Love's First Light (15 page)

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Authors: Jamie Carie

Tags: #Religious Fiction

BOOK: Love's First Light
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“Father,”
he began, clearing his throat,
“please accept our thanksgiving for this bountiful food. We are like children and . . . need You, Your care and Your provision. And please, Almighty God, keep this household safe from evil. Thank You. Amen.”
When he looked up he found tears glistening in each woman’s eyes. There was a soft-hearted sweetness about them that overwhelmed him. He had never quite known how it felt to be so needed and admired. Except for Émilie. She had given him a glimpse of this. Thinking of her, it was all he could do to reach for his fork and knife, feeling clumsy and observed as he sliced through the thick roast.
Stacia broke the spell by laughing and pressing her napkin against her mouth. “Wouldn’t you like to stay, sir? Mother could adopt you!”
He looked at Scarlett, who looked genuinely appalled at the thought. Stacia laughed again, and her mother tried to speak before the youngest at the table said something truly shocking. Before Mrs. Bonham could get out more than a word to pass the potatoes, Stacia blurted out: “Or you could marry Scarlett. That might be more to both your liking, I think.”
Scarlett gasped.
“Stacia!”
But Christophé only smiled, finding that he couldn’t stop the flood of joy Stacia’s words brought to his chest. Maybe he could marry Scarlett. Maybe it didn’t matter that he had nothing but a crumbling castle and a name to keep hidden. Maybe he could just stay and make a simple living here, with them.
The meal progressed without further event. The women talked of spring cleaning. Christophé assured them he would replace the latch on the front door tomorrow, along with any other household repairs they might be able to find for him. There was a leak in the roof over Madam Bonham’s bedchamber, a broken window frame that would no longer open, a rusty pump handle over the well, and a number of small jobs that could keep him busy for days.
After dinner Madam Bonham insisted that Stacia would help her clean up while Scarlett entertained Christophé in the parlor.
“How is your wrist feeling?” Christophé took his place on a wooden chair.
Scarlett sat across from him on the settee. She looked down at her wrist and then slowly unwound the bandage. “The swelling is down. It is still sore, but not the constant throb it was two days ago.”
Christophé came over to sit beside her. “Let me see it.” He took the slim arm in his hands and traced the delicate bone of her wrist with a finger. “Does that hurt?”
She shook her head, but pain skittered across her eyes. She looked up into Christophé’s eyes, and they both paused.
Christophé leaned forward, his eyes on her lips. One hand cradled Scarlett’s injured hand between them, while the other reached around and gently cupped the side of her face. “Scarlett,” he heard his throat murmur.
She made a sound, and he didn’t know if it was in distress or anticipation or something in between. But she didn’t pull away.
“Scarlett.” He said it again as his lips touched hers. They were as warm and sweet as cherries. He wanted nothing more than to gather her up into his arms, but he was conscious of her injury and held a safe distance between them.
She didn’t seem to feel the same way though. She pulled her arm free and held it loosely around his back, pulling him closer. She deepened the kiss and he suddenly realized, she was the more experienced. He had some experience, some encounters that he really didn’t even want to remember, but Scarlett had known married love, where nothing, he imagined, was held back. She was the expert now, but that didn’t seem to matter.
Within moments they were both lost to the sensation of each other.

 

 

THE NEXT MORNING Christophé found Scarlett up and alone, cooking eggs and the leftover potatoes in a skillet.
“You are up early.” He came up behind her and reached for her waist. She shied away, giving him a stern look. “We mustn’t. You mustn’t. I shouldn’t set a bad example for Stacia.” She finished as if she had been rehearsing the lines all night.
Christophé moved a little away. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
“Oh. Don’t be sorry! It was . . . it was lovely. But I, well, I can’t believe you could have any interest in me now.”
What was this about? He frowned. “Now? What does that mean?”
Scarlett gestured toward her giant stomach. “I’m about to have another man’s child. And I look . . . so . . . immense.” She turned away, stirring the potatoes around and around.
Christophé shot a glance toward the rest of the house, assured himself that they were truly alone, and then went to stand at her back. He didn’t touch her. Merely leaned in and whispered into her ear. “I’ve studied the stars and the moon as close as any man. I have watched white light split into the colors of the rainbow. I have written mathematical equations so elegant that they took my breath away. But you . . .” His voice deepened, grew husky. “You are a wonder I didn’t know existed. You are beauty.”
She inhaled suddenly and looked over her shoulder at him, eyes wide. “Oh.”
“I can hardly force myself to stand here so close to you and not touch you.”
“Oh . . .”
He backed away then, relishing her look of confused disquiet. He walked over to the table and sat down, enjoying the feeling of knowing how best to handle her despite his lack of experience. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, with this woman everything came easy.
She brought over the breakfast, careful to avoid his eyes. He tried not to look at her, not knowing what he might do. Instead he talked of things like broken doors and latches and hard, cold metal. How could she think she was unappealing just because she was having a baby? It was unfathomable.
The rest of the day, and the days after that, took on a comforting routine. Scarlett was always up early to cook for him. He worked at the projects, occasionally leaving for supplies and watching his coins dwindle to next to nothing, but not caring. Sometimes he went back to the castle for clothes or tools or some item that he’d scavenged from the wreckage of the place that might prove useful.
He’d found something here. Happiness. At being among them—these women, this family. And he was secretly glad that Scarlett had stopped visiting Daniel’s grave.

 

 

THAT EVENING, AFTER dinner, he was in the parlor alone, looking through their small collection of books, when he noticed a nail sticking up from a floorboard. It wouldn’t do for Scarlett to trip over such a thing, and so he rose to fix it. It was just under a small round table. He bumped the table as he crawled underneath it, sending a small stack of papers fluttering to the floor. He rose, thinking to put the papers back, when a name leapt off the one on top:
Robespierre.
Christophé froze. Everything in him shifted, slowed, then stopped. His hand began to shake. He shouldn’t read it, but he knew he must. He had to know what link this household—this now-beloved household—had to his sworn enemy. Hurriedly, he flipped the page open and read.

 

Dear Madames and Mademoiselle de Carcassonne,
I deeply regret the news I must bestow upon you, dear ladies. The flour stores here in Paris are being hoarded, locked down from any persons except by the full vote of the Committee. They have agreed that any surplus flour outside the immediate needs of the city will be exported and traded to help fund our glorious cause. You will receive three more shipments, another month. That is all I can promise.
I realize this will put a great imposition upon your household, but alas, my hands are tied. In knowing your glowing hearts for the Révolution, I feel you will understand. Have you thought of taking up weaving? I am greatly encouraged that the south of France is contributing to our meager funds through the sale and export of cloth. The city is becoming famous for it! I hope that such an endeavor will meet with your full satisfaction.
Scarlett, please write when the child is born. I should like to celebrate such an event with you . . . an increase for the Robespierre name! I foresee great things from my grandnephew (should we be blessed with a boy) and another hand and mind and heart for our glorious Republic.
Ever in your service,
Maximilian Robespierre

 

Christophé gasped for air. The baby—a grandnephew? That meant—
He heard Scarlett coming from the kitchen. Placing the paper back onto the table he looked around the room as if searching for a mooring place.
He saw his dark cloak, reached for it, lifted the newly installed latch, and fled into the night.
Chapter Twelve

 

Scarlett heard the front door close and lifted her head. As she walked into the sitting room she paused while a trickle of unease snaked down her back.
Where had he gone?
Her steps took her to the front door. She opened it, swung it wide, and peered outside. A memory of her childhood assailed her—opening the door for her father as he came home from work, boots mud-caked, shirt sweat-soaked. She’d looked up and up until she saw his face, his splitting grin and then felt the safety of home as he swung her into his arms and held her close. She remembered the feel of his whiskers pressed against her cheek and the way her smile was so big that it hurt. He would carry her through the door and stand her on a chair so that she could be nearly as tall as he was.
“What did you do today,
mon cher?”
And with that question, she would tell him everything. How she’d gone to school and faded in with the other uniformed girls. How she’d helped her mother in the kitchen after school and loved the arranging of flowers for the dinner table. How she’d helped Stacia copy her letters or figure a math equation that was just a little beyond her sister’s grasp.
Scarlett remembered how he would hug her to him and tell her how proud he was of his big girl. Then, he would turn and cuddle Stacia, and finally her mother. Some nights he would catch her mother up in his arms and lead her in a dance. There wasn’t any music, but Stacia and Scarlett would watch, round eyed, as they twirled together, laughing, their mother’s head thrown back in suppressed glee, as their father showed them the magic of the world. How had it ended so abruptly?
Shaking herself free from the past, Scarlett opened the door further and looked around. There was no one there. No sign of Christophé. She looked down at her shoes and let out a great exhale. Something had gone wrong, she was certain of it. But what? How was she to fix this?
Her face lifted to the night sky. She saw all that Christophé had shown her—Orion’s belt, the face of the moon and . . . so much more. He had brought the magic back into her world. Now . . .
Would he leave her too?

 

 

CHRISTOPHÉ RAN LIKE the hordes of hell were dogging his heels. He ran, feeling a familiar breath on his neck. He ran as if the nightmare had come to life.
“God!”
The cry escaped as he reached the castle and ran through it room by dark, crumbling room. He stumbled to every window and looked out at the night sky. He took one look and then ran to the next glassless hole, wanting some other image, hoping for a miracle. “It can’t be.” Another window. Another look into eternity’s endlessness. “Not
her
too. I can’t bear it.”
Robespierre took everything from him. His home. His family. Life as he’d known it. He left Christophé with nothing. And now . . .
The woman he loved, the light in the midst of his darkness, belonged to the man he must hate. And her babe, that mound of life and hope within her, was his enemy’s as well. Tainted with the poisonous blood of a calculating murderer.
Christophé had looked on the coming birth with such anticipation. A family to love again. Innocence would once again enter his life, bringing them all joy. Now . . .
All he knew was pain. Anger.
Betrayal.
The Lord’s Prayer sprung to his mind. It was the one thing that he had clung to in all the madness—Émilie’s death, Jasper’s help, the sudden flight here. But he couldn’t say it. He no longer wanted God’s will to be done.
“No. Your will hurts too much.” It was more a whisper than words as he slid down the wall to the floor and grasped hold of the stones beneath him, clawing at them. “Not Your will. Not anymore.”

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