Page 54 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Rushed footsteps across the floor and whispers above them caused his employer to step back. Had he told themadameyet? Or Caroline? Gilles held his breath in anticipation of a pair of fine shoes, a delicate dress, and a cautious stare striding down the steps, but no one materialized. His breath released slowly. He wouldn’t face her today, which was for the best. If only he believed that.
“Come, the others will be outside, I believe.”
Gilles followed Monsieur Daubin through the house and out the back door into the bright sun. Four other men in well-made jackets mingled before a rectangularterrainmarked out on the packed dirt at the back of the garden with stakes and string. Daubin introduced them, and Gilles recognized Martel’s employer among the players.
“This is my clerk, Étienne. He will play with us this afternoon.”
A few brows raised, and Gilles forced himself not to duck his head. He had every right to play with the others. What did wealth and standing have to do with his playing the game? They lived in a new, free France, where social hierarchy was a thing of the past. And if his employer wasn’t exaggerating, the Daubins and Étiennes were much closer in regards to wealth than appearances manifested.
And Caroline didn’t know.
While Daubin divided them into teams, Gilles peeked at the house over his shoulder. He shouldn’t want to see her. The book had been delivered, and it was safer for them not to associate. The more he discovered, the more danger she was in. What if she knew the whereabouts of Franchicourt?
A woman sat fanning herself on a balcony on the side of the house. Most likely Madame Daubin, concealed under the shade of a parasol, watching her husband play. Gilles turned to accept a drink from his employer.Monsieurshould tell his family. That much he knew. His wife would not take it well, but she and Caroline deserved to know the truth.
“Has anyone been invited to attend the planting of the liberty trees?” Daubin asked. He picked up a wooden ball and lined up to throw it at the marker.
“Irritable business,” the oldest of the group muttered.
Martel’s employer, on the opposing team, selected a ball and tossed it lightly in his hand. “How can you say such a thing? It should be an honor to prove your loyalty to the revolution by participating in the ceremony. It’s a small act. Or are you afraid to get your breeches dirty?” He tossed the ball. It landed with a crack, pushing Daubin’s ball farther away from the jack, the smaller target ball.
It was a sly remark, one that everyone recognized as an accusation. Indeed, everyone but Martel’s employer and Gilles wore the decidedly upper-class breeches instead of trousers.
“They only issued invitations to men they believe to beroyalistes. They assume we are all for the monarchy,” another merchant said. “Think of how poorly it will reflect on us and our business to be included in that party.”
The rest of the men nodded gravely. They swirled their drinks and muttered in their fine waistcoats and gleaming shoes. Gilles chewed his tongue. Martel’s employer was the only one who hadn’t received an invitation due to his outspoken support. Would the summons knock some reason into them? The Jacobins were done with games. France needed unity, or she would not rise above the infighting and brutality.
Martel’s employer made room for the next man to throw and retrieved his glass from the small table nearby. “Those with nothing to hide have nothing to fear.”
Monsieur Daubin shifted, glancing back at the house. Gilles followed his gaze to the woman in white on the balcony. Had themadamealso gone to the secret masses? Themonsieurwas hardly religious, at least not outwardly. And when Gilles had stopped Marie-Caroline that Sunday morning, she had been alone with their cook.
Gilles narrowed his eyes. That wasn’t Madame Daubin sitting on the balcony. The lady sat too regally to be the soap maker’s wife. He hadn’t noticed the dark curls sweeping down one side of her neck. Heat flew to his face, and he snapped his head back around. Caroline was watching them play.
“Your turn, Étienne.”
Gilles shakily put down his glass, which he hadn’t drunk from yet. How ridiculous. It should not matter to him whether she watched or not. They were only friends, and even that was doubtful now. Still, her brown eyes on his back as he lifted the wood ball and prepared to throw sent a thrill down his spine that made it difficult to concentrate.
It was all a game, wasn’t it? The Jacobins trying to push and persuade the rest of France to see the light of liberty. Theroyalistesattempting to conceal their hand, play the right cards, and secure at least a constitutional monarchy. These merchants putting on a face to keep their businesses intact despite violence in the city. He and Caroline carefully stepping around each others’ convictions to protect a friendship that had been shaky from the start.
Gilles fixed his eye on the other team’s balls, which sat a mere length from the jack. He swung his arm back, drawing in a breath.
One wrong move could upend everything.
He stepped forward, releasing the ball. It flew through the air in a dizzying whirl and met its target with a satisfying crack.
23 July 1792
Marseille
They murdered them, Sylvie. Then strung them up like pigs in a butcher’s shop. And dragged them through the street.
You’ll forgive me. I hardly know how to write. I haven’t been able to sit more than two minutes together since Cook arrived from the market this morning with word that two monks had been beaten to death. The mobs pulled them from the Hôtel de Ville itself, and no amount of begging, even from the revolutionary bishop, could spare them.
Maman fainted onto the sofa at the news. I could not help her. Père Franchicourt went pale, and Cook was sobbing at the door to the salon. Even now, my head pounds enough to burst. If we had not offered shelter to Père Franchicourt two weeks ago, he might have been the third clergyman slaughtered.
Some justice. Some liberty. Some equality theserévolutionnaireshave given us. They have offered the highest reaches of societal bliss but bestowed terror and discord from the depths of purgatory. That people may not believe as they please, without the worry of turning the mob indignation against themselves and their families, is an iron thorn on their rose of freedom. And one day it will turn against the very men who wield its barbed edge.
These murders come on the heels of four others only the day before, all condemned of conspiracy by crowds in the streets rather than a judge.
