Love's First Light (30 page)
She had changed it up a bit. But she didn’t think the Lord minded. She knew He heard her prayer every night. It was why Christophé had come back to Paris.
“Thank You,” she whispered into the pillow, unable to keep a tear from trickling down her cheek. “Thank You, God of my strength.”
THE MORNING BROUGHT Jasper with a tray. She’d spent so many years serving Robespierre, becoming his personal housekeeper and all that she learned that meant. Making sure his shirts were freshly ironed; his breakfast hot and waiting as he entered his private salon, where she faded in the background, hoping he wouldn’t try to engage her in conversation so that he might assuage his guilt and convince himself of his moral ground. The endless errands she ran with messages clutched, burning hot in her hand, messages she refused to read, reminding herself that the God of her prayer would save her and not any notion of her own. She delivered his messages, set his meals on the table at exactly the right time, had his clothes freshly pressed and then, day after day, minute by minute, waited. Her only personal activity was to pray each day, each moment, when she first saw his face, that she might forgive him.
He must have seen it in her at times, for there were brief moments when the haze would lift from his shuttered eyes and he would look at her with such fear. Those were the times he banished her from the room and then avoided her for days. But he never banished her for long. And she never failed to serve him to the best of her ability. Even at her tender age, something, some woman part, knew that she had become his life. She was the one that kept him afloat when the madness threatened to take over. She was the one that listened and tried to love him, her enemy, as Christ loved His. She became his shadowed cross to bear.
And he, hers.
Now, this day, they would go back. She was terrified, if she admitted it to herself. There had been that moment of freedom as her feet were flying out beneath her, as she ran from the marketplace and the beautiful woman with the red lips calling her to come back. She had imagined herself one of Christophé’s kites, bright and free and high enough in the wind that no one could catch her.
The feeling hadn’t lasted long, though. It soon grew dark, and the citizens of Paris, ever watchful, were gazing overlong at the young girl in a servant’s dress who looked lost.
The memory of the kite had taken her to the street where she and Christophé had hidden in the bushes . . . where he had promised to return, but hadn’t . . . where she had not been able to find the red door. She thought him captured by Robespierre and somehow, somewhere, dead and buried. But Jasper said Christophé was alive. And he seemed the kind of man who knew what he was talking about. She knew God had helped her find this place where she was now being served breakfast from an old, wondrous man who acted as if he moved too quickly she might break into shattered glass.
He didn’t know how strong she was. He didn’t realize that she knew the source of her strength. He could not realize that she’d grown up overnight and no longer thought like a child.
And he must not discover it. They would expect a reunion where she was small and helpless and thankful and bereft of any knowledge of how to take care of herself. She must slip back into the role of little sister as she feared Christophé wouldn’t know her otherwise. As she took up the honeyed bread and drank from the cup of chocolate, she decided that she could give them that. If only for a time.
“We will go now?” She asked Jasper as she drained the pretty teacup with rosebuds dotting up and down its sides.
“Yes. There is a washbasin on the side table if you would like to freshen up. As soon as you are ready.”
“Are you not afraid we will meet Robespierre?”
Jasper looked down at her and reached out a reassuring hand to pat her shoulder, but she saw fear in his eyes. “We will be careful.”
“There is a back stairway. I could show you.”
“Yes. That would be helpful.” He passed a thin-boned hand over his chin. “Do you suppose we should attempt a disguise?”
Émilie’s eyes widened at the idea, a feeling of excitement spiking through her. Dress-up had been one of her favorite games as a child. “What did you have in mind?”
Jasper looked about the room then walked over to a large armoire. “This belonged to my parents. I never removed it and now I think I know why.” He angled a grin over his shoulder. “There might be something amidst their old things for this play-acting show.”
He threw the door open, and dust and mothballs billowed into the air and rolled onto the floor. “Come, child. Let’s find our treasure.”
Émilie bounded from the covers and walked over to take a look. She grasped hold of a black, lace-ruffled gown. It would be too large, but with some pins might make the journey to the house. “We are in mourning. Wearing the Republic’s cockade proudly, of course. You are my grandfather, and I think”—she looked up at him—“that with a hat like this one”—she reached inside and dragged out the ancient item—“you are here for the funeral of my mother, your daughter.”
She clasped the old dress to her, warming to the subject. “I will have this hat, as it has a veil and”—reaching down, she grasped something and held them high—“these very high heels to increase my age. My brother, John, is staying in a house on the same street as Robespierre and, if discovered, we have come to the wrong house. You are taking me back to Lyons after the funeral.”
Jasper chuckled. “And what are our names, my little actor?”
“Montclaire.” She stated with a sure smile. “It’s common enough and not of the nobles.”
Jasper looked down at her with a gleam in his eyes, and she knew in that moment that he realized he had underestimated her maturity.
“You will be Reginald Montclaire, and I will be Ann-Marie.” She grew suddenly serious. “But we have no papers.”
“Perhaps we will have papers,” Jasper assured her. “I am not without certain hidden talents as well.” They smirked at each other in glee. “Just give me a few moments to work my magic, my dear, while you change into your new identity.”
STACIA STRODE INTO Robespierre’s sitting room in a fine, high-waisted, jade-green gown and sat gingerly on the edge of the silken cushions of a chair. She put her hand, aware of the pose of drama, to her forehead and let out a great sigh.
Scarlett peered at her. “It didn’t go well, either?”
“Pompous jackanapes all around.” Stacia blurted out about the men from the soireé. Their mother gasped and then tried to hide her smile behind her hand as she followed Stacia into the room.
Their mother shook her head, setting her curls dancing. “Stacia, you must never speak so. It’s not befitting a lady.”
Stacia smirked at Scarlett, but spoke to her mother. “There was no other way of putting it and you know it was true, Mother.”
Her mother settled into another chair, arranging the skirts of her best dress. It was a lovely lavender costume, but of the old style, with a bodice that made their mother’s bosoms nearly burst from the neckline. Thankfully she’d stuffed a fichu in the center to lessen the effect. “Yes, well, nevertheless . . .” She let the comment trail off, as if not knowing how else to describe the soiree they’d attended in the attempt to find Stacia a husband.
“Tell me everything. I’ve been cooped up in this house for days and desperately need the diversion,” Scarlett demanded with a desperate look at Stacia.
“The men!” Stacia began. “They think of nothing but this Révolution. Do I not look pretty tonight?”
“Indeed, you do.”
“I could have been a nasty bug on the wall for all they noticed. Not that I really cared. There was no one, and Scarlett, I mean not
one
of them that I would even care to dance with.”
one
of them that I would even care to dance with.”
“Was there dancing?” Scarlett looked dreamy-eyed at the thought.
“Of course not,” Stacia resounded. “Only talk and eating. And more boring talk.” She fell back against the cushions. “This was my third time out in Parisian society and I can only say that it is sadly lacking. My expectations have fallen to a new low.”
Scarlett shook her head, feeling genuine sorrow for her sister. When she’d come to Paris it was a fairyland. The balls, the dinner parties, the opera. Yes, the opera. “What of a play or the opera house? I have heard that while they’ve closed down all the churches, the opera is still alive and well. You could try that.”
Stacia groaned. “The actors will be killing one another in the name of the Révolution. Of that I’m sure.”
“Well there isn’t anything to be done about it.” Their mother spoke in an even tone. “We must make the best of any opportunities. It has been so kind of Robespierre to give us all of his social invitations and insist we go in his stead.” She turned toward Stacia with uncharacteristically stern briskness. “It is what the world is at present.”
Stacia pouted. “Yes, but Scarlett was so lucky.”
Stacia’s words hung heavy on the air. Scarlett knew they were realizing that Scarlett had not been so lucky in the end.
“Oh, Scarlett, I beg forgiveness. That was thoughtless of me.”
Scarlett only waved her sister away. It didn’t matter. The past was over, and the present was set to lead her to a wonderful future. Dare she tell them of her engagement? Her newfound happiness?
Just as she was deciding that it might be the right time, there was a slight knock at the door. Scarlett, being closest, rose to answer. Who could be calling at this late hour? Robespierre was out for the night, and Christophé was sound asleep the last time she’d looked in.
She opened the door and blinked. It was Jasper, Christophé’s friend, she was sure, but he was dressed so strange, in a costume only the elders wore, as though he’d borrowed his dead father’s clothing. There were even moth-bitten holes on his jacket! “Jasper, is that you?”
“Yes. Scarlett, my dear. You look wholly recovered.”
Scarlett opened the door wider and saw that he was with a young woman who was entirely veiled. How odd! Peering over her shoulder, Scarlett stared, round-eyed, at her mother and sister. “I am feeling much better, thank you. Please, come in.” She nodded to the lady as she passed, wobbling a little in a pair of shocking-blue, laced-up, high heels.
Scarlett could not help a smile as, upon seeing Jasper, her mother rose from her seat, all aflutter and allowing Jasper to grasp her hands tightly in his. “Jasper, whatever
are
you about? You look . . . astonishing!”
are
you about? You look . . . astonishing!”
Scarlett exchanged laughing gazes with Stacia.
Jasper bowed low over their mother’s hand, lingering it seemed, and causing their mother to blush from chest to forehead. “I have brought someone, dear lady. Someone for Christophé to meet.”
“Christophé?” Her mother’s voice was like a squeak in the room. She looked at Scarlett and then the veiled lady. “I daresay you don’t know, Jasper.”
He straightened to his full height, which was still rather short. “Know what, my dear?”
Suzanne pursed her lips together and then whispered, though they all heard her: “Scarlett loves him. You shouldn’t be bringing another woman around.”
The veiled lady turned her head toward Scarlett, and then slowly lifted the black lace.
They all gasped.
“Émilie!” For a moment, Scarlett couldn’t move, then she turned toward Jasper. “You
found
her.”
found
her.”
“She found me, my dear.” Jasper turned toward the girl and gazed at her with all the pride of a father.
Émilie reached out and touched Scarlett’s arm. “Do you truly love my brother?”
Scarlett could only stare at her. She was speaking! And she sounded so like him, the way her tone lifted on the word “truly,” the way she tilted her head and stared straight into Scarlett’s eyes. She really was Christophé’s sister. Scarlett had been right. Until this moment she’d hoped and prayed that she was, but she’d been a little afraid. What if she’d been wrong?
“Yes.” Scarlett looked down and then around at the carpet, and then back up at Émilie. “I love your brother.”
The room was silent for a long moment as Scarlett and Émilie stared at one another, each communicating their love for Christophé St. Laurent. Then Émilie reached out for Scarlett’s hand. “I’m so glad.”
Jasper looked around at the ladies in the room and cleared his throat. “We might not have much time. Where is he?”
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