Promised to the Crown (21 page)

“I tried for months,” she said at length. “I wanted to.”

“I know that now. It hurt, seeing you recoil from me. It still hurts, knowing how my touch must have made you feel. Forgive me for my impatience.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said. “Just continue to be patient.. . . It may be a while before I'm completely comfortable.”

“Just tell me what you need,” Henri said. “In this and all things, and I will be a happy man.”

Rose took a deep breath and decided to broach a topic almost as painful. “I saw the letter on your desk. I was cleaning. I didn't mean to pry. I thought about running back to the convent and freeing you to return, but I couldn't . . .” She buried her face in his chest, wanting to hide from the truth that she'd cost him so much.

“Damn right,” Henri said, tucking his finger under her chin so she was forced to look into the depths of his flashing hazel eyes. “If you'd pulled such a trick, I'd have dragged you back over my shoulder kicking and screaming.”

“I didn't do it,” she said. “It may not have seemed like it, but I love being with you.”

“I'm so glad you're fully mine at last,” he said, caressing the soft flesh of her bare upper arm. “I love you.”

“As I love you,” she said, snuggling her face into the soft hairs on his chest, slowing her breath and adjusting to the closeness of her husband.

 

Henri looked none too alert at breakfast the following morning, and Rose was sure she'd looked more resplendent in mornings past, but she felt a lightening of the mood that had to have been obvious to all. Servants or no, Henri kissed the back of her hand at the table, where they now sat side by side rather than across from each other.

C
HAPTER
21

 

G
et the pillow off my face!
Elisabeth fought to scream, but she hadn't the breath for it. Someone shook her arm violently and she slapped at the intruder, only to feel her wrists seized by powerful hands.
I'm going to be murdered in my own bed.
She wanted to struggle further, but her muscles would no longer obey her orders. She tried to open her eyes, but pain gripped her as they fluttered open and she could not help but clamp them shut once again.
What has he done to me?
The intruder, a huge man, from what Elisabeth could tell, swung her over his shoulder and carried her from the bedroom.

She was jostled about as they descended the steps, and she heard the clacking and wheeze of the front door as they exited into the warm night air. As soon as they were outside, the man setting her on the stoop of a house across the street, fresh air impaled her nose and mouth like a lance. She was racked with coughing and heaves, unable to care that she lay prostrate in the street in her nightgown for all the neighbors to see. Tears streamed from her eyes, washing the poison away.

She did not know how long it was before she regained her bearings, but the first thing she noticed was that Pascal now sat beside her, his long, thin arm wrapped around her.

The second thing she noticed was that flames flickered in the windows, lapping at the wood, overdry from the unusually hot summer. Hungry like a wolf in winter, the fire ate away at the structure—the life that she and Gilbert had worked so hard to build.

Elisabeth stood in the street for a moment, watching her home engulfed in flames. She wrapped an arm around Pascal, and for just a moment she let grief consume her just as the fire consumed the parched timbers of their small home. Their shop. Their livelihood.

It's just a house. Just things,
she scolded herself.

But the platitudes didn't comfort her. She'd left too many things behind before to do so lightly now. Trinkets that would mean nothing to anyone else, but they were her precious memories from home as well as her new life. All gone. She didn't bother to wipe the tears from her face.

The churning in her gut eased when she saw Gilbert's frame, laden with water buckets, marching toward them with several equally burdened neighbor men. Despite the creases of fear and worry on his brow, he was safe.

“Get to the Lefebvres. Now.” Gilbert shouted the order in Elisabeth and Pascal's direction. She had no intention of disobeying Gilbert's command—if for no reason other than the baby's well-being—but her feet were not so compliant.

She stood and watched, helpless, as Gilbert and the other men formed a bucket brigade. Before long it looked like they might succeed in keeping the flames from spreading too far. She itched to join in, to help where she might, but her sore lungs and bulging stomach kept her from being useful. She breathed in a whiff of charred air and her shoulders sagged in defeat. Taking a final glance at her beloved home, she at last followed Gilbert's directive and dragged the bleary-eyed Pascal to the Lefebvre house, leaving her own behind.

 

A disgruntled-looking servant, named Paul, if Elisabeth's memory served, answered the door. He had been awake before she knocked, but disliked having his morning solitude disrupted before the house stirred.

“May I help you?” he asked, recognizing Elisabeth but not the boy. He looked her over, noting her disheveled hair and nightgown. Had he not known her, Elisabeth was sure he would have taken pleasure in turning her away.

“I am sorry to intrude, monsieur,” Elisabeth said, understanding his annoyance. “Our home is burning. My husband sent me here while they fight the blaze.”

“Please come in, madame,” the servant said. “I pray the fire doesn't travel this far. It has been a very dry summer.”

“Yes it has,” Elisabeth agreed, glancing back over her shoulder.
Spare the neighbors, please,
she prayed silently, ignoring the pang of guilt at the realization that this was the first thought she'd had for them.

Nicole, having obviously heard the noises downstairs, descended in her nightgown and robe. She ushered Elisabeth into the dining room and ordered Paul to see to breakfast. Despite her state of undress, she ordered the servants about as though she were dressed as fine as Queen Maria Theresa herself.

“Where is Gilbert?” Nicole asked. The look in her eyes was that of a woman who had known loss.

“Fighting the blaze with the neighbors,” Elisabeth said, refusing to indulge in her fears until she had reason to.

“It will all be fine,” Nicole said. “You're safe, that's the main thing.”

“From what I can tell from the upstairs window, the neighbors came to his aid. I wouldn't be surprised if the fire is out very soon,” Alexandre said as he entered the room, his expression grim. “They've organized as well as they can. God knows we need a proper fire brigade in this settlement.”

“Very true, Monsieur Lefebvre,” Elisabeth agreed, trying to focus on his words as she pretended to eat.

“It may be the first fire of the season, but it won't be the last. You and Gilbert, and young Master Giroux, will stay with us while repairs are made, of course,” Alexandre said.

“That is kind of you,” Elisabeth said. “Thank you so much.”

“Think nothing of it,” Alexandre said with a dismissive wave.

Pascal sat in silence next to Elisabeth, pretending to pick at his breakfast. She placed her hand on his shoulder, as was her custom. The gesture, meant to be comforting, seemed to make him retreat more into himself. She had never seen the boy not clear his plate, but did not chide him. Despite the incessant hunger brought on by her baby, Elisabeth did not eat her usual helping, either.

“Monsieur Beaumont,” Paul announced, showing Gilbert into the dining room.

Elisabeth leaped to her feet to embrace her husband, who looked bone weary.

“It's all gone,” Gilbert said. “A total loss. The Audet house was badly scorched as well, but thank God no one else lost their homes.”

“And you are unhurt?” Nicole asked, voicing the question that Elisabeth could not.

“Yes, though aged ten years in the course of a morning,” Gilbert said without humor, taking a deep draft from a mug of milk.

“I would think so,” Alexandre said.

“Well,” Elisabeth said, at last able to speak. “At least the three of us are all well. The building can be rebuilt and things replaced.”

Though she spoke the words, it was not easy to believe them. Some items could never be replaced: her father's recipe book, the two gowns Adèle had worn in her brief life. She even spared a thought for her mother's absurd handkerchief, embroidered to the point where it served no purpose. She had grabbed it on her flight from Paris on a whim, and she could never justify to herself why she had bothered. Those keepsakes could not be replaced any more than her father or Adèle themselves. Not to mention the house, which she had come to as a bride. The first home she had ever called her own.

Gilbert kissed his wife's cheek. The bakery had taken every coin he owned to build and had just begun to turn a real profit. It was harder for him to put things into perspective.

“Build in stone this time,” Alexandre said. “I wouldn't be surprised if they don't make it a law soon anyway, as many fires as we have.”

“It's a sound idea,” Gilbert said. “But mercy knows where I'll find the money for stone.”

“I'll lend it to you,” Alexandre said.

“I can't accept that,” Gilbert said.

Elisabeth could guess that stone would cost a fantastic sum of money. Debt was the curse of the colonist, and Gilbert had been proud to avoid it before now. It took no convincing for Elisabeth to see they wouldn't be able to escape it any longer if they wished to remain in business.

“You're the best bakers in the settlement,” Alexandre said. “It's a sound investment. With a solid building and good equipment, your business will double, if not more.”

Elisabeth knew this was an offer that a sensible man like Gilbert could not turn down.

“You have an agreement, Lefebvre,” Gilbert said.

“I—I should be getting home,” Pascal said with a stammer, placing his napkin on the table.

“What do you mean?” Elisabeth asked.

“It's my fault the shop burned,” he said. “I wanted to light the fire in the oven so the two of you could get more sleep.”

“You sweet boy,” said Elisabeth, wrapping her arms around Pascal. More than once, Gilbert groused about having to waken to get the oven lit and mellowed to the right temperature a full hour before they could begin baking.

“Son, it was an accident,” Gilbert said. “It could have happened to me, or to Elisabeth. That house was as dry as a pile of November leaves. I'm sorry it happened, and I don't want it to scare you. I'll train you up on oven duty as soon as I have one to light again.”

Pascal nodded at his master. Elisabeth kissed the boy's cheek and embraced him.

“We couldn't do without you,” she said with a teasing smile. “I've grown too accustomed to the help.”

“I've never been happier to hear a thing in my life,” Gilbert said. “And stay used to it, too. Pascal is going to be a full apprentice next year, and he'll need all the practice in the kitchen he can get.”

“Once your new shop is built, there will be no want for work,” Alexandre said.

“From your mouth to God's ears, my friend,” Gilbert said, raising his mug. “For there is never too much of that to be had.”

For the first time, in what seemed like an eon, Elisabeth slept past dawn. She made her way down the stairs the following morning, still unaccustomed to the fine surroundings. Her head split in two and her stomach was as unsteady as in the early days of her pregnancy. Though everyone was gathered in the dining room for their breakfast, Elisabeth persuaded a passing maid to fetch her a cup of tea to the vacant parlor.
Just a few moments of tranquility before I face company.

Elisabeth chose a plush chair, close to the window that afforded a good view of the river. The parlor was impeccably furnished and gracious like those of Anne Martin's elegant friends. Nicole, however, had the talent for making wealth and opulence seem welcoming and approachable. Elisabeth felt comfortable sitting on the velvet chairs and placing her cup on the marble side table. Perhaps it was Nicole's presence. Perhaps it was Alexandre's lack of pretension, despite his position. Whatever it was, Elisabeth was glad for their hospitality.

The maid emerged with the tea and departed, calling no attention to herself. The dainty china cup, painted with pink-and-white lilies, was eerily like the pattern her mother used to embroider on every cloth surface she laid her hands on. The flower of the French royalty. Anne had grander visions than life had fit her for, and Elisabeth spared a rare charitable thought for her mother.
You would have been an excellent noblewoman. Your father made a bad match for you based on the interests of his own pocket. Papa deserved better than you, but you deserved different from what you were given, too.

The greenish mixture in the cup was no proper tea, but an herbal approximation that was the best anyone could do in the colony. Elisabeth closed her eyes and dreamed that the fragile cup contained a rich brew of real Arabian coffee. Many mornings, she and Anne had enjoyed their cup of coffee in silence. One of the few things they shared was a love of the brew, and they chose not to spoil their enjoyment of it with conversation.

One sip of the bitter tea reminded Elisabeth that Arabian coffee was no more attainable in the settlement than the moon itself. One of the little sacrifices she never knew she would have to make when she left. Compared to the other sacrifices thrust upon her in recent days, it was insignificant, but Elisabeth found it easier to focus on the annoyance of inferior beverages than the real losses she was faced with.

Elisabeth stood, handing the cup off to yet another maid, and entered the dining room. She did not plaster a false smile on her face, but banished the grief from her countenance as best she could.

Just then, the babe inside her offered a reassuring nudge.
There's plenty to be going on for.