Love's First Light (28 page)

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Authors: Jamie Carie

Tags: #Religious Fiction

BOOK: Love's First Light
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Nothing and no one.
She tried the latch and found it firmly locked. Looking side to side, she saw that a low window was cracked open, letting in the evening breeze. Taking courage—and her skirt—in hand, she shimmied around some bushes and pushed the window open. It took a few tries as the casing was rusty and old, but finally it was open enough to allow her slim body to slip through.
Let it be Christophé’s friend.
Please God. Let it be my brother’s friend. It was her only thought as she slipped through the opening and slid to the floor.
The room was a wreck of glass tubes and bottles, stacks of books and notes, barrels of odd-looking plants, some green and alive but most brown and dead looking. The room smelled of a combined strong smell that reminded Émilie of medicine.
Where was she?
There was a very low fire burning in the grate. She went to it, found the poker and a stout piece of wood, which she threw on the flame, igniting it into a blaze. The room turned into shadows and dancing light. Whenever she moved, a great shadow leapt across the ceiling and far wall. She laughed a little, thrusting out the poker like a sword, watching the shadow match her moves. Then she realized how loud the sound must be and quietly put the toy away.
She was in the shop part of the house, she realized as she wandered into the large room. Off to the side was a flight of steps and a long, narrow handrail against the whitewashed wall. She grasped hold of the railing.
The steps creaked a little and she stilled, waiting for any sound from the living quarters. When none came, she crept on. At the top of the stairs was a closed door. Slowly, quietly, she pressed her thumb against the latch. The door creaked open, leading to a short landing and then opening into a hall. She crept down it, step after step, not knowing if she walked into another trap or the haven Christophé spoke of so long ago it seemed a part of some dream.
There was a half-empty glass on a table, a low fire in the grate, as down below, and no one. No sound. She must be alone.
She crept further into the room toward the warm glow, which gave the room a sense of sanctuary. She turned from the fire’s brightness and saw a shawl on the settee. It looked strangely familiar. She stepped toward it, reached out and grasped it to her chest, then raised it to her face. She buried her face in the softness and the scent.
It smelled like Scarlett.
How or why that could be, she couldn’t fathom, but she felt it was a sign from God. Sinking down on the settee, she felt bone weary. She curled onto the settee, wrapping the scarf’s long, colored length around her as she laid her head on a pillow, stared into the yellow flames and felt her whole body go lax. She didn’t know why, but for the first time since that terrible night . . . she felt safe.

 

 

JASPER WALKED THE short distance from the market to his door with light steps. After their visit in Madame Récamier’s salon, he had taken Suzanne and Stacia for an early dinner. The afternoon had had mixed results. On one hand he could hardly believe how well it had gone with Suzanne, though Stacia said she was unimpressed with any of the men she’d met today. But he hadn’t any luck finding clues to help him with Émilie’s disappearance. He’d dared not bring up the St. Laurent name, but had asked about the Duplays’, where Robespierre lodged. The men he’d spoken to seemed bored with the topic, and he’d let it go.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel a rising, expanding joy in his chest as he thought of Suzanne. Her presence was a pure delight. How soon could he see her again?
And where could he find a girl hiding in a city as huge as Paris?
He turned the long, old key in the lock and strode into the shop, where he unwound his scarf and hung up his best waistcoat. He fingered the coat . . . thinking he might want to investigate his closet for something appropriate and, well, dapper to wear the next time he saw Suzanne. For he surely would see her again.
With that thought bracing his steps, he took lively strides up the stairs toward the sitting room, thinking to get a drink of water before finding his bed. The fire was very nearly down to ash. He started toward it, then a movement caught his eye. He thought, at first, it was his cat, Simone. But no, his pet died many years ago.
Suddenly alert to danger, he shrank back, waiting while the shadows in the room stilled. There was a soft sound, as if someone was breathing. The sound came from his settee.
He crept forward, fearing one of Robespierre’s henchmen had come and fallen asleep awaiting his arrival. But no. His gaze took in a girl. She was curled up like a cat, her head resting on a long arm, her legs curled up by her stomach, her lashes long and flickering in the shadow light.
She was a pretty thing.
That was his first thought. His second thought was that she looked just like Christophé when he’d fallen asleep on this very piece of furniture. They’d had a late night discussing the mathematical equations of calculus. He’d only been fourteen at the time, and Jasper remembered how astounded he’d been at the boy’s mind.
And how proud he’d been.
How odd that this girl resembled that young Christophé.
“My dear?” He gently shook the thin shoulders.
She didn’t at first respond, so deep asleep and at peace she was. He stared at the bright curls against his pillow and something inside him stopped. Those golden curls . . . the same shade as the girl who climbed the guillotine steps . . . her face, so like Christophé’s . . .
“Mademoiselle?”
She roused, turned, and then sat up, terror in her wide, staring eyes.
Jasper held out a calming hand. “Please. Do not be afraid.”
She clutched the pillow to her chest. “Are you . . . Jasper?”
“Yes.” He sought to make her at ease. “I am Jasper. And who might you be?”
She glanced about the room, as though ensuring they were alone. Her voice sounded strange, croaky—as if it had been unused for a long, long time. “I am Émilie.”
The words hit him like a blow. His legs failed him, so Jasper knelt down beside her. His movements slow and reverent, he took up the child’s hand. “Christophé was right,” he whispered in awe.
Her voice quavered. “You are Jasper? My brother’s friend? With the red door?”
“Yes. Christophé is one of my very best friends. Did he send you here?”
“Yes.” She pulled her hand from his grasp, using it to brush the curls away from her face. “A long time ago. I hope I’m not too late.”
“Of course not.” He paused, not knowing if he should say the next but then deciding that he should. “We thought you were dead, you know. We watched in a crowd as a girl, who looked just as you do, took the steps of the guillotine.”
She looked up into his face and he saw her eyes in the flickering shadows of the firelight. So like Christophé’s face, but younger. Still so innocent despite everything. “I don’t know why, but Robespierre kept me alive, in his house. I was his servant.”
Jasper pretended this news was of no great import, although it ascertained that the man in charge of the Révolution was, indeed, going mad. What kind of man, who held no punishment back from an aristocratic neck, would take this girl into his household to serve him? Jasper was afraid to ask and know what Robespierre might have done to this innocent child. Instead, he focused on the good news. “We are so glad. I’ve seen him, your brother. He is looking for you.”
“Christophé is dead.” Her voice was dead, too, as she said it.
“Émilie, listen to me, my dear. Christophé is here. He is alive and searching for you.”
She shrank back into the cushions of the settee, distress warring with disbelief on those delicate features. “No.” She shook her head, fingers turning white as they clutched the pillow to her like a beloved doll. “He wouldn’t have left me.”
“He thought you were . . . guillotined. Like the rest of them. We watched it together. We both thought it. But your brother, he came back. He is even now in Paris. He knows you are alive. Scarlett told him that you are alive.”
“Scarlett.” The name escaped her throat like a plea.
“They want to find you. I am so glad you remembered to come here.” He stood up and then sat beside her, taking hold of her hand. “In the morning. We will tell them. We will go to them . . . together. You are not alone anymore.”
She shuddered and then reached for him and fell into his old arms. She clung to him as if she had finally found a safe place, a place to release all the tide held back until she was home. “Christophé!” Her tears wet his shoulder. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
Jasper clutched her thin shoulders as she trembled in his arms. His heart broke anew. “My brother said the man with the red door would help. It just took me a long time to find it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four

 

Scarlett woke to a knock on the door.
“Come in,” she called out, thinking it was her mother or Stacia.
The door opened, and she sank within to see Robespierre enter, nattily dressed, peering at her from his odd green glasses.
“Scarlett, how are you?” He came further into the room and stood against the door as if uncomfortable. “Might I see him?”
Scarlett motioned him in, though everything within her wanted to send him away. But they were living in his house and there should be no reason for her not to show him his great-nephew. So she pasted a smile on her face and motioned him closer. “Of course. Come and see.”
As he neared, she suddenly remembered. Christophé! Where was he? He had been sitting beside her and she must have drifted off to sleep. Had he left while she was still asleep?
Turning her fears aside, she focused on the task at hand. She held the babe, wrapped in a blue blanket her mother had made months ago out of the softest yarn, against her chest. As Robespierre perched gingerly on the edge of the feather ticking, just at her side, she looked up into his eyes and watched the play of emotion cross his face. Robespierre leaned forward, his chin a little at an angle so that he could see down through his glasses.
“Would you like to hold him?” Maybe if she were nice enough to him, he might open up and tell her what she needed to know about Émilie.
He looked startled and then pleased, giving her a barely perceptible smile. Scarlett eased her hand to the back of André’s head, supporting it as she passed the bundle into Robespierre’s arms. The man looked ill at ease and entirely frightened as he adjusted his hold.
“Just hold his head, like so,” Scarlett instructed softly. “His neck is weak yet.”
Thinking of his infant neck, the place where the guillotine sliced through, hearing the word spoken in the room, startled them both. Robespierre tried to cover it by nodding quickly, his lips pursed in concentration as he cradled the infant boy. He looked to be holding himself very still as he brought the bundle into his chest, the black waistcoat a stark comparison with the light blue blanket and innocence within.
After a long, silent moment, Robespierre’s hand rose and paused. Then, with surprising gentleness, he touched the rounded cheek with the backs of his fingers. He looked up at Scarlett and blinked rapidly, then cleared his throat. “What have you named him?”
“André. André Robespierre.”
Robespierre tilted his head toward one side as if considering the name. Scarlett wasn’t sure if he approved, but it was her baby, she could name him what she wanted. The room became silent, as if neither of them knew what to say next.
Scarlett recovered first. “Please thank the Duplays for allowing us to stay here. I know we will have to find other lodging soon. We are taking one of the daughter’s bedchambers. And now, with a baby that often cries, we are such a disruption to their household.”
Robespierre’s lips pinched, clearly displeased at being reminded of his responsibility. “I will speak with my sister, Charlotte. She lives alone.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
They fell silent again, and Scarlett wished she could snatch André back, but Robespierre just sat there, staring down at the babe. His intensity made her grow more and more uneasy.
“Uncle, I know the monarchy had to be ended. But all the deaths. Tell me, please. What is this Révolution about?”
She knew she risked much in the asking. He could accuse her of treason just for voicing a doubt against the new Republic. But perhaps this moment of new life would be her only chance to discover who this man really was.

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