Page 39 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
“Are you aware, Gilles, that you do not always have to follow Émile and Maxence wherever they go? Nor are you obliged to do everything as they do.”
Gilles leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I am more aware that you have called me by my given name twice since I arrived at your carriage.”
The young lady’s face flamed. “I beg your pardon. Émile always calls you that, and it must have stuck in my head that way. Forgive my forwardness. I did not wish to imply anything by it.”
“I do not mind.” Gilles shrugged. “So long as I may finally call us friends, you may call me whatever you like.” Though he did like the sound of his name from her particular lips.
She laughed, setting down her cup and picking up her pencil. Her fingers, free of gloves, turned it over again and again. “You know my misgivings with that, Monsieur Étienne.”
“You have yet to give me a good excuse. In fact, you have given me many good excuses for usto befriends. If I am already simply Gilles in your mind, are you not fighting the inevitable?”
“It would seem that is all I do these days.”
“Then why not give in on this little thing, so you may have greater energy to put toward more important things?”
The pencil dropped to her lap. “Such as opposing the revolution?” A fire snapped in her eyes that made it difficult for Gilles not to grin. He enjoyed watching that flame come to life when something animated her.
“Whatever you wish.”
She swung her head back and forth. “I do not understand you, Gilles Étienne.”
Gilles motioned with his head back toward the café. “Clearly you do better than those two.”
“That isn’t difficult.”
He ducked to better see the sky through the window. “I should get home. My mother will have dinner ready, and I must fetch my nieces.” Though he dearly wanted to stay. Not an angry word had passed between them, at least not directed at each other. Had that happened in any conversation they’d had yet? He nodded his head in a bow. “Bonne soirée, Mademoiselle Daubin.” He pushed the door, still opened slightly for propriety’s sake, wide. His brother and Émile had not exited the coffee house yet. Good. It was better to make an escape before they confronted him again.
“Marie-Caroline.”
Gilles paused on the carriage step. “Pardon?”
She pulled the writing desk back onto her lap. “If I am to call you Gilles, it is only fair that you should call me by my given name.”
A grin spread across his face that he could not hold back if he tried. “Bonne soirée, Marie-Caroline, then.”
She bid him farewell as he climbed out, and when he glanced back over his shoulder, she was writing furiously. The tune returned, as though she did not realize she was humming.
Gilles stopped when his feet hit the road. “Have you ever been to Avignon?”
Her head lifted. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
He rested against the door. “You know that one cannot actually dance on the bridge of Avignon, as it says in the song. It’s too narrow.”
“I know that.”
He was stalling. He shouldn’t be stalling. And yet the rich scent of her drink, the ease of her stature, the hint of a smile, the camaraderie pulled him back in. Who knew what he would find at home, especially after Max returned? “Why do you like that old song so much?”
Marie-Caroline cocked her head. The pencil tapped against her smooth cheek. “I suppose because I love to dance. And it gives me hope that someday dancing will return to France.”
“There is dancing still in France.” Atrévolutionnairegatherings, participants engaged in several different dances. Though they weren’t the genteel society dances she likely missed. Some dances went in rather dark, violent directions.
“Thesans-culottes’ dances are barbaric. I meant pleasant dancing. With friends.”
His heart skipped at the thought of dancing with her. He’d never attended any sort of social function. The revolution had brought an end to most parties outside of Jacobin meetings and rallies before he’d left his father’s ship. But surely it wasn’t antirevolutionary to desire the return of such things.
“I hope someday you get your wish,” he said. And he truly meant it, for his own sake as much as for hers.
Sylvie, I have just had the most bizarre encounter, and you must tell me what to make of it. Gilles just left our carriage. Through the whole of our conversation, we exchanged neither arguing word nor rebuke. He did tease, of course, but that is his nature as much as it is Émile’s to flirt. And we parted as friends, something I would not have imagined after our first encounter.
