If they had, she’d have shown them Raoul’s letters, including the special one telling anyone who read it that she was a friend of the Republic. And hours after that, she knew she’d finally have been in Raoul’s arms. Forever. Finally to taste the full splendor of love with him and bear his child.
It was all she asked. All she’d prayed for, all her life. Only Papa stood in the way.
She shot another glare at his back and sipped her watered wine. He still somehow had enough friends to keep them supplied but surely they couldn’t stay on the run forever.
Papa crouched down before Maman and took her hands. Her eyes searched his, dark and enormous, even in the twilight.
“We’re very close to Sainte Marie des Fleurs, ma chère.”
Every nerve in Celeste’s body came to quivering alert.
“If it remains quiet, I will take you through the woods to Hélène’s manor just before dawn. You will be safe there, from what I have heard.”
“I will be safe? What of you, Henri?” Maman was biting her lip. Hélène was pacing up and down the narrow forest track, trying to keep watch. Celeste came to her feet, tense—and oddly hopeful.
“I draw the Blues the way honey draws bees, and you do not deserve to be stung, my sweet.” He rubbed his thumb over her hand. “So I will remove myself elsewhere for a few days.”
“A few days?” Celeste burst out.
“Mais oui. In two days, the English will come for me and my family with the quarter moon. And all of us shall wake up safe on the third day in England, ma chère.” The comte kissed his wife’s hand.
England? Away from Raoul? If that happened, she would never see Raoul again until peace was declared. Who knew when that would happen or if he would live that long? No and no and no!
She had to do something to stop this monstrous plot, but what? Moving jerkily, she began to pace in the opposite direction from Hélène, pretending she too was standing watch.
She couldn’t escape. If she knew anything about Papa, he would certainly make Hélène and Maman swear to protect her in his absence. They’d never allow her to sneak off. She’d already experienced that last summer, during the rebellion.
Louise, Raoul’s sister, lived an hour’s walk away from Sainte Marie des Fleurs. If she could send a message to her, telling what Papa planned, surely Louise would ensure Raoul would rescue her from being carted off to England like a cow.
But she’d need to tell her how quickly Raoul would have to act, which meant saying when Papa would return. Raoul could choose to arrive when Papa was there—and capture him, for delivery to the guillotine and his death.
Celeste blanched.
But Papa was an aristocrat, a protector of feudalism, which had cost so many people so much. The government in Paris had put a price on his head, and they would choose whether or not to kill him.
Surely it would not be her responsibility if ill befell him. Surely…
FIVE
SAINTE MARIE DES FLEURS, TWO NIGHTS LATER
Safely concealed behind the barn door, Raoul de Beynac surveyed the small manor. Barely the size of a typical manor, only its excellent construction, broad herb garden, and superb livestock set it apart from its kindred. The cattle and most of the horses were in the pastures, with only a few of the better mounts still in the barn.
A river marked its southern border, rising beyond the dense eastern woods and flowing placidly through its rich green pastures before tumbling wildly down a steep cliff to meet the ocean only a few leagues away. The view there was considered magnificent, with a terrace and gardens built as observation points—all on the opposite side of the house from the barn.
The manor house had two stories, of course, with steeper roofs than usual, implying large attics full of stores. The harvest here, as elsewhere in the Vendée, had been unusully good, leaving the loft overflowing with hay.
The house, barn, and many of the outbuildings were built of stone, while the courtyard itself was paved with flagstone, shimmering under the moonlight like a lake. Anyone moving across it would be instantly visible, which was why he kept watch from here.
The roads and pastures were still sodden from strong rains last night and this morning, forcing him to leave most of his incendiaries at the village he’d destroyed yesterday. He should still have enough to torch this manor. But it wouldn’t go up as quickly as he’d like, even with the stiff breeze blowing from the woods toward the ocean. He’d scattered his men around the buildings, ordering them to stay hidden until he gave the signal.
He smiled faintly. In the end, everything would burn to the ground—after Celeste was safely in his arms, of course. There’d been a few lights inside the house earlier but none in the last hour or two. His heart told him she watched for him.
It was past midnight now, but the comte had not yet arrived.
“Can you see him yet?” Celeste whispered.
“Not yet.” Hélène shook her head, holding the curtain barely wide enough to view the courtyard from inside the attic. It was an excellent location to watch for approaching enemies, even if she couldn’t see their faces very well.
Caught by a premonition she couldn’t shake, she’d dismissed every servant in the manor immediately after sunset. Given the tales of murder, looting, and destruction by the Revolution armies, they’d chosen to spend the night deep in the woods at the Blessed Virgin’s shrine.
“We can see the entire courtyard.” The far shorter Celeste peeped under Hélène’s arm, edging her away from the window. She was almost vibrating with nerves.
“Except for the herb garden gate, but Maman is waiting there. We’ll go down as soon as he comes.” She put her arm around her younger sister and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “All will be well, ma petite.”
“God willing.”
The quality of the silence changed into something heavier and more ominous. A frisson ran over Raoul’s skin under his woolen uniform and settled into his stomach, bringing the still clarity of combat readiness. His sword settled into his hand.
Even so, he was unprepared to see the comte de Sainte-Pazanne appear in the courtyard without any preliminaries, his golden hair looking like a crown atop a man of his height and proud bearing. The comte glanced around the courtyard, wary as any proud stag.
Raoul started to shout a demand to surrender.
A woman suddenly burst out of the garden and ran toward the aristocrat, her dark hair touched with gray spilling from under her cap. “Henri! Oh, mon amour, you have come at last!”
“Desirée!” The comte spun on his heel, joy transforming his face.
A soldier simultaneously stepped out from behind the barn and shot the lady through her chest. She tumbled forward, blood spurting across the shining stones, her body shaking.
For the first time, Raoul saw her face.
Mon Dieu, it was Celeste’s mother. His man had killed the living image of what Celeste would look like in a few more years.
Blessed Virgin, what had he done? What had he been doing for all these weeks?
All the other women and children his men had killed…No, murdered.
Deus meus, forgive me for what I have done.
The comte ran her murderer through with his sword before the trooper could reload.
Duty sank its claws into Raoul and yanked him back to the present. No matter what else happened, the comte had to be captured for having led a rebellion against the Republic.
He raced out of the barn into the courtyard, the act of contrition running through his heart for the first time in far too long.
O my God, I am heartily sorry
for having offended Thee,
and I detest all my sins…
“No!” Hélène shouted, the roar coming up from her depths like a volcano’s rage. “No, not Maman!”
Celeste gasped, one hand flying up to her throat.
Hélène ignored her sister, too angry to stand still. She slammed the window open, breaking the inoffensive latch, and leaned ou
t.
The Blues leader ran forward, shouting at Papa to surrender. But why should he, when they’d already proved what treacherous, loathsome dogs they were?
More soldiers began to appear, from the barn and through the gates, their bayonets ready. Wisps of hay clung to them.
Murderers, ready to kill Papa and Celeste, as they’d killed Maman.
No, and no, and no. Not if she could help it.
Papa spun to face the Blues leader, lifting up his dripping sword in an unmistakable demand for a fight. The officer had a wickedly disfiguring scar across half of his face, making him into an image of Satan.
Hélène growled like a wolf and bared her teeth. Anything would burst into flames if it spun fast enough deep inside. Bits of hay resembled slender bits of fuses.
But there was so much of it. The most she’d ever lit before were those three candles at dinner.
Celeste crowded into the window with her, almost as if she wanted to leap onto the ledge running the roof’s periphery and from thence onto another roof and into the courtyard. Hélène flung an arm around her and held on desperately.
“Let me go, Hélène!” Celeste demanded, yanking away.
“No! You will only distract him!” Hélène gripped her harder, using her greater height and strength.
“Ahhh.” Celeste made an inarticulate murmur of pure agony and shuddered, gripping the window frame as tightly as any smith holding the steel ready for the forge.
The Revolutionary officer was trying to argue with Papa, who seemed to be sneering at him. The earlier breeze had become a wind now, shaking the trees in the orchard and rattling branches against the roof. She couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Mon Dieu, she couldn’t just stand here. If she considered all the hay in the hayloft as a single mass, rather than individual strands, maybe she could make it burn at once, rather than bit by bit.
Papa suddenly produced a pistol and pointed it at the officer. The word Murderer! cut through a brief lull in the wind to reach their ears.
An instant later, a half dozen muskets fired, and Papa fell across Maman’s body, as united in death as they’d been in life.
“Noooo!” Hélène screamed, her agony ripping out her lungs and her heart. Her arms tightened around her only remaining family and she closed her eyes. “Die, damn you, die!”
Burn, bits of hay. Burn, you devils, burn…
BOOM! Light and heat blasted across the courtyard, shaking the house and knocking Hélène and Celeste back into the attic. Windows shattered, in a high-pitched staccato complaint. Horses screamed in panic, matched by the other animals.
Shaken, half-deafened, Hélène staggered back to look out.
The hayloft was on fire, flames shooting out of every opening and black smoke pouring into the sky. Pieces of hay spun through the air, burning furiously on the wind and setting alight anything they touched.
Three still figures lay in the courtyard’s center: Papa and Maman, plus the Blues officer. His skull had been crushed by a wooden block blown out from the hayloft. Even as she watched, burning hay began to drift onto their clothes. Other floating firebrands landed on the house’s rooftops.
Most of the Blues lay motionless in the courtyard. A few were slowly climbing to their feet, dazed and bleeding, covered with raw red and black streaks from the fire.
Celeste came up alongside her.
“Ah, mon Dieu!” Her hands clenched into fists, tears streaming silently down her face. “Someone will pay for this.”
“Exactly so, ma petite,” Hélène purred, in perfect agreement.
The animals were getting louder, led by the horses pounding on their stalls. With a loud neigh, the first one broke out, quickly followed by another and another. They bolted out of the barn in a long stream, rearing and kicking at the few foolish men who tried to catch them. They quickly found the gates the soldiers had used and disappeared into the pastures and the night beyond. At least they were safe, as her head groom had no doubt hoped.
Fire was licking at the barn’s beams and onto the roof. She and Celeste would have to leave soon before it reached the house. There was no safety nearby, either, since they, too, were condemned to death for being members of a rebel leader’s family. She didn’t know how to contact the English, a trick Papa had kept to himself for security. But somehow she’d find a way for them to escape.
At least there were enough flaming doorways and windows to keep those murderous Blues from looting the house.
“Come along, Celeste, we must go now.” Hélène grabbed her sister’s hand.
“No!” She dug her heels in, obstinate as ever.
“We have to go now before we’re caught.” Hélène tugged hard, ignoring her headache, and dragged Celeste into movement.
“But how can we leave them behind?” Celeste was clearly appealing to sentiment, her usual tactic. “We must see them properly buried.”
“What is there to stay for?” Impatient and desperate, Hélène brutally told the truth. “The Blues will only rape and kill us, if we do.”
“Rape? But…” All the fight seemed to go out of her at once. Tears choked her voice for the first time. “Of course.”
They ran out of the attic and down the hidden servants’ stair to the root cellar. A concealed door allowed them to exit unobserved into the herb garden.
Hélène paused on the terrace above the river, looking out over the road and pastures at her departing enemies, marching back to their headquarters and a good night’s sleep—before they destroyed somebody else’s life tomorrow.
Damn them, damn them, damn them.
Burning hay spiraled out of the sky and onto the long, pointed horns of her cattle in the pastures. A bull bellowed and tossed his head. But the impertinent wisp lingered like a tiny pitchfork. More came until most of the cattle’s horns were decked with the fiery ornaments and all of the beasts were snorting and pawing in anger and fright.
A bull charged and broke out of its pen onto the road, followed by other cattle. Funneled by the stone walls, they bore straight down upon the Blues, roaring like demons from millennia gone by, the ground shaking under their hooves.
The soldiers looked back, flung up their hands, and scattered their weapons to the winds. They ran for their lives and jumped off the road into the fields toward the north, away from the woods and the great beasts thundering at their heels like the wrath of God.
The great fire crackled and sparked behind Hélène and Celeste, pouring out enough black smoke to obscure the moon as it devoured the beautiful little manor house and barn. It was a Viking funeral pyre for her parents and that Blues officer, with all their possessions around them.
Hélène’s lips curled in a faint, pitiless smile. She had no regrets, whatsoever, for any of it.
If she could ever do anything, at all, to stop the Blues’ so-called revolution that only killed innocent people, she would. No matter what it cost her—except for Celeste’s life—she would pay it, although she could wish she’d see Jean-Marie again.
“Come, Celeste.” She touched her sister’s arm.
Celeste was staring at the manor, clutching the chain around her neck, her lips moving continuously in a silent mutter. She nodded, keeping her face averted from her sister.
Hélène could understand the need to make vows, which were best not overheard. Many of the things she’d like to do to the Blues were nothing she wanted to explain to her virginal sister.
She turned toward the steep cliff down to the river, Celeste following at her heels.
“Madame la marquise?”
Their heads came up to face the newcomer.
“Hé, connarde, you’re late,” she snarled.
Celeste gasped at the crudity but Hélène refused to apologize for calling an Englishman an idiot, even if he had recognized her. Especially when her parents would be alive if he’d arrived an hour ago.
“A thousand pardons, my lady. The wind delayed us.” He bowed deeply, the fire illuminating his fac
e. He might be considered handsome, if you liked big brutes with excellent manners. She found nothing appealing, especially since he didn’t even have blue eyes to remind her of Jean-Marie. “I am Sir Andrew ffoulkes.”
She tapped her foot impatiently.
“Please excuse my sister, m’sieu,” Celeste cooed, batting her eyes quite winsomely. “The evening has been long and difficult for us.”
Hélène tried not to blink. What the devil was Celeste doing, flirting with someone other than Raoul de Beynac? Had she finally given up on that revolutionary?
The man promptly softened, as males always did for Celeste. Hélène refrained from rolling her eyes. In some ways, this small reminder of normal life was very reassuring after so much horror.
“Of course, mademoiselle.” He bowed, just a shade more deeply than strictly necessary to a comte’s unmarried youngest daughter. At least she hadn’t needed to provide formal introductions to Celeste, which would have been incongruous under these circumstances.
His voice gentled, dropping into genuine consideration. “May I inquire as to the comte and comtesse de Sainte-Pazanne?”
“They have gone to join their ancestors,” Hélène forced out from a suddenly tight throat. Would this ever become easy to discuss or remember?
“My deepest sympathies, madame, mademoiselle.” He bowed again, seemingly with great sincerity.
Both Hélène and Celeste acknowledged him silently.
“May I offer you and your sister safe passage to England, madame?”
“Thank you.” She had very little money in England, since Bernard had not chosen to place his investments with France’s sworn enemy. But perhaps her knowledge of explosives might earn them a little money.
“This way, my ladies. A boat awaits us on the river.”
Hélène paused for a last look before the cliff blocked all view of the house, although Celeste hastened down. She needed the reminder of what she’d lost, and learned, and why she’d fight to the death for revenge, burning it into her brain through her headache’s raw agony.
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