Page 23 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
“No, you long for the quiet solitude of a cramped office owned by another man.”
Gilles clenched his fists and slowly turned around. Would Père ever give up this argument? His father sat on his trunk, hands behind his head as he leaned back against the wall.
“Rather, I like to be home with Maman,” Gilles insisted.
“You say that, and yet you plan to leave her as soon as you’ve saved sufficient funds to attend the university.” It wasn’t accusatory. His father’s words held a laugh as they always did—a calculating, devious laugh.
Gilles pushed his shoulders back. “This from the husband who leaves her for months on end. Let’s not play the hypocrite.”
Père flourished a hand. “Touché.”
This man, who thought he knew so much. He played with lives according to his fancies and couldn’t care less how his decisions affected others, so long as he got his prizes. “The least you could do is provide her a more comfortable home and a larger staff,” Gilles snarled. “You think nothing of her or any of the rest of your family.”
His father pushed off the wall, straightening. “You should not speak of things you know nothing about.”
Gilles had aggravated him. He fought against a smirk that would have mirrored the expression his father usually wore. “Oh, I think I do know something about it. You should see Maman’s face when you are gone. You should see how she works her fingers to the bone doing everything herself, when she should have a husband by her side.”
Père crossed his arms, still keeping his seat atop the trunk. “You purport to know quite a lot about women.”
“More than you do, I would wager.”
His father’s grin glinted in the dim light of the corridor. It rarely stayed away for long. “Kissing every female fortunate enough to cross your path does not give you adequate experience with the workings of their hearts. Only the workings of their lips.”
Gilles exhaled sharply. Père excelled in turning the conversation away from his own faults. “Maman deserves better than you give her.” He could go on, but his father would not listen. Perhaps he would ask Florence to bring a tray of dinner upstairs tonight so he wouldn’t have to endure more of this. Gilles’s pulse raced as though he’d just run from thesavonnerie. This was the last thing he needed after two grueling days at work. He made to leave, but Père’s soft yet penetrating voice froze him in place.
“Just as Mademoiselle Daubin deserves much better than how you treat her.”
Gilles took a step back, glaring at his father. “I have been nothing but a ...” The words caught in his throat.
“Do not say ‘a gentleman.’” Père pushed himself to his feet. “I’ve heard the way you and Maxence talk about that young woman.”
The sinking in Gilles’s gut would not let him form a protest. He did not join in, but neither had he stopped Maxence or Émile from saying rude things about the latter’s monarchist sister.
“I would venture to say that, despite all the company you keep with starry-eyed girls begging to be loved, you do not understand women so well as you think you do,mon fils.” Père cut the distance between them and clapped Gilles on the shoulder. Gilles’s mind had clouded too much to shrug him off.
“She is loyal to the crown and the Church,” Gilles murmured. Her sharp look as she had stormed into the offices bored into his vision despite the darkness of the corridor. She could not stand for his company, and he was beginning to think she was very well justified in that sentiment.
“Does it matter where her loyalties lie?”
Did it not?
“She is a human being, after all,” Père said. That was what Maman had told him the night Gilles helped her with mending.
Hedidtreat Mademoiselle Daubin as a human. He was sure of it. It was hardly his fault she bristled at his every attempt at kindness. And yet the falling sensation in his gut suggested otherwise.
Behind them, the sounds of his mother and Florence descending with platters and candlesticks drifted in from the dining room along with the scent of fish and spices. The warm glow seeping through the doorway reflected off the single gold hoop in Père’s earlobe.
“If I were you, I might reconsider my own life before calling another man a hypocrite,” his father said. “But do as you will. My advice has long since ceased to hold any importance to you.”
Père strode from the vestibule and entered the dining room with a jovial greeting that was met with enthusiastic returns, leaving Gilles alone and unable to swallow back the bitter taste on his tongue.
That man, he is unbearable. Gilles Étienne, on my father’s wishes, escorted me away from the factory this morning. Not only did he tease me about taking the missal—for yes, he did find me out—but made it quite clear he thought me in possession of neither intelligence nor sense. “A pretty face,” he called me. Insufferable man.
But perhaps I am just the idiot he described. To think I believed I had fooled him! I was so proud, so triumphant. Did God decide I needed the humbling? Or was it punishment for my continued lies?
Never worry, Sylvie. Gilles has insisted he will not reveal the secret. I think he will be true to his word. Though if he knew I took it not for my personal use but for the use of a nonjuring priest, I think he would not honor his promise.
Are there no good men left in this world? Excepting your Monsieur LeGrand,bien sûr. I used to think I had the world to choose from. But the arms of revolution are too powerful. One way or the other, they have all become corrupted. Do you remember how I would tease you for reading those old stories of knights and valor? I do not laugh anymore. I wish with all my heart to be spirited away to those fantastic worlds where justice and goodness were not things of debate and where gentlemen proved worthy of the designation.
