Page 34 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Florence shook her head sadly as she ladled the soup into bowls. “Poor dear. Perhaps she can stomach some of the bread. I’ll take it out to her as soon as I am done here.” She continued her musings as she filled everyone’s bowl, including a bowl for herself. Her husband must have been working late at the docks that evening, as she did not often eat with the family since her marriage.
“Oncle Maxence will not get Florence’s cooking when he goes to Paris,” Aude mumbled softly, staring at the soup in front of her. No one else heard her over Florence’s talking.
Gilles leaned toward her. “He already doesn’t get it often, being at university.”
“But doesn’t he have someone to cook for him there?”
He reached for the basket of crusty bread and fished out a piece for his niece. “Yes, there is a cook for the house where he stays. And he often goes to cafés for his meals.”
“Will there be cafés on the road to Paris?” The worry in her faint voice rattled his core.
“Not many on the road, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” She did not touch the bread or the soup. It must have seemed a grave misfortune to a girl of seven to not have good food readily available.
“Not to worry,” Gilles said, tapping her shoulder gently with his arm. “There will be many cafés for him in Paris.”
The deluge of Florence’s chatter cut off as she went to the kitchen for water to make a tisane for Rosalie. He’d miss that incessant sound of her talking when he left with thefédérés. And the tap of Claire’s spoon against her bowl, which his sister-in-law was not there to hush. His mother’s gentle inquiries and observations in the quiet moments between Florence’s talking. One of the girls kicking the table leg.
He dipped a chunk of bread into his soup and brought it to his mouth. Sacrifice. It would be worth it. He must keep reminding himself. Their separation wouldn’t be forever.
But how long would it take to free the country from the grasp of despotism? How long would Prussia and Austria press in on their eastern border? Despite three years of revolution, France still had so far to climb until she reached stability. When he returned, everything about his family could be different.
A skinny arm looped through his and pulled him close. Aude rested her head against him. “I’m glad you aren’t going, Oncle Gilles.”
He had to force his bite of bread past a lump that sprang to his throat. Maman’s eyes met his, the corners pinched.
“Are you going?” she mouthed.
Gilles’s neck stiffened, preventing him from instantly nodding his response. Yes, of course he was going. He had no good reason to stay. At least no better than Maxence or Émile. They’d already signed their names to the lists.
“Do you know why your uncles are going to Paris,ma petite?” Maman asked Aude, the barest tremble in her voice.
“To fight the despots.”
The corner of Gilles’s mouth lifted at hearing the Jacobin cant from his young niece. He doubted she had learned it from Rosalie or Victor, who held a much more moderate view of the revolutionary proceedings. Friends or acquaintances, perhaps.
Instead of smiling at her granddaughter’s impressive words, Maman’s eyes clouded. The noise from Claire’s spoon crescendoed, but his mother returned to her soup as though she did not hear it. Aude stayed attached to his arm. Her shoulders lifted and fell in a sigh.
Gilles’s eyes dropped to his dinner, and suddenly he empathized too well with Rosalie. The homey richness threatened to gag him. He swirled the soup around with his spoon through the rest of the meal. Excitement over defending one’s country, one’s beliefs, was much easier felt when in the swells of like-minded and similarly zealous comrades. In the quiet of home, with thoughts of facing the change ahead, that fervor dimmed.
After seeing Rosalie and the girls safely to their home, Gilles trudged back through the grey streets of the Panier Quarter. He let himself in the door of the house and bolted it behind him. The darkness of the front hall pressed in as he leaned back against the door. He could barely make out the lines of Maman’s watercolor of the ship on the wall opposite him.
Two years ago he’d stood just this way after disembarkingle Rossignolfor the last time. He’d leaned against the door, relief flooding him as he closed that chapter in his life. It had been an easy decision to leave life at sea. During the last voyage, Père had refused to make land to find help for his surgeon and longtime friend, Dr. Savatier—Gilles’s mentor—who had taken violently ill. Instead Père had ordered them to go after a fat English merchantman who turned out to have sufficient firepower to stave offle Rossignol’s attack. Savatier nearly lost his life, not having the medical supplies or anyone more knowledgeable than Gilles to tend to him. And they’d nearly lost the whole ship. The front door of this house had shut out all those hardships Gilles would no longer have to deal with.
But now the door would not hold back his problems. Aude’s hopeful face stared back at him through the darkness as though she stood before him.
“So you are off to fight the despots with your brother.” Maman’s voice carried softly from the corridor. A moment later, the blue shadow of her face appeared around the corner.
“Paris needs us, Maman. France needs us. Austria and Prussia will destroy all we’ve worked for, and the country with it, if we do not take a stand.”
“But ...” She took another step into the front hall. Florence’s singing filtered through the walls from the kitchen. The happy tune did little to dispel the cold that permeated the vestibule. “But are you really going to defendla patrie, or are your leaders sending you to defend their Club’s hold in the government?”
“The ClubisFrance.” Gilles rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
“I do not think Mademoiselle Daubin would agree.”
Gilles pushed off the door. Why was Maman bringing her into this? “Mademoiselle Daubin is as foolish as the nextroyaliste. She doesn’t know what’s best for her.” He crossed his arms. “Has she been trying to convert you to the cause of the monarchy?” It came out harsher than he’d anticipated, but Maman did not retreat.
