My Brother's Crown Page 10

  “Go on.”

  “It’s to me.”

  Grand-Mère smiled. “Of course it is.” She paused. “Well, are you going to read it?”

  Catherine lowered her head again. “ ‘Ma petite Catherine, convince your grandmother to make the trip and bring you with her. It will be worth it to all of you. You are a woman now. I would like nothing more than to have a chance to meet you and see what you have to offer.’ ”

  Grand-Mère frowned.

  “What does she mean?” Catherine asked, folding the letter.

  “Suzanne is known for her matchmaking. She may have someone in mind for you, which is a ridiculous thought.”

  Catherine returned the letter to its envelope. Ridiculous, oui, but she could not help but be flattered.

  “A trip to Paris is a lovely idea, but now is not a time for the frivolities of travel,” Grand-Mère pronounced with finality, taking the envelope and placing it on the desk. “I am sure my old friend knows that.”

  “Now is exactly the time,” Catherine replied emphatically, hoping her enthusiasm did not come across as disrespect. “Absolument. This visit with Suzanne must happen as soon as possible.”

  “Oh?” Grand-Mère lifted an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

  “So you can ask her to help us.”

  “How could she possibly help?”

  “By securing passage for our family to London.”

  Grand-Mère pursed her lips. “It’s not safe. Refugees are being murdered on the beaches. Those who make it into a boat are killed crossing the Channel.”

  “Only some of them,” Catherine said. “Many refugees have arrived on England’s shores unharmed.”

  Grand-Mère’s eyes filled with tears. “Still, the risk is too great,” she whispered.

  “Then perhaps Suzanne could make the dragoons leave us alone here.”

  Grand-Mère shook her head. “Suzanne knows the king, but she does not have that sort of favor. In fact, you might say she is one of his least favorite people and has been for many years.”

  Catherine blinked. “I don’t understand. How can she be a member of the court without the approval of the king?”

  “Many years ago, when the king was much younger, she opposed him in a matter of… propriety… which he greatly resented. He had her removed from court, but the Queen Mother implored him to bring her back. Which he did, eventually.”

  “Oh,” Catherine said, hoping for more details but knowing not to ask.

  “Yet… perhaps there is a chance Suzanne could help us,” Grand-Mère added. “A slight one.”

  “It’s worth a try. We both know that if things continue to get worse, we may have no choice but to flee to another country.”

  Grand-Mère’s eyes filled with fresh tears as she struggled with that notion. “I do not want to leave France.”

  “So you would have us relocate to the Plateau instead? It may still be France, but it’s in the middle of nowhere. You would be miserable there, Grand-Mère, just as I would. You grew up in Paris, not in the wilds. You need to be in a city, even if that city is somewhere other than France.”

  “Oui. You and I are both used to all a city has to offer.”

  “Besides, there are likely dragoons there too—or, if not already, eventually there will be. Why go to the trouble of relocating to the Plateau now if we will only be forced to flee again later?”

  Grand-Mère dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “I agree. But do not worry. No one is considering the Plateau as an option.”

  Catherine blinked. “Non? Then why is Jules negotiating the purchase of a paper mill in Le Chambon?”

  Grand-Mère’s eyes widened. “What?”

  Catherine’s head jerked back. “I thought you knew. Monsieur Audet and his son, the makers of the paper we like so much, were at the shop today, discussing a sale with Jules.”

  Grand-Mère’s face grew pale. “Non.”

  “Oui.”

  “To live on the Plateau…” She paused. “I have never been, of course, but from what I understand it is a desolate and lonely place.”

  Catherine nodded. As a child the rugged landscape of that area held a certain appeal for her, but she could not fathom living there as an adult. There were far better places to relocate. She’d been twelve when she visited the village of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon, situated in a mountainous region southwest of Lyon known as the Plateau, where her mother and aunt were from. The purpose was to see the property Maman’s father, who had recently died, had left to Jules. Together Papa, Uncle Edouard, Amelie, Jules, and Catherine had traveled by horseback. That part had been a grand adventure, but once they got there, she had not been impressed by the provincial village at all—especially not when she learned how much snow fell in the region in the winter. Mostly, it had made her sad to be where her mother had grown up and even sadder not to remember her, except for the one image. Everyone else spoke about Maman and her sister nonstop, all while Catherine listened in miserable silence, longing to return to Lyon and Grand-Mère.

  “Do you not think London would be a better place to settle?” Catherine asked now. “Perhaps we could make our way to La Rochelle and find a ship there instead of going north and trying to cross at the Channel.”

  Shaking her head, Grand-Mère placed her hand on the desk and leaned against it. “I cannot imagine leaving my homeland. Surely the family name of Gillet will protect us here.”

  Catherine felt just as sure it would not, but she held her tongue. Certainly, the Gillet name would have made no difference to the dragoons who had followed her earlier.

  “All I know is that the point may come when we have no choice but to move, wherever that move will be. That’s why I must rescue Amelie right away. If Jules whisks us off while she is still at the convent, she will never be able to find us should she ever get out.”

  Grand-Mère was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps we do need to get Amelie,” she said, the closest she had come to admitting what likely lay ahead for them all.

  Relief flooded through Catherine.

  “As for Suzanne,” Grand-Mère continued, “write her back for me.”

  “I will tell her we hope to come soon.”

  “We?” Grand-Mère fixed her eyes on her granddaughter. “You certainly cannot go with me. Paris is no place for you, much less Versailles.”

  Catherine’s heart fell. “And why is that?”

  “Too many temptations.”

  Catherine shook her head. “You know I would not do anything immoral.”

  “Not even covet?” Grand-Mère asked. “You have that tendency you know, to be drawn toward the nicer things. You always have.”

  Catherine’s cheeks flushed with heat as she remembered her thoughts just a short while ago at Janetta’s boutique. Grand-Mère knew her so well. “I promise I will not. I am content with how we live, truly I am.”

  Grand-Mère’s eyes narrowed as she leaned forward and studied her granddaughter. Straightening her shoulders, Catherine tried to return her gaze with quiet confidence, fully aware that the woman would never take her along if she believed such a trip might endanger her soul.

  “Will you consider it, at least? Please? I’m not a little girl anymore, Grand-Mère. I know the dangers of bright and beautiful things. But that is all they are. Things. I prefer to store up my treasures in heaven. And I would never be interested in whatever young man Suzanne might think would be a match for me. I am committed to Pierre.” Even if he was annoying her right now.

  Grand-Mère considered her a moment longer and then finally gave a nod. “Bien. I will ask your brother.”

  “Merci,” Catherine whispered, knowing he would not like the idea but grateful that her grandmother was willing to ask.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Catherine

  Hours later, when Catherine left home again, she wore an old cloak over a simple dress and apron, with a maid’s cap covering her head. Clouds had rolled in over the hills and hung heavily above the city. She hurried towa
rd the river, thankful that the dragoons were nowhere in sight. When she reached the Saint Vincent Bridge, she stopped for a moment. There was no rag cart on the other side. Perhaps Eriq had parked on a different street.

  She kept going, pausing again at the end of the bridge, unsure as to what to do next. Going to the print shop was not an option. Jules would stop her.

  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.