Love's First Light (24 page)

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Authors: Jamie Carie

Tags: #Religious Fiction

BOOK: Love's First Light
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His heart turned hard that day. Hard and glowing with purpose. He
would
mean something to the world. If it took his last breath to accomplish it . . . he would mean something strong and powerful enough to bring them all to their knees.
And now, he did.
Robespierre blinked, letting his eyes open and become accustomed to the dim light in the room. His had been
the
voice in this mighty Révolution. The king’s own neck severed at his gentle suggestion. He smiled and inhaled the victory of it, remembering the stricken queen’s face, how she, too, mounted the bloody steps.
Oh, revenge, how sweet your taste.
Oh, recompense, how you fill me with joy.
Oh, redemption and the mighty hand of righteousness, how fitting you are upon my shoulders.
Robespierre smiled.
Freedom has such a beautiful name, he mused.
And its name is Death.
He rose in the bed of his enemy and looked at his hands. They were coated with the blood of innocents. He held them up to his face and stared, breathing hard through his mouth.
No!
Yes!
But their blood cried out to him, demanding to be heard.
“No!”
He rose from the bed, still staring at his hands. “I will not hear you! Do you hear me? I will not listen!” He wiped his hands against his breeches as he took a step toward the low-burning fire he had lit hours ago when he plotted the demise of the final St. Laurent.
Well . . . not quite the final . . .
Émilie’s sweet, innocent face rose up into his mind’s eye. “Pure. The only thing pure.” He lifted his face to heaven.
“I spared her for you.”
There was no peace in that prayer. Turning from the fireplace, he looked toward the floor where his enemy lay conquered.
No one was there.
Chapter Twenty

 

Thin, wailing cries woke her. Her head was full of dreams, which faded away as the cries grew loud in her ear. What were they? Who made them? Finally, she remembered, and then reared up. André. He’d been born. He was here, right here next to her.
She winced at the slow, creeping ache in her pelvis and turned with care toward the small, moving bundle.
“Mon cher. Mon cher,”
she crooned, curling toward the waving arms and increasingly unhappy cry. “What? What is it?”
She drew him close against her body, her lips brushing his rounded scalp where dark hair grew in tufts. “Come. Come to me.” Her hand reached for his long, slender fingers, and he grasped quick hold. He turned his head toward her, his eyes the slits of a newborn, rooting with his rosebud mouth.
She smiled, wonder resonating through her chest like an expanding light, as his arms and legs waved, his wail growing truly distressed now. “Are you hungry? Is that it?” She worried so that she didn’t know, would never really know, all he needed. “Here.”
She unbuttoned her gown and offered him his breakfast. Had Daniel been alive she might have had a wet nurse, but she was glad not to. She wanted to be the only one who was her son’s whole world, at least for this little while.
A movement from across the room made her turn. Christophé was sitting in the room’s only chair against a far wall.
“You shouldn’t be in here. Robespierre could be home by now. He will want to see the baby.”
Christophé stood, wobbled a little, and then straightened. “Never felt so weak and dizzy before. Not accustomed to it. Forgive me.” He walked toward the bed. “I won’t stay long. They have put me in a maid’s room, but I couldn’t sleep. I had to see you.”
Scarlett looked down at her son, who had drifted back into a contented sleep. She paused, working up the courage to ask the only question she needed answered. “Why did you leave? I thought . . . I thought you cared about me.” She couldn’t look at him, so instead moved André to her side, turned away, and fixed her gown.
“Of course I do.” His voice was strong and sure behind her.
“Then why?” There was anger and hurt in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. “And without even a word. You just . . .” She turned back toward him, not caring that he would see her tears.
“It won’t make sense to you.”
“Tell me.”
He walked over and sat on the bed next to her. She could see the shadow of his beard and more—the shadows in his eyes. Finally he spoke. “Robespierre.”
“My uncle?”
“My enemy.”
Scarlett thought through his words. Christophé was an aristocrat. The Count of St. Laurent, as there was none of his family left living. Was Robespierre responsible? She stared into his haunted eyes and knew. Of course he was. Why hadn’t she put it together before?
“How did you know?”
“That Robespierre was your uncle?”
“Yes.”
“I found a letter in your house. Something about flour. That he could send no more.”
“Oh . . .”
That night after dinner when he had disappeared. He’d found the letter and the name of his adversary scratched at the bottom. She felt stupid. She should have guessed.
With careful moves so as not to wake her son, she scooted into the center of the bed and gently touched Christophé’s head, her fingers feeling the bristling shortness of his hair.
“You cut your hair.”
“I needed a disguise for Paris.”
“What were you planning to do?”
“Kill him.” He said it quickly—so quickly that it took a moment for her to feel the shock of the words.
“That’s why you came to this house that day? You were going to kill him?”
“Yes.”
“I saw you and at first I wasn’t sure it was you. But then I knew. I tried to distract them.”
Christophé grasped hold of her hand. “You did more than distract them. You saved my life.”
“You can’t still mean to go through with it.”
Christophé took a long, deep breath. “No, not now.” He leaned close to her and brought her fingers to his lips, brushing them with a kiss. “He took my family. I thought he took you away from me too. How could I love you knowing who you were? But God has shown me the truth. I won’t forget again.”
All Scarlett’s misgivings dissolved. “There is one more thing God has given you.”
Christophé kissed her hand again. “What is that?”
“The day you came to this house for Robespierre, do you remember seeing a servant girl with us?” She fought to keep the emotion from her tone, but failed.
He blinked, such pain in the depths of those stunning blue eyes. “Yes, I remember her.”
“When I asked her name, she wouldn’t answer. At the market, just a little while after I saw you that day, I asked her if her name was St. Laurent.
Émilie
St. Laurent.”
“Don’t.” Christophé slid from the bed and stood beside it, balling his hands into fists. “Don’t do this, Scarlett.” His face was tight and drawn, turning pale. “It is impossible. She is dead. She was guillotined. I . . . I witnessed it.”
“No.” Scarlett shook her head. “When I asked her name, I saw terror in her face. It was her. Your sister. But . . .” She looked down at the bed. “She turned and ran away.”
“I
saw
her. I saw her mount the steps. I saw them strap her to the board and slide it beneath the blade. I
heard
it. The blade. I heard it.” He shook one of his fists. “I saw her head in the basket.”
Scarlett pounded her fist on the bed, forgetting to care that she might wake the babe. “What if it wasn’t her? What if it was someone else?”
“I can’t believe it unless I see her face.”
How she wanted him to believe! To take hold of this hope.
Please, God, let him hear me.
“I told you, she ran away. I don’t know where she could have gone. But, believe me.
Believe
me when I tell you.”
He turned to stare at her, and Scarlett put all her heart into her words.
“Your sister is alive.”

 

 

A SOB ROSE to Christophé’s throat, his hand reached into the air as his body collapsed into a chair. Scarlett’s words slammed into him like a second blow to the head.
He was dizzy, not sure of the emotions flooding him. A sound escaped his throat—a sound unlike any he’d ever made before.
Scarlett climbed from the bed and came to sit next to him on the wide seat of the chair. He leaned his face into her neck, felt her arms encircle him, and then he heard himself say her name over and over.
Was that haunted, pleading voice really his? It was. And it seemed his heart was breaking. “I can’t bear it . . . if I believe it and it’s not.”
Scarlett’s arms tightened around him. “Trust me.”
Christophé looked up into Scarlett’s sure face. “We have to find her. Before he does.” He was starting to hope.
“When you are recovered. We will find her then.”
“I can’t wait. What if Robespierre finds her first?”
Scarlett shook her head. “She can’t have gone far. Think. Where would she go?”
He looked at the floor, seeing the thick carpet in swirls of reds and blues. Seeing the colors. “I told her to find the red door. I told her to go to Jasper’s.” He looked up at her. “But she didn’t find it.” The image of the door rose in his mind. It was a faded red, maybe hard to see in the dark. Maybe she had mistaken it for another color. Or . . . Thoughts exploded in his mind. What if to Émilie red looked another hue?
He felt a heaving take place in his chest as he gave way to hope. “I think I might know.”
“Where? I’ll ask Mother and Stacia to look.”
Christophé stared at Scarlett with fire in his eyes. “No. It’s too dangerous.” He stood and paced the room, then turned back to her, feeling, for the first time in a very long time, the fire of a new dawn burning in his chest. “Jasper. We have to find Jasper.”
Chapter Twenty-One

 

No sooner had he uttered the plea than the door to the room burst open.
Christophé spun, fearing the worst. Instead, he found himself facing Scarlett’s mother and a sprightly looking, white-haired gentleman.
“How is the baby?” Suzanne came around the bed to gather the sleeping infant into her arms. “Oh, I missed you,” she crooned to him.
Christophé moved forward, legs a little unsteady.
Thank You, God. Thank You.
“Jasper.”
Jasper quickly closed the gap, not saying anything, just holding him up and assessing his person. Finally the older man spoke. “What happened?”
Christophé shook his head. The women were in the room. “Not here. Come.” Christophé led his good friend to the sitting room, praying Robespierre would not come back and find them there. Sinking down onto a chair, he rubbed his prickly head and then winced in pain, remembering the injury.
“Robespierre. He came to the chateau. I didn’t know he was there. I . . . wasn’t thinking.” Frustration leaked out in every word. “He was waiting in my bedchamber. Tried to kill me. Nearly succeeded.”
“Why didn’t you come to me? If he thought you were back in Paris, you knew the first place he would look would be the chateau.”
“I couldn’t put you in danger again.” Before Jasper could argue with him, Christophé leaned forward, letting elation fill his voice. “Émilie might be alive.”
Jasper sat down on another chair as if his legs had been swept out from beneath him. “It cannot be. We saw her—the guillotine.”
“She was here. In this house. She was . . . his servant.” The last word dripped with bitterness. He looked up into Jasper’s shocked face. “I am afraid to fathom his reasons for keeping her alive and in his household.” Tears rose up to blind him. “But I am so
glad.”
“Where is she?”
Christophé gritted his teeth against the impotence creeping through him. “I don’t know. Scarlett says she ran away from
Les Halles. No one knows where she has gone.”

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