Page 5 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Martel shook his head. “We must hurry. The meeting will start soon.”
The meeting! He’d forgotten it was Saturday.
“Oh, come,” Gilles quipped. “We are always the first to the meetings. Once in a while the others deserve the honor.”
His friend ignored him and set off on egret-like legs toward the confiscated church where their Jacobin club met to discuss the revolution. Gilles had to run to catch up. Let Émile and Maxence enjoy their ridiculous games. He would find his own amusements from now on.
“I saw Monsieur Daubin’s son while waiting,” Martel said. “As much as I dislike his father, Émile is a good man and a fine patriot.”
Except when he decided to play games on innocent friends. “Monsieur Daubin is not a bad sort. He is fair with his employees and dedicated to his family.”
Martel huffed. “He is a monarchist.”
“He has not declared it to be so.” At least not openly. Monsieur Daubin was a shrewd businessman, to be sure, and his trade in soaps and perfumes had suffered with the decline of the aristocracy. But he had not openly supported one side or the other, beyond grumbling about the Jacobins trying to overthrow stability and reason.
“Daubin hardly pays a fair wage to his workers but lives as fine as anyaristohimself. You cannot tell me he sides with therévolutionnaires.”
It did not help Martel’s attitude that Daubin had turned him down for a position. But Gilles held his tongue on that count. “He pays more than most soap makers.” But then he also earned more. Those buttons marching up his daughter’s pristine jacket bordered on extravagant.
Martel’s lip curled. “I cannot believe you would defend Daubin.”
Neither did Gilles. Deep down, he knew Monsieur Daubin was norévolutionnaire. While the soap maker remained silent on the subject, Émile had been more than candid about his parents’ views. “We should not accuse without proof,non?” Gilles said with a shrug. “Acting on unfounded accusations can only lead to chaos.”
“Sometimes chaos is the only way to make change.”
They turned onto therueSainte-Barbe, heading ever closer to the harbor. Nearing the ocean always quickened Gilles’s breath, though he’d tried to suppress such excitement the past two years. It was as if in his core, he knew he belonged to the sea. Generations of mariners before him had engraved the paths of ocean currents into their bones and infused its waters into their blood, passing the inhuman pull to each rising generation. Try as he might, he could not run from it. The sea had written its vast expanse into his soul.
“There is one thing for which I will give Daubin credit,” Martel said. “He has produced one exceptional Frenchman and one exquisite daughter.”
A flush crept up Gilles’s neck once more. “His daughter?”
“Did you not see her?” Martel threw back his head. “She was a goddess. Even with the filthy white cockade she wore.”
Of course Martel would notice the cockade. “Yes, I saw her,” Gilles muttered.
“I am certain,” his friend went on, “with the right guidance, and rescued from her father’s damaging influence, she could be swayed to more enlightened beliefs.”
Not likely. The fierceness with which she’d turned those brown eyes on Gilles left little doubt as to her intentions of letting a man sway her.
Martel’s toothy smile took on a nasty glint. “What I wouldn’t do to—”
Gilles’s stomach soured. “Has Sault returned yet?” It flew from his mouth before he could think. He had heard Martel launch into those sorts of conversations about girls too many times before. The thought of hearing Mademoiselle Daubin spoken of in such filthy tones made him squirm. The way she carried herself, the way she spoke—it demanded more respect than Martel’s crass imaginings.
They came upon aboulangerie, where the baker’s daughters always greeted them on their way to club meetings. The perfect distraction from that conversation. Two blushing faces peeked out from behind the shutters amid a cloud of giggles.
Gilles winked and nodded to them, earning a chorus of delighted shrieks quickly muted by the slam of shutters. He’d kissed one of them, he did not recall which, last month. It had been the barest of touches, but he did not admit that detail to Maxence and Émile as he collected his earnings. The girl had been too eager.
“Bonsoir, mes amies!” he called. Shrill chatter followed his salutation. They were pretty enough girls, the sort who happened upon cafés just as groups of young men were exiting in order to flirt, but he had no real interest in them beyond an evening greeting or a fleeting kiss to win a dare.
Hands fluttered through the slats in the shutters. The tittering and indistinct whispers continued even after the men had passed.
“You changed the subject rather quickly. What is it, Étienne?” Martel gave him a sidelong glance. “You usually enjoy a little banter when women are involved.”
He did. Many a long evening, he had sat through stories and laughter with Maxence and his friends. Exaggerated tales of escapades with young women, not all of them fit for polite company. Gilles did not contribute to those conversations—he had nothing of interest to share—but he’d listened. He’d guffawed.
But now Mademoiselle Daubin’s face glared disapprovingly in his vision, as though she stood on the street before him.
“I was only curious if Sault would be there, as we have been without our leader for nearly a month.” He tried to shake the phantom of her from his mind.
