Love's First Light (31 page)
Scarlett blinked. “Upstairs. Sleeping.” She reached out and grasped hold of Émilie’s hand, imagining Christophé’s face when he saw her. “Come.” She led the girl from the room, motioning Jasper to follow them. “Even in disguise, you are not safe here. Let us hurry.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Christophé was curled onto his side, a shaft of light from the nearly closed curtains illuminating his hand up under his cheek. He looked as sweet as André . . .
Scarlett crept further into the room and sank down beside him. His wound was healing nicely; he’d had a resurgence of appetite the past two days, and she had seen to it that he ate well and often. His color was coming back. He was almost, he said today, ready to start the search for Émilie.
Love for him overflowed in Scarlett’s thudding heart as she leaned over his sleeping form. She wanted to just stare at him, watch him sleep. But she would have the rest of her life to watch him and grow old together. Now Jasper and Émilie waited on the other side of the door and she was so glad. So glad that she would be there when he first saw his beloved sister’s face. She leaned over his peacefulness and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He barely roused. She tried again, this time placing a chaste peck on his mouth and whispering his name.
He turned onto his back, his eyelids fluttering open. “Scarlett?” His eyes changed, turned dark and intense as his arm reached out to drag her toward him, across the bed and against his chest.
She couldn’t help her laugh and nestled her face into the curve of his neck. “You must wake up, my dearest. I have the most wonderful surprise for you.”
“Feeling better?” He breathed the words more than spoke them against her temple, pressing a kiss there.
She laughed and pushed against his chest. “Unruly man!” Suddenly serious, she leaned back. “You have visitors.” She rose up onto one elbow amidst the rumpled covers, gave him a quick kiss on the lips, and then scooted away. Standing beside the bed, her gown, the one she’d not been able to wear in the last six months, settled back around her now-slim hips and legs. She clasped her hands behind her back. Christophé was looking at her as if he would like to devour her. She turned his attention toward the door with a wave of her hand, calling out, unable to keep the glee from her tone . . .
“You may come in.”
ÉMILIE HEARD THE words as a heartbeat.
You . . . may . . . come . . . in.
Her feet seemed rooted to the floor. Fear had, at last, overtaken her and she began to shake uncontrollably.
You . . . may . . . come . . . in.
Her feet seemed rooted to the floor. Fear had, at last, overtaken her and she began to shake uncontrollably.
What if they were all wrong?
What if it wasn’t him?
Jasper looked down at her. He must have seen her stricken eyes because he leaned down to put an arm, somewhat awkwardly, around her shoulders. “It will be all right, Émilie. Come.”
His whisper reminded her of the prayer she said each night. In heaven they would all be together: Mother, Father, Jean Paul, and Louis. And someday, Christophé and she. She realized the reason she was no longer afraid to die. If she died she would see God . . . and her family. Some days she had longed to give up trying. Many days she had wondered what she might do to rile Robespierre so that he took her, hands bound behind her back, to the mounting steps of the scaffold. But it never seemed to matter. Robespierre had a place of suffering on earth for her; she was a used-up rag that he could wash himself with and thus make his world right again.
Now was no time to be afraid. Now was a time to be glad.
At Jasper’s urging she took a step in the wobbly, borrowed shoes. Then another and another and another.
Four steps to see his bed and tousled blankets.
Another and another.
Two more to see his shadowed face.
Another and another and another. And then . . .
He was before her, the dream of his face come to life.
Her brother’s eyes were like blue crystals. Jean Paul’s eyes had been brown. Louis’s blue, but not so blue as Christophé. Everywhere their mother had taken them as a group of children, Émilie could remember strangers stopping and staring at Christophé’s other-worldly eyes. They were of the purest blue, like the azure in a peacock’s feathers she’d once seen in the king’s own garden, light and bright at the same time.
She took another step as the memories of their childhood rushed over her. He was so still. She wondered if he breathed. Another step, and then the crystal of his eyes changed, darkening to brilliant sapphire, suspicious and afraid. He looked to Scarlett.
Scarlett took hold of his hand.
Émilie reached up and grasped the front of her veil, pulling it up. She took off the wig. She shook out her golden hair and then raised her gaze to his.
She saw the shattered recognition, how he struggled to believe.
“Émilie?”
The sound of his voice broke through the hardness in her throat. Her face crumpled. Silent sobbing shook her shoulders. She cried, really cried, for the first time since soaking his shirt in that dark, hidden room.
He seemed unable to move, and she was afraid again, afraid something would take him from her as the last time. Then she threw caution to the nether regions and rushed forward, hurled her body into his arms. She peeled away the unfeeling glove, reached out and touched his cheek. Then her fingers grazed across his bristled hair and scalp.
“You cut your hair.”
THE SPELL AROUND them broke.
Christophé’s chest heaved. His strong arms gathered her close. His quick breaths sounded like the wind in the stillness around them. “Émilie.” He said her name like it was the last name God ever gave to the created.
He pulled her tighter into his arms. “They said you were alive, but I dared not believe it. Not until I saw you.”
She cried into his shirt and then looked up into his eyes. Her voice was the soft, confused voice of a child. “Christophé, why? What harm had we done? What sin?”
What could he tell her? He could tell her of the poor and their wretchedness, their hollow bellies and huge, hungry eyes. He could tell her of the hovels across France, the dirt and the ignorance and the hopelessness. He could explain that the people had great cause to overthrow a corrupt and sordid government. He could explain the reasoning behind their righteous anger gone to madness, but he could not tell her why they hated him, or a twelve-year-old girl who had only known the bosom of a family’s love.
Christophé lifted her face and saw the tears on her cheeks. His heart ached with the knowledge that she would never be the same. She would not grow up as she should have—safe, loved and accepted,
safe.
He looked around the room, saw Scarlett’s hand at her mouth, her tears overflowing, saw Jasper’s joy and sorrow making his body rigid, melded like a chemical compound ready to burn. He felt gratitude that he’d found these two, intense thankfulness that he knew their love. That was it. Wasn’t it? It came to him as a blinding light.
safe.
He looked around the room, saw Scarlett’s hand at her mouth, her tears overflowing, saw Jasper’s joy and sorrow making his body rigid, melded like a chemical compound ready to burn. He felt gratitude that he’d found these two, intense thankfulness that he knew their love. That was it. Wasn’t it? It came to him as a blinding light.
Love.
It was the only thing they had to cling to.
It was the only thing they had to cling to.
He held Émilie’s thin frame against him. “Émilie.” He pulled her closer, holding her and holding her, stroking her golden hair. The only one of the St. Laurents with such hair. “You will never be alone again. I promise you. I promise you.”
Christophé looked up at Jasper over Émilie’s head. “We must leave. I won’t have her staying here.”
Jasper reached a hand into the air, his face set with determination. “You and Émilie will come home with me tonight.”
Christophé looked at Scarlett as he rose from the bed. He gathered his few belongings as he spoke. “Scarlett has agreed to be my wife. We will all go to London as soon as it can be arranged. You will come with us, Jasper?”
“I don’t know.”
“He will find out your part in this. You have nothing to gain by staying here.”
Jasper looked down and flushed. “Actually, I do. There is a certain woman I wish to know better.”
Christophé looked at Scarlett and then back toward Jasper. “What if the lady in question decides to come along with her daughters? What then?”
Jasper stood up straighter, taller. “If she does, I will be hard pressed to stay.”
Scarlett looked from one man to the other, and he saw comprehension dawn on her features. “Scarlett, you must speak to your mother and sister. Prepare them, my dearest, for within a week, we sail for England.”
Scarlett looked back and forth between the men. “What of André? Do you really think he can make the journey?”
“As long as he is in his mother’s arms, he will not know, nor care, what country he is in. We will be safer in England.”
Scarlett nodded. “I will go and tell them.”
“Urge them to come with us. We will find a way.”
SCARLETT SHUT THE door behind her and made her way back to the sitting room where her mother and Stacia waited with the baby. She heard André’s cries before entering the room and felt a pang of guilt that she hadn’t been there to take care of him. Perhaps he was hungry. He seemed forever hungry.
She was feeling much improved since the birth, and so glad to be able to fit into some of her earlier dresses, but still so new at mothering that it was hard to leave him in another’s care for even a few minutes. She turned the knob of the door, feeling the milk come to fore at his wailing, and stepped inside.
She stiffened as she entered the room.
Robespierre was there. Standing right there, holding her child against his shoulder. He looked up as she entered, looked long into her eyes as if he knew all that had gone on in his house. “Scarlett! There you are. We’ve been wondering what could be keeping you.”
Scarlett swallowed hard, saw the nervous expression on her mother’s face and Stacia’s raised brows, and then rushed over to André. “Here, let me have him. He must be hungry.” Her heart was racing so that she didn’t know if she could feed André or not, but she grasped her son’s flailing body from Robespierre’s arms as quickly as she could.
“You have been gone a long time, Scarlett. We were only attempting to soothe him.” Robespierre regarded her with stern eyes.
“I do apologize.” Scarlett glanced at her sister to further judge the mood of the room. Both her mother and Stacia looked white and strained. Scarlett thought for a moment, then turned from Robespierre and sank down into a chair without offering any excuse for her long absence. Then she simply began to unbutton her dress.
The move had the desired effect. Robespierre turned abruptly away, facing the fireplace, most ill-at-ease.
Scarlett took the moment to full advantage. “Why, Uncle, I feel as if we haven’t seen you in days. Whatever is the news? I’m so confined here in this house. Do tell me something diverting.” She exchanged a conspirator’s look with Stacia and helped André find his dinner all the while covering herself with a blanket. She was sure to allow the sucking noises to fill the room.
Robespierre did not turn back around.
“The Committee of Public Safety has decided upon a festival.” He paused and gave them a glacial glance of self-satisfaction over his shoulder.
“What is it for?” Scarlett met his look with one of polite curiosity.
His voice filled with a certain degree of pride as he expanded on the topic. “The Festival of the Supreme Being. It is tomorrow. I would like you all to attend.”
Scarlett suppressed a chuckle. “Supreme Being? Is that God’s name now?”
Robespierre fidgeted at the fireplace. “The atheists wish to abolish God. I shall bring Him back to His full glory. It will be an elaborate celebration of our continued belief in a Supreme Being.” He glanced around at the ladies. “They’ve made me the leader of it, I suppose.”
“Oh, that must be a terrific responsibility!” Stacia was a master of pretend, mock concern fairly overflowing her words. “Citizen Robespierre, you are so rarely to be found at home. How do you get any rest?”
“Only doing my duty.” Robespierre turned back toward the fire. Scarlett sent her sister a warning glare behind the man’s back. He was distracted and possibly mad, but he wasn’t anyone to toy with.
Stacia pressed her lips together in acquiescence. Then, changing tactics, she launched into a detailed description of all the social events that Robespierre had passed along to them, thanking him profusely and begging him to join them at some future date when he might be available. Scarlett’s mother joined in with enthusiastic bursts of detail, clearly unsure of her part in this particular drama, but playing it well all the same. Scarlett tried to keep the shocked laughter from escaping her chest. They just might pull this off. The man looked trapped in front of his own fireplace.
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