick, hard steps coming down from upstairs announced Nicholas’s arrival. His footsteps stopped in the alcove outside of the kitchen right behind where Johan stood.

  His neck tightened. Johan leaned over and kissed the top of his mother’s head. This time he would help bring gifts and messages to Father Vincent. “I won’t give this letter away, Mama, I promise.”

  She laughed. “Not like the gloves I made for you or the food I sent to school with you.”

  Sweat broke out at his hairline. He waited for his brother to mock his tender heart and Nicholas didn’t disappoint him. “Not like me, Mama.”

  His mother shook her head. Nicholas was stingy with everything except his criticisms.

  “I promise.”

  Mutter smiled up at him. “When did you get so tall, son?”