Page 85 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
“Caroline, I—”
Pounding on the front door echoed through the house. Their gazes locked.
Caroline scrambled under the bed as the knock came again. Gilles caught up the candlestick and ran for the door. He glanced behind to make certain she couldn’t be seen, then dashed into the stairway.
Slow. He needed to pretend he’d been awakened. His clothes were too neat to have just come from bed. With one hand he yanked off his cravat, then unbuttoned his waistcoat. Shoes and stockings, too, confound it. The knocking continued and a voice, indiscernible from upstairs, came through the door. Gilles left his discarded accessories in a heap at his door and hurried down the top flight of stairs to Max’s room. He pulled the button that closed the neck of his shirt free.
“Gilles, what is it?” His mother’s scratchy voice carried from her room as he arrived on the ground floor. “Is your father still asleep?
“I’ll see to it.” He pulled at his curls with his free hand, hoping his dishevelment was convincing. Because if the man behind that door was who he thought it was, Gilles would need the skills of the greatest actor theComédie-Françaisehad to offer to fool him.
He steeled himself and offered a prayer to whatever deity would take pity on him. Then he opened the door to Martel’s crooked grin.
“I have spies on every street in Belsunce,” Martel said as the hired coach flew down the cobbled streets. “When I give the signal, we pounce. My uncle will not get away this time.”
“Let us hope not,” Gilles said. How would he have responded before knowing about the priest? It seemed a lifetime ago, though he’d known about the Daubins’ involvement only for a month. He had to fight through the cold that seeped into his core to focus on their conversation.
Torches dotted the way as the coach pulled onto the Daubins’ street. A few dozen citizens mingled in small groups that thickened the closer they got to the house. Gilles craned his head but could not pick out Père from the crowd. Had he made it in time? Lights in the windows suggested the family was in the home, but perhaps it was a ruse.
Martel leaped from the coach when it stopped and strode toward the front steps. He signaled to a man, one of thesans-culottesGilles recognized from their previous night of destruction, with an ax.
Gilles threw himself out of the carriage, tripping into the streets and nearly falling. “No! Martel, wait.” No one reached out a hand to steady him. Murmurs and satisfied smiles swept across their faces as they watched tonight’s leader advance on his prey. Starved hounds licking their chops at a scent of meat.
Gilles pushed through the throngs to catch up to his friend. “We cannot just break in without warning.”
“Traitors don’t deserve that sort of respect.” Martel nodded to thesans-culotte, whose hat seemed to burn a furious crimson in the torchlight. “Look at the light through the windows. They’re clearly expecting us. I intend to give them a knock worthy of their crime.”
The man lifted his ax, and Gilles retreated from range. Martel remained where he was, face dripping in satisfaction as the blade bit into the door’s handsome finish with a crack.
Gilles looked away.Please let the Daubins be gone.Most of the men gathered wore liberty caps. Gilles scanned for Père’s tan mariner cap. Another crack.
The door flew open, revealing a fully dressed Monsieur Daubin. He raised his hands at the sight of the big man lifting his ax for another strike. “What is the meaning of this?”
Gilles coiled to spring at the big man, who looked ready to bring the ax down on Daubin. He opened his mouth to shout. They couldn’t execute justice this way.
The man finally lowered the ax to his side.
“I think you know very well what this is,” Martel growled.
Daubin’s eyes flashed to Gilles. “Certainly not.”
He gave his employer the slightest nod. Would Daubin understand his daughter was safe?
“You are harboring a refractory priest, Monsieur Daubin.”
“A priest? You are mistaken, young man.” The soap maker’s gruff countenance would have convinced Gilles.
Martel advanced a step, putting himself nose-to-nose with Daubin. “I have the word of your servant.”
“A servant, Martel?” Gilles said. “Surely that cannot be taken as condemning evidence. Servants—”
His friend whirled. “You will hold your tongue, Étienne.”
Gilles took his arm. “I know you wish to find Franchicourt, but can we not go about this in a more peaceful manner?”
Martel shrugged him off, shooting daggers with his eyes. “This has gone on long enough, and I intend to bring to justice any man fighting against the revolution.”
“I am hardly fighting against the revolution,” Daubin said.
