Love's First Light (14 page)
An hour turned into three, and then four, when Christophé noticed his hand was shaking so that he couldn’t read his own writing. He stood back from the table and berated himself. He would make himself sick, like the time at college when he’d forgotten to eat or sleep for three days. He had lost valuable time recovering and had promised himself never to let that happen again.
Taking his cloak from a peg on the wall, he threw it on, picked up his pouch with its dwindling coins, and rushed into the cold, dreary day.
He made his way to the market keeping the hood pulled low over his eyes. There were many booths selling food. If he kept to the far end, he should be able to avoid the three lovely ladies who sold bread. His heart raced at the thought of seeing Scarlett, but he forced his head down, not looking to the left or the right. He stopped at a fish booth, buying three baked fish pies, then crossed to another meat vendor for some sausages and a hunk of veal roast, well wrapped in salt. At a vegetable booth he bought turnips, then a small melon from a fruit vendor. Satisfied that he would be well provisioned for several days, he turned to go—
Then stopped cold at the animated voices from a booth nearby.
“Oui,
merciful God,
c’est vrai.
They were robbed of all the flour and one was injured trying to wrest the bag from the thief’s hand!”
merciful God,
c’est vrai.
They were robbed of all the flour and one was injured trying to wrest the bag from the thief’s hand!”
Christophé turned toward the pair and listened, his face deep in his hood, his eyes on the cobbled street.
“Mon Dieu!
What does the world come to? Poor madame, and so
enceinte
too!” The woman’s response only added to Christophé’s fear.
What does the world come to? Poor madame, and so
enceinte
too!” The woman’s response only added to Christophé’s fear.
He didn’t wait to hear more. He ran the length of the market, looking for the Bonham’s stall, seeing that, indeed, it was not there as usual. Now only a grassy space opened, like a blank page in a book. Stuffing the purchased food into his bag, he flung it onto his shoulder and rushed through the throng toward Scarlett’s street.
The house looked quiet and dark. Without thinking what he was doing he ran to the door and banged on it with all his might.
Stacia answered, opening it a crack to peer out. “Oh, Christophé, it is you. Thank heaven.” She opened the door wider and motioned him in.
“I just heard. How is she?”
Stacia smiled a knowing smile at him. “She is fine. Just a sprained wrist where the scoundrel jerked the flour bag from her hand. Would you like to see her?”
Christophé could only nod, his heart still pounding, his throat feeling closed.
Stacia took his cloak and led him up the stairs, chatting away. “Mother went to market to try and trade something for us to eat this week! What with the flour gone, we don’t know what we’ll eat! We always barter our bread for each week’s supply. And those horrible men that broke in . . . why—” she paused, leading him through her bedchamber and turning the knob on Scarlett’s door, quieting her voice—“I’ll let Scarlett tell you about that.”
She peeked into the room. “Scarlett. Are you awake?”
“Yes. Who are you talking to? Is Mother back?”
“No. I was talking to your visitor. Are you dressed, dear?”
“Visitor?” Her voice sounded panicked as they both heard the rustle of covers. “Who is it?”
Stacia flung wide the door and motioned Christophé in with a sweep of her arm. “Why, our very good friend, Christophé!” This she announced with a wide smile and a wicked sparkle in her eyes.
Scarlett held the covers up to her chest and stared. “Christophé . . .”
He rushed to her side, dropping the bag of food onto the floor. “I heard what happened in the market. Are you injured?”
Scarlett pulled her arms from beneath the covers and patted the edge of the mattress. “I am fine, really.” She lifted a bandaged wrist. “Just a sore wrist. The doctor says it is wrenched, but should be fine in a week or so. Mother is making me stay in bed.” She shook her head and lowered her voice. “I am hoping to convince her that I can get out of it tomorrow.” She smiled at him. “Thank you for coming. I—I had not seen or heard from you. I didn’t know . . .” She bit her lip, as though loathe to continue.
Christophé sank down beside her; his heart had yet to stop its wild beating. She looked so lovely in a lace-edged gown of midnight blue, with her dark hair spilling over the pillow. “I am relieved to hear it. I thought . . .” He paused and looked down at her small hands. “You haven’t been to visit Daniel’s grave.” He looked up into her eyes. “I didn’t know either.”
Their gazes locked and she pressed her lips together.
“After the last time, when I nearly caught my death in the storm, my mother convinced me of my foolishness. I will not visit that grave again until the baby is born and old enough to hear about his father.”
Christophé felt the world right itself. Of course. She shouldn’t be traipsing about the countryside! But he hated to come out of his hiding place, even for her.
“Tell me what happened. I came as soon as I heard.”
“Well, the scoundrels did make way with a week’s worth of flour.”
Stacia, who shouldered her way in with a loaded tea tray, huffed as she sat the tray down, which made a loud clatter on the bedside table. “I wish I had gotten a good look at the scoundrels.” Turning to Christophé she shrugged. “I’m sorry there is no bread or cakes to go with the tea. I’m afraid we’ll be having boiled beets for dinner.” She made a comical face and then plopped herself on a chair nearby.
Christophé picked up his bag and the food he’d just purchased from the market. He handed it over to Stacia. “There are some meat pies and such. Please, let me provide your supper, at least.”
“No. We’ll not take your food,” Scarlett interjected, but Stacia grasped the bag and curtseyed from the room. “Thank you, Christophé. You will stay and dine with us.” She smiled broadly as she shut the door behind her.
Christophé took up Scarlett’s good hand. “I will go after them. Tell me everything.”
THE FEEL OF Christophé’s hand around hers was both comforting and disturbing. Scarlett focused on his words instead.
“Certainly not. I’ll not have you endanger yourself for a little flour.” She didn’t tell him that there would be no more. That her mother and sister were postponing the trip to Paris until Scarlett’s wrist was healed, as they feared for her safety.
Christophé ignored her protest. “Tell me what happened.”
Too weary to resist, Scarlett gave in, waving her bandaged arm in the air. “We were all awakened by a loud crash. I rushed downstairs thinking that Mother had dropped something and as I rounded the corner to the kitchen, I saw three large men, their faces half-covered with scarves, bags of flour in their hands. I was too shocked to be afraid. Shocked and angry. I rushed toward one, grabbed the flour sack in his hands, and tried to wrest it from him. He was much stronger, of course, gave me a good shake and then tugged the sack from my hands. Within seconds they had fled out the back door. Mother and Stacia came to find me sprawled on the floor.”
“What were you thinking? You could have been killed!” He glanced at her stomach, a giant mound under the covers. “And the babe. Is it well?”
Scarlett grasped his hand and moved it to lie atop the mound, then smiled when the babe gave an immediate kick. “Oh, I think he is fine. He keeps me awake at night moving about in there.”
Christophé raised her hand to his lips and looked deep into her eyes. “How did they get in?”
“Busted through the back door. That must have been the crash that woke me.”
“We must fortify the locks.”
Scarlett turned serious. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about how to do that. The wood is broken, the handle and lock useless now.”
“I’ll repair it. Do you have tools? A hammer and some nails?”
Scarlett nodded. “I believe so. Thank you. We don’t notice the lack of a man about the place so keenly as when something like this happens.”
“I shall try to be useful.” He frowned and glanced around. “Maybe I should stay here for a few days. Make the repairs and see that you all are safe.”
Scarlett could not stop a shy smile from lifting her lips. “I think I would like that.”
Liar!
Her heart accused.
No thinking to it. You
know
you would!
Her heart accused.
No thinking to it. You
know
you would!
CHRISTOPHÉ PASSED A sleeve over his sweating brow and wondered for the hundredth time what had possessed him to offer such a thing as to stay at Scarlett’s house. Just this morning he’d prayed to be released from a torment he’d never before known—nor did he understand it. Staying in her home meant he would be engrossed with her face and voice and movements and silent looks for the ensuing days. What had he done?
He turned from the kitchen door, having replaced three long planks of wood, and couldn’t deny he enjoyed the female chatter as the women cooked and set the table. Perhaps his offer was not the wisest action, but as he listened, he had to admit he was glad he’d done it. Glad he’d offered. Glad they’d accepted.
Suzanne, Christophé noticed, kept a close eye on Scarlett, giving her the easiest chores. When she stopped Scarlett from carrying a bowl loaded with gleaming round potatoes to the table, Scarlett looked at Christophé and rolled her eyes.
He ducked his head to hide the laughter in his throat and turned back to his project. He had spent the afternoon shopping for wood and nails, well hidden in his cloak despite feeling exposed outside his routine. But the Bonham women had only come up with a hammer, and they were depending on him to fix things. That knowledge gave him the courage to approach a local carpenter to cut the wood into the length of boards that he wanted. All he’d had to do was tell the man the Bonham name. The story of the break-in, it seemed, was well known to the townsfolk, and Christophé wasn’t the only person wanting to help the three ladies and find the thieves. The carpenter’s wife even gave him a cake to take back to the women with the message that if they needed anything to send word.
Coming back, feeling as if he’d conquered something, he’d taken off the busted boards, the frame thankfully sound, and nailed on the fresh ones, making the room smell of fresh-cut wood. Now for a sturdy lock. The blacksmith suggested a long, flat bar of metal nailed horizontally from the middle of the door, with a simple latch piece that connected to another piece attached to the doorframe. The latch could be easily locked by a long metal clasp pushed through the hole in the center of it.
Scarlett came over and peered around his shoulder. He glanced up at her from his crouched position with a grin. “Shall we test it?” She nodded, and Christophé showed her how to secure the lock and then stepped outside. “Bar the door, and I’ll try it from the outside to test the strength.”
Scarlett closed the door. He waited out in the cool night air, feeling better than he had in days. There was something about making something, repairing something, doing a man’s work that could give such a sense of satisfaction. He’d forgotten that.
“Ready,” her voice called through the wood, sending a rush of delight through him.
Christophé pressed the thumb latch and gave it a good push. When the door didn’t budge, he put his shoulder to it and pushed harder. It seemed sound.
He knocked then. “It seems to be holding!”
He heard her laugh and then pull out the clasp. The door swung wide on her smiling face. “It’s wonderful!”
He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and kiss her, but stopped himself, only allowing his gaze to rove over her face.
“Come.” She held out her hand. “You look famished.”
He realized that he was hungry. Hungrier than he’d felt in weeks. Must be the physical labor—and the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen.
For dinner they added some potatoes Mrs. Bonham found in the garden to Christophé’s veal roast, along with turnips and fruit. The table was set with pretty dishes and a brace of candles. The women directed him to sit at the head, with Scarlett at his right, Stacia at his left, and Mrs. Bonham at the foot.
“Christophé, we can’t thank you enough.” Madam. Bonham beamed at him. “Would you say the prayer?”
The rote mealtime prayer from school rose up to his lips but he stopped it from escaping. His other prayers, those spilt- out pleas that kept him sane since the death of his family were also inappropriate. He found himself unsure and embarrassed, not having anything suitable to say. They sat in silence waiting, and then he felt Scarlett’s hand reach out across the table and grasp his. The minute her fingers intertwined with his, peace flooded him. He was among friends. Fear had no place at this table.
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