Destiny's Kiss

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “Philippe, if—”

  With a tight smile, he put his finger to her lips. “Say nothing, ma petite.” He swore under his breath and shook his head. “The fools! They should know better than to come here in that coach.”

  She nodded, understanding now why he had ordered the coachman to leave them blocks away from the port. She turned her head as she heard the shouts and did not hesitate when Philippe hurried her away. Guilt pinched her. If they did not help these poor men, the pair might be torn apart by the mob gathering on the wharf.

  “Don’t worry,” he murmured, as if he were privy to her thoughts. “From the looks of that coach, they are not of the nobility. The stevedores and the authorities will plague them for a while, then release them.” His jaw worked before he added, “They seek a finer class of blood to sate themselves with.”

  Sweat edged Lirienne’s palm as she locked her fingers around the bag’s handles. That finer class of blood ran through Philippe’s veins, and no one would believe that it did not also flow in hers. With her other hand in Philippe’s, she said nothing as they walked toward the shadows drooping over the warehouses with the ending of the day. She scanned the wharf, although she had no idea what form trouble might take. Beads of perspiration stuck to her back. When her skirts dragged through mud, she did not lift them. It would disturb more of the odors hidden beneath the mire.

  A man ran toward them. She bit her lip to imprison her scream. Philippe’s fingers closed in a vise around hers, and she did not dare to breathe. The man scurried past, intent on whatever errand had brought him here. Slowly she released the breath cramping her chest.

  Philippe squeezed her hand and gave her a crooked grin. He bent toward her, and she guessed he wanted to whisper some instructions to her. She turned her head so her ear might be under his lips. With a nearly silent chuckle, he brought her face up so he could press her lips to his own.

  At their touch, which woke the unquenchable fire, her hand glided up to his shoulder as she stepped closer to his lean body. His moan of yearning sent joy through her.

  He released her, saying, “Be brave, ma petite. We shall defeat these curs.”

  “I hope so.

  “Have faith.”

  She nodded again. She trusted him to save her from the fervor of the rabid revolutionaries, as he already had. What she had seen in Paris was not what she had envisioned when she had heard rumors in the country about the uprising that would bring liberty and equality to all of them. She wondered, as she saw him glance around with an expression of disbelief, if he had had any idea how horrible the situation in Paris would be. How could he? He had been raised to a gentle life of music and flirtations and privilege.

  Looking past the ships, she knew neither of them could guess what might await them when they stepped off the boat in America. In Philadelphia. She never had heard of the city before Philippe told her that was where they were bound, but when he had said the Americans had declared their independence from the English nobility in that city, she had dared to believe she might find her own there.

  “Just stay close and do as I do,” Philippe whispered, tearing her from her hopeful thoughts.

  He tugged her along the wharf. Their footfalls sounded a hollow tattoo on the boards. She almost cried out with relief when she saw a three-masted ship with L’Étoile written on the bow. Their ship! Their route to life and freedom from fear of the guillotine separating their heads from their shoulders.

  “Halt there!” came a shout as they reached the bottom of the board leading up to the deck.

  Lirienne stiffened.

  In her ear, Philippe whispered, “Don’t look so guilty. He’s not talking to us.”

  She looked up onto the deck to see the man who had spoken. He did not wear a uniform, but his officious manner made it clear he was some sort of harbor official. His hand was outstretched to a young woman who was regarding him with horror.

  “But, monsieur,” the young woman lamented, “those are the only papers I have.”

  “You cannot expect that I would allow you to use such royalist papers, do you?” He slapped a slip of paper against his other hand. “Perhaps I should call for the local authorities to speak with you, Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens, if that is your true name.”

  “It is! I am Veronique Saint-Gaudens.” Tears flowed from her eyes.

  Sympathy swelled in Lirienne. The slender woman, who must be close to her age, had no one with her, so Lirienne guessed she was traveling alone. “Philippe—” She turned, but he was gone.

  She smiled when she saw him walking up the plank as if he had no cares. That pose did not deceive her, for she had seen it too often in the past week. He was furious at the rabble’s mistreatment of their betters. That was the exact term he always used. The rabble’s mistreatment of their betters. Even though he risked his life to step forward like this, he would not allow a young woman to be abused by this haughty official. Philippe might see nothing wrong with Madame Fortier tormenting her servants, but, like a knight of old France, he would rush to the aid of a maiden in need of help.

  Climbing the plank in his wake, she fought the bouncing of the board to get to the deck just in time to hear him ask, “Is there a problem, citizen?”

  The official eyed him, then smiled as he noted the low state of their clothes that were stained from their hard journey to the coast. “Nothing that need concern you, citizen.”

  “This young lady—”

  “Citizen,” he growled, “I said this is none of your concern.”

  Before Philippe could speak again and chance infuriating the other man more, Lirienne cried, “Veronique, is that you?” She tried to walk across the swaying deck. Holding on to the railing, she managed it. She hoped her smile looked sincere. “I didn’t know you were sailing with us. When we were coming along the wharf, I said, ‘Philippe, that must be Veronique,’ and he said, ‘Lirienne, I believe you are right.’” She dropped her bag and flung her arms around the sobbing woman who was staring at her in amazement. She pulled the woman’s head close to hers in the embrace and whispered, “Let us help you!”

  The woman nodded and drew away, still holding Lirienne’s hands. A smile wavered weakly across her lips. “I didn’t see you! When Papa told me to look for friends on this ship, I had no idea he meant you and—”

  “Philippe’s eyes are so keen,” Lirienne hurried to say when Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens hesitated. “I should have known to listen to him.”

  “When did you arrive in Le Havre?”

  “A few days ago.” She dared a glance toward the official who was watching with a puzzled expression. When he opened his mouth, she hastily said, “We wanted to enjoy a short visit with the Moulins family before we sailed. When did you arrive here?”

  “Last night.”

  The official began, “Madame—”

  “I wish I had known,” Lirienne replied as if she had not heard him. “You could have joined us last night.”

  “If I had known, I would have been delighted.” The young woman wiped away her tears with a trembling hand.

  “Madame—”

  Again she cut the official off. “You know what an excellent cook Madame Moulins is. She made Philippe’s favorite chicken. And the children. The little one is almost walking, and the older ones have their maman’s pretty eyes. Little Jacques is already half as tall as Philippe. I do not doubt he will be as tall as his grandfather’s vines, so he’ll be a great help picking the highest grapes. It was—”

  “Madame!” the official almost shouted.

  Lirienne turned to him. “I’m sorry. I’m just so happy to encounter my dear friend Veronique. We haven’t seen each other in several months.” Turning to the young woman, she added, “It is so good to be with you. I have so much to tell you.”

  “I trust it can wait,” the official said tartly, “until I have cleared you to leave the country.”

  “Yes, we’re going to America.” Her stomach nearly lurched when she spoke the words she did no
t quite believe herself. Keeping her smile in place, she did not slow her chatter. She avoided looking at Philippe, because she could sense his smile. He would find her belittling of this self-important, most likely self-appointed official amusing. “Can you imagine? All the way across the ocean? I think I would like to visit New York and Savannah, too, Philippe. Maybe we can go to New Orleans. I understand they speak French there. Or Montréal in Canada. Or—”

  “Sir, will you silence your wife, or must I?”

  Philippe put a hand on her arm. “Forgive her. She is young, and she is very excitable.”

  “So I see.” His shoulders grew rigid. “I will look at your papers as soon as I have an explanation from this young woman.”

  “Is there some sort of a problem with Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens’s papers, Monsieur—”

  “Rimbaud.” He tapped his fingers against the page again. “I cannot allow anyone with such royalist papers to leave France.”

  “May I?” Philippe held out his hand.

  “Monsieur, I should not allow anyone else to see these.”

  “Monsieur Rimbaud, Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens is my wife’s dear friend.” He held out his hand again.

  Lirienne was certain she saw something glitter on it, but the papers were handed over so quickly she might have been mistaken. When a hint of a smile curled Philippe’s lips, she knew she had not been. His bribe had gotten them married. Now it might help this young woman.

  For a moment, she lost herself in the fantasy of him mounted on a fine charger as black as his hair. He would wear armor like that in the gallery of the Fortiers’ house. With a long lance in his hands, he would be the champion of the countryside, saving his vassals from harm and doing his liege’s bidding.

  She sighed. That part of France, a part that might never have existed except in the stories told around the hearth in the kitchen, was gone. The vassals wanted to determine their own lives, and the liege was dead, his blood spilled beneath the guillotine’s blade.

  Lirienne glanced at the paper Philippe held, although she had no idea what the swirling lines meant. When Philippe muttered something too low for Monsieur Rimbaud to hear, she wondered what he had discovered.

  “Monsieur Rimbaud,” he said, his voice still nonchalant, although his hands clenched the page, “you must be able to see the problem.”

  “I do. These passport papers are signed in the first year of the reign of King Louis the Seventeenth, not the first year of the Republic.”

  Lirienne glanced at the young woman who again wore a frightened expression. Was she nobility like Philippe, trying to get out of France before she was sent to the guillotine?

  “But did you see where they were signed?” Philippe asked with a derogatory laugh. “Reims! When was the last time the officials in that city did anything right?”

  “I don’t know.” Monsieur Rimbaud’s baffled expression returned.

  “They haven’t gotten anything correct since the Bastille was liberated. Surely you heard about how they offered the king a sanctuary there.”

  Monsieur Rimbaud frowned. “I never heard of that.”

  “No? Maybe the rumors of the truth were so outrageous nobody here believed them.”

  Lirienne waited for the harbor official to laugh along with Philippe. He was lying, she knew. If Monsieur Rimbaud saw the intensity in Philippe’s eyes, it would be obvious to Monsieur Rimbaud also. She prayed her laugh did not sound strained as she tapped the page and asked, “Veronique, how could you be so silly as to let them make this mistake?”

  “I didn’t …” She swallowed hard. “I didn’t think anyone would be so stupid.” She frowned. “I should have checked more closely.”

  “The clerk who wrote these probably was half-drunk,” Philippe added. “As you can see, Monsieur Rimbaud, you cannot hold this young lady responsible for the irresponsibility of a fool.”

  “But if I let her sail …”

  Philippe handed the paper back to Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens and drew out two more slips. Offering them to Monsieur Rimbaud, he said, “My wife and I can vouch for Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens, if that will reassure you.” Again something flashed in the setting sun and vanished.

  Monsieur Rimbaud gave their passports, which Philippe had paid dearly for, no more than a cursory glance. “Very well. Have a pleasant voyage.”

  Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens waited until the man strode away. Then she whispered, “Thank you, thank you so much!” She started to take a step and staggered.

  Lirienne grasped one of her arms while Philippe took the other. Steering her across the deck, they led her to the far railing.

  “I shall be all right,” she whispered in answer to Lirienne’s worried question. “I am Veronique Saint-Gaudens.” A weak smile pulled at her lips. “As you know. And you are Philippe and Lirienne, right?”

  Lirienne glanced at Philippe. She was not sure how honest he was going to be.

  Lifting Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens’s hand, he bowed over it. “Philippe de Villeneuve.” He held out his other hand to Lirienne. “And this is my wife.”

  “The vicomte’s brother?” Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens gasped.

  His eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”

  “My fiancé Percival Goyette spoke of the fine horses that you—”

  “Goyette?” He arched a brow. “It seems we may not be such strangers, after all.”

  “Is your brother with you?”

  “No.” He looked around as more passengers came aboard. When three men walked toward them, he said quietly, “My brother is not able to travel now.”

  Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens choked back a gasp, then nodded with a sigh. “I understand. I am sorry, mon seigneur.”

  “The name Philippe will be sufficient on this ship.”

  She nodded, but so reluctantly that Lirienne guessed Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens could not imagine addressing a vicomte by his given name.

  “Lirienne,” Philippe went on in the same taut voice, “I think you and Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens should retire to your quarters below decks. If possible, I will come to get you when we set sail.”

  She recognized that tone and the danger of ignoring any order he gave in it. He must have seen something or someone that unsettled him. He quietly told her where to find the cabin they would have for the crossing. Hooking her arm through Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens’s, she walked with her toward the stairs leading down into the ship.

  At the door to the quarters she and Philippe would share, she hesitated, then said, “Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens, I would be very happy to have your company now.”

  “As I would yours.”

  Lirienne was shocked to discover how small the cabin was. It contained a bed that was built against the wall and was barely big enough for one person. A shelf and a chair beneath a swinging lamp were the only other things in the cabin. No porthole brought light into the tiny space.

  “May I?” asked Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens, pointing to the chair.

  “Yes, of course.” Lirienne set the bag on the deck and eased down to sit on the bed.

  “You were very brave up there.” Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens smiled. “I can’t wait to tell my dear Percival how you came to my rescue.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In Philadelphia. He found it wise to leave France with so much speed that I did not have time to travel with him.” She sighed, tears filling her eyes again.

  Lirienne let Veronique, as Mademoiselle Saint-Gaudens said she wanted to be addressed, continue to talk. She could not pay attention to her words, nor could she answer, for all other thoughts had been wrung out of her, save for the one that they were truly leaving France. When she had agreed to marry Philippe, she could not have guessed her decision would lead her on this journey so far from home.

  Home. Papa and Maman. Her eyes filled with tears. She might never see them again. The Republic could exist forever as its supporters claimed. She would be in far-off Philadelphia, while her parents were condemned to spend
the rest of their days beneath Madame Fortier’s oppression. Philippe’s vow to see them settled on his lands could not be fulfilled now.

  When the ship shifted, several hours later after Veronique had drifted off into sleep, Lirienne slipped out of the cabin. The vessel must be underway. As she climbed onto the deck, she saw sailors tending the sails. They looked like a hill of ants swarming around their queen. She looked toward the bow, to see a crowd of people, all passengers she guessed by the cut of their clothes, watching the ship carry them forward to America. As the first drops of rain pelted her, she tried to see Philippe was among them.

  Lightning flashed, and she cowered. She should go below before the storm worsened. When she turned, she saw a lone form by the stern. Even through the curtain of rain she knew it was Philippe. He was looking back at all he had left behind, the country that had betrayed him and the woman who held his heart. She took a step toward him, then paused. She could not share his grief, for, although she ached at the idea of never seeing her family again, the only chance she had of winning her husband’s heart from Madame Fortier lay in the country ahead of them. She could not look back.

  Ever.

  Eight

  “This can’t be the correct address!” Lirienne wanted to bite back the words as the hired carriage slowed on the filthy Philadelphia street not far from the wharves.

  During the long journey across the Adantic in the cramped ship, she had dared to dream that they would find a pleasant house here in America. She and Veronique Saint-Gaudens, who spoke often of her wedding in Philadelphia, had spent hours sitting in the cabin and talking about their hopes for their new lives. When she had seen Veronique being met by her betrothed’s fine carriage, she had guessed her friend’s dreams would come true.

  She was not so sure of her own when she stared at the tavern on the other side of the narrow walkway that was only inches above the dirty street. She had not thought the streets would be unpaved here. Hogshead Inn proclaimed the sign hanging over the door. Patrons lolled in the doorway, their clothes as drab as the sign. The stomach-churning scents of stale beer and unwashed bodies hung over the street.