My Brother's Crown

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Now, now,” the housekeeper said. “She cannot stay long. Make sure the visit does you good and not harm.”

  Amelie nodded. “Oui. It has done me good already.”

  Catherine knelt at her side as the woman left, waiting for the click of the door before she gave her cousin a long hug and then spoke. “You had a child. When?”

  “A month ago.”

  So it was Paul’s. Merci, Seigneur.

  “And you have been sick?”

  Amelie swiped at her eyes with her free hand.

  Tears filled Catherine’s eyes too as she reached for the bébé. So many times they had imagined, as girls, raising their children together, all living together in the Gillet family home, Catherine and her brood established on the first floor and Amelie and hers on the second, both sharing the ground floor lounge and dining room, just as the families in the house had always done. How could their lives have changed so dramatically in so short a time?

  “Her name is Valentina,” Amelie said softly. “After Paul’s Italian grandmother.”

  “Hello, Valentina,” Catherine cooed softly, gazing down at the little one in her arms. The baby peered up at her, eyes wide. She had a full head of dark hair, but she was small for a month old, too small. Catherine looked again at Amelie. “Did Paul know?”

  Amelie shook her head. “Neither of us had any idea.” Tears filled her eyes again, and she brushed them away. “I did not realize I was expecting until I had been here for a couple of months. I assumed with all the stress of his death and then being sent away…” She shook her head. “The prospect never crossed my mind until Mother Superior pointed out the tightness of my clothes and my never-ending appetite.”

  Catherine pursed her lips. At some point along the way, that appetite must have waned, because Amelie had never looked thinner. Or paler, for that matter.

  “We need to get both of you out of here.”

  “Father will never allow it.”

  Catherine hesitated, unable to keep the shock from her face. “You don’t know?”

  Amelie stared back at her, brow furrowed.

  “He… he passed away. Your father was buried this afternoon.”

  Amelie sank back against the chair, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Non!”

  Catherine’s heart ached for her cousin. “They didn’t tell you? When you missed his funeral today, I assumed they refused to let you go. I never imagined they withheld the truth from you entirely.”

  “Today,” Amelie echoed, looking even paler than before. “You say he was buried today?”

  “Oui. I slipped into the service at the cathedral—as did Grand-Mère. They laid him to rest at the cimetière des catholiques afterward.”

  Catherine would have liked to give Amelie a chance to digest the news of her father’s death, but she feared they might be interrupted at any moment. She rose to her feet, clutching the baby, and took her cousin’s hand. “I need to take you home.”

  “Mother Superior will not allow it.”

  “Then we will sneak you out while the rest are eating.”

  She shook her head. “Take the baby. Put her in your bag.”

  “She will scream,” Catherine said.

  Amelie’s brow furrowed. “Maybe not at first. Not if you move quickly…”

  “I don’t think we should risk it,” Catherine said, gently swaying the baby. “Are there guards here?”

  “Two. Though they are usually drunk in the garden by now.”

  “And if it’s still raining outside?”

  “Then they will be doing their drinking in the shed, out back.”

  “Very well.” Catherine began to pace as she adapted her plan to accommodate the infant. “Pierre is waiting outside with a rag cart not far from the kitchen door. I will go out first and tell him we need to stall for a few minutes. You come with the baby soon after. If anyone inquires what you are doing, just say you needed to tell me one more thing before I go. Don’t wear your cape or bring any possessions. They cannot suspect you’re leaving.” Catherine picked up a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around the infant. “Come to the cart, and we will hide both of you under the rags and go. God willing, the guards will be too busy with their drinking to notice.”

  Amelie was quiet for a long moment as she considered Catherine’s words. “Is Jules aware of all this?”

  Catherine shook her head as she adjusted the blanket around the baby and then lifted the little one to her shoulder, brushing her chin across her soft head, ignoring her cousin’s question.

  “He does not have any idea?”

  Catherine shrugged. “Of the proposal, yes. Of the particulars, no. But Grand-Mère does and she encouraged it. She will know what to do to get you strong—and the baby too.”

  “But even if your plan works, even if we manage to make it all the way home…” Amelie shook her head, as if trying to collect her thoughts. “Once Mother Superior realizes we’re gone, what is to stop her from having the authorities come to the house and simply retrieve me?”

  “Jules is your guardian now, Amelie. And your father sent you here voluntarily. It’s not as if you were a young girl forced into a convent by the state. Surely your family should be allowed to be responsible for both you and your child.”

  A rap on the door and a brusque “Time to go” interrupted the women.

  Quickly, Catherine slipped the baby back into her cousin’s arms, whispering, “Pierre and I will be waiting.”

  The door swung open to reveal the housekeeper. “Mother Superior is feeling better. You need to leave.”

  “Very well,” Catherine replied. Then she turned back to Amelie and added in a casual tone, “It was good to see you. My deepest sympathies on the loss of your father.”

  Catherine tried to act completely normal as she thanked the housekeeper, stepped out of the door, and headed for the stairs.

  When she reached the kitchen, the cook nodded toward her as she ladled soup into a bowl but did not speak. Catherine nodded in return and kept going. Once outside, she wiped her sweaty palms on her apron as she approached Pierre, who had thought ahead and was now facing the road, under the same tree where he dropped her off, about ten paces from the door.

  “We need to buy some time,” she said softly when she reached him.

  With a nod, he hopped down from the cart and knelt beside the wheel, pretending to examine it. Rain dripped through the leaves overhead. Catherine stood nearby, growing wetter by the moment as she glanced around for any sight of the guards. The wind picked up even more. She shivered in the chill, pulling at her cloak and wishing Amelie would hurry.

  After a while, Pierre gestured for her to draw close, so she leaned forward and pretended to study the wheel alongside him.

  “Are you sure she is coming?” he whispered.

  “Patience,” Catherine scolded, as much to herself as to him. “They will be here soon.”

  “They?”

  She was about to explain when the back door opened and Amelie stepped out, Valentina in her arms.

  Catherine rose and moved to the back of the cart, where she pushed the rags aside and gestured for Amelie to hand her the baby and then climb in.

  Amelie pointed to the filthy rags and made a face.

  “Oui,” Catherine said, “but it’s our only choice.”

  Amelie nodded and climbed into the wagon.

  “Voilà,” Catherine said once her cousin was safely inside, giving the tiny blanketed bundle back. “Now lie down and I will cover you both.”

  Thanks to the rags, it was not difficult to conceal them, and a moment later Catherine hopped up onto the bench seat beside Pierre and whispered fiercely, “Go! Now!”

  “There is just one problem,” he replied, frozen in place.

  She followed his startled gaze to see two guards standing a short ways in front of the cart, blocking their path.

  “Go anyway. They will scatter.” When he still did not move, Catherine reached over and grabbed the reins from his
hands, slapping them on the back of the horse.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, taking the reins back from her even as the nag obeyed and began moving forward.

  To her dismay, the guards responded by pulling out their swords and yelling, “Halt!”

  Pierre pulled the horse to a stop, just inches from the armed men.

  “What have you got in the back?” one of them demanded.

  “Just rags,” Pierre answered.

  “And?” The guard remained where he was but craned his neck to look. “You might as well tell us the truth. We saw the girl.”

  Pierre handed Catherine the reins and climbed down, walking around to the front of the horse. “Let us handle this in a civil manner,” he said. “The young woman’s father just died. She needs to be in the care of her family.”

  “Then why the need to sneak her out?” the larger of the two guards asked.

  The other one stepped around to the side of the cart and began poking the rags with his sword.

  “Stop that!” Catherine said.

  The guard laughed. The smell of wine was heavy on his breath.

  Amelie’s head popped up.

  “Good girl,” the guard said, stepping back.

  Amelie sat up and clung to the side of the wagon, her arms empty, the baby still hidden.

  “Get up,” the guard commanded, his eyes on Amelie.

  Catherine realized that they must not have noticed what was in the bundle Amelie was carrying when she made her escape, and she prayed that Valentina would not start crying and give herself away.

  The guard repeated his command, so Amelie stood, swaying slightly as she tried to keep her balance. Catherine was about to turn on the bench seat and take her cousin’s hand to steady her when the sound of hooves caught her attention. A rider approached from up the lane. She glanced toward the guards, who had also noticed and were moving forward.

  Seeing an opportunity, Pierre turned toward Catherine and hissed, “Get in the back.” Then he quickly clambered up onto the bench and grabbed the reins.

  She hesitated, looking again at the rider galloping toward them on his horse. With a jolt, she barely believed what she saw. It was Jules atop his black gelding.

  She did as Pierre commanded, astounded to realize that her brother was so opposed to her plan that he had actually come to sabotage it. At least Pierre was still on her side, ready to make a dash for it now that the guards were distracted by Jules’s appearance.

  “Amelie! Sit!” Catherine commanded, but her cousin remained standing there on the wagon bed, frozen in fear and confusion.

  Catherine looked forward to see Jules’s horse gallop past the guards and veer straight for the wagon.

  Pierre turned to her. “Get her down!” he hissed, gesturing toward Amelie.

  The larger guard shouted, “Halt, all of you!” and then swung his sword toward the cart.

  Catherine lunged toward her cousin, but just as she was about to grab Amelie’s hand and jerk her down, Jules wrapped an arm around Amelie’s waist and lifted her to his side. At that moment, Pierre snapped the reins and yelled for the horse to move. The cart lurched and began rumbling forward as both guards yelled profanities. Frantic, Catherine scrambled under the rags for the baby until she found her, lying near the front of the cart bed under a mountain of filthy torn cloths. Beyond the gates now and out of sight, she lifted tiny Valentina and checked to make sure she was okay. Then she clenched the babe tightly to her chest with one arm as she lay down and yanked rags over them both as best she could, holding her breath as she did.

  Jules may have prevented the rescue of Amelie, but at least he had not stopped them from saving Valentina.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Renee

  Sunlight streamed through the window as I climbed out of bed the next morning, grabbed my toiletries, and headed for the shower. I was excited about seeing everyone, especially Danielle, who would be arriving before the others, in just a few hours.

  The rest of the immediate family—all twenty-one of them—would be coming later, starting around five or six p.m., with dinner promptly at seven. Between now and then, my primary objective was to contact Dr. Underwood and somehow set in motion the task of going through the Persecution Pamphlet and finding all of the circled letters, whether by arranging to do it myself or hiring someone else. Beyond that, I would need to finish getting things ready with the display rooms, in particular making sure the setup for Danielle’s video worked to her satisfaction. Otherwise, I would be pitching in as needed, helping to prepare not just for the closer relatives coming tonight but also the two hundred more Talbots arriving tomorrow.

  Excited about all that lay ahead, I finished getting dressed and ready for the day and then did a final mirror check, pleased to see I was once again fully Nana-ready in pressed khaki slacks and a pale blue top, my hair shiny and straight, my makeup perfectly applied. I couldn’t fathom how women found the time to go through such tediousness every single morning. As far as I was concerned, anything other than jeans and T-shirts was just too uncomfortable, and makeup was for the birds.

  Speaking of birds, they were tweeting away like crazy when I stepped out of the guesthouse and pulled the door shut behind me. Looking around, I was struck anew by the beauty of this estate, the expansive crystal-clear pool, the wide flagstone patio, and the shady oaks, maples, and pines that dotted the immaculately trimmed grounds. It was all so peaceful and inviting—which said a lot considering that the Dark Woods were just beyond the perimeter.

  As I headed toward the main house, I realized it was already hot, much hotter than at home. I didn’t mind. That was part of coming here, especially when the high temps were exacerbated by humidity. Seattle’s climate was so moderate, which was preferable for the day to day, but something about this kind of sweltering heat was part of the whole Virginia vacation experience, the steamy air evoking lazy morning brunches on the patio, afternoon dips in the pool, and evening chats rocking on the porch to the chirp of crickets and the sparkle of fireflies. Not that we’d have time for any of that today, but it was pleasant to imagine.

  Because I’d never come early to the reunion before, I never realized how much work went into hosting two hundred plus people for a weekend, even if most of them would be staying at a hotel. I’d intended to pitch in where I could, but after sharing a quick breakfast with Nana, I ended up spending the next two hours on the phone, talking with Dr. Underwood about last night’s discovery and trying to make arrangements to have the entire pamphlet analyzed as quickly as possible.

  Despite our efforts, neither one of us was able to locate a reputable lab to do the job, much less on a rush basis, nor was there an electron microscope with DIC available for me to rent or borrow. In the end, our only solution was to talk with the folks at the Smithsonian and see if there was anything they could do. Intrigued by my findings, they said they would definitely examine the pamphlet for circles themselves once it was in their possession, and that they would be more than happy to let us know what they found.

  But that meant giving the pamphlet over to them before we even knew what its message said. I didn’t like that idea at all. Then again, what other choice did we have? We couldn’t exactly postpone the ceremony, and in the end we’d still be donating it, message or not. Bottom line, I guessed we’d just have to go with it and trust that the Smithsonian people would keep us in the loop.

  Sadly, because I was flying home Sunday and they couldn’t even get started on it until Monday, Blake and I wouldn’t be able to solve Jules’s code together, something I’d really been looking forward to. Decoding secret messages was probably right up his alley, and working on it side by side with him would have been a lot of fun.

  With a sigh, I gave up trying to find any other options, put away my notes, and turned my attention to preparations for the reunion. There was still much to do, and as I went from one task to another, I started thinking about my three cousins and how excited I was to see them.

 
; I was closest to Danielle, but I also adored Madeline, who was just a year younger. I loved Maddee’s little sister, Nicole, too, though things with her were always a bit more complicated as she tended to specialize in chaos, recklessness, and bad decisions. Nicole had been only six the year of the Incident, and in a way it had hit her harder than any of us. As she grew older and eventually “went wild,” as Nana liked to put it, I’d often wondered how much that long-ago trauma played into Nicole’s current issues. Regardless, we four cousins shared a bond born of family ties and annual gatherings and forged at a young age by our common trauma in the Dark Woods. Drama or not, I loved getting together with her and the others each year at the reunion.

  I took a break in the early afternoon and threw together a quick lunch in the kitchen of the guest house. I was settling in at the table, just about to take the first bite of my turkey sandwich, when the door to the patio slid open with a bang. I looked up to see Danielle standing there, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a wide grin on her face.

  The next hour flew by in a nonstop gabfest. My favorite cousin and I talked as I ate and she got unpacked, talked as we went to the main house and I showed her the display rooms, talked as she took a look at the projector and realized she could run the movie from a flash drive rather than from her laptop.

  She grew quiet, and I watched as she dug one out from her bag, inserted it into her laptop, and copied over the file. With her blond, flyaway hair, perpetually dreamy expression, and just-a-little-outré clothing, Danielle always looked the part of the artist. It wasn’t hard to imagine her out in a field of wildflowers, palette and brush in hand, poised in front of a waiting canvas. But now I was reminded that she was equally adept behind a camera or at a computer, using her skills with whatever medium applied at the moment.

  Once she was finished with her last-minute edit, we sat side by side in the darkness of our little ad hoc movie theater and watched the story unfold on the screen in front of us. I’d had no doubt that the video would be visually appealing with a nice mix of photos and graphics and transitions worthy of a Ken Burns documentary. But I was more than a little impressed with the other elements as well, including the editing, pacing, and writing. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Creative types like Danielle often possessed talents across the board. She was even musical, yet one more skill that was as foreign to me as my world of colloid chemistry and security printing were to her.