Love's First Light (11 page)

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Authors: Jamie Carie

Tags: #Religious Fiction

BOOK: Love's First Light
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They both paused, their gazes meeting, then Christophé smiled. “To my new friend and assistant,” he whispered. He held the prism up and up until it caught the light.
They both held their breath and then let it out in a simultaneous rush as the prism caught, held, and then split the light.
The colors of the rainbow arched around the stone room and them.
Red. Yellow. Green. Blue. Indigo and Violet. Six colors.
He tilted the prism this way and that so that the colors danced around them.
Scarlett let out a peal of delighted laughter.
His heart soared.
Rainbow had always been his favorite color.
And now he knew his favorite sound.

 

 

A SUDDEN SOUND of a clock striking interrupted their world. Scarlett turned to him, the panic in her wide eyes sending his heart pounding. “What time is it?”
He hadn’t paid attention to the time for days, weeks even, and fumbled for an answer. “It must be six or seven in the morning.” They listened as the great bell in the town cathedral rang seven times.
Scarlett sprang up from her chair. “I must return. They won’t know what to think.”
Christophé moved from his place by the laboratory table and grasped her arm. “But you have no cloak.”
Scarlett looked down at her nightgown and then back into his face. “I
have
to go.”
“Of course. We’ll take down the cloaks.”
“But you need them for your experiment. And I don’t have time to take out the thread.”
Christophé walked over to the ladder, quickly climbed up and dislodged the cloaks. Folding the material in half, he was able to wrap the heavy fabric around Scarlett. She reached up and tied it around her neck. “I will bring it back.” She looked down and laughed at herself. “And next time, I will be dressed.”
Christophé flashed a grin at her. “I like you in your nightgown.”
Scarlett sputtered, a red flush filling her cheeks. “My mother will be furious when she sees that I’ve gone out in public like this again. I still don’t know how I will explain being gone so long.”
Christophé took her hand. “Tell them you were extending a dinner invitation . . . to a mad scientist who lives in the crumbling castle, whom you met at the market.” He smiled down into her eyes. “Tell them you felt sorry for me.”
A little chuckle escaped Scarlett’s chest. “I do have a soft spot for the downtrodden, that they well know.” She looked up into his eyes and he felt the immediate melting that always seemed to happen with her. “It might work.”
In the distance they heard a distant rumble of thunder. Scarlett pulled the cloak closer and turned to go. “I must hurry. It sounds like rain.”
He glanced down at the baby. “Don’t run. Be careful.”
Her look was mischievous as she answered, “I am always careful.” But they both knew that wasn’t true. She never would have spoken to him had she been careful.
Christophé was glad she was a bit of an adventuress instead.
He walked her to the door and watched her leave. Just as she was out of sight, it began to pour down rain. His teeth were chattering by the time he made it to the laboratory and the last embers of the fire. He stripped off his clothes, worrying that Scarlett would be soaked and chilled. He hung his breeches on the back of a chair, close to the fire to dry. Then he wrapped his only blanket around his shivering body and sat in front of the fire, staring into the ash.
Why, Lord?
He closed his eyes against the weariness and sorrow seeking to overpower him.
Why now?
He trusted God’s goodness. His promises. But as Christophé sat there, chilled to the bone as much by his thoughts as the rain, he couldn’t help but question.
Why did You let me meet my Eve now . . . when I’m not whole enough to give her anything?
Chapter Nine

 

Scarlett, soaked to the skin, her nightgown and the cloaks clinging to her, crept back into the house. Sleep. That was all she needed. Maybe she could feign illness. It would be easy enough in her condition.
She crept up the stairs, the loose, sodden hem of her nightgown nearly tripping her.
“Scarlett, is that you?”
Her mother’s voice sounded from the bottom of the stairs. She turned, grasping hold of the handrail. “It’s me—”
“Good heavens, what happened to you?” Her mother raced up the stairs and grasped hold of her. “You must stop this nonsense. Visiting his grave when so pregnant, even in the middle of such a storm!” She grabbed her daughter’s waist and helped her up the stairs. “You must stop, Scarlett. He wouldn’t want you to risk your health and the child’s.”
Tears stung her eyes, and Scarlett looked away. What
was
she doing? How could she be so irresponsible? She was a mother now; she should act like one. She should tell the truth. “You are right. It won’t happen again. It’s just that, I met someone and I was delayed, and then it started pouring rain.”
Her mother’s brows rose and her lips thinned. “Met someone? Who could you meet at the graveyard?”
Scarlett ignored the fact that her mother thought she’d been visiting Daniel’s grave and plunged in, but her teeth started chattering as she blurted it out. “His name is Christophé, and I–I in–invited him to dinner.”
“To dinner? A stranger to dinner! What could you be thinking?” Her mother reached for her arm and braced her up. “You are shivering!” Her mother sounded frantic. “Hurry, we must get you into some dry clothes and into bed. We will discuss this man later.”
Weakness coursing through her, all Scarlett could do was allow her mother to take charge. She let her mother pull her through Stacia’s room, not even caring that her mother didn’t bother to be quiet. She bustled about Scarlett’s bedchamber, stoking up the fire, then came to pull the nightgown up and over Scarlett’s wet hair—thankfully not noticing the ragged hem—and handed her a towel. As soon as Scarlett was dressed, her mother led her to her bed, clucking at her and tucking her in. In moments Scarlett’s eyes dropped shut and she drifted in the first deep sleep she had had in months.

 

 

A FEW HOURS later Stacia crept into the room with hot chocolate and scones. She rattled the tray enough to make Scarlett turn, sleepy-headed against her pillows.
“Mother sent me to check on you. Can you eat a little?”
Her sister’s concerned face made Scarlett’s heart skip a beat as the fact that they would be gone soon slammed into her.
Dear Father, I am going to miss them so.
She would live the last month of this pregnancy and the birth without them. Tears stung again, but she lowered her head and reached for the tray. “Thank you.”
“You are crying!” Stacia planted the tray on the side table and reached for Scarlett’s hands. “Tell me.”
Scarlett shook her head and leaned back into the pillows. She tried to stop the sadness racing down her cheeks in wet streams.
Stacia gave her a moment—she was so wise for her years—simply picking up and stirring the chocolate in the cup and handing it to Scarlett. “Is it that we must go? I cannot imagine being left alone at a time like this. You are so brave.”
Scarlett took a long swallow of the warm sweetness. She reached for Stacia’s hand and squeezed. “You will have to be braver than I. Mother will be a mess in Paris. You will have to navigate the politics, the horrid uprisings, and constant watching eyes. You will have to find the man who can save this family and one that you can love.”
Stacia tossed back a lock of dark hair and smiled at her. “I have been waiting for this. My turn. Let me carry us this time.”
Scarlett shook her head. “You are so young. I can’t bear it. Robespierre can’t be trusted. You must trust no one.”
Stacia had tears in her eyes too, but her steel-blue depths held the passions and certainty of youth. “I will pray.”
Scarlett drained the cup, holding on to its comfort. “Yes. As will I. Every day.”
Stacia took the empty cup and passed Scarlett a delicate plate of light, flaky scones. “You didn’t go to the grave this morning, did you?”
Scarlett’s eyes grew round. “How did you know?”
“That man, in the street at the market. You have met him before.”
“Yes.” She wouldn’t say more.
“Who is he?”
Scarlett took a giant bite and chewed slowly, assessing her sister. “He is a secret.”
Stacia grinned. “I love secrets. Tell me.”
Scarlett chuckled and downed another fluffy roll, her mouth so full she could only smile around it.
“Tell me!”
She swallowed. “You won’t tell Mother? Not anyone?”
Stacia reared back in mock offense. “As if you couldn’t trust me!”
“All right. All I will say is that his name is Christophé and he is in hiding . . . living in the old castle.”
“Who is he? Why would he live there? It could come crumbling down upon his head while he sleeps! Is he a beggar?”
“Of course not!” Though she wasn’t sure if that was true. “He is . . . he is . . . I don’t exactly know what he is except that he is a . . . scientist.”
Stacia’s eyes grew round as she clapped a hand over her mouth and laughed. Then, seeing her sister’s serious face she stopped suddenly and gasped. “You love him!”
“No!”
“You do! I see it in your eyes. Even more than Daniel.”
Scarlett let the words sink in. She stared at the third scone in her fingers, then put it slowly back down on the plate, which sat precariously on her belly. “I don’t know. I loved Daniel. But this is different. I feel . . . I feel I
know
him.” She looked up at her sister’s pretty face and grimaced. “But I really don’t know him at all.” She paused. “I think of him all the time. I want to see him . . . and when I’m with him, it is as if—” she shook her head at her sister, tears rising up again—“I feel I’ve come home.”
“Oh, Scarlett.” Her sister gathered her into her arms. “Have a care. Have a care, my dear sister. From the sound of things, he could be anyone.”

 

 

CHRISTOPHÉ FELL INTO a deep sleep beside his parchment. His head lay on his arms, the fire flickered out, and the room grew cold. But he dreamed of wide, luminous eyes and alabaster skin. Then he saw his sister, crying out to save him. And Scarlett, with her red lips, mouthing forgiveness to him . . . and then he saw them together, riding into Paris where Émilie cried out from another graveyard. Her voice was so strong. It cried out to them both—
He awoke, sat up suddenly, chanting his sanity verse:
“Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.”
He broke into a sob, half-awake and half-asleep. Her face was so clear—it seemed so real. He slid off the chair and onto the cold stone floor. “Help me, Lord. Please, please, help.”

 

 

AFTER HER SISTER left, Scarlett fell back into the pillows, her stomach full and contented. She thought of Christophé. Of that kiss. It had been little more than a touch of his lips to hers, but it had made her feel more than any intimacy she’d shared with Daniel. She thought back on the days after her wedding. They’d only had four months of marriage before he left for the battlefield in Nantes. Four months of confusion, sometimes hurt, sometimes anger.
It was during that time she learned how the hand’s movement on the clock could seem interminable. There were days when she lifted her head at every carriage sound below her window in hopes that Daniel would walk through the door. But even when that finally happened, even when she tried to say something sweet enough or witty enough that he would come out of his world and notice her, it was as though she wasn’t even there.
Daniel was passionate, but only about his street speeches to fire the citizens’ blood-thirst for revenge. The Révolution was his mistress, and Scarlett was beginning to hate it. In that world, there was no room for her at all. The clandestine meetings in her parlor, which she wasn’t allowed to attend. The speeches he sat up late at night to write while she blinked, alone, in the darkness of their bedroom. The faraway look in his eyes when she spoke of everyday things.

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