Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (50 page)

Chapter Three

J
ean Paul yawned as he surveyed his beans, the green plants leafy and tall as they wove their way up the trellis. Though it was only the beginning of July, within another week or two his first batch of the tender pods would be ready to harvest.

He paused to pluck a weed, then went on to his tomatoes, squash, carrots and potatoes. The leaf lettuce and kale needed to be cut yet again, radishes waited to be picked and the summer squash would be ready about the same time as the beans and cucumbers. More food than he'd ever be able to consume, and just in the vegetable garden. His fields stretched beyond, filled with a mixture of wheat, turnips, barely and clover that he rotated yearly.

He drew in a breath of fresh morning air and looked out over his work. His land. His fields. Today he needed to weed the lower field and check the—

“Bonjour?”
A voice called from up near the house.

He glanced at the sun, barely risen above the trees in the east, and hastened through the rows of radishes and tomatoes. Was there an emergency in town? A task for which the mayor needed him? Someone must have good reason for calling before the sun had been up an hour.

“Bonjour?”
The voice echoed again, its light, feminine cadence accompanied by a pounding sound.

Who could it be? He frowned as he trudged around the side of the house.

And there she was, standing beside his cottage door as though she'd appeared from the mist. She wore the same threadbare dress and apron as yesterday, and her hair was once again tucked sloppily under her mobcap with stray auburn tresses hanging down to frame her cheeks. Her skin was paler than milk from a cow, and the features of her thin face sunken with weariness.

And yet she seemed beautiful somehow, in the delicate way only a woman could be beautiful when tired and hungry. He took a step forward, the urge to aid her twining through him. He'd hustle her inside where he could give her food and let her sleep. Offer her—

His movement must have given himself away because she turned to face him, then bit her lip.

“Citizen, forgive me. I thought you were...” Her eyes slid back to the door.

“Inside, hiding from you?”

Her cheeks pinked, a truly lovely shade, and a much better color than the deathly white that had stolen over her when last they'd spoken.

“
Non,
Citizen. I don't have a need to hide from women—or men. Farmers start their days early.” He surveyed her again, her thin, willowy body and slender shoulders, the hollowness in her cheeks and her bonelike fingers. “As do you.”

Her cheeks turned from soft pink to bright red, and she dipped her gaze to the ground. “I came to see about the post again. Perhaps you've changed your mind and are willing to hire me?”

“You need food, not a post.”

“
Non.
I—”

“Wait here. I've soup you can take.” He headed toward the well along the side of the yard and reeled the bucket up, his leftover food from yesterday's evening meal cool and fresh thanks to the water.

Footsteps padded on the earth behind him. “I didn't come for food. I came for a post.”

He hefted the bucket out of the well and headed for the house. “And I told you yesterday, I've no need of a maid.”

“The deplorable taste of your bread convinced me otherwise.”

The side of his mouth twitched into that foreign feeling of a smile. The woman might be slight of body, but it took a speck of courage to tell him his food tasted horrid while he prepared yet another meal for her. “'Tis true, I've no knack for making bread. Though on days when I head to town, as I did yesterday, I purchase some.”

He opened the door to his cottage, and rather than try to force her inside as he had yesterday, he left the door open and set the soup on the table. He ladled the thickened liquid from his bucket into a second pail, then reached for the loaf of bread from the baker's, tore it in half and wrapped it. The meal should suffice her for today, mayhap even tomorrow if she rationed it.

“I don't need your charity.” She stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her slender chest.

He moved to her and held out the food. “You look as though you've not eaten for a month.”

“I don't claim to eat well, but that's a situation I can remedy myself.
If
you hire me.”

Having a woman in his home would be like salt on memories that were far too raw. Corinne's smile when he made her laugh, the shine of her hair in the lamplight, the taste of her lips beneath his and feel of her face in his hands. How many days had they toiled together, working side by side in the fields? How many nights had they spent in each others' arms in the little house at the back of his property? How many times had he come through the door, tired and dirty, to find a fresh meal and smiling wife awaiting his return...

“Citizen?” The woman in the doorway cleared her throat.

“
Non.
I can't hire you.” He dipped his head toward the food he still held. “Now take this and make haste.”

Her vulnerable gaze trapped him. She was so much like Corinne. Oh, her hair might be tinted with red and russet rather than blond, and her eyes might be a soft brown rather than blue. But she held herself the same—with strength and dignity.

Nothing good would come of having her about this house. Besides, if he did offer work, he hadn't any place to put the woman except for the cottage at the back of the property. The one he'd shared with Corinne.

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.”