A Refuge Assured

by Jocelyn Green

  “No,” Henri said quietly. Then louder, “Louis-Charles is not dead!” Suddenly his legs could not hold him. He dropped to the bench, shaking.

  Vivienne sat beside him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Mr. Delaney sat on his other side, his broad hand spanning Henri’s back.

  “It isn’t true,” Henri whimpered. “It’s a lie.” Please, God, let it be a lie. His belly felt wrong, like it was full of hard cider again. He thought he was going to be sick.

  From the shadows, a voice called out, “How can he be dead? He was only ten years old.”

  “My friends, this was but one report,” Talon stated. “I have other information that would refute it. There is reason, yet, to hope.”

  Henri lifted his head with a sharp intake of breath. “What do you mean?”

  “Some poor child died in prison, in the cell meant for Louis-Charles, of neglect—or, if we be honest, abuse by villainous guards. But which child was it? Too many unanswered questions remain for us to believe in a simple death and burial.”

  Oh, God! Did You spare my friend?

  Henri held his breath as Talon laid mysteries before them all. Louis-Charles’s sister, Marie Therese, lived doors away from her brother and was not allowed to see the body. Not only that, but no one who had known the dauphin before imprisonment was brought in to confirm the dead boy’s identity.

  “Guards changed frequently,” Talon continued. “We believe a switch was made sometime in the last fourteen to sixteen months. A child posing as the dauphin took his place in the cell, and now in his coffin, too.”

  Relief flowed through Henri, tempered only by the thought that some other boy had not been saved. He broke free of Vivienne. The colonists stepped back, allowing him a path to approach Monsieur Talon. He felt a hand on his shoulder, smelled the rose water that marked Vivienne’s presence. “A boy died in Louis-Charles’s place?”

  Whispers shuddered through the royalists. Henri did not have to understand each word to grasp their hope and wonder. Of course they were happy. Louis-Charles was still alive!

  Monsieur Lemoine looked from the colonists to Henri. Talon tented his fingers before his waist. “It seems a more likely explanation than the little king’s death. Consider this. Visitors allowed to see him in early 1794 reported him in good health for the circumstances. Intelligent and articulate. Two months later, those who saw the child prisoner said he was bedridden, full of vermin, unable to speak a single word. The first child had rickets, the second, scrofula.”

  “My rickets bother me much less now,” Henri offered, hoping to encourage the rest of the group. If Henri’s legs could gain strength here in Asylum, his friend could heal here, too! “Louis-Charles is alive.” He knew it. God had heard his prayers and answered him.

  Mr. Delaney and Vivienne exchanged a glance before Monsieur Lemoine caught her eye. He knew what all of them must be thinking. Perhaps Henri is right. Louis-Charles is still alive. Of course, he was right. Henri beamed. Around him, voices crescendoed to exclamations and questions thrown out to the wind.

  As though from a dream, Paulette Dubois emerged from the shadows in a travel-rumpled gown. Ignoring Mr. Delaney completely, she reached for Vivienne, who embraced her in greeting, almost as a long-lost friend. “I heard there was an announcement here tonight,” the maid whispered. “I never dreamed . . .”

  “There is more.” Talon lifted his hands to quiet them. “Three doctors called in to treat the child with scrofula suggested it was not the same boy they’d seen earlier. All three are now dead, by circumstances too strange to be natural. After the boy’s coffin was buried in secret, the four men involved in the burial also died suddenly, again in ways that cannot be explained except to allow for foul intent.”

  “They saw inside the coffin,” said Philippe Sando. “They must have remarked that the corpse was taller, or shorter, or otherwise markedly different than Louis-Charles had been.”

  “And the observations cost them their lives,” suggested Evelyne. “But where is he? Where is our boy king now?”

  “Alive!” Henri insisted again, this time shouting, for he could not contain his joy.

  In the hush that followed, a goblet dropped to the pavilion floor, and blood-red wine trickled out. “Behold, the king!” Suzanne Arquette curtsied low to Henri and held it as if frozen in place.

  Ah. Poor mad Suzanne. Henri touched her gently on the shoulder. “Arise, madame. You needn’t bow to me.”

  Someone gasped. But as Henri scanned the lantern-lit faces, all eyes were not on the unhinged woman from Saint-Domingue, but upon him.

  “It’s only Suzanne,” Vivienne whispered to Paulette.

  But the maid stood transfixed, her face pale in the moon’s silver light, staring at Henri.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was early in the morning the following day when Sebastien appeared on Vivienne’s doorstep, though she’d already been awake and dressed for hours. Stepping outside, she met him on her front step.

  “We need to talk,” he began. “Won’t you let me in?”

  Hastily, she wound her braid into a bun and pinned it at the nape of her neck. “We can talk here.” Dawn barely skimmed over the hills. She led him away from the house and leaned a hip against the white painted fence. “What is it?”

  “The time is now. Marry me.”

  “How romantic.” She laughed, a short puff through her nose.

  Sebastien removed his hat and ran a hand over his black hair. “I’m serious, Vienne. For your sake. For Henri’s.”

  She smiled, genuinely amused at his redundant strategy. “And most importantly, for yours, no? You still think he is Louis-Charles, don’t you? He isn’t.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Sebastien, I know him. He is Henri Chastain, as I’ve told you time and again.”

  “What if there was no Henri? What if this was just about you and me?” He slid his hands over her shoulders and down her arms.

  Somewhere deep inside her, an alarm sounded.

  “After everything we’ve been through, do you feel nothing for me at all?” he was saying. “Do you still not understand what I feel for you?”

  Then his lips were on hers, warm and insistent. His hand held her head, and the other went behind her waist, pinning her body to his. With his fingers roving through her hair, her braid dislodged from its pins, unraveling down her back. He deepened the kiss, and the alarm inside her became a scream.

  Vivienne wrenched herself free and slapped him with all the force she could muster. “How dare you!” She started to back away.

  Sebastien’s hand shot out and gripped her wrist, squeezing until her fingers lost feeling.

  “Let go of me,” she gasped.

  “I don’t like being hit by a woman.”

  A shadow fell over Sebastien just before a fist smashed into his jaw from the side.

  “Did you like being hit by a man?” Liam’s voice was fierce, his hand still clenched. “Or should we try that again? So you can really think about your answer.”

  Sebastien touched his mouth, and his fingers came away bloody. “What do you think you’re doing?” he growled through swollen lips.

  Liam nodded to where he’d dropped his poles on the ground. “Going fishing. You weren’t exactly what I thought I’d catch this morning. I do believe I’ll throw you back where you came from.” He moved his body in front of Vivienne’s, a wall between her and Sebastien. “I might ask what you were doing, but I already know the answer.”

  “You don’t know anything.”

  Lips still burning from the stolen kiss, Vivienne rubbed the red welts on her wrist. She stepped aside to see the man so lustful for position that he would hurt her. “Go.”

  Liam walked over to Sebastien. He was taller and broader and every bit more a man than Sebastien had ever been. “I’ll escort you.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Vienne.” Sebastien licked his lip. “They will come for him. Henri is not safe. Nor are you.”

 
Liam grasped his elbow and marched him toward the road.

  “I warned you!” Sebastien called over his shoulder. But she would not look at him again.

  The men disappeared. Smoldering against Sebastien, Vivienne circled her rose bushes, pulling spent blooms from their stems and dropping them to the earth. When she had picked both bushes clean, she cupped the last withered rose in her palm, peeled back the tan, crusted outer petals and plucked a still-soft white one from the center. As she rubbed the velvety texture with her thumb, Sebastien’s last words echoed in her mind. Was there any truth in them? Would anyone come for Henri?

  When Liam returned, she let the last petals fall from her hand. “What did you do?” she asked him.

  Liam put one boot on the front step, knee bent. “Ushered him to Armand and told him what happened. Armand will keep an eye on him until he leaves town this morning. You should have seen how upset Armand was. He does care for you a great deal.” He paused. “We both do.”

  Vivienne willed her heart to calm.

  Liam lifted her wrist to inspect it, his thumb circling over her racing pulse. “Sebastien hurt you, didn’t he?” He searched her face for a moment, then looked back down at where his thumb still brushed her skin. Bringing her wrist to his lips, he pressed a lingering kiss to the welt.

  Her breath caught at the touch of his lips. In his eyes she saw both a question and an answer, restraint and longing.

  The front door banged open behind him. “Mr. Delaney!” With his hair sticking up like straw from the back of his head, Henri stuffed his shirt into his trousers. “Are you ready?”

  “I am.” Liam smiled at Vienne, slowly released her hand, and turned to Henri.

  In the road in front of the general store, Paulette handed her letter to Sebastien Lemoine for him to mail upon his return to Philadelphia. He’d never recognize the address, since Corbin Fraser had taken new rooms.

  She frowned at his swollen lip. “What happened to you?”

  Sebastien moved his jaw sideways with his hand. “I tried. It’s up to you to protect Henri now. The Jacobins have been rumbling in Philadelphia lately. I think they have a plan.”

  “Count on me.” Adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder, she thanked him, then strolled away as if her heartbeat were not a tocsin within her chest.

  Slapping at a mosquito on her neck, she smashed it beneath her fingertips, then bent and wiped the mess on a patch of weeds sprouting along the road. She did not relish the wilderness, but her purpose for being here outweighed personal discomfort. Those who suggested she wasn’t tough enough for Asylum were sorely mistaken. And she’d prove it.

  With the sun at her back, her brow filmed with sweat as she made her way through the settlement toward Vivienne’s house. Paulette paused at the paling fence to straighten her cap and rehearse in her mind what she would say. She tightened her grip on the strap of her bag, the contents of which were the sum of her belongings.

  In the yard, sheets snapped from clotheslines, releasing their clean scent on the wind. A laundry basket on her hip, Vivienne stepped out from behind one of them, an apron over her sprigged muslin dress and a ribbon gathering her hair at her neck. A smile broke over her face when she spied Paulette. “Come in!”

  Paulette unlatched the gate and entered, then took the basket from Vivienne. “That’s enough of that, now that I’m here.”

  “Pardon me?” Wind tossed Vivienne’s curls over her shoulder and blew a strand across her cheek. She pushed it away.

  “You don’t have any other help about, do you?”

  “Help? Liam—Mr. Delaney helps a great deal around the property.”

  Paulette bit back a sharp reply. She still didn’t trust that man. “Don’t be stubborn, now. I’m to be your maid.”

  A ripple moved across Vivienne’s forehead before her lips curved at one corner. “I’d love to have your companionship again, but I’ve learned to help myself.”

  “I’m sure you have, but just the same, I’m here to serve.” Without waiting for permission, Paulette carried the load of wet laundry to an empty clothesline, let her bag drop to the ground along with the basket, and began hanging Henri’s breeches.

  Vivienne followed her. “Paulette, I rejoice to see you again. I want to hear how you’ve fared since we parted in December. But though it pains me to admit it, my financial situation has not improved enough for me to afford your services. And I won’t have you laboring for me without compensation when you might easily be hired by any number of residents wealthier than me by far.”

  As if Paulette could stomach working for one of those white-wigged snobs. Undeterred, she draped a petticoat over the line. “Then how do you afford the Irishman’s work?”

  “I don’t.”

  She already knew that, but she used the opportunity to probe. “You mean his assistance is motivated by something else? Are you two . . .”

  Vivienne’s cheeks bloomed pink as she pinned a petticoat and breeches into place. “His assistance is paid for by someone else.”

  Paulette smiled. “Of course. Monsieur de Champlain has paid for me, too.” It was perfect. “A gift for you. If you please.” She held out her hand and nodded at the clothespins sagging in Vivienne’s apron pocket.

  After a moment’s pause, Vivienne transferred them to Paulette’s waiting palm. “You are my gift from Armand? You two arranged this without consulting me?”

  “We’ve been writing letters. Sebastien told me of the arrangement you two had here, and when I suggested my services, he was only too happy to write a letter of introduction for me to Armand.”

  Vivienne clasped her hands. “I’m so relieved. He told me last night he had a gift for me, and I couldn’t begin to think what it was.”

  So she was pleased. How nice. Paulette smiled. “I was told you have room enough and work enough for me.”

  Relaxed now, Vivienne looped her arm through Paulette’s. “Come, you’ll want to see the house.”

  The interior of the house was plain but clean. Without wallpaper to disguise the log walls, it was far more rustic than the Grand Maison but had small bursts of charm here and there. Lace curtains fluttered at open windows. Bouquets of roses and yarrow set in pewter pitchers brightened tables and mantels hewn of wood.

  Upstairs, Vivienne pointed to the room where she and Henri slept.

  Paulette cocked her head. “He still sleeps in the same room as you? Isn’t he ten years old now?”

  Vivienne shrugged. “He doesn’t like sleeping alone. In the winter, at least, it saves on firewood.”

  “And where is he now?” Paulette schooled her voice to nonchalance.

  “With Mr. Delaney, fishing. I think after that, they are harvesting hay with Mr. Fortune. Henri’s taken to the outdoors much better than he ever took to kitchen work.” She chuckled. “Or maybe it’s the company he favors. They’ve been so good to him. And for him.”

  A breath of sultry summer wind puffed through the window. “The country suits him, then. I’m glad. He seemed so frail in the city. But then, I’m sure the news of Louis-Charles last night has bolstered his spirit.” Her voice lifted at the end, an invitation for Vivienne to agree with her.

  “Absolutely. He’s been so concerned about the young king.”

  Paulette tried not to stiffen. Louis-Charles was not the king. There was no king of France. Even if the boy was intelligent, kind, and mannerly, and if blue blood flowed in his veins. What else was the revolution for, if not to destroy the monarchy and let the people rule themselves?

  “And if Louis-Charles were to come to Asylum . . .” Paulette prompted.

  “We would rejoice, of course! No child deserves what he has been through.”

  She should have expected such a sentiment from Vivienne Rivard. Paulette bit her tongue before she could point out what the poor children of France had been through. And didn’t those lives matter as much, if not more, than the life of one spoiled boy?

  “May he be well, wherever he is.” Vivienne led
her down the hall and stood in another doorway. “Here you are.”

  Allowing the conversation to shift, Paulette entered the room and looked about. There was nothing but space to recommend it, but it would do.

  “Mr. Delaney will need to make you a bed frame. I have enough leftover ticking that we could sew up a mattress for you straightaway and fill it with fresh hay. We’ll also see that you have your own washstand and bureau. Will you want to stay in the Grand Maison until the furniture is made?”

  “Not at all,” Paulette said lightly, as though she did not still simmer beneath her skin. “I can sleep on the floor in the meantime and get to working for you right away. I see tomatoes in your garden ripe for canning. But show me the state of your cellar first. Let’s see what we have to work with.”

  “Thank you, Paulette. Truly, you are a gift to me.”

  Paulette’s lips curled in a smile. She couldn’t have planned this better.

  Vivienne seemed to hesitate for a moment. “While I’m thinking of it—I think we may have left something behind in the pension. A gold ring. It would have been shoved back into a corner of a drawer. Did you happen to come across it, perhaps when cleaning after we left?”

  “A gold ring, you say?” Paulette’s face pinched. “Can’t say that I did. I wiped out every drawer in the bureau myself, too.” Who else would have done it? Madame Barouche made her do everything.

  Vivienne pressed her lips together. “Oh. Well, you would have remembered if you’d seen it, I’m sure.”

  “Quite.” Paulette slipped her hand into her apron pocket and fingered the false lining she’d sewn inside, pressing between her thumb and forefinger a metal circle large enough to fit a man’s finger. A king’s finger, in fact. Who else was a signet ring for?

  Water slid over Liam’s chest as he dipped into the gurgling creek. Even after hours spent cutting and stacking hay to dry in the sun, Vivienne remained firmly on his mind. Spreading his arms, he lay on his back, indulging in the cool water on his skin. He stared at the branches swaying overhead and replayed the events of the morning.

  What had he been thinking, to kiss Vienne, even on the arm, right after Sebastien had stolen a kiss from her lips? She might have preferred being left alone, considering.