Rendezvous (9781301288946) (3 page)

But it had been cool inside the nave of
Saint-Saveur. With her eyes tightly closed, Belle could still
envision the lofty rib vaulting of the roof above her head, the
tall windows of the lantern tower, the stained glass spilling a
quiltwork of colored light upon the altar.

There had stood the newly consecrated
Pere Jerome, garbed in his vestments, his youthful face aglow with
the excitement of performing the marriage sacrament for the first
time, his voice quivering as he had put to her the
question.

Would she, Isabelle Gordon, pledge to
honor, obey, and cherish forever Jean-Claude de Varens?

Belle recalled how she had turned to
gaze up into the face of the young man at her side. With painful
clarity, she pictured Jean-Claude's solemn face, the waves of his
light brown hair, his mist-gray eyes giving the impression of one
always lost in a dream.

She had promised to cherish him
forever, and he had echoed her vows, stooping to brush a chaste
kiss upon—

Belle wrenched her eyes open, forcing
the image back behind the closed doors of her mind. There were no
forevers to be found in the France of 1789. The Revolution had
destroyed things more sacred than her marriage vows. St. Saveur was
no more. Rechristened the Temple of the Enlightenment, the colored
glass had been shattered, the golden candlesticks looted, the stone
before the altar stained with Father Jerome's blood.

And the last time she had seen
Jean-Claude- Belle pressed her fingertips against her
eyes.

"Mademoiselle?"

She did not at first notice the touch
on her wrist, it was so butterfly soft.

"Mademoiselle. I think we are
approaching the posting station." The tug at her arm became more
insistent.

"What?" Belle lowered her hand to meet
Phillipe’s concerned gaze. "Oh, yes. The posting
station."

When she glanced out the window, she
saw that the sun had set, the glass pane curtained with the purple
haze of twilight. The occasional flicker of a lantern marked their
approach to Lillefleur, a hamlet of thatch-roofed cottages with the
spire of a church set in their midst.

"You looked so distressed a moment ago
when you first opened your eyes," Phillipe said. "Did you have a
bad dream?"

"No. I never have dreams
anymore."

Belle composed herself. By the time she
turned back to face Phillipe, she had shaken off the memory of
Jean-Claude. Gripping the back of her seat, she braced against the
jolt as the carriage trundled along the rough lane leading through
Lillefleur.

Madame Coterin and her daughter were
startled awake. Sophie whimpered and Belle could hear the child's
frightened breathing like a small creature cornered in the
dark.

"There is nothing to fear," Belle said.
"We are going to stop to change the horses. It will not take long,
and then we will be on our way again."

Sophie ducked her head and burrowed
deeper against her mother. On the outskirts of the village, the
carriage halted in the yard before a row of long, low stables.
Belle could hear the postboy scrambling from his perch on the box,
the ancient Feydeau alighting at a slower pace. The coachman's
gruff voice rang out, greeting the station's ostlers and giving
them his commands.

Presently, he stuck his grizzled head
inside the coach door. "The change, it take twenty—maybe thirty
minutes," he said.

"So long," Madame Coterin
faltered.

"My fault, it is not." Feydcau leveled
a fierce look at Belle. "What more is to be expected when you do
not send the outriders ahead to bespeak the horses."

The lack of outriders had been a source
of contention between Belle and Feydeau at the outset of the
journey, Belle insisting that outriders would only serve to call
more attention to their carriage.

"Twenty minutes is fast enough," Belle
told the old man. "Though you might see what you can do to hurry
them on a bit."

"Merde!" Feydeau said, but went to do
as she suggested.

Belle bit back a smile. Feydeau might
be surly and his speech as vulgar as a Petit-Pont tripe vendor, but
Belle had worked with the old man enough to know that he could be
depended upon, capable of keeping a sharp wit in case of any
unforeseen disasters.

Belle did not foresee anything going
wrong, not on the fringes of this quiet village. The wait proved
not so much nerve-racking as it was tedious. Phillipe fidgeted in
his seat, and Sophie tugged at her mother's sleeve.

"I am so hungry, Maman."

"Hush, Sophie," Madame Coterin
crooned.

The child subsided at once, but Belle
could see her thin shoulders tremble. Sophie spoke so seldom, and
Belle could not recall her ever having asked for anything. These
past few days the child had borne fears and discomforts that would
have set many adults to whining, and she had every right to
complain of being hungry. The last of the provisions that had been
brought with them had been consumed early that afternoon. When
Baptiste had packed up the hamper for them, he had not expected it
to take so many days to reach the coast. Never venturing farther
from his beloved Paris than the fringes of the great Rouvray
Forest, the little Frenchman was obviously unfamiliar with the
conditions of the roads this far from the city. The French had been
so busy these past years shrieking for liberty, equality, and
brotherhood, no one had troubled about anything so mundane as
filling in the ruts.

Belle lowered the window glass, the
cool evening breeze fanning her cheeks. She poked her head out the
window and looked for Feydeau. The old man was busy lighting the
coach's lanterns. He would likely snap her nose off if she sent him
to find food. Belle glanced back at Sophie's wan face. Surely it
would not be such a great risk if she were to alight and purchase
something for the little girl at the posting inn.

Belle gathered up her muff and
announced her intention, but as she pushed open the coach door,
Phillipe piped up, "I shall escort you, mademoiselle."

"Thank you, Phillipe. That will not be
necessary."

"But I cannot allow you to venture
alone into a vulgar place like an inn."

Belle stifled a sigh. If the boy only
knew how many ‘vulgar’ places she had been obliged to enter alone
in the course of her life.

"Please, Phillipe. I should feel much
more comfortable if you remained safe— Er, that is, I think your
mama and sister need your protection far more than I
do."

"That is so, Phillipe." Madame Coterin
clutched at her son's sleeve. "You listen to what Mademoiselle
Varens tells you."

"But—"

Phillipe was still protesting as Belle
leapt nimbly to the ground and closed the coach door. She strode
away from the carriage, hoping that Madame could keep the boy's
gallantry in check for the short time her errand would
take.

Noting one of the ostlers ogling her,
Belle lowered her veil. She buried her hands in the muff, comforted
by the feel of her pistol secured by its leather strap. The evening
air was brisk, the sky overhead beginning to sparkle with stars,
the moonlight more than adequate to illuminate her way across the
stableyard.

The posting inn stood just
beyond the stables, its sign bearing the words
Soleil d'Or
creaking in the breeze. As
Belle studied the half-timbered frame structure with its jutting
second story, she doubted the Golden Sun had ever merited its
name.

The wood showed signs of dry rot, the
shutters hanging half off their hinges. The candles’ glow beyond
the dirty panes appeared dim and uninviting, but Belle had
frequented far worse establishments. She shoved open the heavy oak
door and entered.

The atmosphere was hazy with smoke from
the logs crackling in a stone fireplace that was not drawing
properly. Most of the rush-seated chairs were empty except for a
toothless old man who hunched over a table, swilling something from
a mug. He appeared to be deep in conversation with a plump woman
wearing a soiled apron. Seemingly, the only other person present
was a lanky youth clearing the remains of a roast chicken off one
of the rough-hewn tables. But Belle was startled by a burst of male
laughter.

Muffled, the harsh sound came from
somewhere above her. Her eyes followed the course of a rickety
stair to the gallery on the second floor, the doors to the rooms
beyond swallowed by darkness.

"Can I be of some help to you,
madame?"

The woman's question snapped Belle's
attention back to the main floor of the inn. She was scrutinized by
three pairs of eyes, their expression not hostile so much as
wary.

"Yes," Belle said. "I should like to
purchase some food for myself and my traveling
companions."

The chair scraped on the uneven brick
floor as the woman heaved herself to her feet. Twisting her
work-worn hands in her apron, she approached Belle.

"Don't got much left. Only some bread
and cheese."

"That will do," Belle said. "And some
of your good Norman cider if you have it."

The woman nodded and disappeared
through a door at the back. More noise echoed from the floor above,
the sound of shattering glass followed by raucous
laughter.

The old man calmly refilled his cup.
Although the boy shuddered, he kept on with his work. By the time
the inn's hostess had returned bearing a straw basket, the laughter
had increased in volume.

"You are having a rather convivial
gathering here tonight," Belle said.

"Mmmpf," the woman mumbled. She cast a
nervous glance toward the stairs and thrust the basket at Belle.
Packed inside was a crusty loaf of bread, a creamy slab of
Pont-l'Eveque cheese, and a brown jug.

Balancing her muff atop the basket,
Belle began to count some coin into the woman's calloused palm,
when one of the doors above them slammed open.

Belle's head jerked upward in time to
see a girl burst onto the gallery. Raising the hem of her homespun
cotton dress, she bolted sobbing for the stairs. Hard after her
came a strapping soldier, his blue coat unbuttoned to the waist,
revealing a hairy chest.

Although he swayed drunkenly, the
soldier caught the peasant girl before she descended the first
step. He hauled her roughly against him.

"What’s your hurry, ma petite? You
can't be tired of our company so soon."

"Ah, please, monsieur. I beg you. Let
me go."

The soldier knotted his hand in a
length of the girl's hair and began dragging her back toward the
room. Cold fury surged through Belle. Her gaze flicked to her
companions, but the boy had bolted for the kitchen. The old man
affected not to hear, while the woman tensed and muttered, "I told
'Ree not to go flirting with the likes of them."

Belle took a half step toward the
stairs, then stopped. It was none of her concern, she told herself.
She had enough to do making sure the Coterins reached
safety.

She heard the drunken soldier give vent
to a loud oath. Glancing up, Belle saw that the girl had managed to
wrench free. Gaining the stairs, the peasant maid fairly tumbled
down them in her effort to get away. Still cursing, the soldier
staggered after her.

"Isabelle, when will you learn to mind
your own affairs?" Belle sighed to herself. Not tonight it seemed,
she thought as she positioned herself at the bottom of the stairs.
When the soldier charged past her, she thrust out her foot and
tripped him.

The huge man crashed headlong, upending
a table and sending a candlestick flying. The girl escaped out the
back. Belle could hear the old man and the hostess draw in their
breath as though fearful of what would happen next.

"So clumsy of me," she said, staring
down at the soldier's sprawled form. "My apologies,
sir."

She moved quickly toward the door, but
the soldier was not as drunk as she had supposed. As she reached
for the latch, she could hear him regain his feet. With a snort of
rage, he hurled himself at her.

His weight knocked her against the
door, jarring both basket and muff from her hand. Pinned by his
bulk, she could scarce move, too tangled in her skirts for a
well-placed kick.

Belle's heart thudded with apprehension
as the soldier thrust his coarse, unshaven face but inches from her
own. The reek of sour wine assailed her even through the layering
of her veil.

“Perchance you need a lesson in not
being so clumsy, hein?"

She had no chance to speak before his
hand shot up, gripping the edge of her veil. He jerked hard,
ripping the delicate silk and wrenching the bonnet nearly off her
head.

He studied her exposed features, the
angry red ebbing from his cheeks. When Belle saw the lust flare in
his bloodshot eyes, she struggled to squirm free.

"Easy, m' beauty. Old Jacques's not
going to hurt you. Maybe you'd just like to step upstairs and raise
a glass with me and my comrades."

Belle kept her voice cool. "Another
time, perhaps. I'm in something of a hurry."