Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  He lifted her and gave her a hug. “When you weren’t looking—I went to the barn and rolled in the manure every night, and I would grow a little each time, like the vegetables in the fields.” He set her down carefully on the brick floor.

  “Too bad you didn’t bother to bathe before you came back in our room those nights.” Nicholas waved a hand in front of his nose.

  Johan chuckled. “I’m sorry if the odor upset you, brother.”

  Glancing from one to the other, their mother sighed. “I won’t send you two together anywhere, anymore.”

  While Johan had met the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, his last trip into France with Nicholas almost left their mother and father childless. But French Huguenots’ lives were at stake and he and his brother were the only options Father Vincent had to assist the travelers on their secret journeys to Aachen in Germany. And they did love spending time with their great aunt, whose fervent faith inspired him. If their mother knew they had separated to confuse their French pursuers…

  Papa pushed through the front door, one hand swinging a basket of wood for the fire. “Just in time for prayer.” He set down the wood. “Come, let us give this request to our Lord.”

  They formed a circle and grasped hands. His mother’s cool, limp hand contrasted with that of his father’s warm, viselike grip. Johan glanced across at his brother, who already had his head bowed.

  “God bless my son on this journey and protect him. May all that the Lord has intended be done, all gifts given, all blessings received. Give our son divine revelation and assurance that this task is from You and for him. Bring him home safely to us, with all that You have entrusted to him, great and small.”

  As Papa prayed, a strange and uncomfortable chill rose up through Johan’s body. When he peeked over and saw his brother’s eyes clamped shut, Nicholas’s head bowed low, alarm gripped his neck and held him. That his brother would pray like that, for him—Johan couldn’t put words to the fear he felt. But he was going only to Aachen, not into France. There would be no soldiers at the cathedral.

  ~*~

  “The crossroads! Wake up, we’re near.” Suzanne grasped her mother’s arm.

  Warmth still radiated from her body, but Maman’s chest barely rose and fell.

  Suzanne pressed one finger to her mother’s mouth. Would those tender lips ever kiss her good night again? Pressing her palm hard against the middle of her mother’s back, she felt the slow movement of her mother’s shallow breaths. Relief coursed through her. Maman hadn’t left her yet.

  Shifting in her seat, she glanced out the window. No other coaches or horses appeared at this juncture. The fields were the glorious light green of spring and their promise of new beginnings offended her. Her world was ending. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  The coach rolled on, over the muddy road. No one was at the intersection. Perhaps the next carriage waited at the DeMints’ or the attack in Paris may have prevented the next coach’s arrival and the driver had chosen to continue on.

  Fatigue beckoned her to sleep, but she wouldn’t accompany that traitor or give up the time left with her precious mother. Suzanne held her mother’s hand. Sunlight illuminated Maman’s face, beautiful in this rest before death. The cancer inside her couldn’t take the loveliness of her countenance away.

  Something thumped the carriage, waking her. Thick woods surrounded them. How much longer would the coachman drive? She exhaled a shaky breath. She forced her eyes to remain open.

  Small hovels dotted the roadside—homes of the unfortunates who didn’t have a master, or a mistress, as kind and generous as Grand-mère.

  She recognized the road and the terrain. The DeMint home should be ahead. In a short time, they were rolling up the hill to the circular drive in front of the country chateau. She perched up high on the seat, rubbing the stiffness from her lower back. The vehicle stopped and the doors to the carriage were thrown open.

  “Mademoiselle? Madame?” The man’s voice was gruff. The coachman had huge eyes like Guy’s, but his were hard as steel.

  She peered behind him, at the house—no movement. Was no one at the gray stone chateau to greet them?

  “Monsieur DeMint didn’t tell me your mother was ill.” The driver’s words were accusatory as he rubbed his chin.

  The only Monsieur DeMint was the widowed Anne’s son, whom Papa and Guillame despised. The hair on her arms rose.

  “Maman has nothing you can acquire. Please bring her in. Madame DeMint mustn’t have heard the carriage pull up.” Suzanne hoped she was right about their hostess. She inhaled the moist country air, a relief from the sickly smell inside the brougham.

  The man stood taller. “Madame isn’t here. She’s at Versailles.”

  Suzanne stared past him at the house, forbiddingly empty. “Is anyone here?” Surely, there must be some staff.

  The coachman raised his broad hands, as though in surrender. “He didn’t tell me. I don’t want any trouble.” He muttered something under his breath.

  “Monsieur, what do you know? We were to have met someone else at the crossroads to take Maman”—she hesitated, unsure what she should say—“on from there. Please, what were you told?”

  “Monsieur DeMint paid me well to get you here as quickly as I could, but keep you safe.” His eyes narrowed as he examined her. “How old are you?”

  Suzanne stood tall. “I can take care of my mother if I have some help.”

  The man shook his shaggy head. “Mademoiselle, I can get you and your mother into the chateau, and bring your things, but I fear…”

  Trembling, she couldn’t help but agree with him. “Moi, aussi, I fear for my mother and myself.” Suzanne bit her lip, fearing she had said too much. “But we should be safe here once Madame arrives.”

  He cursed softly. “I do only this job for him. I’m not his regular man.” The driver twisted his soft hat in his red hands. “Mademoiselle, I don’t believe Madame DeMint knows of her son’s plans for you.”

  “What plans?” She heard the tremor in her voice. The country air chilled her.

  “Madame Richelieu!” A wiry man ran from the stables, wiping his hands against each other. “What brings you here? Madame DeMint is not yet home.”

  Suzanne heard her own sigh. She was so tired, wished her head lay atop her pillow at home, but that comfort was forever gone.

  The stableman ran a hand through his thick hair. “Our housekeeper has the servants’ quarters in order, but I am afraid that is the chateau’s only section opened this season.”

  “Could she prepare a room for Maman?”

  “Mrs. Boudreau went to visit her son and daughter-in-law in the village, but you could use her room and the maids’ chambers. The housekeeper had those ready in preparation for their arrival from Versailles next week.”

  “Next week?” Suzanne croaked, raising a shaking hand to her throat.

  “Oui, but come, let us get your mother settled.”

  The coachman passed their bags to the DeMints’ servant, who carried them on toward the house.

  The driver touched her arm. “Do you know Monsieur LeFort well?”

  Suzanne hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she exhaled in relief. Etienne LeFort—Madame must have made the arrangements so that she and Etienne could be married. Still, visions of his behavior toward her in the gardens at Versailles made her stiffen. “Oui, I know him well…”

  The driver’s face reflected shock then disbelief. “Truly?” Astonished relief mixed with concern on his countenance. “Monsieur DeMint will be here soon to bring you back to Versailles.”

  “But what of Maman? She was supposed to go on to my grandmother’s, the marquise’s, estate.” Now their estate, but not for long, now that their father was exposed as a Huguenot. And although her aunt stood to inherit the title and land, Tante Isabelle hadn’t ever returned from New France.

  He frowned. “I know nothing of that arrangement, only that you’ll be brought to Monsieur LeFort.”

>   Etienne and she would be married; things could be set aright. Suzanne would figure out a way to help Maman. A gorgeous black mare trotted past, a stable boy sitting high on her tall back. He removed his cap and bowed toward Suzanne. Timothy, the stableman’s son, had grown since she’d last seen him. She followed as the driver carried her mother through the house’s huge oak front doors. Suzanne squeezed her unconscious mother’s limp hand.

  The coachman stopped, looked down, and narrowed his eyes.

  Suzanne was taken aback by his hard perusal. “Not much more than a girl, and you seem to be such a good daughter.”

  “Merci.”

  “You should think twice before going to LeFort. You must have other choices.”

  A warning sounded in Suzanne’s mind, so similar was this speech to Guillame’s comment in the garden at Versailles. And like her brother, the driver seemed genuinely concerned.

  “Mademoiselle, why sell yourself to the devil?”

  3

  The driver opened his mouth as if to say more, but stomped up the stairs after the stableman. The rude coachman. Returning empty-handed, he tramped back down the stairs, giving a curt shake of his head to her as he hurried out.

  Pact with the devil? Whatever had their driver meant?

  The stableman frowned at the back of the departing man as Suzanne joined him in the third-floor room. Hot, stuffy air oppressed on this level.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mademoiselle Richelieu?”

  Make her mother well. Fly her, like a bird, to Aachen. “Water, please?”

  “At your service, mademoiselle.” He closed the door as he left, shutting them in their tomb.

  Suzanne surveyed the sparse room. With the house not yet open for the season, only this area was free from coverings. Needing fresh air, she thrust the creaky window open then wiped the grime from her hands. The DeMints’ home lay unused this winter, from the looks of the fine dust covering the latch and the books on the side table. If Madame truly was expecting them, she’d have paid one of the villagers to clean.

  Lilac trees in shades of lavender, purple, and white encircled the stone pavilion behind the house. Tulips, hyacinths, and jonquils dotted the yard, with clusters around the iron benches beneath the window. Now bare, the grape vines covering the center trellis would not yield their fruit until later.

  As the breeze entered the room, Maman stirred. “Something is wrong here.”

  “Our friend remains at Versailles.” Wouldn’t be here for a week.

  “Did you hear what the coachman said?” Her mother’s eyes remained closed.

  “About what?” Suzanne sat next to her mother. Her stomach seemed filled with a ten-stone weight.

  “He said him…” Maman lifted her chest as she asked the words. “Not her.”

  A knock on the door interrupted. “Voila! The water.”

  “Merci, monsieur. Here, Maman, sit up a little and drink.”

  When she couldn’t raise her mother on her own, the servant assisted her.

  Her mother quickly emptied the half-full glass.

  An hour later, freshly washed and changed into different clothes, Suzanne tucked pillows under the maid’s bedcovers. She carefully opened the adjoining door to her mother’s room.

  Stifling heat on this warm spring day persisted as the sun rose higher, but the breeze flowing through the window dispelled some of the room’s stale air.

  Before her mother went to sleep earlier, she’d made accusations about those she felt had betrayed them. None of these ideas made sense. Such talk commonly occurred among those who were dying from her mother’s malady, though.

  Please let Maman tell me what I need to hear.

  “Suzanne?”

  She exhaled; Maman was awake. Wide boards creaked underfoot as she went to her. “Yes?” With care, Suzanne rearranged the linen covers under her mother’s chin.

  “Paul DeMint.” Maman tried to raise her head.

  Suzanne supported her mother’s head and fluffed the pillow to make her more comfortable. “Madame’s son?” Guillame once referred to Paul and Pierre as “a pair of greedy vultures come upon a fresh carcass.”

  Maman closed her eyes. “Bad…leave here…” Maman’s words were hard; her skin a paler version of Guillame’s yellow vest.

  Suzanne shuddered. Had her brother survived his injuries?

  “Go to Aachen.” Eyes glazed, Maman strained upward, on her elbows but collapsed.

  “I want to be with you.” But the boys’ clothing she’d donned, out of an urgency to do so, announced her preparations to flee.

  “Non.” Maman arched up, forcing the word out.

  Her neck tensed. Paul DeMint journeyed here. She sensed it.

  “Go alone?” Impossible.

  She was an excellent rider, but could she get to the next safe house unaccompanied? And if need be, go on the rest of the way by herself? Almost as dangerous as staying at Grand-mère’s estate.

  “Now.” Maman’s hands trembled as she grasped Suzanne’s.

  Hot tears washed her face. Why was she being punished for her parents’ choices? They could have accepted the Roman Catholic faith.

  “Promise…me.” Each of Maman’s words came with tremendous effort.

  Brushing away tears, Suzanne laid the back of her hand on her mother’s hot cheek. Please don’t let her suffer terribly.

  “Cathedral…then colonies.” Her mother struggled to breathe.

  Suzanne propped another pillow behind her, and then pressed a glass of water to her lips.

  Bleary eyes bored into hers. “Pierre.”

  Why did her mother mention him?

  Maman took one more sip. “He asked…”

  Wiping her wet face with the bed sheet, Suzanne leaned over and kissed her mother’s forehead.

  “For you…”

  A chill coursed through her body and she wished to rise and slam shut the window to the outside world. This couldn’t be.

  “Would Pierre take me to Etienne?” Suzanne twisted the bedclothes in her hands, bunching them into knots.

  “Papa…” Her mother’s gasps matched Suzanne’s quick breaths. “Said no.”

  “To Etienne?” Suzanne pressed her head against her mother’s hand, now hanging over the side of the bed.

  “Pierre.”

  Wallpaper strewn with vines and roses might better have briars and thorns intertwined on the creamy background.

  “Very angry…”

  Suzanne’s skin prickled all over. Dear God, please don’t let that be what it sounds like—that Pierre asked Papa for my hand before that horrible day at Grand-mère’s.

  The thought raced down the hallway of her mind—marriage to Etienne wouldn’t have been an open door out of this nightmare. The men behind the curtain in the ballroom—Paul DeMint and Pierre LeFort. The man they discussed bound for the West Indies must be Etienne. In her mind, she closed the LeFort door, barred the exit, chained it and shoved a chair beneath the doorknob. For beyond that door lay degradation, humiliation, and defilement of the basest sort if, indeed, Pierre stood there.

  Maman gasped for air, her throat gurgling. The court physician warned them this could happen at the end, but Suzanne never thought death would come this quickly.

  She grabbed her own water glass and drank her fill. The next safe house was well away from the DeMints’. She had burned the names and villages of helpful Huguenots into her memory. The next stop from here would be hours of steady riding.

  Chest arching, her mouth open, Maman struggled to breathe. Suzanne couldn’t bear to watch and to hear the death rattle. Please, God, don’t let her suffer any longer. I cannot bear to leave her like this. Tears streamed down her face and she let them fall as a strange peace overcame her.

  Then blessedly, unnaturally, Maman ceased her exhalations. Gone.

  Suzanne bent over her mother, listening and feeling no breath caress her cheek. After kissing her mother’s forehead and choking back sobs, she did as her mother orde
red, pausing only to give one quick glance back. Maman and Papa were together in heaven. She was alone. An orphan.

  Her heart hammered as she wiped her face dry with the back of her hand. Only one deviation would delay her. She’d stop at Grand-mère’s estate and ask for someone to retrieve Maman’s body and transport her there for burial. This small courtesy was the least she could do.

  If Paul arrived soon and found she’d left, what would he do? Send someone after her? She wouldn’t compromise the stableman and his son. She would only tell them she wished to go for a ride. Alone.

  She grabbed everything necessary for the journey’s next portion, and then ran down the back stairs, grabbing more items in the kitchen. She dashed to the stables and stopped at the stall of a black mare. “You’re beautiful.” Suzanne offered a piece of dried apple she held in her flat, outstretched hand. “I’ll call you Bella. Maman would have approved of you.”

  She gritted her teeth, as if that would stifle her grief. She must think straight if she were to succeed. Gloves. She needed to protect her hands from the reins.

  “A lift up?” The stable boy appeared, laced his fingers together and lifted her into the saddle. “I see you’re a boy again, mademoiselle. Have you been fencing lately, too?”

  “Shush, you mustn’t say anything. You don’t see me.”

  “Oui.”

  As far as fencing, she couldn’t have gotten Guillame’s name past her throat if she’d tried to explain that he’d been too preoccupied of late to parry with her.

  “Don’t forget your riding gloves.” He handed her up the pair from the previous summer. Someone had lovingly rubbed in oil to keep the leather supple.

  Peering down at the boy, and seeing his blush, she realized who’d done this for her. “Gaston, I need a favor. A big request.”

  The boy nodded slowly, waited, his hands clasped. Suzanne settled herself on the mare. “If anyone asks, I’m sleeping and don’t want to be disturbed, and my mother, also.”

  “Only Monsieur DeMint is expected, mademoiselle. Do you wish me to tell him?”

  Suzanne swallowed hard. “Oui. Say only that, nothing else. Tell your papa the same.”