Page 41 of A Secret Correspondence
There was much Marguerite had not understood about the circumstances of her heritage, but she had only been a girl of eight when she had fled France.
The very little she knew she held onto fiercely. She knew her father had been taken to the guillotine for hiding a priest—they had needed no proof, only the word of a neighbor. She also knew her mother had been shot while they were running for their lives. Claude, her cousin, and Francine, her aunt, were both killed by the mob who had found them while they were trying to make it to the sea.
Only Paul and Marguerite—Marie-Louise at the time—had made it out of France alive. The trunk which had reached them in England was filled with Claude and Francine’s belongings. The one containing Marguerite and her mother’s things never arrived.
To tell Ruth now of the fears Armand had instilled in her during their dance, she would have to break Paul’s trust and reveal more about herself than she had vowed ever to speak aloud. More than anything, she did not want her friends to know the great lengths she had gone to in order to deceive their entire town.
They waited, blinking at her with curiosity.
Marguerite needed to saysomething. “I did not want my past to follow me here. It was not…my parents both died there, and it does not carry happy memories.”
“Of course,” Ruth said, waiting for more.
Armand’s words from the street that morning were more incriminating, but she was unsure if she could speak them aloud. “I wonder now if I was merely seeing a problem where there was none. The French are known for their pompous turns of phrase, are they not? Perhaps he was only trying to express himself.”
Oliver did not look convinced, but the carriage rolled to a stop.
Blessed timing.
“Thank you both.”
“We should have tea soon,” Ruth offered.
“Dinner,” Oliver said.
“Dinner!” Ruth hurried to say. “I meant dinner. I realize it can be difficult for you to leave the shop for tea. If I invite Eliza and Jacob, they will have plenty of room to bring you in their wagon.”
Marguerite looked into Ruth’s hopeful eyes and wondered how she became so fortunate as to have two women in her town who wished to be her friend. “I would like that very much.”
Ruth beamed.
Marguerite climbed from the carriage, taking the groom’s hand and stepping onto the road. She waved and pulled her key from her reticule to unlock her door, but when she pushed it into the keyhole, it moved the door at least an inch.
Marguerite’s breath hitched. She pulled gently on the handle, and the door opened easily. Had she forgotten to close it? No, of course not. She remembered locking the door before getting into the Rose carriage.
Someone had been here. Worse, they had beeninside.
Marguerite debated what to do for one moment longer when the door to the carriage opened and Oliver called out. “Is something wrong, Madame Perreau?”
Yes.
But she could not draw them into her trouble, especially if it was dangerous.
She had waited too long to reply. Oliver hopped out of his carriage and started toward her.
“It’s probably nothing,” she said, unable to keep it from him now. “But my door was open. I was trying to recall if I had forgotten to lock it.”
“Has this happened before?”
The other two unaddressed letters came to mind, but shehad been in the shop during those occurrences. “No. I have never come home to find my door open like this.”
“Stay outside, and I will walk through to make sure it is empty. Does anyone else possess a key?”
“No one,” she said, shaking her head. She hadn’t any idea who it could have been. Armand had been at the Faversham estate for the entire evening. He had danced with her. When would he have had time to slip away and travel all the way to her shop?
“How many rooms are there?”
“The main shop and the back parlor. There is a small kitchen behind the parlor with a staircase that leads to the living quarters, which is only the bedchamber.”
