When the kiss broke off, they leaned together, his forehead resting against hers, the sound of their mingled breathing loud in the room. He tried for words. “You are my life now.”
It was bad. It wasn’t the first “I love you” or the poetic words his heart strained to offer to her. It was too broad a stroke, not at all the words that told her she’d given him all the colors in the world like a prism never could. But it was all he had. It was all he knew.
“Oh, Christophé.” She raised her arms to his shoulders, wrapping her hands around his head, and brought his cheek next to hers. He closed his eyes, reveling in her femininity—the grace in her movements, the softness of her skin, the softness of her form pressing against his chest, so much softness and yet such strength. Strength in her voice and convictions, strength in the way she took care of everyone around her, strength to love him just as he was. He wanted to kiss her again but knew that roar of blood in his ears was a sign that he should stop.
Scarlett must have sensed the change in him. She’d been married before and must know the constraints on a man’s resolve. She let him go, but softness rested in her eyes.
“If we move André to the cradle Jasper brought in, we could sleep side-by-side for the remainder of the night.”
Christophé didn’t need to be asked twice. Tomorrow they might be chased down. Tomorrow they might be captured. Tomorrow they might be imprisoned.
Tomorrow they might be struck down by the guillotine’s blade.
Tonight.
Tonight.
They would sleep in each other’s arms.
ROBESPIERRE RECOILED AGAINST the roaring clapping and shouting of the crowd as he walked down from the mountain. They shouldn’t be looking to him, they should see the carefully arranged drama for what it was—wisdom overcoming all that had come before: atheism, egoism, and insincerity, the core of France’s mistakes. Instead, it seemed the people wanted a king.
A god even.
The fact that it felt good and right when he looked down at their upturned faces, at their longing for fathering, was not to be considered. He would ignore it as he’d ignored so many other emotions since his mother’s death and father’s abandonment. He could not save these people, though he tried. He could only direct them; point them to the one and only hope they had.
The Law.
The next day he would give a thundering speech at the Convention about ridding the party of snakes and conspirators. There were those among them that didn’t love the purity of the law as they should. These evil fiends had personal gain in mind—power, wealth, and a rise to infamy. He called out his enemies by name for the first time. A part of him knew this naming was born of fear. That these men were conspiring not against France, but against him. But he had become very good at squashing conscious truth and pretending first to himself and then, more easily, to everyone else that they were enemies of the nation. His greatest enemy, Fouché, and his supporters would come to their end. Fouché would know the voice of the people.
Robespierre left the Convention and went home, a surety that he had done the right thing uplifting his mood. The house was quiet. Good. Scarlett and her family were taking his suggestion and inquiring about rooms for rent in the area. Or perhaps they were visiting his sister, Charlotte, for advice on where to room. Charlotte might even offer to take them in. He sincerely hoped so. The Duplays would like the return of their daughter’s room, he was sure, although they said nothing.
Shaking off the concern, he set out for a long walk in the Marbeuf gardens by the Champs-Elysees. The streets were now filled with summer dust, but he hardly noticed. His mind was clear of all but the cadence of his stride in the night.
THE NEXT MORNING Christophé and Jasper were down in the laboratory, leaning over the freshly written passports. They were perfect, the ink dry.
“Do you think it will work?”
Jasper held up and studied the work in the dawn light. “They are my best work to date. Now we only have to rehearse the story with the women and prepare for the journey to Le Havre.”
“We leave tonight?”
“Hmmm, if nothing impedes us.”
Christophé paused, looking at his old friend. “You don’t have to come along, you know. I think you and Madame Bonham might be safe here together.”
Jasper shook his head. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But no, I’m an old man. I’ve lived my life. I would rather risk the scaffold helping you than hiding here. And besides, if Robespierre discovers Suzanne is here, he would force the truth from her.” He rubbed his chin and made a face of admission. “Quite easily, I’m afraid. There is no one safe anymore.”
“Scarlett is convinced Robespierre will fall. Do you think so?”
Jasper gathered up the papers and pushed his glasses back on his forehead. “She has good reason to believe it. The Festival of the Supreme Being is only the latest sign of his madness. The numbers who hate him are growing by the day.”
“I want to champion his enemies, Fouché and that crowd, but they are all atheist. Fouché is bent on taking God and church from the nation.”
Jasper put a hand on Christophé’s shoulder. “There is no side of good left in France. They will destroy each other.”
The men made their way upstairs to the main floor, where they found the women in a flurry of activity of cooking and packing necessities for the journey. The baby was crying in his cradle, which had been moved into the sitting room from Christophé’s bedchamber. Christophé went over, picked up the babe, and buried his nose into André’s soft hair. The memory of holding Scarlett throughout the night rushed back over him. He looked down at the child and felt a fresh pang of fear and sorrow. What if they were caught? What would they do with a child that traveled with aristocrats and was the blood relative of Robespierre? André had quieted and only stared at him from slate blue eyes, his tiny fists waving as if to catch Christophé on the chin.
Scarlett called over to him from the counter where she was kneading bread dough. “Thank you for quieting him. We are trying to pack as much food as we can for the journey.”
Christophé walked over to her and kissed her cheek, smiling at the smudge of flour on her chin. He reached up and rubbed it off with his thumb. How beautiful she was! They gazed into each other’s eyes—until Stacia giggled, breaking the tension.
“No more love gawking, you two. We have work to do.”
Christophé leaned over and kissed Scarlett, a quick peck on the mouth, but a public declaration that he didn’t care what any of them thought. He had the most intense understanding that these could be the last moments of their lives, and he wanted to soak in each one.
Scarlett’s eyes told him she understood all. “Have you and Jasper finished the papers?”
“Yes. The man missed his true profession. He has the most astute hand for forging documents. They look authentic.”
“What are our new identities?” Mrs. Bonham queried from another flouring board.
Jasper came through the doorway and paused, his eyes lighting on the older woman. “You, madame, are now Lucille Marie Burlier.” He bowed at her. “My wife.”
She dimpled at him and cocked her head. “Have we been married long?”
Stacia and Scarlett exchanged amused glances.
Jasper took up his role with a side nod, all serious intent. “Oh, yes. A very long time. You harangue me with your nagging and incessant chattering.”
Scarlett’s mother broke out in laughter. “And you,
Citizen
Burlier, try my patience daily with your interests in science.” She sighed dramatically. “You are always so distracted!”
All three women burst out laughing.
André turned his head at the sounds and wrinkled up his face, but did not cry. Christophé jostled him the best he could to keep him content, feeling the happiness of the moment wash over him. He looked up and caught Émilie’s gaze. She had been washing pans and was standing stiff and silent as they all joked. Her eyes reflected pain.
Christophé knew her thoughts. He had them too, at times. A gaping hole that opened at his feet when he thought of his family. He’d found love again and that had helped heal him, but Émilie was still fresh from the grip of Robespierre. He had still not heard everything that had happened to her since that night of disappearance.
Scarlett must have seen the exchange of glances as she walked over and took André from his arms. “Go and talk to her. She needs you.”
Christophé gave her a quick nod, communicating his thankfulness. He walked over and touched Émilie on the shoulder. “Come with me.”
She looked up and over her shoulder at him. There were tears in her eyes.
He took her hand and led her from the now quiet room. As they walked away, he heard Scarlett ask in a bright voice, “Tell us, Jasper, who are Stacia and I to be?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Christophé took Émilie to the back door and led her outside. Jasper had an overgrown garden in the small yard behind his house. A long time ago, he’d explained to Christophé that he grew his own herbs for his medicinal concoctions and potions. He didn’t trust anyone else with the task. Now, in the middle of July there were thick clumps and rows of mature plants, mostly green, but a few flowering on either side of the narrow path that wound through his garden.
Toward the back of the garden was a wooden bench, painted red. “Émilie, what color is that bench?”
She stared at it and then back at him. “Green.”
He pressed his lips together and looked down. “And the plant here?” He reached over and pulled the leaves closer to them so that she could see it.
“The same, though a little duller in color.”
Christophé turned toward her and leaned his head into his hands. “I failed you.”
It was a whisper, but loud enough for her to hear.
“No. I failed
you.
I’m sorry . . . but . . .”
He looked up and saw that she was fighting back tears.
“I tried! I really tried. I walked up and down the street. But it was dark and I couldn’t find it, Christophé. I couldn’t find the red door in the dark.”
Christophé stood and brought her into his arms. “I should have known!”
“Known what?” Émilie demanded through her tears. “You had to go back. We didn’t have the money Father left for us. There was nothing.”
“Oh, Émilie. I should have known so much.” He didn’t say that now he knew how to travel on three silver francs. That he’d learned to hide and charm and work very hard. He didn’t tell her that he’d really just been afraid. How could he tell her that when she looked at him like some kind of savior?
Instead he led her over to the bench and sat beside her. Holding her hand, he spoke quickly. “Your sight is not the same as most people’s, Émilie. What you see as green is sometimes red. And there are many shades of green, which you see as yellowish or brown.”
She looked up at him. “I know. I didn’t know at the time. I should have, there had been signs all along. But I didn’t know it then. I’m sorry.”
He touched her thin cheek with the back of his finger. “It’s my fault.”
Émilie shook her head back and forth. “You were only trying to save us.” Her eyes looked as strong as glittering diamonds.
“Émilie, tell me. What did he do to you?”
Émilie looked away, out over the garden. She sat very straight on the bench, her breath coming in and out with effort. Her lips were pressed together, her chin up.
“Tell me.” Christophé demanded in a soft voice. “Tell me everything that happened after I went back to the chateau.”
“There’s nothing to speak of. I’ve forgiven him.”
“Forgiven
him?” Christophé rasped out the words. “Forgiven him of what?” He stood and paced, unable to stop his movement in the face of her still form. The desire to hunt the man down and kill him rose so strong that he had to clench his hands into fists and his jaw shut. But he’d promised God not to take the path of revenge. He’d promised to trust Him.
Still, he had to know. He would not let her bear this burden alone. “What did he do?”