Page 19 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
A cinnamon-colored redingote over a petticoat of the same shade eased through the doorway at the front of the church. The woman Martel had passed outside. She carried a basket, but with the dying light behind her, Gilles could not see her face. She walked quickly up the center aisle, then froze part way to the altar. After a moment’s hesitation, the woman turned and walked to one side of the church, her haste suddenly exchanged for a leisurely pace.
“May I help you,madame?” Gilles called.
“I am only looking, but I thank you all the same.”
He could not mistake the steady, confident voice. One corner of his lips curled upward. Of all people to meet tonight, Mademoiselle Daubin? “This building is closed to visitors beyond members of the Jacobin Club.” He hopped down from the dais onto the checkered floor and ambled toward her.
She hesitated, then continued forward with her face turned to the side aisle as though admiring the colonnade. Her hair hid under a white cap without the usual ringlet or two falling down from the coiffure to curve around her long neck. “Has this church been claimed as property of the nation?”
“Yes, of course.” Gilles slowed as he approached. Themademoisellewas dressed much simpler than usual. She’d almost pass for a shopkeeper’s wife.
“For the people of France?” she asked.
What was she playing at? She knew all churches had been taken to be repurposed or sold. At dinner the week before, she’d made a comment about the “travesty” of churches being taken. “Yes, for the people of France.”
“Then surely, as a citizen of France, I have every right to be in a place of which I hold partial ownership.”
It was more complex than that, but Gilles didn’t have the words to make an argument. He bit down a grin. In some ways, she was correct. Gilles halted and dipped his head. “Mademoiselle Daubin, how good it is to see you again.”
“I do not wish to kiss you,” she said in greeting, brushing past him to continue her perusal of the church. Bottles clinked together in the basket she held over one arm.
So she’d determined to remind him each time they met, had she? Perhaps the more she did it, the easier it would be not to blush at the memory of his humiliation. “I cannot fathom why.” Gilles leaned against the side of the nearest pew. “The other Jacobins have gone. No one would see. We could pretend it never happened.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder without breaking stride. “You lie. You would go straight to Montpellier to collect your prize from Émile.”
Gilles chuckled. He’d be hard-pressed to fool her. “The sweetness of the kiss would be reward enough.”
“Then you would be sorely disappointed. My kisses are not sweet.”
His eyes narrowed as he watched her progression. What did she mean by that? That she was not good at it? She could not have meant the opposite. She was too much a lady.
Before he could make a quip about her ambiguity, she paused before a statue and gave a cry of disgust. “Why would they do this?” Her hand ran along the battered edges where the saint’s face used to be. “I loved this statue,” she whispered.
“Somerévolutionnairesgot carried away.” Gilles scratched the back of his head, trying to remember if this was one of the statues Martel had helped deface.
“It’s savage.” Mademoiselle Daubin backed away, still staring at the mutilated saint. She pressed her lips together and moved with more purpose deeper into the church. “You won your revolution. Why not leave the Church alone?”
She thought they’d won. Gilles snickered. The revolution was far from over. “You can hardly blame them, when all their lives they’ve been oppressed by the First Estate. This defacement was to be expected. The Church benefited at the expense of French commoners.”
Her back remained straight and defiant, but what he’d give to see her face. “There were some clergymen of the First Estate who exploited their positions, certainly, but you are a fool if you think all the Jacobin leaders are saints.”
“I think they would be offended to be likened to saints.”
She wandered to the altar and trailed her fingers along the polished wood as she circled it. Her head moved back and forth, taking in the details of the piece and its dais. “If the Jacobins truly want freedom, why do they keep our religion from us? Plenty of clergy are humble, loyal citizens of France who wish only to serve. But you’ve labeled them all traitors and ordered their deportation, guilty or not.”
He winced at her reference to the National Assembly’s most recent edict. All priests who would not give up their association with the Catholic Church and swear fealty to the new government were to be driven from France, whether they were foreigners or not. Martel had exultated about the matter during that evening’s meeting. One of Martel’s uncles was among these nonjuring clergymen. His friend wanted nothing more than to bring the man to justice.
“Many have been led blindly into their poverty in the name of religion,” he said, crossing his arms. “How are we to protect our unknowing citizens if there are enemies in our ranks?”
A spark of defiance—or was it just the candlelight from the altar?—touched her face. “The Church is no enemy of—oh!”
Gilles glanced up to see Mademoiselle Daubin stumble and disappear behind the altar, the contents of her basket rattling. He bolted upright. “Are you hurt?”
“I’ve only lost a shoe. Do not worry.” The large altar muffled her voice.
Still, he shot across the transept of the empty church and up onto the dais. She pushed herself to her feet as he arrived. His proffered hand came moments too late.
“I am well, thank you.” She righted her purchases and pulled the cloth that lined her basket more tightly around them. The corners of the napkin would not touch over the bottles despite her fussing. Both were etched with “vinaigre” on the sides.
