Catherine thought through each sentence and chose her words carefully. She wrote everything Grand-Mère asked and then added more, about how beautiful the spring flowers were and about the walk across the river the day before. She left out being harassed by the dragoons—both times—though she did mention the dress shop and talked a bit about Janetta. My friend has been to Paris and London too. She will go to Rome in the autumn.
Then she wrote about the market. She described how big the fish were and how pretty the greens looked in the farmer’s cart.
Finally she told Suzanne that she hoped to meet her in person someday, but they would all have to trust God with the possibility of a trip and that she would write again soon.
As the ink on the last page dried, Catherine stared at Amelie and the baby. Grand-Mère once said she had always longed for a house full of children. When only the two of hers survived, she still hoped for a house full of grandchildren. But then both of her daughters-in-law died, leaving only Jules, Catherine, and Amelie between them. As neither of her sons remarried, that seemed to be the end of it—until now, at least, with the addition of a great-grandchild, tiny Valentina.
Jules used to say that Catherine had been spoiled after their mother died and that as the youngest she always got her own way—coercing her cousin Amelie to ride all over the countryside with her, visiting the print shop whenever she pleased, and speaking her mind all too often. He had teased her about it when they were younger.
But he had not held her independence against her then. In fact, he had encouraged it—just as he had encouraged her education. When Catherine was fifteen and Jules twenty-two, their father died, saddling her brother with so much responsibility that it changed him into someone harsh and impatient and almost always angry. That was the man she knew now. But once upon a time, before all of that, he had actually been a pleasant sort, one who sometimes teased her, yes, but who also treated her with love and kindness.
Back then he was always playing the role of headmaster, making sure she was learning her lessons, giving her books to read, and expecting her to report on them. And then there was his secret code. When she was nine, Jules invented it to help her with studies. At the time, she believed him when he said it was unbreakable, though in retrospect she realized it had not been all that sophisticated. Pulling from surplus copies of booklets and pamphlets at the shop, Jules would take some leftover printed matter and a piece of graphite and then go through the text circling certain letters. When he was finished, he would give that text to her, and she would have to go through it herself, find each of the circles, write down their corresponding letters on a piece of paper, and then use Jules’s formula—a designated pattern of counting off and crossing out various letters—to decode them.
If she did it all correctly, once she was finished she would have a secret message he had created just for her. Usually it was something silly, such as “… on the Bridge of Avignon, we all dance in a ring…” a line from a children’s song she loved. Occasionally, though, it would be something more serious, such as a brotherly reprimand: “Young ladies walk, never run, especially at church.” Sometimes it was something exciting. “Look in the hall cupboard for a petite gateau.” She would run off to find a little cake he had hidden there for her earlier.
His plan worked. She mastered reading and writing and counting in no time and gained more independence in both thought and action because of her skills. Jules was quite proud of her. One time she caught him bragging about her to a client in the shop, saying how smart she was. “Too bad she is a girl,” he had added, “or we could use her to proofread our galleys before printing.” The fact that such a thought had even crossed his mind was a tremendous compliment.
She sighed. She missed those days. Now he was too serious to joke or tease at all. Or teach her anything new or even reminisce about their childhood.
The baby stirred. Grand-Mère sat up and reached across Amelie, taking the little one in her arms before settling back down.
Catherine knew Grand-Mère did not want to leave Lyon. Did not want to leave the house she still longed to see filled with children. Did not want to leave those she employed and served. But unless by some miracle the persecution of the Huguenots came to an end, soon she would have no choice.
There was no denying the family was on the cusp of change. Catherine had been writing about their lives, little narratives on this and that, for as long as she could remember. She’d hung on to many of those pages over the years, keeping them together in a stack in the bottom drawer of the desk.
For now, she retrieved a fresh piece of paper to pen a new journal entry. When she was done, she slid open the drawer and added it to the pile, face up so that it wouldn’t smear before the ink was dry.
It wasn’t long before Grand-Mère was up with the baby. “Go tell the housekeeper we need another cot in here for Estelle. Get more cloths for Valentina and ask when she will attend to the soiled ones.”
Catherine found the housekeeper in the lounge, cleaning out the fireplace. The two maids had left a month ago, afraid to continue working for a Huguenot family. This housekeeper would likely soon follow suit, though if she did, Catherine would not be critical of her. Leaving would be the prudent thing to do.
She relayed Grand-Mère’s instructions to the woman, who looked up from the floor with an expression of despair spreading across her face. “I still have the rooms upstairs to see to and your grandmother’s chamber, plus all the sweeping and the other fireplaces. And the mending to do.”
“I will help,” Catherine said.
The housekeeper gave her a withering look.
Ignoring her implication, Catherine added, “The wet nurse is a seamstress. I will ask her to assist with the mending.”
“I’m not sure what your grandmother will think…”
“She’ll be fine with it. Our lives are changing. It can’t be helped.” Grand-Mère’s eyes were too poor to sew anymore. Catherine could offer her assistance, but she had not mastered the skill enough to do finishing work. She hoped Estelle would be willing to lend her talents to the cause.
The housekeeper told Catherine to look on the top shelf of the cupboard in the hall for more cloths. “Then get the mending in the basket on the bottom.”
“Merci.”
A short while later, Catherine and Estelle were settled down at one end of the kitchen table with the mending while Cook sat at the other end, peeling parsnips to roast and serve with the fish. “The men do not want to be traveling back and forth between here and the shop,” Cook said. “So they will not be home for the noon meal. We will dine in the late afternoon, before church.”
“Très bien,” Catherine said, and then she added that her church would be gathering in a home tonight instead of at the temple.
Cook raised her head from her peeling. “Has it come to that already?”
Catherine shrugged. “At least for now.”
“What about your Easter service?”
“Oh, I hope it’s at the temple.” Their building was simple and plain compared to the cathedral—too plain, in Catherine’s opinion—but it was all they had. “Surely we’ll be safe in the daylight.”
“Who knows anymore,” Cook said, picking up a carrot. “Except God. And why He is allowing all of this is beyond me.”
Catherine agreed with Cook but held her tongue, not wanting to sound heretical.
Estelle was quick with her needle, working on Jules’s shirt while Catherine mended Amelie’s chemise. After a time, Grand-Mère came for Estelle, who put away her mending and went to the bed chamber to nurse the baby.
“And perhaps a bowl of broth for Amelie,” Grand-Mère added, turning to Cook. “She says she is not hungry, but she needs to eat something.”
Cook dished it up from the pot over the fire.
When Catherine entered the chamber a half hour later, the baby was fed and in Grand-Mère’s arms while Estelle held the bowl of broth for Amelie, trying to coax her into taking just one
bite.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Catherine
Grand-Mère chose to have dinner in her room with Amelie and Estelle, leaving Catherine and Jules to eat alone in the dining room.
“We need to hurry or we will be late for the service,” he said as they took their places across from each other at the table.
Catherine reached for the bell to signal the footman, which was usually Grand-Mère’s job, but Jules snatched it away from her. Catherine narrowed her eyes at her brother. He was like a little tyrant, grabbing more and more control of both the business and the household. Worse, he could not see what he had become.
After he put down the bell, Jules bent his head in prayer. “Merci, Seigneur,” he prayed, “for Your sacrifice, for this food, and for loving us. Help us to love each other. Amen.”
Catherine wrinkled her nose. He seemed so hypocritical. Grand-Mère would chastise her if she said such a thing out loud, but she did not understand how her brother could be so cold one moment and then speak to God with such sincerity the next.
“Do you think it’s safe for us to leave Grand-Mère and Amelie here?”
“I have the dragoons under control,” Jules answered.
Catherine raised her eyebrows. Did he fancy himself a miracle worker now? “Pray tell.”
He shook his head. She had thought him in denial, but this seemed more like pride to her.
“Did you speak with our solicitor today about Amelie’s situation?” Catherine asked.
“Oui.”
“And?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
Of course it was her concern, but she chose not to respond. The guards from the convent had not come to the house today to try to take her cousin back. Perhaps the solicitor had sent a letter to Mother Superior already.
They dined in silence after that, and when they had finished, Jules rang the bell once more. Catherine excused herself and headed down the hall to retrieve her cloak.
Grand-Mère was in the sitting room, holding Valentina and talking with Estelle. Watching them, Catherine thought about both women losing sons in the past week. Grand-Mère had lost other children in her life as well—several babies, a toddler, a daughter at age ten. Papa three years ago. Two daughters-in-law. Catherine did not know all the stories of the earlier deaths, just bits and pieces. Just enough to know Grand-Mère had treasured Amelie and Catherine as her own from the moment they were born. And now she had Valentina to love.
“You should go,” she said to Catherine. “Monsieur Roen will have the carriage ready.”
“Oui, I just need my cloak.” She stepped into the bedchamber.
Amelie sat up in bed, appearing more rested than she had all day.
Catherine sat down beside her. “Are you feeling better?”
“Some.” Amelie reached for Catherine’s hand. “How was dinner?”
“Quiet.”
Amelie smiled wryly. “I take it Jules was off somewhere in his thinking, far from you.”
Catherine sighed. “If only I could get a glimpse of what goes on in that mind of his.” She squeezed her cousin’s hand. “He said he spoke with the solicitor, though he would not give me any details.”
“I thought that might be the case. Either that, or the guards came for me and you scared them away.”
“Any of us would.” She kissed her cousin on the forehead. “You are well loved.”
“I cannot tell you how grateful I am to be home.” Tears filled Amelie’s eyes. “God used you to answer my prayers. I do not think Valentina or I could have lasted much longer.”
“Hush,” Catherine whispered. “Do not speak in such a way. You are safe now.”
Grand-Mère called out. “Jules is waiting, chérie.”
Catherine kissed Amelie again and then jumped to her feet, grabbing her head covering, cloak, and Bible. She bid her cousin au revoir and headed through the sitting room, waving to Grand-Mère and Estelle as she went.
Jules was standing by the carriage, and he climbed inside after Catherine. Then Monsieur Roen took the reins and they were off. As they pulled through the gate and onto the road, Catherine found herself thinking again about all of those deaths. It was one thing for Catherine to lose her mother as a young child and to search for her in every Madonna she saw, but it had been quite another thing to have lost Papa eleven years later when she understood death so much more clearly.
Her father had been kind and gentle. He was as relaxed as Jules was intense, and as much of a feeler as Jules was a thinker. Papa was her security, her anchor. Once he was gone, had it not been for Grand-Mère’s continual infusion of Scripture and life lessons, Catherine was not sure how she would have survived that time of emotional upheaval. It was Grand-Mère’s constant presence and, in the past two years, the hope of a future with Pierre that had kept Catherine grounded.
The ride to Pastor Berger’s was short, and once they arrived Jules told Monsieur Roen to go on to mass. “Give Cook a ride home, would you? We can walk.” Then he led the way into the house with Catherine following behind.
The furniture had been pushed to the sides of the kitchen and living area, and the members of the congregation who had dared to venture out stood around the room. Pastor Berger greeted them at the door. Above, in the sleeping loft, the boys and other children had gathered. The youngest Berger child, five-year-old Jacob, leaned against the railing and smiled down at Catherine. She winked in return. For the moment, with the dragoons gone, the children seemed relaxed, although the adults were clearly on edge.
Pierre entered the house a few minutes later, just as Pastor Berger began with the hymn “All Mortal Flesh Be Silent.” The melody, sung softly by the congregants, reverberated to the open timbers of the house.
Next Pastor Berger read the crucifixion account from the Gospel of Mark. Catherine followed along in her new Bible, which fit into her apron pocket, a small one her brother had printed in the shop and given her a few months before. Then Pastor Berger admonished the congregation to remain strong in the face of persecution. Before closing, he announced that for Easter they would meet in the temple. “The good Lord told us not to fear,” he said. “We will carry on with our usual practices after tonight.”
Once the service ended, Pierre stepped to Catherine’s side as she warmed herself by the fire.
“Why are your parents and Eriq not here?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“Mother heard about your ordeal at the market today. When she found out the Bergers have dragoons lodging with them too, she didn’t want to come.” He leaned his shoulder against the stone mantle. “She’s afraid we will have dragoons living with us next.” He lowered his voice even more. “She and father are talking about leaving.” He shook his head. “Father is taking steps to make that happen.”
“Leaving? For London?” Catherine asked, hope rising inside of her.
Pierre shook his head. “Switzerland.”
Catherine took a step backward. “Do you plan to go with them?” Her heart raced at the thought of him leaving without her.
“I have no idea what I plan to do. It’s very complicated, more than you can imagine.”
“But is going to Switzerland something you’re considering?”
She did not add the more important questions—What about me? What about us? Catherine was devastated. She loved Pierre, but she couldn’t commit her life to someone who didn’t value her input enough to include her in such a monumental decision, or at least to keep her informed of his own thinking in the matter.
Before he could reply, however, Jules called out to Catherine and motioned toward the door.
“I have to go,” she said. Turning back to Pierre, she added, “And so should you while it’s still safe out there.”
Again he was about to speak when he was interrupted by Pastor Berger.
“I am coming with you,” the man said to Catherine. “To see Amelie and the baby.”
“Now?”
He nodded, his hat in his
hand.
“What about your family? The dragoons should be returning soon.”
“Pierre has offered to stay until I get back.”
Catherine looked at her betrothed, not at all pleased. She wanted the Bergers to be safe, yes, but not at the risk of Pierre’s safety.
“Amelie is too ill to convert just yet,” she said quickly to the pastor, unsure how else to stop him from coming with them. She wanted Amelie to do so, of course—but not at the cost of Pierre’s life. What if staying here now and going home later ended up putting him in harm’s way? The streets of Lyon were no place for a Huguenot to be after dark.
“I just want to encourage her,” Pastor replied, oblivious to her concerns.
There was nothing more Catherine could do. Looking to Pierre, she whispered, “Be careful.”
Then she turned and followed Pastor Berger out the door, praying for a time when they would no longer have to watch over their shoulders in terror every time they ventured onto the streets.
Amelie again appeared exhausted as Catherine led Pastor Berger into the bedchamber, but she managed to sit up and even seemed to rally some, to the point of asking if he could baptize the baby as long as he was there. “And I would like to convert back,” she added. “To the faith of my family.”
“Right now?” he asked, shooting Catherine a dubious glance. He obviously was mindful of her warning that Amelie was too ill to do so just yet.
Catherine felt torn between wanting the baby’s baptism and Amelie’s conversion to happen and wanting the pastor to get on home so Pierre could leave before the dragoons returned. She turned to Amelie and tried to gauge her strength. “How are you feeling? Do you need to lie back down?”
“Non,” Amelie replied, a surprising—and heartwarming—look of vigor in her eyes. “Both of these things are important.”
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