Her Own Revolution, page 4
Her hands covered her heart. “He’s alive?” Her cheeks trembled.
I nodded.
Quiet sobs shook her. I crept close and gave her my handkerchief. She pressed it to her face and inhaled. She calmed a bit and looked at me. “Your mouchoir is so white and clean and smells of lavender. Merci.” She held it out.
“Please keep it.” I was so accustomed to such luxuries I hadn’t noticed the scent. “I’ll bring you more if you like. I brought some food. Have some cheese.” I pulled it and bread from the basket.
She trembled like a leaf in a windstorm. “You’re not taking me for execution?”
I stepped back. “No.”
“When will they come?” She gripped the handkerchief.
I swallowed back a foul taste. “Has your name been called?”
Tears dropped from her thick lashes. Little wonder LaGarde was attracted to her—her features were as fine and delicate as porcelain.
I put my hand on her shoulder as much to calm myself as her. “When?”
“Three days ago.”
I held her hand, so thin and frail, like a bird’s claw. A prickling ran up my back. Did the torturous imbeciles not tell her? No wonder she looked like she had gone mad. She was mad—mad with despair. “They cannot execute pregnant women.”
She stretched her neck and looked at the ceiling. “They will after I’ve given birth.” She gasped. “They could kill two with one whack! I want to go now, but they put me back in here.” Her mouth opened, and her sob rattled my heart. “What will happen to my baby when they do kill me?”
Would a new list be created after she delivered her child? That was my only hope, for that was the only list I could change. I squeezed her hand. “Let us hope this insanity is over by then.” I forced cheer into my voice. “LaGarde asked me to tell you he loves you and wants to marry you.”
Magdeleine’s eyes brightened, and she tucked a strand of hair up into her ragged mobcap. “Why did he not come?”
I swallowed hard. “He’s at la Conciergerie.”
She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked, making a high-pitched wailing.
My arms hung useless. Nothing in the basket could soothe her. I pulled her close. She smelled of sweat and fear. “You must promise not to repeat what I tell you,” I whispered. “Do you?” She nodded. “He will not go to the guillotine. You must not ask any questions, but he will wait for you.”
She clutched at me. “How?”
I shook my head.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
Why was I? Not only was I risking my life but also the life of every person I’d duped along the way. I wanted to help the Revolution, but not if it meant executing innocents. I was undermining the very thing I believed in. But I doubted my belief, along with my ability to save the people I’d temporarily rescued. All of us could be executed.
“Did Louis pay you?” She spat on the handkerchief and dabbed it along the red welts on her neck.
I shook my head. I’d bring her vinegar for the flea bites next time.
“Do you have a wish to die yourself?” She bit at her thumb.
“No.” I could be in her place if I were caught. There was no one to save me should I be discovered. A stirring moved through me, and I pressed my hand over my stomach. “If I were in here, I’d want someone to help me.”
“Merci.” Tears dropped down her pale cheeks.
“LaGarde wants you to eat, so you will be strong when the baby comes.” I rubbed her arms and helped her sit in the hay. She took the milk and gulped.
Were the lists of Bicêtre prisoners kept in my father’s office? I took my dagger from my reticule, cut a piece of sausage and gave it to her. If another clerk copied the names, could I intervene?
Footsteps echoed. I stood, brushing hay from my gown and helped her stand.
She gave me the empty cup. “What’s your name?”
I faltered. Could I trust her? I’d not give her my family name, so she could never identify me to the guards. “Geneviève.” I wrapped the remaining food in the serviette and gave it to her.
“Patron Saint of young girls. Perhaps I shall have a daughter.” She smiled. “Patron Saint of Paris, as well.”
I sighed. If my predecessor saved all of Paris, perhaps I could save a few prisoners—no matter how much I doubted my abilities. I picked up the empty basket. “I’ll return soon with more food and more mouchoirs.”
She nodded. The ruffle of her cap shivered as she forced a smile.
The clanking of keys echoed in the corridor.
I’d need a thousand saints to help me get her out of here. I had less than four months to figure out how to keep her name from appearing on any list—if she didn’t miscarry. Although I didn’t believe God intervened, I needed all the help I could hope for, so I blessed myself as I left.
I followed the guard out into the sunshine. I wished I could write to Henri, ask his advice. I emptied my lungs of the stinking prison air, closed my eyes, and listened for his voice.
But I knew he’d tell me to do what my heart told me to do. My heart was filled with doubt and fear…and hope. Damn him. I’d have to figure this out without him.
8
Paris
August 1793
Papa worked late into the night, so he was rarely home for dinner. In his absence, Etty sat at the head of the dining table, and I sat to her side, wishing Auguste was allowed to join me. When I was younger than Auguste was now, Maman sat me upon three cushions so I could eat at the dining table with the rest of the family.
I inhaled the rich scent of potato-leek soup. My stomach contracted. Etty’s one good quality was her family recipes.
Triangles of rouge covered her cheeks, and she wore her graying auburn curls swept up to the crown of her head, displaying her enameled necklace, brooch, and earrings to best advantage. The jewelry shone in the candlelight—she wouldn’t dare wear it outside the house and risk a mob attacking her for it. “Do you know anyone who has emigrated to America, my dear?”
She only called me dear when she wanted something. She must be talking about a letter. A sliver of excitement shot through me. I sipped some wine deciding whether I should take the bait. Henri was my secret—a secret I wanted to keep—yet I longed for news of him. “A few of the families of the girls I met at the Abbey, like Mademoiselle Jefferson, departed for America.”
“I mean French families.” She smoothed her serviette on her lap.
She used the same sweet voice with Papa when she tried to dissuade him from allowing me to clerk. If she was keeping Henri’s letter from me, she’d use it to control me. I inhaled a steadying breath. “I can’t think of a specific family.”
“Pass your bowl, dear.” She lifted the gilded handle of the Sèvres tureen and dipped a ladle into the steaming soup.
Clad in white linen, the dining table, accommodating eight, was vast and empty without Papa and my two brothers. The older was fighting the Prussians, and five-year-old Auguste, Etty claimed, wasn’t mature enough to dine with adults. When I had children, I intended to dine with them no matter their ages, at every meal. If I had them.
I placed the bowl before her, staring at the intricately painted fox chasing exotic birds that swirled around the tureen’s oval base. The serving dish was as over-embellished as she was. I retrieved my bowl and set it before me.
“Have you heard from anyone in America?” She served herself and replaced the lid.
It had to be a letter from Henri. I gripped my spoon. “No. Have you?”
“I don’t know this Henri who has written. But you must.” She sat back, dancing her fingers along her lace-covered bodice.
I had to act as if I didn’t want the letter. Otherwise, she’d make me grovel to get it. I sat back, imitating Papa’s ennui, and slurped my soup. “There was a clerk in Papa’s office named Henri.”
“This Henri knows you.”
A snarl inched its way up my throat. Had Henri revealed my dressing as a man or attending University in his letter? He wouldn’t be so careless. He knew his letter could be censored—I hoped. “Papa’s clerk wrote you?”
Her high-pitched laughter sounded like a cackling hen. “He did not write me.”
Why was she dragging this out? If Henri had written in English to trick the censors, she wouldn’t be able to read it. She was challenging me, forcing me to admit he’d written to me. “This soup is salty.”
She tasted it and straightened her back. “I shall speak to Agathe about it. I fear she may have omitted the wine. Dear Antoine loves this old family recipe. I shall have her add a glass of wine before he comes home.”
I held back my smile. The soup was perfectly delicious, but I’d made her doubt herself—which was right where I wanted her. If she showed me Henri’s letter, I could snatch it from her in her less confident state.
“Can you not think who this Henri is?” Her voice climbed high as her laughter.
I would not give her a shred of information. I shook my head.
She giggled, like a little girl.
I dug my fingers into the chair and forced a sweet smile. “What is it you really wish to say?”
“Why did Henri not take you with him, Geneviève?”
Her words were as sharp as the guillotine’s blade. I should have braced myself, but it was too late. I would soothe the pain in my chest later. Right now, I would pretend and hope to confuse her. I laughed. “Who would take me where?”
She pulled a letter from beneath her plate and tapped its corner against her chin, her eyes gleeful. “If Henri did not care for you, why would he write about his château?”
Heat raced up my back and spread down my arms. She had read Henri’s letter addressed to me. She had invaded my privacy. If I snatched the letter from her, she might hold it tightly, and it might rip. She would present the torn letter as evidence to my father. “Papa’s former clerk owns a château?”
Her expression soured. “You know perfectly well he does.” She placed the letter on the far side of her plate and took up her spoon. “You are looking a bit peaked, my dear; you should wear a bit of rouge.”
The crimson powder made her look like an old salope. “I could never wear it as well as you do.”
“Why did Henri not take you to America with him?” She made a clucking sound in her throat. “Does Henri not love you?”
I wanted to rake my fingernails across her rouged cheeks. Henri had asked me to go with him. I pictured his last day in Paris and sipped more wine, tasting a bit of mold. Henri’s words clanged in my head. I admire you, your strength, your courage. How could I not love you? But I cannot ask you to marry me. I have nothing to offer you.
Nothing except himself, I thought, and he didn’t think that was enough. Pride had stopped me from telling him that he was enough for me. He’d not said, I love you—not directly—but I regretted not telling him I loved him. I loved him more than anyone.
I pressed the wineglass against my quivering lips. Memories of my days in his arms sped through my mind. But had he ever actually said the word love?
“You did not throw yourself at him, did you, Geneviève?” She frowned.
I wiped my fingers on my serviette, stained from my past week’s meals. Her serviette, no matter how many meals she’d consumed, was as immaculate as an altar cloth. I twisted the fabric, imagining strangling her with it.
A Bible verse played in my mind: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. How strange I should remember it when what was being done to me was unkind. What did she hope to gain?
I smoothed the cloth. If she could get rid of me, she’d have my father all to herself. I could play her game. Another woman might snivel and beg for the letter. But I was a woman who dressed as a man—I did not beg for anything.
“If Henri loved you, surely he would have asked you to marry him.”
I gripped the chair. She was a bitch, a floozy, a whore, a…pouffiasse.
I smiled as I reached for the tureen and ran my finger along its fluted edge. “Reading other people’s mail is disrespectful, Etty.”
“Etty is your father’s pet name for me. Call me, Maman.”
I dragged my fingernail across the painted gold, spraying flecks across the tablecloth.
She placed her spoon upon her plate. “Take your hands off that. It is a priceless family heirloom.”
It wasn’t old enough to be an heirloom. “Is it, Etty?” I inched my thumbnail along a bird’s scarlet wing. A tiny bit of color flecked off. I pinched it up and examined it.
“My mother received it as a wedding gift and gave it to me and your father for our wedding.” Her voice trembled.
I waited for her to tell me she’d give it to me as a wedding gift so I could tell her I’d use it as a chamber pot. “How nice. Reading other people’s mail is rude,” I whispered.
“Parents have every right to protect their children.”
“I am not a child. And you are not really my parent. And you’re not really protecting me, Etty.”
“I am protecting you from becoming a vieille fille. Your father will be most disappointed to hear that you do not accept me as your maman.”
“My maman died.” I scraped my spoon against the hand-painted design at the bottom of the bowl.
She flinched.
“Who do you think he’ll believe?” I smiled sweetly.
“He would never accuse me of lying!”
“He would never accuse me, either.”
She lowered her chin. “He trusts me.”
“He trusts me to work in his office.” My sweet voice sickened me.
“You’ll not be working in his office much longer.” Her smile wavered, but she fluttered the letter. “He will not dispute this evidence.”
I lunged.
The pouffiasse stuffed it down her décolletage. “Your father chose to marry me. He didn’t choose you.”
My pulse pounded. I imagined myself ripping her bodice and seizing the letter, but that would leave evidence she could show Papa. An image of crashing porcelain skittered in my mind.
Without looking at the tureen, I stood and lifted it.
Her arms flew from her bodice. “Put that down!”
“After you give me my letter, I’d be happy to.”
Eyes wide, she stared at me.
I jostled the tureen, rattling its lid.
She pulled the letter from her bodice. “Put the tureen down gently.”
I backed away from her. “Put the letter on the buffet.”
Her face reddened as she sat still as the painted birds.
I took another step backward. “It’s quite heavy.” I exaggerated my shaking, rattling the lid.
She stood and, without taking her eyes off me, backed up to the buffet, and placed the letter on it.
“Now remove the brooch from your gown and place it upon the letter.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Antoine gave me this brooch.”
I shook the tureen, wobbling the lid.
Mouth pinched, she removed the brooch, placed it on the letter, and returned to her chair.
“Sit down.”
She lifted her chin but remained standing.
I pushed the tureen above my head. “This is getting heavy.”
She yanked her chair out and threw herself onto it.
“Lovely. Now, I advise you to stay seated while I place the tureen on the buffet.”
“Of course, my dear.” Her shoulders rounded, making her décolletage wrinkle most unattractively. She resembled a fallen soufflé.
I put the tureen down but lifted the lid and held it in one hand while I retrieved the brooch and letter and shoved them into my hanging pocket.
Etty stood.
“Not yet.” I waggled the lid. “As this letter is no longer in evidence, I suggest, for the safety of all your heirlooms—especially the brooch Papa gave you—that you not mention your invasion of my privacy to my father.” I was enjoying this power over her. “Brooches can so easily be lost.”
I walked to the door and opened it. “I will place the lid upon the floor when you sit down, my dear.”
She clutched the chairback and sat. “Be careful with that priceless heirloom!”
Not wanting the tureen to be damaged—I’d need it to influence her again—I placed the lid gently on the table and slammed the door behind me.
Grasping my cloak, I hurried out into the night in search of a safe place to read my lover’s words.
I ran down the street and stopped. On the next corner, a lamplighter brought his torch to a streetlamp, closed the glass door of the lantern, and moved on to the next. Clutching the letter to my breast, I dashed to the puddle of light spilling onto the street.
The dark green wax seal had been broken. Damn that pouffiasse. But the return address was legible. Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, America. I pressed the letter to my heart. He’s safe. He has a job. He wants me to join him. The paper had been refolded many times. By Henri, the censors, or Etty? The ink was dark, yet the letter edges were soft, and I squinted to read the words.
March 1793
Chère Geneviève,
I write in English with the hope the French censors will not seize this.
Joliette and I arrived in America in late December. We delivered the wine to the merchant in the city of New York and traveled on to the nation’s capital, Philadelphia. Many émigrés and former courtiers, with whom Joliette served at Versailles, have settled here, and we hope these émigrés will assist us in selling more wine. It is a relief to converse in French.
The Americans are welcoming, still grateful to Lafayette, and you would find them agreeably forthright.
Joliette is still grieving the loss of her husband. She and I thank you for your kindness of visiting Guillaume before his execution.
