Page 24 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Gilles closed his worn copy of Molière’sTartuffeand plopped the book on his chest. He sucked in the orchard’s fresh, rich air as he stretched. Morning sun peeked through the wide fig leaves that formed a small canopy above where he lay. Months had passed since the last time he stole away to his great-uncle’s orchards for a little Sunday reading. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed it.
He tucked his hands behind his head and followed wasps with his gaze as they wandered through the line of fig and almond trees. While he had no desire to be a fig wasp, sometimes he envied the simplicity of their existence. They did not have to deal with the disapproval of their fellows.
Père had sailed nearly a week ago, but his words from their last encounter in the entry hall still pounded in Gilles’s brain. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. The accusations would not go away. Gilles rolled to his side, letting the book flop onto the blanket he’d brought. His father couldn’t be right. Not about him, not about his mother, not about women. How dare he suggest Gilles was anything less than an honorable man?
He snatched off a purple-skinned fruit from the woody part of the tree and sank his teeth into it. The fruit, part of the early breba crop, had less flavor than the main crop would have at the end of the summer, but the taste was still enough to stop his frustrated musings. Its syrupy heart, like perfectly ripe berries drizzled with honey, spread across his lips on his next bite. Tiny seeds crackled under his teeth as he chewed. He would have to return next Sunday, when more of the early fruit had ripened, and he could bring some home for Maman.
A hum of voices cut through the murmur of nearby water. Gilles glanced toward the road and the bridge that crossed the canal. This street was not heavily used by theMarseillais, as it led mostly to farmland. Two women walked with purpose in his direction, one in a pale, airy gown and the other in more modest, darker colors. Lavender ribbons rippled from the straw hat of the first woman.
Mademoiselle Daubin? Gilles did not know why he grinned. Hastily he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and rolled to his knees. He shoved his arms into his jacket as he staggered upright, swiping fig branches out of his face. Where was she headed so early on a Sunday? And with the Daubins’ cook, of all people.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle!” he called, plucking up the blanket and book. He threw the blanket, now covered with bits of orchard debris, over his shoulder, then shoved the book under his arm.
The pair of women halted at the bridge, turning about. Gilles cut through the trees. A stupid grin threatened as he descended the gentle incline that separated the orchards from the road.
“I did not expect to catch you here,” he said.
Despite the warm summer glow, the young woman’s eyes turned icy on his approach. “We are not fish,monsieur.”
“You can catch more than fish.” He should have taken the warning and fled.
“We are not thieves, either.” Mademoiselle Daubin stood straighter. Beside her, the domestic shifted, eyes darting between her employer’s daughter and her employer’s clerk.
Gilles bit his lip to hold in a chuckle. Not a thief, she insisted. Themademoiselle’s color did not change, but the poor cook’s face turned bright as a red mullet fish. Did the older woman know about Mademoiselle Daubin’s escapade to Saint-Cannat the previous week? “Why would I ever call a young woman of such high standing a thief?” Gilles asked. Light colors truly did become her. The delicate blue of her dress set off her dark hair and deep brown eyes.
She nodded to her cook. “Continue on and tell my friends that I will arrive shortly, if you please.”
The older woman scurried away, glancing over her shoulder as she mounted the bridge before disappearing behind a bend in the road.
“So you are visiting—” Gilles began.
“If you attempt to kiss me, I will ensure you regret it.”
Gilles held up his hands and retreated a step. Why did all of their conversations begin this way? “Mademoiselle, rest assured that I will never try to kiss you again.”
She scoffed and crossed her arms. “You are Émile’s friend. I hardly believe that.”
“For the rest of my days. I swear it.” Perhaps now she would stop with these uncomfortable greetings. “Who are your friends? My father’s uncle lives nearby; perhaps I am also acquainted with them.”
A swallow rippled down the muscles of her neck. “Oh, I should think not. They do not know very many people who live nearby.”
She was lying to him again. Had she gone back to the church and pilfered something else? Her steady gaze held his, and strain as he might, he could not read it. Only her fingers pulling at the tips of her gloves belied her distress.
He leaned closer, dropping his voice despite their solitude. “Have I not proven myself trustworthy?”
Birds called from the trees that lined the road—the only sound that broke the silence as she studied him. “That remains to be seen,” she finally said.
“Of course.” She did not trust him. Why did that sting like rope tearing across his palms? He’d kept her secret about the book.
She backed up farther. “If you will excuse me,monsieur, I must be off.”
“I hope with time I will come to earn your trust.” He meant the words that tumbled from his mouth. Something about the way she carried herself in conversations, the sincerity of her words and convictions, made him want to gain her confidence.
Her brow raised. “You are arévolutionnaire. I am a monarchist. How can that ever be? People who believe as I do, we live in constant fear that your people will decide we are a threat.”
Gilles took a slow breath. Manyroyalisteswere threats. The king himself was a threat. “Then allow me to escort you to your destination, as a sign of good faith.”
“Non,merci.”
