Page 91 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
“What’s this?” Martel tapped the lid of the trunk. Even in the open air, he still reeked of alcohol.
“My father’s trunk. He leaves again tomorrow.” A trickle of sweat trailed down his neck from under his cravat. Though September, the heat had returned in full force this morning. “I must get this to him quickly.” Gilles fumbled for the door handle, only to realize the driver had opened the coach already. “Shall I see you tomorrow at the café?”
His friend continued to drum his fingers on the lid. “Your father already left with his trunk a couple of hours ago.”
Ciel. How long had Martel been on this street? “That was his chest of equipment, of course.” Gilles tried for a laugh. “My mother hadn’t finished packing his personal effects.”
Martel pulled at the lid, and Gilles’s insides lurched. The lock held. The key’s weight in his pocket did little to comfort him. This man had pushed himself into impossible situations to find the information he sought. Somehow a simple lock didn’t seem enough to protect Caroline from Martel’s crazed hunt.
Gilles motioned into the carriage. “I can have the driver take us to your house before I go to the docks, if you’d like.” Caroline would have to stay inside longer, but it was better to get Martel away.
“You’re going to sea, Gilles,” his friend growled.
“Pardon?” Gilles blinked.
Martel advanced like a wild cat on a vole. “You have no intention of going with the battalion to Paris. You think to hide on your father’s ship.”
Gilles squared his shoulders. “I have no intention of leaving Marseille. But I think we would do better building up our piece of France against the attacks of tyranny than giving all of our strength to Paris.” Let that tyranny be from a king or from a mob.
Martel spat. “You are a pathetic excuse for a Jacobin. And not worthy to be called Maxence Étienne’s brother or Émile Daubin’s friend.”
“Yours is not the only way to fight for liberty, my friend.”
“You think that peace and compassion are going to win this war?” Martel snorted. “You are a simpleton. Just as I thought. I imagined your lackluster dedication to the cause was from an unfamiliarity to the Jacobin ways. Now I see it for what it is—an unquenchable cowardice that has no place among the friends of France.”
A swell of words surged from somewhere inside, and Gilles could not keep them back. “If France falls, it is because her so-called friends have turned into the very despots they claim to despise. If the upholders of liberty only protect liberty for those who think as they do, can they really call themselves champions of freedom? Or are they no better than the tyrants who reigned before?”
Martel’s fingers wound around a knot in the cords holding the trunk to the coach. His face took on a shade to rival asans-culotte’s cap. “You are very close to speaking treason, Étienne.”
Gilles caught the man’s wrist and pulled it firmly away from the ropes. “It is not treason to want equality for all, not just one faction. And if the ruling party has made that a law, then I want no part of it.”
Martel jerked his hand away. “You’ll regret this.” He retreated as he spoke, punctuating each word and pointing an accusatory finger at Gilles. “When we’ve purged the land of tyranny and reclaimed glory for France, you’ll regret the weakness that drove you to flee. France wants men, not children. You will have no place here.”
“So be it.”
Martel turned on his heel and stalked away without another look back. With slumping shoulders, Gilles pulled himself into the small, rackety coach, wishing Caroline had still been inside the house for that exchange instead of in the discomfort of the trunk. He’d just made an enemy of every member of his Jacobin club. Martel would not keep quiet. But perhaps it was now time to take the stand he’d been too afraid to take.
If only he had found the courage to stand in time to help Caroline.
The coach slowed to turn a corner before reaching the dock. At a knock on the roof, Gilles pried his hands from their white-knuckled grip on the hard seat to stick his head out the window. The driver in front leaned his head around the corner.
“Pardon,monsieur, but there is another carriage that has been following us for some time. I have slowed to let him pass, but he slows and quickens as I do.”
Gilles swiveled his head. The other carriage made to turn the corner, and he could just make out Martel’s prominent nose through the window before it pulled around.
Que diable. Gilles ran a hand over his face. That man really was sent from the devil himself.
“Do you wish to lose him? Anotherlivreand I would not mind taking the risk.”
A little more money added to the fare was worth losing that rat. “As quickly as you can.” He immediately rued the request as the coach took off, darting around another corner. Even with a strong stomach, Caroline would no doubt be ill after this ride.
Hold on, my love. He winced as the force of the carriage threw him against the opposite wall. The driver shouted outside and cracked his whip. Terrified citizens sped by through the windows. The coach jostled in the other direction, and Gilles’s breakfast threatened to reappear. Two years on land, and he’d gone softer than he realized. Even the breeze from the open window didn’t calm his stomach.
He had to go to the docks. That’s where he’d told Martel he was headed, so he couldn’t change his destination to lead the other coach away. What if the Daubins happened to be above deck when he foundle Rossignol, or one of the crew mentioned the priest hidden below?
Gilles swiped at his brow with a sleeve. He had to hope the Daubins would be hidden away and the crew would hold their tongues. They were smugglers as well as privateers. He had no reason to worry.
His head snapped forward as the carriage hit something in the road. The coach careened on two wheels, shoving him to the floor. Gilles dragged himself back upright but froze at a sickening crash from behind. The back of the coach jumped lightly as though suddenly freed from a burden.
