Page 73 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Gilles stood immobile on the front step. Aiding a refractory priest. Not just keeping the secret but actively helping him.
Did it matter? He wanted to be a doctor to help others, to have the means to aid them in their suffering instead of standing back helpless, as he’d done with Dr. Savatier. Why did he pause at helping a clergyman?
Gilles nodded once. “Tell your driver to turn the corner and follow the street halfway down. I need to clear these Jacobins from the house before I leave so my mother does not have to.”
Monsieur Daubin hurried back to his coach. Twilight blanketed the street, enough to conceal the identity of those passing the rows of town houses. Every figure seemed an informant ready to report back to the Club. Gilles closed his eyes. If Martel caught wind of this, he would see it as treason. Perhaps it was. But as Gilles had learned from three years of revolution, sometimes treason was right.
He came. Oh, Sylvie, he came. I thought it impossible after the look of betrayal in his eyes when he left Friday evening after discovering Père Franchicourt. The whole while Papa was gone, I ran to the balcony at the sound of every passing carriage. When Gilles walked through the front door, I nearly kissed him in front of Cook and Papa.
Père Franchicourt has not improved since my previous letter. The cook and I have been at his side constantly the last few days. Nothing she could think of giving him has helped. When even Papa grew worried, we debated for an hour what to do.
As I write, Gilles and Papa are transferring Père Franchicourt to one of the upper bedrooms. Gilles could not say whether bad air from being so frequently in the cellar has contributed to his ailment. He has suggested small sips of ginger tisane as often as we can coax Père Franchicourt to drink and has given us instructions for a draught to help him sleep. He does not think it a putrid fever, which is a relief to all.
This scare with Père Franchicourt has left so little time for thought of the insurrection in Paris, but I pray for you and Guillaume and your family every passing hour. The city must be a disaster. So much death. So much waste.
Maman has been in or near hysterics since this morning and has largely kept to her room. I know it will be difficult, but if there is any way for you to find Émile and beg him to write, please do. He warned us his letters might come less frequently, and it has only been a week since last we received something, but Maman always fears the worst.
And if it is not too much trouble, ask Émile to send word of Maxence Étienne. While I would hate to bear any bad news to that family, they deserve more information on their son and brother than they have received.
Gilles closed the door to the small bedroom in the Daubins’ attic. Faint light from a distant window tinted the corridor blue. He’d loved the twilight hours at sea, just before the ship came alive in the morning or just after it had drifted to sleep at night. Closing his eyes, he imagined for a moment the serenity of those solitary moments and let the calm filter into his soul.
He’d done the right thing. Jacobin or not, his duty as a physician would be to help. He’d face the consequences. The priest’s weak but humble gratitude before Gilles’s departure only confirmed the decision. Despite not complying with the new laws on religion, Père Franchicourt didn’t deserve to be hunted through the city by his zealot nephew.
Look what she’d done to him. Gilles didn’t care one wit for Caroline’s politics—France had no use for a monarch after centuries of abusing the power—but in one thing she was correct. Right or wrong, the people of France deserved to choose what they believed and not face persecution over it.
Creaking on the stairs brought Gilles’s head up. A little glow appeared, haloing Caroline’s face. “Gilles?”
What was this smile that split his face, as though the very real danger she’d drawn him into were nothing but a fleeting nightmare?
She hurried toward him, making the flame of the candle in her hands flicker. “He’ll be all right?”
Gilles nodded. “I think the likeliest cause is bad food. Your cook said he received some provisions from a parishioner. That might have been the cause.” He kept his voice low so as not to be heard by the cook and priest in the nearby room.
“A parishioner.” Caroline’s gaze dropped to the floor. “As though there is a real parish anymore. Sometimes I wonder if this is all in vain. Why would a person try to stand for their beliefs, when legions stand ready to storm all safe places and murder any who oppose?”
The weight of Grandmère’s ring pressed into his little finger.Jamais en vain. Never in vain. “Perhaps someday we will find a solution to which both sides can agree. But that can’t happen if you give up.”
Her brow furrowed. “You want me to fight?”
“I love it when you fight.”
A thrill raced up his arm as her fingers closed around his. She didn’t meet his eye, just stared at their joined hands. “I’m sorry for everything. I know you wouldn’t have chosen to be involved in this. But thank you for coming.”
He smoothed his thumb across her cool skin. “Life throws us more things we don’t choose than things we do.” Such as falling in love with the woman before him. He wouldn’t have chosen it before their humiliating meeting, but he also wouldn’t trade this affection for the richest prize a mariner could imagine.
“I suppose this is goodbye?” She gave a mirthless laugh. “I thought Friday evening would be the last I’d see of you. I should be grateful.”
Gilles tilted his head, but she still would not match his gaze. “Do you want it to be?”
“I do not particularly enjoy goodbyes.” A curl came unwound and fell across her face, but she didn’t release her hold on him to push it aside.
Would she go on? Breath caught in his chest as he waited.
“I do not want to say goodbye to you.” She squeezed his hand, and his heart pounded like a row of twelve-pounder guns unloading their shot. His tongue sat paralyzed in his mouth. It took several attempts at swallowing before he could call up words.
“I will gladly take that over an insistence that you do not want to kiss me.” He caught the wayward curl gently between his fingers and lifted it out of her face, which she’d turned up to him with an unconvincing scowl. “I do not want to say goodbye to you, either.” He swept the lock into the rest of her curls, using light tucks to secure it. “Not tonight. And not forever.”
Her eyes fluttered closed as he worked. One corner of her full lips tugged upward.
