Page 50 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Gilles hopped down from the wall. “Come, let us dance afarandole.” He snatched her hand, the feel of her skin sending a little thrill through his limbs.
“By ourselves. In front of the entire port.”
“Why not? Spontaneousfarandolesstart frequently.” He tossed his head to get a lock of hair out of his eyes. It would be difficult to perform the line dance with only two, it was true. And without music. But the rigidity in her jaw had eased.
She slipped to the ground and faced him. “And usually precede a beating, or worse, of some questionably guilty person.” The words came out tired and small.
Gilles’s shoulders fell. Yes, that did seem to happen more frequently lately.
“Or the destruction of other property,” she added.
His ears warmed. Surely she could not know. He hadn’t told anyone he’d been a part of that. Not even his mother. The nooses he’d tied Monday swung across his mind’s eye, slow and limp across the vacant windows. Never again.
Marie-Caroline watched the harbor, still holding onto his hand. Ships’ bells tolled across the water. The merry chimes mocked his guilt. She would recoil if she knew what he’d done. He recoiled each time he remembered the uncontrolled rage of his peers. While he couldn’t agree with restoring the old system, perhaps she wasn’t wrong in longing for the peace it had once granted.
“We should return to the shop. Papa will wonder where we are.” She squeezed his hand, and then let it go. “Thank you for accompanying me. Perhaps ... perhaps if dancing—the sort that I am used to—ever returns to France, we might try again.”
Gilles could only nod. There was too large a gap between them. They could build a shaky bridge of friendship across it, but there would not be enough of a common foundation on either side for anything stronger or more lasting.
He cursed himself for allowing the seedlings of hope to begin their growth in his heart.
Hearts are funny things, aren’t they, Sylvie? One moment they are sealed in a crypt of stone, and the next they are peeking through the hedge rows wondering if their turn has come again. And regardless which way you attempt to steer them, they are content to blaze their own trail through the underbrush of impossible dreams, no matter the difficulty of the path.
I suppose what I am getting to is that I enjoynavettes, but I enjoy good company more.
It will be a year on Tuesday since Champ de Mars. How has so much time passed? It comes at an opportune moment. I need the reminder that hearts are not to be trusted.
Be careful, and remind the others to do the same. I could not bear to lose another person so dear to me.
Affectueusement,
Marie-Caroline
At least they weren’t here with a mob this time.
Gilles stared through the iron gate at the house they’d ruined just a week before while Martel wriggled over into the garden. One of the nooses over the windows had frayed and fallen, but the other three hung limply in the lilac shadows of morning. Gilles hauled himself over the gate and followed his friend up to the battered door.
Flies already swarmed over the horse dung–covered walls, despite the early hour. The July heat had dried the long, brown streaks. Gilles wrinkled his nose at the stench.
“You start in the servants’ quarters above, and I will start in the cellar,” Martel said over his shoulder. “We will meet on the middle floor. Surely there is something here that will aid us. Franchicourt cannot run forever.”
Gilles didn’t respond as he ducked through the splintered door after Martel. He wasn’t participating in any more destruction. Just trying to find the priest. This shouldn’t weigh on his conscience. He glanced back. Through the shard-wreathed hole in the door, the decimated rosebush stared back at him with its brown and papery petals strewn about the pathway. He looked away quickly. They had a task to perform.
He paused at the top of the stairs. The mob’s fury hadn’t touched the servants’ quarters as strongly as the rest of the house. The lack of finery had deterred them from doing more than breaking in the doors and scratching the wordÉmigrésonto one of the walls.
Gilles started at the far end of the hall and worked his way through storage and bedrooms. Few things had been left beyond old furniture and bed linens. He checked under each mattress in order to give Martel an honest report of a thorough examination.
Gilles lowered a mattress back to its frame, then knelt to check underneath the bed. A haggard comb lay forgotten in one corner, but nothing else. It was clear no one had returned to clean up the wreckage of the home. Or if they had returned, they’d quickly run away again.
If only Martel would give this up. True, the priest was his kinsman. Gilles could understand the responsibility one felt for the actions of a family member. How often had he agonized over his father’s treatment of Dr. Savatier, feeling guilty over Père’s decision to pursue that English merchantman instead of continuing into port and finding help? But this priest could be miles from Marseille by now. He could be on a ship to Italy or Spain. That was what the Assembly wanted nonjuring priests to do, wasn’t it? So long as he was out of France and no longer imposing his influence on Frenchmen, they’d done their duty.
Gilles adjusted the haversack’s strap over his shoulder. A ledger inside, which he’d brought home to straighten out after work yesterday, tapped against his leg. Something wasn’t aligning in Monsieur Daubin’s finances. Either thesavonneriewas losing money somewhere, or it had not been bringing in as much profit as Monsieur Daubin claimed.
Gilles pushed himself off the rough floor and scratched his head. This was a fruitless search, much as his sifting through the ledger had been last night. But he’d do both to appease his friend and his employer. Well, he wasn’t actually appeasing his employer, since themonsieurhadn’t asked him to look into it. Of course Gilles worried over his job. He needed only until the end of the year to save enough to apply to the university at Montpellier, and the soap factory closing could delay that.
It wouldn’t be a mere a delay for Marie-Caroline, however. Where would the family go if the soap factory could not be saved? To their relatives’ home in Paris?
The feel of her cool hand smoothed over his fingers. Soft skin. Firm grip. No hesitation. She hadn’t pulled away from him that day near the docks, even after their disagreement. The trust in her eyes made him want to believe that given time they could overcome their differences in conviction and find something more than friendship. But if she returned to Paris, with all its society andrévolutionnaireconflict ... Gilles shook his head as he moved to the next room. A little money lost could be recovered. The Daubins were hardly in dire straits. He worried over nothing.
