Page 22 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Blackmail? “I said nothing of—”
“Tell him I will wait in the office. With the door barred this time.” She strode toward the side building that held the offices and stores.
“Attendez,mademoiselle!” Gilles called, jogging to catch her. “Wait, please.”
“Have you gone to your Jacobin friends?” she hissed, not looking at him. “Or is that your plan if you cannot convince me to kiss you?”
He slid ahead of her and blocked the door to the offices. Though the Mediterranean sun had not yet reached its zenith, its rays beat down on him. The days were warming, and this job did not have the benefit of a cool, sharp wind off the sea to dry the sweat beading along his hairline.
“I will not tell a soul,” he said, hoping the sincerity he felt showed true on his face.
“I highly doubt that.” She took a step back from him, glancing toward the factory. Would she run for that door again?
“You have your reasons for wanting such a book as that. It’s not as though it would fetch a good price or contribute to the value of the church when they decide to sell it. Your secret is safe.” He flashed her a reassuring smile, but she refused to return it. “And I do not require anything more than simple gratitude.”
She reached for the door handle once more. Gilles opened the door before she could take it.
“I am grateful you have decided not to inform your leaders of the incident,” she said. “For now.”
“You do not trust my word? I will not disclose your secret,mademoiselle.”
She winced, wrapping her arms around herself. “And what will they do if they find out you have been keeping secrets for a monarchist?”
As none of them knew the book existed, he had little fear of that ever happening. “Is that what we shall always be? Jacobin and monarchist?”
Mademoiselle Daubin nodded toward the factory, where the workers carried on the salting process. “Our country is separating itself, bit by bit, just as that soap. Until those in power decide to stop throwing salt in the mix, I think we are destined to be separated in thought and in heart.” She smoothed the slender sleeve of her gaulle dress. “When I say heart, I mean sentiments, of course.”
“Of course.”
“You cannot tell me your Jacobins will be happy to learn you allowed me to take a missal from the church.”
Gilles winked and said, “I think they will forgive me for helping a pretty face.” It wasn’t entirely true, or those aiding the queen would not have found themselves in such perilous circumstances.
Mademoiselle Daubin’s eyes narrowed, all goodwill vanishing. “Is that what I am to you? A pretty face?”
He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. In all reality, she did have quite a pretty face. Even now with her brows dangerously lowered and nostrils flared. She stormed past, flinging the door open and pushing his arm out of the way.
“No, I did not mean it to—” With a crack, the door slammed shut. He grabbed the handle, but when he pushed on the door it budged very little. He tried again. It was of no use; she’d secured the latch. “Mademoiselle, I beg you, please ...” His voice trailed off at the faint sound of her shoes tapping against the floor, moving farther away.
Gilles slumped against the door and wiped away sweat with the back of his sleeve. Someday, he would have a conversation with her that did not end in her hasty escape.
Gilles blew out a long breath when he finally arrived home that evening. Surprisingly, pots and dishes still rattled from the kitchen, announcing his parents had not begun their dinner. He closed the front door and stood in the dark vestibule until his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Beside the door sat Père’s sea chest.
Praise the heavens. He’d forgotten his father was leaving tonight.Le Rossignolwould sail on the morning tide.
“Gilles, there you are.”
Only a few more hours of hearing that voice. His father’s shadow crossed the front hall, and Gilles gave him a wide berth while trying to slide past.
“You are home late,” Père said. “At sea, you never have to worry about that.”
“Yes, because you never leave your work,” Gilles grumbled.
“Or your home.”
Gilles paused before he could turn the corner and end the conversation. On the corridor wall before him hung a little watercolor his mother had made of a sea at dusk with a tiny ship in the distance. Before joining Père’s crew, he’d loved the painting. He had dreamed of being on that ship sailing to wealth and adventure. Now he avoided looking at it, constantly convincing himself he preferred standing with feet firmly planted on the shore, watchingle Rossignolsail off.
“The sea was never my home,” he said quietly, forcing the words. He should have just walked away. Left the interaction where it was. But his earlier arguments with Mademoiselle Daubin had either weakened his resolve not to take the bait or simply given him a desire to win.
