Stoically, Madame nodded, her hair framed by a white doily topping the cushion behind her head. “It is as I suspected, of course. And what of Louis-Charles? What news can you share of the boy king?” Her tone remained tight. “He lives, does he not?”
“Only barely.” Vivienne pressed her lips together, unwilling to relay the story, common knowledge in Paris, that a cobbler had been tasked with beating the royalty out of him and making him into a revolutionary. A drunk revolutionary, at that, for otherwise surely the boy would never have signed that accusation against his mother, the one that tipped the outcome of her trial toward execution. Shameful depravities that should not even be whispered in secret were shouted by the town criers until all of Paris had heard. It was patently false that the queen had ever harmed Louis-Charles in those unspeakable ways. If the boy had signed a confession, surely it was under duress. “They keep him alone, imprisoned. Not even his sister shares his cell.”
“But why? What harm could there be in letting him live with his relatives in Austria?”
Vivienne rested a hand on the chair’s arm, fingertips dipping into the carved wooden scrollwork. “He’s a threat to the government because of those who wish to restore him to the throne.” She could not bring herself to repeat that he’d been abused so much that rumor had it he no longer spoke. “Insensible,” the story went. “An idiot.”
Madame Barouche looked past her, toward the window. The minute hand twitched inside the clock on the mantelpiece before she smiled again, her eyes crowded by wrinkles. “You must forgive me for pouncing on you like that, and you no doubt are eager for your room. It’s hard, you see, wondering about the truth. But then, it’s even harder once we know it.”
It was an unfashionably early hour for sleep, but soon after Madame Barouche led Vivienne to her room, she hung her three gowns on pegs in the wall, then fell exhausted onto a bed that did not sway. The small garret chamber held dried roses and the lingering scent of coffee from the café next door rather than that of salt and tar. Toile curtains matched the counterpane. The wallpaper’s pale green print of milkmaids and sheep on a creamy background was reminiscent of Marie Antoinette’s made-to-order village at Le Petite Trianon, where sheep were groomed and beribboned, and eggs were wiped clean in the chicken coop before royal fingers touched them.
Questions about Vivienne’s uncertain future surrendered to the overwhelming need to sleep. Before she could finish the prayer she began, she tumbled into an unrestful slumber, where memories distorted and twisted together. Rose whispering, “Save yourself. Do not object,” before climbing the platform to the guillotine. Sybille drifting home with a loaf of bread in one hand, hair disheveled. Armand begging for forgiveness. Louis-Charles screaming for escape, scratching his uncut fingernails against stone walls.
When she awoke, she was filmed with sweat. Light from the streetlamp seeped through her open window, and the breeze swept a chill down her spine. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she went to the washstand and laved water over her face and hands, but she could not rinse the images from her mind. She crept back to bed and waited for her pulse to calm, gaze fixed on a cobweb strung in the corner near the ceiling. Outside, the night watchman called out the two-o’clock hour and added that all was well.
All is well, she repeated to herself with a series of deep breaths. It was merely a dream. But it was more than that. An ache filled the empty spaces her losses had carved away. It was not only Rose she missed, or Paris. But to her dismay, her thoughts looped back to Sybille. The footing they had found themselves on was complicated and cautious. “I don’t expect you to forgive me for being who—and what—I am,” she had told Vienne one day, before the pox stole her senses. “I ask no loyalty or love. Just courtesy.” But Vienne was loyal. Eventually, she even grew to love Sybille, more from choice than natural affection. Once, Sybille had told Vivienne she loved her. She was mad by then, but Vienne had longed, beyond all reason, to believe it anyway. Now Sybille was gone. And Armand made it impossible to forget her.
Vienne had been wrong about grief, to think of it as mere sadness, to believe it could be dammed while inconvenient, or set free to run its course and then dry up. It was a crush in the chest, a sharp pull in the gut, pain that circled back without warning. No respecter of time or will.
Life and lacework with Tante Rose had seemed so stable and enduring, when in fact it was only an opera set struck down by revolution, and Vienne was the only one left standing on an empty stage. Where exactly did she find herself now? What role would she play here, and with whom? How quickly the relief of escape had faded. Now all she felt, besides loss, was lost. Lord, guide me.
A child cried out.
Vivienne sat up, heart drumming, and turned her ear toward the sound. Listening closely, she heard it again. On the other side of the wall, a child was crying. A woman consoling.
She might have guessed as much in a pension full of refugees. There were nightmares enough for them all.
Morning poured into Vivienne’s chamber through the tree outside her window, and the sounds of a city waking met her ears. Pushing her black curls from her face, she peered at the street below. Buggies and wagons rolled toward the center of the city, and the smell of the river carried on the cool spring breeze. Iron scraped brick as the café staff next door set bistro tables and chairs beneath its awning. Her stomach cramped at the thought of food.
Quickly, she dressed and performed her toilette before going downstairs to the dining room. Three others were already at the table.
“G’morning,” said Paulette, her cap slightly askew on her hair. “I figured you’d come when you smelled the coffee, and here you are. I’m Paulette, if I didn’t say so, should you need to call for me. Which you probably won’t, as I’ve a keen sense of what needs doing and when and where, and I make it my business to do it.” Breathlessly, she pointed to an empty chair, set a basket of baguettes on the table, and stood against the wall, poised to be of service.
Vivienne smiled at this magpie of a maid. “Thank you. I’m Vivienne Rivard.” She eased into a seat.
“Welcome.” The only man present was the first to speak. “I am Father—excuse me. I am Alain Gilbert. Once a priest, but no longer. Not for lack of faith.” He was dressed in plain clothing rather than clergy’s garb, a sad smile in his eyes, and Vivienne guessed the rest of the story. He’d likely been defrocked for not taking the revolutionary oath that placed Reason above God.
Vivienne nodded, warmed by his quiet convictions already. If he were corrupt, as many priests were, he’d have had no qualms agreeing to terms that would have allowed him to stay in France.
“This little lamb is Madame Suzanne Arquette of Saint-Domingue.” Father Gilbert placed his hand on the back of the woman’s chair. She was not little, however, and neither was she young. Her eyebrows were painted high on her brow, and her expression was blank and simple, as Sybille’s had been once she’d lost her faculties.
Madame Arquette stared at Vivienne. “Have you seen my husband and children? I hate to eat without them, but the hour is getting on.”
Father Gilbert answered before Vivienne could reply. “There is no cause for alarm, I’m sure. They would want you to break bread without them. Here, allow me.” He filled her coffee bowl.
The steam curled toward the woman’s face. “But where are my servants? They should pour, not you.” She looked about the room, lips buttoned tight, before cupping the bowl in her hands.
“You may call me Martine,” the woman beside Vivienne said quietly. “I believe we are neighbors.”
So this was the woman whose voice Vivienne had heard in the night, although perhaps she was mistaken about the child. A beauty patch adorned Martine’s drawn but pretty face. Her unpowdered hair was white, far ahead of her years. There was gentility in Martine’s voice and grace in the tilt of her elegant neck, but dark bands beneath her eyes spoke of sleeplessness, or sorrow, or both. Her hands shook as she tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into
her coffee bowl.
“Martine.” Vivienne handled her name gently, for she appeared as fragile as spun glass. “Your lace is familiar.”
Martine glanced up, face tight, the cords of her neck tensing. Arms crossing at her middle, she covered the lace cuffs at her elbows. Was she so haunted by ghosts that she thought the observation a threat?
“I meant only to say that I knew the woman who made that lace,” Vivienne clarified. “She was in my employ in Paris. My manufacture supplied lace to those who made Marie Antoinette’s fashions and sparked trends for the women of France.”
Martine relaxed. “You’re a lace mistress?”
“At least until I can sell the inventory I smuggled out.” Vivienne poured cream, then coffee, into her bowl, then took a drink.
Madame Barouche made her entrance as they spoke. Eyebrows raised, she stood at the head of the table, hands clasped loosely in front of her skirt. “How lovely! How very clever! Was your family in the lace business long?”
“Five generations in France, starting with my great-great-grandmother Gabrielle. My grandmother’s sister, Isabelle, moved to England to make and sell lace near Bath. I believe she passed the tradition down to her daughter, too, but we lost touch over the years.”
Suzanne sniffed imperiously, clearly a class above those who worked with their hands.
Madame ignored her. “And does your family await your return to France, or . . .”
Vivienne set her coffee bowl down and dropped her cold hands to her lap. “No.”
Nodding heads ringed the table. Everyone had lost someone. Spouses. Children. Friends. Parents. Siblings. Names were spoken in somber tones, for the names were all that remained of them.
The young maid sighed as she cleared away some dishes, her timing somewhat irreverent. Suzanne pushed back from the table, and Father Gilbert excused himself to chaperone her.
“Well!” Martine clapped her hands in the first display of animation she’d shown. “We all adored your lace at court. I would love to purchase some from you. A few of my gowns need to be retrimmed, and the lace here in Philadelphia . . . well, it isn’t French. It isn’t yours.”
Vivienne smiled, even as she dreaded where this might lead. Like the queen, members of the court were accustomed to acquiring on credit, quite comfortable with debt. But she could not give her lace away. “I’m honored, Martine. But I hope you’ll understand, I can no longer transact on credit.”
“I can pay right away, you needn’t worry.” She leaned in close. “I had the Privilege of the Candles at Versailles, and I put my advantage to good use. I don’t plan to purchase an extravagant amount of lace, just enough for one gown’s repair, maybe two.”
Madame Barouche sat in the chair Father Gilbert had vacated and rested her hands in her lap. “Privilege of the Candles? I’m not familiar.”
Color rose in Martine’s cheeks, but she explained. “It was the custom at Versailles for new candles to replace any that had been lit for any length of time in the queen’s presence. This was not Marie Antoinette’s demand, understand. It was only the custom. But it did mean that if she was in a room for even as little as five minutes, all the perfumed tapers in that room were lit for only five minutes, snuffed as soon as she exited, and then new candles immediately replaced the used.”
“And the used candles? What was their fate?” The frown on Madame Barouche’s face reflected Vivienne’s sentiment, as well. Such waste! On the edge of the room, Paulette scowled and rolled her eyes.
“Four ladies-in-waiting were given the privilege of collecting them,” Martine explained. “‘The Privilege of the Candles,’ you see. We sold our shares and found ourselves fifty thousand livres richer for it each year.”
Behind a mask of polite interest, Vivienne reeled at the sum. Little wonder starving peasants harbored so much hatred toward the court.
“Other women spent their money on gowns and gambling, and I admit to some of that as well,” Martine continued, “but I saved the lion’s share. And it brought me here. So you see, Vivienne, I am able to buy your lace.”
“I see,” Vivienne breathed. Any sale would help, and the sooner she unloaded her lace, the more secure her position in America would be. “In that case, I will bring some samples to your room so you may see how they suit your gowns.”
“Oh no, don’t!” Martine brought her fingers to her lips. “That is to say, the light is so much better in the parlor.” She gestured to the chamber next to the dining room. “I shall meet you there, instead. In an hour?”
Vivienne contained her surprise at Martine’s outburst. “Yes, of course.” She added a smile. “In an hour.”
Martine exhaled in apparent relief. “Merci, Vivienne.” She stood, and when Madame Barouche swept from the room, Martine snatched the roll from her plate and tucked it into her pocket.
Vivienne pretended not to notice.
Chapter Four
Rain fell hard and cold outside. Tucked into the Four Winds Tavern between Philadelphia’s French Quarter and Market Street, Liam Delaney waited at a round, ale-stained table in the corner. It was only big enough for two people, three if they squeezed in tight. It suited him. Crowds didn’t.
Swallowing the last of his cider, he stretched his travel-sore legs beneath the table and spread yesterday’s newspaper out before him. The headlines from France’s revolution were almost too violent to credit. Columns of essays followed, written by Americans feverish for America to support France’s war on Europe. Meanwhile, French refugees flocked here, to Philadelphia. Liam shook his head as he folded the paper and tossed it onto an empty table nearby. Opinions raged in this city. That much was nothing new.
Damp spring air crackled in the heat from the nearby fireplace. Outside the window, rainwater gushed from the downspout. It sounded faintly like a river, which made him think of home. It was peaceful there and full of promise, unlike this place, which only reminded him of what he’d lost. The eggshell-colored walls embraced by sage green moulding seemed blank and forlorn without his mother’s needlework samplers and his father’s bookshelves.
Impatience tightened his chest as he watched his sister Tara refill uplifted tankards. She was tall for a woman, and for that, and for giving no quarter to disorder in her tavern, some had called her mannish. Statuesque and capable, she called herself, and he agreed. Glancing his way, she smiled and lifted a finger. A moment longer. Fine.
A few minutes later, she set her empty pitcher on his table and plopped into the chair opposite him. Weariness etched her face. “Don’t give me that look. You know as well as anyone that liquor is what they come in for. If I can’t sell drink, I can’t afford to stay in business at all.”
“You look tired,” was all he could think to say.
She threw her hands in the air. “Such a gentleman you are!”
Liam shrugged. “Pardon me. You don’t look a day over—how old are you now, anyway?” He knew full well she was thirty-three, five years his junior by the calendar. But with the sorrow she’d borne losing her young husband in the war, he reckoned she’d aged a sight more than her birthdays told.
She thwacked him on the arm. “William Michael Delaney!” She straightened her cap before crossing her arms. Her hair matched his chestnut brown in this dim light, but in the sun it shone like burnished copper.
He grinned, tempted to tease her about the freckles that still sprayed her nose and cheeks after all these years. But today, he was playing no games. He leaned forward. “Come away with me. I’ve got a nice little house on good land now. It’s quiet—”
“Too quiet for the likes of me, I’m sure. What would I do there, aside from cook for you? I make a decent living here, I do.”
It was not the sort of living Liam would call decent. But then, Tara had always taken after their mother, who had loved living here right up until her final breath last summer, when yellow fever took her life. Liam, however, favored his father. A schoolmaster, like Liam had been until last year, Da had longed for land of his
own, land denied him when the English rulers redistributed Irish properties, taking land from rightful owners and giving it to English supplanters instead. Land and freedom were the two dreams his father had for his family when he immigrated to America, and the two causes he died fighting for in the French and Indian War.
The group of men dining at the long table nearby rudely bounced their forks and fists on its surface until one of the staff returned bearing bowls of steaming mashed potatoes and a platter of roasted chicken. The savory aromas clashed with the smells of pipe smoke, rum punch, and ale, forming a veritable hammer to Liam’s head. Rising, he turned and shoved open the window to get some fresh air, even if it was wet. He shook his head and eased back into his chair. “You don’t belong here.”
“You’re the one who can’t abide being here. This is exactly where I belong, and you know it.” Tara’s tone softened. “You didn’t fancy living here even when we were children. You were none too pleased to share your home with boarders, but the Four Winds has been good to us. When you ran off to the war, Mother and I made this tavern into what it is now. This place has been a part of me since before I can remember, and I won’t be throwing it all away.”
Liam spread his hands. “I had to offer.” It was all he had, that new plot of land, but it was the finest he’d ever seen. With his crops already sown, it was sure to yield a harvest, even in its first year. It would have been selfish to keep from his family the dream their father cherished.
“You’re a good brother. Stop trying to be anything more than that. You have your dream, Liam, and I have mine.”
He met her gaze, then immediately looked behind her, where a one-eyed Scots-Irishman stood dripping, his blond hair curling from his head like foam. Rain darkened the shoulders of his oiled deerskin cloak. The leather patch over his missing eye lent a hardened quality to his wiry frame.
Tara swiveled. “Why, look what the wind blew in!” Her laughter was deep and rich, the kind that others might call unladylike but which suited Tara Kate McFarland just fine.
A Refuge Assured Page 5
