Laurent would go into the cellars and see what might be sold. He made a mental note to have his steward check with the brokers in Bordeaux about the timing of a sale. Did the poor harvest mean prices would be higher? He wasn’t sure. Once again he wished he’d paid more attention to the running of the estate.
A maid came through and took away his breakfast dishes, leaving only the tea cup in his hand and its saucer. He wished they would wait until he left the breakfast room to clean up but he hadn’t figured out the proper way to make that request. He sighed. He would never make a decent gentleman at this rate.
He thought again about the Count of Toulouse’s offer of his daughter. He was hesitant to meet her. She would no doubt be repulsed by his face. Perhaps there was a way to seal the marriage contract without them meeting at all. He would write to Toulouse today and think of something. Gush over her beauty, whatever it took. He needed the dowry and he could sell off the diamond necklace easily.
At least he’d made a good match for Ghislain and his goat herd. Why Ghislain felt so strongly about a scrawny, penniless wench was a mystery. Although Laurent remembered her charms the first day they met. She had something intangible, a spark, an independence that few women possessed. She had stood up to Toussaint, and for what? An unknown girl. Was she in love with Ghislain? No one knew. But Laurent had thrown them together, at least.
On his way to the library to write to Toulouse the housekeeper appeared at the bottom of the stairwell. She paused, consternation on her face.
“What is it?”
“Monsieur Ghislain, my lord. He is— not to be found.”
“What do you mean? He’s not in his room? He could have risen early and gone abroad. He was feeling better yesterday. The new apothecary was a help.”
She nodded solemnly. “Yes, my lord, but he is not to be found. Inside or out.”
Laurent cursed under his breath. “Has he flown then? What do you think?”
“It is possible, sir.”
“Did he take a horse?” That would complicate matters. Horse thievery was serious business, often ending with death.
“All the horses are accounted for,” she said.
He nodded, relieved. “I will take a look in a moment. Have the stable boys search the barns.”
In the library Laurent took pen and ink and began to scrawl out a missive to Toulouse. He began charitably, with the obvious charms of the daughter. He expounded with more than a few flourishes to the bottom of the first page then took up another side with his own daring exploits with the Musketeers, embellished somewhat and leaving out the duel where he was humiliated and disfigured by an aging, drunken lout. The running away, the cowardice and the pain, were the worst of the story. He fled to the countryside, hiding in a barn, when he could have been treated by a physic and had less of a gaping wound. But it was done and he put it out of his mind as often as possible.
He was contemplating the third sheet, the important part, when the knock came on the door. The housekeeper again.
“Pardon, my lord. I believe you should see this.”
Annoyed at the interruption, the Count blotted his paper, set a spare sheet on it for privacy, and rose to follow his housekeeper into the hallway. The butler stood at the front door, his back against it as if protecting the house from something.
“What’s going on?” Laurent demanded.
“I pray, do not go outside, my lord,” the butler said in a timid voice.
“Step aside.” He glared at his butler, a man his father relied on, quite elderly, nearly fifty.
“Is it Monsieur Ghislain then? What has he done?”
“No, sir,” the housekeeper whispered. “Villagers.”
Laurent glanced at her. Something serious? He motioned for his top hat. “Step aside,” he told the butler again. The man finally did as he was told, eyes lowered.
Setting his hat on his head, the Count swung open the door. The scene before him was chaotic and sprawling. It took a few moments to take it all in: horses running through the paddocks, men with carts of firewood— coming or going? Housemaids screaming, women bundling bread in their arms, children jumping on barn cats and screeching with glee.
No one stopped what they were doing when he appeared. He waited, arms crossed, feet set, for someone or something to tell him what this was about. Last week a crowd of angry villagers had appeared in his garden and he was able to reason with them. They had threatened to burn the château that time. This time there were no torches but the threat seemed very real. Everywhere he looked someone was gathering an armload of his goods, a bag of wheat, a barrel of wine, a cart full of hay. They were cleaning out his fruit stores, his barns. Who was in charge? Was anyone?
Finally there was a sign. The big man, Pierre Toussaint, emerged from the milking shed, pulling a cow by the halter. The Count marched up to him as he reached the yard.
“What are you doing, Toussaint? Unhand my milk cow.”
Toussaint squinted at him, sneering. “I am claiming this cow in the name of the Republic. It belongs to the people.”
“So now you are a Republican?”
“You opened my eyes, Monsieur le Comte. I see now that the people own everything. We have come to claim our rightful goods. We have been hungry and you have so much.”
Toussaint turned toward the road, dragging the reluctant cow. Laurent grabbed the tether but Toussaint yanked it out of his hand, laughing. “You will fight me for the cow then, Monsieur?” The villagers watching, two farmers and three women, all began to laugh. They pointed at Laurent and slapped their knees.
Laurent looked around for help but his servants were nowhere to be seen. A stable boy hid in the barn. The housemaids were sobbing, useless. The butler was cowering somewhere. The Count put his hands on his hips and opened his mouth to castigate the villagers. But they were walking away, pulling the cow, slapping her rump, singing a country song as they walked back to their houses, arms full of his bread and wood and potatoes and apples.
He stood for a moment, his mind roiling with anger and indecision. This situation was untenable. His authority was lost, or would be as soon as that bunch returned to the village. Without his traditional standing he was nothing. He was no longer feared, or obeyed.
As they disappeared into the trees the Count called to the stable boy. “Saddle my horse. And one for yourself. We make haste for Toulouse.”
In the château he gathered his meager staff who were shaken and crying. A sorry crew, to be sure, some nine if you counted the children. He told them things were about to change, that he couldn’t guarantee their safety anymore. He paid off two young girls in coin as they said they wanted to go home. He ordered the cook to put together a traveling bag of food for the road and announced he was leaving within the hour. He told the rest he would return as soon as he could. He implored them to try to defend the château, promising rewards if they did. But, he said, he wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t. He locked the wine cellar and pocketed the key.
By midday he had disappeared over the hills at a full gallop.
SIXTEEN
The day Ghislain lost his foot Odette was high in the hills, kicking grasses and poking under alder trees for truffles with her walking stick. Her mind was in the clouds, musing about the Revolution. The word had come that a guillotine had been set up in Périgueux, the provincial capital. Three men, one of them a judge, had reportedly been subjected to the blade of the Louisette. Rumors swirled about other beheadings in cities and towns all over France. There was no word of the fate of poor Estelle. A newspaper engraving showed nobles in Paris with ribbons around their necks to celebrate their connection with someone who had lost their head.
The news was hideous and disturbing. There was also gossip that le Comte was next. That he had collaborated with nobles like Robespierre. Back in Paris Odette had thought Robespierre was a young patriot, a fine, decent gentleman, but the tides had turned against him. The villagers crowed about their raid on the château’s stores, the ‘rescue’ of the m
ilk cow, the delicious cakes they had plundered. Odette worried about the Count. He seemed like a good man but he was a noble. He had money, connections, resources. He could take care of himself, scar or no scar.
She looked up as the sun broke through gray clouds. Below the château was shrouded in fog, vapor coming from the river on this chilly day. What was Ghislain doing today, she wondered, before she heard the story of his foot. She imagined him still at the château, sitting by the fire, cozy and warm. She pulled her long coat tighter. It was a gift from the farmer, Monsieur Daguerre, for days when she had to be outside in bad weather. It dragged the ground as she walked. It was a losing battle, trying to keep the olive wool out of the mud. She would have to clean it again tonight.
When she returned to the farm with the goats that evening the talk in the kitchen was loud and animated. It took her a moment to realize the maids and cook weren’t discussing the Revolution at all.
“I saw him myself,” the youngest housemaid cried. “Hobbling through the woods with a crutch.”
“It’s only justice,” said another. “He fought for the royals, they say.”
“Who?” Odette asked. “What are you speaking of?”
The four stared at her. “Where have you been, girl?” asked Cook. “It’s the soldier. He’s been at the château all these weeks.”
Odette tried to look surprised. “What?”
“Oh, yes, you won’t believe it, Odette.”
“He lost his foot!”
“Not ‘lost,’ you fool. It was cut off by the butcher. He was the only one with a knife big enough, they say.”
Odette sat down hard. “That poor man.”
“Get her some wine, child. The cold’s gone clear through her.”
A maid handed Odette a small tumbler of sour wine. The fire felt warm against her shins. She hadn’t been to visit Ghislain since the day she had warned him to flee. She had no clue that his foot was bad. The wound was in his thigh, wasn’t it? Was this idle gossip again? Now that she recalled, he hadn’t risen to his feet on either visit.
She listened to the kitchen chatter. On the last visit Ghislain LeClair had lost his rosy complexion; he looked pale and drawn. But he had been just as solicitous and eager for her regard. She tried to talk him into leaving, before it was too late, before Estelle was tortured and told Odette’s story. He never said he would leave. It appeared then that he wasn’t well enough for the rigors of an escape.
They had sat in the drawing room, in the sunshine, and talked of dreams. He wanted to raise horses for the Army, he said, if he could no longer serve. He described his home in Brittany as lush with grass, perfect for the best horses. There was a view of the sea across the downs. He had wanted to be in the Horse Guards because he knew the animals so well, but the Army had other ideas. He kept a blanket across his legs as he told her his sad story of capture and war. But he had both feet intact. Now— oh, she hurt for his loss. For a man to lose a limb was too cruel.
Where was he now? Back in the woods, hiding? It was nearly winter. She glanced at the small, dark window. Should she go search for him?
“Where did you see him— the soldier?” she asked the maid. Now that she knew he really was a soldier she could call him what everyone else did.
“Near the road. Running across the neighbor’s orchard,” she said vaguely.
“Running? Without one foot?” Odette pressed.
“With a cane. Have you never seen anyone run with a cane?”
Not lately, Odette whispered into her wine.
“Will you run away with him now, Odette?” the maid snickered. “Odette and the One-foot Soldier, a story of true love.”
The maids all laughed until the cook told them to be quiet. “She’s the one found him, if you remember.” Odette looked up, startled. Had they heard the story she’d told Estelle? The Daguerres never mentioned it. “I heard you two talking one morning. I think you saved his life, Odette. I really do.”
Odette shook her head. This was not good. “No. I never—” Words failed her.
“We all helped him back to health for those few days. And the Count too if you believe what the gossips say. But you’re the one started him on that road.”
Why hadn’t she gone back to see him? It had been a busy time on the farm and she’d been pressed into duty, milking goats, carrying cheese, sorting apples, loading wagons. It was a large farm and there weren’t enough men. Still, she should have gone. She hoped he would escape, save himself from the villagers. She could have helped him get away from the Count, if that’s what he wanted.
The maids said something about le Comte and she raised her head to listen.
“They say Toussaint is very angry. That the millk cow is only the start of it. That the Count humiliated him and he is out for revenge.”
Odette turned toward them. “Toussaint is a bully. He cut off the hair of a girl in the village. He is reckless and cruel.”
They all turned toward her. “Pierre Toussaint?” Cook asked.
“You must know who I speak of. The big man.”
“He is my cousin. Do not speak ill of my family, Odette. Remember you are not from here, and you are only a goat herd.”
The maids crossed their arms haughtily. Odette stood up, straightening. “I don’t care if he’s the King’s cousin. He tried to do the same to me. He cut off a piece of my hair. Just for speaking up for that girl. The Count stopped him from taking it all. Toussaint had no right. None at all.”
The silence in the kitchen was broken only by the crackling of the fire. Odette glared at the cook who glared back at her. The maids began to snicker behind their hands. One whispered: “Goat-herder, goat-girl. You smell like merde.”
“You and the Count should be careful, Odette,” the cook warned. “Very careful.”
SEVENTEEN
Days passed, cold and rainy, full of the deep mist of the mountains that chilled to the bone. Odette took her goats far, searching for Ghislain in woods and along riverbanks, in abandoned bories, the beehive stone shelters for sheepherders. She looked in them all and sometimes napped there, out of the wind that blew down from the Alps.
The days were long because of her wandering and she often returned exhausted, in the dark. It was a way for her to avoid the maids and the cook who had taken against her. They were no longer friendly since her comment about the cook’s cousin, the horrible Toussaint. She knew her days were numbered here. The maids whispered and turned away as she passed. But for now there was no one to replace her and the goats would suffer without grazing.
One morning she slept late, too tired to rise for the communal meal and too despondent to care about a tongue-lashing. The kitchen was deserted when she arrived. She poured hot water into a cup and rummaged for some herbs to make it seem like something decent. A single crust of bread lay on the sideboard. She dipped it in the ‘tea’ and ate quickly.
Outside in the yard Margot from the milking shed stood with her hands on her hips, talking to a man. His back was toward Odette and she didn’t recognize him. While Odette grabbed her coat he turned and was gone by the time she stepped into the chill. She caught up with Margot inside the milking shed.
“Ah, good, you can help me today. I am so tired I could fall asleep against these beasts.” Margot handed her a bucket. “Take Eloise for me, will you?”
Odette didn’t argue. Her goats could wait. She fixed her stool next to the big nanny Eloise and set to milking. In a moment though she had to ask: “Who was that man? The one you were talking to?”
“Oh, just now? Someone from the provincial government. They’re looking for that soldier, the one you rescued from the woods. They got wind of him somehow.” Margot stuck her head out from behind her nanny goat. “You haven’t stashed him away somewhere, have you?”
“Me? No. I haven’t seen him at all.”
“Are you sure now?” Margot went back to her business, the sound of liquid hitting the pail a clatter in the background. "Because the word is that he's been
seen in these parts of late.”
Odette stopped squeezing teats for a moment. “Is that so?”
Margot poured the goat milk into a tall can. She put her hand on Eloise’s rump. “Don’t you want to know where?”
“I can see you want to tell me,” Odette said.
“All right then. I didn’t see him and I didn’t tell anything to that bureaucrat. But the word is, he was seen near here all right. In the woods, somewhere. Vague, a bit. No one ever gets directions in the woods correct. But it sounded to me like where you found him in the beginning of all this.” Margot paused. “You heard the Count has fled to Toulouse? The château is nearly abandoned. Just the old people remain as they have nowhere to go. They say he will marry there. He has no people here. He may never come back.”
Odette said nothing, just finished milking Eloise. She felt her heart race. When she was pouring the milk into the can Margot stepped up beside her, taking the pail from her trembling hands.
“That’s enough for today, mon amie.” She gave Odette a knowing grin. “Get out of here.”
It was past midday and warm in the sunshine. The goats needed grass that still grew green and thick under the alders so Odette let them wander. She was not very attentive to the goats. She had one thing in mind, finding Ghislain.
And then, with a shock of recognition, near where she’d found him months before, there he was. He lay on his side, his great coat wrapped around him, clutching a wooden staff. She crouched beside him quietly. His eyes were closed, his head resting on his arm. He was very pale. Was he asleep— or? She raised her eyes to the sky, sending up a prayer. When she looked down at his face again, his eyes looked up at her.
She couldn’t speak for a moment. He reached out with a trembling hand and she grasped it tightly. “Are you— are you all right?”
“Help me up,” he said in a weak voice.
She helped him sit up, leaning against the tree. He looked exhausted. “Have you eaten? Do you have water?”
Bennett Sisters Mysteries Volume 5 & 6 Page 32
