by Jamie Carie
“We will go now?” She asked Jasper as she drained the pretty teacup with rosebuds dotting up and down its sides.
“Yes. There is a washbasin on the side table if you would like to freshen up. As soon as you are ready.”
“Are you not afraid we will meet Robespierre?”
Jasper looked down at her and reached out a reassuring hand to pat her shoulder, but she saw fear in his eyes. “We will be careful.”
“There is a back stairway. I could show you.”
“Yes. That would be helpful.” He passed a thin-boned hand over his chin. “Do you suppose we should attempt a disguise?”
Émilie’s eyes widened at the idea, a feeling of excitement spiking through her. Dress-up had been one of her favorite games as a child. “What did you have in mind?”
Jasper looked about the room then walked over to a large armoire. “This belonged to my parents. I never removed it and now I think I know why.” He angled a grin over his shoulder. “There might be something amidst their old things for this play-acting show.”
He threw the door open, and dust and mothballs billowed into the air and rolled onto the floor. “Come, child. Let’s find our treasure.”
Émilie bounded from the covers and walked over to take a look. She grasped hold of a black, lace-ruffled gown. It would be too large, but with some pins might make the journey to the house. “We are in mourning. Wearing the Republic’s cockade proudly, of course. You are my grandfather, and I think”—she looked up at him—“that with a hat like this one”—she reached inside and dragged out the ancient item—“you are here for the funeral of my mother, your daughter.”
She clasped the old dress to her, warming to the subject. “I will have this hat, as it has a veil and”—reaching down, she grasped something and held them high—“these very high heels to increase my age. My brother, John, is staying in a house on the same street as Robespierre and, if discovered, we have come to the wrong house. You are taking me back to Lyons after the funeral.”
Jasper chuckled. “And what are our names, my little actor?”
“Montclaire.” She stated with a sure smile. “It’s common enough and not of the nobles.”
Jasper looked down at her with a gleam in his eyes, and she knew in that moment that he realized he had underestimated her maturity.
“You will be Reginald Montclaire, and I will be Ann-Marie.” She grew suddenly serious. “But we have no papers.”
“Perhaps we will have papers,” Jasper assured her. “I am not without certain hidden talents as well.” They smirked at each other in glee. “Just give me a few moments to work my magic, my dear, while you change into your new identity.”
STACIA STRODE INTO Robespierre’s sitting room in a fine, high-waisted, jade-green gown and sat gingerly on the edge of the silken cushions of a chair. She put her hand, aware of the pose of drama, to her forehead and let out a great sigh.
Scarlett peered at her. “It didn’t go well, either?”
“Pompous jackanapes all around.” Stacia blurted out about the men from the soireé. Their mother gasped and then tried to hide her smile behind her hand as she followed Stacia into the room.
Their mother shook her head, setting her curls dancing. “Stacia, you must never speak so. It’s not befitting a lady.”
Stacia smirked at Scarlett, but spoke to her mother. “There was no other way of putting it and you know it was true, Mother.”
Her mother settled into another chair, arranging the skirts of her best dress. It was a lovely lavender costume, but of the old style, with a bodice that made their mother’s bosoms nearly burst from the neckline. Thankfully she’d stuffed a fichu in the center to lessen the effect. “Yes, well, nevertheless . . .” She let the comment trail off, as if not knowing how else to describe the soiree they’d attended in the attempt to find Stacia a husband.
“Tell me everything. I’ve been cooped up in this house for days and desperately need the diversion,” Scarlett demanded with a desperate look at Stacia.
“The men!” Stacia began. “They think of nothing but this Révolution. Do I not look pretty tonight?”
“Indeed, you do.”
“I could have been a nasty bug on the wall for all they noticed. Not that I really cared. There was no one, and Scarlett, I mean not one of them that I would even care to dance with.”
“Was there dancing?” Scarlett looked dreamy-eyed at the thought.
“Of course not,” Stacia resounded. “Only talk and eating. And more boring talk.” She fell back against the cushions. “This was my third time out in Parisian society and I can only say that it is sadly lacking. My expectations have fallen to a new low.”
Scarlett shook her head, feeling genuine sorrow for her sister. When she’d come to Paris it was a fairyland. The balls, the dinner parties, the opera. Yes, the opera. “What of a play or the opera house? I have heard that while they’ve closed down all the churches, the opera is still alive and well. You could try that.”
Stacia groaned. “The actors will be killing one another in the name of the Révolution. Of that I’m sure.”
“Well there isn’t anything to be done about it.” Their mother spoke in an even tone. “We must make the best of any opportunities. It has been so kind of Robespierre to give us all of his social invitations and insist we go in his stead.” She turned toward Stacia with uncharacteristically stern briskness. “It is what the world is at present.”
Stacia pouted. “Yes, but Scarlett was so lucky.”
Stacia’s words hung heavy on the air. Scarlett knew they were realizing that Scarlett had not been so lucky in the end.
“Oh, Scarlett, I beg forgiveness. That was thoughtless of me.”
Scarlett only waved her sister away. It didn’t matter. The past was over, and the present was set to lead her to a wonderful future. Dare she tell them of her engagement? Her newfound happiness?
Just as she was deciding that it might be the right time, there was a slight knock at the door. Scarlett, being closest, rose to answer. Who could be calling at this late hour? Robespierre was out for the night, and Christophé was sound asleep the last time she’d looked in.
She opened the door and blinked. It was Jasper, Christophé’s friend, she was sure, but he was dressed so strange, in a costume only the elders wore, as though he’d borrowed his dead father’s clothing. There were even moth-bitten holes on his jacket! “Jasper, is that you?”
“Yes. Scarlett, my dear. You look wholly recovered.”
Scarlett opened the door wider and saw that he was with a young woman who was entirely veiled. How odd! Peering over her shoulder, Scarlett stared, round-eyed, at her mother and sister. “I am feeling much better, thank you. Please, come in.” She nodded to the lady as she passed, wobbling a little in a pair of shocking-blue, laced-up, high heels.
Scarlett could not help a smile as, upon seeing Jasper, her mother rose from her seat, all aflutter and allowing Jasper to grasp her hands tightly in his. “Jasper, whatever are you about? You look . . . astonishing!”
Scarlett exchanged laughing gazes with Stacia.
Jasper bowed low over their mother’s hand, lingering it seemed, and causing their mother to blush from chest to forehead. “I have brought someone, dear lady. Someone for Christophé to meet.”
“Christophé?” Her mother’s voice was like a squeak in the room. She looked at Scarlett and then the veiled lady. “I daresay you don’t know, Jasper.”
He straightened to his full height, which was still rather short. “Know what, my dear?”
Suzanne pursed her lips together and then whispered, though they all heard her: “Scarlett loves him. You shouldn’t be bringing another woman around.”
The veiled lady turned her head toward Scarlett, and then slowly lifted the black lace.
They all gasped.
“Émilie!” For a moment, Scarlett couldn’t move, then she turned toward Jasper. “You found her.”
“She found me, my dear.” Jaspe
r turned toward the girl and gazed at her with all the pride of a father.
Émilie reached out and touched Scarlett’s arm. “Do you truly love my brother?”
Scarlett could only stare at her. She was speaking! And she sounded so like him, the way her tone lifted on the word “truly,” the way she tilted her head and stared straight into Scarlett’s eyes. She really was Christophé’s sister. Scarlett had been right. Until this moment she’d hoped and prayed that she was, but she’d been a little afraid. What if she’d been wrong?
“Yes.” Scarlett looked down and then around at the carpet, and then back up at Émilie. “I love your brother.”
The room was silent for a long moment as Scarlett and Émilie stared at one another, each communicating their love for Christophé St. Laurent. Then Émilie reached out for Scarlett’s hand. “I’m so glad.”
Jasper looked around at the ladies in the room and cleared his throat. “We might not have much time. Where is he?”
Scarlett blinked. “Upstairs. Sleeping.” She reached out and grasped hold of Émilie’s hand, imagining Christophé’s face when he saw her. “Come.” She led the girl from the room, motioning Jasper to follow them. “Even in disguise, you are not safe here. Let us hurry.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Christophé was curled onto his side, a shaft of light from the nearly closed curtains illuminating his hand up under his cheek. He looked as sweet as André . . .
Scarlett crept further into the room and sank down beside him. His wound was healing nicely; he’d had a resurgence of appetite the past two days, and she had seen to it that he ate well and often. His color was coming back. He was almost, he said today, ready to start the search for Émilie.
Love for him overflowed in Scarlett’s thudding heart as she leaned over his sleeping form. She wanted to just stare at him, watch him sleep. But she would have the rest of her life to watch him and grow old together. Now Jasper and Émilie waited on the other side of the door and she was so glad. So glad that she would be there when he first saw his beloved sister’s face. She leaned over his peacefulness and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He barely roused. She tried again, this time placing a chaste peck on his mouth and whispering his name.
He turned onto his back, his eyelids fluttering open. “Scarlett?” His eyes changed, turned dark and intense as his arm reached out to drag her toward him, across the bed and against his chest.
She couldn’t help her laugh and nestled her face into the curve of his neck. “You must wake up, my dearest. I have the most wonderful surprise for you.”
“Feeling better?” He breathed the words more than spoke them against her temple, pressing a kiss there.
She laughed and pushed against his chest. “Unruly man!” Suddenly serious, she leaned back. “You have visitors.” She rose up onto one elbow amidst the rumpled covers, gave him a quick kiss on the lips, and then scooted away. Standing beside the bed, her gown, the one she’d not been able to wear in the last six months, settled back around her now-slim hips and legs. She clasped her hands behind her back. Christophé was looking at her as if he would like to devour her. She turned his attention toward the door with a wave of her hand, calling out, unable to keep the glee from her tone . . .
“You may come in.”
ÉMILIE HEARD THE words as a heartbeat. You . . . may . . . come . . . in. Her feet seemed rooted to the floor. Fear had, at last, overtaken her and she began to shake uncontrollably.
What if they were all wrong?
What if it wasn’t him?
Jasper looked down at her. He must have seen her stricken eyes because he leaned down to put an arm, somewhat awkwardly, around her shoulders. “It will be all right, Émilie. Come.”
His whisper reminded her of the prayer she said each night. In heaven they would all be together: Mother, Father, Jean Paul, and Louis. And someday, Christophé and she. She realized the reason she was no longer afraid to die. If she died she would see God . . . and her family. Some days she had longed to give up trying. Many days she had wondered what she might do to rile Robespierre so that he took her, hands bound behind her back, to the mounting steps of the scaffold. But it never seemed to matter. Robespierre had a place of suffering on earth for her; she was a used-up rag that he could wash himself with and thus make his world right again.
Now was no time to be afraid. Now was a time to be glad.
At Jasper’s urging she took a step in the wobbly, borrowed shoes. Then another and another and another.
Four steps to see his bed and tousled blankets.
Another and another.
Two more to see his shadowed face.
Another and another and another. And then . . .
He was before her, the dream of his face come to life.
Her brother’s eyes were like blue crystals. Jean Paul’s eyes had been brown. Louis’s blue, but not so blue as Christophé. Everywhere their mother had taken them as a group of children, Émilie could remember strangers stopping and staring at Christophé’s other-worldly eyes. They were of the purest blue, like the azure in a peacock’s feathers she’d once seen in the king’s own garden, light and bright at the same time.
She took another step as the memories of their childhood rushed over her. He was so still. She wondered if he breathed. Another step, and then the crystal of his eyes changed, darkening to brilliant sapphire, suspicious and afraid. He looked to Scarlett.
Scarlett took hold of his hand.
Émilie reached up and grasped the front of her veil, pulling it up. She took off the wig. She shook out her golden hair and then raised her gaze to his.
She saw the shattered recognition, how he struggled to believe.
“Émilie?”
The sound of his voice broke through the hardness in her throat. Her face crumpled. Silent sobbing shook her shoulders. She cried, really cried, for the first time since soaking his shirt in that dark, hidden room.
He seemed unable to move, and she was afraid again, afraid something would take him from her as the last time. Then she threw caution to the nether regions and rushed forward, hurled her body into his arms. She peeled away the unfeeling glove, reached out and touched his cheek. Then her fingers grazed across his bristled hair and scalp.
“You cut your hair.”
THE SPELL AROUND them broke.
Christophé’s chest heaved. His strong arms gathered her close. His quick breaths sounded like the wind in the stillness around them. “Émilie.” He said her name like it was the last name God ever gave to the created.
He pulled her tighter into his arms. “They said you were alive, but I dared not believe it. Not until I saw you.”
She cried into his shirt and then looked up into his eyes. Her voice was the soft, confused voice of a child. “Christophé, why? What harm had we done? What sin?”
What could he tell her? He could tell her of the poor and their wretchedness, their hollow bellies and huge, hungry eyes. He could tell her of the hovels across France, the dirt and the ignorance and the hopelessness. He could explain that the people had great cause to overthrow a corrupt and sordid government. He could explain the reasoning behind their righteous anger gone to madness, but he could not tell her why they hated him, or a twelve-year-old girl who had only known the bosom of a family’s love.
Christophé lifted her face and saw the tears on her cheeks. His heart ached with the knowledge that she would never be the same. She would not grow up as she should have—safe, loved and accepted, safe. He looked around the room, saw Scarlett’s hand at her mouth, her tears overflowing, saw Jasper’s joy and sorrow making his body rigid, melded like a chemical compound ready to burn. He felt gratitude that he’d found these two, intense thankfulness that he knew their love. That was it. Wasn’t it? It came to him as a blinding light.
Love. It was the only thing they had to cling to.
He held Émilie’s thin frame against him. “Émilie.” He pulled her closer, holding her and holding her, stroking her golden
hair. The only one of the St. Laurents with such hair. “You will never be alone again. I promise you. I promise you.”
Christophé looked up at Jasper over Émilie’s head. “We must leave. I won’t have her staying here.”
Jasper reached a hand into the air, his face set with determination. “You and Émilie will come home with me tonight.”
Christophé looked at Scarlett as he rose from the bed. He gathered his few belongings as he spoke. “Scarlett has agreed to be my wife. We will all go to London as soon as it can be arranged. You will come with us, Jasper?”
“I don’t know.”
“He will find out your part in this. You have nothing to gain by staying here.”
Jasper looked down and flushed. “Actually, I do. There is a certain woman I wish to know better.”
Christophé looked at Scarlett and then back toward Jasper. “What if the lady in question decides to come along with her daughters? What then?”
Jasper stood up straighter, taller. “If she does, I will be hard pressed to stay.”
Scarlett looked from one man to the other, and he saw comprehension dawn on her features. “Scarlett, you must speak to your mother and sister. Prepare them, my dearest, for within a week, we sail for England.”
Scarlett looked back and forth between the men. “What of André? Do you really think he can make the journey?”
“As long as he is in his mother’s arms, he will not know, nor care, what country he is in. We will be safer in England.”
Scarlett nodded. “I will go and tell them.”
“Urge them to come with us. We will find a way.”
SCARLETT SHUT THE door behind her and made her way back to the sitting room where her mother and Stacia waited with the baby. She heard André’s cries before entering the room and felt a pang of guilt that she hadn’t been there to take care of him. Perhaps he was hungry. He seemed forever hungry.
