Before Michel could object, Father Albert walked to a sparsely filled shelf, pulled off a tiny, nearly empty sack and dug into it. Tea was a rare commodity for the man these days. The father wouldn’t even have a place to live had he not purchased a couple acres of woods several years ago and stored food for the needy in the dilapidated cottage. Now the man used a storage shed for his home. “I don’t need tea, Father. Merci.”
But Father Albert moved to the hearth, the drink half prepared. Michel bit off an oath as the man fumbled about the fire. He’d not come to take of the father’s meager food-and-drink supply. The man probably had tea only because someone had given it to him, either in trade for the odd jobs he did around town or as a gift.
While Father Albert finished, Michel eyed the empty shelves along the wall, shelves that five years ago would have been filled with grain and dried meat for the needy. He’d bring the father a sack of wheat—may as well bring the man several sacks, since he needed to burn the rest.
Father Albert turned from the fire, sent Michel a scowl and headed to the table. “I told you to sit. Now, what’s this about a girl?”
Michel lowered his large frame into a crooked chair and eyed the wobbly table. He should probably give Father Albert the dining set he was making, as well.
“You must speak, son. Or I cannot advise you.”
Michel eyed the old man, his sunken eyes and crinkled skin, his baggy clothes and slender frame, then Michel poured out his story of finding Isabelle.
The tension stayed in his shoulders, but some of the anger slid away as he spoke. “So, you see I cannot keep the girl. She’s a burden I can no longer bear.” He raked his hand through his hair as he finished.
Father Albert got the tea and poured it into one chipped mug and then a mug without a handle. “She was a burden two weeks ago when you found her, yet you took and nursed her.”
“The girl slept for those two weeks. Now she’s awake and doesn’t listen to a word I say. She watches me with her dark eyes as though she thinks I’ll beat her, yet she speaks with the tongue of a hoyden and—”
Father Albert held up his hand, stopping Michel. “Tell me, does this young woman go by the name ‘girl’?”
“No…I… Her name’s Isabelle.”
“Ah, and you call her ‘girl’? Or ‘Isabelle’?”
Michel rubbed the back of his neck, then slapped his hand down on the table so hard the tea sloshed. “What has her name to do with anything?”
“Your interactions with Isabelle might go smoother if you call her by name.”
“She disobeys me. Disobeys me, mind you! After all I’ve done for her.”
Father Albert raised his eyebrows. “I’m certain you’re the picture of long-suffering and patience with her.”
Michel narrowed his eyes.
“She has reason to be afraid, even bitter, Michel. If she’s an aristocrat, she’s been hiding somewhere since the Révolution started. If she’s alone, her immediate family is probably dead.”
Michel didn’t want to think of Isabelle delirious, writhing in her bed and calling for her deceased family.
“To be only a day’s walk from the Channel when she’s discovered and beaten…she must be a strong one to endure so much.” Father Albert leaned forward and touched Michel’s hand.
Oh, she was strong. Strong enough to claw through a man’s pride and defy a stranger’s kindness.
What would the father say if he mentioned the porcelain finish on her skin? Or the smooth line of her neck when she raised that regal chin of hers. The way her lips sometimes trembled when she tried to be brave. Or the awareness in her eyes when he’d brushed hair out of her face and nearly kissed her that morning.
He frowned. What had he been thinking trying to kiss an aristocrat? He hadn’t. That was his problem. He could hardly put two thoughts together with all that lush hair only a hand span from his fingers and those full, soft lips—
“Where did you go on me, Michel?”
Michel jumped, his senses returning to the cramped little room. “Ah, it matters not what the girl’s afraid of or what she’s endured. She’s a burden, a cross the Lord has given me that I shall not keep. Ma Mère and I could be killed for it.”
“Perhaps.”
“How can you be so calm?” Michel snapped the words and pushed back from the table. “Tell me that you haven’t aided others like Isabelle. The Terror is coming to Abbeville. You could be killed as easily as Ma Mère and I. The représentative en mission doesn’t need proof to have a person guillotined, just an accusation made before a wild crowd is enough. ”
“Here…” Father Albert rose, shuffled three paces from the table to a tiny writing desk and sorted through a stack of papers. When he found what he looked for, he headed back to the table. “You’ve not heard the news, then. I’ve received word from Nantes. The Terror there has decided the guillotine too inefficient a process of execution.”
The guillotine inefficient? Michel’s stomach churned. He nearly covered his ears like a child to block the coming words.
“They’ve taken to mass drownings. Putting a barge into the river and forcing people to jump. Father Antoine estimates over three thousand innocent souls have…” Father Albert’s eyes filled. He pressed a hand to his chest and blinked the tears away. “Sorry, my son. I seem to tremble every time I read the words.”
Michel stood and walked around the table, then laid his hands on Father Albert’s shoulders. Three thousand people, regardless of gender or occupation. “God will judge the officials in Nantes.”
Father Albert patted Michel’s hand. “Yes, He will, Michel, as He will judge all of us by our actions in these troubled times. You see, I could be killed. You could be killed. The soldiers could gather everyone in Abbeville and force us into the Somme River. But that doesn’t change your situation. God has given you responsibilities, and until the Lord takes them from you, they are yours to accept.”
“Oui, but surely the Lord understands—”
“Tell me, when Christ healed, did He believe those who left Him cured and whole had been a burden? Did the Lord turn away anyone, saying He’d rather not bother with healings that day? What if the centurion’s request for his child’s healing had been met with the Lord turning away?”
Michel turned away and paced before the fire. The child would have died, and so would countless others. Just as Isabelle would have died had he not nursed her.
“Isabelle is not your cross, not your burden, but your opportunity to serve Christ. You alone must decide if you will face your responsibility or turn away. She is your privilege, Michel, not mine.” Father Albert waited until Michel met his eyes, eyes full of compassion and understanding for an aristocratic girl he’d never met. “If the Good Lord allows you to face the guillotine, your death won’t be because you cared for His own, but because God wanted you home.”
Michel stilled. He knew this. So why did hearing the words from the holy man make his blood run cold? He could be killed for reasons besides Isabelle, like his grain hoarding or federalist beliefs. He’d always intended to care for the girl until she was well enough to leave. He rubbed his hands over his face, held his palms against his temples. Why had he been so mad? What prodded him to leave his work on the farm and storm here? “But she broke Corinne’s wash pitcher and basin. Because she wouldn’t listen. They cost nearly a year’s salary…and Corinne loved them.”
Pain seared his heart at the memory of Jean Paul’s wife, and he spoke too softly. “We could have sold them for medicine, to pay a doctor when she was ill. She wouldn’t let us. Had we bartered the pieces, anyway, she might have lived.”
“The decision was never yours. Think you to go through life making everyone’s choices for them? Carrying everyone else’s burdens?” Father Albert took a slow sip of tea and eyed
Michel’s shoulders and torso. “You’re young and strong, but not that strong. Don’t allow the deaths of your father and Corinne to haunt you. Rest them at Christ’s feet, instead. They went because the Good Lord called them home, not because you or Jean Paul or your mother failed them.”
The man didn’t understand. Père was his fault, and would always be his fault. He had abandoned the farm to pursue an errant dream, and Père worked himself to an early grave by caring for the land. Michel sat back at the table. Never again would he leave the farm, not even if the most noted furniture-maker in Paris offered to train him.
“’Tis more that bothers you.” Father Albert studied him from across the table.
Michel rolled his shoulders. “Only the girl.”
“How old are you, my boy? Seven and twenty? Eight and twenty?”
“Seven and twenty,” Michel replied.
“What is it you want? When you grow old as I, and you get to the end of your life, what memories do you wish to look back on? What do you want to have accomplished?”
A bug of irritation crawled between Michel’s shoulder blades. “I want to farm. Acquire more land, add to my family’s legacy like my father did, and his father before that.”
“You speak falsely. I’ve seen your hand with wood.” The man spoke with such earnestness and certainty that Michel steamed.
“I don’t want to build furniture.” The lie scorched his tongue. “’Tis nothing but a hobby.”
“Do you see yourself happy if you stay on the farm?”
“God gave me the farm, much as He gave me the girl. How can you say I have responsibility to the girl and tell me to leave the farm?”
“I’m not telling you to leave, Michel. But you must think, examine. You question your need to help the girl, but don’t question why you tie yourself to a piece of land you hate. You’re wasting your life.”
Michel clenched his teeth. He wasn’t leaving. He’d promised Père.
“Many men spend their lives farming and find fulfillment therein. Your father was one of them.” Father Albert cocked his head. “Your brother is one of them. But not you. That farm will kill you if you let it.”
“Aye. The farm already killed Mon Père. Why not me, as well?”
Father Albert leaned over the table, grasping Michel’s hand. “God has placed great talent for woodworking in these hands, my son. That in itself is a responsibility you cannot ignore forever.”
Michel tugged his hand away. A responsibility to the farm, to Mère, to the girl. He couldn’t handle another responsibility. Not even if that responsibility consumed his dreams.
* * *
A speck of orange spread against the black night, growing, consuming, devouring. Michel watched the flames lick higher and higher, stealing their way up the wooden structure of the lean-to and inside.
To his wheat.
He should cry or rage or drink at the futility of his labor, as most men would. Instead, Father Albert’s comment lingered in his head. The farm will kill you if you let it.
Indeed, his soul was already half-dead. Not because of the wheat, the girl, the farm or even Père. No. His soul started dying seven years ago, when the first furniture-maker in Paris slammed his shop door in Michel’s face.
He turned his back to the angry flames, now nearly finished devouring a year of his labor. He could be mad. He should be mad. But why rage over a year if his life, when the rest of it mattered so little?
Chapter Eight
Isabelle paced the small area of the bedchamber and glowered at the bed. She’d been trapped on that lumpy tick ten days since waking from her fever. Ten! If ever she escaped from this confinement, she’d be happy to never sleep in a bed again.
She’d embroidered hankies until Jeanette had run out of fabric and thread. She’d counted the beams on the ceiling and stared at the cornucopias carved into the headboard of her bed frame until the image etched itself permanently in her mind. Then she’d named the fruits spilling out and counted the number of grapes. Twice. Three hundred and twenty-six, both times.
Whenever both Michel and Jeanette were out of doors, she walked the small rooms like a caged cat. She’d read through Charles Perrault’s The Tales of Mother Goose three times. But how often could one read of Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella or Little Red Riding Hood before dying of tedium?
Isabelle huffed and shoved both hands into her hair, fisting the roots. This was pure foolishness. She should be in Saint-Valery-sur-Somme by now. Would have been had Michel not walked into the house four days ago, just as she’d been slipping into her dress. She’d had a time explaining herself to him and thought to wait another day or two before leaving, but the rains came.
She glared at the window and the shutters covering it. Even now she could hear the torrent of rain and wind beyond, and the gale grew stronger with each passing day.
First her injuries. Now the rain. Did all of France conspire against her?
She pressed a hand to her ribs, still tender but no longer searing with pain. Yes, she was well enough to walk to Saint-Valery. If she could ever get out of this cottage.
She turned and paced again, certain her footsteps would leave a rut in the floor. But anything was better than lying in that bed with nothing but dark thoughts to keep her company. She’d done everything she could to keep back the memories of her sister, but the images still crept in, winding and twisting their way through her thoughts, regardless of whether she mended or read or slept.
The door to the front of the house banged shut. Isabelle started, then crossed the room in three steps and dove for her bed. She winced as she landed with too much pressure on her arm but scrambled under the covers and fumbled for The Tales of Mother Goose.
She was still settling into the pillows when the bedchamber door whooshed open and Michel walked in.
Her mouth went dry.
His hair fell in wet strands around his face, and his drenched shirt clung to his chest.
He watched her carefully, as though he knew she’d been out of bed. Had she given herself away? She lifted a hand to her cheek. Was her face flushed? Her breathing too hard? Probably, but those reactions had more to do with the outline of Michel’s chest beneath his shirt than her being out of bed.
Without a word, he walked to the dresser, opened the third drawer and riffled through the contents. His damp hair curled and clung to his neck. Wetness slicked his face and forearms, while muscles played across his back and shoulders with every subtle movement. Heat rushed to her cheeks.
“Have you need of anything?” Michel shut the drawer.
“Pardon?” Isabelle swallowed noisily and shifted on the tick. He’d no way of knowing her thoughts…or so she hoped.
“Mother will be a while yet in the stable. Have you need of anything while she’s out?”
“No…that is, um, well, yes…a glass of water, I suppose.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling well? You seem flushed.” He came toward her.
Was it possible for more heat to surge into her face? He rested a hand on her cheek and his eyes turned soft.
Like they had when he’d nearly kissed her all those days ago.
She jolted. Where had that thought come from?
He moved his hand to her forehead. “You seem a little warm. Mayhap you’re catching another fever in your weakened state.”
He’d all but ignored her for the past week and a half, only speaking to her when necessary since she broke the pitcher and basin. And now he knew about her weakened state? If he’d bothered to ask, he would know that the pain in her ribs had lessened to a dull ache that came and went. And her arm rarely hurt unless she gripped something too hard—or landed on it when she jumped into bed.
“I’m fine,” she snapped, the warmth his touch brought
suddenly gone. “And I can get the water on my own. I’m able to leave this bed.”
“I’ll wager you are,” he muttered. But he took her mug and filled it from the ugly clay pitcher resting atop the dresser where the beautiful porcelain once sat.
“Oh, that’s fine, serve me, anyway.”
“I will. It’s my house.”
“I’m well enough to leave for England. There’s no reason I can’t be about the cottage. As soon as the rain stops, I’ll be gone from here and finding myself a rich, English husband to care for me rather than the likes of you.”
“Is that your plan, Isabelle? To snag a rich Englishman and live an opulent life once again?” His eyes glittered like bright, hard emeralds. “Somehow I thought more of you. I let myself believe a sense of principle lay behind your determination to reach England. And here you only want your life of luxury restored. How daft of me.”
The words stung like a slap across the face. He straightened and strode toward the door, the single conversation they’d shared in more than a week turning to ash.
“Michel, don’t go. I’m sorry…I was just…upset.”
He paused in the doorway.
“I shouldn’t have said it…about the husband.”
“Answer me this. Is a husband the reason you’re going?”
How many times had she wished marriage played no role in her decision? She took a sip of water, though her mouth still felt dry as the dirt on the floor, and met his eyes. “Not the only reason. I’ve money and an aunt there, as well.” And a promise to keep. “But yes, marriage is a part.”
He looked into the main chamber and then swung his gaze back toward her, as though debating whether to stay or leave. Finally he stepped inside and leaned his back against the wall. “That’s not what drives you. Some unnamed husband you might happen to wed isn’t the reason you call for England in your dreams.”
She squirmed under his steady gaze. Did she call for England in her sleep? She dreamed of England some nights, but surely she didn’t voice it. “I told you my family has money there. And perchance you don’t believe I’ve an aunt. But my Tante Cordele awaits me in London. I lie not.”
Sanctuary for a Lady Page 8