Sanctuary for a Lady

by Naomi Rawlings

  “Then tell me, but I’ll not have you march over to those prisoners and give yourself away.” The idea of her being caught made his throat ache.

  “Everything’s my fault,” she went on, apparently oblivious to his own anguish. “I’ll not hide anymore. How can I go on living when I killed my sister? I should be the one dead, not she. Oh, Marie! What have I done?”

  Marie. The name she’d sobbed over and over in her delirium after he brought her home from the woods.

  “You…killed your sister…?” And what had a sister to do with anything? Weren’t they talking about the comte and England?

  “Michel?”

  At the sound of the familiar voice, Michel looked over. “Brigitte.”

  The butcher’s wife, younger than Michel, stood in the door that opened to the alley. He swallowed and glanced at Isabelle. Sobbing “Marie” over and over, she likely couldn’t stand without his arm bracing her against the wall.

  He’d wanted her to break. To vent whatever went on inside that head of hers. But not in the middle of the town. Not in a way that made his throat dry and his heart ache. Not in a way that drew undue attention.

  “Is everything all right?” Brigitte’s shrewd eyes roamed Isabelle, stilled pinned against the wall despite her wailing.

  “Ah, well… You’ve met Isabelle? Corinne’s cousin from Paris?”

  Brigitte nodded. “She helped sew sandbags last night. A good sewer, that one is.”

  “Oui. Well, Isabelle just, uh, received some disheartening news…from Paris. It seems her, ah, fiancé…yes, her fiancé left her for another woman.” Michel clamped his jaw. A fiancé leaving her? Surely his tongue was as addled as his heart. A man would be daft to walk away from the likes of Isabelle.

  Isabelle fisted her hands in the front of his shirt and buried her head against his shoulder.

  “Come, now, Isabelle. Everything will turn out.” He pulled her against him, absently stroking her hair, and watched Brigitte over Isabelle’s head.

  Brigitte folded her arms over her chest. “That’s odd. I haven’t seen the mail coach yet today. In fact, I haven’t seen the mail coach at all since the rain started. And it passes right by the shop.”

  Heat flooded the back of his neck. He glanced at the sky. How many more lies would protecting Isabelle take? At what point did he stop lying and tell the truth? He sighed. The tangle of deceit he and Isabelle wove grew so thick, someone would surely discern the truth before long.

  “Ah, I’d gotten the letter for Isabelle several days ago, stuck it in my pocket and just remembered it here in town.” He tasted bile in his throat.

  “Uh-huh.” Brigitte leaned her ample figure against the door frame and watched Isabelle sob. Would the woman ever leave?

  “Um, Brigitte…Isabelle’ll be fairly embarrassed once all this settles, what with breaking down in the middle of town. Perhaps you could give us a bit of time. Then I’ll get Isabelle home and out of your way.”

  The woman gave Isabelle one hard look, then turned for the door. “Just keep her back here. Don’t want her scaring folks off. Business all but died off with the rain.”

  “Merci,” Michel called as the door closed. “All right, now.” He spoke soothingly into Isabelle’s hair, traced her ear with a fingertip. “Let’s get you home, and you can tell me about Marie.”

  He tried to lead her away from the wall, but she only dug her feet into the mud and cried harder. He could pick her up and carry her wailing through town to the wagon—and a hundred more people like Brigitte would see them.

  “I led the soldiers to her,” she blurted.

  “What?”

  “Marie.” She sobbed harder.

  He sighed. “Calm yourself, love. Calm yourself and tell me.”

  She fought for control the way a battle-weary soldier fights for his life. Her muscles tensed and her breathing slowed. Her slender body shook with the effort. Finally, she tilted her face to look at him.

  “Marie, she had warned me not to let Léon get too close.” Her voice croaked the words. “Not to let him follow me, lest he learn who we were.”

  “Who’s Léon?”

  “A shop boy. Just a shop boy, but he fancied me. I didn’t return his affection, I just…” She lifted her shoulders, let them fall wearily. “I liked the attention. Does that make me terrible, for liking a man’s attention?”

  “I…” The sorrow in her eyes made his chest ache. “Probably just normal.”

  She sniffled. “One day, I went for a walk, and when I returned, soldiers were everywhere, in the house, swarming the yard. They had Marie…with Léon.”

  Her lips trembled and her eyes watered. She’d shatter again in another moment.

  He clutched her upper arms. “The man betrayed you. He led the soldiers to you.” He spoke the words as flatly and devoid of emotion as he could manage.

  “I never told him who we were, never allowed him to walk me home. But he must have followed me and figured everything out.” Her eyes pleaded with him.

  He rested a hand on her cheek. “I believe you.”

  “They forced Marie to lie facedown in the dirt.” Silent tears slid down her cheeks. “I should have run to her, fought the soldiers, saved her, something. And I didn’t. I couldn’t move. I, who had been so brave, who had told Marie we’d not be caught, who had made maps and laid plans of escape if we were ever discovered. And I just…hid in the bushes. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t move. I watched them lead her away and set guards for when I returned to the house. But I never returned. The money was hidden in the woods. At least Marie had thought of that.”

  “I’m grateful God protected you and you were able to escape.”

  She shook her head. “Marie should have been the one to escape. Instead, the soldiers took her to the guillotine in Paris.”

  Paris? Michel stilled. Isabelle had sworn she wasn’t royalty. But Marie could have only been a step or two away from royalty to be taken to all the way to Paris for execution.

  “I almost showed myself to the soldiers, just so I could die with her.” Her voice lost its passion, resonating bleakness instead.

  Michel shook his head and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That only would have let them win.”

  “Marie had made me promise. If either of us was killed, the other would go to England. I didn’t have to go back to the house for the money or the clothes we’d hidden in the woods. So I ran.”

  “You’re brave and strong. I’ve never met another woman as strong as you.”

  She shoved away from him violently and balled her hands. “Don’t you understand? I’m the one who deserved to die, not her. You call me brave, when I am a coward, for only a coward could watch her sister be led away to the guillotine while she hid in the bushes!

  “And now…” Her voice caught. “Now I must find a husband in England. How can I marry? How can I find a husband? How can anyone love me after what I did to Marie?”

  Her words ripped into his heart. Her eyes, hot from anger and soft from tears, had him reaching for her. Here he’d resigned himself not to love this woman, when she needed love more than anything else.

  God’s love—and his.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Isabelle’s eyes shifted from the page of the open Bible she was attempting to understand to the door as Michel stepped inside. He wore the same tan trousers and undyed shirt she’d seen him in hundreds of times, yet heat crept into her cheeks.

  The rocking chair near the fire creaked, and Jeanette looked up from her mending. “Good evening, Michel.”

  It was closer to midday than evening, but Isabelle didn’t comment. Michel walked to the table and brushed a hand absently across her shoulders. The familiar touch sent warmth spiraling thr
ough her body. He’d been doing small things like that for the past five days. Slight touches, little looks, attentive comments.

  And each simple gesture left her yearning for another touch or one more look.

  “How’s your arm?”

  She glanced at her painful limb resting atop the table. She’d been a most obedient patient, yet her arm still ached. Granted, it didn’t scream at her anymore, but she nearly slumped her shoulders. How much longer would it take for her arm to mend? “It’s…healing, I suppose. Slowly.”

  Keeping a hand on her shoulder, Michel leaned forward and placed his other hand on the table. The heat from his body, so close but not touching, radiated through her clothing.

  “Ah, 1 Corinthians 6.” He began massaging her upper back with deep, soothing strokes. “‘Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God. And such were some of you: but ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are justified in the name of the Lord Jesus, and by the Spirit of our God.’”

  Isabelle swallowed. He read the very verses she’d been studying. How had he known? She’d started in Matthew and had done little but read the Bible since she broke down crying in the middle of town five days ago. If only she could understand God’s love and forgiveness. What did God mean by washed? Sanctified? Justified? She’d prayed a prayer of forgiveness when she was younger. But how could she be any of these things when her actions had killed Marie? God forgave sin, but she couldn’t ask God to forgive her when forgiveness wouldn’t bring Marie back, could she?

  “Did you finish damming up the lower field?” Jeanette asked.

  Michel kept his body close but turned his head toward his mother. “The lower field’s a loss this year, Ma Mère, with all the flooding we got. I was in town, not working the fields. A few buildings had some flooding, but besides that, the town’s well. The water’s receding, so the worst of it’s over.”

  “You went to town?” Isabelle’s mouth went painfully dry. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “No, I—”

  “Have soldiers taken the de Bonnets to Paris?” The words burst out, burning her mouth before she could block them.

  Michel’s circular motions on her shoulder stopped. “Isabelle, don’t pain yourself this way. The affair with the de Bonnets matters not.”

  She pushed her chair back and sprang up. “It matters! You know it does.”

  Jeanette looked up from her sewing. “What matters, dear?”

  Why hadn’t she kept her voice down? Her eyes pinned to Michel’s, she bit the side of her lip until she tasted blood.

  “Isabelle’s concerned about a comte and his family taken prisoner last week, Ma Mère.”

  Jeanette shook her head. “Oh, now, no need to fret about prisoners. The constable’ll keep them locked up tight.”

  “Yes, locked up tight,” she whispered as tears pricked the backs of her eyes.

  “Soldiers arrived two days ago and took them to Paris for trial.” Michel spoke to her in a low voice. “The soldats would have been here sooner, were it not for the flood.”

  The blow from his quietly spoken words nearly threw her to the floor. She took two steps backward. Shards of hot glass caught in her throat, and her lungs wouldn’t draw air. She pressed her eyes shut. She’d known Meryl and her family would be taken to Paris. Had cried herself to sleep because of it. So why did confirmation of the situation hurt so much?

  “The de Bonnets will be guillotined. Every one of them,” she croaked through the jagged edges lining her throat. “Court jesters would make more honest judges than those on the military tribunal in Paris.”

  “God is with your friends. He’ll give them strength. He won’t forsake them in their time of need.” Michel moved toward her, reached for her.

  She backed away and fisted her hands in her skirt. “No. If you’ll just…” Why did his kind words and gesture make her want to cry? “Excuse me.”

  She whirled and fled into the bedchamber, slamming the door behind her and curling into a ball atop her tick.

  The door opened before she could even loose a sob. “Leave me alone. I don’t want you, or God, or anyone.” She clutched a pillow to her chest and rolled to face the wall.

  Michel’s footsteps thudded closer to the bed, but he didn’t sit or stroke her hair or offer comfort. His presence filled the room as she struggled to hold her weeping. She’d said to leave! Why wouldn’t he let her alone so she could cry? And if he had to be here, why didn’t he say something? Then she could yell back and vent the pain eating her heart.

  Silence descended like death over the room. She pressed her eyes shut and gulped air, ignoring the way it singed her throat and lungs. “God allowed the mob to kill my parents and little brother.” The words wrenched from her heart. “He let the soldiers take Marie. And now Meryl and her family.”

  “He loves you, Isabelle.”

  “I said I don’t want anything to do with Him!”

  “Then why are you reading the Bible every chance you get?”

  She tucked the pillow beneath her chin. “To understand Him.”

  “Understand this, He spared you. He wants you.”

  “He shouldn’t. Not after what I’ve done.” A shudder racked her body. Her chest heaved. But she held the impending flood.

  The tick shifted as Michel sat and ran his fingers through her hair, a gentle, patient touch.

  “What you did with Marie and Léon was make a mistake. A poor judgment.”

  “A poor judgment that cost my sister’s life. Don’t you see?” She rolled to face him, her eyes half-blind by tears. “I should be the one going to Paris, not Meryl.”

  “Dear Isabelle.” He laid a hand on her cheek and brushed away the moisture. “You didn’t cause Marie’s death, and you couldn’t have stopped it. Just as you didn’t cause Meryl’s capture, nor can you stop her trial and death. You can blame God, but blaming Him will only bring you pain and bitterness. The soldiers killed Marie, and the mob killed your parents. Not you. Not God.”

  “But God could have stopped them.”

  “Aye. And that’s a fine problem there. But God created men to make choices for themselves. That goes back to Adam and Eve and the Fall.”

  “But my parents, my brother, Marie, they did nothing wrong. They didn’t deserve to die. It’s all because of this wretched Révolution. God could have stopped that, too.” The words spilled out in a torrent that she’d no desire to block.

  He sighed. “Your parents were aristocrats, were they not? For how many years has your family been unfairly taxing families like mine? You say they did nothing wrong, but years of abusing the lower class comes at a price. Most Frenchmen need no other reason to kill them.”

  Isabelle sucked in a breath. “Y-you think…my parents deserved to die? My brother…Marie?”

  He touched her chin. “No, I wouldn’t say such a thing. But that’s how most of France thinks. The Révolution, the deaths of your kin and myriad others are a result of sin, Isabelle, not God. First, the sin of the Ancien Régime that exploited the poor while the wealthy grew richer. Second, the sin of the men who believe death the only solution for the Révolution.

  “Neither side is right. Neither side honors God. But the curse of sin affects all creation. Death is the penalty of sin. Until God makes all things new, the curse will keep taking lives.”

  Isabelle swallowed. “I wish it had been my life taken and not Marie’s.”

  “I see that. But God wills for you to stay alive. Otherwise, the soldiers would have come while you were home with Marie. Or the band of men would have killed you in the woods…or God wouldn’t have led me to you.”

  “You
gave me life, when I deserved death.” She whispered the words, almost afraid to voice them aloud.

  Michel grasped her hand. “I gave you a chance. God gave you life. And we all deserve death for our sins—but Christ’s sacrifice offers us forgiveness.”

  He made it seem so right, so logical for her to be alive while Marie and the rest of her family was dead. “But you’ve never killed someone.”

  “Neither have you. You made an error, one with horrifying consequences, oui. But one for which God will forgive you.”

  “What about Marie?” Isabelle used her good arm to push herself up to a sitting position. “Would she forgive me?”

  “Would your sister want you to spend the rest of your life bitter and depressed? If she loved you—and it sounds like she did—then she would have forgiven you. Love is the same principle that motivates God to forgive us.” Michel tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And God’s waiting to forgive you. All you need do is ask.”

  An unbearable pressure built in her chest. She blinked fresh tears from her eyes. “It’s been so long. I haven’t prayed, not really, since my parents…”

  She swallowed and peered into Michel’s eyes, but he offered no words, simply waited for her to finish. “C-can we pray? I want forgiveness.”

  * * *

  Michel sat in Mère’s rocker and stretched his aching back. His muscles tightened in complaint. One week of plowing and planting, and he was decrepit as an old man. Unfortunately, he still had two fields left to work.

  Settling back into the seat, he let his eyes wander over the room. Mère by the hearth washing dishes. The door his father had built, the cloak rack Michel made beside it. The table and chairs they had toiled over together.

  And Isabelle.

  He couldn’t keep his gaze away. She moved gracefully around the little kitchen, her dark hair spilling down her back. As though sensing his perusal, she turned and smiled. Her eyes shimmered with softness and happiness, so different from the haunted look they’d carried when he first brought her home. Ever since she’d sought forgiveness, she’d been like a new person. He smiled back and exhaled deeply.