Clair smiled, then sobered. “Ma chére, such an attitude as Stephen bore can only come from God’s indwelling Spirit. How else could he do as Christ did on the cross?”
But Avril is dead! she wanted to scream.
Her mother’s self-control continued like a running stream. “Stephen was filled with the Spirit. Our old sin nature wants to fight back. But we must not yield to it, but to our new nature. Yield yourself to God — yield your anger to Him. If not, I fear you will be the worse for it.”
Her mother’s eyes, so full of sympathy and concern, brought tears to Rachelle’s. She turned away and nodded briefly, letting a rose rest on her palm as she looked down at its fragile petals.
Avril is dead; Idelette has been raped; how can she be this trusting except by God’s strength? Some women went to pieces over the death of a child. Some became bitter and blamed God. But now the bitter cup had come upon them, and Rachelle knew she wrestled with truth the way Jacob wrestled with the angel in Genesis.
THE NEXT FEW DAYS passed quietly. One morning, Rachelle approached Cousin Bertrand’s chamber with a tray in hand, heavily laden with petitnoir and warm buttery rolls.
There remained many reasons for encouragement. Cousin Bertrand was recovering his strength sooner than Docteur Lancre had thought.
For Rachelle, the greatest of comforts in these days was when they all gathered in Cousin Bertrand’s chamber in the evenings after dîner, before they retired, to listen to him read the Scriptures in French. In the past, this had been a time she had taken for granted. Too often her mind had wandered to other issues important to her. Now, their time together seemed nearer to the One who held the family in His hand.
Bertrand had chosen the book of Acts for the family devotions, for as he said, it held great examples of the sufferings of early Christians, and this was a balm for the church’s sufferings in France. Bertrand would close his reading by turning to 2 Corinthians and enumerating the apostle Paul’s sufferings, where he had been beaten and stoned; gone thirsty, hungry, without sleep, without adequate clothing, and so much more for Christ’s sake, and for bringing the message of the only Savior of lost mankind to a persecuting Roman Empire. Paul’s dedication and suffering inspired Rachelle.
My Savior Jesus, enable me, the least of all, to be faithful to Your name.
Now as Rachelle came to Bertrand’s door and tapped, Siffre opened to her. He was a gaunt elderly chevalier who rarely smiled, though his eyes shone with a pearl-like luster. For some reason, just looking at Siffre always drew a smile from her.
“Bonjour, Siffre.”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” he said stiffly.
“I have brought Cousin Bertrand his petit noir.”
“With much thick cream and sugar, Mademoiselle? He will not drink his morning brew without it.”
They went through this every time she brought the pot to Bertrand, so it had practically become a game. “Oui, Siffre, with cream and sugar.”
“Very well, Mademoiselle, merci. I will pour him a cup.”
Rachelle looked past Siffre to Bertrand upon his bed. She was pleased to see the ruddy color had come back into his thin cheeks. It was said that before rising in the mornings, he always reached over to his bedside for his Bible to read some verses. “If I do not fill my mind with the living Word in the beginning of the day, then it is soon filled with thoughts from the spiritual enemy who plots our failure and ruin.”
“Rachelle, ma petite, come, come, sit beside the bed. I am heartily ashamed to be lying here like a lazy hunting dog past his youthful days.”
Rachelle smiled and sat upon the arm of the winged chair done in royal blue tapestry. “I should live so long as to see you lazy,” she said, laughing. “You were up too long yesterday, Docteur Lancre says so. He fears your fever will return.”
“I am stronger this morn than yesterday. This afternoon I shall rise and make my bed and lie down no more until the darkness settles, the way God intended.” He focused his sober gaze upon her. “Tell me, how is our beloved Idelette?”
She set her jaw and froze her smile. “Ma mère says she is recovering well. The bruises are fading, except for her lip. Unfortunately Docteur Lancre believes she may have a scar at the right corner.”
But is she recovering as well as ma mère says?
Rachelle’s own conversations with Idelette did not suggest so.
Bertrand nodded soberly, accepting the truth beneath the casual words. What else was there to say of the delicate and troubling matter of her sister? While Avril was removed from the earthly scene of suffering, Idelette had to continue carrying burdens no one else could help her bear.
“And the young James?” he asked, taking the cup that Siffre gave him and sipping the steaming brew. “A little more cream next time, s’il vous plaît,” he commented as usual.
“Docteur Lancre says he will fully recover the use of his leg. He is most anxious to be walking again so he may return to London.”
“Then the young James best rouse himself posthaste because I fully intend to leave for Calais within a day.” He took a bite of the roll. “And a little more butter next time, s’il vous plaît.”
Calais? She straightened with interest. “Then you truly intend to join Père Arnaut? Docteur Lancre will not be pleased. He insists you must convalesce for another six weeks at least. So Mère told Père in her lettre of last night.”
“The bon docteur, he means well, but he is idealistic. Six weeks? Non. Time is short, life is short. One must get on with one’s calling. There is no time to be planting posies.”
“But Cousin Bertrand, how can you manage such a long journey?”
“I shall manage. Siffre will be with me. I shall be as comfortable in a Macquinet coach as here upon this bed. And accomplishing much more, I assure you.” He waved his buttered roll. “If I stay lounging much longer, ma petite, I shall become fat and lazy.”
She leaned forward. “Then let me go with you. I can be of much assistance, I promise you. Père Arnaut may need me on the way back to Lyon, or we may wish to stop in Paris to bring Grandmère and Madeleine and the bébé back here to the château. They will need my assistance on the journey home. You know ma mère would go to Paris tonight if she could, but she does not feel it wise to leave Idelette, and Idelette refuses to go to Paris. Ma mère can hardly get her to leave her chamber to walk in the garden.”
“Do you wish to go to Calais because le marquis may yet be there?”
She stood quickly. “I admit that my head was once turned by le marquis, but no longer.”
Her vehemence caused his brows to lift. “Is that so?”
“What feelings were between us were short-lived. It is over, and I am satisfied that it is.”
His sharpened gaze studied her. She felt her cheeks flush.
“Clair will be pleased to hear of it. She fears you will be hurt by involvement with such an important young man of esteemed background and title.”
She walked over to the bedpost, taking hold of it, and faced him, determined. “My plans differ from his, I see that now. I have my amour for silk, for becoming the couturière who follows Grandmère.” Rachelle tightened her fingers around the post. “Marriage is impossible for varied reasons. He is of the royal blood, as you know.”
“Yes,” he said, watching her.
“I was unwise to take seriously his mild flirtation with me at Court.” She threw back her shoulders. “I will learn to forget him. I have my part to do in creating the famous gown for the English queen.”
“Your mind accepts the facts, I see that, mignon, bien,” he said gently. “For he admitted he has altered his viewpoint since Chambord and Amboise, where he first met you. Attractions come and wane. He has come to see that he is not seriously inclined toward taking on a wife and family in the foreseeable future.”
Her breath caught, then her fingers tightened around the bedpost as her temper climbed. Attractions come and wane, do they?
“He spoke to you of me?” Fabien
had not mentioned that!
“Oui, he is of an uncertain mind concerning his future, and that of France. He may be right about a civil war,” he said thoughtfully, his fingers pinching his short, pointed beard. “Let us hope Messire Beza is correct when he speaks of a religious colloquy that will bring rights to the Huguenots to worship freely. Both he and Admiral Coligny are working together to convince the Queen Mother to hold such a colloquy at Fontainebleau this year. I must see the admiral at Châtillon about this while en route to Calais.”
Minister Beza had recently come from Geneva and was in close contact with Monsieur Calvin, but at the moment a religious colloquy was the furthest matter from her mind. So Fabien had altered his thinking about marriage in general since Amboise, had he? Was that another reason why he had left France?
She did her best to hide her inner turmoil. Was she convincing Cousin Bertrand? She believed he worried more about her steadfastness of faith than he did Idelette’s. Idelette’s sobriety and studious nature impressed the family and the local assembly of believers, while Rachelle with her enthusiasm for adventure and risks, was watched with mild concern — mild, that is, until she had shown up from Vendôme escorted by the dashing marquis, who retained his loyalty to the Roman Church, even if he loathed Cardinal de Lorraine and called him “lecherous and dangerous.”
“I find the marquis an interesting young man,” Bertrand said, surprising her. She had expected him to notice as much ill about him as he could in an attempt to discourage her.
“I found that we shared many of the same thoughts on several important issues facing France. That he wishes to join the buccaneers harassing Spain is noteworthy and not altogether displeasing to me, I assure you. Even so, if Clair knew, I suspect his action would further convince her of his unsuitability where you are concerned. She wishes you to marry from Geneva, as you are aware, to one of Calvin’s promising students.”
Rachelle stared at him, not hearing what he said about Geneva students and marriage, for she and Idelette had long known this. She moved closer to his bed. “But how did you know of his interest in the privateers?”
Bertrand looked as calm as ever. “He confessed this to me.”
“The marquis?” She was surprised that he would ever admit his plans for buccaneering to a dedicated pasteur like Cousin Bertrand. Had Fabien then also told him of the Spanish galleons heading for the Netherlands with soldiers and supplies for the infamous Duc d’Alva, and that a joint venture of French, Dutch, and English privateers were planning to attack? That the marquis might not have disclosed that much, and since she retained loyalty, however strained, she would not ask Bertrand anything that would unmask Fabien’s secret plans.
“The marquis has long planned to join the French buccaneers,” she said. “He mentioned it to me at Chambord, insisting Spain receives her wealth to fund the Inquisition with the gold her treasure galleons bring King Philip from the Americas. I cannot see the marquis confessing this venture as something he feels ashamed over. Since few would ever suspect him of becoming a buccaneer, how is it that you suspected?”
His thin smile convinced her she was right.
“I did not suspect, ma chère; it was Siffre.”
“Siffre!” This surprised her. She turned to look at his valet, but he had left the chamber.
“Siffre happened to be out walking in the garden as he does late every evening before taking to bed. He saw a stranger arrive some weeks ago bringing a message from a French buccaneer to the marquis. The messenger thought he was alone when he told him that the privateers had news of the Duc d’Alva’s galleons bringing soldiers and weapons to the Netherlands. Siffre came to me about it. He knows the wish of your père that I watch over his household in his absence, ma petite. It was equally clear that while the marquis was coming and going these past weeks, that you and he spent a certain amount of time together. Both Clair and I have seen the lively flame that dances between you.”
Rachelle remained silent. None of that mattered now. It was over.
“He is a most difficult seigneur to understand at times,” Bertrand said, musing. “He declares himself a Catholic, yet he embraces many of the ideas of the Huguenots. In regard to the Guises, he discerns the dark direction in which they are leading France. He is to be commended for such insights. And more importantly where our family is concerned, is his personal faith in Christ. I told him this, but I am grieved to say that the marquis has not satisfied me in this matter, and though I think he is a Christian, on several critical issues of doctrine, he avoided an answer.”
“He can be contrary,” she said. “I am certain he knows and understands. He has given me some insightful answers. He has also discussed matters very thoroughly with Andelot.” She was irritated Fabien had not satisfied Bertrand when she was certain he could have done so. Why had he not?
“Andelot Dangeau . . . ah, oui, I remember him, the fatherless boy, the unclaimed neveu of Sebastien?”
“Oui, but he is a boy no longer. He has grown up. And it is now said that Andelot is blood related to the Guise family.”
“Most curious. I also discerned something else in my talks with the marquis, something that worries me, mignon. There is some matter harassing him other than Spain; oui, some little foxes that eat at him, and of these he also would not tell me.”
She could have told Bertrand plainly of the fox in particular that goaded him. It was Duc de Guise, and Fabien’s hatred for him, and the belief that the duc, and perhaps the cardinal, had Duc Jean-Louis de Vendôme, Fabien’s father, assassinated.
She did not speak of this however.
From somewhere behind her, Siffre cleared his throat. “Pardone, Messire Bertrand, but Nenette says there is a young monsieur here to see the mademoiselle, with the name of Andelot Dangeau. He has come from Paris with a lettre from Duchesse Dushane, and the monsieur says it is important”
Andelot! For one of the few times in recent days, Rachelle’s smile arose genuinely from within the well of her heart’s affections. He was just the young monsieur she wanted to see, for if anyone could make her feel sane and more optimistic again, it was her petit ami from childhood. Wholesome Andelot, with his winsome smile and warm, easy manner. She had not seen him since Amboise.
Excusing herself from Cousin Bertrand, she left the chamber and sped down the corridor, past Nenette and to the stairway. Nenette followed close behind. “He is most beau now, wait till you see him, Mademoiselle.”
AS RACHELLE DESCENDED THE stairs, she was met by two serving women on their way to announce Andelot’s arrival to Madame Clair. They drew aside, parting the way for Rachelle, who hurried down, Nenette still nimbly following. Rachelle reached the bottom and crossed the wide floor under the cascading light from torches on the high stone walls, her mourning dress rustling stiffly.
Andelot Dangeau stood in the doorway, another monsieur beside him, whom she recognized as Duchesse Dushane’s page, Romier. Both men wore grave faces. Had the news of the Guise attack reached them? They bowed, hats in hand.
“Andelot.” Rachelle managed a smile despite her apprehension and extended her hand.
Andelot advanced. He was fine looking, with brown hair and eyes. “Mademoiselle Rachelle, it is a lamentable message I bring from Paris, and now I have learned the bitter news of what has befallen you here. My condolences over your family’s loss of petite Avril.”
There would be ample opportunity to discuss these details with him later.
“Merci, Andelot mon ami, it is most tragic, all that has come upon us these weeks. What news do you now bring?”
“I shall begin with a happy surprise. Sebastien is alive.”
Rachelle caught his arm. “Alive! Oh, Andelot, but how can that be? And does Madeleine know? Oh, wait until I tell Madame Clair! This is a gift from heaven amidst all of the storms!”
His smile was genuine, yet she caught the flicker of sadness in his eyes. “Oui, I was sent to Duchesse Dushane with the news only some days ago. Your sister, Madeleine, wi
ll be shocked when she learns.”
“When she learns Sebastien is alive? But you say you come from Paris, how is it that she does not yet know?” Her voice tense and cautious.
He pushed the lock of hair from his forehead and changed stances. “Well, she is ill, you see — and Madame did not think it wise yet to tell her that Sebastien is in the Bastille.” His voice lowered as though the words were too heavy to speak. “He is to be sent to the salle de la question.”
Rachelle stepped back. She searched his eyes and saw the pain, saw his gaze fall to the floor. He fidgeted with his hat.
“The salle de la question,” she whispered. Silence wrapped around her. Her hand formed a fist. “Better to be dead!” She closed her eyes tightly trying to bring her emotions under control.
“Duchesse Dushane requests that you come to the Louvre palais,” he whispered. “Your grandmère and sister need you; they are both very ill. Madame and her private docteur are caring for them.”
Rachelle looked down at the envelope he extended, as though it were poison, as though whatever news written there would come to pass if she took hold of it.
“What kind of illness?”
“The duchesse has explained in the lettre. Would Madame Clair offer you her coach for your ride to Paris? There is no time for delay, we should leave this hour.”
She raised her eyes to his and read what was left unsaid. “I shall come.” He nodded. An overwhelming sense of loss descended on her like a bleak, smothering blanket. Grandmère — Madeleine!
She took the envelope, holding it to her heart, and turning away, she started for the stairway to be alone in her chamber.
Her mother was coming down the stairs, the two servants waiting beside the banister as if they suspected more dark tidings.
“Bonjour, Andelot,” Clair greeted, looking wan in her mourning gown, but her head was held high. “What news do you bring from my tante, Duchesse Dushane?”
Rachelle did not wait to share the lettre with her mother, knowing Andelot would discuss all he knew with her. She ran down the corridor and entered her chamber. Away from sympathetic eyes, she tore open the envelope with shaking fingers and read Madame Xenia Dushane’s words of explanation about the sudden illness that had first taken hold of Grandmère, and then Madeleine. As though in a trance, Rachelle stood without moving, reading and rereading the concluding words the duch-esse had written with an irregular handwriting that betrayed her tears.
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