Page 52 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Monsieur Daubin grumbled something Gilles couldn’t make out. “Don’t let her keep you too long,” he said over his shoulder.
Gilles’s face heated as he slunk back into the office building. Words. He needed words. Speeches were Émile’s strength, not his. Fancy, passionate words that made people listen. Growing into adulthood on a brig had not given Gilles a mastery of words.
“There you are. Were you going to run off without greeting me?” Marie-Caroline walked briskly toward him through the grey hall. Sunlight from the window by the door touched her face as she approached, and a grin appeared on her features.
A grin.
Gilles dared not breathe, lest he drink in her perfume and get lost in the dream of her presence. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” He nodded his head in a bow.
“What greeting is this?” Her hands went to her waist.
“A respectful one.”
She slowly folded her arms. “Though appreciated, it will not earn you a kiss.” Those probing eyes traced his face.
“I did not think that was available for earning.” He could put this off a few more days, until he figured out a plan. A little banter, and she wouldn’t think twice of it.
“What is it, Gilles?” She reached for his arm, stopping just before her fingers grazed his sleeve. He didn’t need the physical pressure to feel their touch. They were friends. Friends spoke to each other. Discussed their differences.
“I was at the house on therue de la Paix,” he said, fumbling with the cuff of his jacket. The movement put more space between her hand and his arm.
Her eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly.
“I found that book you stole from Saint-Cannat.” A thread had pulled loose from one of the buttons. He pinched it between his fingers. “Why have you involved yourself with one of them, Marie-Caroline?”
She retreated a step. “What right have you to question my faith?”
“This is not a matter of faith.” He tugged on the thread to attempt tightening the button. Instead, a length of thread unraveled.Ciel. “It is a matter of safety. You could be hurt for even associating with a ...” He dropped his voice. “Priest,” he hissed through his teeth, hoping the sound didn’t carry up the stairs. “The city is crawling with rumors of an imminent attack on Jacobins. Everyone is suspicious. Why give them a good excuse to accuse you?”
“You Jacobins and your professions of freedom.” She backed up until the window’s light left her face. “What my family does is not your concern.”
Her whole family was attending secret mass. Gilles groaned. “It becomes my concern when my safety and that of my family is threatened by not informing authorities about what I know.” If anyone found out he’d kept this secret ...
“You wouldn’t dare.”
His confidence sagged at the rigidity of her stance. He’d worked so hard to gain her trust. The button on his cuff swung back and forth as he tried to wrap the loose thread around it in an attempt to salvage it.
“No, I wouldn’t.” He released the button thread and let his arms fall limp at his sides. “I should go help your father.”
This time when he slipped through the door, she didn’t call for him. And the silence that filled the gap between them rang in Gilles’s ears.
I don’t know what to do, Sylvie. It could be that he only knows I went to mass there, but what if he suspects more? Will that be the final push for him to report me to the Jacobins? My heart wants to believe he values our friendship more than that, but why should I believe my heart when it has been wrong about men before?
He has all the evidence he needs to bring harm to my family.Révolutionnairemobs have executedroyalisteswith charges based solely on rumors, and Gilles has physical evidence in the book.
His face when we spoke—I’ve never seen him so wary, even after Émile’s stupid trick when we first met. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, and he moved so stiffly I would have taken him for someone else entirely. He must feel betrayed. Or confused.
The best outcome I can hope for is that he will remain silent and we will let this fledgling friendship slip through our fingers to be carried away on the wind like gold dust. A happy memory of what might have been.
I have not yet told Maman or Papa. My father has continued to retreat into himself, though over what I cannot say. Perhaps he worries for Émile’s safety or regrets not mending their relationship before thefédérés’ departure. And it would only worry Maman more to know of our danger. Père Franchicourt’s presence, though soothing to her when immediately in our company, has set her pacing whenever I cannot occupy her thoughts with a game of cards or a book.
I’ve lost friendships before. Many I had before coming to live with you have dissolved due to Papa’s unwillingness to zealously support the revolution. Several friends have left Marseille under the threat of violence. And, of course, there was Nicolas, but you know all about those dissolved relations. What I don’t understand is why I feel so hollow inside knowing I will lose this one, regardless of the outcome. I’ve denied it for some time, but deep in my heart I wished—
It’s back. He brought it back.
The footman brought in a parcel left on the doorstep. My name is across the front in a neat, masculine hand. Caroline, not Mademoiselle Daubin or even Marie-Caroline. Just Caroline. Call me a dunce, but my heart faltered at the sight of that one word. He cannot be so angry with me if he refers to me in such an intimate manner, can he?
And under the paper and string, which was tied in a knot one would only find on a ship, lay the missal. He included no note, no telling of his thoughts, and he left the parcel before anyone knew of his presence.
