Page 83 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
Gilles reached with his thumb to twirl Grandmère’s ring around his little finger, despite its having been gone for two weeks.
Heaven help them all.
Gilles sat in the dark kitchen and watched the hearth fire dim. Maman and Père had retired at least an hour ago. He’d stayed to douse the fire but hadn’t yet pushed himself to accomplish the task.
The warning in Martel’s sneer hadn’t left him since last evening’s meeting. Even now he could practically see his friend’s beady eyes in the darkening flames. Martel knew something about Monsieur Daubin. Was he just crowing over the downfall of a successful man? He couldn’t have discovered Franchicourt.
Gilles kneaded his brow. He should have gone to the Belsunce District to warn the Daubin family instead of mulling it over all Sunday long. Fool. Caroline wouldn’t have begrudged him the visit if it were for her family’s safety. He might not have even seen her. He’d go to thesavonnerieearly tomorrow to have a word with Daubin. Perhaps he could at least help his employer make plans in case things escalated.
He blew out a sigh and planted his elbows on the kitchen table. Not seeing her might have been as bad as seeing her.
Maman wouldn’t have appreciated his venturing out. The massacres in Paris had launched a series of attacks in Marseille againstroyalistes. Gilles had avoided such a gathering on his return from the Jacobin meeting last night. While he hadn’t seen any victims, the torches and rope waving in the air to a chorus of angry shouts could have meant only one thing.
When had liberty meant only liberty for like-minded Frenchmen? Gilles pushed himself to his feet, his movements slow and stiff. Inside him, the revolutionary fervor that had once burned bright in the fuel of Max and Émile’s words sputtered into dying embers and ash. France deserved better than what she’d been given. Louis XVI had been removed from his throne. Was that not enough?
He trudged to the hearth, stubbing his toe on the basin of dish water waiting to be thrown over the fire. Growling, he hopped back. Florence! Why must she—
Thump, thump, thump.
Gilles startled at the crack of a fist on the kitchen door. It was nearly midnight. Who could that be at this hour? Voices rumbled from outside as the knock came again. One voice was a man’s, so it couldn’t be his sister-in-law needing help. And Victor wasn’t due back for another few weeks.
The protests he’d witnessed the night before came howling back to his mind. He reached for the poker beside the hearth. Père’s pistols were in his room, but if someone had brought a mob, they’d do little good.
Knocking came again, more frantic this time. “Gilles!”
The cry made him drop the poker. His heart stumbled as he ran for the door, pushing the table’s bench out of the way in his haste. He fumbled with the locks and jerked the door open.
A flash of white exploded through the doorway and barreled into his arms. He backed into the wall to keep from crashing to the ground.
“Caroline, what ...”Bonté divine.She was still in her dressing gown. Not that he hadn’t seen the frothy white robe, with its delicate lace circling her throat and wrists, when he’d met her on the balcony. The ensemble was perfectly decent, especially with the added cloak. But holding her like this set his wits abuzz.
Another figure in dark garb slammed the door behind them and leaned against it, covering his face in his hands. Franchicourt. The firelight from across the room reflected off his balding head.
“They’ve found us.” Caroline’s gasps were muffled in the shoulder of Gilles’s waistcoat. Her braided hair had sprung from its tie. Beneath his arms, her whole body trembled.
The clergyman sank to the ground with his back against the locked door. “God have mercy,” he murmured.
Breath caught in Gilles’s chest as Martel’s words from the meeting hit him.Daubin will get what he deserves. Count on it.
He’d said Daubin would fall sooner rather than later. He must have known.
“How did they find out?” Gilles glanced around the kitchen. If therévolutionnaireswere on their tails, they had no time to stand in the entrance talking.
Caroline lifted her head, red-rimmed eyes glinting. “A footman betrayed us, and then had the decency to inform us when his conscience got the best of him.”
“You cannot stay here.” Where would he hide them? The cellar was too obvious, though the closest choice.
Her fingers dug into his shirtsleeves. “Gilles, we have nowhere else to go. Please, I beg you—”
He tightened his grip around her. How could she believe he’d turn her out? “I mean you cannot stay in the kitchen. We must find a place to hide you.”
The horror on her face dissolved, and she let her head collapse against his shoulder. If only he could freeze this moment, relish the feel of her against him.
A shadow shifted across the doorway to the dining room. “What has happened?”
Caroline flinched away from Gilles at the voice. Père. A strange relief flooded over Gilles.
“Martel is after the Daubins.” He took Caroline’s arm and guided her toward the kitchen entrance, nodding for the priest to follow. “They’ve been harboring this priest, and Martel has discovered them.”
