Page 89 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
You’ll forgive my use of your writing materials and my pretending to sleep as I wait for you to go downstairs. I had to take this moment to thank you, and I doubt my ability to adequately speak my feelings.
You did not deserve to get wrapped up in any of this. I cannot comprehend why your family would do this for me and mine, especially when we believe so differently. Your compassion at such a time is not only humbling, but fills me with a measure of hope I cannot seem to chase away no matter how hard I try.
I do not like to say farewell. Is there a person on earth who really does? And yet I think this farewell will be more difficult than the rest. So many things have been torn from me of late. My mind still reels at the thought that our beautiful home is no more. The life I once took for granted is no more, but there is one thing I must leave that will hurt far greater than the loss of the others. To think I will walk out your front door in a matter of hours, never to find joy in the sight of your smile or feel comfort in the strength of your arms around me again, makes what has been a dull and constant ache in my chest grow to unbearable intensity. All that could have been between us lies shattered on the ground, and I wish with all my being we could have the time to see if the pieces might fit back together.
I should not have pulled away that night at the lavender fields. I was still clinging to my stupid vanity from our meeting in Papa’s office. I thought I was so much better than those girls you played games with. I had more sense, more passion, more wit, more style. I didn’t want you to see, and even more so, I didn’t want to see that I was no more capable of resisting you than the greatest flirt among the café maids of Marseille. The only consolation I keep is that I knew a much different Gilles Étienne than they, and I count myself blessed that I was allowed a glimpse into the benevolent soul despite my harsh rejection.
I love you, Gilles. I should have swallowed my foolish pride and showed it much earlier than I did. Now it is too late. I should not ask more of you, as you have already given so much, but I would rest much easier in my despair of all we lost knowing you remembered me without regret.
Jamais en vain.
Marie-Caroline Daubin
Caroline entered the dining room, a blanket clinging to her shoulders, and it was all Gilles could do not to rise from his seat to embrace her. Père glanced at him as if expecting it, but Gilles locked his attention on his porridge.
“Your parents are anxious to see you,” Père said as Caroline sat.
Maman appeared from the kitchen with a bowl of porridge topped with a dollop of fig jam. Caroline smiled tightly as Maman set the bowl before her. The whispered thanks barely reached the other end of the table. “I am anxious to see them as well. Has my mother improved?”
Père’s mouth twitched, and if Gilles had been in any mood for it, he would have grimaced. Madame Daubin had not taken well to the motion of the brig ever since Père and his crew had hidden them onle Rossignolthe night before last. If she could not stand the boat at dock, she’d be in for an unpleasant surprise when they put out to sea.
“She was better last evening than she was in the morning.” Père finished his coffee with a swift gulp. “But we must discuss how to get you and the priest there without detection.” He set the cup down, nodding toward Gilles. “Your little friend has spies at the docks.”
Gilles dropped his head to his hand. “And at every road out of the city. He told me.” Martel had summoned him to a tavern last night for a drink to discuss the next plan, and Gilles had only gone to gather what the man knew. In fact, not long into the evening, he had left Martel, practically drowned in beer and snoring, to pay for the bill and find his own way home. If Gilles had taken more than a sip, he might have felt sorry.
No. He wouldn’t have.
Hot, orange columns racing up the sides of the well-kept home and the factory crackled in his mind. He would never feel sorry for anything that happened to Honoré Martel again. Let him wallow in self-pity for not catching his quarry. If only it would give them time to remove the Daubins from Marseille.
“He unfortunately knows exactly what to look for this time.” Gilles sighed. “Franchicourt’s last shelterers were not familiar to Martel, but he knows the Daubins.”
“What can we do?” Caroline’s soft voice sounded as though it came from someone else. The strength he’d seen through all the summer’s struggles had wilted. The defeated sound tugged at his heart, but he dared not look at her.
Père shrugged. “It is perhaps too obvious, but I can move my sea chest back tole Rossignoltoday. One of you would fit in there.”
Not comfortably. But it was an idea. “What about your equipment?”
“We will find a way to smuggle it out. I’ve had a little experience with such activities.” Père grinned wickedly.
Gilles sat back. It could work, especially if they went during the busiest hours and could lose themselves among other hired coaches hauling bulky chests. “But we need two.” Two chests wouldn’t fit inconspicuously on the back of most hired coaches.
“You still have a sea chest.”
Gilles nodded. Filled with medical books now.
Père stood, gathering his cup and bowl. “I’ll go with the priest as soon as possible. He’s in the most danger. You come as soon as you can with Mademoiselle Daubin.”
Gilles finally looked at her. She did not cower in her corner of the dining room, but a vacancy in her once brilliant eyes cut him through the core.
“Where is the priest?” Père asked as he headed for the kitchen.
“Upstairs. Praying.” Caroline pulled the blanket tighter around her. She still hadn’t touched her porridge.
Père laughed, though there was no derision in the sound. “Something we should all be doing right now if we want to see tomorrow.”
Gilles squeezed into the stairway with his trunk in arms. All the books once inside now stood in orderly rows at the foot of his bed. With measured steps, he descended the narrow staircase, his shoes clunking ungracefully on the floor as he focused on keeping his balance. The handrail pressed into his back, aiding his progress.
Caroline and Maman stood in the front hall below, his mother fussing with the front closure of the old dress she’d given to Caroline. It wouldn’t fit perfectly, but Maman rarely gave up until the last moment.
