by Regina Scott
He shouldn’t have planted wheat here again, not after he’d grown it last year. He’d known as much when he’d tilled the soil and plowed this spring. The field was due for barley, then turnips and clover. His father had started using that crop rotation a decade back, and it had served the little farm well. The soil seemed attached to growing plants in that order, though he could hardly explain why.
But France needed wheat, and squeezing an extra year of grain out of this field had seemed like a good idea. But now it looked as though the plot of land would yield only half as much as his two other wheat fields.
He raised his eyes to the heavens. Was it too much to ask for two straight seasons of wheat?
Mayhap if he spread manure on the field this wheat might begin to thrive. That certainly worked for his vegetable patch, and this parcel was nearly the same size. On the morrow, he’d scrounge up some manure from his tenants who kept animals. ’Twas worth the attempt, though he probably should have tried the manure before now if he expected to see much difference come harvest.
And as for this field, next year it would get barley. Then turnips. Then clover. At least until he could figure out why his crops insisted on growing only in that order. Maybe if he understood why, he’d then be able to coax two straight years of wheat from the ground.
He straightened and surveyed his land beneath the setting sun. Farming might be frustrating at times, when his crops refused to grow or developed blights, when weather harmed them or pests descended. But nothing else on earth could replace the joy of seeing a field planted in spring and harvested in fall. Of taking a parcel of dark soil and cultivating life from it. Of watching the day and night, sun and rain, move in an endless cycle that drew his crops from the ground.
He’d been daft for ever turning his back on the land and going to Paris.
Something bright flashed along the edge of the field, followed by a sudden flurry of movement. The unease from earlier that afternoon flooded back. First his house, now his field. Something was definitely amiss.
Crouching low, he moved stealthily toward the disturbance. Had the silvery flash been the sun glinting off a knife? His own blade he’d kept above the hearth? He reached down to grip the hilt of his garden knife. ’Twas too rusted and dull to do much damage, but he was taller and broader of chest than most. If he surprised his enemy, he might well win the match.
He slowed as he neared the edge of the field and peered through the gilded stalks. Something moved again, a glimpse of black and green and white. He paused and sucked in a breath to still his thudding heart.
Not a man. Not an enemy at all, but a girl.
Or at least he assumed the creature was a girl since the frame was too small to belong to a woman fully grown, and she wore a faded green dress and apron. But with her hair falling in wild tangles about her shoulders, and dirt streaking her face, one could hardly be certain.
She paused for a moment, standing with hands on her hips as she stared at the ground, then she raised a knife above her head and—
“Halt!” He sprang from the field.
The girl whirled, took one look at him then loosed a scream fit to warn all the province of her whereabouts.
“Don’t come any closer,” she rasped, clutching the knife—his missing knife from above the hearth—to her chest in an awkward grip.
’Twas one thing to have the imp sneak into his cottage and steal his blade. ’Twas another entirely to see she knew not how to use it. “Has no one shown you how to wield a knife, child?”
Her gaze skittered down his body, stopping at his hand, which clutched his oversize garden knife. Fool! He’d forgotten about the thing. He slipped it back into the loop on his belt and raised his hands innocently. “I mean you no harm.”
Her knuckles remained white as chalk around the hilt of his blade. “Then turn yourself around and go back from where you came.”
“’Tis my property. Mayhap you should be the one hastening away.” Not that he intended to let her go without first accounting for herself.
“Fine, then. You stay, and I’ll make haste.” She took a small step backward, then another, her movements revealing what her skirt had hidden when he’d first happened upon her.
One of his chickens lay half strangled at her feet. “Not so fast. I’ve a question or two first. Like how you got hold of my knife, and what you’re doing on my land? Why you’ve taken one of my chickens, and how you intend to compensate for it?”
She glanced wildly around the woods then took another step back.
She was scared now. ’Twould be but a moment before—
She turned and ran.
He glanced at the twitching chicken still on the ground, then at the girl tearing through the woods. She must have realized the knife would do little to thwart a man three times her size—especially when she knew not how to hold the thing.
But she deserved credit enough for being brave. It took courage to spar with a man such as him, knife or no knife.
He hastened after her. She ran fast for one so small. At first, he’d have guessed her ten years of age, but she dashed around saplings and leaped over fallen branches too agilely for a child. She was likely a budding woman, one short of stature, but mature enough of body to run smartly through the brush and brambles.
He squinted into the gloom as he raced forward, darkness snaking its shadowy fingers through the woods. Were it not for the white apron strings trailing behind her, he’d have lost her when she darted into a thick stand of trees.
Then she turned to look back at him. A fatal mistake, that. Her foot caught on a gnarled root, and she sprawled forward, landing face down on the forest floor. She scrambled furiously to heave herself up. But not fast enough. He reached down and hauled her up by her shoulders.
“You’re a quick one,” he rasped through the heavy rise and fall of his chest.
She crossed her arms over her slender chest and glared at him.
He nearly laughed—would have, had she not stolen two chickens, a blanket, a mug and his favorite knife over the past several days. “Who is your father, child? I’ve need to speak with him.”
“He’s dead,” she spewed flatly.
Of course he was. What father would let his child traipse about the countryside stealing blankets and chickens and the like? “Your mother, then?”
“You should know. She brought you bread this morn.”
Jean Paul narrowed his eyes. That was her mother? The woman who had shown up at his doorstep for the past three days?
With hair so black it gleamed and eyes as blue and clear as ice, the girl didn’t appear to be related. But there was something about her face, about the subtle curve of her cheek as it sloped into her jaw, the gentle cheekbones and straight little nose. She hadn’t her mother’s hair and eyes, but they shared the same face.
Why had the woman never mentioned she had a child? He’d have provided more soup and salt fish and…
The realization crashed through his head. ’Twas why the woman still seemed so thin and weak after the three meals he’d supplied. She was likely giving her food to the child and going without herself.
“Does your mother know you’ve been snooping about my house? That you’ve stolen my knife and chicken?”
The girl stared evenly back at him, her blue eyes firm with determination.
“I’m missing a horse blanket, as well. And I had another chicken disappear yesterday.” It was all starting to make sense now, the eerie feeling he’d had in his house earlier, the things that had disappeared from his property.
She remained sullenly silent, her chin jutting into the air.
“Non. I suppose if your mother knew what you were about, you’d not be here. Stand, child.” He jerked her up by her shoulder. “We’re going to visit your home.”
*
“You’re late,” a man’s dark voice snarled.
Brigitte stepped around a tree and peered into the thickening shadows of the forest. Her blood pounded against her te
mples, and the trees blurred into a solid, hazy mass for a moment before righting themselves. “A tenant saw me headed here. I was detained.”
“I didn’t ask for excuses.”
A chill trickled down her spine at the harsh edge to his voice, but she took another step forward.
“Have you proof?”
She whirled around, causing her head to spin. The voice that had seemed in front of her now came from behind, but shadows still shrouded the man, whomever he was. Sweat beaded on her forehead and slicked her palms, yet she straightened her shoulders. Strong, she was going to act strong, not like some frightened child. “Proof of what? Citizen Belanger is innocent.”
The man laughed, a cruel, taunting sound. “Citizen Belanger is innocent of nothing, and it’s your job to prove thus.”
“Non. It’s my job to prove the truth, and the man you speak of is innocent.”
A form emerged from the shadows, not as tall or thick of chest as Citizen Belanger, but then, few men were. The fading light filtered through the leafy trees above, barely illuminating his bicorn hat and…
She gasped as her eyes fell on his uniform, the crisp blue coat edged in red trim, the tan breeches and black boots. “You’re a gendarme.”
His gray eyes gleamed hard in the darkness. “That I am.”
“But…” Her mouth opened and closed, then opened again. Alphonse had said she’d meet one of his men near Abbeville, but he’d not mentioned that the man worked for the military police. That the man would possess the power to throw her into prison with a single word.
“You didn’t think your father-in-law employed merely seamen, did you?”
Her mouth stayed open, her jaw seemingly frozen in the undignified position. She’d never given much thought to who Alphonse employed or why. She’d only known he was too powerful for her to thwart.
The gendarme raised an eyebrow at her, sand-colored hair curling out from beneath his hat. “Service in the gendarmerie pays very little. I find your father-in-law to be a rather generous employer.”
“And Alphonse benefits from having a man in the gendarmerie,” she whispered. Yes, the benefits to both parties were far too clear. A man in the gendarmerie could see that certain shipments of wool, brandy and the like were overlooked while the smuggled goods traveled to and from the coast.
The gendarme smiled at her, a chilling half curve of lips. “Oui, you understand perfectly.”
She raised her chin—hopefully he didn’t notice the way it trembled—and glared at the gendarme. “Jean Paul Belanger is innocent. I’ve done what I came to do. I demand I be compensated for my work and released. So if you’d kindly pay me, Citizen, I shall be on my way come morning.”
“Not before you offer proof of his innocence.”
Brigitte thrust her hand in the direction of the farm. “Look at his land. Need you proof beyond that? He feeds the hungry and lets land to widows and one-armed tenants. Since when do murderers feed babes?”
“Feeding babes isn’t proof.” The gendarme gripped her upper arm, his fingers digging into the flesh beneath her sleeve. “He was gone from Abbeville for six years, and no one knows what he did in his absence.”
“All the town knows that. He went to Paris and made furniture. I’ve been inside his house, and the furniture is beautiful, exquisite even. He could easily have made furniture in Paris.”
With one hand still holding her arm, the gendarme rested his other hand on the hilt of his sword. “Have you learned nothing in the days you’ve been here?”
Of course she’d learned something. That she was on some ridiculous fool’s errand. That the man she’d been sent to spy on was kind and generous and not a murderer, regardless of when or why he’d been in Paris—if he’d even gone there in the first place and hadn’t spent his years away from Abbeville in some other city.
“If you’re so certain he’s the man, why not…” She couldn’t force the words past her tongue. The person they discussed had offered her food and work, after all. But why was Alphonse so hesitant to murder the man he suspected of killing his son? She swallowed and attempted the words again. “Why is Alphonse being so careful with Citizen Belanger when he’s killed men before for simply being in his way?”
The gendarme’s breath puffed hot against her cheek and the silver of his eyes seared into her. “If you’ve not yet determined that, then you’re worse at this job than I suspected.”
Heat crept through her, whether from embarrassment over the gendarme’s words or her own sick body, she couldn’t tell. Her muscles ached, and her feet smarted inside her shoes. What she wouldn’t give to be back at the cottage, lying on the old pallet and resting her tired body. “I am not ‘worse’ at this job. I’ve gotten into his house. I’ve scoured every box and crate and corner, and I found nothing to suggest the man was ever in the military. Do you not think that proof of his innocence?”
“He was in Paris for the start of the Révolution. Then last year he returns with unfathomable money, buys up land surrounding his farm, hires tenants who can barely manage half a day’s work, distributes food to the needy and goes about the countryside rescuing women.”
Rescuing women? She nodded her head as though she knew of what the gendarme spoke.
“Where did the money come from?” he pressed. “And why return to Abbeville just as the Terror leaves?”
“Perhaps he made the money making furniture, as he claims.”
The guard released her arm with a sudden thrust. “You’re a fool, wench. He didn’t make that fancy furniture, his brother did. And where, for that matter, is his brother? Have you asked that of Citizen Belanger yet? Michel Belanger disappeared more than a year ago, never to be heard from again.”
The gendarme paced in front of her with short, tense strides. “Something’s not right. And if Alphonse Dubois could kill Belanger without the entire town crying in outrage, he would. A man rescues two ninnies from a couple army deserters and the entire town hails him as a hero.”
Apparently she wasn’t the only woman Citizen Belanger tried rescuing, but that hardly explained why Alphonse feared killing him. “I see.”
“Though accidents can happen, even to heroes. A fire, perhaps, that burns his house during the night? Or maybe the axel on his wagon breaks, causing our dear Citizen Belanger to careen into a tree.”
Brigitte’s chest grew so tight her heart struggled to beat. “Non.”
“Are you defending him?” The gendarme whirled back toward her, his face etched with hatred and malice. “The man who murdered your husband? Don’t you want justice for killers?”
“This isn’t justice.”
She didn’t see the slap coming. One moment the gendarme paced before her, and the next his hand struck her cheek, her skin burning at the contact.
She lurched back. “How dare you?”
“Mind yourself, wench. You know naught of justice.”
Maybe so, but Henri had been tried before he went to the guillotine, tried and found very guilty of crimes he’d committed. Didn’t justice involve a trial? “This is revenge.”
The guard raised his hand again. She lunged out of reach, though her quick movements set off the pounding in her head once more.
“The snake deserves to pay,” the gendarme growled.
“You’re not even certain Citizen Belanger is the man you seek.”
The man spit onto the damp forest floor. “They’re all the same, aren’t they? Men like Belanger getting rich while the poor still work for him. We have ourselves a Révolution, and a man like Belanger comes up with all kinds of money to buy land and make himself another lord over us.”
“You’ve probably been watching him for a year, and you’ve not found any more evidence than I. Otherwise Citizen Belanger would be dead.”
“A man like Belanger, he’s hiding something. I’ll give you one week, and if you still bring me no evidence, I’ll have you escorted back to Dubois.”
She froze at those words, terror sinking it’s claws int
o her heart. She couldn’t allow her children to go back there, not ever.
The man ran his eyes down her then laughed. “I advise you to school your features, Citizen Dubois. Your face gives your thoughts away.”
“Moreau,” she croaked. “It’s Citizen Moreau.”
He paused a moment. “Citizen Moreau? You’ve managed to do something right, at least.”
And then he turned, stalking off through the trees and leaving her to stare after him.
Lovely. Just lovely. The one thing she’d done “right” in all of this had been a lie.
Chapter Eight
Jean Paul stared ahead at the familiar stand of trees—trees he hadn’t seen in over six years—and a cold sweat broke out over his forehead. “Where did you say you lived?”
The girl beside him didn’t speak, not that he was surprised. She hadn’t uttered a single word since he yanked her off the forest floor a quarter hour ago and demanded to see her mother. But she didn’t need to speak for him to recognize the overgrown trail or the thick stand of fir trees toward which they walked.
No. It couldn’t be. His feet stumbled, though the ground beneath him was flat and even. “How long have you been living here?”
The girl worked her jaw back and forth, as if debating whether he was worthy of an answer before opening her mouth. “You don’t yet know where I’m taking you.”
If only she was wrong. “’Tis but one house on this path.”
She crossed her arms. “And how would you know such?”
“Because it’s my property. We might have been walking for over a quarter hour, but we’ve not yet left my land, and you’ve taken a rather roundabout way home.”
Her eyes snapped defiantly, but she kept her mouth clamped tight.
“I assume you’re taking me to the hut up the trail? The one with the timbered sides, a thatched roof and the hearth against the far wall? Windows facing south and west?”
The one he’d taken Corinne to after their wedding nine years ago and had shared with his beloved wife for two brief years before her death.