Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  She hung Nicholas’s shirt. “Do you love Greta?”

  A muscle in his jaw spasmed. “I intend to ask her to marry me—at the festival.”

  What about his parents’ plan to send him to the colonies?

  “If we both stay here…” Nicholas pulled out a pouch that hung from his neck beneath his tunic.

  Did he have her money? Patting the heavy cloth pocket that hung beneath her apron, she felt the rosary and three of Grand-père’s coins that she’d placed there.

  His words were measured, his tone sly. “I may not be the best brother, but I’d never tell Mama and Papa about Johan coming to your room at night.”

  “Your brother has done nothing wrong.” Her cheeks heated. “Since you were supposed to ensure that he remained in the room at night, you’ll share any blame.”

  Aha! His face blanched. She had called his bluff.

  When a slow smile crept across his face, her skin crawled. “But Suzanne, didn’t you put the chair under the door? Since he didn’t come back to bed, I assume you allowed him entry. N’est-ce pas? As the French say.”

  She spoke between clenched teeth. “I’m leaving soon, and you’ll not have me for a pawn in your chess game with Johan.”

  “I’m the better farmer and have someone to marry here. I’m the elder and by right should receive the better portion of land.”

  When she didn’t reply, he waved his hand dismissively. “Instead, I’m the one Mama and Papa wish to send to William Penn’s land. Their grandson.”

  “I’m sorry…” She draped one last item from her basket over the fence, then dropped her hands to her side. “Perhaps I’m supposed to accompany you.”

  14

  The rising sun sent strong beams of light through Suzanne’s window, waking her. She got up and retrieved her pouch. Nicholas hadn’t taken anything. What then, did he have? Did she have enough money to pay someone to transport her all the way to Amsterdam? Counting out the Spanish coins yet again, Suzanne heard wheels rolling over the dirt drive. She pulled the window covering aside to see a fine cart with a bonnet pulling up, a woman at the reins—Greta.

  From the barn, beyond, Nicholas hurried to help his sweetheart.

  She dropped the curtain back into place and hurriedly dressed. Might there be word of Guy?

  Greta, her red hair bunched on her head like a huge bread roll, was out of the cart. Adorned in a bright green skirt with a contrasting red bodice over a white blouse, she appeared radiant as she held aloft a square envelope.

  Suzanne lifted her work skirt and ran across the yard.

  Lower lip trembling, Greta passed the missive to her. “The letter was addressed to me and Mama…”

  Its seal was broken.

  “I’m sorry, but it has been opened.”

  After she removed the letter, Suzanne rapidly scanned Jeanne’s scrawling hand. She slid it back into the envelope. “I’m going to take this somewhere and sit down in private.”

  “We have things to talk about.” Nicholas led Greta off toward the house.

  Greta called over her shoulder, “Suzanne, I need to talk with you later.”

  “Oui.” She went to the barn. The tomcat paced back and forth in front of her. He looks just like a royal guard, if he weren’t so scruffy. Settling onto the milking stool, she splayed her legs out in front of her. Light filtered through the open barn door, specks of hay dust floating down. Lord, if You’re here with me, make this news important to my journey. Please, I feel Your hand readying me to move.

  She unfolded the missive.

  My dear friend, I’m so glad to finally hear from you. Happy you made it to safety. With great sorrow I must tell you—Guy was killed outside Paris the night you left.

  No. Lord, no.

  Tears dripped down onto the paper and she pulled back. She settled into her grief, unmoving. One of the young goats nudged her. Hands shaking, she folded the letter and stuffed it into the pocket hanging from a band around her waist. She’d finish it later. Compose yourself, take a deep breath. Ah, Maman, I can still hear your words in my heart. Closing her eyes, she placed her head in her hands, and let herself sink into an uneasy repose. Gone, gone, all gone.

  Rising, she staggered to the barn door and leaned against it before stepping out into the sunlit day. Everything had been taken away, yet the birds still sang. The trills didn’t mock her, for the poor birds were unaware of her plight, but those words from Jeanne were like the screams of demons tormenting her. Guy was dead.

  Suzanne made her way to Nick and Greta, heads bent over the baby lambs, frolicking in the grass.

  She walked past them to the fields of golden wheat, swaying gently in the wind. She heard a death requiem for her brother with each step. On she went, skirting the edge of the forest, music continuing in her head.

  The flowers had no right to give such sweet perfume. The apple orchard flowered with an effusion of delicate pinkish-white blossoms. So gorgeous, almost too beautiful to be real.

  Gone. Everyone she held dear.

  Not everyone.

  A breeze blew over her. Through her. She went to Johan in the field. Tears streamed down her face. She stopped a horse’s length ahead of him and stared, unmoving.

  Greta and Nick walked behind her, but she took no notice of them.

  Greta squeezed Suzanne’s shoulder as she navigated around her and explained. “Her brother—dead.”

  Suzanne placed her head in her hands and sobbed.

  Johan took two strides toward her and pulled her into his arms. “I’m so sorry, Suzanne. So sorry, my liebling.”

  She pulled away a little at his use of this last word but then settled back in, pressing her face against his chest. She shuddered with the intensity of her grief, finally broken loose from its bounds.

  “I’ll pray for you, meine Liebe.”

  Johan’s love cocooned her and she never wanted to break free. But he couldn’t go with her. He needed to stay and care for his parents. Guy wasn’t coming for her.

  She rubbed her arms. She felt like a canvas scraped clean of its paint. Her new portrait would begin with a wash of Palatinate blue, the color of Johan’s eyes. Before she left, she’d do something special for Johan. Leave something to help him remember her. First, she’d stay long enough for Noel’s baby’s baptism. Then she’d take the boat with those leaving from the Palatinate. Without either of the brothers.

  The afternoon passed quickly despite her mulling over and over Johan’s words—he’d called her “his love.”

  She sat in the chair by the window, the chair where she’d slept several nights, looking out the window. Finally, she’d embroidered the last embellishments on Johan’s silk vest, cut from the damaged gown she had worn when she escaped from Versailles. That seemed a million years ago.

  The door creaked open.

  “May I see it?” Maria reached for the vest.

  “Oui.” Reluctantly she released the garment.

  “Magnificent!” Maria stroked the shiny material, one finger touching each starry ring embroidered on the waistcoat.

  With every stitch, she’d prayed for Johan, for his future wife, for his children, for blessings and safety. She sensed that a master craftsman stood beside her, overseeing her work. This was supposed to be a special gift. Something to show how much she appreciated his friendship. To protect him, with her prayers sewn into the fabric.

  Maria’s eyes widened. “Oh my dear—did you make this for…” Her voice caught.

  Suzanne dropped the vest into her lap and covered it with her hands.

  Johan’s mother’s facial muscles seemed to be working something out. “Was this for Nicholas? For his wedding?”

  “No!” Suzanne covered her mouth. “I didn’t…”

  Framed in the doorway, Johan’s downturned mouth transformed to smug satisfaction. He knew it was for him. Johan cleared his throat. “Nicholas will be very happy to wear this on his wedding day.”

  “It’s not…”

  How could he
?

  “Suzie, he’ll love it. I’m so touched that you would put all that effort into such a gift for my brother.” The raised eyebrows, the measured words, and the nodding of his head told her what she had to do.

  Resentment grew in the pit of her stomach and she closed her eyes. Johan knew it was for him and he was freely giving this gift to his brother. Nicholas wasn’t taking anything from him. When she opened her eyes, he was tapping the area over his heart. Ah, yes, he knew.

  Maria looked at each of them a long while, the silence hanging like a wet sheet on a damp day. “I see.”

  Johan closed the door as he and his mother left the room.

  Suzanne moved to the edge of the bed. How could this prayerful labor been turned around into a suspect act?

  Maria’s ensuing silence and her dark eyes did the censuring for her. What had Suzanne been thinking by making such an elaborate piece of clothing for her friend? Such things were only done for people one…loved. Please, God, if You can hear me, help me. She’d pray aloud. “I have to leave Johan with his family. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Why did this plan make her cry? Her father’s words echoed in her mind. The right thing is not always the easy thing, my child. She didn’t want to do the right thing. But she would.

  ~*~

  Johan leaned against the wall behind the door, head bowed, wishing he hadn’t heard Suzanne’s words. He needed to act quickly. Had to confront his parents, make them listen to reason. He would go to the American colonies. Even if only to reunite Suzanne with some of her family there.

  ~*~

  As silent as the mouse that skittered by on the darkened front stoop, Suzanne made her way through the dark velvet night to the barn, intent upon spending time with God’s creatures. Since the distressing letter, she’d been comforted by the young animals, petting them and even talking to the little goats and lambs.

  Someone stepped out of the shadows.

  “Who…”

  The man’s scabbard bumped against her leg.

  She tried to back away but he grabbed her arm. A scream stuck in her throat as the man clamped a hand over her mouth. He smelled of tobacco, horse sweat, and something bitter. His rough clothes scratched her, but his sword marked him as a gentleman.

  “Mademoiselle, don’t scream. I’m sent by a friend.” The sound of her own language should have been a comfort but wasn’t. “We’ve long searched for you. I’ll receive a nice reward.” He laughed but the sound was gentle, self-deprecating.

  Dear Lord, please don’t let it be someone sent by Paul DeMint.

  “Rochambeau’s aide sent a message. I’m the courier.” His hold loosened. “If you don’t scream, I’ll bid you adieu and return to give him your location.”

  She hesitated. Was he telling the truth? Rochambeau must have felt terribly guilty for Guy’s death. She nodded.

  The man released her and slipped his hand inside his jacket. He pressed a heavily sealed envelope into her palm. The courier raised his fingers to his lips, whistled, and a fine black horse trotted to him, the saddlery gleaming in the moonlight.

  Rochambeau would come for her. But then what? Would he take her back to Grand-mère’s? Would Etienne then marry her? I don’t love him. I love another. Just as she’d told Greta.

  Once the messenger gained his saddle, Suzanne released a whoosh of breath, relieved the man had come but also glad he’d departed for the taste of fear overpowered her.

  She scrambled toward the house. Movement in Johan’s upper window caught her eye. What if he’d seen them? Heart hammering, Suzanne closed the door to her room. Her hands trembled and she couldn’t get a spark to light the candle. She wanted to scream in frustration.

  Stairs creaked and then the door slowly opened.

  “Suzie?” Johan entered, holding a lamp. “Who was out there? Are you all right?”

  “Oui, come, sit.”

  They settled on the bed.

  Sitting close, his muscular thigh pressed into hers. His deep breaths pressed his arm into hers then away. With his lips inches away from hers, awareness of a heaviness building low in her belly caused her hands to shake.

  “What’s wrong?” Light flickered in Johan’s wide eyes.

  What should she tell him? The tears started then. She gasped as he pulled her up onto his lap and into a gentle embrace. Sobbing into his neck, she felt his fast pulse beat against her cheek.

  Rochambeau would offer to get her safely home to Grand-mère’s estate, or he and his wife might take her−especially if he knew of Paul DeMint’s treachery. Did she truly want to go back? Dare she defy her mother’s request?

  “Tell me.” He patted her back. His warm hand could stay there forever.

  Suzanne rubbed her forehead against the side of his head. He smelled like fresh hay, oiled leather, and his own scent. This was wrong. She’d allowed herself to fall in love with him and would be leaving. Going so far away, she’d never see him again. A new round of sobs broke free.

  He squeezed her tighter. “It will be all right, whatever it is. We’ll get through this together. You’ll see, my little doeling.”

  She sniffed. Had he just called her a baby goat? Suzanne pulled away and wiped her face.

  “Read it, Suzie.”

  He held the candle steady as she tried to decipher the bold handwriting.

  Teardrops fell from her face onto the paper bearing her brother’s handwriting but signed with their grandfather’s two middle names.

  Her heart leapt. Guillame was alive. He was coming for her. Soon. He would take her on to the colonies. When would he arrive? Tomorrow, at the fair, she’d enjoy her last moments with Johan. This was what she wanted. Why then, did more tears stream down her cheeks?

  15

  Her packed bag stowed beneath her bed, Suzanne dressed for the village’s fair day with heaviness in her heart. What if Guy came to take her today? She went outside

  Johan was readying the horse and cart. “Should be an exciting day.” Johan wrapped an arm around her and they rode on in silence, Suzanne mulling the letter.

  Outside the village’s walls, farms encircled the town. Wheat fields extended to a forest line on the Rousch lands. An adjacent field yielded crops and beyond grazed a pasture full of livestock. As they came closer to the village, the scent of roasting pig meat became strong.

  The carriage rolled on through the open gates.

  Inside the ancient village walls, women in bright dresses clutched the arms of their escorts. Mothers holding children’s hands waved at them. Throngs of people lined the walkways. Musicians played nearby, and scents of cinnamon and sausage emanated from each street corner.

  Soon Johan had secured the carriage and led her into the plaza. The fountain stuttered in its spray. Elevated on a pedestal was the statue of a German soldier astride a horse, sword held high.

  Uniformed French soldiers rode into the square on horseback.

  Her heart froze in her chest as Johan stepped in front of her as though he could protect her from them. She peeked out from around his broad shoulder.

  In only moments, a French officer ascended the stairs, his black boots flashing. He stood atop the stage. That gesture—pushing back his hat and then his hair—just like her brother’s. His movements, stance, and proud posture were those of Guillame.

  She pushed through the crowd. “Excuse me.”

  “Suzanne, come back!” Fear laced Johan’s voice as he barked the order, but she ignored him.

  The officer, his jacket dusty from travel, could have been in his early twenties, but the dark circles under his eyes he made him look much older than her brother. An ugly jagged scar ran down one side of his face. His battered nose contrasted with his beautiful lips.

  Suzanne pushed through the crowd and past Noel, who gathered his family close.

  Little Sarah’s eyes grew as big as saucers.

  The French soldier’s familiar dark eyes locked on her. He stuttered and then looked away before he continued his speech.r />
  Guy. She reached up to her throat as though Grand-mère’s jewels would reappear. This couldn’t be good. If he’d come only to retrieve her, the soldiers would have stopped at the farm.

  Guillame cleared his throat twice; his nervous habit.

  Suzanne stood close to him, stared up, and willed her hand not to reach out and touch the soldier she was sure was her brother.

  A sheen of moisture glinted in his eyes as he turned to another man immediately behind him. “Make the announcement for me.”

  The cavalier’s eyes darted from Suzanne to Guy and then back before he announced, “We’re under orders to burn this region.”

  She gasped.

  Voices raised in protest as Guy stepped down from the platform and came toward her, clasping her hands. “Suzanne?”

  She nodded, swallowed. “Guy,” she tried to say, but no sound came out.

  “We’re here to warn you so that you may make preparations.” The Frenchman’s voice rang out compassionate but firm.

  Johan’s cousin, the miller, and his wife, glared at her. Angry eyes of other villagers accused her, and people shook their heads in dismay.

  “Come with me; say nothing.” Guy grabbed her hand and pulled her through the assembled group and past the people who were streaming toward the square. It was him. Alive. But he brought a message of destruction.

  It was her fault what was now happening to these people. “Can’t you stop them? Can’t you do something?” Pulling on his arm brought nothing but resistance.

  They passed through a narrow alleyway. She was aware of the gazes following them, but no one challenged their progress.

  Her brother stopped and held her at arm’s length. “Let me look at you.” Guy smiled, but only half of his mouth rose. “I know I look a mess.” There was a little tremor in his voice, and she stepped into his arms.

  “Oh, Guy.” Suzanne pressed her wet face against the wool of his dusty coat but he pulled away, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief.

  “If you bemoan the loss of my handsome face, I say only praise be to God I am alive. Rochambeau rescued me and took me to his chateau to recover, claiming I was his aide and that Guillame Richelieu was killed.” Guy pressed the soft cloth against her face. “And now I use our grandfather’s names.”