The Soldier's Secrets
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The man’s eyes grew darker—which shouldn’t have been possible, as they had started out the color of midnight.
He knew what she was about, he had to. She took an instinctive step back. If he flew at her—
“I’ve been there once, and it doesn’t bear remembering.”
Her breath puffed from her lips in shaky little bursts. It was as she’d told Alphonse, she’d be no good at this information gathering. If she couldn’t look the man in the eye and ask him a simple question without giving herself away, how would she uncover his secrets?
If he had any secrets.
If he wasn’t the wrong man entirely.
On the eve of Henri’s capture, the sliver of moonlight trickling through the window had been so dim she could hardly make out her husband’s form on the pallet beside her. But she’d felt his presence, the heat from his body, the tickle of his breath on her cheek. He was home, for once, not off on some smuggling errand for Alphonse, paying some strange woman for a place in her bed, or drinking himself through the wee hours until dawn. He’d eaten dinner with her and the children, kissed them and crawled into bed beside her as though they were a normal family.
Then the soldiers came. They didn’t knock, just burst through the solid wooden door and shouted for Henri Dubois. One man yanked him from their bed. A big man, so broad of back and thick of chest his body eclipsed any light from the window.
Strange that she should recall that of all things, the way the soldier’s body had been so large it obstructed the shadow of her husband’s form being dragged to the door.
“Are you unwell?” Citizen Belanger watched her, his forehead wrinkling into deep furrows.
She shook her head, her throat too dry to speak.
“Citizen?” The farmer approached, stepping around the wagon and striding forward with a powerful gait.
“Non, I’m fine.” She didn’t want the hulking man beside her, innocent or not.
But he came, anyway, closer and closer until she stood in his shadow, those wide shoulders blocking the sun just as the soldier’s body had blocked the light from the moon.
She pressed her eyes shut and ducked her head. What if this man had taken her husband? Would he drag her away to the guillotine, as well?
Her breaths grew quick and short, and the air squeezed from her lungs.
But nothing happened. She waited one moment, then two, before peeking an eyelid open. He stood beside her now, towering and strong, able to do anything he wished with those powerful hands and arms.
But concern cloaked his face rather than malice. “Are you ill? Need you sustenance?”
Sustenance? She wanted nothing from him—besides information, that was. She opened her mouth to proclaim herself well, except he stood so close she could only stare at his big, burly body.
“Here. Sit.” He took her by the shoulder.
She lurched back, but his hands held her firm, leading her toward the house. Surely he didn’t mean to take her inside, where ’twould be far more difficult for her to get away.
“Non.” She planted her feet into the dirt. “I—I wish to stay in the sun.”
He scowled, a look that had likely struck fear in many a heart. “Are you certain? Mayhap the sun’s making you over warm. The house is cooler.”
Her current state had nothing to do with the heat, but rather the opposite. Fear gripped her stomach and chest, an iciness that radiated from within and refused to release its hold. She’d felt it twice before. First when those soldiers had barged into their house and taken Henri away, and then the night Alphonse had given her this task.
Now she was in Abbeville, staring at the man she might well need to destroy and letting fear cripple her once again.
* * *
She’s like Corinne. It was the only thing Jean Paul could think as he stared at the thin woman in his hold. She was tall yet slender, as his late wife had been, and had a quietly determined way about her. Unfortunately she also looked ready to faint.
He needed to get some food in her. He’d not have another woman starve in his hands, at least not when he had the means to prevent it.
“I should sit,” she spoke quietly then slid from his grip, wilting against the stone and mud of the cottage wall before he could stop her.
“Are you unwell?” he asked again. A daft question, to be sure, with the way her face shone pale as stone.
She shook her head, a barely perceptible movement. “I simply...need a moment.”
She needed more than a moment. Judging by the dark smudges beneath her eyes and hollowness in her face she needed a night of rest and a fortnight of sumptuous feasts.
“Come inside and lie down.” He hunkered down and reached for her, wrapping one arm around her back and slipping another beneath her legs.
“Non!” The bloodcurdling scream rang across the fields, so loud his tenants likely heard it. “Remove your hands at once.”
Stubborn woman. “If you’d simply let me...”
His voice trailed off as he met her eyes. They should have been clouded with pain, or mayhap in a temporary daze from nearly swooning. But fear raced through those deep brown orbs.
She was terrified.
Of him.
Why? He shifted back, giving her space enough to run if she so desired. The woman’s chest heaved and her eyes turned wild, the stark anguish of fright and horror etched across her features.
“Let me get you a bit of water and bread.” He rose and moved into the quiet sanctuary of his home. The cool air inside the dank daub walls wrapped around him, the familiar scents of rising bread and cold soup tugging him farther inside. But the surroundings didn’t banish the woman’s look of terror from his mind, nor the sound of her scream.
How many times had he heard screams like that? A woman’s panic-filled cry, a child’s voice saturated with fear?
And how many times had he been the cause?
Chapter Two
Jean Paul’s hands shook, as they sometimes did when his memories from the Terror returned. He gritted his teeth and filled a mug with water, then grabbed the remaining loaf of bread and half a round of cheese, wrapping both in a bit of cloth.
The woman sitting outside his door couldn’t know of his past, how he’d once evoked terror, how he’d turned his back on those in need for the glorious cause of the Révolution.
How their screams still haunted his dreams.
But she was wise to look at him with fear, as though she sensed the hideous things he’d done.
The walls of the house closed in on him, the air suddenly heavy and sour. He stalked toward the door. The woman had the right of it, much better to be in the sun than trapped inside a dark house.
He half expected her to have dragged herself into the woods. But she sat in the position he’d left her, with her back against the wall and her head slumped over her knees. Reddish-brown hair peeked from beneath her mobcap to dangle beside a gaunt cheek.
Too gaunt, too pale, too sickly. An image rose of a time long past. His wife lying on her pallet in the cottage they’d shared, her fingers and face naught but bones, her skin stark and pale, her body crumpled into a little ball as she struggled to suck air into her wheezing lungs.
He dropped to his knees and pressed the wooden mug to the stranger’s lips.
“Drink,” he commanded, perhaps a bit too forcefully. He attempted a half smile so as not to frighten her again, except the upward tilt to his lips felt rather stiff and foreign.
She took a gulp then slanted her gaze toward him, her eyes soft and dark rather than filled with fear. Mayhap his smile had worked?
“I’m better. Truly. I only needed a bit of rest.”
Mayhap lack of food and water coupled with too much sun had caused her distress. He’d heard of people going mad after a day working the fields. Or then again, she might be with child. Swooning went along with bearing young, did it not?
She’d said she needed work. Her husband could be a soldier who’d left her with child and gone to the front. Or worse yet, her husband might have been killed in battle.
He opened his mouth to ask, but the woman braced her hands on the ground to push herself up. “Merci, Citizen, but I must away.”
He shoved the water back in front of her face. “Drink more. I’ve brought you bread and cheese, as well. I’ll not have you nearly swoon one moment and then be up and about the next.”
She took the mug from his hands and swallowed. The wooden cup no sooner left her lips than he placed the bread before her. She nibbled at a crumb or two then wrinkled her nose, a ridiculous expression considering how ill she’d looked just minutes before.
But with the thick, dense state of the bread, he could hardly blame her. It tasted little better than mud, he knew. He’d been making and eating the loaves since his mother’s death last fall, and no matter what he tried, the heavy dough refused to rise.
The woman handed the bread back to him then rose unsteadily to her feet. “I’m fine, truly, and I’ve other business to attend now that I’ve an answer regarding a post here.”
He stood with her. So they were back to discussing a post. Could the woman cook? Mayhap offering her work wouldn’t be so terrible...
But no. He wasn’t ready to have a woman about his house, not with the way Corinne’s memories still rose up to grip his thoughts. “Try looking about town for work, and if you find naught there, then head to Saint-Valery. ’tis not more than a day’s walk, and there’s always work at the harbor.”
Her chin tilted stubbornly into the air. “I thank you for your time, Citizen.”
He held out a bundle of bread and cheese. “Here, I trust it keeps you until you find a post.”
Her eyes softened. “You’re too generous.”
The woman didn’t know the half of it. “Take it.”
“Merci.” She tucked the bundle beneath her arm. “I think I should have enjoyed a post here.”
And with that she walked off. Head high, shoulders back, posture perfect, even if her gait was rather wobbly.
* * *
Brigitte settled the food in the overlarge pocket of her apron and hurried down the road. The children. She had to get to the children. They’d been alone in the woods for far too long while she’d sat in the shade like a child, drinking water and eating bread.
Of all the ways to prove herself a capable housekeeper to Citizen Belanger. She’d gone half-mad, nearly fainting and then screaming at a man who’d tried to help her.
Tried to help. How long since a man or woman had shown her kindness the way Jean Paul Belanger just had?
And here she was forced to spy on him. She swallowed the unease creeping up her throat and rushed forward, not slowing until the lane curved and the woods started, its towering trees and rambling brambles shielding her from the farmstead. At the first break in the brush, she veered into the forest.
“Danielle, Serge.”
Only the song of insects and birds answered her.
“Serge,” she called louder. “Danielle.”
Somewhere ahead, a babe mewled. She stepped over a decaying log then skirted a pit of mud.
“Here we are.” Serge sat on the forest floor beneath a tree, holding eight-month-old Victor in his lap. The babe’s eyes landed on her, and he let out a piercing wail. Brigitte reached for her youngest son and settled onto the ground, then brought him forward to feed.
“Are you unwell, Maman?” Serge’s vibrant brown eyes, humming with energy and life, searched hers.
Unwell? Was it possible to be anything but unwell with the orders Alphonse had given her and her failure to gain a post at the farm? How was she going to tend her children and feed her babe while working a job in town and spying on Citizen Belanger two kilomètres away?
If only Alphonse had given her money to live on while she carried out her assignment. But he’d been all too clear on that point: she’d receive funds only after she provided information.
Where were they going to live in the meantime?
“Maman?” Serge rose up on his knees and pressed his forehead to hers. “Why are you crying?”
She reached up and touched her cheek. Sure enough, moisture trailed down her skin. “Maman had a hard day, is all. Nothing you need worry about.”
Her six-year-old son sank back to the ground, a frown tugging his little lips downward, but he stayed quiet. She wiped the last of the tears from her face and leaned her head back against the tree trunk while Victor nursed.
The leaves swayed peacefully above as the soft songs of crickets, birds and toads twined around her. She sucked in a breath of moist air ripe with the scent of foliage. If only she could stay here with her children, shrouded by the forest and never worrying about money or Alphonse, or how to feed her sons and...
Daughter.
She jerked upright so quickly the babe howled. “Where’s Danielle?”
Serge shrugged. “She went off to find some supper. Said she won’t eat no more pulse.”
A sinking sensation started in her chest and fell through to her stomach. “How long ago did she leave? I told her to watch you.”
Serge shrugged again.
That girl. One would think an only daughter raised with four brothers would be a help to her mother, but not Danielle Dubois. Oh, no.
“Danielle,” Brigitte called into the trees.
Nothing but the birds and frogs again.
“I’ll find her!” Serge jumped to his feet, a patch of reddish brown hair flopping over his eyes.
“Non.” She gripped his hand and pulled him down beside her. “Once Victor has finished eating we’ll look together.”
Serge scowled at his little brother. “Do we have to wait? Victor eats slow.”
She smoothed her hand over the babe’s head, the featherlike hairs separating between her fingers. “He doesn’t take so very long, and he needs to eat. You were the same as a babe.”
Serge poked out his bottom lip. “I suppose we can wait a bit before we look.”
“What will you be looking for?” a young female voice asked from behind them.
Brigitte craned her head around and released a breath. “Danielle.”
Her daughter of three and ten stood not a mètre from them, moving silently over the fallen leaves and underbrush. Her black hair tumbled freely about her shoulders and mud-streaked face, and thorns had tangled in the shoulder of her dress—one of only two she owned—to shred fabric about her upper arm.
“Danielle, come forward this instant.” Brigitte stood and shifted Victor to her shoulder. “What were you thinking leaving your brothers alone in the woods?”
“I was looking for food.” Danielle swiped a strand of hair away from her face. “But the rabbit got away.”
“And a rabbit justifies you leaving your brothers?” She raised an eyebrow, hoping against hope that some semblance of guilt might flit through her daughter’s head.
Danielle merely rolled her eyes.
“Aw, Danielle.” Serge sprang to his feet. “You said you were going to catch one this time. I don’t wanna eat no more pulse.”
“I can try again.”
“Non. Non. Non. There will be no more hunting expeditions, especially on land that belongs to another. And no one has to eat pulse tonight because I’ve bread and cheese.” Brigitte reached into the pocket of her apron, fumbled to unwrap the food and broke the cheese into several sections.
“Is it from the land owner?” Danielle snatched a hunk of cheese and bit into it. “Did you get the post?”
“Non.” And she had no one to blame but herself. What man would hire a woman who nearly fainted on his doorstep?
“So what are we going to do?” Serge stuffed his entire piece of cheese into his little mouth and chewed.
“I’ll go back and request the post again.”
Her cheese gone, Danielle reached for a piece of bread. “But if he already told you no—”
“I need to convince him, is all. He’ll change his mind.” He had to, because if she couldn’t get a job with Citizen Belanger, then she had little means to fulfill Alphonse’s task.
Danielle bit into her bread, barely chewing before she spat it out. “This tastes terrible.”
Did the girl never stop? “Just a moment ago you were complaining about pulse.”
“I wanted to replace the pulse with rabbit, not bread that tastes like dung.”
“Hush now. It was a gift, and you ought be grateful, no matter how it tastes.”
“Can I have another piece of cheese?” Serge asked.
Brigitte glanced at the little orange chunk of food remaining, then broke it in half and gave the pieces to her children. The taste of bread she’d had at Citizen Belanger’s and some pulse later this evening would suffice for herself. She hefted Victor higher onto her shoulder, then took up their single valise. “Come, children. We’d best be off.”
“Where are we going?” Serge gulped down the remainder of his bread, evidently not caring that the loaf was dense as a rock.
“Oui. You said we were done staying at the inn.” Danielle scrambled to pick up the remaining food.
Indeed they were done with the inn. Remaining there another night would take the last of their money. “We’ll sleep in the forest tonight, and I’ll go back to Citizen Belanger in the morn.”
“Why do you have to work for him?” Danielle stuffed the leftover bread in her pocket. “Isn’t there another job you can find?”
If only the child knew. “Non. There’s no other job.”
At least not one that would accomplish her purposes.
She lifted a tree branch out of her way and started back toward the road. Danielle didn’t follow but stood rooted to the ground, her forehead drawn together.
Brigitte raised her eyes to the sky. Hopefully her daughter wouldn’t figure out the true reason they were in Abbeville. Who could guess what trouble Danielle might attempt if she thought Citizen Belanger to be her father’s killer? Goodness, the impulsive girl might sneak into the man’s house at night and take a knife to his throat.
“Well, we don’t need to sleep outside,” Danielle declared. “I found a house.”
Brigitte stilled. “A house?”
Danielle lifted a shoulder. “More like a shack, really.”
“We can’t stay in somebody else’s house.”
“It doesn’t belong to anyone. It’s abandoned.”
“Someone still must own it.”
“Not if the owner was killed in the Terror,” Danielle shot back flippantly, as though the Terror was nothing more than a minor skirmish rather than ten blood-soaked months of the Révolution.
As though her own father hadn’t been killed during those horror-filled days. To be sure, smuggling was a crime that would have left Henri imprisoned were he caught under any other government—but only the Terror dragged men out of their beds for justice via the guillotine.
Brigitte blew out a hard breath to push away the bitter memories.
’Twas unthinkable to live somewhere without paying. But then a house, even a dilapidated one, would offer shelter and protection. And if Danielle had found it, it must be nearby. Perchance all they needed was one night’s stay. Hopefully with a little persistence on her part—plus a conversation where she managed not to faint—Citizen Belanger would hire her and offer shelter on his farm.
Not that she wanted to work for a suspected murderer.
But then, what other choice had she? “Show me the house, Danielle.”
Chapter Three
Jean Paul yawned as he surveyed his beans, the green plants leafy and tall as they wove their way up the trellis. Though it was only the beginning of July, within another week or two his first batch of the tender pods would be ready to harvest.
He paused to pluck a weed, then went on to his tomatoes, squash, carrots and potatoes. The leaf lettuce and kale needed to be cut yet again, radishes waited to be picked and the summer squash would be ready about the same time as the beans and cucumbers. More food than he’d ever be able to consume, and just in the vegetable garden. His fields stretched beyond, filled with a mixture of wheat, turnips, barely and clover that he rotated yearly.
He drew in a breath of fresh morning air and looked out over his work. His land. His fields. Today he needed to weed the lower field and check the—
“Bonjour?” A voice called from up near the house.
He glanced at the sun, barely risen above the trees in the east, and hastened through the rows of radishes and tomatoes. Was there an emergency in town? A task for which the mayor needed him? Someone must have good reason for calling before the sun had been up an hour.
“Bonjour?” The voice echoed again, its light, feminine cadence accompanied by a pounding sound.
Who could it be? He frowned as he trudged around the side of the house.
And there she was, standing beside his cottage door as though she’d appeared from the mist. She wore the same threadbare dress and apron as yesterday, and her hair was once again tucked sloppily under her mobcap with stray auburn tresses hanging down to frame her cheeks. Her skin was paler than milk from a cow, and the features of her thin face sunken with weariness.
And yet she seemed beautiful somehow, in the delicate way only a woman could be beautiful when tired and hungry. He took a step forward, the urge to aid her twining through him. He’d hustle her inside where he could give her food and let her sleep. Offer her—
His movement must have given himself away because she turned to face him, then bit her lip.
“Citizen, forgive me. I thought you were...” Her eyes slid back to the door.
“Inside, hiding from you?”
Her cheeks pinked, a truly lovely shade, and a much better color than the deathly white that had stolen over her when last they’d spoken.
“Non, Citizen. I don’t have a need to hide from women—or men. Farmers start their days early.” He surveyed her again, her thin, willowy body and slender shoulders, the hollowness in her cheeks and her bonelike fingers. “As do you.”
Her cheeks turned from soft pink to bright red, and she dipped her gaze to the ground. “I came to see about the post again. Perhaps you’ve changed your mind and are willing to hire me?”
“You need food, not a post.”
“Non. I—”
“Wait here. I’ve soup you can take.” He headed toward the well along the side of the yard and reeled the bucket up, his leftover food from yesterday’s evening meal cool and fresh thanks to the water.
Footsteps padded on the earth behind him. “I didn’t come for food. I came for a post.”
He hefted the bucket out of the well and headed for the house. “And I told you yesterday, I’ve no need of a maid.”
“The deplorable taste of your bread convinced me otherwise.”
The side of his mouth twitched into that foreign feeling of a smile. The woman might be slight of body, but it took a speck of courage to tell him his food tasted horrid while he prepared yet another meal for her. “’Tis true, I’ve no knack for making bread. Though on days when I head to town, as I did yesterday, I purchase some.”
He opened the door to his cottage, and rather than try to force her inside as he had yesterday, he left the door open and set the soup on the table. He ladled the thickened liquid from his bucket into a second pail, then reached for the loaf of bread from the baker’s, tore it in half and wrapped it. The meal should suffice her for today, mayhap even tomorrow if she rationed it.
“I don’t need your charity.” She stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her slender chest.
He moved to her and held out the food. “You look as though you’ve not eaten for a month.”
“I don’t claim to eat well, but that’s a situation I can remedy myself. If you hire me.”
Having a woman in his home would be like salt on memories that were far too raw. Corinne’s smile when he made her laugh, the shine of her hair in the lamplight, the taste of her lips beneath his and feel of her face in his hands. How many days had they toiled together, working side by side in the fields? How many nights had they spent in each others’ arms in the little house at the back of his property? How many times had he come through the door, tired and dirty, to find a fresh meal and smiling wife awaiting his return...