Love's First Light

by Jamie Carie

  That night after dinner when he had disappeared. He’d found the letter and the name of his adversary scratched at the bottom. She felt stupid. She should have guessed.

  With careful moves so as not to wake her son, she scooted into the center of the bed and gently touched Christophé’s head, her fingers feeling the bristling shortness of his hair.

  “You cut your hair.”

  “I needed a disguise for Paris.”

  “What were you planning to do?”

  “Kill him.” He said it quickly—so quickly that it took a moment for her to feel the shock of the words.

  “That’s why you came to this house that day? You were going to kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw you and at first I wasn’t sure it was you. But then I knew. I tried to distract them.”

  Christophé grasped hold of her hand. “You did more than distract them. You saved my life.”

  “You can’t still mean to go through with it.”

  Christophé took a long, deep breath. “No, not now.” He leaned close to her and brought her fingers to his lips, brushing them with a kiss. “He took my family. I thought he took you away from me too. How could I love you knowing who you were? But God has shown me the truth. I won’t forget again.”

  All Scarlett’s misgivings dissolved. “There is one more thing God has given you.”

  Christophé kissed her hand again. “What is that?”

  “The day you came to this house for Robespierre, do you remember seeing a servant girl with us?” She fought to keep the emotion from her tone, but failed.

  He blinked, such pain in the depths of those stunning blue eyes. “Yes, I remember her.”

  “When I asked her name, she wouldn’t answer. At the market, just a little while after I saw you that day, I asked her if her name was St. Laurent. Émilie St. Laurent.”

  “Don’t.” Christophé slid from the bed and stood beside it, balling his hands into fists. “Don’t do this, Scarlett.” His face was tight and drawn, turning pale. “It is impossible. She is dead. She was guillotined. I . . . I witnessed it.”

  “No.” Scarlett shook her head. “When I asked her name, I saw terror in her face. It was her. Your sister. But . . .” She looked down at the bed. “She turned and ran away.”

  “I saw her. I saw her mount the steps. I saw them strap her to the board and slide it beneath the blade. I heard it. The blade. I heard it.” He shook one of his fists. “I saw her head in the basket.”

  Scarlett pounded her fist on the bed, forgetting to care that she might wake the babe. “What if it wasn’t her? What if it was someone else?”

  “I can’t believe it unless I see her face.”

  How she wanted him to believe! To take hold of this hope. Please, God, let him hear me. “I told you, she ran away. I don’t know where she could have gone. But, believe me. Believe me when I tell you.”

  He turned to stare at her, and Scarlett put all her heart into her words.

  “Your sister is alive.”

  A SOB ROSE to Christophé’s throat, his hand reached into the air as his body collapsed into a chair. Scarlett’s words slammed into him like a second blow to the head.

  He was dizzy, not sure of the emotions flooding him. A sound escaped his throat—a sound unlike any he’d ever made before.

  Scarlett climbed from the bed and came to sit next to him on the wide seat of the chair. He leaned his face into her neck, felt her arms encircle him, and then he heard himself say her name over and over.

  Was that haunted, pleading voice really his? It was. And it seemed his heart was breaking. “I can’t bear it . . . if I believe it and it’s not.”

  Scarlett’s arms tightened around him. “Trust me.”

  Christophé looked up into Scarlett’s sure face. “We have to find her. Before he does.” He was starting to hope.

  “When you are recovered. We will find her then.”

  “I can’t wait. What if Robespierre finds her first?”

  Scarlett shook her head. “She can’t have gone far. Think. Where would she go?”

  He looked at the floor, seeing the thick carpet in swirls of reds and blues. Seeing the colors. “I told her to find the red door. I told her to go to Jasper’s.” He looked up at her. “But she didn’t find it.” The image of the door rose in his mind. It was a faded red, maybe hard to see in the dark. Maybe she had mistaken it for another color. Or . . . Thoughts exploded in his mind. What if to Émilie red looked another hue?

  He felt a heaving take place in his chest as he gave way to hope. “I think I might know.”

  “Where? I’ll ask Mother and Stacia to look.”

  Christophé stared at Scarlett with fire in his eyes. “No. It’s too dangerous.” He stood and paced the room, then turned back to her, feeling, for the first time in a very long time, the fire of a new dawn burning in his chest. “Jasper. We have to find Jasper.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  No sooner had he uttered the plea than the door to the room burst open.

  Christophé spun, fearing the worst. Instead, he found himself facing Scarlett’s mother and a sprightly looking, white-haired gentleman.

  “How is the baby?” Suzanne came around the bed to gather the sleeping infant into her arms. “Oh, I missed you,” she crooned to him.

  Christophé moved forward, legs a little unsteady. Thank You, God. Thank You. “Jasper.”

  Jasper quickly closed the gap, not saying anything, just holding him up and assessing his person. Finally the older man spoke. “What happened?”

  Christophé shook his head. The women were in the room. “Not here. Come.” Christophé led his good friend to the sitting room, praying Robespierre would not come back and find them there. Sinking down onto a chair, he rubbed his prickly head and then winced in pain, remembering the injury.

  “Robespierre. He came to the chateau. I didn’t know he was there. I . . . wasn’t thinking.” Frustration leaked out in every word. “He was waiting in my bedchamber. Tried to kill me. Nearly succeeded.”

  “Why didn’t you come to me? If he thought you were back in Paris, you knew the first place he would look would be the chateau.”

  “I couldn’t put you in danger again.” Before Jasper could argue with him, Christophé leaned forward, letting elation fill his voice. “Émilie might be alive.”

  Jasper sat down on another chair as if his legs had been swept out from beneath him. “It cannot be. We saw her—the guillotine.”

  “She was here. In this house. She was . . . his servant.” The last word dripped with bitterness. He looked up into Jasper’s shocked face. “I am afraid to fathom his reasons for keeping her alive and in his household.” Tears rose up to blind him. “But I am so glad.”

  “Where is she?”

  Christophé gritted his teeth against the impotence creeping through him. “I don’t know. Scarlett says she ran away from

  Les Halles. No one knows where she has gone.”

  “Alone in the city? That doesn’t bode well.”

  “We have to find her.”

  Jasper took his spectacles off and polished them with a shirt tail as he always did when in deep thought. “Extraordinary. Émilie alive. And you, monsieur, are not in good enough shape to go looking for her.” He paused. “Why did you come back to Paris?”

  “To finish the job.”

  “You should have contacted me.”

  “I couldn’t risk endangering you. From what I’ve heard, you barely escaped prison and the guillotine the last time I stayed with you. And anyway, this was something I had to do on my own.”

  Jasper softly cursed. “You were safe in Carcassonne. Why would you risk your neck? You can’t stop him, you know.”

  “I thought I might. And anyway, I’m glad I came back. I would have never known Émilie is alive if I hadn’t.”

  Jasper leaned back in his chair. “Yes, well, there is that, I suppose. We have to get you away from here and soon.”

  “
Yes. And then we must flee France.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “To London. I have friends there. Friends from school. Scientists that I’ve written to. They will welcome me.” Christophé looked at Jasper, letting all the fear that belied those words reach his eyes.

  “The Republic dissolved the Académie des Sciences, you know.”

  Christophé made a harsh sound in his throat. Of course. “This new government has no place for ideals, does it? They will murder anything in their way.”

  Jasper’s jowls wobbled as he shook his head. “Freedom, they call it.” He stood, came forward, and motioned for Christophé to sit up. “Let’s have a look at that gash.”

  “You’re a physician now?” Christophé complied as best he could.

  “The best one you are going to get.”

  After a few moments of probing Jasper stood back, his bushy, white eyebrows raised. “That must have hurt. It will need to be stitched up. What did he hit you with?”

  “Don’t really know. Just a blow and then nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He was there, in my bedchamber when I came in. My mind was distracted, so I wasn’t being careful. He must have been standing just behind the door as I didn’t have time to turn. I heard him though. I knew it was him. He clubbed me with something, something hard and metal. I heard the crack, felt a flash of pain and then just . . . fell to the floor. Next thing I remember is being awakened by Stacia, Scarlett’s sister. Somehow she dragged me out of the room, down the stairs, and to the back door. She was shaking me and commanding I wake up.” He grinned. “And I did. Had little choice in the face of her determination, I suppose. We walked here with her half carrying me all the way.”

  “Stacia.” Jasper’s eyes lit up. “The youngest. Suzanne told me about her daughters.” He laughed, his face looking younger somehow. “They are good women, are they not?”

  Christophé stared at Jasper in astonishment. He’d never seen such a response from the man in any way that wasn’t connected to experiments and concoctions. He half-grinned at his old friend. “Why don’t you tell me about it while you do your magic on this skull of mine.”

  Jasper turned a little red, covering his embarrassment by stooping to pick up his bag. He pretended to be busy pulling out various vials and packets of dried herbs. He finally turned toward Christophé, saw his knowing look, and shrugged. “You’ve caught me, I suppose.”

  “Do you mean she has caught you?”

  Jasper threaded the long needle and held it out for Christophé to see. “Be careful, son. I have painful instruments in hand.”

  Christophé couldn’t help the happiness that flooded him. He had always wondered if Jasper was ever lonely. He leaned his head down and waited while Jasper cleaned the wound and then mixed up a poultice. Jasper eased a little of the mixture into the gash in his head and then took up the glinting needle. “Do you love Scarlett, then? Suzanne thought as much until you disappeared.” He asked just as the first prick entered the tender, swollen flesh.

  “Mon Dieu. Yes. I love her.” He rasped out against the pain.

  Jasper chuckled. “It’s painful? Love?”

  “Have you never been in love?” The needle stabbed again, causing a hissing between Christophé’s teeth.

  “Of course. When I was a young man like you I loved.”

  “Why did you never marry?”

  Jasper took another stab, seeming to enjoy it. “The two women my heart chose—one when I was a young man and the other in my middle years—didn’t care to live with the other side of me. I long ago accepted the fact that I could never give a woman what she would need. I am too . . . occupied of thought. Too inside myself.”

  “I fear I am the same. What do you think it is that women need?” Christophé really wanted to hear the answer.

  Jasper shrugged. “I suppose a husband’s presence. Not every minute, I am sure. They seem to enjoy flocking together, but often enough that they are not lonely.”

  “And you couldn’t give that, could you?”

  “Could you?”

  The question loomed as Jasper bit off the thread and tied it. He stood back. “You will heal. You just need a few days’ rest.”

  “I can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous, and I must find Émilie.”

  “You mentioned staying in the maid’s room. Would Robespierre enter that bedchamber?”

  “The women have convinced me that he would not. He is hardly here at all, always about his evil work. They want to hide me until I have recovered.”

  “Then stay for a few days. Just until you regain some strength. He would never think to look for you in his own house.” Jasper chuckled, poured Christophé a glass of water from a pitcher on the side table and pressed it on him. “I think you can trust these women. They want to take care of you.”

  Christophé leaned back in the chair and took a long, slow sip, letting his tired eyelids fall shut. “You asked what I could give a wife.”

  Jasper stood in front of him, the look of a loving father on his face.

  “Before all this—” Christophé waved his hand around—“I couldn’t have given very much. But now . . . I didn’t know. The babe. He slipped out into my hands. He opened his eyes and the first living thing he saw was my face; the first sound, my voice. What is science and discovery against that flash of heaven in a newborn’s wide eyes?” Christophé grasped his friend’s old, thin hand. “I thought I would hate him, this child. Instead I found a miracle pouring from my heart to his.”

  “A son,” Jasper said softly, looking at Christophé, wonder twinkling in those old eyes. “You are as close as I ever got.”

  Christophé grasped tight to Jasper’s hand. “I want Scarlett’s son to be my son. I want her as my wife. But before any of that—” he looked into Jasper’s eyes—“I have to find my sister.”

  “You’ll not do anything for a few days.”

  “I’m weak, yes. But how can I wait when I know she is out there all alone?”

  “You won’t be any good to her if you catch infection. Rest, good food, and more rest.” Jasper looked as stern as any father. “I will look for Émilie.”

  He was too weary to argue. For now. “Three days. Then, if you haven’t found her, I will start my search.”

  AFTER HELPING CHRISTOPHÉ back to the bedchamber and saying good-bye to the women, Jasper stopped outside the door, listening for movement in the household. All was silence, and he found himself inordinately hungry and needing a quiet place to think. He should go home, but instead made his way to the kitchen in the rear of the house. Someone was sure to be about in the kitchen and, as the physician, it would not be amiss to feed him before they sent him on his way.

  The smells of roasting meat led him to an open doorway. There was a long table in the center of the room for preparing the food, pots and pans were scattered about and hung on the wall around an enormous fireplace. The place was hot, making his cheeks feel flushed, but the smells were heavenly.

  A woman sat at the table across from someone, talking to him. Her eyes were downcast and she had a cast of nervousness on her face.

  The man’s back was to him. Jasper started. Robespierre? Heart pounding, Jasper turned, as if he were looking for someone and hadn’t found him, and started to walk back out the door.

  “The quail is delightful.” The silky voice came from the man in the shadows.

  Jasper’s heart began to beat double. Fool! You should have escaped while you could. Now what would happen to his promise to Christophé to begin searching for Émilie immediately?

  Turning, he allowed his gaze to lock with the man’s. “Is it? I am rather hungry.” Best to act unafraid. The leaders of the Republic could smell the taint of fear like bloodhounds on a hunt. Jasper walked over to the table and bowed a little. “Are you visiting someone here?” Though smooth as new silk, there was something dark and threatening in Robespierre’s voice.

  “In a way. I am a physician. I was delivering a
baby.”

  Robespierre’s head jerked up. “Scarlett’s baby?”

  “Yes. She delivered about an hour ago.” It was a lie, the baby was several hours old, but Robespierre would not know that.

  “Is it . . . are they well?”

  “Oh, yes. A fine babe. A boy.” Jasper smiled, warming to the subject. “Are you related to her?”

  Robespierre’s head did a little odd jerk that resembled a nod. He motioned Jasper to sit across from him.

  The woman rose and backed away. “I’ll fetch him a plate,” she said to Robespierre. He smiled at her, more of a stretching of his lips across his teeth than a real smile. “Scarlett is my niece by marriage. Recently arrived from Carcassonne.”

  “So you are a great-uncle? My congratulations.”

  Robespierre waved the sentiment away. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

  Jasper bowed his head toward the man and shrugged. “Jasper Montpelier, and you sir, must be Maximilien Robespierre. It is an honor.” He thought it better not to mention the circumstances of their last meeting.

  Robespierre didn’t look as if he quite believed him. The plate came, and then Robespierre leaned forward. “Do you have your papers on you? I know I recognize you from somewhere.”

  Jasper debated whether he should pull out his citizenship paper—revealing his address and how many times he had attended various meetings for the cause, which were exceedingly few—or pretend he’d left it at home. The price for not carrying the paper at all times could be heavy indeed. He might be immediately arrested and questioned. Might even be imprisoned. That thought had the blood draining from his face. He looked down and dug into his waistcoat pocket. “Should have it here somewhere. Always carry it with me.”

  He pulled the folded paper out and passed it across the table with a benign smile. Robespierre wiped his mouth and hands with a cloth, reached for the paper, and unfolded it.

  Jasper watched the man’s face as he read it. Robespierre looked up. “Who lives with you?”

  “No one. My father passed on several years ago and I now live there alone.”