He cut toward the inside of the chicken—maybe that wouldn’t be so salty—then ate another forkful.
Mère reached for his hand. “Wonderful. You can take Isabelle, then.”
The only palatable piece of meat he’d eaten turned dry on his tongue. Isabelle sat, chin raised, lips stiff as she watched Mère with flat eyes. She hadn’t said a word to him since their argument an hour earlier. Michel scowled. Try warning a woman she flirted with danger by boarding a ship alone, and she got her hackles up.
“Ma Mère, I’m not taking Isabelle.”
Mère looked perplexed. “Why, you must. You’d never be able to pick out good fabric for a dress on your own.”
“A dress?”
Isabelle set down her fork. “Really, Jeanette, I don’t need—”
“Nonsense! Aren’t you headed to England, dear?”
“I, um…” Isabelle sent him a pleading look.
He wanted to close his eyes and disappear. Of all the things for Mère to hone in on, why did it have to be Isabelle’s journey to England? If Mère said something to the wrong person, they could all be standing before a military tribunal. “She has family in London, Ma Mère, but the trip’s a bit of a surprise for her aunt. So it’s best not to mention anything, if one of the townsfolk asks.”
“The poor thing needs a dress. No. Two dresses. That dress by the fire is ruined. Just look at it.”
Michel looked at the ragged dress, then at Isabelle. Her dark hair curled gently against her creamy skin. Her delicate hand clutched her fork until her knuckles whitened. Her eyes remained downcast, but their color and shape had long ago engraved themselves in his mind. And her lips were redder than any woman’s had a right to be. If only he didn’t know how soft they would feel pressed against his. He swallowed and forced himself to focus on her clothes rather than her face.
It didn’t take long to see that his mother was right. Heaven knew the woman needed to wear something other than that confounded nightdress of his mother’s. He’d tolerated it while she stayed abed, but she was moving about the house too much to ignore the thin white material now.
“And what better time to make up some clothes than while it’s raining,” Mère prattled on.
He nearly sighed. How Mère could think of sewing after spending an entire night fighting with burlap eluded him. But Isabelle did need some dresses. And a cloak. Michel rubbed the back of his neck. The cloak she’d worn last night was threadbare and torn more places than he cared to count. And her boots could be replaced, as well.
Heaven save him, he was just as bad as Mère.
* * *
“At least the rain has finally slowed.” Isabelle sat beside Michel in the wagon, her back straight as a fence post. She didn’t look at him but stared at the passing farm, where two dogs stood in the yard barking. Rain had darkened and soaked the thatched roof of the house, but smoke billowed from the chimney, and light shone from around the window coverings and beneath the door.
“Oui…” Michel grinned at her stiffly proper voice, so different from her fiery voice when she argued or her determined voice when she spoke of England. His grin faded and a nerve pulsed in his stomach. Mayhap he knew her voices a little too well.
Space. He was staying away from her.
He kept his eyes on the road. Rain had turned the soaked, rolling fields nearly black. Tufts of thick grass, matted down over the winter months, lined the roadside, and no animals, save the farm dogs, ventured into the drizzle. Ahead of them, the Van Robais Royal Manufacturer, which marked the start of town, loomed dark and large, its red stone face glowering at passersby. The textile factory employed nearly half of Abbeville. Fabric from the factory could be purchased in Abbeville at a pittance of the price people paid in Paris and beyond. “What color fabric do you want for your dresses?”
“I need not fabric. Your mother simply couldn’t be persuaded otherwise.”
Michel eyed her half-dry, mud-caked dress and cloak. “I’ll pay for the material.” It was the least he could do considering her arm and all.
She inhaled sharply. “Thank you, no.”
He nearly rolled his eyes. “How much money do you have?”
“You should know, since you stole it!”
Her angry voice made him want to grin. He poked his tongue in his cheek instead. “Barely enough to get yourself to England, then. I’ll buy the fabric.”
“You don’t think I’ll reach England, remember?” The bitter words rained like daggers from her tongue.
If the woman didn’t change moods faster than winds in a gale. “Oh, you’ll get there. Just not until your arm’s healed and you have some plan other than waltzing alone onto a ship full of scoundrels.”
“You’ve no right to prevent me.”
“Aye.” Michel pulled Sylvie to a stop in front of the mayor’s office. “I’ll go check the dam and then speak with Narcise. You wait inside.”
He walked around the wagon and fitted his hands around her waist to help her down. Her muscles tightened at his touch. He should have been amused, but his own stomach clutched in response.
Confound it all. He should just swing her into his arms and kiss—
Non! Distance. He was keeping his distance. What was wrong with him? She was leaving and he was having nothing to do with her. He lifted her from the wagon and set her in the mud, then led her to the little chamber outside Narcise’s office.
“Bonjour, citizen.” Michel nodded to Samuel, the wiry clerk at the small pine desk.
“Bonjour.” Samuel didn’t look up as he dipped his pen and scrawled something across the bottom of the paper he studied.
The mayor’s door hung open, but the constable stood just inside, with the two men speaking in hushed tones.
“Sit here.” Michel pointed Isabelle toward a chair, then turned to Samuel. “Is the work finished on the dam?”
Samuel looked up and wiped his cheek, spreading a glob of ink across his cheekbone to match the one on his forehead. “Oui.”
“Any water leaking through?”
Samuel shrugged.
“I’ll go check it and speak with Narcise when I return.” The dam probably didn’t need checking. The townsfolk had done fine work once he’d gotten things organized and started. But part of him had to see the finished wall.
“Very well, then.” The clerk’s eyes narrowed at Isabelle, sitting rigidly in the corner. “What am I to do with the urchin?”
Isabelle huffed. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I am not a child.”
“Small enough to be one,” Samuel muttered.
“Just keep her out of trouble.” Michel tried not to smile.
Samuel scowled. “You take her. She’s filthy.”
“Then have her sweep,” Michel called as he headed out the door. He could well imagine the battle that would follow if Samuel attempted that.
He opted to walk rather than take the wagon. The mud sucked at his boots, but he covered the ground with long strides. A few people milled about in the light rain. After being cooped inside for four days, what was a little mud and drizzle? The front door of the bakery was open, the smell of bread and sugar mingling with the scent of rain. A colorful sign marked the entrance to the candle-maker’s shop, and it looked as though the butcher’s storefront was open, as well.
He turned the corner and stopped. Even from a distance, the barrier he’d designed stood massive before him. Pride surged through his blood. If only he could capture the moment, savor the feeling in some way so it could never grow dim or be forgotten. If only he could show Père…
Who knew all those years damming the lower field would result in the giant structure before him? A structure the whole town had built. A structure the whole town would benefit from.
His heart almos
t exploded with fullness as he neared the dam that ran nearly a kilometer. He stood on his toes to see over the wall, then planted his hands atop the wall and heaved himself up for a better look.
Pride drained from him like water from a tipped bowl.
Dirty, rippled water filled his view. He hardly recognized the landscape, could barely tell where the Somme River normally ran with so many landmarks immersed under its swollen waters.
He glanced down at the base of the wall. Only ankle-deep water there. His eyes ran the length of the wall to where the dam tapered off and the ground rose. The dam would hold—for a time. But men could only do so much to fight nature.
Please, Lord, stop the rain.
Shoulders slumped, he sauntered back to the mayor’s office, praying for the town. As he approached, a dirty woman with lush black hair flew out the front door. He might be too far away to see her face, but he’d recognize that hair anywhere.
“Isabelle?” he called, but she disappeared around the building.
A wave of fear crested inside him, and he quickened his pace. Maybe he shouldn’t have left her with Samuel. If that skinny little clerk had been cruel…
He slammed the door open and strode toward the mayor’s office. Narcise stood in the outer chamber, staring absently.
“What happened to Isabelle?” Michel drew an angry breath.
“I, well…I don’t rightly know.” As though he had the better part of an hour to answer, Narcise, wheezing heavily, hitched a thumb in the waistband of his breeches and tugged them up over his bulging stomach. “When she learned of the prisoners, she went pale as a ghost. Looked ready to swoon.”
Prisoners? The breath whooshed out of his lungs. “What prisoners?”
“Then she hurried out of here like a pack of hounds chased her.”
Michel fisted his hands. Some days dragging a stubborn mule up a hill was easier than getting information out of Narcise. “What prisoners?”
“Why Alexandre de Bonnet, the Comte de Montpensier, and his family. We caught them this morning, trying to ford the river in a raft, if you believe it.” Narcise waddled over to a chair barely wide enough to hold his girth and eased himself down as though standing a moment longer would suck all energy from him. “We found the comte just after you took your mother home this morning, my boy. Nearly called you back for it.”
Michel’s heart thudded against his rib cage. “The former comte.”
“What did you say, boy?”
“De Bonnet’s not a comte anymore… .” And now he was championing the aristocracy to the mayor? Had Isabelle changed his opinion of gentry that much?
Narcise furrowed his brow. “What has the comte’s status to do with anything?”
He needed to get out of here and find Isabelle. Michel took three backward steps toward the door. “Nothing. Where are they?”
Narcise frowned. “Who? Isabelle? I told you—”
“The prisoners!” Michel ground his teeth together to keep from screaming.
“Oh, yes, well, we caught them over by—”
Michel strode over to Narcise, but stopped himself from leaning into the mayor’s face. “I care not where you caught them. Where are they now?”
Narcise pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Well, good heavens, boy.”
A tic worked in his jaw. He drew in a breath and stepped back.
“They’ll not be here long. I’m sending word to Paris. A family that prominent will go to the capital for trial.”
“Where…are…you…holding…them?” Michel spoke the words so slowly and clearly he nearly choked on them.
“Oh, well, the constable has them in the jail.” Narcise’s brow wrinkled. “Where else?”
Michel turned and ran.
Narcise’s voice trailed him out the door and into the rain. “You don’t think Isabelle went…”
The jail. Of course. He should have headed there straightway. Mud sloshed his boots and trousers as he sprinted through the streets and glanced around buildings for Isabelle. Had she known the Comte de Montpensier and his family? And what did Isabelle plan to do when she reached the jail? The question made his heart beat erratically.
Taking a shortcut, he flew through an alley toward the old stone jail. Emerging onto the jail’s street between two shops, he spotted Isabelle not ten meters ahead. Heedless of the light rain, she rushed away from him and toward the stone structure.
Trying to appear calm, Michel stepped around a mother with two small children. Coming up behind Isabelle, he took her by both shoulders and turned her toward him. “What are you doing? Didn’t I tell you to stay with the mayor?” He whispered the words, then stopped as he noticed her wild eyes and uneven breathing.
She pulled back.
He tightened his grip.
“I have to go! I have to see them. The soldiers have them!”
At her frantic words, Michel could almost feel silence descend over the street. How daft of him. The townsfolk were already far too interested in Isabelle, and here he confronted her in the middle of town. He glanced around, and as he suspected, all eyes were riveted to them—including Bertrand’s. His nosy neighbor stood in the doorway of the butcher’s shop. Michel couldn’t afford to rouse suspicions, least of all Bertrand’s.
He steered Isabelle around the side of the butcher’s shop.
“Where are you taking me? I have to go!” She nearly shrieked the words.
“Quiet.” He shook her shoulders harder than intended. “Take a breath.”
She clawed at his hands. “Take a breath? Take a breath! I don’t want a breath. I want—”
“Isabelle!” The panic in her voice made him want to gather her close and hold her. Instead, he clenched his jaw and dragged her to the alley behind the building. Pushing her back against the wall, he clamped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes went wide and half-crazed with fear. He placed his forearm across her shoulders, pinning her to the building. Her feet kicked, and her hands scratched, first at the stone behind her, then at his arm.
Michel fastened his eyes to hers and struggled to calm his own breathing. “Settle down, Isabelle. Listen to me.”
She shook her head, her distraught hands still searching for a means of escape.
“You’re going to hurt your arm.”
Her eyes darkened and a low grunt escaped her mouth. Then her foot connected with his shin, and a spark of pain flew up his leg.
He pressed her harder against the wall. “Stop fighting me. I’m stronger than you, and you’ll only hurt yourself.”
Her hands slowed, and her struggling weakened.
“Good, that’s it. Just calm down. I won’t bring you any harm. I promise. Nod your head if you believe me.”
She nodded. But he kept her mouth covered.
“All right. Now take a breath.”
She obeyed.
“We’re in the middle of town. You can’t make a scene.” He glanced around the deserted alley, half-thankful for the heavy rains and flood that kept so many indoors. “If I take my hand away, can you tell me why you left the mayor’s office?
She swallowed and nodded again. Still holding her against the wall, he slowly moved his hand. Red splotches lay stark against her creamy skin from the cruel pressure of his fingers. He inwardly winced, but he’d had no choice.
“The de Bonnets. They shouldn’t be here. They were to escape to Austria years ago. What are they doing in Picardy? And now the soldiers have Meryl…and Angelique. Dear me! And they probably have Noel and Dominique and Jules. And—”
“This is Abbeville, Isabelle. There are no soldiers yet. Just the constable and townsfolk.” And he’d have been one of the townsfolk that captured her friends, had he not left the church early. His stomac
h churned. “How do you know them?” He was almost afraid to hear her answer.
Her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Oh, goodness! I used to play with Meryl when they came to Versailles. We were the same age. And Jules, he’s not more than a babe. How could they take a babe?”
“The babe would be five or six now,” he said gently.
She looked at him through sad, haunted eyes and clutched his arm until her nails dug through his shirt to his skin.
He swallowed the thickness in his throat.
“You have to let me go. I must save them.”
“No, Isabelle.” The words felt like crushed gravel as they moved over his tongue. “I can’t let you do that.”
“But I have to!” She tried to shove his arm away. He only leaned more weight against her.
“Don’t you understand? I let the soldiers take Marie.” The name caught on a sob and tears slid down her face. “I can’t let them take Meryl. I won’t!”
She flailed hysterically against his hold.
Tearing his chest open and laying his heart on the ground couldn’t be more painful than manhandling her as she struggled. His heart broke for her as she wept, but he had to prevent her from helping her friends. “You can’t save them. You’ll only expose yourself.”
“It matters not. I have to try.”
“Non.”
“I won’t do it anymore! I can’t. What’s the point in hiding any longer?” She stopped writhing and slumped forward as weeping overcame her. “I’ll never reach England, anyway.”
The blood froze in his veins. She couldn’t give up.
“Isabelle, look at me. Look at me.” He cupped her face and raised it, but tears blinded her eyes. “You’ll not stop now, you’ve come too far. You’re too strong a girl. Anyone who can hide from soldiers and travel from…from…wherever you came from on her own can surely journey twenty kilometers to the sea. Now stop your foolishness.”
“From Arras,” she said bleakly. “I came from Arras. But you don’t know what happened there.”
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