by Regina Scott
He’d not darkened the door of that building since his wife’s death, and he had no intentions to start now. The structure could sit and rot until it fell down for all he cared. Mayhap it already had fallen down. He didn’t know, and he didn’t plan to check.
“What about for bread?” the woman asked.
“What mean you, ‘for bread’?”
“You could hire me to make your bread.” She swallowed, her throat working too hard for such a simple action. “And I’ll bring you a fresh loaf every morn.”
He ran his eyes slowly down her. “How do I know you’re not a worse baker than I?”
Her chin came up a defiant notch. “I assure you, Citizen, a slug could mix together some mud, bake it and create a more tasteful loaf than that which you shared yesterday.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, did you compare your previous employer to a slug? It might explain why you’re in need of a post.”
Her face flushed, as though she hadn’t fully realized what she’d been saying until he drew attention to her words. “Pardon me, but I’d best be on my way.”
She turned, leaving the food in his hands.
“Wait.”
She stopped just outside the door, the sun’s tinted rays bouncing off the back of her mobcap and turning her skin a silky gold.
He thrust the food forward. “You’re forgetting something.”
“I told you I don’t take charity.” She kept her back to him. “I work for my food.”
She wasn’t like the other widows he offered food to, the ones with little mouths to feed and run-down cottages to keep. The ones that would burst into tears if he dared ask compensation for the goods he offered.
“Do you live near enough to bring me bread every morn? I’ll not hire you if it means you must walk to and from town.”
“I live quite close, merci.”
His mind ran through the houses between his farm and Abbeville. Where could she possibly shelter? He’d not seen her until yesterday, so she couldn’t live too near. But if she was at his door before the sun had fully risen, she couldn’t live that far, either. ’Twas almost as though she’d been dropped off by the afternoon sun yesterday and planned to stay for the rest of her life.
But if her rigid posture was any indication—and the rather noticeable fact that she still showed him her back rather than her front—she wasn’t going to volunteer where she stayed.
“Let’s strike a bargain, shall we? You can bring me bread on the morrow, but only if you take my food today.”
She turned slowly, her forehead drawn into a series of subtle furrows. “Have you flour, or am I to purchase some in town?”
“I farm wheat, remember?”
She licked her lips, dry and cracked yet somehow compelling. “I’ll need oil and yeast, as well.”
“Let me package some for you.” He turned back toward the shelves that held his foodstuffs, trying to stop that unfamiliar smile from peeking out the corner of his mouth.
He failed.
*
Nothing. Thirty hours until her meeting with Alphonse’s man, and still she had no information to offer.
Brigitte moved her tired feet along the overgrown path through the woods, her fingers clenched around the food from Citizen Belanger. She’d not expected to bake bread in exchange for food but at least her children would eat this day and she had reason to return to his house on the morrow.
And tomorrow she would ask again for a job. Hopefully the stubborn man would hire her.
A vision crept up from the corners of her mind, an aged memory of Mademoiselle Elise from years long past. The governess’s eyes had been stern as she stared down at Brigitte, retching over a bush. I told you one biscuit, but you ate most of the platter. Serves you right to be sick half the night. Be sure your sin will find you out.
And then their strict old governess had walked off, leaving her to retch alone.
The same urge to retch twined through her again as it had years ago. What was she doing lying to a stranger like Citizen Belanger—a stranger who fed her, no less? Would her sin find her out? Would Citizen Belanger discover the truth?
“Father, no! Please keep us safe.” The frantic prayer burst from her lips before she could stop it.
She risked far more than a stomachache if she were caught this time.
The small hut Danielle had led them to last night emerged from the shadow of the woods. It looked as though it hadn’t been used for a decade. Weeds grew up beside the door, and an empty darkness radiated from the cracks around the shutters. But it was sturdy, with heavy timbers pitched tightly together and a thick thatch roof promising warmth come winter.
Not that she planned to be here for winter. Alphonse would want her mission completed long before then.
The door to the little shack burst open. “Did you get the post, Maman?”
“Non. But I took a different job.” Brigitte dipped her chin toward the bundle of ingredients she carried. “We’ve bread to bake for Citizen Belanger.”
Danielle rolled her eyes. “How dull.”
“’Tis work, daughter. We mustn’t be particular.”
“I don’t understand. If this landowner is looking for a housekeeper, why won’t he hire you?”
She slanted her eyes away from her daughter’s gaze. Sometimes the girl was a touch too bright. “He’s not looking for a housekeeper, exactly.”
“But when we left the inn in Abbeville, you said—”
“Please trust me, Danielle.” She pressed her free hand to her temple, already beginning to throb. “Perhaps I can’t explain everything at the moment, but I have reasons for my actions.”
Danielle scowled, black hair falling about her face in a riot of tangles.
“Good reasons,” she added. Reasons that would grant them their freedom from Alphonse. But how to explain such things to a mere child?
“Then why are you doing all of this? Why are we using the name Moreau instead of Dubois? I don’t like having a pretend name.”
Brigitte’s cheeks went cold, every last drop of heat leaving her face to pool in her toes. “I told you before we left Calais, we’re using my family name now because I can’t risk people here knowing our relationship to Alphonse.”
Danielle propped her hands on her hips, a gesture far too mature for a girl of only three and ten. “You’ve never been ashamed of our name before.”
“Oui, when we lived in Calais and everyone knew us. But not now.” If Citizen Belanger truly was the solider responsible for her husband’s death, her surname could give everything away. “We’ll call ourselves Moreau in Reims, too, so accustom yourself to it.” She nodded toward the door. “Now let’s inside and see what progress you made on your studies.”
Danielle flipped some hair over her shoulder and huffed. “I hate English.”
Nothing unusual about that. Perchance she was pushing the studies a mite hard given their current living situation, but the girl found trouble too easily when she hadn’t something to occupy her mind. Besides, English had been a most useful language living in Calais, and if the war fell in favor of the English, it might become even more necessary. “Did you finish your arithmetic and grammar?”
“I still have those, too,” Danielle grumbled.
Brigitte pressed her hand to her temple again, the pounding growing ever harder, then moved into the little house.
“How do I tell the difference between a b and a d again?” Serge sat at the table, scrunching his nose as he stared at the letters copied onto his slate.
She ignored the thick layer of dust caking everything from the wobbly table to the shelves to the pallet in the corner where Victor slept, and instead set the food on the table and peered over Serge’s shoulder. “A b has a ball on the back of the stick, remember? And the d has the ball on the front…. Yes, like that. But I told Danielle to finish her studies before you started. What are you doing with the slate?”
Serge’s piece of chalk clattered to the table while his
eyes latched on to the soup and bread. “Did you bring food?”
She sighed. There went any chance of reviewing the alphabet or figuring out why Serge had the slate. “Oui. Citizen Belanger sent us some of his soup and bread from last night.”
Serge was already off his chair and scrambling toward the shelves that held naught but two bowls, a motley collection of eating utensils and three plates—all seemingly left behind by the house’s last inhabitants. “I’m hungry.”
“Patience, son. I must heat it first.” She crossed the small room to the aging pot on the hearth.
“I don’t mind it cold.” Serge set the bowls on the table.
“Me, neither,” Danielle piped up.
She ran her eyes over her children’s slender forms. Serge, with his too-short trousers and too-thin hips. And Danielle, with her gaunt face, bony shoulders and dress that would fit a girl who weighed half again as much as Danielle. Was she doing such a poor job of providing for her children that they clambered after cold, day-old soup?
Evidently.
She dished the hearty broth and vegetables out, and Danielle sank down onto the dirt floor with her bowl while Serge climbed back onto the single chair and gulped his food.
“Slow down, child. It won’t run off on you.”
But he finished his bowl in less than a dozen bites and pushed it toward her. “Can I have more?”
The bucket had seemed like so much food but it now stood half empty without enough sustenance to see herself and the children through the evening meal. Though she could hardly blame Citizen Belanger for shortage when the man assumed he fed one person rather than four.
“Oui. Serge, you can have a second helping, but we’ll be eating pulse later tonight.”
The boy nodded eagerly, and Danielle’s dish appeared on the table beside his.
“May I have more, too?”
Her own stomach twisted with hunger, but she nodded at Danielle and divided her portion into two extra servings. Then she tore a piece of bread off the half loaf and chewed. At least the bread from the baker tasted palatable.
One mission for Alphonse, that’s all she needed to complete. Then she wouldn’t have to depend on the charity of a farmer for her children’s food. She could purchase her own cottage much like this one and surround herself with friends and loved ones rather than hide in the woods.
If only she could manage to finish her mission without being discovered.
*
Jean Paul hunched over the table in his cottage, quill gripped tightly between his fingers as he thought back over the previous weeks while he prepared his monthly report. No strangers had passed through town—well, besides the woman baking him bread. But she was hardly worth reporting. Frail, thin women with lips the color of autumn apples and skin pale as the moon weren’t a threat to the government.
And here he was, thinking of the woman again when he had business to tend. All day she had flitted through his mind, whether he be working the fields or meeting with Pierre or stocking food in the stable. Mayhap he should send her away for good on the morrow so he’d not be so distracted.
Either that, or he could hire her.
Something hard fisted around his chest. No. It mattered not how grateful he’d be for a meal he didn’t cook for himself or how much dust collected inside his cottage walls.
He let out a low growl. He had a report to write, and here he was, completely distracted by that fool woman yet again.
He bent his head over the paper and forced his thoughts away from soft brown eyes and onto more important matters, like whether any suspiciously large wagons of smuggled English wool had made their way inland from the coast over the past month.
But he came up with nothing. Nor had he heard of any large shipments of French brandy, lace or the like headed toward the coast.
The tallow candle flickered shadows across the walls and table as he scratched his message onto the foolscap. The words seemed unimportant. Insignificant. But a certain representative in the National Convention named Joseph Fouché wrote him back every month, always thanking him for the information. Twice now, the local gendarmes had found army deserters due to his reports. And once a rather large shipment of brandy was discovered on the coast, only minutes away from being loaded onto a vessel bound for England.
The spies were a little harder to track. He wasn’t certain he’d ever found one but he reported anyone with the slightest accent or less-than-fluent French.
A knock sounded on his door, soft and unhurried. He rose and glanced out the window. Darkness had long fallen, and only one type of person would knock so softly this far into the night. He took an extra blanket from the chest in the bedchamber, then made his way to the door.
He’d never met the man standing outside, would probably forget his unmemorable face if ever they chanced to meet again. But then, spies weren’t supposed to be remembered.
The man silently held out a piece of paper. “Citizen Belanger?”
He barely glanced at the missive, the signature at the bottom standing out like a flame. He had a similar letter tucked away in his bedroom, all of Fouché’s men did.
“Come. I’ve a bed for you in the stable, but I need you gone before the sun rises.”
He asked not of the man’s business as he led him to the pallet tucked into the stall beside his mare’s. He had no desire to know the secret workings of his government, but if providing shelter for a night would aid his country’s cause, then he’d house a hundred men. Because France was now a republic, a place where all people were citizens of equal value, where power and wealth were based upon one’s actions rather than right of birth.
To keep the French First Republic alive, the Convention fought not only revolution from within, but enemies from without. He might not be able to dart off into battle with the farm and an old wound in his shoulder, but he could supply food to the gendarmerie post for a fair price, ship some of his extra to the soldiers, watch his hometown for any sign of upset, and give rest and sustenance to government agents when so needed.
As terrible as the actions in his past had been, his country’s cause was just. He refused to shed more innocent blood in the name of liberty, but he’d found a way to keep serving France without the pain and horror.
Because France needed a government of the people rather than the tyranny of a king. And he would do whatever necessary to keep the Republic alive.
Including pushing all thoughts of his lovely bread baker to the side and getting back to work on his report.
Chapter Four
Morning sun slanted down over the fields, turning the earth a dark gold as Brigitte emerged from the woods. She drew in a breath and inhaled the soft scents of soil and dew and foliage, so different from the hard, tangy scent of the sea that saturated Calais.
The thatched roof of Citizen Belanger’s house arose before her, a mere speck amid the rows of crops sprouting from the earth. Tomorrow she’d find a different way through the woods, one that led to the road so she approached the house from the drive rather than the fields. Citizen Belanger was already asking questions about where she lived. The man didn’t need to know about their stay in the little cottage in the woods.
She yawned and moved her lagging feet along the edge of the field, wiping a strand of hair from her face. She shouldn’t be so tired, not when she’d woken a mere hour ago. Yet weariness clung to her, growing worse with each passing day. She sighed and pressed her eyelids open wider.
Perchance she’d have time for a nap before she met Alphonse’s man tonight. If she baked Citizen Belanger’s bread in a timely manner, and the children behaved, and she didn’t have to scrounge for food….
She was fooling herself. The nap wouldn’t happen; they never did.
She gave the house a wide berth as she circled around, careful lest Citizen Belanger was already working in his garden or the stable. But alas, the house sat quiet and peaceful, like a cottage in a painting with the sun’s warm fingers wrapped around it while fie
lds dipped and swelled into the distance.
She raised her hand to the door, but it swung open before she knocked.
“Citizen Belanger.” She jerked backward, stumbling over an uneven patch of dirt.
He reached out and gripped her arm with his big, solid hand. “Are you unwell?”
Heat flooded her face. On their first meeting, she’d nearly fainted, yesterday she’d accused him of making worse bread than a slug and today she’d almost fallen. The man must think her a dunce.
But he didn’t look at her as though she were a dunce. No. His eyes were soft and dark, but more the color of the earth after a hard rain than midnight. And his hand still rested on her arm, warm and strong and…comforting?
How long since a man had touched her out of concern rather than force? Another wave of heat exploded onto her cheeks, and she ducked her head.
But he kept his grip on her, this gaze roving slowly over her as though looking for…
What? She peeked up at him. His face was a hard mixture of prominent bones and taut skin, firm planes and severe angles with that inexplicable scar twisting around his eyebrow. And he was far too big. His hair brushed the top of the doorjamb and his shoulders spanned wide enough to eclipse any view she might have of inside.
Yet his eyes were still soft, as was his touch. He couldn’t be all ominous terror, not when he provided her food and work. Not when he asked after her health.
He released her arm and took the bread from her hands. “You look ill.”
She swallowed. ’Twasn’t a very romantic thing to say after surveying her so closely—not that she wanted romance from the man she needed to spy on.
“I’m grateful for your concern, but I’m fine.” Except for the dull thudding at the back of her head, the subtle aching in her joints and the weariness that beset her. But those were hardly severe enough to hinder her from her duties.
“Are you with child?”
“Pardon?” The word burst from her lips on a gust of air. How dare he inquire after such a thing?
But he seemed not the least embarrassed by his question. Instead, he raised a dark eyebrow at her. “Are you?”