Written on Silk (17 page)

Her stomach tightened. Oh, to just discover at the last moment that she was a secret princesse! Or perhaps have Duchesse Dushane unexpectedly leave her title to her —
La Duchesse Rachelle Dushane-Macquinet!

She laughed derisively at herself, then just as quickly tears came to her eyes. There were no secret princesses on either side of her family, and one was not likely to spring up with the daffodils. Non, reality was oft bitter and hard as the death of Avril and the cruelty to Idelette, and there was no simple solution to her love for the marquis. She had best face the truth. She was not a silly dreamer like her grisette maid, Nenette, who waited for a comte to ride up on his stallion and take her as his comtesse.

Rachelle had understood that it was a risk to fall in love with the marquis — and she had lost.

T
HE WIND ROSE WITH
unexpected fury before a rainstorm moved in and pelted the windows of the château. Rachelle lifted her dark blue skirts and sped up the stairs clutching her father’s urgent lettre. It was late, the house silent now but for the noise of the torrent of rain. She must alert her mère to Arnaut’s dangerous dilemma. There was little time to lose. On the landing, curling her fingers around the glossy banister, she thought of the marquis. He would be soaked to the skin before he and Gallaudet reached the inn where the rest of his men waited. Would they stay the night there or ride on? Knowing Fabien, he would brave the wind and rain.

She narrowed her gaze, furious with herself for allowing his situation to trouble her mind. “I hope he drowns,” she gritted and flounced along the corridor where the Venetian glass wall sconces glimmered like heavenly light through a prism. After a moment she stopped outside Clair’s chamber. The lamps were yet burning and sending a wedge of waning light beneath the door. She tapped lightly.

Nenette opened the door. The rims of her eyes were pink, showing losing bouts with tears.

“Is she asleep, Nenette?”

“She is awake, but Mademoiselle Idelette is asleep,” she murmured.

Rachelle knew her mère had brought Idelette to her chamber tonight to sleep, that she might watch over her and comfort her.

She entered the chamber, which was decorated in soft tones of ivory and lavender, and glanced toward the large bed recessed into the wall.

The filmy curtain with lavender lace trim was drawn closed on one side.

Clair must have heard her entry, for she came around the side of the curtained bed. Seeing Rachelle, she walked toward her, her dressing gown of silvery-blue floating behind her. Her golden-gray hair was undone and hung in a long braid across her shoulder. She looked exhausted but her light blue eyes were awake.

“Rachelle, ma chére, I thought you would be in bed by now. I was preparing to come and bid you a night’s rest. Idelette has finally fallen asleep.”

Rachelle joined her mother in an alcove near a window with the draperies pulled closed against the pummeling rain. Though they were alone with no one untrustworthy to overhear, in a low voice, Rachelle swiftly explained why she had come, and then handed her mère the lettre.

Clair stood and paced slowly as she read of her husband’s dilemma.

“I must write Arnaut of the worsening danger to him and to us. Calais is alive with Spanish loyalists. If this lettre had fallen into the hands of the soldiers at the inn and taken to Duc de Guise, I have little doubt but that he would have ordered the arrest of us all this night.” She turned to Rachelle. “How did the student escape their notice at the inn?”

Rachelle controlled her emotions as she spoke. “We have Marquis de Vendôme to thank for his swift action. I tried to keep from him the knowledge that Duc de Guise was behind the killings, but he discovered the truth. He and his page, Gallaudet, rode to the inn where the student was about to be questioned by two of Guise’s soldiers. Fabien and Gallaudet challenged Guise’s soldiers, demanding to know where the duc had made his camp for the night, enabling the student to flee. As they argued, the soldiers drew swords and a duel ensued. The two soldiers were killed.”

Once again Clair was placed in the uncomfortable position of indebtedness to Marquis Fabien, as she had been several weeks ago when he had escorted Rachelle home from his estate at Vendôme. Rachelle had been unchaperoned while there, which raised a frown on her mother’s brow. Later, feeling embarrassed by the incident, Rachelle commented to Idelette that her possible death at Amboise had seemed less threatening to her family than her perfectly innocent stay in a private chamber at Vendôme. “I assure you there was a strong bolt on the door,” she had quipped to Idelette.

“Where is le marquis now?” Clair asked.

Rachelle concealed her dire grief mingled with anger, lest her mother see just how deeply she cared for the marquis. “He has departed once again, as usual. He claims that urgent business has developed, and he regrets his inability to personally thank you for your hospitality.”

“He has left then?”

Her mother did not know of Fabien’s buccaneering plans and showed her bewilderment.

“Oui, he rode out several hours ago and will not be back — not for a very long time. He is voyaging to England.”

How disappointed Mère would be had she seen my shameless pleading
for him to stay.

Rachelle again thought of how great a lady her mother was, while she herself lacked patience and self-sacrifice. Why was there such a difference between herself and her mère and Idelette? Rachelle blamed it on her spiritual waywardness.
If only I were as dedicated to God as they are,
I should be most different in my temperament.

“The marquis is going to England?” Clair looked at her.

Rachelle realized her mistake. Her mother would disapprove of her journey to London to work for a time with the Hudsons if the marquis were staying in England also. Rachelle needed to show she was not enamored with him.

“He will not remain in England for long, I assure you. I believe he mentioned to Cousin Bertrand that he is sponsoring some of the expense of bringing supplies to Fort Caroline, in the Americas.”

“Florida? Ah, oui, your père spoke of the colony to me as well, some time ago. I did not know the marquis was an ami of the Huguenot admiral.”

Rachelle decided to keep silent and not rush to reinforce Fabien’s reputation by aligning him with the devout Huguenot, Admiral Coligny.

Clair again studied the message in her hand, and her elegant features tensed. “Arnaut must be warned with all speed. Bertrand cannot travel to Calais anytime soon. The student, Mathieu, was it? I shall need to send him to your père come morning. Have you seen to his needs?”

“Oui, he is well settled for the night with food and clothing.”

“A lettre must suffice to your père. How did Mathieu arrive, by horse?”

“Non, on foot from the inn. I did not see a horse.”

“Then a horse will be given him, and I shall see to his expenses.

I wish I might go to your père myself, but — ” she shook her head and looked toward her bed — “it is not wise to leave your sister now.”

Rachelle would have asked to go to Calais in her place, but she saw no weakening in her mother’s stance.

Clair’s eyes softened, and she laid her palm against Rachelle’s cheek in a gesture of motherly endearment. “You need your sleep, ma petite.

Go to your rest now, try not to worry. Our burdens are very heavy, but it will not always be so. He will lead us through this darkness.”

Rachelle nodded, trying to offer a small smile for her mother’s sake.

Do not betray your feelings now
.

She walked to the bed and gently moved aside the curtain to look in on her sister. Idelette had taken the sleeping medicine and was in deep slumber. The sight of her bruised face tugged at Rachelle’s heart. She narrowed her eyes as smoldering anger leaped to renewed flames.

It is not in me to forgive so easily. I loathe Duc de Guise! I should not be
robbed a moment’s rest if the marquis ran him through with a sword!

T
HE NEXT MORNING
CLAIR’S
family bid adieu to Mathieu, who would leave for Geneva with a new wardrobe, money for his journey, and some extra for his Bible training, as well as Rachelle’s own horse, which she had presented to him as a gift. Mathieu was overwhelmed with Macquinet brotherly love and vowed he would rather die than fail in his ser vice to the Lord Jesus.

“If it would help to bring the Bibles to Spitalfields, I would swim across the channel with them.”

“May the Lord provide a drier conveyance,” Cousin Bertrand said weakly from his bed, his humor intact. They had all laughed, one of the first times since the attack. It had made Bertrand’s prayer as Mathieu knelt inside the chamber one that came as close to joy as Rachelle remembered.

Avril’s funeral was held on estate property, and Bertrand insisted on being carried to the graveside on a litter to conduct the ser vice. The only one who did not attend was Sir James Hudson because of his injured leg.

He stated that if a second person were carried to the family cemetery on a stretcher, it would discourage even the most stalwart.

This was but one of the funerals that took place in the village district outside of Lyon that week, for there were many, most done in haste. Rachelle had heard, with a cautious glance along the back roads, that many of the Huguenots expected the Duc de Guise to return. There would be other villages and other attacks against the heretics. Some believed it had been merely by unfortunate chance that the duc had ridden this direction on a Sunday morning and found an “unlawful assembly of worshipers who would not attend Mass,” and therefore had to be killed. But after what Mathieu said about the two soldiers at the inn, Rachelle did not believe so. Some found the stark reality of planned persecution too difficult to accept. They would not believe that evil reigned in the minds of their fellow citizens who would turn on them if the right happenstance stirred them up. Rachelle had heard it over and over again.
Not here. It can never happen here the way it does in other towns. The Duc
d’Alva will never come to France.

“He does not need to come,” Rachelle had quipped the afternoon of the funeral when neighbors came to pay their respects. “The King of Spain has his legates: le Duc de Guise and Cardinal de Lorraine.”

Several of the neighbors were not Huguenots and looked at her sharply, and Madame Clair smoothly intervened with a change of subject and a firm glance in Rachelle’s unrepentant direction. She had left the grand salle after that, and when everyone had gone home, her mother had sought Rachelle in the garden. It was a pleasant spring day after the rains, and the flowers were in bloom with birds trilling.

“Ma chére, you must guard your tongue. You are becoming cynical and too sharply spoken.”

“I see no reason to be corrected in speech in order to not offend them. Can they not handle the truth?”

“Truth must be spoken in love.”

Rachelle knew as much. “I am sorry, ma mere, if I embarrassed you, but I care not what they think.”

“You must care. They are our neighbors. We must live together in respect of one another and in peace, if we can. Remember, ‘as much as it lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.’ ”

“I suspect that some of them knew the Duc de Guise was riding toward this village and deliberately withheld the information. They come here not because they grieve for our great loss, but as spies.”