My Brother's Crown (15 page)

Perhaps Eriq had not been able to find the ragman. Or perhaps the ragman didn't want to loan him the cart, even though the Gillet family owned it. Surely Eriq would think to offer him a coin in exchange.

The thunder of hooves drew her attention back to the bridge. Dragoons, the same ones as earlier, raced toward her. She ducked her head, hoping they would ignore her.

They did not. The first one stopped. “Sister?”

Perhaps he didn't recognize her from before.

“You should move along,” he said. “Get on home.”

“
Oui,
” she answered, turning her head toward the water, hoping he would think she was a shy maid. “I just stopped to catch my breath.”

“Do not dawdle,” he said, waving to the others to keep moving. “Be on your way.”

She started to shuffle along, her head down until she thought they had all passed. They had not. The one remained.

He gave her a puzzled look. It was the soldier who had raised his firearm to her earlier.

He looked familiar, and suddenly she remembered who he was—a fellow named Waltier, a friend of Pierre's who used to live in Lyon. Several years ago, Waltier's father had lost his trading business and the family had left the area. Wherever they had gone, Waltier was back now—as a dragoon. Catherine could scarcely believe it. He had been such a nice boy.

A glimmer of recognition in his eyes and a reddening in his cheeks indicated he recognized her too. She took a sharp breath, sure he would alert the others, but he spun his horse around and took off after his comrades.

Catherine forced herself to return to her shuffling. With no Eriq in sight, she decided to proceed toward the shop and perhaps petition one of the ragmen herself.

Ahead, in the middle of the street, a horse whinnied. She looked up to see Waltier passing a cart—a rag cart. To her relief, he gave it barely a glance and kept on going.

She quickened her step. The man driving the cart hung his head, his face hidden by a tattered black hat. Catherine gave a discreet wave to make sure he saw her. He nodded and then lowered his head again.

When she neared the cart, however, she realized it was not Eriq after all. It was Pierre. Perhaps Jules had sent him to take her home.

“Get in,” he grunted.

She hesitated.

“Catherine, do you want the dragoons to come back?”

She shook her head and climbed up onto the seat beside him. Immediately, she had to resist the urge to pinch her nose shut from the
stench of the rags behind them. He turned the horse to the left, down an alleyway in the opposite direction of the river. Perhaps he planned to take her to the convent after all.

She didn't speak until the nag reached the outskirts of the city and started to climb the hill. “Why did you decide to come?”

“I knew that if you were determined to do this no matter what, then it should be with me.”

She exhaled slowly. “
Merci.
”

They rode in silence until he finally said, “What is your plan?”

“I will go to the convent door and ask if they have any rags to sell.”

Pierre shook his head. “They will never take you for a rag lady. Besides, how will you get them to let you see Amelie?”

“I am going to say I knew her growing up and heard she was at the convent. I will ask for a quick visit.”

“And then what?”

“When we are alone, I will tell her we have come to take her home.”

“You think they will allow her to simply walk out the door.”

Catherine didn't answer.

Pierre persisted. “Even though your brother is her guardian now, Mother Superior will not see it that way. She will not allow Amelie to leave the convent to go live with Huguenots. She has the law on her side.”

“Then we will sneak her out.”

Pierre shook his head, not saying anything more—but at least he kept going. A half hour later the cart crested the hill and then rolled down the road into the forest.

Twice last autumn Catherine had ridden her horse out to the convent, hoping to catch sight of Amelie. The last time a group of nuns and students had been in the garden, harvesting the final crop of squash, but her cousin was not among them. Although Uncle Edouard had taken Amelie to the convent, it was not uncommon for Huguenot girls to be torn from their families and forced into a convent to be reeducated, this time in the state religion.

As the wind picked up through the trees, Catherine feared rain was on its way. She pulled her cloak tighter as the cart rounded a bend in
the road and the convent came into view. The sunny days had dried the mud, but rain might make it hard to get home.

“I will stop there, under that tree,” Pierre said. “Grab a bag from the back.”

“
Merci
,” Catherine said again as she jumped down from the cart. She truly was thankful for his help. Maybe there was hope for him yet. She bent down and rubbed her hands in the dirt and then wiped it across her apron, her face, and her forearms.

Pierre had only a halfhearted smile for her, but his eyes lit up at the sight. “You still don't look like a rag lady—and you certainly don't smell like one.”

She smiled in return, grabbed a bag from the back, and marched toward the side door of the convent.

“Do you have money to pay for the rags?”

She stopped and turned around slowly.

He held out a coin, his eyes dancing in the dimming light. She walked back and took it, muttering, “
Merci.
”

By the time she reached the door, the rain had started. She knocked and waited. Then pounded and waited. Finally, a maid responded.

Catherine held up the bag. She was not sure of the rag collectors' routes, but she knew they traveled deep into the countryside around Lyon. She hoped one had not been by the convent recently.

“Come in. I will check with the housekeeper,” the young woman said.

Catherine stepped into the warmth of the kitchen and waited by the door as the girl hurried on through to a hallway. A pot simmered over the fire, and three loaves of bread waited on the tabletop. A woman—probably the cook—entered from a side door with a crock in her hands, humming as she walked.

“Oh!” she said, stopping when she saw Catherine. “You startled me.”

Catherine held up the bag. “The girl went to find the housekeeper, to see if there are any rags.”

The cook continued on to the table. “There might be. I wouldn't know.” She put down the crock and then began slicing the bread. When she finished she picked up a piece and offered it to Catherine.

She almost refused but then remembered that a rag collector would take it. Her mouth watered. She was hungry.

“
Merci.
” Catherine took a bite and then said, “I knew a young woman back in Lyon who I heard is here now.”

“Oh?” The cook busied herself with the next loaf.

“Her name is Amelie Fournier. Her family name was Gillet.”

“
Oui,
she is here.”

“How is she doing?”

The cook stopped slicing the bread. “How do you know her?”

Catherine could feel her face grow warm. She glanced down at her dirty apron. “My family…” Her voice trailed off, hoping she implied a reversal of fortunes, which was not entirely false. Their misfortune, so far, just did not happen to be monetary.

“I see,” the cook said, putting down the knife. Perhaps she knew of Amelie's Huguenot background and assumed that was the connection. “The poor dear has not been well, not since her confinement.”

Catherine swallowed hard, trying to hide her shock. Her
confinement
? Amelie had had a
baby
?

Catherine's mind was spinning as she did the math, terrified that her cousin had been compromised somehow after being sent away from the family. But then she realized that the child could be Amelie's late husband's, depending on when it was born. Paul was killed eight months ago. Perhaps she had been newly pregnant at the time, though she wouldn't have realized it yet.

Had Uncle Edouard been told? “Can she have visitors?”

“I wouldn't know,” the cook said as the girl returned, followed by an older woman.

“No rags, I am afraid. We use everything we can here.”

Even before Catherine could thank her for her trouble, the cook said, “She is a friend of Amelie's. She was wondering if she could see her.”

The housekeeper stepped closer to Catherine. “Did you know she has been ill?”

“
Non,
” Catherine said, hoping the alarm she felt did not show in her face. “I had no idea. I thought I might bring her news from home.”

The cook began piling the bread on a tray. “It might do the girl good to see an old friend.” Without looking up, she added, “Do you not think?”

The housekeeper wrapped her hand around a ring of keys at her side and stared at Catherine. Then she said, “I should check with Mother Superior, but she is resting now. I will take you instead. But not for long. It is almost time for our dinner.”

“
Merci
,” Catherine told her, crumpling the bag in her hand.

The light was dim in the hallway but grew brighter on the stairs and even more so on the landing. The housekeeper gave a knock on the first door and then pushed it open, saying, “You have a visitor.”

Catherine followed the woman into the room, hoping her cousin would not be so shocked and excited at the sight of her that she would react in a way that aroused suspicion.

She need not have worried. Amelie was sitting on a chair, a babe in her arms, and when she looked up, her eyes simply filled with tears.

“Now, now,” the housekeeper said. “She cannot stay long. Make sure the visit does you good and not harm.”

Amelie nodded. “
Oui
. It has done me good already.”

Catherine knelt at her side as the woman left, waiting for the click of the door before she gave her cousin a long hug and then spoke. “You had a child. When?”

“A month ago.”

So it was Paul's.
Merci, Seigneur.

“And you have been sick?”

Amelie swiped at her eyes with her free hand.

Tears filled Catherine's eyes too as she reached for the
bébé
. So many times they had imagined, as girls, raising their children together, all living together in the Gillet family home
,
Catherine and her brood established on the first floor and Amelie and hers on the second, both sharing the ground floor lounge and dining room, just as the families in the house had always done. How could their lives have changed so dramatically in so short a time?

“Her name is Valentina,” Amelie said softly. “After Paul's Italian grandmother.”

“Hello, Valentina,” Catherine cooed softly, gazing down at the little one in her arms. The baby peered up at her, eyes wide. She had a full head of dark hair, but she was small for a month old, too small. Catherine looked again at Amelie. “Did Paul know?”

Amelie shook her head. “Neither of us had any idea.” Tears filled her eyes again, and she brushed them away. “I did not realize I was expecting until I had been here for a couple of months. I assumed with all the stress of his death and then being sent away…” She shook her head. “The prospect never crossed my mind until Mother Superior pointed out the tightness of my clothes and my never-ending appetite.”

Catherine pursed her lips. At some point along the way, that appetite must have waned, because Amelie had never looked thinner. Or paler, for that matter.

“We need to get both of you out of here.”

“Father will never allow it.”

Catherine hesitated, unable to keep the shock from her face. “You don't know?”

Amelie stared back at her, brow furrowed.

“He… he passed away. Your father was buried this afternoon.”

Amelie sank back against the chair, tears spilling down her cheeks. “
Non!
”

Catherine's heart ached for her cousin. “They didn't tell you? When you missed his funeral today, I assumed they refused to let you go. I never imagined they withheld the truth from you entirely.”

“Today,” Amelie echoed, looking even paler than before. “You say he was buried today?”

“
Oui.
I slipped into the service at the cathedral—as did Grand-Mère. They laid him to rest at the
cimetière des catholiques
afterward.”

Catherine would have liked to give Amelie a chance to digest the news of her father's death, but she feared they might be interrupted at any moment. She rose to her feet, clutching the baby, and took her cousin's hand. “I need to take you home.”

“Mother Superior will not allow it.”