Love's First Light (16 page)
There was only one thing he wanted.
Revenge.
HE DIDN’T KNOW how long he sat there, but after countless heart-pounding moments where senseless thoughts ran through his mind, a plan formed. Christophé jumped up and ran down the steep, sloping curve of the stairs to his room. He took up a sharp razor, then a bowl—which he filled with water from a barrel in his laboratory—and a ragged piece of cloth. He brought the supplies to the only mirror he had, a broken piece in which he could barely see half his face. Laying his supplies on the old, scarred table, he propped the mirror against a jar, positioned it just so, and then began shearing his hair off with the razor.
It fell in piles on the table—dark, silky strands held together by static electricity, which made him think of Benjamin Franklin and his famous experiment with storm clouds, lightning, and a kite. But he turned his thoughts from science. That would not help him now.
Once the length of his hair had been cut off, he took up the soap, lathered it into his hands, and rubbed his scalp with the bubbles. Taking up the straight-edge razor, he proceeded to shave his head. His scalp surprised him, how like the moon it was. Not a completely smooth surface as one might think. No, there were bone and indentions and skin so white, attesting to the fact that it had never seen the light of the sun. He left the hair on his face, a few days growth. Then he pulled the red cap of freedom—ha!—over his head. They called it a Phrygian cap. He didn’t care what they called it as long as he didn’t look like who he was: an aristocrat, a blue blood, a bloody count awaiting the guillotine’s blade.
He studied his reflection in the mirror, and allowed a grim smile. They wouldn’t recognize him now. They would not know.
He pulled out a sack and stuffed it with all the food he had, filling his mouth as he worked, chewing and swallowing without tasting, knowing he would have to run far this night—on foot.
A long loaf of bread was grasped in his hand. He paused, looked at it, knowing where it had come from. Scarlett. Scarlett’s bread.
He laid it on the table, looked at it for a long moment, and then went to the fireplace and grasped the long handle of a shovel. His arms bulged and he began to sweat as he shoveled out great heaps of burning embers. He heaved them to the table . . . onto the bread. Leaning over, he blew onto them until a small flame caught the bread. He watched as it burned, turned black, and then caught the wood of the table. Smoke filled the room.
With a groaning yell, he wiped his experiments to the floor, saw the glass shatter and the chemicals quickly turn black and smolder in the lack of air in the room. He saved one glass—the one full of turpentine, an accelerant for fire. He grasped it in one hand, paused, and then blocked all thought. His arm heaved back and then he threw it toward the fire. The room burst into flames.
He backed away, shielding his face and his eyes. He grasped the bag, his last possessions in the world—clothes, some food, a little money, and his own family heirloom, the Trencavel goblet—then turned to run from the castle.
He blocked out all voices and words, except one.
Revenge.
Without looking back, Christophé ran into the night.
SCARLETT WATCHED AS her sister stuffed her belongings into a trunk. She had day dresses, frilly bonnets, gloves, hats, and a few precious evening gowns. She borrowed the best jewelry and hair accessories her mother and Scarlett had accumulated over the years. And she had so many shoes—low-heeled slippers of every color and high-heeled shoes with bows and baubles and lace adorning them. Her foot was a little smaller than Scarlett’s, but she assured her sister that she could shove some wadded paper into the toe and make do. Most particularly with a delicate blue satin pair that boasted a glass jewel of the same color on the top and a silver-hued fabric heel. Stacia would not be going to Paris without those in her arsenal.
Scarlett couldn’t help her grin. Then she laughed out loud. “You are worse than I was!”
Stacia slanted her a coy look and demure smile. “I’m not as pretty as you, so I shall need the added confidence.”
Scarlett nearly howled at that. “You will take Paris by storm, my dear. You have no idea.”
“Are the ladies so ugly there?”
Scarlett laughed. “Of course not. Well, a few, I suppose, when compared with you.”
Stacia twirled around in her simple dark green satin traveling dress. She took up a tall hat from the bed, a hat a little outdated with its huge peacock plumes dipping to one side, and placed it on her head at an angle. Going over to Scarlett, she dipped into a low curtsey, her eyes moving from the floor to Scarlett’s eyes with a small smile. “I am so pleased to meet you, monsieur. I, uh . . . What a lovely coat you have.”
Scarlett’s eyes grew round and she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Don’t say
that!”
that!”
“Well! What should I say?”
“Ask him about himself, what he does, where he goes, what is important to him.”
Stacia frowned, her eyebrows knitting together. “That sounds horrible.”
“It is.”
They fell onto the bed together, laughing hysterically.
After their giggles had died down, Stacia grasped Scarlett’s hand in hers and they both lay quiet . . . looking up at the ceiling for a long time.
“It will all be all right, won’t it, Scarlett?”
Scarlett stared at the ceiling. She thought of their father and her husband and now the disappearance of Christophé and felt anger fill her. How could he leave with no explanation? How could he hold her one minute and then abandon her the next? She had gone over and over every detail of the days he’d stayed with them but could find no explanation for his disappearance. Still, she didn’t want Stacia to worry, so she squeezed her sister’s hand and whispered, “Yes. Everything will be all right.”
Stacia leaned up and grinned. “I have to admit I am excited! I will find the best man. Someone upright and faithful and true. Someone I can admire.” She giggled and placed a quick hand on Scarlett’s mound. “And I will not start having babies for a very long time!”
Scarlett grimaced as she tried to rise from the bed. “Help me up, will you? Your very fat sister cannot rise from this bed!”
Stacia was obviously trying to suppress her laughter as she heaved Scarlett from the bed. Scarlett stood, her hands unconsciously going to the center of her low back. “If you won’t have babies, you will have to invent some reason not to sleep in the same bed as your husband, my dear.”
Stacia shoved another pair of shoes into the bulging trunk. “Is it awful? Did you hate it?”
Scarlett shifted her weight from one foot to the other and contemplated how much to tell her sister. “What do you know . . . of the marriage bed?”
Stacia shrugged. “I know what happens.” She turned, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “But I don’t know how it feels. Does it hurt?”
Scarlett smoothed her hand over her stomach, thinking. Their mother had always been mum on this subject, so if she didn’t tell Stacia anything, she would have to discover it for herself—just like she had. Was there anything she wished she had known beforehand? “It’s not unpleasant. The first time can be painful, but, after that, well, it can be rather pleasant.” She felt the heat rise to her cheeks.
Stacia giggled. “You liked it!”
“Well . . .”
“You did! You liked it! I always thought it was just something I would have to endure.”
“It will be difficult to turn away a newly married husband. I can tell you that much.” Scarlett giggled. “I am afraid, dear sister, that marriage means babies in most cases. So enjoy your slender figure while you can.”
“Oh, I don’t like the sound of that!” Stacia looked into the trunk of beautiful, tiny-waisted dresses. “I don’t want to get fat!”
Scarlett shrugged. “I hope to regain my figure soon after the birth. As will you if you have babies. It is only for a time. And Stacia. Can you imagine? A little human . . . a baby . . . with some mix of his face and mine. You will change your mind once you’ve found love.”
“Did you love him so much?”
“Yes. I thought I did.”
“You’re not sure?” Stacia looked as surprised as Scarlett had been the first time she admitted it to herself.
Scarlett looked down, not knowing how to answer. “I thought I was sure.”
“And what of Christophé, do you love him? Is it different?”
Yes, it was different. It was completely, wholly different. But how could she put into words the finding of her other half? And it didn’t matter anyway. “Christophé is gone.” Scarlett tossed a delicately beaded bag onto the bed. She shook her head, then stared back up at Stacia. “Christophé is gone.”
Suddenly a long, low cramp seized her stomach. Scarlett bent over. Stacia ran to her side. “Are you all right?”
Scarlett straightened, bracing herself against the tall bedpost. “I’m fine. This has been happening of late. It will come and go but I don’t think it is the true thing yet.”
“Should I call Mother?” Stacia wrung her hands together.
Scarlett shook her head. “No. Mother is to know nothing of this. She can barely leave as it is, and you have to go. You both have to. We don’t have any choices left to us. You and mother will leave in the morning as planned. I will be fine. It is just getting near the time, that’s all.”
“But I don’t want to leave you like this.”
Scarlett took a few steps closer to her sister’s lovely face. She gripped it between her palms. She looked deep into Stacia’s light brown eyes. “Listen to me. We don’t have much time. The flour is gone. The food stores are small.” She grinned. “We can’t knit or spin or sew and you know it. There is only you—our beautiful prized—” she sputtered a laugh—“pig.”
“Pig!”
“Well, at the fair. The best our family can produce. You know what I mean.”
“If you weren’t pregnant and having a cramp right now, you know that I would jab you for that.” Stacia glared at her, chest puffed out, chin up.
“Sorry,” Scarlett said with too straight a face. “I will be fine. You can jab me if you like.”
They both looked at each other and laughed.
Stacia grew suddenly serious. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Women have babies every day, and I am not due to have this one for a month yet. There is a good doctor here in Carcassonne. I like him. I’ve spoken with him. He will be here as soon as I need him.”
“But you will be all alone! Who will go for the doctor?”
“I will go to the neighbors; they will get the doctor if I am unable. Don’t worry about me.”
“I wish you could come with us. I will need your advice!” Stacia nearly wailed the plea.
“My only advice is to pray like I’ve heard you do, and trust no one, not even Robespierre. Follow your heart. Look for a man of worth. And hopefully”—Scarlett smiled—“he will have a little money too.”
Chapter Thirteen
They went to bed early in preparation for the departure to Paris. Scarlett tossed and turned. Her bed was soft. There were pillows at her back and one in between her legs, and she was ensconced in coverlets. But she couldn’t sleep. What had happened to Christophé? Something was terribly wrong. She didn’t know what, but she knew that something did not add up, even to a scientist’s mind.
After an hour of being unable to sleep, rearranging the pillows and trying to ignore the constant ache in her back, she rose to pace the room. Her nightgown billowed out around her feet as she walked back and forth, a candle her only light. Finally she threw on her clothes and tiptoed through Stacia’s room.
“Scarlett? What’s wrong?”
“Go back to sleep.”
“What is it?”
“This babe makes me have many outings to the necessary room, is all.”
Stacia rose up on an elbow, her hair falling in a dark pool onto the white sheet where the full moon cast a glow on her bed. Scarlett could see her furrowed brow. “And you get fully dressed for that trip.”
The sarcastic tone in her sister’s voice couldn’t be missed. Scarlett sighed, walked over, and sank down on the feather mattress next to her sister. “I’m going to see Christophé.”
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