Sanctuary for a Lady

He wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. Pursuing his dream cost Père’s life. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

The wood might call to him and make him long to be in the shop, letting his hands run over silken lumber, carving that last strip on the dresser, joining the tabletop.

But God had given him this land. And like Père, he would take care of it until it killed him.

He should have been the second-born son. God and Père both would have been better off giving the land to his brother. Farming flowed through Jean Paul’s blood the way woodworking did through his. Jean Paul could get a field to sprout just by looking at it, or so it seemed. The man never scowled when planting time rolled around and wore a grin on his face throughout the long, toilsome days of harvest.

Michel looked out over the fields. Where was his brother? Jean Paul should have returned by now. Mère and the rest of the town thought Jean Paul had been living in Paris these past six years, making furniture for the wealthy. But it wasn’t true. The master craftsmen furniture-makers wouldn’t let anyone new into their ranks. So when someone asked about his brother, Michel smiled and said Jean Paul was doing well. He wasn’t lying so much as he didn’t have anything different to tell people. In his letters, Jean Paul appeared to be doing well.

Grunting, Michel lifted another sandbag off his shoulders and swung it into place. It burst, spraying loose sand and dirt over his wall.

He kicked the barrier. The force reverberated up his leg, and sand spurted from another sack. Just what he deserved for giving in to his anger, but he didn’t much care. He’d a right to get worked up over the field, didn’t he? All it did was drain the life from him.

He snatched the ripped bag and trudged back to the wagon. The mud sucked at his boots, making each step a deliberate battle.

The earth smelled of moist dirt after yesterday’s rain. A scent he appreciated—when he hadn’t spent three hours traipsing around in search of a pig during the downpour, only to return without her. He glared across the stream to his neighbor’s land. The greedy man must have found the beast.

At least the girl had been asleep when he returned last night, so he hadn’t needed to deal with her.

At the thump of approaching horse hoofs, he turned toward the rise at the edge of the field. Two horses crested the little hill. The mayor undeniably sat atop the first steed, for no one in town carried as wide a girth as Mayor Victor Narcise. On a mule about half the size of Narcise’s horse sat Father Albert. A burning sensation of guilt crept across Michel’s chest at the sight of the wiry, sunken former priest. Ordinarily, he’d welcome a visit from the mayor, one of Père’s closest friends, and the father, his former schoolteacher. But the girl changed things.

Not just things, everything.

The mayor, sitting atop his magnificent mount and wheezing heavily from the exertion of reining in the beast, reached Michel several paces ahead of Father Albert. “Your mère said that your père was down here.”

They talked with Mère? Michel stilled, the hair on the back of his neck rising. What if she’d mentioned the girl?

“But since your père’s dead, I assumed she meant you’d be the one working the field.”

No talk of the girl. Michel blew out a shaky breath.

The mayor smoothed a gloved hand over the thinning gray hair that stuck out from beneath his hat. “I thought your mère knew—”

“She does. Some days.” Michel shifted his weight. He need not discuss Mère’s condition with the mayor. Half the town already thought she belonged in a lunatic hospital. “When she woke this morn, she remembered Mon Père was dead.”

Narcise hitched a thumb in the waistband of his breeches and watched him. Beside Narcise, Father Albert nodded, his eyes brimming with compassion. The same compassion he would no doubt have for the girl, despite her sharp tongue. Michel glanced nervously in the direction of the house. He worried not what Father Albert would do if the girl were discovered, but Narcise’s reaction would be a different matter.

Michel rubbed the back of his neck. Surely Father Albert had helped aristocrats escape France. Though the good father had lost everything—his church, his rectory, his income—when the Convention declared an end to Christianity last fall, he still went about the countryside helping widows and orphans, much like he’d always done. Oui, with Father Albert, Michel need not question whether he’d helped aristocrats, but how many.

Father Albert clutched his bony hands atop his lap. “’Tis a good thing you’re doing by looking after your mother, Michel. The Lord shall reward you.”

Michel couldn’t meet the father’s eyes. He’d probably canceled any reward for helping Mère after how he’d treated the girl. Father Albert should have been the one to find her. He wouldn’t forget to offer food or water, nor demand she say thank-you.

“Sometimes the Lord gives special opportunities to serve Him,” Father Albert continued. “Do not consider it a burden, son, but a chance to show God’s love.”

The blood left Michel’s face and pooled in his toes. Mère. Father Albert was talking about Mère. He couldn’t know about the girl.

“Well, Michel.” Narcise shifted, the saddle creaking under his weight. “We wanted to let you know Joseph Le Bon’s said to be coming this way.”

Michel wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The représentative en mission from the Convention. Great. He’d attended federalists meetings for more than a year now, and rather than sell his grain at the low price Paris demanded, he’d hid last year’s wheat in a lean-to in the woods. Now he could be guillotined for both—not to mention harboring an aristocrat. “When?”

“Don’t know.” Narcise puffed his chest. “Citoyen Le Bon’s supposedly had a few gangs of soldiers roaming this part of Picardy for a couple weeks, collecting accusations and ferreting out federalists and royalists.”

Was that what happened to the girl? Had soldiers, rather than a gang of robbers, found her? He should’ve asked. “Not to mention the grain hoarders.”

“Half the village didn’t sell their grain last year,” Father Albert said mildly, but then, it wasn’t Father Albert’s life in question. “No one could afford to with the price controls.”

Michel took a step closer, his eyes steady on Narcise’s. “The federalist meetings. Are the others…have they… Do we have an understanding?”

“No one who attended can afford to talk. That’s why we’re making these rounds. And I’ve not heard accusations from outsiders.”

“Doesn’t mean accusers won’t come once Le Bon rolls his guillotine into town.”

“Burn your wheat, Michel,” Narcise directed.

“Burn it! I’d’ve been better off selling it last fall.”

“Is one harvest worth your life? I can’t protect you if they search your property and find grain.”

“You can’t protect me, anyway,” Michel muttered.

“I aim to keep things under control. I won’t stand for foolish accusations. I’m still mayor here, and we’ll not have any Terror in these parts.”

“Le Bon’s from the Convention. You go blathering about how you have authority as mayor, and yours’ll be the first head to roll.”

“I won’t watch my friends die for something they haven’t done.”

“That’s the problem, Narcise. As far as the radicals are concerned, everyone in Abbeville’s done something.” Michel blew out a breath, wiped his sweaty hands on his thighs and resigned himself to what was coming. “I’m here if you need a hand.”

“We just wanted to warn you, son.” Father Albert raised his brow, concern etched across his face. “We can’t stop the Terror from coming.”

Michel slid his eyes shut and pictured Isabelle lying in the woods. “Something tells me the Terror’s already come.”

* * *

“Look at this one,” Jeanette exclaimed. Yet another child’s shirt—or what Isabelle thought was a child’s shirt—hung proudly between Jeanette’s hands. The garment sported three prominent patches, none of which matched either one another or the color of the shirt.

Isabelle settled back into the pillows of the bed and twisted a lock of hair. The smile plastered on her face turned genuine under the older woman’s enthusiasm. “You mended that one, too?”

Jeanette had been showing off the clothes she mended for the children’s orphanage since she walked inside a quarter hour ago.

“Fixed the shirt all up, I did. Those orphans need good shirts.” Jeanette raised her chin and puffed out her chest despite her short, frail body.

How different Jeanette appeared from her own mother’s tall, regal build.

Jeanette absently patted the side of her hair, which was done up in a sloppy knot of sorts. A few strands of graying brown came loose, as though she’d napped and not set her hair to rights.

Mère never had a hair out of place but her maid rushed to fix it. Mère never sewed an old garment but embroidered only the most delicate of handkerchiefs. And yet, the lines around Jeanette’s and Mère’s faces when they smiled at her, the concern in their eyes when they suspected something wrong, the gentle touch of their hands against her brow when they checked for fever, couldn’t be more similar.