“You show up late before me?”
Maurice watched the Marquise as she paced back and forth between her bed and the window, pausing only to turn on her heel between the two.
How could he explain?
It was not for her to be concerned that his wife and daughter were both ill, was it?
“Yes, Your Highness, Je sollicite votre aimable pardon,” he said, bowing low yet a third time, his stomach folding uncomfortably as he lowered himself more and more with each movement. “There is no excuse, I know. My family life is not your concern, and it was my duty to arrive on time, as I promised long ago to always do.”
“What’s this about your family,” the Marquise asked him, stopping where she stood, a third of the way back to the window, and turning around to face him. “Has something happened to them? Are they injured?”
“None of the kind, Your Highness. They are merely-”
Maurice sensed it happening before it did; before he could finish his sentence… before he could back away… before he could do anything, he regurgitated his breakfast, causing her to scream for someone to clean it up.
“I take it they are ill, as you are, Monsieur Beausoleil,” she finally said, holding a hand to her mouth. Her eyes would not meet his, and she backed away toward the wall. Two maids rushed in and she ordered them to their cleaning duty.
There was a silence between him and the Marquise as the maids did their work and left once more. It was a silence that Maurice dreaded; a silence where his insides roiled even more than before he had exploded all over the stone flooring.
“I advise you not to be bowing and bending if you are going to be ill, and furthermore, perhaps you should do tasks out of doors for the day. It may well do you good, instead of remaining inside where you will run into more stressors,” Françoise told him, still holding a gloved hand – now with handkerchief – to her nose.
“Yes, Madame,” he said, still feeling lightheaded and nauseated.. “Perhaps it would be wise.”
“Well,” she said, moving her hand from her face. “Go on. And note that I will take into account your illness in your tardiness.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And another thing before you go, Maurice,” she said, stepping toward him, holding the hem of her long green gown up from the floor. She looked him in the eye and her voice reduced to a whisper.
“The King is prepared to send the Constable after the men that you, Monet, and Bonhomme identified as striving for the death of James Francis Stuart. And it will not be without a fight, I am certain, that they will be captured.”
Maurice balked a moment.
So this was why Sauvageon had wished a word with him? He knew he was to be caught soon?
But unless there were more spies than they knew of, how would word have gotten to him? And had he already spoken with the others, helping them escape the King’s order of their arrest?
A shudder ran through Maurice’s body, and he put a hand to his mouth to keep from getting ill once more.
If Sauvageon and his cronies knew what was before them, would they bring to harm the families of those they suspected had brought word to the King? For to stop them, Maurice, William, and Herbert had needed to call them on it and halt the planned execution by force prior to the capture of James Francis.
Nausea boiled up in his belly again as he spoke, but he made sure each word was distinct; that the Marquise heard him loud and clear: “Sauvageon, I regret to tell you, likely knows already. He aimed to confront me near the closest linen closet.”
At her nod, he then walked away, leaving her to decide what should be done with the man; what should be done with the other five men in her husband’s employ who had raised havoc within the hearts and minds and lives of the Stuart family, and by extension, those who were on their side.
Thirty Two
Vancouver, Washington… July 19, 2020
Jason pulled up behind Paloma’s van, his wife and children as excited as he was for Church.
It had been weeks since they had shared at the Stuart home instead of his own, and he was glad for the break.
He didn’t mind preaching, even leading the praise and worship, but it made things all that much more difficult with so much on his mind and their Foxhound, Sylvester’s, presence never made it any easier.
Double-checking the parking brake, he got out and went to open the doors for his wife and kids before grabbing the Crockpot full of meatballs he’d prepared the evening before.
He’d found the recipe – once their mother’s – in a box he’d finally taken the time and had the courage to go through the week prior. In it, all of their mother’s old recipe cards and potholders had been stashed, as well as a few figurines he had forgotten about long ago.
That box had led to another, and another, and soon, he’d opened eleven of them in one night, memories rolling over him like tidal waves. And today, he planned on letting his sister know; he’d brought many things that were meant for her that she didn’t even know were still around. Just as he hadn’t.
“Alright, Clayton… Charlotte… each of you grab a box for Auntie ‘Loma and head on inside. Put them upstairs out of sight for now. I’ll come back for the others,” he said, tears springing to his eyes.
Me’chelle momentarily placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, grabbed a couple four-packs of the root beer they’d brought, and smiled at him before walking ahead to make sure the door was open, and the cat wasn’t getting loose.
Careful to step over the new rock border Edward and Paloma had put in over the summer, Jason made his way up the walk, nervous, excited, and terrified all at once. His stomach felt like it was on fire, and his eyes burned from shedding so many tears. His throat was dry, but he forced himself to swallow as he stepped over the threshold. He watched his kids carry the boxes up the stairs before saying a single word more, then handed the Crockpot over to Edward, who stood watching him, his eyebrows turned up in a question mark.
“Good morning,” he said. “I’ll explain later. I’ve got more boxes for you guys.”
Confetti ran over to him, along with his niece and nephews and the younger Iglesias children, and he greeted each one in turn.
“Need any help with those boxes,” Edward asked him as he was hugging the last of the children. “I can send some of these guys out with you.”
The door opened behind him, and more people shuffled in toward the kitchen with their offerings of food for the potluck they’d previously decided to have. After Church, there was always a snack, but today… there would be a veritable feast.
“I can help, Uncle Jason,” Chosen said, heading for the door before he could reply.
Several other children – including one he didn’t know – filed out after Chosen and before Jason knew it, they were back and asking where he wanted them.
“Upstairs. Clayton or Charlotte can show you where they put the others,” he said, relieved he didn’t have to carry five boxes on his own up the stairway. All he had to do is get the rest of the root beer and that should about do it.
“Grabbed the rest of your soda,” Cherish piped up, startling him. “I’ll get them into the fridge.”
My, they were being more helpful than usual today. What had gotten into them? Not that he was complaining.
Edward watched the kids as they carried the yellowing and tattered old boxes upstairs and shrugged.
As curious as he was to gain an explanation, he’d find out soon enough. He picked up Confetti and moved to the kitchen, leaving Jason to welcome people at the door, at his own insistence.
“Anything I can help with in here,” he asked Paloma and Me’chelle, who were arranging and rearranging the various trays and dishes on the countertop and table. Confetti mewled in his ear, squirming to be let down, her curl-covered head butting into his chest.
“I think we’ve about got it. When Eugenie shows up, you could send her on in to talk to us, though. Or Aunt Angelique,” Paloma replied, stopping long enough
to wash and dry her hands and give him a quick kiss on the cheek before opening the fridge.
“Hey, I’m sorry we’re late,” he heard Eugenie say as he was turning to head back toward the door.
So much for my singular assignment, he thought, moving away from the chaos. Instead of the living room, he headed toward the Master bedroom and changed from his slippers into shoes. He looked through the music to see if there was anything that would better suit the mood for this morning’s lesson, but found nothing.
All right, God. You win. Today is, as always, in Your hands. I’m done trying to plan anything… I’m done trying to help out where I’m not needed. I’ll just do as You ask me for the rest of the day, he prayed as he combed through his hair one last time and shut the door behind him to greet his guests once again.
It took a few minutes of doing, but Edward deftly rounded up Confetti and told everyone it was time for her to leave, and then put her in the back bathroom, as they had done with Petunia Grace before her. He washed his hands in the front bathroom, dried them on one of the matching turtle-covered towels and, just as Fifine Noel Iglesias was calling for prayer requests, settled into a spot, Bible in hand.
Mark observed the prayer meeting from a distance, choosing to sit at the dining room table away from the main of the small crowd of people on their knees together in the living room.
He finished praying long before everyone else, but was content to sit listening to the cries of those around him, letting the Spirit do His work among the others. And he noticed he wasn’t the only one: Juanito Iglesias – a man he still didn’t know all that well, despite coming to Church together for so long – sat nearby, his eyes a picture of delight, but definitely just as open as Mark’s own.
Why hadn’t they gotten together? Why hadn’t Mark insisted on getting to know the man who had housed Rose Wishart-Laurent for years, despite having a full house already?
The man glanced over at Mark, their eyes met, and Juanito gave him a shy smile. Mark looked down at the seam of his pants and began to fiddle with it. It’s not like they could talk right now, anyway… so why try to be friendly? The man had to know that it was because of Mark that an extra mouth was fed from his table, when Mark and Eugenie could have taken her in.
The song switched from Fred Hammond’s rendition of Love Song to the Lamb to Switchfoot’s Your Love is a Song.
He wasn’t entirely sure about the flow between them, but he liked the theme that ran hard across the music that had been chosen.
A few more people lifted their heads and lifted their hands in worship as the words flowed over the congregation. Mark could envision the stars, the city lights, and the blackening moon as the song progressed, and he also lifted his own hands in praise.
“Are there any final prayer requests,” he heard Paloma say quietly, just barely enough to be heard over the music.
Two hands slowly went up, one of them, Mark’s, to his own surprise.
But now that his hand was up, what did he want to say? He didn’t even know there was something – or was there? He glanced back at Juanito, looked down again, waiting for the other person to make their request known.
“And Mark?”
“I, uh…”
“It’s alright… we are all friends here. What’s on your heart?”
“Well, it isn’t so much a prayer request as….” He stood and turned to face Juanito, walking slowly toward the man. “I just wanted to request forgiveness from Mr. Iglesias here,” he said, gesturing with a single hand, his eyes moving around the room before finally landing on the man.
He adjusted his glasses a moment before continuing.
“I just… I was sitting over there at the table thinking about how I’ve never taken the initiative to get to know the Iglesias’ and, especially not Juanito. And it was a mistake. They cared enough for my feelings to take in someone I refused to, though, really, God called me to it and I failed Him. And I just….”
Mark could feel sweat forming on his brow, on the palms of his hands, and in the slight shadow of the mustache he’d been trying to grow. “I’m sorry. I let God down, I let my wife and friends down, and I shirked my responsibilities to Rose,” he began, a torrent of tears escaping his eyes unencumbered.
“God entrusted all of these things to me, and I blew it, almost to the point of losing everything. I let my career go by the wayside because of an obsession, and that obsession robbed me of getting to know and love the people that were put in my life for a reason.”
He glanced over at Eugenie, who sat unmoving between Tawny and Angelique, who both had their hands covering hers now.
“Eugenie, I almost lost you… you and our beautiful Majesta Lilach… and all for something nobody can change. It was foolishness. I neglected the necessary,” he said a little louder now, looking over the expanse of faces who sat wide-eyed toward him, “to chase the unresolvable and unbelievably stupid. I chased young Rose away, and for all I know, that chasing set her on the path she’s on now, wherever that is,” he continued, thinking back to the terrified youth he’d met just hours after she landed in the café where Eugenie had been working at the time.
He could still see her like they’d just met; he could still hear the attitude in his voice when he’d scorned the idea of her staying with them, even for just a few weeks. He could still feel the pressure that had built inside his head, and his heart, at the thought of having to tell Arthur Reynolds that someone came through the mirror, but that it hadn’t been Rosemary Jenkins.
And in the end, the stress had kept him from disclosing that detail at all… not in any definable way.
He had given no age, no gender, and no exactness that Arthur could utilize in the future if he decided to investigate.
The room was silent now, all eyes on him.
Who had turned off the music?
“That’s all I wanted to say. I wanted to say, forgive me. I wanted to say I was wrong, and I’m sorry, and I know it took longer than it should have, but…”
“I… Se lo perdono,” Juanito whispered. “I forgive you. It is nothing. We… Mama Fifine and I… our familia… we were the blessed ones, Mr. Jeffries.”
“And I,” he heard Eugenie say, a bit louder than Mr. Iglesias. “I praise God He brought you to this point, to this place. And I want you to know… I forgave you before you ever even knew it. I was angry, yes… I felt betrayed and… more, I was angry for Rose. But it is in the past now, Mark,” she continued, wending her way through the sea of knees toward him, “and I forgive you. I’m glad you and Majesta have been able to… learn to love each other in spite of the rough start.”
Their daughter – sitting with Cherish and Charlie – moved toward them in the hush of the room and Mark enfolded them together into a hug.
This had been a long time coming, and for once, he was thankful he had put his hand up and not backed down from what was on his heart.
Thirty Three
Paloma walked with trembling legs up the stairs, her brother ahead of her, and her husband behind.
What a day, she thought, trying to calm herself. So glad it’s happened, but so glad the service is finally over…
Most of their church guests had departed once the potluck was finished, though a handful of friends remained to help clean up.
“Follow me,” her brother had said quietly as she’d begun loading the dishes. “The kids can do that. There’s something I need to show you… you and Edward both.”
With a shrug and a raised heartbeat, she had gone and found her husband in the back yard and met Jason at the stairs. But what could be so important it couldn’t wait another hour, she had no idea.
“Clayton said they stashed them up in… ah, yes, here they are,” she heard Jason announce. He went into Edward’s office and held the door open for Paloma and her husband to follow, then closed it behind himself. As she stepped into the room, a musty smell came over her, and her eyes began to water.
She blinked a few times, then noticed that t
he floor was littered with yellowing boxes.
Old root beer boxes.
Wait, she thought. Root beer boxes?
Her heart beat faster, and she began to get dizzy. Edward and Jason ushered her to the lone chair and then sat down on the floor nearby, each next to a box.
“I know this comes as a shock to you,” Jason began again. “But I found some things from Momma and Papa; even a few from Miss Isabella. I think...”
She watched as he gulped in some air before continuing, tears welling in his pale blue eyes.
“I think these ones are for you. It wasn’t everything, but I just… I finally got up the gumption to look through some things we shuffled into the attic when we moved, and… well… these are for you, from Momma, Papa, and Miss Isabella, with love.”
Her brother gestured toward Edward, who slowly pulled the top off one of the boxes, and the scent of newspaper print filled the air, joining her perfume and the mustiness of the boxes.
She held her breath as he carefully reached in and pulled out the first item: a near round fluted Country Cranberry-colored Fenton crystal basket, the handle of which reminded her of braided rope. Next, a matching decanter, complete with a clear stopper, and a vase, brilliant with painted flowers. Three more pieces of the beautiful red-gold crystal followed before that box was empty.
“Miss Isabella would have wanted you to have her collection of Fenton. I… I kept a couple of pieces that didn’t really match everything else, but….” Jason cut himself off and clasped her hand tightly as Edward moved to another box.
Paloma’s throat threatened to close on her; her heart felt like it would stop, it beat so fast.
Her tears were coming so fast, everything was blurry and she was afraid to touch anything; that it might break. And while a keepsake shattered wasn’t as bad as a memory forsaken and condemned to be forgotten forever, she wanted neither.
The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven Page 18