“You shall tell my father nothing, Durand, do you understand? He will not even know I’ve gone.” She pulled the hood closer around the sides of her face. “I shall return long before he does.”
“But to go out unchaperoned . . .”
Aveline notched her chin, rain peppering her nose and cheeks with tiny pinpricks of cold. She offered a sweet smile, hoping it would melt the coachman’s defenses enough that she could slip away in the pursuit.
“Honestly, Durand. I am quite capable of taking a stroll through a church courtyard.” She crooked her gloved finger at the rows of vaults and monuments, their uneven height creating a ghostly backdrop against the mist. “And I’ll be right over there. You may keep me in sight if it eases your trepidation in the least. That’s a chaperone in a way.”
The assemblage had all but faded, their palette of ruddy browns and weathered grays blended in against the moss-covered gravestones and monuments that dominated the front portion of the courtyard. Budded trees hung low overhead, and green tulip shoots peeked up through the earth in beds bordering the stoned path—the garden’s job to remind mourners that spring was poised to bloom again, even in such a place.
The signs of life might have brought comfort, but the people passed them by without notice and kept walking, heads down to the waterlogged earth beneath their feet. Aveline swept along the path, careful to keep the heels of her shoes from slipping against uneven cobblestones. She moved along, noting she’d turned a corner out of Durand’s line of sight, and tried to ignore the nagging in her midsection for the angst she was likely causing the old man.
Like the much larger Paris market at Les Halles, a market bustled outside the courtyard, with street vendors already serving coffee and sweets from les patisseries nearby. Early morning deliveries of fish and meat had come and gone, evidenced by the pungent odor that filled Aveline’s nostrils in a near-overpowering wave. She raised a gloved hand to protect her nose, or else blanch and go no farther.
Farmers shouted prices for greens, root vegetables, and barley, and sold wedges of cheese wheels covered in wax. Water bearers stood by with barrels aplenty, selling their fountain-drawn water to eager Parisians. A butcher chopped a meaty carcass upon a block not far off. The sight of slopping bits and stray cats dancing circles around the man’s feet flip-flopped her stomach. She turned away from blood pooling in the street, grateful for the distraction of a flower cart nearby.
Aveline eased closer to the soft scents of flora. She perched just under a wooden overhang, observing the gathering of people as they slowed by a hole and a mound of sodden earth. The horses were brought to a halt and men released the back of the barouche. Another jumped upon the wagon bed, and to her horror, what might have been bags of wheat or market goods was revealed to be something altogether worse.
Limp bodies piled high.
Countless, wrapped in fabric—certainly not fine Indian muslin. Perhaps linen or . . . burlap? It took two men to unload each. Reaching, straining to lift, then quite unceremoniously dropping corpses in a line, filling the depths of a crevice that had been dug in the earth.
Her breath was stolen.
How could one possibly maintain an even cadence of breathing, in-out, in-out, with what she was witnessing? There was no dignity in this, no reverence for loss. Mourning had devolved into the most commonplace of occasions, one that might accompany any day of the week. A market day, even, judging by the unaffected exchange of goods and coin that occurred right over her shoulder.
Aveline watched, her heart feeling twinges beneath the satin of her bodice.
A woman clutched no fewer than four little ones to her skirts. Another, despite bystanders who attempted to uphold her at the elbows, was felled at the knees, the front of her splashing down in the mud. Rain, sorrow, muck and mire—they were the silent witnesses to a blemished countenance of church life. It was unlike any service Aveline had ever attended. Her limited experience had been one of formality, where mourning ladies dotted tears behind veils and gentlemen masked emotion with a near-foppish eloquence.
But this was life in Paris—and death in France.
Death as routine. The raw and real minutiae of life as she’d never witnessed it before, where the immense weight of grief mingled with the humdrum of daily whatnots and responsibilities.
Surely God could see them. And would intervene?
Whether tears or rain, Aveline didn’t know—a trickle of water trailed down her cheek. She swiped at it, a heartbroken anger surfacing at what she’d witnessed. This wasn’t a stage play—children had lost parents, and wives were without husbands. She turned away, finding the reality too great, and instead looked at her hands.
They were covered in satin gloves of a soft dove gray. Beneath them, a floral gown in a cheerful cherub pink. They rendered her so out of place in the confines of the world in which she stood. The realization washed an unexpected wave of contrition over her.
“Pardon moi, mademoiselle.”
A voice plodded, interrupting the shower of guilt.
Aveline turned to find a woman perched at her elbow—quite haggard. Dirt-smudged and rough. Though she was also young. Maybe even near to Aveline’s nineteen years. She bowed, keeping her head ceremoniously tipped low, and extended a bouquet of violets. Their petals were brilliant; tiny masterpieces of lavish purple that stood out against the earthen conditions around them.
“Aimeriez-vous acheter une fleur?”
Would I like to buy a flower? Aveline shook her head.
“Une violette . . .” She pulled a single bloom from the bouquet and pushed it into Aveline’s hand. “Just one, mademoiselle.”
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t any money.” Aveline looked down, sickened the moment she’d claimed it, even if it was truth.
The woman grumbled and turned away, no doubt dejected by what she believed was the flimsy excuse of a noblewoman. She busied herself with the careful arrangement of flowers on her cart, giving Aveline no notice thereafter.
It stunned her that she hadn’t thought of it before then: She hadn’t any need for money. At least not like this woman did. Not even for a single long-stemmed violet.
The Sainte-Moreau estate boasted a manicured garden and kept an award-winning gardener on retainer. Aveline’s mother held accounts at the most exclusive clothiers and arranged private fittings for their special occasion wear. Everything was bought with nothing more than a selection and a smile. It meant that beyond the affectations to feed their social standing, money was subordinate in Aveline’s existence. Everything on the estate—in her life, really—was commissioned and managed by the hand of her father. And one day, when she married, that responsibility would fall to her husband.
If Aveline desired a flower, she’d not have to stand in the rain to purchase one. She was of age and, if her parents had their way of it, would be fixed in an advantageous marriage with all due haste. It was probable that one day soon she could but step outside and pluck petals from a bower in her private garden. Hers was a life bursting with every color of the rainbow. Not like the woman she turned back to then, who was so worn and weathered to have been so young. How much would it cost to buy a single hue for a near-colorless existence?
“Excuse me, but can you tell me what is happening there?”
The woman didn’t look up. She must not have needed to. “A paupers’ burial, that is.”
Aveline bit her bottom lip with her teeth. So it was exactly what she’d never seen before, but feared nonetheless.
“Why here . . . why line up at the Chapelle de la Sorbonne? I thought all burials were banned within the city center.”
The woman scoffed this time and tethered her hand to her hip. “You mean what are they doing at a church for your people?”
“No, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Death duties. They’re paying their tax and tithe to the church.” She leaned in, close enough that Aveline could see the shade of brown on her teeth. “Reparations, because they had the nerve
to live and die in the la noblesse world. Catacombs not ready to take the number of dead. Where else would they go?”
La noblesse—nobility. The woman’s temper seeped out, and she’d spat the word like a plague.
“How much?” Aveline stared back, pondering her reply as raindrops gathered and dripped off the lowest point on the front of her hat.
“Excusez-moi?”
“Je voudrais acheter une violette.” Aveline sorted through the bouquet, finding one that shined brighter and bolder than the rest, and pulled it free from the company of its sisters. “This one. I would like this one.”
The woman started, bewilderment tempering her former hostility. “But you have no money. You said as much.”
“That is correct. I haven’t any.” She laid the violet on the cart before her. Aveline unhooked pearl buttons at the wrists and tugged her gloves free, then slapped them on the weathered wood beside the bloom. “I assume you barter. Will these do?”
“Mademoiselle . . .” The woman snapped a glance over her shoulder, as if she expected the king’s guards to show up, shackle her, and cart her away to prison for daring to consider something that was so far above her station. “Is this a jest?”
Aveline turned back to the funeral. The assemblage was still there, though some of the crowd had begun to disperse as men heaped shovelsful of earth on top of the mass grave.
“Non. These gloves for one violet. They’re new, I assure you. And of the finest quality. But I haven’t time to dither.” She turned back, leveling a steely glare at the woman. “So, do we have a deal or not?”
The woman’s hesitation vanished. She swiped the gloves with a hand more deft than Aveline would have given her credit for and pocketed them, mumbling a quick, “C’est fini—done. But mind, I won’t be giving them back.”
Aveline drew in a deep breath and nodded, sated. “Fine. Because I wouldn’t take them. Not if you were to offer the whole of the contents on this cart. I have what I want.”
Whether the encounter left the woman in a stupor, Aveline wouldn’t know. She hurried off without looking back. Time was wearing thin. She had an answer now—a terrible, mind-numbing reality for why the people gathered. But no doubt her father would return soon with blood boiling should he learn what she’d been about.
The cobblestone path was deserted near the street. But soon the lonely souls from the paupers’ burial would fill its way again, walking back to rejoin the world beyond the garden.
Aveline swept out in the rain, hurrying lest her father see the evidence of the elements upon her shoulders. She stopped, seconds only, to lay the violet upon the edge of the path. She kissed bare fingertips to her lips, then brushed them against the rain-dampened cobblestone and turned away.
The trek back was made in more haste—speeding through the market, avoiding anything that might mar or soil her garments—until she found the nearly tormented Durand and the carriage waiting exactly where they had been.
She hurried over, brushing rain from her shoulders with bare palms.
“Mademoiselle.” Durand’s shoulders sagged. He appeared quite breathless, which pricked her heart even more. “I was quite overwrought when you turned the corner.”
“Well, you needn’t have been.” Aveline took his hand to step up into the carriage and settled on the bench seat. She arranged her skirt in a flow around her, smoothing and flopping the fabric, hiding the edges that had seen the most rain. The skies were still covered in a gloom that darkened the inside of the coach, enough that it would save her from notice.
“See, I am quite well.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.” He nodded, decorum firmly in its place.
Aveline dared to look in his eyes though, finding some softness there. Some care for the way she’d troubled him. And though her mother would have fainted dead away at the thought of a member of their house seeking atonement from a servant, Aveline offered her most genuine smile in reparation.
“Je suis désolée, Durand, for the trouble I’ve obviously caused. This kind of nonsensical business shall not be repeated in the future.”
“You needn’t apologize to me.” He leaned into the coach then, lowering his chin ever so slightly, and slid her copy of The Wealth of Nations onto the bench. Aveline took it under the fold of her gown and looked back, knowing her gaze held questions.
“A worthy choice. One to be read with much sense and intention. But without the necessity of gloves, I’d say?” He bowed, tipping his head in a slight show of solidarity.
Just as Aveline knew he’d hidden the book lest her father come back and find it, Durand had followed her, far enough that he’d have left the coach in order to see to her safety. He’d seen all and, without explanation, told her he’d keep her secret in full.
The coach door closed and Aveline was left alone again.
Hands laid bare in her lap, fingertips still shaking—these were not the effects of weather, no chill of rain. It was the gradual opening of her heart, to see with new eyes the world around her. Velvet curtains could no longer shield Aveline from a truth she longed to see. And now, perhaps, she could find a way to add color to.
Aveline watched through fogged glass as the watercolor shapes of mourners drifted past the coach. They disappeared into the corridors of the market, scattering back to their lives, leaving the brilliant hue of a violet left to honor the dead completely unnoticed.
Theirs was a world washed over in the colors of earth and rain. But hers? Lavish violets that would not stretch beyond the confines of a private estate garden. Aveline knew now she wanted to color the cobblestones—one by one if she must.
If this was life and death in France, she could ignore it no longer.
JULY 27, 1789
LES TROIS-MOUTIERS
LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
Robert spotted Aveline the moment she left the doorway of the winemaker’s cottage. He eased the steady cadence of ax chopping through wood, bringing the blade to rest on the ground at his feet. “Did I wake you?”
“No. I’ve been up for some time. Fanetta brought tea and said it would be permissible if I stepped outside today. Just for a few moments, to take a turn around the cottage, mind.”
“If you’re steady on your feet, then yes. It’s fine.”
“And the sun this morning . . .” A smile began to build on its own. “I’m grateful to actually feel the warmth, rather than just see it through the loft window.”
He nodded, and they stood for a breath, their lack of familiarity apparent. She not knowing what to say to a stranger, and he offering the only aspect she’d seen of his nature thus far—which was a well-mannered reticence. She was grateful but had no idea how to manage even the smallest conversation with virtual strangers all around.
Aveline had heard vague mention of a younger son on the estate, even before her maid had confirmed it. Now, it was the first time she’d really looked at him. He owned a strong profile. A firm jaw. A reserved manner and kind eyes. Seeing him in the midst of laboring as if he hadn’t a thimbleful of noble blood running through his veins, she was reminded how little she knew of the family that held her in their care. Just as the faceless Philippe, he was the Duc et Vivay’s son. Yet as the younger of the two, Robert would not inherit an inch of the ground upon which they stood.
Were his likeness and his nature shared with his older brother at all?
“What day is it?”
“Monday.”
“Then I’ve slept through church service by a full day. That is something my mother never would have allowed.”
“The rest is good. You look well.” He fumbled, then backtracking, added, “I meant, you are well. Oui?”
“I am, monsieur. Thank you.” She held her left arm out waist high, showing the absence of the wrappings covering her burns. “We still have a way to go, but Fanetta says I am much improved—as well as that I am to call her Fan, just like you and everyone else. And the pain is easing some, so there are some comforts to speak of.”
“Yes. Fan is kind, and self-assured with her knowledge of healing, but a mite strict. I’m afraid I could bear it no longer, staring at the ceiling. No matter the pain that accompanies moving about.” Aveline looked over her shoulder before continuing in a whisper. “I’m afraid I had to gently insist she let me leave that loft room, or I would flee from it the first moment she turned around.”
He suppressed a smile. “That I can believe.”
The loft room had been her lonely view for too many days to count. There was no mirror, however, and Fan was unable to produce one, so Aveline hadn’t a clue as to whether she truly looked well at all. Save for what she could determine from the shoulders down, Aveline hoped she was semi-presentable, even with the remnants of burns that had begun their slow heal.
Fan had wound Aveline’s hair under a Spanish net, twisting it in a low chignon at her nape, and had found her a round gown of linen. Though it lacked the courtly ruffles or russets Aveline had become used to in her gowns, the deep rust color, square neckline, and slightly higher empire waist proved lovely. Pleasant even—made more so by the fact that a corset and panniers had been left out entirely. The absence of restriction was an added measure of repose in her surroundings.
“Fan has taken great care with me. And I’m grateful. Truly.”
“She’s a kind girl. And a steadfast worker. Sister to the man who runs the winepress. Both of them are respected on the estate.”
“Your father’s estate?”
“Yes. I suppose you’d have learned that at some point. My father’s estate.” He nodded, though he didn’t give the appearance of haughtiness in confirming he was the duke’s son. Nor did he elaborate.
“Why didn’t you say who you were?”
Robert turned back to the bulk of wood, pulled a log from the pile, and resumed chopping. “Would it have made a difference?”
“Of course. You are the Duc et Vivay’s son—that makes a difference to me. Is that why you helped me the night the castle was overrun, because we are to be family?”
The Lost Castle Page 12
