Page 47 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
The unexpected thought stopped him midswing. That morning he’d stopped her on the road, had she passed this very house and admired its gardens? Perhaps then the roses were just opening. He hit with the board again. It was just a bush. He ground his teeth. At least he wasn’t dismantling the house like the rest.
Martel reappeared, mouth grimly set. He tramped through the carpet of rose petals and leaves to get to Gilles. “He was here. I am sure of it. They had a makeshift church set up in the attic.” He shook his head. “But everyone is gone. The kitchen hearth is cold. Everything locked.”
“I am sorry to hear it.” Gilles’s head ached, and his arms whined at their treatment. He hadn’t used them with such force since his days at sea.
“Mariner!” someone called. A pair of Jacobins rushed over with several coils of rope. One shoved a length into Gilles’s hands. “Tie us some knots.”
“Knots?” What could they need knotted rope for?
The older of the two clapped him good-naturedly on the back of the head. “Nooses, boy.”
Heat drained from Gilles’s face. “Have we found someone?”
“If only we had,” Martel muttered.
“For a warning.” The older Jacobin sniffed. “If any of the priest’s friends come back, we’ll show them what happens to cowards who care more about a greedy clergyman than the laws of their own free government.”
Gilles lowered his eyes to the rope in his hands. Of course he could tie a noose. What young sailor hadn’t practiced that while indulging in sick jokes with his messmates? Now he wished he could have feigned ignorance. He twisted the rope around itself and secured it.
“Another! We’ll hang them from all the windows!”
The pit in Gilles’s stomach widened. It nearly engulfed him when the men took the ropes he’d tied and nailed them above the front windows of the house. A gentle breeze touched his face, bringing with it the scent of horse dung the mob had found in the stables and splattered across the home’s façade. The looped ropes brushed back and forth against the ragged teeth of the demolished windows.
Dark stole in from the east, a rising tide cautious yet eager to flood the skies. But it had already settled into Gilles’s core and threatened to cut off his breath.
10 July 1792
Marseille
Sylvie,
Papa said I must be careful with my correspondence. Please excuse the ridiculous nonsense I wrote above.
The couple sheltering Père Franchicourt was discovered. How, we cannot say. But they have fled Marseille. Papa says the priest cannot stay with us for long, but I do not know where to look for a better situation. Three days he has hidden in the cellar, and no one has come for him. All we can do is pray they do not catch our scent.
For now, Maman is happy to have the opportunity to attend services in the comfort of her home. She was never brave enough to venture out to the other meetings. I have not told her what happened to the house where Père Franchicourt previously stayed. Last night the Jacobins had their way with it. Papa drove past on his way to the lavender fields, and the chilling details make me physically ill. Everything was ruined short of burning the house to the ground. They even destroyed the roses.
I wish I could tell Gilles of my dilemma. Perhaps his father could steal Père Franchicourt away on his ship. Gilles is not like the others. He thinks before blindly following the leaders of the pack. But in the end he is still a Jacobin, and Père Franchicourt does not wish to leave this hopeless disaster of a city.
I hope your family and holy guests are safe. With how much closer our neighbors reside here, I am in constant paranoia.
Much love to all.
M. C.
Gilles’s fingers drifted over the vials of perfume at the shop in the Noailles district. He didn’t often work at Maison Daubin, but the inventory needed to be checked regularly.
The tinkling of the vials sent a chill down his spine. It sounded like the glass debris from the house he had helped ravage three nights ago. The image of the vandalized house lying weary and beaten in the dusk would not let him be. He made a note in a ledger and moved to the next row of vials. The next time Martel caught the scent of Franchicourt, Gilles would make himself scarce. Standing up for the freedom of France did not have to mean destruction. If he’d wanted violence, he would have stayed at sea.
“Ah, Étienne. There you are.”
Gilles straightened at his employer’s voice coming through the door of the storeroom. “I have nearly finished here,monsieur. I need perhaps an hour tomorrow to finalize the numbers and—”
“Yes, yes. Never mind.” Daubin waved a hand. “I have a more pressing matter.”
Gilles blew on the ink, then closed the ledger and set it on a shelf. “What do I need to do?” Another task would make him late for dinner. He hoped Maman would understand.
Monsieur Daubin sighed and closed his eyes. “It is my daughter.” The older man kneaded his temples for a moment before casting a sharp gaze at Gilles. “Never have daughters if you can help it. Or sons, for that matter. They will send you to an early grave.”
