Page 1 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
May 1792
Marseille, Provence, France
Gilles Étienne shifted in his chair and leaned closer to the ledger before him. Most days he relished political debates, but this evening he had too much to finish before his Jacobin meeting. He resisted the temptation to join in the argument between his fellow soap-factory clerks.
“The monarchy has nothing but love for France,” the new clerk said as he marched toward the door.
Gilles faltered in his writing, an errant mark from his quill defacing the page. Ignorantroyaliste. The monarchy had brought only pain and suffering to their country. Gilles wound his fingers through his mess of dark curls. His employer, Monsieur Daubin, needed these numbers tomorrow morning, but the quarrel behind him rang through the office with increasing volume, nearly drowning out the sound of a carriage passing outside the factory.
The other clerk snorted. “Frenchmen have enjoyed more freedom in the three years since the start of the revolution than they’ve seen in centuries, perhaps millennia.” Out of the corner of his eye, Gilles spied the young man pulling a red cap, a symbol of the revolution, out of his pocket. It was a bold move since, as far as they could tell, the owner of thesavonneriealigned himself with theroyalistes. “Come, Étienne. Surely as a Jacobin you will not stand for such ridiculous treason to reach your ears.”
“Mostly I wish for only silence to reach my ears,” Gilles mumbled. An ocean breeze, so faint only a practiced nose could pick it out, skipped through the open office window and tried to draw away his attention. He’d gladly left the sea behind two years previous, but disputes with unyielding monarchists almost made him wish to flee to the deck of a ship at full sail. Almost.
“Leave him be,” theroyalisteclerk said. “Étienne knows he has no real evidence against the king.”
Gilles ground his teeth to keep from launching himself into the argument. He had many reasons the king deserved to be removed, starting with the extravagance allowed to the queen. But disputing with someone whose mind was already made up would not put more money in Gilles’s pocket.
“Or he simply wants to make sure he is in themonsieur’s favor,” therévolutionnairespat.
There was truth in that. Staying in Monsieur Daubin’s good graces meant earning a few extralivreshere and there. Every addition to his wage put him one step closer to joining his second oldest brother at the prestigious medical school in Montpellier.
Footsteps on the stairs halted the argument. “Until Monday,messieurs,” Gilles called cheerily as his companions hurried out the door to his right.Sacrebleu. They could be so tiresome.
He went back to the numbers before him, which were not adding up as he expected them to. Perhaps one of his fellow clerks had made a mistake in calculating somewhere.
Creaking in the corridor announced an intruder on his solitude. Gilles extracted his fingers from his hair and straightened. Monsieur Daubin, no doubt. Few employees stayed late at thesavonnerie.
“Gilles,” hissed a voice too intense to be themonsieur’s. Émile, Monsieur Daubin’s oldest son, poked his head through the doorway of the clerks’ office, an impish gleam in his eyes. Though he was a year older than Gilles, some days Émile did not act it. Neither did Maxence—Émile’s friend and Gilles’s brother—and he was two years older.
Gilles chuckled and stuck his pen back in the inkwell. “I did not know you were due home. Is Max with you?” The two often traveled back together from Montpellier.
“He expected you to be at home by now, so he continued on.” Émile’s grin hadn’t dimmed. “There’s someone you should see in my father’s office.”
A patron? Gilles leaped from his chair and snatched up his jacket. “Did you see who it was?” Monsieur Daubin did not have an appointment scheduled so late in the evening. Not one he had told Gilles about. Had the minister come to inquire about his order? “Was it an older gentleman? Tall and thin?”
Émile leaned against the doorpost and folded his arms. “Tall and thin, yes. But most certainly not a gentleman.”
Gilles paused in pulling on his jacket. “A lady?” What lady would come to thesavonnerie? Most women preferred Daubin’s quiet shop in the Noailles district for purchasing their soaps and perfumes.
“A young one. And well dressed.”
“Waiting for your father?”
Émile shrugged. “She said she has business with him.” Something about his nonchalance made Gilles raise an eyebrow. He was playing at something.
Émile nodded behind him. “You should see.”
Gilles glanced at his incomplete work. Monsieur Daubin would not get angry about the unfinished business, not after he had sent Gilles all about Marseille on various errands earlier in the day. He closed the ledger, capped his ink, and pushed himself out of his chair. With writing utensils stowed and the desk cleared, he turned to a smirking Émile.
“My father might will this factory to you, if you aren’t careful.” He caught Gilles’s shoulder, eyes narrowing conspiratorially. “I have a wager.”
Aïe. Not that.
“Kiss that girl in there, and I’ll give you twenty-fivelivres. Unless you are too frightened.”
Why did he and Maxence enjoy this game so much? Not that Gilles didn’t like kissing girls—he liked it too well—his conscience just had a stronger hold than either his brother’s or their friend’s. And the look Émile gave him indicated that he expected a challenge.
But twenty-fivelivres...
