Page 56 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
He kept his eyes trained on the olive-green cubes before him, avoiding the fire in her eyes that always sent his pulse galloping. He needed a clear head, or his will would falter. “I do not think you are evil. I think you are playing with fire by the powder magazine in a storm, but it is your life to do with what you wish.”
Her soft laugh finally drew a brief glance from him. Had he said something amusing?
“I am being entirely serious, Caroline. You were right. A Jacobin and aroyalistemake for a dangerous friendship. And I think we have reached the breaking point. If I knew more about your priest friend, it could endanger us both. If I let slip that I knew anything, my family would be at risk. It is better for both of us.”
“That is not why I laughed.” She trailed her fingers along the line of soaps as she widened the gap between them. “I love when your seamanship slides into conversation.”
Gilles’s ears grew hot. Blast his training and his heritage. He could not escape them. “And the rest of what I said? Have you any response to that?” He pulled down his shirt sleeves and buttoned them about his wrists. If she wouldn’t leave, he should. Where was his jacket? He’d finish stacking this row and return to the factory.
Caroline stopped walking. She chewed her bottom lip for a time. “It has been a year since the massacre on the Champ de Mars.”
Gilles halted with his hand resting atop the soaps. His eyes narrowed. That was not arévolutionnairemassacre. It had come at the hand of Lafayette’s national guard against Parisians rallying a petition to end the monarchy.Royalisteskillingrévolutionnaires.
“I had a ...” Her chest rose and fell. “Friend among the casualties.”
“She was arévolutionnaire?” Why had Caroline been so against their friendship, then?
“He was a follower of Danton.”
Oh.He. Gilles crouched for more soap, trying to ignore the twinge in his chest. A Danton follower. Danton was a zealous supporter of liberty and a clean break from the monarchy, someone the Jacobin leadership observed with wariness because of his skills in inciting the Paris crowds. “Was he a dear friend?”Stop it, Gilles. You do not wish to know that answer.
Caroline pulled a block of soap from the neat lines and held it to her nose. Her eyes fluttered closed. She inhaled deeply once, twice, three times. “We were engaged for nine months.”
Bien sûr. Gilles snatched up the ledger and busied himself with the numbers. Idiot. He had asked. All that wondering about whether she had left her heart in Paris. She had. Although, now he was dead. He glanced at her over the pages of the book. Those moments, such as on the stairs after the dinner party, when she could not hide the pain from her eyes, had she been thinking of that man?
“Nicolas broke off the engagement a month before the massacre. He could not reconcile himself with being tied to a monarchist.”
“Ah.” He lowered the book. “It is no wonder you were so against our friendship, then.”
A sad smile graced her lips. She pushed the cube of soap back into place. “You proved me wrong.”
Had he? Or had he proved her former intended correct, that it couldn’t work? Gilles scratched the back of his head. “What did your father think of the engagement?”
“He did not know. No one knew. My sweet cousin Sylvainne was our only confidante.”
A secret engagement. It didn’t surprise him that she would attach herself without the knowledge of her parents. He closed the ledger and put it back beside the inkwell.
“When I found out about his death, I was furious,” she went on, staring unseeing at the shelves before them. “I felt betrayed, though without an engagement, I had no reason to. I suppose I hoped he would change his mind and return to me.” She shook her head, the pale light from the door playing over her curls. “And with those spoiled dreams came an increased resolve. I wanted to stay as far as I could from those seeking to upend life as we knew it.”
Caroline drifted closer to him but did not meet his gaze. The pull to cut the distance between them nearly knocked Gilles from his feet. Here in Marseille, she had no one. Surely she could not lean on her mother for comfort, not when the woman struggled so much with her own fears. Monsieur Daubin was occupied with the dire straits of his business. Émile was gone, though he did not think the brother and sister were very close. The youngest brother was back in Paris, the oldest sister married and gone. And though he could not count himself a confidante ... How could he pull away if he was one of the few supports she had left?
“When we heard about the beatings and hangings yesterday, I don’t know why, but it felt like Champ de Mars all over again.” Her fingers twisted together in front her. “I did not know those monks or the alleged conspirators. And yet, they may as well have been Nicolas Joubert.” Her voice wavered.
Gilles reached out and took her arm. There had to be a way. He cared for her at least as much as he cared for Florence, and he wouldn’t let anything destroy that friendship, no matter the danger. Though his insides didn’t ignite when around Florence the way they did when Caroline stepped into the room.
“Another life taken. Another future gone.” She shook her head. “Does it matter what they believed?” Her arm trembled beneath his fingers. She finally turned to him. Was it the dim light, or were there tears clinging to her lashes?
Before he knew it, Gilles pulled her against him and wound his arms around her shoulders. A soft gasp escaped her. For a moment, she stood rigid, though she didn’t retreat. Of all the witless things for him to do. If he’d intended to drive her away, this would do the job. Just when he thought perhaps they could find a way.
Her head sank onto his shoulder. The tremor running through her frame was gone. Or had he imagined it?
“I don’t wish to kiss you,” she murmured. The tension in her body eased, and she relaxed against him.
He rested his head against the soft cap on her head, her curls tickling his skin. “I know.”
The rich amber of her perfume spiced the air with the warmth of a Mediterranean sunrise. If Daubin walked in at that moment, Gilles’s life was forfeit. If Martel happened upon them, Gilles wouldn’t make it home. But drinking in her scent as he held her clouded those worries in a mist of oblivion he’d never experienced until now.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For what happened, and all the memories you have to carry. And I apologize for being a wretched oaf.”
