Without Refuge

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “That is my fear too.” She slowly massaged the knotted muscles in both his shoulders. “Maman told me my aunt lived on a small stipend from my grandfather’s estate, an act of charity when her husband died. Since the revolution, that’s probably been cut-off.”

  Everett stretched his back and sighed. “Then we’ll manage something. I’m desperate to regain control, I feel so helpless. I doubt any letters would make it to Hobart for funds, since France is at war with my country.”

  “A letter…we must send a letter to Louisiana to let Maman and the children know we’re safe.” She pressed her face against his shirt to breathe in his scent like a she-wolf.

  “Your mother will be shocked to hear I’m alive.” He turned and squeezed her to his chest.

  “And Monsieur Hobart. Are you angry with me for asking your mother to sell your business to him?” She pulled back but wrapped her arms around his neck. “Are you upset I sold Bronnmargh?”

  “You did what you needed to do at the time.” Everett kissed her mouth. “The business won’t be a problem. Hobart’s the fairest man I know. I have complete trust in him. As for the manor, we’ll build a brand new house of our own, with no bad memories attached.”

  “I like that idea, a small, cozy place.” She kissed him, his lips warm beneath hers.

  He laid her back on the mattress, his fingers slipping up her shift. “Every time I look at you, I want to…do what we’re about to do.” He nuzzled her throat. “You are my life’s passion.”

  She moaned when his hardness pressed between her thighs.

  * * * *

  Bettina set the plate of galettes, the thin buckwheat crepes sprinkled with sugar, on the table. Everett stared out the window, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

  She sat down and sipped her glass of buttermilk. The thick, rich buttery flavor brought more memories of childhood visits. “Eat before your food grows cold, mon amour.”

  He turned and picked up his fork. “I have rested for three days, darling, and I’m impatient to find a solution to our money difficulty. I can’t risk staying much longer.” He shoveled in a bite then tapped his fork against the plate.

  “I’ll ask Aunt Mel where we might borrow money.” Bettina had held off, relishing Everett’s healthier countenance, making certain he ate and slept well—but his agitation had flared up this morning. “I wish you would drink this buttermilk.”

  “I’d rather have a good cup of English tea. The sooner the better.” He smiled with a raised brow, picked up his coffee mug and drank.

  “I know… I also hope our letter arrives safe in Louisiana.” She took another buttery sip. Two days past she’d posted a letter to Volet. A vague missive stating she was well, had found her husband, and would write again soon. Her aunt had warned that the post might be opened and scrutinized in this unsettled Republic.

  Melisande carried in a platter of Andouille de Guéméné.

  Bettina stood and served Everett one of the chitterling sausages. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Tante Mel?”

  “No, dear. I’m so used to doing everything myself.” Her aunt’s pixie smile brightened the room. Her high-waisted round gown flowed about her tiny frame. “Never a servant, unlike my upbringing, and yours too, of course.”

  Everett cut into the sausage, releasing the meaty aroma. He forked a bite into his mouth then tapped the tines again on his plate.

  “Everett and I so appreciate your hospitality, but we really must leave soon. We need to find a way back to England.” She touched her aunt’s shoulder. “Do you know where we might borrow money?”

  “Everyone is short of money these days.” Melisande poured herself a cup of coffee. “I would give you what I have, but—”

  “Mais non, I won’t impose on you in that way. If you have a friend...they would be reimbursed when we reach Everett’s bank in London.” How they’d send money back across the channel with the war Bettina would worry about later.

  Her aunt’s pale brow knitted. “Let me think about it, dear.” She drank from her cup. “Oh, I have a surprise. Jacques is coming for dinner tomorrow.” Her pert face beamed again. “Won’t it be delightful, all of us here together?”

  “Do you think it’s wise?” Bettina flicked her gaze to Everett, then stared at her aunt. “My husband is a fugitive.”

  “Jacques is family, we’ll be fine.” Melisande picked up Everett’s empty plate and patted his shoulder. “Oh, your husband’s eating so well. Also, Jacques might know where to borrow funds.” She carried the plate from the room in a sweep of flowered dimity.

  Bettina translated for Everett.

  He stood and rubbed his hand along his chin, his blue eyes flashing. “I don’t like the idea. This sounds very imprudent. Is your cousin trustworthy?”

  “I haven’t seen Jacques since I was a little girl. He never came to my father’s funeral.” Bettina lowered her voice, though her aunt understood little English. “I’m not comfortable either, but he might offer advice.”

  “If he’s not a republican.” Everett paced across the floor, shaking his head. Then he walked close and cupped her elbows. “You need to ask for more information from your aunt.”

  “I will, I promise.” Bettina smiled to soften her unease. She remembered Jacques as a humorless, sullen young man. As her aunt’s youngest child, Melisande had doted on him.

  “He is a fisherman, I suppose he may know some way to smuggle us home,” Everett said with a sigh.

  * * * *

  Bettina chopped onions and potatoes as her aunt plopped a scrawny cut of beef into her iron pot the next afternoon.

  “Meat has become so expensive since the revolution.” Melisande sprinkled dried herbs into the water she then poured into the pot. “I’m fixing roast beef in honor of your husband. Don’t the English eat a lot of beef?”

  “He will appreciate it, but I hope you didn’t spend too much.” Bettina slipped in the vegetables. Guilt niggled at her that she and Everett couldn’t contribute to the household coffers.

  “We were on strict bread rations for a time.” Melisande wiped her hands on her dainty apron. “Strange isn’t it, the King dethroned because people were starving, but many are suffering the same, if not worse, now.”

  “Tante Mel, Everett is concerned about Jacques. What do you know about his feelings on the war, the revolution? His political…interests?” Bettina rinsed off her fingers in lavender-scented water.

  “Don’t worry, mignonne. Jacques is only interested in his fishing and his boat. We’re happy to be so far removed from the events in Paris.” Her aunt stepped to a large oak cupboard and opened the door. “We’ll use the good china tonight.” She set out platters and plates.

  Bettina caressed the creamy china surface decorated with a ring of gold leaves and one elaborate letter J in the center. “This is Grand-mère’s china.”

  “Maman gave me this set of china and her silver before she died, even if they didn’t approve of my husband. They wanted me to marry a fat old marquis of something or other. Could you imagine me married to an old toad?” Her aunt smiled—a woodland pixie in a fairytale—and laid out an elegant set of silverware.

  “No, I definitely could not.” Bettina scrutinized the silver, wishing she owned the implements so she could sell them, but she’d never ask her aunt to make the sacrifice. “You are certain about Jacques?”

  “He’s my devoted son.” Melisande arranged place settings as Bettina helped. “After awhile, your grandparents let Homère visit me here during the summer—he told me he begged them. Of course they never consented to come. Homère loved to go out on the boat with Antoine, he was still a boy. He said he was glad I didn’t marry that awful Marquis.”

  “Papa used to describe those voyages to me. He was always full of life...affectionate and kind.” Bettina’s throat tightened. She
smoothed linen napkins on the table with deliberate strokes. Did her aunt know he’d been murdered? “Papa too married a commoner.”

  “Your mother was from a highly respected family.” Melisande hurried over and lifted the lid of her pot. The aroma of cooking herbs wafted out. She stirred the contents with a long-handled wooden spoon. “We feeble women take on our husband’s identities, no matter where we might have come from. Not that I cared. Antoine was an honest, loving, hard-working man. This revolution was supposed to have remedied that. To make us all equal.”

  “The revolution seems to have promised to do much it never achieved.” Bettina fingered one of the silver spoons, tempted to slip it in her pocket. She pulled back her hand.

  * * * *

  Bettina and Everett exchanged wary glances when the knocker clicked at seven that evening. Melisande flitted over and opened the door. A skinny man shuffled in. The stink of fish clung to his rumpled clothes.

  “Jacques, so good to see you.” Melisande kissed his slack cheek. “You might have dressed nicer.”

  “I came direct from the harbor, Maman,” he muttered, removing his wool cap, which barely stirred his lank black hair.

  “Very well. Here is your cousin, Lisbette.” She took her son’s arm and tugged him forward. “This is her husband, Monsieur Camborne.”

  “Nice to see you again, Jacques.” Bettina forced a smile into the morose scowl that hadn’t changed since she was a little girl.

  “Lisbette. Monsieur Camborne.” Jacques nodded to them both then ambled over and dropped in the armed chair at the head of the table.

  Everett nodded to him and pulled out a chair for Bettina.

  She helped her aunt set out the soup tureen and bread before sitting.

  Melisande ladled the mussel soup into a bowl and gave it to her son. The smell of thyme, parsley and saffron enticed Bettina’s stomach. She ladled soup for herself and Everett.

  “Jacques is so busy with the boat, he doesn’t visit very often.” Melisande took a delicate sip from her spoon.

  “How have you been, Jacques? Is your fishing profitable?” Bettina asked. “This soup is delicious, Tante Mel.”

  “Fishing’s hard work. Long days to make little profit. The boat’s old, and needs constant repairs.” Jacques tore off a hunk of bread with his dirty hands. He slurped his soup at the same time he took a bite, dribbling bread crumbs down his chin. His beady eyes darted to Everett. “You married an Englishman?”

  “Don’t be rude, dear.” Melisande patted her son’s arm.

  Bettina’s stomach twinged. She cut the portion of bread not mauled by her cousin and edged it under Everett’s soup plate. “Yes, very happily married.” She translated for Everett and took a gulp of her crisp Muscadet.

  Everett spooned in his soup in stiff movements under Jacques’s scrutiny.

  Bettina rose and wished already for the meal to end. She helped her aunt bring the platter of roast beef and potatoes to the table.

  “You didn’t serve oysters, no herring?” Jacques grabbed a fork and stabbed a large slice of the beef. He dripped meat juices on his mother’s pretty tablecloth, and still hadn’t wiped the crumbs from his chin. “How can we fishermen make a living if you don’t serve fish?”

  “Sometimes I tire of fish, cheri.” Melisande gave him her impish smile.

  Bettina tasted the meat, tender and juicy. “The meal is perfect.”

  “Tell your aunt the beef surpasses anything I’ve ever eaten.” Everett glared back at her cousin and drank his wine.

  “We’re at war with England,” Jacques said as if imparting fresh news.

  “How do you feel about the situation?” Bettina tried to keep her tone neutral.

  “The English, their Admiral Nelson, chased us out of Italy. Nelson also destroyed the French fleet in Egypt.” Jacques slurped down his wine, and poured another glassful.

  “I didn’t know you kept up on the war events.” Melisande glanced with embarrassment at Everett.

  “My husband is not a soldier or a seaman.” Bettina chewed more beef, but the flavor no longer pleased her. In the click of forks and knives, they ate in tense silence.

  “I prepared your favorite dessert, Jacques.” Melisande hopped up and retrieved her prune flan.

  “We must all pay attention to the war, Maman.” Jacques gobbled up the flan. “England and Austria fight us…only Russia has dropped out of the coalition.”

  “Aren’t profits made in smuggling?” Bettina asked, translating Everett’s question. She tasted the sweet creaminess of the flan, but her appetite faded.

  “Many make money that way,” Jacques said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Let us enjoy our Chouchen in the parlor.” Melisande rose and started to clear the table. Bettina pitched in with Everett while Jacques picked at his yellow teeth.

  In the parlor, Melisande put out crystal glasses and poured wine. “Yes, these were your grand-mère’s, too. Your grandpapa, I’m certain, got the majority of use out of them.” She winked at Bettina.

  “Your cousin isn’t a jolly fellow, is he?” Everett declined a glass as he and Bettina sat on the sofa.

  “Unfortunately, no. Hopefully he’s not the only honest fisherman left in France.” Bettina drank her Chouchen, the honey and apple flavor almost too syrupy.

  Jacques plopped down in a chair, loudly patting his belly. “A good meal, even if it was cow and not fish.”

  “A wonderful meal, Tante Mel.” Bettina anticipated a belch from her cousin any second.

  “I’m glad you appreciate my efforts.” Melisande perched like a bird on the edge of a chair. “Do you know of fishermen who could help someone across the Channel, Jacques?”

  “I might for the right price.” Jacques glared and slurped down his wine. “Why are you here in France, isn’t it unsafe?”

  “I came back because I had to take care of something, concerning my father,” Bettina replied, unsettled by his calculating expression. “Can you help us return to England? We have no—”

  “The coasts are guarded by the soldiers.” Her cousin slouched back in the chair. “It’s been very dangerous to be related to the nobility. People have been thrown in prison for the slightest reason. We’re only now feeling safe. After all, Maman was a countess. Most people don’t know this, since she married a poor fisherman and buried herself out here.” Her cousin’s thick Breton accent, slurred by a second glass of Chouchen, grew difficult to understand.

  “I think that’s quite enough on that topic. They are asking for your help.” Melisande glanced in apology at Bettina and Everett.

  “An Englishman here throws suspicion on us all. Everyone knows the British government supports the émigrés.”

  “If you cannot help us, Jacques, please say so, and we’ll end this evening,” Bettina said through tight lips.

  “I had no idea you felt like this, or I wouldn’t have invited you. You’re shaming me.” Melisande took her son’s wine glass. “Perhaps we should say goodnight.”

  “What is the nature of this discussion? Is he threatening us?” Everett stiffened on the edge of the sofa cushion.

  Bettina translated. “I doubt he’s amenable to assisting us. We shouldn’t have asked.”

  “The revolutionaries are ruthless.” Jacques jabbed a soiled finger at Bettina. “Your papa, of all people, knew that. He was too fond of aristocratic privilege.”

  Bettina cringed and bit back a response.

  “Jacques! Don’t speak of my brother.” Melisande jumped to her feet, her eyes wide. “What has gotten into you? I won’t tolerate your awful behavior.”

  “It’s time she knew the truth, non?” Jacques sneered and stared up at this mother.

  “What’s wrong?” Everett stood, hands clenched. “Bettina?”

  Bettina stood as well. “
What are you implying, Jacques?” Her anger erupted like needles across her skin. She’d hoped her cousin’s anxiety over their visit was blown out of proportion. Now, how much did he know…or her aunt?

  “That your papa didn’t die as they told you. As they told everyone outside the family.” Her cousin snorted. “They wanted to hush things up, and you were so young–”

  “Hélas! That’s the limit! Leave my house at once.” Melisande wrung her dainty hands, her face crumpling.

  “Don’t worry, cousin, I know Papa was murdered.” Bettina clasped Everett’s arm as he took a step toward Jacques.

  Melisande’s hands flew to her face, her eyes glistening with tears. Jacques’s mouth gaped in a vulgar manner.

  “Tante Mel, I know everything. I’m all right, don’t be upset.” Bettina strained for control. She embraced Melisande, then turned to Everett. “Please take me upstairs.”

  In the guestroom, Everett’s face flushed with rage when she filled in the details. “I’ll throttle his worthless neck!”

  “No, let’s not cause trouble.” Bettina squeezed her arms around him. “We’ll leave early tomorrow. Maybe Aunt Mel can direct us somewhere to borrow money. Please don’t do anything rash.” She laid her forehead against the tense muscles of his chest. Her aunt’s house no longer safe, they couldn’t wait any longer.

  Chapter Nineteen

  People argued below. Bettina, half-asleep, pulled the pillow over her head to muffle the sound. Steady, clomping footsteps advanced up the stairs. The landing creaked right outside their bedroom door as the steps halted.

  Climbing from the bed, she threw on a wrap. Three sharp knocks on the door woke Everett.

  “Who is it?” she asked through the crack, her mouth dry.