“Forgive me, sir, but in case you haven’t noticed—there is a war on. If you wish to keep your food a secret, then I’d consider stowing it in a more clever hiding place,” she fired back, keenly remembering to keep her tone soft enough to avoid being heard by anyone who might be lingering outside.
Vi tossed the kerchief back at him and tipped her chin up a notch.
He caught it in one hand against his canvas jacket, with just the hint of a smile. “You don’t need to instruct me on war. I know quite enough about it already.”
“As do I. And I wasn’t—”
A sound cut through the silence between them—the snapping of a tree limb somewhere?
“Shh!” he ordered, dropping the kerchief. It drifted to the floor, almost in slow motion, as their eyes locked and he pressed a finger to his lips.
Slowly, he stepped in front of her with the rifle raised. Vi dug her nails into the board in her hand, standing frozen behind the tall, sun-swept haven of his shoulders. He turned an ear to the door. Listening. Their breathing and the amiable sound of trees swaying in the breeze the only noise to occupy the silence.
Sunrise was already streaking yellow in a line across the stone floor, piercing the chapel with colored light sifted through the stained glass. Strange, but Vi could hear birdsong in the stillness, a melody just as lovely as ever. And a loud cry cut the morning—a hawk maybe, circling somewhere overhead. It was peace. Defiance even, as if nature itself resisted war with beauty in the birth of the day’s first moments.
They waited. Joined by the marriage of half sound, half silence.
If Vi could judge, that little something she’d seen flicker in his eyes—golden, soft, and steely at the same time—spoke volumes. His three-quarter profile said he was young. Midtwenties maybe. And even in the shadows of the chapel, Vi could discern a steadiness she desperately needed to believe in, especially when a split wooden board was the only thing that stood between her and meeting her Maker. He was willing to protect her without pretense, and that was rare for a stranger to do in a war-torn world.
After no threat presented itself, the man lowered his weapon and turned back to face her. “Whatever you need, it’s yours. Just take it and go.” He tilted his head to the open door and stepped back out of her path, keeping the rifle braced on the ever-so-slight hitch of a limp in his right leg.
“Maybe I should ask if you’re the one who is well.”
He shrugged off the comment, as if used to such things. “There’s no time to be anything but well around here, not when we’re trying to stay alive.”
Vi eyed him as openly as he looked on her. They both knew what this was—survival. She was battling to stay alive too. Sans food. Or travel papers. And with uniformed Boches crawling through the countryside.
Staying alive was relative at the moment.
“Does that mean you won’t turn me in?”
“I must be mad, but no. As long as you leave and never mention this conversation to a living soul.”
She should have been overjoyed, but as Vi looked out to the freedom beyond the chapel door, a familiar pang struck her midsection. Out there was a war-ravaged countryside; that world held nothing for her. It was the blackness of war. Bombs raining from the sky. SS guards patrolling the rule of Nazi law over the French citizens, their own government held captive by Hitler’s iron fist a country away.
Out there? Vi hadn’t a prayer. Death and destruction were rampant, and likely there was not another peace-filled chapel left standing in all of France.
The man watched her, even as she worked things out in her own mind. He seemed to be waiting for something, almost as if he could read her thoughts and watched to learn if he’d been correct in his judgment of them.
Noting her pause, he pointed to the pile of deep-rust Anjou pears that had already been skimmed from the top. “Please, don’t grow a conscience now. If it helps, I absolve you of any wrong. It’s far more dangerous for you to be here than it is for me to have a dent in our food supply.” When she opened her mouth to reply, he added, voice still weighted in a whisper, “And before you go too far, I’d rather not know—whatever it is.”
“Rather not know what?”
“The reason why you, an obviously learned but naive Englishwoman, could expect to blend in here. You’re no dairy farmer’s daughter.”
“I speak French.” She winced at the meager submission.
“So you said. But there’s more to being French than speaking the language. We’re watched here—far too closely for me to engage in any association with you. So please ensure the safety of everyone on this land by leaving it now. Take the food and go.”
Tears? Vi would never show them.
Not now, not ever.
Even when fear threatened to wreak havoc on her insides. This was the time to summon what Viola Hart was truly made of. She abandoned the wooden board to the stone floor and stooped to replace the pears in the crate, one by one. She then scooped walnuts from the depths of her canvas bag, rolling them from her palm into the burlap sack on the floor.
He watched her, leaning on that rifle without another word.
When she’d replaced what she’d taken, Vi stood, her vulnerability exposed before him. She made the decision to do the only thing left that could possibly save her life.
“Please hide me,” she mouthed, dropping her voice to a fervent whisper. “Hide me here, or I’m dead.”
FOUR
JULY 14, 1789
LES TROIS-MOUTIERS
LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
Aveline halted at the top of the grand staircase.
A formal announcement would come any moment and she’d be forced to summon an air of serenity, though her insides wrestled in turmoil. She scanned the crowded entry for any sign of formal wear bedecked with the Renard crest.
Had Philippe’s note contained a threat against her alone, Aveline wouldn’t have ventured down to the ballroom at all. She would have slipped out the service entrance, absconded with one of the horses from the carriage house, and been well on the way back to Paris before anyone was the wiser. But considering her mother’s life had been threatened as well, Aveline had little choice in the matter. She’d have to locate her mother in the throngs of guests, show her Philippe’s note as proof of the dark omen, and get them both as far away from the castle as possible. Now, she’d been captured by the futile effort of searching a mass of blue jackets moving through the foyer.
Black. Navy. Even shades of robin’s egg or gray—all gentlemen’s coats could have passed for blue in the desperate search of her mind’s eye. It would not improve with her announcement. A sea of faces would beam back—revelers celebrating her debut without an inkling as to the battle of nerves raging within her.
Aveline held fast to the note, burying her gloved hand in the graceful folds of her gown and with a deep breath, backed away down the hall. Instead of falling into a sea of ball gowns and fluttering fans that created a colorful mosaic of congratulations, she found the service stairs Fanetta had used before and swept through the back hall by following music to the ballroom.
It took some doing with her face cast down, but Aveline’s gaze finally landed on the marigold brocade of her mother’s gown. She’d found a perch, twittering with a cloud of guests who’d gathered opposite a grand marble hearth. He mother appeared gleeful, no doubt exclaiming the many charms her daughter had employed to garner such an advantageous match.
Aveline wasted no time. She moved through the entry as a member of court would, with perfect bowing and spreading smiles to the gentlemen and ladies who stepped in to greet her. That would have to do for now—cordialities that didn’t require her to speak.
When at the hearth, she hooked an arm around her mother’s elbow, attempting to ease their backs to the wall. “Mère—”
“Where have you been? They have not yet announced you.” Francesca Sainte-Moreau lowered her voice, pausing to comment on her daughter’s tardiness, then turned an about-face to inspect
the merits of her appearance.
“I know that. I did not wish them to.”
“And why have you no powder? And mere traces of rouge.”
Aveline leaned in, though she employed her gaze to still move about the room, searching for any sign of Philippe over her mother’s shoulder. “I must speak with you. Now.”
“Stand up straight, Aveline. Honestly,” Francesca huffed, using the adept maneuver of tugging at the back of her daughter’s bodice to straighten her posture, then flipped open her fan for a distraction she could speak freely behind. “Do you have any idea what a poor reflection this is on your father? You are tardy. To your own engagement ball. Fortunately, I was able to use the weariness of travel as a lady’s excuse. But I passed your betrothed by the dance floor already, and he was quite worried when you didn’t appear as expected.”
“He’s already here?” A shiver swept prickles the length of her spine.
Aveline returned her gaze to the dance floor. Too many people. Too much twirling satin and coiffed hair to see a fixed position through it all. If they could just stand still for a moment . . .
“Of course he’s here, and quite anxious to meet you.”
“Which one is he? Was he wearing a blue coat?” Aveline squinted, peering through the rows of dancers to the bystanders gathered on the other side of the room.
“Of course! That is the fashion, is it not?”
Francesca Sainte-Moreau was in fine form. The form Aveline knew well. She wasn’t a heartless woman. Just fanciful, with eyes that were easily diverted by all things glitter and gold. And as she had two daughters to marry off, her occupation had been in assuring her daughters’ futures. How little she knew—both daughters’ perfectly packaged tomorrows appeared in jeopardy now.
“Listen to me, Mère. I haven’t time to explain, but we must go this instant.”
“Go?” Incredulity emitted in an effortless gasp. “Where have you a mind to go in the middle of your engagement ball?”
Aveline lowered her voice to a whisper. “I cannot explain here, but you have to trust me. We must leave. We’ll take a coach from the carriage house—I saw them lined up at the front gate. We can persuade a coachman away. I’ll lie if I must. But we will head out on the north road to Paris. It will take some time to get there—”
“We are not going to Paris. Certainly not until you are wed.”
“I don’t know what we’ll do for money . . .” Aveline’s thoughts warred within her, fear and practicality battling for dominance. They could barter their jewels. Her hand flew to the brooch on her bodice—how ironic if the gift would provide their means of escape. And there wasn’t time to send word to Papa. A missive could take two nights to reach him.
No, they’d simply have to leave, and not stop until they’d reached Paris.
“Enough of this.” Francesca pressed her lips into a fine line and sank her gloved fingertips into the back of Aveline’s arm, her nails applying pressure. “I will not listen to another word about this engagement. Do you hear me? Your father worked in earnest to forge this alliance and I will not allow childishness to be the fall of it, especially after that nasty business of your consorting with peasants in Paris. Take your place, daughter. And a grand place it is. You will be mistress of this castle, the woman to provide heirs for this land. Does that mean nothing, that you have been chosen to carry on the legacy of this great family?”
“Baron le Roux is dead.”
The blunt force of the declaration delivered the blow she’d expected. Francesca’s jaw drooped open, her grip falling lax on Aveline’s arm.
“Dead . . . the baron? Surely not.” She laughed, a wavering cackle released under her breath, and flitted her fan to wave air against her face. “Why would you say such a wicked thing?”
“It’s true. I received a missive by courier. Félicité sent it just this eve. It’s what kept me. The le Roux family was attacked and their estate burned to the ground.”
And now, she had her mother’s attention.
“And . . . what of Gérard?”
Sorrow clung through each heartbeat. Aveline just wished they had time enough to remain in its company. “I’m so sorry.”
“Comment est-ce possible?” Francesca melted against the wall behind them, looking like she gripped the chair rail or else she’d faint dead away.
“I wish it was not so. But it can be. It is,” Aveline whispered, answering her mother’s question with nothing but regret.
“What of Isabella? The baroness and her daughters?”
“Félicité did not know. Nothing is certain, except that safety in Paris is no longer assured. The men were felled in front of their family, Mère. And the whole of their estate is left in ruins.” She paused, hating to have no answer for the pleading in her mother’s eyes. “Do you understand what I’m telling you? Papa and Félicité are safe—for now. But the violence is spreading. We cannot outrun this forever.”
“I will not believe it. Where is this letter?”
“Lost.” Aveline shook her head. No time to explain. “They were soon to announce my name and I had no choice but to join the party without it.”
All the while they stood, they were watched. Men gazed their way, bowing, as was cordial if they met Aveline’s eyes. Was Philippe out there somewhere among them, watching their discourse even then? Ladies, too, watched, curious about the young woman who’d been elevated from nowhere to attain such a station.
Aveline cast her gaze down, turning away from them.
“We’ll retrieve the letter on the way out. I know where it is.”
“You cannot think it possible to leave now, when there are revolts in Paris? If this news is true, then we ought to stay here where it is safe. Consult the Duc et Vivay. And Philippe.” Francesca straightened up, as if her corset had been drawn tighter with her resolve. “Yes. That is what we shall do. After the ball, you will take this letter to your betrothed and he will instruct us in the matter.”
“Mère, I should think this is one decision I may make for our safety without instruction from a higher-ranking male. But besides that, it is not possible now.” She spoke quickly, lowering her lips to her mother’s ear, entreating with a fervent whisper. “I was bound to tell you the grave news of Gérard, and then . . . I received this.” Aveline pressed Philippe’s note into her mother’s gloved hand, squeezing for good measure. “Read it.”
Francesca obeyed, her face transforming from an air of inquest to numb shock in a matter of seconds. She crushed the note in her palm and looked up too, staring through the throngs of guests turning circles on the dance floor. “Who would dare send something like this to the future daughter-in-law of the Duc et Vivay? Your fiancé will have this gentleman’s head, whoever he is!”
Francesca obviously wasn’t thinking beyond the toxic merge of fear and fury that had swept into her mind. “You don’t understand. It is by Philippe’s hand.”
Aveline stared back, meeting her glare with doe eyes, saying everything without the necessity of words.
“The Duc et Vivay’s son?” Francesca raised her chin, letting loose with a chirping laugh. “Impossible! Someone is entertaining themselves with a cruel jest against you, dear. It’s a folly—not the bequest a fiancé would dare give his betrothed on the eve of their presentation.”
“It is no jest. It was delivered by his staff, a note from the duke’s son, accompanied by this.” Aveline ran her gloved fingertips over the top of her bodice, grazing the fox brooch. “Who else could afford such luxury as this? It is a gift, he said, so he’d know his bride-to-be the moment she stepped into the ballroom. Surely you must see that whatever the motive, I cannot marry such a man. Not until I have a proper explanation for why a threat would accompany a gift that only he is in a position to bestow. And I’ll not stay another moment in the house that would threaten our family—”
A blast shook the walls, deafening Aveline’s entreaty.
A hail of tiny crystal knives cut through the gaiety of the ball
room as windows shattered above them. The quartet’s strings halted with off-key screeches, sending the revelers into shrieking fits on the dance floor. Sharp whistles penetrated the sky, ending with glass rain that pierced the air a second time.
Aveline tugged at her mother’s wrist on instinct, pulling her down to shield her head from falling debris.
The two-story Palladian windows lining the back of the ballroom blew out, one by one, their leaded glass shattered as stones sailed through the sky. Wind breezed through the jagged lines of glass that remained in the frames. The crystal chandelier had gone dark, eerily rocking back and forth from the impact of stone and glass. The flickering flames of candelabras were snuffed of their candlelight too, making the perimeter of the dance floor a hazy memory.
Aveline peered through the darkness, no longer searching for a coat.
It wasn’t possible to follow the note’s instructions if she couldn’t find the man who had given it to them. All she knew was the warning had been real. Somehow, Philippe had known what was to come and he’d tried—and failed—to warn her in time.
“This way!” Aveline tugged her mother through the throngs of the disoriented, retreating to an alcove under the stairs.
Chaos swallowed the room like a raging sea.
She peeked out from their vantage point, watching in horror as a rock shattered the mirror over the marble fireplace at the end of the ballroom, sending the weight of the gilt frame to crash down, glass skidding across like ice had been let upon the dance floor.
Tiny flickers of flames came into view then, bobbing up and down in the distance.
“God help us.”
Dories appeared on the water. Men with torches—too many to count—had made their way across the moat and now collected along the château’s outer walls. Without warning the dance floor was lit up again, this time by fiery torches that sailed through the air.
Fire tore into the château’s insides, eating up curtains and exploding the accelerant of broken champagne flutes from a refreshment table that had been cut down to the floor. A hail of smoke and hungry flames tore up the walls, devouring age-old family portraits, and licked at the hems of ladies’ gowns.
The Lost Castle Page 5
