by Regina Scott
He half expected her to have dragged herself into the woods. But she sat in the position he’d left her, with her back against the wall and her head slumped over her knees. Reddish-brown hair peeked from beneath her mobcap to dangle beside a gaunt cheek.
Too gaunt, too pale, too sickly. An image rose of a time long past. His wife lying on her pallet in the cottage they’d shared, her fingers and face naught but bones, her skin stark and pale, her body crumpled into a little ball as she struggled to suck air into her wheezing lungs.
He dropped to his knees and pressed the wooden mug to the stranger’s lips.
“Drink,” he commanded, perhaps a bit too forcefully. He attempted a half smile so as not to frighten her again, except the upward tilt to his lips felt rather stiff and foreign.
She took a gulp then slanted her gaze toward him, her eyes soft and dark rather than filled with fear. Mayhap his smile had worked?
“I’m better. Truly. I only needed a bit of rest.”
Mayhap lack of food and water coupled with too much sun had caused her distress. He’d heard of people going mad after a day working the fields. Or then again, she might be with child. Swooning went along with bearing young, did it not?
She’d said she needed work. Her husband could be a soldier who’d left her with child and gone to the front. Or worse yet, her husband might have been killed in battle.
He opened his mouth to ask, but the woman braced her hands on the ground to push herself up. “Merci, Citizen, but I must away.”
He shoved the water back in front of her face. “Drink more. I’ve brought you bread and cheese, as well. I’ll not have you nearly swoon one moment and then be up and about the next.”
She took the mug from his hands and swallowed. The wooden cup no sooner left her lips than he placed the bread before her. She nibbled at a crumb or two then wrinkled her nose, a ridiculous expression considering how ill she’d looked just minutes before.
But with the thick, dense state of the bread, he could hardly blame her. It tasted little better than mud, he knew. He’d been making and eating the loaves since his mother’s death last fall, and no matter what he tried, the heavy dough refused to rise.
The woman handed the bread back to him then rose unsteadily to her feet. “I’m fine, truly, and I’ve other business to attend now that I’ve an answer regarding a post here.”
He stood with her. So they were back to discussing a post. Could the woman cook? Mayhap offering her work wouldn’t be so terrible…
But no. He wasn’t ready to have a woman about his house, not with the way Corinne’s memories still rose up to grip his thoughts. “Try looking about town for work, and if you find naught there, then head to Saint-Valery. ’tis not more than a day’s walk, and there’s always work at the harbor.”
Her chin tilted stubbornly into the air. “I thank you for your time, Citizen.”
He held out a bundle of bread and cheese. “Here, I trust it keeps you until you find a post.”
Her eyes softened. “You’re too generous.”
The woman didn’t know the half of it. “Take it.”
“Merci.” She tucked the bundle beneath her arm. “I think I should have enjoyed a post here.”
And with that she walked off. Head high, shoulders back, posture perfect, even if her gait was rather wobbly.
*
Brigitte settled the food in the overlarge pocket of her apron and hurried down the road. The children. She had to get to the children. They’d been alone in the woods for far too long while she’d sat in the shade like a child, drinking water and eating bread.
Of all the ways to prove herself a capable housekeeper to Citizen Belanger. She’d gone half-mad, nearly fainting and then screaming at a man who’d tried to help her.
Tried to help. How long since a man or woman had shown her kindness the way Jean Paul Belanger just had?
And here she was forced to spy on him. She swallowed the unease creeping up her throat and rushed forward, not slowing until the lane curved and the woods started, its towering trees and rambling brambles shielding her from the farmstead. At the first break in the brush, she veered into the forest.
“Danielle, Serge.”
Only the song of insects and birds answered her.
“Serge,” she called louder. “Danielle.”
Somewhere ahead, a babe mewled. She stepped over a decaying log then skirted a pit of mud.
“Here we are.” Serge sat on the forest floor beneath a tree, holding eight-month-old Victor in his lap. The babe’s eyes landed on her, and he let out a piercing wail. Brigitte reached for her youngest son and settled onto the ground, then brought him forward to feed.
“Are you unwell, Maman?” Serge’s vibrant brown eyes, humming with energy and life, searched hers.
Unwell? Was it possible to be anything but unwell with the orders Alphonse had given her and her failure to gain a post at the farm? How was she going to tend her children and feed her babe while working a job in town and spying on Citizen Belanger two kilomètres away?
If only Alphonse had given her money to live on while she carried out her assignment. But he’d been all too clear on that point: she’d receive funds only after she provided information.
Where were they going to live in the meantime?
“Maman?” Serge rose up on his knees and pressed his forehead to hers. “Why are you crying?”
She reached up and touched her cheek. Sure enough, moisture trailed down her skin. “Maman had a hard day, is all. Nothing you need worry about.”
Her six-year-old son sank back to the ground, a frown tugging his little lips downward, but he stayed quiet. She wiped the last of the tears from her face and leaned her head back against the tree trunk while Victor nursed.
The leaves swayed peacefully above as the soft songs of crickets, birds and toads twined around her. She sucked in a breath of moist air ripe with the scent of foliage. If only she could stay here with her children, shrouded by the forest and never worrying about money or Alphonse, or how to feed her sons and…
Daughter.
She jerked upright so quickly the babe howled. “Where’s Danielle?”
Serge shrugged. “She went off to find some supper. Said she won’t eat no more pulse.”
A sinking sensation started in her chest and fell through to her stomach. “How long ago did she leave? I told her to watch you.”
Serge shrugged again.
That girl. One would think an only daughter raised with four brothers would be a help to her mother, but not Danielle Dubois. Oh, no.
“Danielle,” Brigitte called into the trees.
Nothing but the birds and frogs again.
“I’ll find her!” Serge jumped to his feet, a patch of reddish brown hair flopping over his eyes.
“Non.” She gripped his hand and pulled him down beside her. “Once Victor has finished eating we’ll look together.”
Serge scowled at his little brother. “Do we have to wait? Victor eats slow.”
She smoothed her hand over the babe’s head, the featherlike hairs separating between her fingers. “He doesn’t take so very long, and he needs to eat. You were the same as a babe.”
Serge poked out his bottom lip. “I suppose we can wait a bit before we look.”
“What will you be looking for?” a young female voice asked from behind them.
Brigitte craned her head around and released a breath. “Danielle.”
Her daughter of three and ten stood not a mètre from them, moving silently over the fallen leaves and underbrush. Her black hair tumbled freely about her shoulders and mud-streaked face, and thorns had tangled in the shoulder of her dress—one of only two she owned—to shred fabric about her upper arm.
“Danielle, come forward this instant.” Brigitte stood and shifted Victor to her shoulder. “What were you thinking leaving your brothers alone in the woods?”
“I was looking for food.” Danielle swiped a strand of hair away from her face. �
��But the rabbit got away.”
“And a rabbit justifies you leaving your brothers?” She raised an eyebrow, hoping against hope that some semblance of guilt might flit through her daughter’s head.
Danielle merely rolled her eyes.
“Aw, Danielle.” Serge sprang to his feet. “You said you were going to catch one this time. I don’t wanna eat no more pulse.”
“I can try again.”
“Non. Non. Non. There will be no more hunting expeditions, especially on land that belongs to another. And no one has to eat pulse tonight because I’ve bread and cheese.” Brigitte reached into the pocket of her apron, fumbled to unwrap the food and broke the cheese into several sections.
“Is it from the land owner?” Danielle snatched a hunk of cheese and bit into it. “Did you get the post?”
“Non.” And she had no one to blame but herself. What man would hire a woman who nearly fainted on his doorstep?
“So what are we going to do?” Serge stuffed his entire piece of cheese into his little mouth and chewed.
“I’ll go back and request the post again.”
Her cheese gone, Danielle reached for a piece of bread. “But if he already told you no—”
“I need to convince him, is all. He’ll change his mind.” He had to, because if she couldn’t get a job with Citizen Belanger, then she had little means to fulfill Alphonse’s task.
Danielle bit into her bread, barely chewing before she spat it out. “This tastes terrible.”
Did the girl never stop? “Just a moment ago you were complaining about pulse.”
“I wanted to replace the pulse with rabbit, not bread that tastes like dung.”
“Hush now. It was a gift, and you ought be grateful, no matter how it tastes.”
“Can I have another piece of cheese?” Serge asked.
Brigitte glanced at the little orange chunk of food remaining, then broke it in half and gave the pieces to her children. The taste of bread she’d had at Citizen Belanger’s and some pulse later this evening would suffice for herself. She hefted Victor higher onto her shoulder, then took up their single valise. “Come, children. We’d best be off.”
“Where are we going?” Serge gulped down the remainder of his bread, evidently not caring that the loaf was dense as a rock.
“Oui. You said we were done staying at the inn.” Danielle scrambled to pick up the remaining food.
Indeed they were done with the inn. Remaining there another night would take the last of their money. “We’ll sleep in the forest tonight, and I’ll go back to Citizen Belanger in the morn.”
“Why do you have to work for him?” Danielle stuffed the leftover bread in her pocket. “Isn’t there another job you can find?”
If only the child knew. “Non. There’s no other job.”
At least not one that would accomplish her purposes.
She lifted a tree branch out of her way and started back toward the road. Danielle didn’t follow but stood rooted to the ground, her forehead drawn together.
Brigitte raised her eyes to the sky. Hopefully her daughter wouldn’t figure out the true reason they were in Abbeville. Who could guess what trouble Danielle might attempt if she thought Citizen Belanger to be her father’s killer? Goodness, the impulsive girl might sneak into the man’s house at night and take a knife to his throat.
“Well, we don’t need to sleep outside,” Danielle declared. “I found a house.”
Brigitte stilled. “A house?”
Danielle lifted a shoulder. “More like a shack, really.”
“We can’t stay in somebody else’s house.”
“It doesn’t belong to anyone. It’s abandoned.”
“Someone still must own it.”
“Not if the owner was killed in the Terror,” Danielle shot back flippantly, as though the Terror was nothing more than a minor skirmish rather than ten blood-soaked months of the Révolution.
As though her own father hadn’t been killed during those horror-filled days. To be sure, smuggling was a crime that would have left Henri imprisoned were he caught under any other government—but only the Terror dragged men out of their beds for justice via the guillotine.
Brigitte blew out a hard breath to push away the bitter memories.
’Twas unthinkable to live somewhere without paying. But then a house, even a dilapidated one, would offer shelter and protection. And if Danielle had found it, it must be nearby. Perchance all they needed was one night’s stay. Hopefully with a little persistence on her part—plus a conversation where she managed not to faint—Citizen Belanger would hire her and offer shelter on his farm.
Not that she wanted to work for a suspected murderer.
But then, what other choice had she? “Show me the house, Danielle.”
Chapter Three
Jean Paul yawned as he surveyed his beans, the green plants leafy and tall as they wove their way up the trellis. Though it was only the beginning of July, within another week or two his first batch of the tender pods would be ready to harvest.
He paused to pluck a weed, then went on to his tomatoes, squash, carrots and potatoes. The leaf lettuce and kale needed to be cut yet again, radishes waited to be picked and the summer squash would be ready about the same time as the beans and cucumbers. More food than he’d ever be able to consume, and just in the vegetable garden. His fields stretched beyond, filled with a mixture of wheat, turnips, barely and clover that he rotated yearly.
He drew in a breath of fresh morning air and looked out over his work. His land. His fields. Today he needed to weed the lower field and check the—
“Bonjour?” A voice called from up near the house.
He glanced at the sun, barely risen above the trees in the east, and hastened through the rows of radishes and tomatoes. Was there an emergency in town? A task for which the mayor needed him? Someone must have good reason for calling before the sun had been up an hour.
“Bonjour?” The voice echoed again, its light, feminine cadence accompanied by a pounding sound.
Who could it be? He frowned as he trudged around the side of the house.
And there she was, standing beside his cottage door as though she’d appeared from the mist. She wore the same threadbare dress and apron as yesterday, and her hair was once again tucked sloppily under her mobcap with stray auburn tresses hanging down to frame her cheeks. Her skin was paler than milk from a cow, and the features of her thin face sunken with weariness.
And yet she seemed beautiful somehow, in the delicate way only a woman could be beautiful when tired and hungry. He took a step forward, the urge to aid her twining through him. He’d hustle her inside where he could give her food and let her sleep. Offer her—
His movement must have given himself away because she turned to face him, then bit her lip.
“Citizen, forgive me. I thought you were…” Her eyes slid back to the door.
“Inside, hiding from you?”
Her cheeks pinked, a truly lovely shade, and a much better color than the deathly white that had stolen over her when last they’d spoken.
“Non, Citizen. I don’t have a need to hide from women—or men. Farmers start their days early.” He surveyed her again, her thin, willowy body and slender shoulders, the hollowness in her cheeks and her bonelike fingers. “As do you.”
Her cheeks turned from soft pink to bright red, and she dipped her gaze to the ground. “I came to see about the post again. Perhaps you’ve changed your mind and are willing to hire me?”
“You need food, not a post.”
“Non. I—”
“Wait here. I’ve soup you can take.” He headed toward the well along the side of the yard and reeled the bucket up, his leftover food from yesterday’s evening meal cool and fresh thanks to the water.
Footsteps padded on the earth behind him. “I didn’t come for food. I came for a post.”
He hefted the bucket out of the well and headed for the house. “And I told you yesterday, I’ve no need
of a maid.”
“The deplorable taste of your bread convinced me otherwise.”
The side of his mouth twitched into that foreign feeling of a smile. The woman might be slight of body, but it took a speck of courage to tell him his food tasted horrid while he prepared yet another meal for her. “’Tis true, I’ve no knack for making bread. Though on days when I head to town, as I did yesterday, I purchase some.”
He opened the door to his cottage, and rather than try to force her inside as he had yesterday, he left the door open and set the soup on the table. He ladled the thickened liquid from his bucket into a second pail, then reached for the loaf of bread from the baker’s, tore it in half and wrapped it. The meal should suffice her for today, mayhap even tomorrow if she rationed it.
“I don’t need your charity.” She stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her slender chest.
He moved to her and held out the food. “You look as though you’ve not eaten for a month.”
“I don’t claim to eat well, but that’s a situation I can remedy myself. If you hire me.”
Having a woman in his home would be like salt on memories that were far too raw. Corinne’s smile when he made her laugh, the shine of her hair in the lamplight, the taste of her lips beneath his and feel of her face in his hands. How many days had they toiled together, working side by side in the fields? How many nights had they spent in each others’ arms in the little house at the back of his property? How many times had he come through the door, tired and dirty, to find a fresh meal and smiling wife awaiting his return…
“Citizen?” The woman in the doorway cleared her throat.
“Non. I can’t hire you.” He dipped his head toward the food he still held. “Now take this and make haste.”
Her vulnerable gaze trapped him. She was so much like Corinne. Oh, her hair might be tinted with red and russet rather than blond, and her eyes might be a soft brown rather than blue. But she held herself the same—with strength and dignity.
Nothing good would come of having her about this house. Besides, if he did offer work, he hadn’t any place to put the woman except for the cottage at the back of the property. The one he’d shared with Corinne.
