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Marie rested the shovel against the tree and reached for the box Isabelle held, but Isabelle clutched it to her chest. The simple wooden square held no resemblance to the elaborate ivory jewelry box she’d left at Versailles, but inside rested the few earnings they’d scraped together and the coins she had hidden on her person before they’d been stranded.
Laying their treasure in the cold ground seemed almost cruel, but she knelt and placed the box in its new home.
Marie crouched on the opposite side of the hole and grasped Isabelle’s hand. “Swear that if I am caught, you will take this money and flee.”
She jerked her hand away and shook her head. The idea didn’t bear thinking of. “Non. You won’t be caught. We will get to England together. We must. I won’t let the Révolution take you from me.”
“Anything could happen to me, to us. We’ve no guarantee of reaching England.”
“We’ve been hiding for nearly a year, and no one has discovered us. ’Tis guarantee enough.”
“We’ve no certainty of earning money for a second ship fare, no promise that we can evade the soldiers and mobs forever. If I am caught, I will be killed.”
Isabelle’s breath caught. They’d not spoken of this before—one of them dying. Her chest felt as though she were being held underwater, and no matter how hard she fought to draw breath, the substance that invaded her airways grew thick and deadly.
“Izzy, look at me.”
She brought her shaky gaze back to Marie’s.
“If I’m caught, you take the money and map, and you go. Without looking back, without thinking of me. You flee to England. One of us will survive. We must. Whatever happens, we won’t let the mobs destroy the last La Rouchecauld.”
She longed to tell Marie not to be daft, yearned to promise they’d both see England’s shores. But Marie’s eyes, dark and serious, kept her from speaking such things. “And if I am captured, you do the same.”
And there, beneath the shade of the oak, they sliced their thumbs and pressed them together in that ancient ritual of binding a promise.
“Can you hear me, girl? Are you awake?”
The deep voice filtered through Isabelle’s haze of dreams, reaching, clutching, tugging, until it pulled her up, into the bare room lit with day. She blinked at the farmer who towered over her.
Isabelle licked her lips, dry and parched as sunbaked dirt. “What…what do you want?” She barely recognized the rusted sound of her voice.
“To see if you would awaken.” Concern shimmered from his eyes—green eyes, the color of dandelion stems. “You’ve slept another three days. And when you started thrashing…”
Her eyes drifted closed. The farmer should have let her sleep. At least Marie still lived in her dreams.
Isabelle jerked her eyes back open. Marie. England. The promise. She had to get up. Had to find her way to the shore. She could die once she reached England, so long as she kept her oath to Marie. So long as the La Rouchecauld name didn’t die in the clutches of the Révolution.
The man bent low over her, the smells of earth and sun and animals radiating from him. “Can I do something to ease your pain?”
Isabelle propped herself up. Pain seared her ribs, but she nudged her pillow against the headboard until she reclined in a semisitting position. “You have been most kind to me, citoyen. Please, tell me where I am?”
“About a kilometer east of Abbeville.” The man measured his words, speaking slowly.
Abbeville. The name settled into her memory. Oui, the town she’d been approaching the night of her attack. She was just east of it—so close to the sea. “How far, then, to Saint-Valery?”
He shifted closer and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why do you ask?”
She swallowed. Was heading to a city on the sea too obvious? Did he know that, once there, she would board a ship? Since the British and French warred over the sea, she couldn’t go straight to London, but she could sail there via Sweden or Denmark, the only two neutral countries on the continent. “I’ve an aunt waiting to receive me.”
It wasn’t a lie, not really. Tante Cordele still awaited her in London.
His gaze held hers. “An aunt. In Saint-Valery-sur-Somme. Convenient.”
Her chest tightened. “You don’t believe me?” He knew everything. He must. Otherwise, he wouldn’t look at her thus.
“Why should I believe a stranger?”
“Because I… Why…it’s…” Her throat burned. Certainly, it had more to do with being thirsty than telling an untruth. But what else had she to say? He’d saved her life. He deserved the truth, if only the truth wouldn’t get her killed—and him as well. Surely she was protecting him by concealing the truth.
She forced a smile. “I beg you, sir. Simply give me the distance to Saint-Valery-sur-Somme.”
“Twenty kilometers.”
Hope surged through her. Only a day’s walk from Abbeville to the Channel. By this time tomorrow, she would be at the port. She gripped the quilt and looked at the man before her. “I am most grateful for your kindness, but I must away.”
“Aye, you must away. But you’ll not leave afore you’ve healed.”
Isabelle frowned. True, her head throbbed and her ribs pulsed with pain, but still… “I’m well enough to walk to Saint-Valery, thank you.”
“You’ve not tried standing, yet you can walk to Saint-Valery?”
“Of course.” She flung the bedcovers back with her bandaged hand. Pain sparked in her fingers and flashed up her arm. Jerking back, she gasped and stared at her wrapped forearm. She trailed her other hand up the wood of the splint that ran along her injured arm beneath the cloth. Surely something was amiss for her injury to smart like this after two weeks’ recovery. “This…it’s not healing properly. You must call the physician back. Who tended it?”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m rather handy with setting bones.”
“You jest. You could no more set my arm than stitch the queen’s drapes.”
He leaned close, placing his hands against the bed frame on either side of her so she couldn’t move. His eyes bored into her, hard and controlled. “I remind you the queen’s been executed.”
Isabelle closed her eyes. The queen’s drapes? What was she saying? The blood in her head thrummed against her temples, but a headache didn’t excuse her carelessness. She’d kept her appearance as a peasant for five years, but if she didn’t mind her tongue, she’d give herself away before she left this wretched bed.
“Repeat after me.” The farmer’s breath warmed her cheek. “Thank you.”
She opened her eyes and swallowed. “Your pardon?”
“Thank you for setting my arm.” He held her there, locked between his arms as he studied her. “Put voice to it, woman.”
“If you’ll give me some space, citoyen. I can hardly think.”
He straightened and crossed his arms, but she felt just as smothered as she had when he loomed only inches away.
“I’m waiting.”
“I…” She looked at her throbbing arm. She should tell him thank-you. Physician or not, he had saved her, thereby putting himself in more danger than he understood. And at least she didn’t have to answer a physician’s prying questions about where she’d come from and why she’d been traveling alone. Oui, she owed the man before her much more than a thank-you. So why wouldn’t the words come? She should be thankful to be alive, to have a second opportunity to reach England and fulfill her promise to Marie.
“Is the word so hard? I’m sure a crooked bone is much worse than dying in the woods.” His eyes flashed, a green fire that looked nothing like dandelion stems. “Or do you expect me to apologize for saving your arm?”
Warmth rushed to her cheeks. “Non, I’ve no need of an apology. I just…well, I…” She cradled her throbbing arm against her chest and searched for words.
“Still going to Saint-Valery-sur-Somme, are you?”
“I can walk fine with a broken arm.”
He backed to the wall, shifted his weight against it and crossed one foot over the other. “Be gone with you, then. Hurry on, I’ve animals to attend.”
Now? He expected her to rise from the bed this instant? She swallowed. He must, for the man watched her as though she were a court jester or some other form of entertainment. Very well.
She flung the covers off with her good arm and scooted to the edge of the bed. Pain clenched her ribs. Biting her lip, she ignored it and stretched one leg to the floor.
She would walk out of his house. She simply had to get off the bed first.
She angled her torso up until she could see her foot. The pounding in her head increased. The room tilted, straightened, then spun. She gasped and fell backward onto the quilt.
The farmer came close and crouched in front of the bed, the aggravation in his eyes giving way to worry. “Don’t strain yourself.” His voice seemed kind but reluctant. “You’ll make things worse. I’m…sorry. I shouldn’t goad you. You need to rest. You were near death when I brought you here, and you’ll only reinjure yourself by attempting to walk.”
She shook her head, tears burning the backs of her eyes. “Non, you don’t understand. I have to leave now, or I might never get to…” England. Had she almost said it? He would know everything then. “Saint-Valery-sur-Somme.”
He stood and fisted his hands at his side, the corded muscles along his forearms hard as though they were etched in marble.
This time, she moved one leg, then the other, over the side of the tick. She slowly sat upright. Cradling her set arm against her chest, she let out a breath and leaned forward.
Nothing spun.
She shifted her weight from the bed to her feet and paused. Her head pounded, her arm throbbed, her ribs screamed and her muscles ached. Lifting herself off the bed, she straightened her torso, and smiled smugly.
The farmer’s face remained placid, his body still.
She stepped forward. The room shifted, then stilled. She tried another step, and another. She’d keep walking. Right past him. Through the open door, out of the house and down the road until she reached Saint-Valery.
Her next step brought her almost to the door. Shadows speckled the edges of her vision. She moved forward, wobbled, then a knee gave out. Blackness seeped into her view, and she cringed. Her chest and arm would explode with pain when she hit the packed dirt floor.
Except she didn’t hit the floor. A solid arm braced her back, and another stretched beneath her knees. The man lifted her, cramming her against a chest as hard as the brick walls of the Château de La Rouchecauld.
“Of all the mule-headed things…” he muttered.
Her sight clearing, she looked up into frustrated, swirling eyes.
“Do you think I’ve spent more than a fortnight nursing you so you can undo your healing in an hour’s time?” He deposited her on the tick, and threw the quilt over her. “Now sleep. The sooner you get your strength, the sooner you can away.” He turned and stalked toward the exit.
“Wait. Please, don’t leave me here.”
She couldn’t be sure if he didn’t hear her, or simply chose to ignore her. Either way, he slammed the door behind him, leaving her alone in a strange room, with a strange bed inside a cottage full of strange noises. Loneliness filled the space the man vacated, an oppressive weight that settled across her chest. Her body ached, and her mind moved sluggishly. She needed a moment’s rest. Then she’d up and begin her journey anew.
Sliding deeper into the bed, she stifled a yawn and looked about her prison. No tapestries or paintings graced the dingy walls, and no mirror hung near the chest of drawers. A pitcher and basin of delicate pink sat atop the polished dresser, their beauty out of place against the bare cottage walls.
The bed frames, too, were masterful. Three ticks—two double and one single—rested on elaborately carved frames. But how could a peasant afford such grand furniture? Such an exquisite pitcher and basin?
Closing her eyes, she sank down, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy straw tick, but her nightdress made her throat itch. Strange, for the fabric of her chemise had never irritated her before. She reached up to scratch her neck, her fingers skimming the material. It felt stiffer than usual. Opening her eyes, she examined the foreign gown. Her heart began to pound against her chest.
She’d not brought this on her journey. Where were her clothes?
She must have her raiment. Not that she missed the miserably rough garments, but she needed her chemise. Her attackers had stolen the funds in her valise, but they hadn’t found the forged citizenship papers and money inside the hidden pocket of her chemise—at least not while she’d been conscious. She’d kept her papers and the exact amount of money needed for fare to England on her person.
Had the farmer discovered them?
She tried to calm her breathing even as a tear trickled down her cheek. Swallowing, she reached up to finger the cross about her neck, but that, too, was gone. Like everything else in her life. She curled into a ball and clutched her hand over her neck—where the cross once hung, where the guillotine had sliced her sister. She pressed her eyes tight against the burning tears until sleep overtook her.
But instead of finding respite in her dreams, the dark face of the soldier who ordered her death in the woods loomed before her.
Chapter Four
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! Thank you.” Michel practiced the words. First rolling them over his tongue, then speaking briskly, then whispering.
Petty, mayhap, to get his hackles up over two small words, but how hard could it be for the girl to voice them?
He thrust his pitchfork into some sour straw and tossed another clump of muck into the pile of dirty swine bedding. He’d cleaned this stall every Monday since he could remember, but today the pregnant sow eyed him distrustfully, like he would accost her rather than care for her home.
“Come on, now. Up with you.” He tapped the pig with his boot. She snorted, then closed her eyes.
Two stubborn females. Just his luck. “I’ve no mind to put up with you today. Out with you.” He poked her with the handle end of his fork. The swine squealed and rolled over.
Michel sighed and rubbed his temple. First the girl, then the sow, what would come next? Maybe the roof on the stable would collapse, or the dam on the lower field would break. A perfect ending to his day.
Images of the girl flooded his mind anew. The tears that glistened in her eyes, the raise of her chin and set of her shoulders when she told him she had to leave, the pain that lanced her features when she strained her arm. The look of triumph on her face when she left the bed.
She was determined, if nothing else. But only a featherbrained child would expect to walk after lying incoherent for over a fortnight.
Michel raked his hand through his hair, knocking his hat into the straw.
Hopefully she’d settle in a bit, because she’d be in that bed awhile before she could visit her aunt.
In Saint-Valery-sur-Somme.
His grip on the pitchfork tightened. He wasn’t a half-wit. She was headed to England, sure as the sun would set. Not that it was any concern of his.
With nothing left to clean but where the sow lay, he shoved the fork into the straw beside the beast’s belly. Squalling and grunting, she rolled to her feet, baring her teeth and stomping the straw as though she would charge.
He growled in frustration. How much could a man endure of a day? Not intending to get bitten, he pushed his pitchfork into the ground near the gate and trudged away from the stable. He should finish mucking the stalls and fix the plow wheel. The stable roof needed patching as well as the roof over the bedchamber. He must get to town and buy that ox. And he had to check the sandbags on the lower field before the rains came and flooded the tiresome parcel of land.
He huffed a breath. The responsibilities of the farm pressed down upon him as they did every spring since his father died and his brother, Jean Paul, left. At any given moment, he had two weeks of work to finish and days to do it.
Yet he stormed past all the places needing his attention and opened the door to his workshop, the small familiar building the same as he had left it yesterday. The scent of lumber, instantly calming, wrapped around him. He inhaled deeply and moved to the center of his workspace, his eyes seeing nothing but the chest of drawers he’d spent the past six months making.
He wiped his hand on a rag and trailed his finger up the side of the piece. The elaborate sculpting on the posts contrasted with the straight lines and gentle curves of the wood, and the design of acorns and oak leaves he’d carved twisted and curled daintily against the deep hue of the walnut. This chest of drawers would match the design on his mother’s bed. A bedroom set, of sorts. He need only sculpt along the top edge of the dresser. Another week and it would be finished.
Sooner, if that impatient girl drove him to the shop every day.
He reached for his chisel, squeezed the familiar wooden handle, then rolled his shoulders. Too tense. He let the chisel fall to his workbench. He’d gouge through the middle of an acorn if he carved now.
