Love's First Light

by Jamie Carie

  Christophé could only nod, his heart still pounding, his throat feeling closed.

  Stacia took his cloak and led him up the stairs, chatting away. “Mother went to market to try and trade something for us to eat this week! What with the flour gone, we don’t know what we’ll eat! We always barter our bread for each week’s supply. And those horrible men that broke in . . . why—” she paused, leading him through her bedchamber and turning the knob on Scarlett’s door, quieting her voice—“I’ll let Scarlett tell you about that.”

  She peeked into the room. “Scarlett. Are you awake?”

  “Yes. Who are you talking to? Is Mother back?”

  “No. I was talking to your visitor. Are you dressed, dear?”

  “Visitor?” Her voice sounded panicked as they both heard the rustle of covers. “Who is it?”

  Stacia flung wide the door and motioned Christophé in with a sweep of her arm. “Why, our very good friend, Christophé!” This she announced with a wide smile and a wicked sparkle in her eyes.

  Scarlett held the covers up to her chest and stared. “Christophé . . .”

  He rushed to her side, dropping the bag of food onto the floor. “I heard what happened in the market. Are you injured?”

  Scarlett pulled her arms from beneath the covers and patted the edge of the mattress. “I am fine, really.” She lifted a bandaged wrist. “Just a sore wrist. The doctor says it is wrenched, but should be fine in a week or so. Mother is making me stay in bed.” She shook her head and lowered her voice. “I am hoping to convince her that I can get out of it tomorrow.” She smiled at him. “Thank you for coming. I—I had not seen or heard from you. I didn’t know . . .” She bit her lip, as though loathe to continue.

  Christophé sank down beside her; his heart had yet to stop its wild beating. She looked so lovely in a lace-edged gown of midnight blue, with her dark hair spilling over the pillow. “I am relieved to hear it. I thought . . .” He paused and looked down at her small hands. “You haven’t been to visit Daniel’s grave.” He looked up into her eyes. “I didn’t know either.”

  Their gazes locked and she pressed her lips together.

  “After the last time, when I nearly caught my death in the storm, my mother convinced me of my foolishness. I will not visit that grave again until the baby is born and old enough to hear about his father.”

  Christophé felt the world right itself. Of course. She shouldn’t be traipsing about the countryside! But he hated to come out of his hiding place, even for her.

  “Tell me what happened. I came as soon as I heard.”

  “Well, the scoundrels did make way with a week’s worth of flour.”

  Stacia, who shouldered her way in with a loaded tea tray, huffed as she sat the tray down, which made a loud clatter on the bedside table. “I wish I had gotten a good look at the scoundrels.” Turning to Christophé she shrugged. “I’m sorry there is no bread or cakes to go with the tea. I’m afraid we’ll be having boiled beets for dinner.” She made a comical face and then plopped herself on a chair nearby.

  Christophé picked up his bag and the food he’d just purchased from the market. He handed it over to Stacia. “There are some meat pies and such. Please, let me provide your supper, at least.”

  “No. We’ll not take your food,” Scarlett interjected, but Stacia grasped the bag and curtseyed from the room. “Thank you, Christophé. You will stay and dine with us.” She smiled broadly as she shut the door behind her.

  Christophé took up Scarlett’s good hand. “I will go after them. Tell me everything.”

  THE FEEL OF Christophé’s hand around hers was both comforting and disturbing. Scarlett focused on his words instead.

  “Certainly not. I’ll not have you endanger yourself for a little flour.” She didn’t tell him that there would be no more. That her mother and sister were postponing the trip to Paris until Scarlett’s wrist was healed, as they feared for her safety.

  Christophé ignored her protest. “Tell me what happened.”

  Too weary to resist, Scarlett gave in, waving her bandaged arm in the air. “We were all awakened by a loud crash. I rushed downstairs thinking that Mother had dropped something and as I rounded the corner to the kitchen, I saw three large men, their faces half-covered with scarves, bags of flour in their hands. I was too shocked to be afraid. Shocked and angry. I rushed toward one, grabbed the flour sack in his hands, and tried to wrest it from him. He was much stronger, of course, gave me a good shake and then tugged the sack from my hands. Within seconds they had fled out the back door. Mother and Stacia came to find me sprawled on the floor.”

  “What were you thinking? You could have been killed!” He glanced at her stomach, a giant mound under the covers. “And the babe. Is it well?”

  Scarlett grasped his hand and moved it to lie atop the mound, then smiled when the babe gave an immediate kick. “Oh, I think he is fine. He keeps me awake at night moving about in there.”

  Christophé raised her hand to his lips and looked deep into her eyes. “How did they get in?”

  “Busted through the back door. That must have been the crash that woke me.”

  “We must fortify the locks.”

  Scarlett turned serious. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about how to do that. The wood is broken, the handle and lock useless now.”

  “I’ll repair it. Do you have tools? A hammer and some nails?”

  Scarlett nodded. “I believe so. Thank you. We don’t notice the lack of a man about the place so keenly as when something like this happens.”

  “I shall try to be useful.” He frowned and glanced around. “Maybe I should stay here for a few days. Make the repairs and see that you all are safe.”

  Scarlett could not stop a shy smile from lifting her lips. “I think I would like that.”

  Liar! Her heart accused. No thinking to it. You know you would!

  CHRISTOPHÉ PASSED A sleeve over his sweating brow and wondered for the hundredth time what had possessed him to offer such a thing as to stay at Scarlett’s house. Just this morning he’d prayed to be released from a torment he’d never before known—nor did he understand it. Staying in her home meant he would be engrossed with her face and voice and movements and silent looks for the ensuing days. What had he done?

  He turned from the kitchen door, having replaced three long planks of wood, and couldn’t deny he enjoyed the female chatter as the women cooked and set the table. Perhaps his offer was not the wisest action, but as he listened, he had to admit he was glad he’d done it. Glad he’d offered. Glad they’d accepted.

  Suzanne, Christophé noticed, kept a close eye on Scarlett, giving her the easiest chores. When she stopped Scarlett from carrying a bowl loaded with gleaming round potatoes to the table, Scarlett looked at Christophé and rolled her eyes.

  He ducked his head to hide the laughter in his throat and turned back to his project. He had spent the afternoon shopping for wood and nails, well hidden in his cloak despite feeling exposed outside his routine. But the Bonham women had only come up with a hammer, and they were depending on him to fix things. That knowledge gave him the courage to approach a local carpenter to cut the wood into the length of boards that he wanted. All he’d had to do was tell the man the Bonham name. The story of the break-in, it seemed, was well known to the townsfolk, and Christophé wasn’t the only person wanting to help the three ladies and find the thieves. The carpenter’s wife even gave him a cake to take back to the women with the message that if they needed anything to send word.

  Coming back, feeling as if he’d conquered something, he’d taken off the busted boards, the frame thankfully sound, and nailed on the fresh ones, making the room smell of fresh-cut wood. Now for a sturdy lock. The blacksmith suggested a long, flat bar of metal nailed horizontally from the middle of the door, with a simple latch piece that connected to another piece attached to the doorframe. The latch could be easily locked by a long metal clasp pushed through the hole in the center of it.

  Scarle
tt came over and peered around his shoulder. He glanced up at her from his crouched position with a grin. “Shall we test it?” She nodded, and Christophé showed her how to secure the lock and then stepped outside. “Bar the door, and I’ll try it from the outside to test the strength.”

  Scarlett closed the door. He waited out in the cool night air, feeling better than he had in days. There was something about making something, repairing something, doing a man’s work that could give such a sense of satisfaction. He’d forgotten that.

  “Ready,” her voice called through the wood, sending a rush of delight through him.

  Christophé pressed the thumb latch and gave it a good push. When the door didn’t budge, he put his shoulder to it and pushed harder. It seemed sound.

  He knocked then. “It seems to be holding!”

  He heard her laugh and then pull out the clasp. The door swung wide on her smiling face. “It’s wonderful!”

  He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and kiss her, but stopped himself, only allowing his gaze to rove over her face.

  “Come.” She held out her hand. “You look famished.”

  He realized that he was hungry. Hungrier than he’d felt in weeks. Must be the physical labor—and the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen.

  For dinner they added some potatoes Mrs. Bonham found in the garden to Christophé’s veal roast, along with turnips and fruit. The table was set with pretty dishes and a brace of candles. The women directed him to sit at the head, with Scarlett at his right, Stacia at his left, and Mrs. Bonham at the foot.

  “Christophé, we can’t thank you enough.” Madam. Bonham beamed at him. “Would you say the prayer?”

  The rote mealtime prayer from school rose up to his lips but he stopped it from escaping. His other prayers, those spilt- out pleas that kept him sane since the death of his family were also inappropriate. He found himself unsure and embarrassed, not having anything suitable to say. They sat in silence waiting, and then he felt Scarlett’s hand reach out across the table and grasp his. The minute her fingers intertwined with his, peace flooded him. He was among friends. Fear had no place at this table.

  “Father,” he began, clearing his throat, “please accept our thanksgiving for this bountiful food. We are like children and . . . need You, Your care and Your provision. And please, Almighty God, keep this household safe from evil. Thank You. Amen.”

  When he looked up he found tears glistening in each woman’s eyes. There was a soft-hearted sweetness about them that overwhelmed him. He had never quite known how it felt to be so needed and admired. Except for Émilie. She had given him a glimpse of this. Thinking of her, it was all he could do to reach for his fork and knife, feeling clumsy and observed as he sliced through the thick roast.

  Stacia broke the spell by laughing and pressing her napkin against her mouth. “Wouldn’t you like to stay, sir? Mother could adopt you!”

  He looked at Scarlett, who looked genuinely appalled at the thought. Stacia laughed again, and her mother tried to speak before the youngest at the table said something truly shocking. Before Mrs. Bonham could get out more than a word to pass the potatoes, Stacia blurted out: “Or you could marry Scarlett. That might be more to both your liking, I think.”

  Scarlett gasped. “Stacia!”

  But Christophé only smiled, finding that he couldn’t stop the flood of joy Stacia’s words brought to his chest. Maybe he could marry Scarlett. Maybe it didn’t matter that he had nothing but a crumbling castle and a name to keep hidden. Maybe he could just stay and make a simple living here, with them.

  The meal progressed without further event. The women talked of spring cleaning. Christophé assured them he would replace the latch on the front door tomorrow, along with any other household repairs they might be able to find for him. There was a leak in the roof over Madam Bonham’s bedchamber, a broken window frame that would no longer open, a rusty pump handle over the well, and a number of small jobs that could keep him busy for days.

  After dinner Madam Bonham insisted that Stacia would help her clean up while Scarlett entertained Christophé in the parlor.

  “How is your wrist feeling?” Christophé took his place on a wooden chair.

  Scarlett sat across from him on the settee. She looked down at her wrist and then slowly unwound the bandage. “The swelling is down. It is still sore, but not the constant throb it was two days ago.”

  Christophé came over to sit beside her. “Let me see it.” He took the slim arm in his hands and traced the delicate bone of her wrist with a finger. “Does that hurt?”

  She shook her head, but pain skittered across her eyes. She looked up into Christophé’s eyes, and they both paused.

  Christophé leaned forward, his eyes on her lips. One hand cradled Scarlett’s injured hand between them, while the other reached around and gently cupped the side of her face. “Scarlett,” he heard his throat murmur.

  She made a sound, and he didn’t know if it was in distress or anticipation or something in between. But she didn’t pull away.

  “Scarlett.” He said it again as his lips touched hers. They were as warm and sweet as cherries. He wanted nothing more than to gather her up into his arms, but he was conscious of her injury and held a safe distance between them.

  She didn’t seem to feel the same way though. She pulled her arm free and held it loosely around his back, pulling him closer. She deepened the kiss and he suddenly realized, she was the more experienced. He had some experience, some encounters that he really didn’t even want to remember, but Scarlett had known married love, where nothing, he imagined, was held back. She was the expert now, but that didn’t seem to matter.

  Within moments they were both lost to the sensation of each other.

  THE NEXT MORNING Christophé found Scarlett up and alone, cooking eggs and the leftover potatoes in a skillet.

  “You are up early.” He came up behind her and reached for her waist. She shied away, giving him a stern look. “We mustn’t. You mustn’t. I shouldn’t set a bad example for Stacia.” She finished as if she had been rehearsing the lines all night.

  Christophé moved a little away. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh. Don’t be sorry! It was . . . it was lovely. But I, well, I can’t believe you could have any interest in me now.”

  What was this about? He frowned. “Now? What does that mean?”

  Scarlett gestured toward her giant stomach. “I’m about to have another man’s child. And I look . . . so . . . immense.” She turned away, stirring the potatoes around and around.

  Christophé shot a glance toward the rest of the house, assured himself that they were truly alone, and then went to stand at her back. He didn’t touch her. Merely leaned in and whispered into her ear. “I’ve studied the stars and the moon as close as any man. I have watched white light split into the colors of the rainbow. I have written mathematical equations so elegant that they took my breath away. But you . . .” His voice deepened, grew husky. “You are a wonder I didn’t know existed. You are beauty.”

  She inhaled suddenly and looked over her shoulder at him, eyes wide. “Oh.”

  “I can hardly force myself to stand here so close to you and not touch you.”

  “Oh . . .”

  He backed away then, relishing her look of confused disquiet. He walked over to the table and sat down, enjoying the feeling of knowing how best to handle her despite his lack of experience. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, with this woman everything came easy.

  She brought over the breakfast, careful to avoid his eyes. He tried not to look at her, not knowing what he might do. Instead he talked of things like broken doors and latches and hard, cold metal. How could she think she was unappealing just because she was having a baby? It was unfathomable.

  The rest of the day, and the days after that, took on a comforting routine. Scarlett was always up early to cook for him. He worked at the projects, occasionally leaving for supplies and watching his coins
dwindle to next to nothing, but not caring. Sometimes he went back to the castle for clothes or tools or some item that he’d scavenged from the wreckage of the place that might prove useful.

  He’d found something here. Happiness. At being among them—these women, this family. And he was secretly glad that Scarlett had stopped visiting Daniel’s grave.

  THAT EVENING, AFTER dinner, he was in the parlor alone, looking through their small collection of books, when he noticed a nail sticking up from a floorboard. It wouldn’t do for Scarlett to trip over such a thing, and so he rose to fix it. It was just under a small round table. He bumped the table as he crawled underneath it, sending a small stack of papers fluttering to the floor. He rose, thinking to put the papers back, when a name leapt off the one on top: Robespierre.

  Christophé froze. Everything in him shifted, slowed, then stopped. His hand began to shake. He shouldn’t read it, but he knew he must. He had to know what link this household—this now-beloved household—had to his sworn enemy. Hurriedly, he flipped the page open and read.

  Dear Madames and Mademoiselle de Carcassonne,

  I deeply regret the news I must bestow upon you, dear ladies. The flour stores here in Paris are being hoarded, locked down from any persons except by the full vote of the Committee. They have agreed that any surplus flour outside the immediate needs of the city will be exported and traded to help fund our glorious cause. You will receive three more shipments, another month. That is all I can promise.

  I realize this will put a great imposition upon your household, but alas, my hands are tied. In knowing your glowing hearts for the Révolution, I feel you will understand. Have you thought of taking up weaving? I am greatly encouraged that the south of France is contributing to our meager funds through the sale and export of cloth. The city is becoming famous for it! I hope that such an endeavor will meet with your full satisfaction.