Sanctuary for a Lady

by Naomi Rawlings

  The moment passed, the heat leaving her body and replaced by a cold loneliness. Fabric rustled in the farmer’s direction.

  She opened her eyes. He stood sideways in the candlelight with fresh clothes piled atop the dresser. He undid the two buttons at his collar, then reached down and pulled the bottom of his shirt up.

  She slammed her eyelids shut and turned her head away. She’d no business seeing this man bare of chest, especially not when she needed to focus on getting to England.

  Chapter Five

  The miserable wall. All it did was sprout holes.

  Despite the chill in the air the following morn, a bead of sweat trickled between Michel’s shoulder blades. He hefted another sandbag from the wagon onto his shoulder and trudged to the weak spot in the makeshift dam.

  Miserable wall. Miserable field. Miserable sow. Miserable life.

  Twenty meters from where he walked, a stream glittered in the sunlight, and two large ash trees on the bank cast shadows over the water. It probably looked picturesque—to someone who didn’t know any better.

  Nature’s deception at its best. One good rain and that creek would flood its borders—and his field. The ground rose on the other side of the stream, forming a gentle hill and Gerard Bertrand’s property. But Bertrand didn’t need to dam up his fields.

  Nature did that for him.

  If ever a field should revert back to forest and wetlands, this cursed lower parcel was it. After a few hours of rain from the day before, the ground transformed into a heap of mud that needed draining, not planting. And the creek had yet to flood, as it did every spring.

  And every second summer.

  And every third fall.

  He set the sack into position on the wall and headed back to the horse and wagon for another. The farmwork, day in and day out, would rob a man of his strength. Take and suck and slurp until nothing was left. Then in the end, after the land stripped away a man’s muscle and mind and endurance, it took his heart.

  It had stolen his father’s. In this very field. One moment the man had been plowing while Michel built up the dam, and the next moment Père fell to the ground behind the plow, his hands clutching his heart, his face a deathly gray. Michel had rushed to his side, just in time to promise Père he would take care of his mother and the farm.

  His throat burned with the memory. How much of Père’s death was his fault? He’d been the one to leave the family and go off to Paris with dreams of making furniture. After a year of being denied an apprenticeship by every prominent furniture-maker in Paris, he’d returned home, his savings depleted, his dreams crushed, to find his father nearly dead from taking on the extra work.

  He wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. Pursuing his dream cost Père’s life. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  The wood might call to him and make him long to be in the shop, letting his hands run over silken lumber, carving that last strip on the dresser, joining the tabletop.

  But God had given him this land. And like Père, he would take care of it until it killed him.

  He should have been the second-born son. God and Père both would have been better off giving the land to his brother. Farming flowed through Jean Paul’s blood the way woodworking did through his. Jean Paul could get a field to sprout just by looking at it, or so it seemed. The man never scowled when planting time rolled around and wore a grin on his face throughout the long, toilsome days of harvest.

  Michel looked out over the fields. Where was his brother? Jean Paul should have returned by now. Mère and the rest of the town thought Jean Paul had been living in Paris these past six years, making furniture for the wealthy. But it wasn’t true. The master craftsmen furniture-makers wouldn’t let anyone new into their ranks. So when someone asked about his brother, Michel smiled and said Jean Paul was doing well. He wasn’t lying so much as he didn’t have anything different to tell people. In his letters, Jean Paul appeared to be doing well.

  Grunting, Michel lifted another sandbag off his shoulders and swung it into place. It burst, spraying loose sand and dirt over his wall.

  He kicked the barrier. The force reverberated up his leg, and sand spurted from another sack. Just what he deserved for giving in to his anger, but he didn’t much care. He’d a right to get worked up over the field, didn’t he? All it did was drain the life from him.

  He snatched the ripped bag and trudged back to the wagon. The mud sucked at his boots, making each step a deliberate battle.

  The earth smelled of moist dirt after yesterday’s rain. A scent he appreciated—when he hadn’t spent three hours traipsing around in search of a pig during the downpour, only to return without her. He glared across the stream to his neighbor’s land. The greedy man must have found the beast.

  At least the girl had been asleep when he returned last night, so he hadn’t needed to deal with her.

  At the thump of approaching horse hoofs, he turned toward the rise at the edge of the field. Two horses crested the little hill. The mayor undeniably sat atop the first steed, for no one in town carried as wide a girth as Mayor Victor Narcise. On a mule about half the size of Narcise’s horse sat Father Albert. A burning sensation of guilt crept across Michel’s chest at the sight of the wiry, sunken former priest. Ordinarily, he’d welcome a visit from the mayor, one of Père’s closest friends, and the father, his former schoolteacher. But the girl changed things.

  Not just things, everything.

  The mayor, sitting atop his magnificent mount and wheezing heavily from the exertion of reining in the beast, reached Michel several paces ahead of Father Albert. “Your mère said that your père was down here.”

  They talked with Mère? Michel stilled, the hair on the back of his neck rising. What if she’d mentioned the girl?

  “But since your père’s dead, I assumed she meant you’d be the one working the field.”

  No talk of the girl. Michel blew out a shaky breath.

  The mayor smoothed a gloved hand over the thinning gray hair that stuck out from beneath his hat. “I thought your mère knew—”

  “She does. Some days.” Michel shifted his weight. He need not discuss Mère’s condition with the mayor. Half the town already thought she belonged in a lunatic hospital. “When she woke this morn, she remembered Mon Père was dead.”

  Narcise hitched a thumb in the waistband of his breeches and watched him. Beside Narcise, Father Albert nodded, his eyes brimming with compassion. The same compassion he would no doubt have for the girl, despite her sharp tongue. Michel glanced nervously in the direction of the house. He worried not what Father Albert would do if the girl were discovered, but Narcise’s reaction would be a different matter.

  Michel rubbed the back of his neck. Surely Father Albert had helped aristocrats escape France. Though the good father had lost everything—his church, his rectory, his income—when the Convention declared an end to Christianity last fall, he still went about the countryside helping widows and orphans, much like he’d always done. Oui, with Father Albert, Michel need not question whether he’d helped aristocrats, but how many.

  Father Albert clutched his bony hands atop his lap. “’Tis a good thing you’re doing by looking after your mother, Michel. The Lord shall reward you.”

  Michel couldn’t meet the father’s eyes. He’d probably canceled any reward for helping Mère after how he’d treated the girl. Father Albert should have been the one to find her. He wouldn’t forget to offer food or water, nor demand she say thank-you.

  “Sometimes the Lord gives special opportunities to serve Him,” Father Albert continued. “Do not consider it a burden, son, but a chance to show God’s love.”

  The blood left Michel’s face and pooled in his toes. Mère. Father Albert was talking about Mère. He couldn’t know about the girl.

 
“Well, Michel.” Narcise shifted, the saddle creaking under his weight. “We wanted to let you know Joseph Le Bon’s said to be coming this way.”

  Michel wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The représentative en mission from the Convention. Great. He’d attended federalists meetings for more than a year now, and rather than sell his grain at the low price Paris demanded, he’d hid last year’s wheat in a lean-to in the woods. Now he could be guillotined for both—not to mention harboring an aristocrat. “When?”

  “Don’t know.” Narcise puffed his chest. “Citoyen Le Bon’s supposedly had a few gangs of soldiers roaming this part of Picardy for a couple weeks, collecting accusations and ferreting out federalists and royalists.”

  Was that what happened to the girl? Had soldiers, rather than a gang of robbers, found her? He should’ve asked. “Not to mention the grain hoarders.”

  “Half the village didn’t sell their grain last year,” Father Albert said mildly, but then, it wasn’t Father Albert’s life in question. “No one could afford to with the price controls.”

  Michel took a step closer, his eyes steady on Narcise’s. “The federalist meetings. Are the others…have they… Do we have an understanding?”

  “No one who attended can afford to talk. That’s why we’re making these rounds. And I’ve not heard accusations from outsiders.”

  “Doesn’t mean accusers won’t come once Le Bon rolls his guillotine into town.”

  “Burn your wheat, Michel,” Narcise directed.

  “Burn it! I’d’ve been better off selling it last fall.”

  “Is one harvest worth your life? I can’t protect you if they search your property and find grain.”

  “You can’t protect me, anyway,” Michel muttered.

  “I aim to keep things under control. I won’t stand for foolish accusations. I’m still mayor here, and we’ll not have any Terror in these parts.”

  “Le Bon’s from the Convention. You go blathering about how you have authority as mayor, and yours’ll be the first head to roll.”

  “I won’t watch my friends die for something they haven’t done.”

  “That’s the problem, Narcise. As far as the radicals are concerned, everyone in Abbeville’s done something.” Michel blew out a breath, wiped his sweaty hands on his thighs and resigned himself to what was coming. “I’m here if you need a hand.”

  “We just wanted to warn you, son.” Father Albert raised his brow, concern etched across his face. “We can’t stop the Terror from coming.”

  Michel slid his eyes shut and pictured Isabelle lying in the woods. “Something tells me the Terror’s already come.”

  * * *

  “Look at this one,” Jeanette exclaimed. Yet another child’s shirt—or what Isabelle thought was a child’s shirt—hung proudly between Jeanette’s hands. The garment sported three prominent patches, none of which matched either one another or the color of the shirt.

  Isabelle settled back into the pillows of the bed and twisted a lock of hair. The smile plastered on her face turned genuine under the older woman’s enthusiasm. “You mended that one, too?”

  Jeanette had been showing off the clothes she mended for the children’s orphanage since she walked inside a quarter hour ago.

  “Fixed the shirt all up, I did. Those orphans need good shirts.” Jeanette raised her chin and puffed out her chest despite her short, frail body.

  How different Jeanette appeared from her own mother’s tall, regal build.

  Jeanette absently patted the side of her hair, which was done up in a sloppy knot of sorts. A few strands of graying brown came loose, as though she’d napped and not set her hair to rights.

  Mère never had a hair out of place but her maid rushed to fix it. Mère never sewed an old garment but embroidered only the most delicate of handkerchiefs. And yet, the lines around Jeanette’s and Mère’s faces when they smiled at her, the concern in their eyes when they suspected something wrong, the gentle touch of their hands against her brow when they checked for fever, couldn’t be more similar.

  “Michel and Father Albert love my donations. Figure it’s the best way for me to give back to the Good Lord. Why, He’s given me so much, I can’t help but return His goodness.”

  Given Jeanette so much. Isabelle couldn’t help the longing for her mother, or the despair that flickered to life in her belly. From talking to Jeanette, Isabelle knew Michel owned enough land to make a decent living. They had a separate stable for their animals and thus no need to share their living quarters with the smelly beasts as so many farmers did. And they owned beautiful furniture, though she wondered how they obtained it.

  A decade ago, she never would have called this small cottage and the surrounding farmland a blessing from God. Now these simple peasants possessed more than she did. She should have been grateful all those years ago, for the château and servants, the opulent food and dress, and her family. She lived in luxury while Michel and Jeanette and others like them struggled to get by. And now Jeanette’s Good Lord had reversed the situation. He’d stripped away all she held dear and still wouldn’t answer her prayers. She’d prayed the night she’d been attacked, and the soldiers still caught her and beat her and left her for dead.

  But they hadn’t killed her.

  Could that have been an answer to her prayer?

  Bien sûr que non. What kind of a God let His child suffer all manner of humiliation and deprivation and torture before finally sparing her life? Michel’s finding her had been luck more than God. She could surely get to Saint-Valery-sur-Somme without more help from heaven.

  “And my Michel’s so kind,” Jeanette prattled on, still chattering about her sewing for the orphans. “He won’t even let me mend his clothes. After they wear through, he says he’d rather I cut them up to make clothing for orphans.”

  Isabelle couldn’t help but arch her brow and smile. No sane person could desire to go out in public wearing garments “mended” in such manner. “How charitable.”

  “One of his shirts will make two or three for the orphans, he’s so large.”

  Yes. He was large, indeed. She shoved the image of his powerful body from the night before out of her head before it could take root.

  Jeanette fiddled with the shirt she held. “Fixing up clothes for the orphans started as a little hobby, it did, while my Charles was still alive. Now that he’s gone, it’s all I…” Jeanette’s shoulders shuddered. “That is…it makes me feel useful, I suppose.”

  Isabelle’s heart caught. Surely this gentle creature didn’t doubt she was helpful. “Oh, Jeanette, you are most invaluable. I’m sure your work is important to the children, and I know how much your benevolence has meant to me.” Uncomfortable, she looked down and fidgeted with the handkerchief she’d been embroidering. “The orphans, you know, they’ve nothing at all. At least I have your kindness, and…”

  What had she besides Jeanette’s kindness? Certainly not Michel’s favor. Or her passage money to England.

  Moisture welled in her eyes. Certainly not her parents and brother. Certainly not the God whom she had spent her childhood worshiping, the God who allowed her family to be killed by a mob of peasants. And certainly not Marie, whom she had killed. Isabelle closed her eyes against the onslaught of guilt, but she couldn’t stop her hand from trembling or a tear from cresting.

  At least she was alive. Why had God thought to spare her life, but not Marie’s? Not her family’s?

  Jeanette moved to sit on the bedside, took Isabelle’s hand and patted it. “There, there. We’ll take care of you, we will. You needn’t cry.”

  The chamber door opened, snapping Isabelle out of her memories. Before she finished wiping away her tears, Michel entered. When she was crying, of all times. He stood by the door, his green eyes seeming to absorb everything abo
ut her and his mother. Isabelle tugged her hand away from Jeanette’s soothing pats, cleared the moisture in her eyes with two blinks and raised her chin.

  The room that had moments ago been comforting filled with an undeniably masculine presence. Michel’s muscles bunched beneath his shirt as he removed his wide-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead.

  “Ma Mère, I need to speak with the girl. Alone.”

  The girl. Did he not care to learn her name? She’d learned his through Jeanette last night. And what could he need to speak with her about in private? Her throat felt dry yet again; she reached for her water cup and found it empty.

  Jeanette laid a hand on Isabelle’s shoulder and turned to Michel as she rose. “Be kind to the poor dear, Michel. Oh, and that crate can be sent to the orphans. I finished the last shirt this morn.”

  He took his mother’s hand and led her to the doorway with gentle, caring motions. The thump of the door closing echoed in the room. He stepped toward the dresser, opened the top drawer, retrieved something and approached her.

  Pretending he hadn’t stopped beside her, she stared at the beams in the roof, then jolted when his rough hand enveloped hers.

  “This is yours. I should have thought to give it back yesterday.” He wedged a small pouch of coins into her palm.

  Isabelle gaped at the money before meeting his eyes. “I…”

  “This, too, belongs to you.”

  She recognized it the moment the cool weight pressed against the center of her hand. “My pendant…I thought…the others, that is, I thought they…”

  “You were wearing it when I found you, but it was bothersome while Ma Mère tended your wounds.”

  Her head fell back against the pillow and she clutched the pendant and money to her chest. England. Marie. She could go. One of the La Rouchecaulds would escape this dreadful Révolution.

  If she ever got out of this infernal bed.

  Michel cleared his throat. “I have your citizenship papers, as well. They’re in the dresser when you need them.”