Sanctuary for a Lady

by Naomi Rawlings

  The bed frames, too, were masterful. Three ticks—two double and one single—rested on elaborately carved frames. But how could a peasant afford such grand furniture? Such an exquisite pitcher and basin?

  Closing her eyes, she sank down, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy straw tick, but her nightdress made her throat itch. Strange, for the fabric of her chemise had never irritated her before. She reached up to scratch her neck, her fingers skimming the material. It felt stiffer than usual. Opening her eyes, she examined the foreign gown. Her heart began to pound against her chest.

  She’d not brought this on her journey. Where were her clothes?

  She must have her raiment. Not that she missed the miserably rough garments, but she needed her chemise. Her attackers had stolen the funds in her valise, but they hadn’t found the forged citizenship papers and money inside the hidden pocket of her chemise—at least not while she’d been conscious. She’d kept her papers and the exact amount of money needed for fare to England on her person.

  Had the farmer discovered them?

  She tried to calm her breathing even as a tear trickled down her cheek. Swallowing, she reached up to finger the cross about her neck, but that, too, was gone. Like everything else in her life. She curled into a ball and clutched her hand over her neck—where the cross once hung, where the guillotine had sliced her sister. She pressed her eyes tight against the burning tears until sleep overtook her.

  But instead of finding respite in her dreams, the dark face of the soldier who ordered her death in the woods loomed before her.

  Chapter Four

  “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! Thank you.” Michel practiced the words. First rolling them over his tongue, then speaking briskly, then whispering.

  Petty, mayhap, to get his hackles up over two small words, but how hard could it be for the girl to voice them?

  He thrust his pitchfork into some sour straw and tossed another clump of muck into the pile of dirty swine bedding. He’d cleaned this stall every Monday since he could remember, but today the pregnant sow eyed him distrustfully, like he would accost her rather than care for her home.

  “Come on, now. Up with you.” He tapped the pig with his boot. She snorted, then closed her eyes.

  Two stubborn females. Just his luck. “I’ve no mind to put up with you today. Out with you.” He poked her with the handle end of his fork. The swine squealed and rolled over.

  Michel sighed and rubbed his temple. First the girl, then the sow, what would come next? Maybe the roof on the stable would collapse, or the dam on the lower field would break. A perfect ending to his day.

  Images of the girl flooded his mind anew. The tears that glistened in her eyes, the raise of her chin and set of her shoulders when she told him she had to leave, the pain that lanced her features when she strained her arm. The look of triumph on her face when she left the bed.

  She was determined, if nothing else. But only a featherbrained child would expect to walk after lying incoherent for over a fortnight.

  Michel raked his hand through his hair, knocking his hat into the straw.

  Hopefully she’d settle in a bit, because she’d be in that bed awhile before she could visit her aunt.

  In Saint-Valery-sur-Somme.

  His grip on the pitchfork tightened. He wasn’t a half-wit. She was headed to England, sure as the sun would set. Not that it was any concern of his.

  With nothing left to clean but where the sow lay, he shoved the fork into the straw beside the beast’s belly. Squalling and grunting, she rolled to her feet, baring her teeth and stomping the straw as though she would charge.

  He growled in frustration. How much could a man endure of a day? Not intending to get bitten, he pushed his pitchfork into the ground near the gate and trudged away from the stable. He should finish mucking the stalls and fix the plow wheel. The stable roof needed patching as well as the roof over the bedchamber. He must get to town and buy that ox. And he had to check the sandbags on the lower field before the rains came and flooded the tiresome parcel of land.

  He huffed a breath. The responsibilities of the farm pressed down upon him as they did every spring since his father died and his brother, Jean Paul, left. At any given moment, he had two weeks of work to finish and days to do it.

  Yet he stormed past all the places needing his attention and opened the door to his workshop, the small familiar building the same as he had left it yesterday. The scent of lumber, instantly calming, wrapped around him. He inhaled deeply and moved to the center of his workspace, his eyes seeing nothing but the chest of drawers he’d spent the past six months making.

  He wiped his hand on a rag and trailed his finger up the side of the piece. The elaborate sculpting on the posts contrasted with the straight lines and gentle curves of the wood, and the design of acorns and oak leaves he’d carved twisted and curled daintily against the deep hue of the walnut. This chest of drawers would match the design on his mother’s bed. A bedroom set, of sorts. He need only sculpt along the top edge of the dresser. Another week and it would be finished.

  Sooner, if that impatient girl drove him to the shop every day.

  He reached for his chisel, squeezed the familiar wooden handle, then rolled his shoulders. Too tense. He let the chisel fall to his workbench. He’d gouge through the middle of an acorn if he carved now.

  Two strips of walnut lay on the floor beyond the dresser, a reminder of the wood he’d used to set the girl’s arm. A walnut splint. Who had that?

  She’d uttered nary a comment about how smooth he’d sanded the wood so no sliver would pierce her porcelain skin.

  Maybe he should have left her arm broken.

  Guilt swamped him at the thought. He raised his eyes to heaven. “Oui, Father, mayhap she doesn’t deserve a broken arm. But she could still say thank-you.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. He needed to create, to saw, to build. Something—anything. Drying wood rested at the back of his shop, an odd assortment of anything he could collect. He blew out a breath. He’d have to start a new piece. But what?

  He didn’t need another bed frame. Or another dresser.

  Mayhap a table and chairs? He didn’t need those, either, but perhaps Leopold would sell a dining set in his store.

  Michel picked up a single piece of richly burled maple and ran it through his hands as he studied his wood selection. He didn’t have enough walnut to work with. He could buy more, if only the farm didn’t need an ox. So the table would be oak. He walked to the back, hefted a long plank and brought it to his workbench.

  Frustration melted with each push and tug of saw against wood. The tension slipped from his shoulders and neck as he planed the wood with long, smooth motions that shaved the legs into equal widths. Fragrant, curly strips of oak floated down and covered the floor as he toiled. He inhaled the aroma, heard the faint crunch of the shavings underfoot, felt the rough wood beneath his palm.

  This was all a man needed to be happy.

  Betwixt the rasps of his block planer, footsteps echoed on the stone walkway. Mère. With the girl and the sow, he’d forgotten his mother. Surely she hadn’t been turning over the garden all this time. He stopped the calming movements and dropped his planer with a thunk onto the workbench before heading to the door. He deserved a day in the stocks for forgetting his own mother.

  “In here, Ma Mère.”

  “There you are, Michel.”

  She wandered over to him, carting a burlap sack behind her.

  A lump of fear rose in his throat. “You went to town? You can’t up and head to Abbeville. I’ve told you, there are dangerous men about.”

  She hauled her sack to the workbench. “I thought you’d be in the stable.”

  So had he. But that didn’t change that she’d left despite his warnings
.

  He grasped her wrist. “Ma Mère, look at me. You cannot go off by yourself. Not into town, not into the woods, not anywhere until we know who hurt the girl.”

  Eyes vacant and dull as two glass marbles stared back at him. She was having another bad day, which at least explained her wandering off.

  “It’s Monday. I go to town on Monday. You muck the stalls. Did you get the stalls mucked? It’s Monday.”

  Unable to stop himself, he pulled her to his chest and held her head over his heart, which beat at twice its normal pace. “I’ve some stalls yet to clean.”

  She wiggled under his hold. “Have you looked at the bottom field?” Her voice muffled against his chest. “The wheat’s not flooded?”

  He released her, looked at the woman who’d raised him and tucked a stray tuft of graying hair back into her bun. “It’s still Germinal.”

  Her brow wrinkled in more confusion, and he ran a hand through his hair. What had the revolutionary government been thinking to give France a new calendar with ten days in a week and different names for the months and years? He could barely remember the new names or keep track of the day. Was it any wonder his mother got mixed up?

  “April, Ma Mère. It’s the beginning of April. We’ve not planted yet, and we’ve not had much rain.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s all right. Everyone gets befuddled at times.”

  She glanced around the shop, her eyes resting on the freshly cut lumber in front of them. “More wood for the chest of drawers?”

  How could she forget the month but remember what piece he worked on? “This is for a table.”

  “You’re starting a new piece?”

  “That’s what happens when I finish one.”

  “You’ve a buyer for the finished one?”

  He looked at the dresser. Not even close. “Mayhap.”

  Hope, like wildflowers blooming in a field, sprang into her eyes. “And this table, you’ll be able to sell that, too?”

  “Aye.” Right after the bottom field stopped flooding and the animals started mucking their own stalls.

  “Dear me, I almost forgot.” Mère hefted her burlap sack onto the half-planed oak and began unloading her treasures. “Look what the Good Lord supplied us with.”

  “That wood’s half-finished. Could you…”

  He clamped his jaw. A kettle with a burned-out bottom, a scrap of lavender ribbon and a torn shoe with what looked like a mouse’s nest inside had already thudded onto his lumber.

  “Oh, and look at this.” Her eyes shimmered as she produced a scraggly mourning bonnet from the bottomless abyss.

  “It’s got holes.” Like most things she brought back from the village.

  “I’ll make a hat for the girl.”

  With all she forgot, how did she remember the girl? “You haven’t any thread left to mend the bonnet.”

  “Look what else.” She pulled ragged brown trousers from her sack. “Madame Goitier wanted to throw these away. Throw them away! What with Joseph being the last of her brood. Said they didn’t fit him anymore. I’ll use the thread from these. You don’t think she’ll mind that the thread doesn’t match the bonnet, do you? Black and brown are close enough shades.”

  Michel swung his eyes to his mother’s, waiting until she quieted and returned his look. “She’s awake.”

  “What?” Mère patted the side of her head before her hand dove back into the sack.

  “The girl. She’s awake.”

  Mère stilled, the broken wooden yoyo in her hand pausing midair, then crashing to the table and scattering into more pieces. “Oh. Can’t say I expected her to wake.”

  Bien sûr que non. Of course not. The girl’s fever had broken, her bruises faded, her delirium left and her arm half-healed. Why would Mère expect her to awake? “She’s astir, all right.” And madder than a caged cockerel.

  “What’s her name?”

  Her name? Michel swallowed. People probably called her something besides girl. “Didn’t ask.”

  Mère bit her cracked lip. “How’s she feeling?”

  “Poorly. Can’t stand.”

  “Did she eat much?”

  He tunneled a hand through his hair. She’d not eaten anything but spoonfuls of broth for more than two weeks. And he hadn’t even asked if she was hungry.

  Or thirsty. “I should see how she’s faring. Come meet her?”

  Mère stepped backward, her treasures forgotten and a shine of fear in her eyes. “I don’t know, Michel. She’s a stranger.”

  “She’d like to see the bonnet you’re planning.” If the girl didn’t use the bonnet’s ties to strangle him for stranding her in the bedchamber despite her protests.

  He took his mother’s shoulders and stooped to look her fully in the face. “Ma Mère, if anyone asks about her, say she’s Corinne’s cousin visiting from Paris. You can’t say I found her in the woods. Not to anyone. It’s important.”

  Life or death important.

  He’d repeated those words every day since bringing the girl home, but as always, Mother’s glazed eyes just blinked back at him.

  Please, Father, let no one ask.

  “Come.” He returned his mother’s discoveries to the sack and reached for her hand. “She’ll want to meet you.”

  Hopefully. God forgive him for lying if the girl didn’t.

  He grabbed his hat off the peg by the door and led her outside. A thundercloud approached from the west. A quick afternoon storm, more than likely, but the spring rains would come soon. He’d best examine the sandbags in the lower field tomorrow.

  He tugged Mère along. “The girl’ll be happy to…”

  The gate to the swine’s pen stood wide open. “Wait here.”

  He left her standing in the yard and trudged toward the empty pen. The lily-livered sow! Getting the mean beast back would take the better part of his afternoon. Nothing seemed amiss with the gate while he mucked the stall. The beast must have been angrier than he thought and barreled through the barrier.

  But the gate looked pristine with no visible damage to the door, latch or fence post. Michel rubbed his hand over his jaw. His pitchfork rested beside the post. Surely he hadn’t left the gate open. He wasn’t that daft.

  But he’d been awfully distracted with the girl…

  He pressed his eyes shut. He’d no memory of closing it. The girl and sow had troubled him, and he must have stormed to his workshop without latching the gate. He eyed the cloven prints that led toward the bottom field and stream, almost as though the sow made a beeline for his neighbor Bertrand’s property.

  Thunder rumbled closer. He glanced at the gathering darkness, then back at the hog’s tracks. If Gerard Bertrand found her, he’d butcher her and the litter without thought, then lie to the magistrate about taking the sow.

  Michel walked back to his mother. “Better get on inside. Rain’s coming, and the sow got loose. You remember, the one carrying the litter?”

  She nodded even though her eyes showed no comprehension.

  “You just go in and work on your mending. The girl should be sleeping. Leave her for now, and I’ll introduce you when I return.”

  A bolt of lightning, a clap of thunder, and the sky loosed a torrent of fat raindrops. He smashed his hat farther down onto his head and watched Mère scurry inside. Then he turned to face the elements alone.

  * * *

  Thunk.

  Isabelle’s eyes flickered open at the muted sound of the outer door closing, followed by soft voices from the other room. The candle still burned on the bedside stand, and the book the farmer’s mère had given her, The Tales of Mother Goose, rested facedown on her stomach. The woman had been kind to her, offering broth and water, giving her a book to re
ad. But Isabelle must have drifted off soon after the woman left. Darkness had fully descended now, shrouding the room in its shadows. How long had she slept?

  She shifted slightly, and a flash of movement caught her eye. The man entered, barefoot and soaked. Rainwater dripped from his sleeves and trouser hems onto the floor, making a muddy mess as he headed toward the dresser.

  He placed his candle atop the dresser, its light illuminating the side of his chiseled face. She’d not heeded how attractive he was earlier, likely because she’d been too concerned about getting to Saint-Valery and then too angry with the man for insisting she lay abed. But now she couldn’t deny his comeliness. Muscles played across his back as he hunched down and rummaged through the third dresser drawer. His chest was so thick it would take three of her to fill it, and his arms so powerful they looked as though they could accomplish any task given them.

  He must be so strong from working in the fields. She’d never seen her father’s torso this closely—he’d always worn layers upon layers of fabric, and none of them soaked to the skin, like the farmer’s—but Père’s forearms hadn’t been nearly so muscular nor his hands as beefy. And none of the courtiers at Versailles nor her former suitors had carried themselves the way this farmer did, with his strong shoulders and solid chest. She’d felt the strength of his arms and torso when he caught her from falling earlier.

  Oui, he must be a hard worker, indeed.

  He turned his head her direction, and she swiftly shut her eyes. He needn’t know she was awake—or ogling him. She was too tired to defend her actions or rationalize her thoughts. She’d no desire to engage in another argument, and she’d little reason to rouse and attempt her journey until she determined a way to earn back the money she lost.

  Warmth spread over her body. He stared at her, and she felt it from the tip of her toes up through the roots of her hair. Her eyelids involuntarily fluttered, as though they longed to open and let her eyes meet his dandelion-green gaze, but she forced them shut.