Page 3 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Gold buttons marched up the front of her jacket, leading to her throat and the tiny white cockade, small enough one might have mistaken it for a flower, pinned at the top of her cravat. On close examination, he could not mistake the looped ribbons.
White. The color of the monarchy.
Aroyaliste, then. How she’d managed to wear such a symbol openly in the streets and not get harassed, he’d never know. Perhaps he would let Émile have his victory. If this young woman were a blatant supporter of Louis XVI and his bumbled monarchy, he’d rather lose Émile’s wager than kiss her.
“Nothing with which you can help, I am afraid.” She walked with clipped footsteps to the window behind the desk, out of his reach.
Gilles followed her, coming to stand by her side as she gazed out the window. What was her business? She’d practically made the office her home without invitation. Had Monsieur Daubin decided to throw his efforts into the counterrevolution? Perhaps she was a messenger.
The young woman rested her hand against one of the glass panes. Over the rooftops of the buildings across the street, fingers of sunlight reached around chimneys and through alleyways as the sun dipped toward the horizon. There were a few hours of light yet, but the streets below had begun to dim.
“I forgot how much I do love this place,” she murmured.
“Thesavonnerie?”
The quip earned him a glare. “Of course not. I meant this city.”
Gilles planted his hands on the sill, but she paid him no mind. “Have you been away long?” he asked.
“I have been living just outside Paris these two years.”
A messenger from Paris? All the factions of the revolution, includingroyalistegroups, had leadership in that city.
“I was not impatient to return,” she continued, “but Marseille is already reminding me of her merits.”
“Is she?” Gilles inched closer, fingers gliding in the direction of hers until they barely touched. The longer he watched those lips, the more satisfying the thought of making a conquest of thisroyalistebecame. It was only a kiss, and yet his pulse raced at an alarming speed he hadn’t experienced since his first kiss. She carried herself with more poise and confidence than he usually saw in the girls he kissed. If she’d just come from Paris and the moralless aristocracy in that city, perhaps he had a better chance of succeeding in his wager than he’d thought.
“Though her abundance of overeager young men and shameless flirts, I did not miss in the slightest.” She seized his arm by the sleeve of his jacket. Gilles flinched at the unexpected touch, but her grip held strong as she swung his hand back to his side of the windowsill. “What is your name, that I may commend you to your employer?”
His face heated, which he wouldn’t have had much trouble hiding two years ago when he’d stepped off the gangplank ofle Rossignolfor the last time. But after extended days at the factory, his tanned skin had long since faded.
A gruff voice at the door turned both of their heads. “Ah, Étienne. Still here?” Monsieur Daubin entered, face buried in a stack of papers. He tossed his modest wig onto the desk and rubbed his balding head as he read.
The young woman whirled to face Gilles, this time with an icy stare as her eyes swept the length of him. “Étienne?”
“Oui, Gilles Étienne.” He took a step back, for once unnerved at a young woman surveying him. “Have we met?”
Monsieur Daubin looked up from his documents. “You’re here? What is this?”
The young woman threw one last glare at Gilles, and he felt as though she’d seen through to his very soul. Clearly she did not like what she saw. Her skirts whipped past him as she sauntered over to Monsieur Daubin.
And kissed him on the cheek.
Gilles’s eyebrows shot up as his employer hugged her to him, planting a kiss on the top of her hair. Her muffled response did not carry. Who was this girl? Gilles thought he knew Monsieur Daubin well after two years of seeing not only to his business but also to his personal matters.
“I expected to see your brother here, not you,” Monsieur Daubin said, releasing her and returning to his papers.
“I came with him. Maman was hovering, and I needed some relief.”
Gilles went cold. Her brother?
The soap maker perked up. “Émile is here? Why did he not come to me?” He tossed the papers on his desk. Gilles had taught himself to immediately arrange his employer’s papers, but the realization suddenly dawning clouded his mind.
No ... Émile wouldn’t.
Monsieur Daubin made for the door, motioning to Gilles in the corner. “You may send him for tea if you wish.” He disappeared into the corridor.
“Thank you, Papa.”
