Page 76 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Her eyes sparkled, but this time not from the moonlight. “We have no music. Are you to serenade me as well?”
As though she’d been listening, Madame Daubin struck the opening chords on her pianoforte. The cheery melody ofSur le pont d’Avignonskipped through the open window to fill the garden. Caroline’s face softened, the teasing attitude dissolving.
“Will this do?” Gilles extended his hand. The thrill raced up his arm even before her hand settled into his. He hadn’t worn gloves. He knew she wouldn’t have them, just coming from the house. “I apologize it isn’t as elegant as it should be. Our ballroom has a bit of a draft, and I could not think of any other guests to join us.” Nor did it have a decent dance floor, refreshment, orchestra, lighting—
Caroline squeezed his hand. “It’s perfect.”
He twirled her to start the dance. Her skirt swished, and a tiny laugh, almost a giggle, escaped her. Then he turned under their joined arms as they moved in a wide circle about the lawn.
Should he ask now? No, let her have her moment to dance. Would asking during the dance make it all the better? Where was Max when he needed advice? He should have asked Maman before leaving.
He turned, then she turned, again and again while the dizzying melody guided them across the lawn. Almost of its own will, his hand started to linger at her waist as their arms wove through intertwining figures. After a moment, she returned the gesture. Her fingers trailed across the small of his back, and suddenly his pulse thundered in his ears. That mischievous grin of hers flashed in and out of the candlelight’s caress.
Heavens above.
He stumbled out of the steps, catching her in his arms. She kept spinning, laughing as they nearly toppled to the grass. Enough. The swelling in his chest was about to drive him to insanity. “Caroline,” he said breathlessly, “I must—”
“Monsieur Gilles!” A voice from the street broke through the merry tune as the gate clattered open.
Caroline spun toward the sound, breaking their grasp. Gilles blinked, the cool left by her sudden distance awakening him like a plunge into a frigid sea. Someone barreled toward them in a dress and cap. The woman waved something in her hand.
“Florence?” He fought to keep irritation from his tone. She knew what he’d planned for the evening.
“I’m such a fool,” the young woman wailed as she approached, shoving a folded paper at him. “I put the letter in my pocket this morning, and I meant to give it to Madame, but I forgot until I returned home, and when I found it this evening I ran straight back, and—” He couldn’t tell if she was gasping or sobbing.
“Calm yourself, Florence.” He held up a hand as he took the letter. The crescendo of anticipation in his center, now without an outlet, itched to turn into anger at this interruption. A letter? How could this not have waited?
“I gave it to Madame,” she continued, as though she hadn’t heard him, “and she read it and told me to come straight here.”
An eerie prickling tiptoed up his neck. Had Père’s ship gone down? Thirty years his mother had fought the constant worry her husband would never return. He glanced down at the folded page. The sealing wafer and its waffled stamp mark faced him with the direction side toward the ground. A ragged tear around the circle of paste marked Maman’s haste to open it.
But Père hadn’t left long ago. It was too soon to hear about a sunken or taken ship. That could only mean one thing.
“Monsieur Maxence!” Florence cried. Her fists flew up to hide her mouth.
Gilles traced his thumb over the sealing mark, mouth suddenly dry. After a moment, he slipped a finger under the edge of the paper and slowly unfolded the letter. Maxence’s bold script marched across the top of the page, and a smaller folded sheet nearly fell out. It read only “Mère” across the back and didn’t seem to have been opened.
A last letter?
His eyes tracked back to the date. The thirteenth of August. His pulse quickened. This was after thefédérés’ assault on the Tuileries Palace. Max had survived it, then. Or had he survived it by only a few days?
Gilles turned toward the light from the salon. The merry tune Madame Daubin played seemed to come from a great distance, circling the silence of the garden but not penetrating the abrupt stillness.
Mère,
I write to tell you I am well. We marched on the palace three days ago and brought down the tyrant, just as we said we would. Monarchy is no more. Despotism is no more. And to their places surge the power of liberty and equality.
We paid no small price to bring down the king’s Swiss guard. Many worthy patriots gave their lives. I was wounded by bayonet, and while I have recovered my strength enough to write, you must forgive my brevity.
Gilles’s grip loosened on the page. He was not a victim, then. No doubt wounded worse than he let on, based on the vague language. But if he was well enough to write, that was a good sign.
Only a few lines remained. Was he to be sent home? Did Maman wish Gilles to go to meet him? Wonderful as this news was, he could not say why she had made Florence run across the city to deliver it tonight, of all nights.
Enclosed is a letter I wish my brother to deliver to the Daubin family.
The air cut off in his throat.
“What is it?” Caroline’s hand covered one of his.
