Page 2 of The Autumn Wife
The mason scowled and looked him over. Theo stiffened, keenly aware that his tattered woolen vest and ragged breeches marked him as the lowest ofmen. In France, he’d been a respected craftsman. Here, the law called him an indentured servant but the brute who held his papers treated him like a slave.
“You,” the mason spat. “You’re telling me my job?”
“If I were your overseer, I’d demote you to mixing mortar with those apprentices.”
“Ha!” The mason looked him up and down. “Some master’s dog giving me orders?”
Theo’s hands curled into fists. The taunting and the disrespect—spoken in front of a lady like this—fueled a powerful urge to strike the smirk from the mason’s face. Just the thought of swinging a fist shot such a thrill through him that he took a step forward—
He stopped short as the lady herself slid half in front of him in a scent-cloud of violets.
“There has been enough blood spilled today, sirs.” Her voice had lost some of its fury but was buttressed by steel. “No fisticuffs. I insist.”
Inwardly, he grunted, loath to back down. The mason taunted him, doubling down with a slow, daring smile. But Theo pulled back on his fury. The lady’s intervention had saved him. If he involved himself in any kind of violence—no matter how justified—he’d be slapped back in shackles, tied to a pole for a whipping—or, worse, have another year added to his term of indentured servitude.
Twelve weeks and one day.
Then he’d be free.
A cool, smooth hand lightly brushed his forearm. A moment later, he found himself staring at those pale fingers as they retreated from his grit-strewn wrist. As he shifted his attention to her face, he stilled. Her amber-bright gaze slammed into him like an anchor into the sea bottom.
“That cut on your head needs tending, sir.” She stepped back with a tilt of her head. “Come with me, please.”
CHAPTER TWO
Cecile looked up at the man who’d just saved Etienne’s life.
Smeared with stone-dust and pebbled with shards, the towering laborer brought to mind the sheer, carved rock face of Quebec City. The forearm she’d barely brushed had felt solid with knotted muscle. His palms bore calluses. His tattered breeches molded to swelling thighs. Deep-set eyes beamed, embers of fury still burning bright inside them, and now that intensity bathed her in an unsettling way.
Had she bumped into this man on the streets of the nearby settlement of Montreal, she’d have choked down a scream and raced as far away from him as possible. But no matter how dangerous he appeared, he had just saved a life more important than her own. The least she could do was tend his wounds.
“Come,” she repeated, shrinking away from the size and heat of him. “They’ll have linens and ointments at the convent.”
She swiveled around on a heel, slung an arm over Etienne’s shoulders, and propelled her boy along a grass-flattened path toward the main convent building. The disconcerting man followed with a frustrated, dragging tread. The mason was the one who’d nearly started a fight, but the man behind her had seemed keen enough to join in the violence.
Dear heavens, dideveryman in this rough settlement walk about with a belly of dry tinder, so easily lit? At least Etienne was safe now. Pulling the boy closer to her side, she scolded herself to be grateful to Etienne’s savior, no matter how frightful and intimidating he looked.
To calm herself, she took another hard look at the convent grounds. She hoped this collection of rough buildings would become the sanctuary that she and Etienne so desperately needed. It seemed isolated enough, though the settlement of Montreal proper was only a short walk west. The wide, grassy clearing was hemmed by forest on either side. The lawn unfurled from the banks of the Saint Lawrence River all the way up to the dirt road that ran parallel to the river at the top of a gentle slope.
The construction site for the chapel lay beside that road. A small distance behind stood the main convent building they were approaching, sturdily built of logs, but no majestic thing. She’d been told itserved as both living quarters for the nuns and a school for local girls. She could only surmise that two additional outbuildings on the opposite side of the field were used for storage or perhaps lodging for the laborers. Cecile couldn’t help comparing this congregation to the Salpêtrière Orphanage in Paris, with its domed chapel, stone courtyard, and four floors of cloistered lodgings, where she’d been raised.
Rough and small, this convent, but certainly the kindly Reverend Mother could arrange for a seat in a monastery school for Etienne, and, for a widow like herself, protection from the world.
As well as the law.
She approached a bench set against the convent wall and gestured to it. “Here we are. Have a seat, both of you.”
Etienne shrugged out of her grip and threw himself onto the bench. The laborer sat with more dignity. Cecile hadn’t so forgotten her upbringing that she would ignore the proprieties, so she summoned the courage to look the rugged stranger in the face—but not any higher than his bristled chin.
“Sir.” Breath gathered in her chest. “I have been negligent in thanking you for saving this disobedient boy from terrible harm.”
“He would have stepped away in time.” The man shrugged, his rumbling voice rising from that tremendous chest as if from an abyss. “Boys move quickly at that age.”
“When they’re paying attention, perhaps.” She glanced at a slouching Etienne, partly to remove the muscle-bound man from her sight, and partly to pin the boy with her displeasure. “This young man was too intent on assaulting people with questions to realize a boulder was soon to fall on his head. Do you have nothing to say to the man who saved your life, Etienne?”
Etienne frowned. A hank of dark hair fell over his brow to shield his eyes—yes, he knew he was wrong—but then, just as quickly, he straightened on his seat with a swagger. “Sir.” Etienne bowed toward his bench mate, adding with a voice full of drama, “I owe you my life.”
She opened her mouth to scold him for flippancy—a new quality since he’d recently turned fourteen, and not a good one—but before she could, the man grunted, “Nonsense.”
