Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  Good thing. She relaxed. “I can…” Master of the pianoforte, and an artist, she doubted Johan valued these abilities. She could embroider and sew a pretty stitch but had never constructed a garment. “Stitch.”

  He plunked down onto the ground. “Do you cook?”

  “Une peu. A little.” She’d observed Cook on a number of occasions.

  “Good. Mama could use help.”

  His mother? “You’re taking me to your home?” Her heart beat harder, but whether it was from sitting so close, or from his news, she wasn’t sure.

  “Ja, it’s best.” He tapped his chest.

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?” I hope his mother has plenty of children to help. I don’t want to be a burden…

  Color drained from his ruddy cheeks. “A brother.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Ja. One.” His voice was strained.

  What wasn’t he telling her?

  “And your brother—what happened?”

  “I hope I still have a brother.” A tear slipped down her cheek.

  Both remained silent as they rested.

  Water gurgled in the brook nearby. “Does it flow all the way to the Rhine?”

  “Probably.”

  Answering its invitation, Suzanne pushed up her sleeves, the idea of washing up irresistible.

  Joining her, Johan stood by the flowing spring, his arms and face raised toward the sky.

  Above she discerned only thick clouds, most dark gray around the edges−clouds associated with storms. “The weather doesn’t favor us.”

  Johan shook his head, wavy hair bobbing. “Ah, sun is there, still, behind clouds. I talk to my Father. Like sun, he’s there even on a cloudy day.”

  “Are you praying?”

  “Ja, shield us. Where to turn.”

  “Didn’t you just come from Aachen? Don’t you know where we’re going?” She bit her lip.

  He stared at her, his mouth set. Piercing—how those light eyes could do that to her she didn’t know. She trembled, a little afraid of Johan’s stern look. If he wanted, she was sure he could be quite fierce.

  Johan shifted uneasily. “I take you to my home.”

  “Why?” she blurted out. “Where?”

  Seeming to consider his words, Johan rubbed his beard. “Safer, south.”

  Additional travel meant more time alone with him. They rode on in silence. One more hour in this infernal stiff saddle and she wouldn’t be able to walk for a week. Here she was following a strange German man to his home. She knew almost nothing about him, and communicating with him remained a trial.

  What if she was wrong and the French soldiers at Grand-mère’s had been there to help her? Adjusting herself on the saddle, she imagined that Rochambeau had sent them at Guillame’s request. She pictured the soldiers there to safely return her to court. Madame DeMint would take her into her care while she and Etienne made preparations to marry. In the cathedral. She’d go to their apartment and get…

  Visions of soldiers ransacking her home and Pierre disrupting the wedding dashed her daydream to bits. She pressed her eyes shut against the image. “Do you think someone who believes in God has the right faith, Johan?”

  He laughed. “Even Satan believes there’s a God.”

  Etienne believed in God. And so did she. But she’d not followed Him in the same manner as her Huguenot parents had. She didn’t want to dwell on this topic.

  Johan pointed to the farm ahead. “This place marks the Palatinate duchy’s Western edge.”

  “We’re out of France?”

  “Yes, let’s ask them for water. And about swapping your horse.” They dismounted and led the horses behind them.

  Hanging her head, Suzanne followed. If she pushed Fury any further, he might become lame.

  A young man, almost as imposing in size as Johan, emerged from the barn. He stopped, covering his eyes from the sun’s rays. Taking her hand, Johan pulled her toward the farmer. “Hello! We’re traveling through. Thirsty. Might we have some water?”

  As they stepped through the hard-packed dirt between the small house and the barn, Suzanne caught the stranger’s eyes first upon Guy’s horse and then upon her.

  He tilted his head. “Why do you dress like a boy?”

  Johan opened his mouth, and a puzzled expression crossed his face. Pinching his lips together, he peered down at Suzanne but said nothing.

  The farmer wiped his brow with a cloth. “She’s French, isn’t she?”

  “Oui.” Suzanne stared up into his almost colorless eyes.

  “Huguenot?” He spat into the dirt.

  She wanted to slap his arrogant face.

  “Husband!” A young woman emerged through the doorway of the wood-framed house, a baby on one hip and a toddler clinging to her leg.

  “What do you need?” His brusque question was addressed to Johan, whose smile now wavered.

  “My uncle is a priest at Aachen.”

  What was that supposed to mean? Suzanne peered at him, but Johan’s expression was blank. He’d already told her that they weren’t going to Aachen but to his home.

  The farmer’s expression softened and his shoulders relaxed. “You’re making a journey?” But this was no pilgrimage, which is what the man meant.

  “Ja.” Johan rocked back and forth.

  She smiled, realizing she’d learned what this habit meant—he was forming his opinion of the farmer and deciding what to do next.

  The pretty blonde woman drew near.

  Her husband pulled her against his side and took the baby. He kissed his wife’s forehead and then the baby’s red cheek. The toddler leaned against her mother’s leg, sucking her thumb. This farmer’s wife appeared only slightly older than Suzanne.

  Did Johan have a wife? Possibly even a child? Suddenly hot, Suzanne raised a hand to her neck.

  “I miss my family, when I see one so happy as yours.” Johan bent and touched one of the toddler’s golden curls, and the girl hid her face.

  Suzanne squeezed her eyes shut in disappointment. She’d been très stupide to think Johan was unmarried.

  “Marta, can you help them?” His eyes were full of love for his wife. “Can you get these travelers something to drink, my darling, while I look at their horse?”

  Blushing, Marta seemed pleased with her husband’s endearment.

  He released his wife, scooped up his little daughter, and headed toward Fury, singing a nursery rhyme.

  Johan’s eyes followed the man, his countenance reflecting a deep longing.

  Suzanne’s stomach clenched. He must miss his own wife and sweet babes.

  Marta disappeared into her house and returned with a large pitcher and two surprisingly pretty delftware mugs.

  “Has your wife ever been to Aachen?” the woman began shyly.

  “She’s not my wife.” Johan seemed downright cheerful about this assertion.

  Her cheeks began to burn as she realized the young mother might wonder about her morals, seeing that she was bounding around the country with a young man.

  Marta’s smile faltered.

  In rapid German, she and Johan discussed something that brought a peal of laughter from him. He was probably talking about his wife and children.

  Somewhere in this country, a young woman like this one waited for Suzanne’s traveling companion to come home. Her mouth went very dry.

  “The well is right there.” Marta pointed.

  “Merci, madame.”

  “I’ll go fetch the water.” Johan patted her hand, and the compassion in his eyes brought tears to her own.

  “Come on,” Marta urged, gesturing toward the porch. Following the woman’s long strides wasn’t so difficult in the breeches she wore. Pity she’d soon be back in skirts.

  Within a few minutes, Johan crossed the yard, half of the water sloshing from the pitcher onto the dirt. He set it near the porch and poured a cup for Suzanne. “Drink.”

  She greedily gulped down the cool, sweet contents.

/>   He wiped his thumb around her mouth. “Might want to wipe the dirt from your face.”

  Back home, his wife likely kept an immaculate appearance. Shame swiftly raced after that thought. Dirty, dressed in boys’ clothes, and smelling bad, too—she was altogether unattractive. She pulled away and crossed her arms.

  “I’m sorry about your brother’s horse. I know he means a lot to you.” Johan reached around to pat her back. As though I’m a child. “I wonder about my goat back home—raised her from a baby.”

  His goat? He was only concerned about his animal. What about his family? She exhaled. And to think she had thought him…what had she thought? Her mind suddenly lost what her opinion of him had been. It didn’t matter.

  Then why was she thinking about how nice it would be if he lifted her up onto the new horse when they left in a few moments? Why did she remember the warmth of his neck beneath her hands the last time he had done so? She’d have to pray a hundred prayers of penance if she kept recalling his touch.

  After they’d rested, the farmer returned and showed Johan the horse he’d exchange for.

  Although Suzanne followed them away from the house, she couldn’t watch as the man led Fury off to his barn and Johan returned to her with the farmer’s mare.

  “Come on. Mount up.” Johan helped her into the saddle.

  “Were you trying to trick those people into thinking you’re Roman Catholic?” She glanced beyond him to the farmhouse, where Marta had taken the children back inside.

  “No, I never said that. I said my uncle was.”

  “It’s a lie of…” She couldn’t recall the German word for omission. What a hypocrite she was. That was exactly what she’d planned to do—omit sharing information that might cause Johan’s family to reject her. She would stay with them a short while before she departed for Amsterdam.

  He inhaled loudly. “This duchy has suffered much. Living this close to France, this family never knows if King Louis may send his army to burn the harvest. Kill their livestock. Bring starvation. Even though they’re Roman Catholic. They’ve done nothing to bring this about.” A muscle tensed in his check beneath his beard as he circled the mare, examining her.

  “Johan, maybe they’re cautious because too many Huguenots have taken advantage of their kindness. Endangered them.” So many people helped her in the past few days. Had she put any of them in peril?

  “Ja. Exactly.” He frowned. “One day, anyone can worship as he pleases.”

  Not in France.

  Johan gazed up at her, his mouth set in a firm line. “The Quaker from Pennsylvania in the American colonies came here. Penn’s mother was from this duchy.” His French and her German had improved over the past several days and she was able to understand most of his words. “I wish to go there one day, to Penn’s land. I think that’s why Mama sent me to Uncle Vincent. It’s almost time for the next group to leave.”

  Would she go with them? And would he accompany her? Of course not—he may have his wife and children to care for. But perhaps they, too, would come. Sadness overtook her.

  Johan sighed. “I hope you understand we had to leave your brother’s horse, Suzanne, but you know what he said. Fury has to rest. We’ll try to come back for him soon.” He mounted the farmer’s horse, muttering something that ended with “my wife.”

  Jolted by those words, she almost dropped from the saddle. A wife. He did have a wife. Well, why shouldn’t he? A capable woman. Her heart sank. She’d just left behind Guy’s horse and now she felt as if she’d lost her only friend. When they got to his parents’ farm, what would they do with Suzanne?

  Johan continued talking and she tried to pay attention.

  “Want a dozen children.”

  Thank goodness it wouldn’t be her bearing those twelve babes. She frowned, pretending to be serious. “Only a dozen? Why not make it twenty babies?” Suzanne stifled her laugh.

  “If God wills it.”

  For heaven’s sake! The man sounded serious. He had seated himself and began to move on when she was pelted by something. A rag, wadded into a ball dropped into her lap.

  “Maybe we’ll have thirty children.” He tipped back his head and gave a deep, rolling belly laugh.

  His poor wife. She’d have to put up with his nonsense. Suzanne rolled the rag and threw it back at Johan, laughing with satisfaction when it hit his head.

  How would she, Johan and his wife, his brother, and his parents fit into his home? And would their cottage be larger than that of the woodsman’s?

  She had a sudden image of thirty little children hanging out the sides of the windows, swinging from the shutters. And their lovely mother, managing them all.

  6

  Palatinate

  Traveling with what she now surmised was a married man made her nervous, too self-conscious to take time on their stops, to be thorough in her cleansing. Moisture clung to her garments as the heavy mist increased.

  “Not much farther now.” Johan’s low voice caressed her ears. How his wife must have missed that masculine voice whispering endearments.

  Her mother would never hear her father’s words again, nor would she. Did people speak in heaven? Shivering, she imagined words of love from the Father to be ongoing, never ceasing. She cleared her throat. “How long do you think?”

  A two-story farmhouse, framed in cream-colored wattle and daub, came into view. Her grandmother would have called the home a foursquare house, four generous rooms on the bottom floor covered by another four sleeping rooms above. She smiled in anticipation of a bath and clean clothes.

  “My home.” Johan’s voice rose.

  The barn lay beyond the farmhouse, a wide stretch of new, bright green grass separating the two large structures. A modest carriage nestled under an overhang that extended from the side of the tall barn. Cows mooed from the barn.

  She exhaled in relief.

  A man with steel-gray hair emerged from the dark square opening in the barn, out into the drizzly day. With broad shoulders like Johan’s, and the same toothy grin, he was no doubt Johan’s father. He stood almost a head shorter though he exuded the same strength. “Maria! Come, Johan is home. And he brought company.” Waving, he moved toward them.

  Suzanne clutched the slick reins while Johan dismounted and came for her. He searched her face as though memorizing every feature.

  She arched her back to relieve the ache. She’d love to jump down into Johan’s arms but refused to allow herself such intimacy. A large raindrop plopped on her head and she shook it off.

  “What’s wrong?” Johan’s horse snorted and stamped one foot.

  She shuddered. She couldn’t have Johan’s wife come out and see Suzanne dropping into her husband’s open arms. “No!” Clenching her jaw, Suzanne sat as straight as her painful back allowed.

  Lines furrowed Johan’s father’s wide brow as he moved to the opposite side of the horse from his son.

  She sensed the same rosy tint that blossomed in his cheeks painting her own, as well.

  “Why is she angry with you, Johan?” The older man held his arms up for Suzanne.

  As she slid into his father’s strong arms, she spotted a dark-haired woman coming through the red door of the farmhouse. Overhead, blue sky and sun peeked out from beneath the dark clouds.

  “I don’t know, Papa,” Johan called out, over his shoulder.

  The man helping Suzanne smelled of sausage and onions and wood—sawdust perhaps, not unpleasant, but different.

  Her stomach growled.

  A half dozen chickens pecked at the mud nearby, getting their own dinner.

  “I’m Adam, Johan’s father.” The older man held her at arm’s length and scrutinized her. Then turning, he tucked her arm through his, the coarse cloth rubbing against her hand, as his son led the horses away.

  Suzanne blinked back the raindrops continuing to fall despite the sunshine. “Thank you for your help.”

  Johan returned, his face crestfallen. He should be happy. Seeking out his wife.
Maybe he knew his helpmeet wouldn’t come out in the rain. Her heart clenched. Or was she nursing a baby? Their baby? And all this while I keep thinking about those warm arms of his, wrapped around me. Scorching heat blazed up her neck, not extinguished by even her wet hairline.

  “Johan!” Silver streaks painted the dark hair of the woman coming their way. His mama, likely, but her looks were more French than German.

  Where was Johan’s wife? The young woman she imagined was beautiful, tall and voluptuous, with long, wavy golden hair. A vision from one of the paintings at court. Suzanne’s hands clenched tightly, her nails strafing her skin. She forced her hands open and flipped them palms up—but no cool rain soothed them. The mist and rain that had clung to them for the past two days ceased falling.

  Not much taller than Suzanne, his mother opened her arms to Johan, who picked her up and whirled her around.

  “Son!” she gasped. When she was set down, the woman patted Johan’s cheeks. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

  “We were so worried.” Adam’s bass voice boomed. “I almost went to Aachen to get you.”

  “I am sorry, Papa, Uncle Vincent asked me.” Johan ran his tongue over his lips. “Took longer than I thought. To, well…”

  His mother interrupted his explanation by hugging him, and he engulfed her in his arms.

  Suzanne wouldn’t have another such embrace with him being a married man.

  “My goat? Did she birth?” Johan called to his father.

  “Nein.”

  His goat again! What about his wife? He stared intently at her, a question in his eyes. She exhaled. Johan was probably thinking how to explain this filthy girl to his beautiful wife.

  Annoyance flashed over his mother’s face. “Now come, tell us, who did you bring?”

  “Suzanne. She was…a neighbor of Aunt Louisa’s.” Johan fixed her with a frown so stern that any comments were silenced before they formed on her lips. He’d deliberately not mentioned that he’d gone to Aunt Louisa’s home.

  The two men exchanged glances.

  Johan’s mother cocked her head to the side. “We’ll talk later, son.” No mistaking the warning in her voice.

  Suzanne took a deep breath and exhaled. Already, she’d brought trouble with her. Johan wasn’t supposed to have gone into France. When she got settled, she would pray Grand-mère’s rosary three times through.