Written on Silk (47 page)

As she mentioned Job, Idelette turned toward her. Her eyes burned with an intensity Rachelle had never seen before. “Why did not the Lord protect me?”

Rachelle was struck by the rage in her question.

Rachelle spoke after several minutes of silence, not facing her but watching the curling flames destroying the wood on the hearth, oddly thinking that it was in the wood’s ruin that warmth came to her.

“You ask me to answer so profound a question? I cannot. I will ask a question of you.”

Idelette looked up at her with a puzzled look. “Ask me a question?”

“Yes.”

“What question?”

Rachelle faced her soberly. “You are grieved because you say God did not protect you. Why did our Lord not protect them all
?
If you can answer why He did not send angels to protect them all, you may have your answer why these things happened to you.”

Idelette wrinkled her brow.

“Monsieur Lemoine used his fields to allow God’s people to meet, knowing it could mean his arrest. He even built a new barn to keep us from the weather. Yet the Lord permitted him to die by the sword. Now his wife is a widow. She will lose the fields unless she and her son recant.

Children died, and Madame Hershey — and our petite sister Avril.” She said her name with a small choke. “And what of Cousin Bertrand’s injuries, and James Hudson who arrived from England just in time?” She turned toward the thin, drawn face of her sister. “And
me
.”

Idelette looked at her and widened her eyes. “You? What befell you?”

“Nothing.”

“You just implied — ”

“That naught happened to me. And it is what troubles me. If I had not been late in arriving, if it had not been that Mère asked me to wait a few minutes longer to bring the scarf to Madame Hershey, what happened to you may have happened to me, or I might be dead like Avril.

Sometimes I feel guilty I was not there . . . As if it should have been me instead of Avril.”

Idelette closed her eyes and shook her head showing disbelief. “I vow, you are hard to understand, Rachelle. You should be counting yourself favored. God’s Providence. That is why you were late.”

“Yes, but I would not say I was favored. It may be that, unlike you, I could not endure such a trial, so I was kept from it.”

“Who can answer such questions?”

“Did you not say just minutes ago that we are all like the offspring of Job? Then perhaps part of the answer is that your faith is being tested — and it is much more precious than silver or gold.”

Rachelle thought it wiser to urge Idelette to speak, for she was not ignorant of the truth.

Idelette dropped her head into her hands and shook it silently.

The silence grew, the dry wood cackled like an old witch, its sparks going up the chimney into the black, starless night.

Finally she spoke, her muffled voice uttered: “I would tell you God does not change with the winds of adversity. He is not capricious. He is good and faithful today, as He was yesterday, and He shall be tomorrow.

The events of our lives are as the roaring wind upon a feeble leaf, but God holds the wind in His fist. I would tell you that evil will hound our steps until the moment of our death, but that our Savior is greater than all the hosts of evil that Satan can hurl against us.”

Rachelle remained a moment longer, pondering her words, then, feeling there was nothing left to be uttered, turned and went to the door. She looked back. She was remembering the verse from Ephesians 6:14 that had come to be used as a motto for suffering Huguenots after a woman prisoner had carved the words into the wall of her cell.

“
Tenez ferme
,” she said softly.

Idelette turned her head and their eyes met. A smile came to her lips.

She nodded. “Merci, ma chère Rachelle.”

Rachelle left her sister to wrestle with her trials, with a faith sorely tried, but in Rachelle’s mind, standing firm in the faith.

W
ITHIN TWO DAYS,
RACHELLE
was ready for her journey to Fontainebleau. Her personal trunk was packed with her finest Court frocks and slippers, while the bolts of Macquinet silk and velvet and lace were arranged carefully within the enclosed coaches.

Nenette was going as her grisette, and twelve-year-old Philippe, who had lost his mère in the barn attack, was now with her as an aide who would also run her errands.

On a sunny morning, the coaches were lined up and ready for departure. Comte Maurice had his men-at-arms in stately position as though the caravan were bringing royalty itself. Dressed grandly as ever, he was bidding Père Arnaut adieu and vowing his life would be exchanged for the safety of Rachelle should so great a sacrifice be in his fortune to make. It was not at all clear to Rachelle whether her père believed him. She knew that he was not impressed with Sebastien’s neveu and was not pleased to be sending Rachelle off to Court, while he and Clair went to England, and Idelette to Paris.

A lettre arrived from Madeleine which finally helped to decide the matter for Idelette. She would not remain at the château as she had wished, but would go to Paris to stay with Madeleine and petite Joan until Père Arnaut and Mère Clair returned from England with Cousin Bertrand to attend the colloquy.

Arnaut and Clair would not yet be leaving for Calais and England, for there was yet much preparation to ready the silkworm eggs and leaves and new mulberry seedlings for the voyage. It was deemed wise that Idelette should travel with Rachelle as far as Orléans and then go on to Paris, while Rachelle would go to Fontainebleau.

It was clear that Madame Clair was troubled about separating from her daughters at such a time. Both Rachelle and Idelette tried to assure her they were able to care for themselves.

Rachelle walked toward the coach holding her hand case of burgundy velvet with her name inscribed in gold, which contained all manner of sewing equipment: special needles and pins, cutting instruments, and spools of colored silk thread from Italy, Spain, and the Netherlands. She also carried Grandmère’s gold thimble as a reminder of whose steps she followed — which affected the other mission on her heart at Court.

She did not pause long enough to consider what she would do if she could prove the Queen Mother had poisoned Grandmère. Even so, she was bent on knowing the truth.

As Rachelle came down the veranda steps she saw that Idelette was being helped inside the Macquinet family coach by Maurice himself.

Idelette wore a loose-fitting cloak, unusual for such a warm day, and she wondered if Père Arnaut had spoken to Maurice of his daughter’s condition. She had noticed a solicitous behavior toward Idelette that he had never shown before.

Now, as Idelette entered the coach, having said her adieus to her parents, Rachelle bid her mère au revoir.

Clair drew in a breath, but her dignity and elegant composure remained. Taking Rachelle’s arm, she drew her aside.

“You will not mention Grandmère’s death or Madeleine’s frailty, Rachelle. Do not give her cause to suspect for a single moment that you look upon her with even a butterfly lash of suspicion, understood?”

“Mère, do not worry; I have been in her presence many times, and I know what to do. But if I always avoid mention of their illness, and what befell them, she may grow suspicious.”

“This is most distressing. I had longed to bring you with us to England to meet the Hudson family, and James writes that he hoped you could be there when the gown is presented to Queen Elizabeth.”

“Oh, Mère, and I as well. It seems that all our paths are leading us in different directions.”

Rachelle put her arms around her and kissed her cheek.

“The separation will not be long, God willing. We will all meet again for the colloquy at Fountainebleau. I shall pray that the trip to Spain does not come this year. So be wise at Court, and give no cause to the fickle gallants to think of you in their frivolous ways. Keep your faith to your own heart and count much on Comte Sebastien and Duchesse Dushane. Ah, but we must not live in fear but trust in the good hand of our Father through all uncertainty. His presence is with you, ma petite, and His angels, may they keep your steps.”

Rachelle squeezed her mother’s hands. “Adieu, ma mère.”

“Then take care. Adieu, ma chère.”

They looked at one another, for despite the words spoken with forced cheer and confidence, Rachelle felt her heart quaver as she saw the beginning of tears in the corners of her mère’s eyes as she hastened to blink them back. With a firm smile, she reached over with concern and straightened a strand of Rachelle’s hair.

Madame Clair stepped away, with her back and shoulders straight. Rachelle walked to the coach where Idelette already waited, having said her good-byes. Rachelle was helped inside by Père Arnaut.

“Au revoir, daughter. Remember the words we discussed in Paris after our return from Calais.” He kissed her forehead.

Rachelle knew what words he meant. Again, there was the warning that she tread softly where the gloves were concerned.

“Au revoir, mon père. God speed with the precious cargo of silkworm eggs and leaves.”

He smiled and reached over again to clasp Idelette’s hand. “Be strong. Your mère and I will see you in a few months.”

Madame Clair came up beside Arnaut, and there were more repeated good-byes. Then the coach door was closed, and Rachelle felt the coach moving along the courtyard and through the gate toward the road to Fontainebleau and Paris. She and Idelette looked out the windows and waved and smiled for a last time.

Rachelle watched the white château slip away into the morning. She embraced a last memory of her parents standing together arm in arm, smiling and waving at their daughters.

The moment was soon gone, and she leaned back in the seat and prepared herself to meet further winds of change.

Omens from a Far Country

LONDON, ENGLAND

M
ARQUIS
FABIEN,
GARBED IN THE COLORS OF THE HOUSE OF BOURBON
, accompanied the queen’s privateers to a meeting at Whitehall for a subdued celebration after successfully preventing the Duc d’Alva from resupplying his armies in the Netherlands.

The queen entered. She was dressed entirely in purple velvet, with much gold, pearls, and jewels. There were others there who received audience with Elizabeth, and Fabien stood with Bertrand and the other privateers waiting their turn.

The piazza under the long gallery was draped with gold and silver brocade, and the air hung with the diffusing scent from wreaths and garlands of fresh flowers. The reach of the river in front of Whitehall palace was covered with swans, and in the palace garden were thirty-four columns, each surmounted by the effigy of a heraldic beast.

Queen Elizabeth seemed a most interesting woman. She had very white skin and red hair. She did not look strong, or all that well, but there was a fiery determination in her eyes that bespoke her will to serve and defend England. Fabien liked her at once. How different was this young woman than the dark, sinister, scheming Catherine de Medici. He noticed a different spirit altogether. What was the difference? One seemed satanic, while the other seemed open to the light.

Fabien, standing with Bertrand Macquinet and Capitaine Nappier, noticed a vaguely familiar young man who was now having his audience with Elizabeth. He headed up a small party of what appeared to be couturiers, showing samples of their cloth and drawings of gowns and other articles of fashion to the queen’s silk-woman, Mrs. Montagu, who was also receiving gifts. There were numerous gifts for the queen.

Fabien caught sight of “loose-bodied gowns” in blush pink, known in Paris as a negligée; there were handkerchiefs, night smocks, and night coifs, and hairnets knitted of gold and silver thread, all from the famous couturiers.

Fabien brought his hand to his chin and pretended to look at the floor to keep from grinning. Nappier caught his eye and wore a wry twist to his lip. This seemed rather a strange group for ruthless privateers to follow — all were rugged men boasting swords, leather, and a thirst for Spanish blood; while the couturier was brandishing not steel but silk, flowering the English queen with feminine dainties, all the while hoping for her favor and business.