The Soldier's Secrets

“Citizen?” The woman in the doorway cleared her throat.

“Non. I can’t hire you.” He dipped his head toward the food he still held. “Now take this and make haste.”

Her vulnerable gaze trapped him. She was so much like Corinne. Oh, her hair might be tinted with red and russet rather than blond, and her eyes might be a soft brown rather than blue. But she held herself the same—with strength and dignity.

Nothing good would come of having her about this house. Besides, if he did offer work, he hadn’t any place to put the woman except for the cottage at the back of the property. The one he’d shared with Corinne.

He’d not darkened the door of that building since his wife’s death, and he had no intentions to start now. The structure could sit and rot until it fell down for all he cared. Mayhap it already had fallen down. He didn’t know, and he didn’t plan to check.

“What about for bread?” the woman asked.

“What mean you, ‘for bread’?”

“You could hire me to make your bread.” She swallowed, her throat working too hard for such a simple action. “And I’ll bring you a fresh loaf every morn.”

He ran his eyes slowly down her. “How do I know you’re not a worse baker than I?”

Her chin came up a defiant notch. “I assure you, Citizen, a slug could mix together some mud, bake it and create a more tasteful loaf than that which you shared yesterday.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, did you compare your previous employer to a slug? It might explain why you’re in need of a post.”

Her face flushed, as though she hadn’t fully realized what she’d been saying until he drew attention to her words. “Pardon me, but I’d best be on my way.”

She turned, leaving the food in his hands.

“Wait.”

She stopped just outside the door, the sun’s tinted rays bouncing off the back of her mobcap and turning her skin a silky gold.

He thrust the food forward. “You’re forgetting something.”

“I told you I don’t take charity.” She kept her back to him. “I work for my food.”

She wasn’t like the other widows he offered food to, the ones with little mouths to feed and run-down cottages to keep. The ones that would burst into tears if he dared ask compensation for the goods he offered.

“Do you live near enough to bring me bread every morn? I’ll not hire you if it means you must walk to and from town.”

“I live quite close, merci.”

His mind ran through the houses between his farm and Abbeville. Where could she possibly shelter? He’d not seen her until yesterday, so she couldn’t live too near. But if she was at his door before the sun had fully risen, she couldn’t live that far, either. ’Twas almost as though she’d been dropped off by the afternoon sun yesterday and planned to stay for the rest of her life.

But if her rigid posture was any indication—and the rather noticeable fact that she still showed him her back rather than her front—she wasn’t going to volunteer where she stayed.

“Let’s strike a bargain, shall we? You can bring me bread on the morrow, but only if you take my food today.”

She turned slowly, her forehead drawn into a series of subtle furrows. “Have you flour, or am I to purchase some in town?”

“I farm wheat, remember?”

She licked her lips, dry and cracked yet somehow compelling. “I’ll need oil and yeast, as well.”

“Let me package some for you.” He turned back toward the shelves that held his foodstuffs, trying to stop that unfamiliar smile from peeking out the corner of his mouth.

He failed.

* * *

Nothing. Thirty hours until her meeting with Alphonse’s man, and still she had no information to offer.

Brigitte moved her tired feet along the overgrown path through the woods, her fingers clenched around the food from Citizen Belanger. She’d not expected to bake bread in exchange for food but at least her children would eat this day and she had reason to return to his house on the morrow.

And tomorrow she would ask again for a job. Hopefully the stubborn man would hire her.

A vision crept up from the corners of her mind, an aged memory of Mademoiselle Elise from years long past. The governess’s eyes had been stern as she stared down at Brigitte, retching over a bush. I told you one biscuit, but you ate most of the platter. Serves you right to be sick half the night. Be sure your sin will find you out.

And then their strict old governess had walked off, leaving her to retch alone.

The same urge to retch twined through her again as it had years ago. What was she doing lying to a stranger like Citizen Belanger—a stranger who fed her, no less? Would her sin find her out? Would Citizen Belanger discover the truth?

“Father, no! Please keep us safe.” The frantic prayer burst from her lips before she could stop it.

She risked far more than a stomachache if she were caught this time.

The small hut Danielle had led them to last night emerged from the shadow of the woods. It looked as though it hadn’t been used for a decade. Weeds grew up beside the door, and an empty darkness radiated from the cracks around the shutters. But it was sturdy, with heavy timbers pitched tightly together and a thick thatch roof promising warmth come winter.

Not that she planned to be here for winter. Alphonse would want her mission completed long before then.

The door to the little shack burst open. “Did you get the post, Maman?”

“Non. But I took a different job.” Brigitte dipped her chin toward the bundle of ingredients she carried. “We’ve bread to bake for Citizen Belanger.”

Danielle rolled her eyes. “How dull.”

“’Tis work, daughter. We mustn’t be particular.”

“I don’t understand. If this landowner is looking for a housekeeper, why won’t he hire you?”

She slanted her eyes away from her daughter’s gaze. Sometimes the girl was a touch too bright. “He’s not looking for a housekeeper, exactly.”

“But when we left the inn in Abbeville, you said—”

“Please trust me, Danielle.” She pressed her free hand to her temple, already beginning to throb. “Perhaps I can’t explain everything at the moment, but I have reasons for my actions.”

Danielle scowled, black hair falling about her face in a riot of tangles.

“Good reasons,” she added. Reasons that would grant them their freedom from Alphonse. But how to explain such things to a mere child?

“Then why are you doing all of this? Why are we using the name Moreau instead of Dubois? I don’t like having a pretend name.”