My Brother's Crown Page 15

  “Very well.” Pulling Valentina close, Grand-Mère turned to go but then paused and looked back at the two servants. “Both of you have worked here all these years, and I feel as if I need to be the one to say this. I understand if you would rather seek employment elsewhere.”

  Cook kept her eyes on the fire. “Are you wanting us to leave, Madame?”

  “Of course not. I do not want trouble for you. That is all.”

  Monsieur Roen stood. “I am staying here.”

  “So am I,” Cook said.

  Grand-Mère nodded in response but did not speak. Then she hurried from the room, no doubt before they could see the tears of gratitude their loyalty had brought to her eyes.

  The dragoons left the house just after sunrise, telling Cook they would be patrolling the other side of the Rhône all day but would be back in time for dinner.

  An hour later Monsieur Roen returned, and Catherine traipsed after Grand-Mère, the crying baby in her arms, into the kitchen. A red-eyed and red-faced young woman stood on the stoop. She was young, perhaps a year or two younger than Catherine.

  “I am here for the job,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “My name is Estelle.”

  “Merci for coming, Estelle. And your bébé?” Grand-Mère said. “Where is she?”

  The girl looked down toward the floor, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. “He,” she whispered.

  “He, then. Did you not bring him with you? Because the two of you will have to move in here for as long as—”

  “He has passed, Madame.”

  Catherine’s heart lurched. Her baby died? She and her grandmother shared a look of consternation.

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” Grand-Mère said, turning back toward the girl. “But perhaps you did not understand correctly. We are looking for a wet nurse.”

  “Oui,” the girl replied, barely audible now. “I am… I can… it just happened, two days ago. It’s not too late.”

  Grand-Mère nodded. “So was it an illness of some kind?” Her tone was gentle, but the question had to be asked.

  The girl shook her head. “He just came too soon, more than a month early. So small, so helpless…” She did not need to go on.

  “I am sorry,” Grand-Mère said again.

  “Oui, Madame,” the girl replied, dabbing at her tears with the hem of her apron as she tried to pull herself together.

  Without another word, Grand-Mère reached out and took Estelle’s hand, pulled her inside, and sat her down at the table. Next, she dished up a bowl of gruel, spread jam on a piece of bread, poured a cup of tea, and then shooed everyone else from the room, including Cook.

  Catherine retreated down the hall to Grand-Mère’s apartment, bouncing the baby as she walked. Amelie sat up in bed, a bowl of untouched gruel on the table beside her. “Is someone here?”

  “Oui, the wet nurse. Grand-Mère is speaking with her now.”

  Amelie sank down into the bed, clearly relieved. Catherine started to add the second bit of news, that the girl’s own baby had died, but she decided to wait for the time being. Valentina was still so tiny. Her mother needed no reminders that all too often babies did not survive.

  For a moment Catherine longed to settle down on the bed across from her beloved cousin and simply talk. There was so much they both needed to catch up on, but the baby was wailing loudly, so Catherine set that notion aside and took the child back out to the hall. She paced up and down, wishing she felt as comfortable as Grand-Mère and Cook seemed with Valentina even when she was crying. The housekeeper made a brief appearance, bustling down the stairs and heading toward the empty study at the end of the hall, but otherwise Catherine was alone with the baby.

  Finally, after what seemed like forever, Grand-Mère came around the corner, followed by the wet nurse, who kept her eyes down as she passed by. Grand-Mère motioned for Catherine to follow, and the three women entered the apartment. Amelie opened her eyes as they stepped into the bedchamber.

  “This is Estelle,” Grand-Mère said.

  Amelie reached for the young woman’s hand. “Merci,” she whispered.

  Grand-Mère retrieved one of her own simple gowns for Estelle and directed her to the washbasin in the corner. After the girl cleaned herself up, Grand-Mère brushed out her light brown hair, pinned it to her head, and then placed a covering on top. No one spoke over the hollering of the baby.

  Finally, Estelle sat down in the chair along the wall and gestured for Valentina. Within moments, the baby’s screams ended so abruptly that they seemed to echo in the silence. Grand-Mère and Catherine both let out a sigh, the smile they shared fading only when they looked over at Estelle and realized she was crying again, the tears rolling down her face even as she nursed the hungry babe.

  Grand-Mère shooed Catherine out of the chamber. “Ask Cook if she needs your help. The kitchen maid quit this morning.” The butler had quit the week before, claiming he was moving to Grenoble. None of them believed him. More likely he wanted to get out of the Huguenot household—and he could not be blamed, not at all.

  Catherine retrieved her cloak in hopes that she could manage to convince Cook to send her on an errand. As she stepped into the hall, she realized the physician had arrived and the footman was leading him her way.

  She curtsied as he greeted her, grateful that the man was finally here. Then she kept going and continued along the corridor to the kitchen, where she found Cook kneading a mound of bread dough with vigor. Outside the open door of the kitchen, Monsieur Roen walked Catherine’s mare. The entire household seemed to have settled back down.

  Catherine took the market basket from the shelf.

  “Non,” Cook said. “It is too dangerous.”

  Catherine reminded her that the dragoons were on the other side of the Rhône for the day. “I cannot stay inside for the rest of my life. Grand-Mère told me to help you, and I know everyone would rather have me do the marketing than the cooking.”

  “Be quick then,” Cook said, rattling off a shopping list and pulling the money from her apron pocket. “I got off to a late start, but I will have the bread baking by the time you get back.”

  As Catherine hurried over the slate of the courtyard, she looked toward the pen outside the stable, into which Monsieur Roen was leading her horse. Catherine missed her riding time, but just a week ago Jules had forbidden her from riding at all, saying it was no longer safe. Perhaps tomorrow she would take over the animal’s care instead.

  For now, she pushed through the door to the street and walked toward the market, slowing at the window of La Boutique de Lyon and squinting into the shop. A girl from the neighborhood examined a bolt of cloth with her mother. A beautiful coral silk. Janetta was nowhere in sight.

  Catherine hurried on until she reached the market, which was located in the shade of Saint-Jean-Baptiste. As she neared the poultry cart, Madame Berger, the pastor’s wife, came around the corner, glancing over her shoulder as she walked.

  “Bonjour,” Catherine called out. “Comment vas-tu?”

  “Très bien,” she answered, again peering over her shoulder.

  “Are you looking for someone?”

  Madame Berger shook her head and whispered, “There is a dragoon at the edge of the market.”

  Catherine rose to her tiptoes but did not see a soldier.

  “Two moved into our home yesterday. They are sleeping in the loft,” the pastor’s wife confided.

  Catherine could not imagine it. The Bergers lived in a small house. As a family of five, they were crowded even without dragoons.

  “I left the boys at home.” The three Berger sons ranged in age from five to nine. “I thought the dragoons were gone for the day, but I just saw one—although I cannot be sure if he is one of the ones staying with us or not.”

  Catherine grabbed her hand, pulling her past the herb seller and a stack of flour bags to the fishmonger. She asked for three of his largest pikes. Then she whispered to Madame Berger, “Where is Pastor today?�
�

  “He had an appointment.”

  A woman cried out across the market as Catherine was paying for the fish. She looked up to see that a dragoon had her by the hand. But then, from across the crowded square, he seemed to spot Catherine—and he let the woman go.

  “He is coming,” Madame Berger said. “But I do not recognize him.”

  Catherine started marching toward the cheese cart. “I do,” she said. It was the drunk one from the night before. She stopped and asked for a wheel of hard cheese. The fromager took her money and handed her the wheel.

  There was another commotion, this time at the fish cart.

  Catherine ducked toward the cathedral.

  “Stop!” the dragoon commanded.

  “Leave me,” Catherine whispered to Madame Berger. “Go on home.”

  The woman glanced at the soldier again. “I am afraid the others may have come back too.”

  “Of course,” Catherine said. “Go home to your sons. Maybe Pastor will be back by now.” Her legs trembled and she grabbed her skirt with her free hand, hoping she sounded braver than she felt. She could not imagine that Madame Berger would be any safer at home. How were they to protect themselves?

  “Go,” she said, pushing against the woman. “You have little ones to think of.”

  Madame Berger obeyed, walking away with her basket still empty, leaving Catherine to fend for herself.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Catherine

  Catherine continued on to the egg cart, pulling the smaller basket from the larger one. Cook had used more eggs than usual recently, and the farmer had not delivered enough. As she stopped, the dragoon rounded the corner on his horse. “There you are.” He sneered at her and then laughed. “Surprised to see me, non?”

  She ignored him and ordered two dozen eggs, passing the basket to the farmer.

  His hands shook as he filled it. When he returned it to her, the dragoon swung his sword up underneath the basket, sending it spiraling into the air, eggs flying in all directions.

  Catherine stepped backward, covering her head with her free arm as the eggs rained down. The horse reared. The farmer hurried to the back of his cart. A woman screamed and shoppers scattered.

  “That will teach you to ignore me.” The dragoon brought his horse back down. He slipped from the saddle, holding tightly onto the reins, his eyes beady in the morning light. “Come here,” he commanded Catherine. She took another step away from him but slipped on a broken egg. She reached for the cart behind her to steady herself but accidentally upset it instead. A mountain of greens fell on top of her as she landed on the ground, her back crashing hard against the toppled cart.

  The dragoon stepped toward her.

  Ignoring her pain, she scampered to her knees and stood, grabbing at her skirt.

  She took a step toward the cathedral.

  “Stop!” the dragoon yelled.

  She hurried on. A peasant moved out of her way, and she stepped into the barrel chest of someone wearing a brown tunic.

  “Catherine.” Father Philippe, with Pastor Berger behind him, put his hands to her shoulders. “What is going on here?” the priest boomed over her head.

  Catherine turned toward the dragoon, who had his sword drawn. He slowly put it back in its scabbard.

  “For the love of God, these are good people.” Father Philippe pulled Catherine behind him and stood face-to-face with the dragoon. “You will treat them with respect.”

  The dragoon spread his feet apart. “I am only following the king’s orders.”

  “No one has ordered for women to be mistreated.”

  The dragoon crossed his arms.

  “You will treat the women of this town as you would the women in your own family. Do I make myself clear?”

  The dragoon glared at the priest.

  “Then I will speak with your superior,” Father Philippe said. “Today.”

  The dragoon’s eyes darkened even more, but he remounted his horse. His beady gaze fell on Catherine, and then he spurred his mount and headed back toward the river.

  “Merci,” Catherine said, going weak in the knees as Pastor Berger stepped to her side and steadied her.

  “Oui,” the priest responded. “Do not come out by yourself anymore. It is not safe.”

  She nodded, finding her footing. “I thought they were gone for the day.”

  “Perhaps they told us that to lure us out,” Pastor Berger said, releasing his hold on her arm.

  She nodded. He was probably correct.

  The farmer began trying to upright his cart. Father Philippe and Pastor Berger stepped forward to help. As they did, Madame Berger appeared and quickly grabbed Catherine’s basket, stuffing the fish and cheese back inside.

  “Go straight home, Catherine. Tell your grandmother what happened. That dragoon is the worst I’ve seen.”

  “Oui,” Catherine said as the men righted the cart. In a lower voice, she added, “Would you believe he is one of the dragoons currently billeted at our home?”

  Madame Berger’s eyebrows raised in alarm. “Vraiment? That’s terrible!”

  With a solemn nod, Catherine bid the woman au revior. As she turned to go, Pastor Berger gestured for her to wait. He stepped close and spoke softly, saying they would not be meeting at the church for the evening’s Good Friday service.

  “We considered meeting at the home of the Talbots, but Pierre’s mother is too afraid,” he added, “so it will be at our house.”

  “But the risk—”

  “The dragoons will be at mass. Father Philippe has assured us of it. They are commanded to go by their captain. We will be safe.”

  Catherine didn’t tell Grand-Mère what had happened, but she and Cook both guessed anyway, thanks to the look of the basket and the egg yolk on her dress, crusted with a bit of shell.

  “I will send Monsieur Roen,” Cook said, sighing. “I need the eggs for the custard.”

  Catherine leaned against the table. “I am sorry.”

  “Non,” Cook said. “What was I thinking to let you go? I heard the talk this morning. They are incorrigible. The worst of them found his way to the wine cellar last night. If he keeps this up, it will be bare in no time.”

  “Oh, dear,” Grand-Mère said. “I will lock it. I never thought of it last night.”

  “He will just make you unlock it later, Madame. It’s probably better to let it be.”

  Grand-Mère shook her head but then stopped. “You may be right. Tell the footman to move the best of it into the root cellar, and we will water down the rest.”

  Cook grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

  Catherine shook her head and walked out of the kitchen with Grand-Mère toward the corridor. “What did the physician say?”

  “He thinks the illness Amelie had soon after the baby was born was scarlet fever. Even though the infection is gone now, it may have damaged her heart. If she is not better in the next week, he will consider bloodletting, but he said with rest she may heal on her own.”

  Catherine hoped it would not come to that, but she knew the physician would only do it if he needed to.

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Just that we should have an idea in a week or so how she will fare in the long run.”

  “What about the baby? Did she have scarlet fever too?”

  Grand-Mère shook her head. “Probably not. According to him, babies don’t often get it, thankfully. He said Valentina is malnourished, but he thinks she will be fine once she gains more weight.”

  The two women stepped into the apartment to find Estelle resting on the chaise lounge in the sitting area. They passed through the room quietly and quickly.

  In the bedchamber, the baby was tucked beside a sleeping Amelie, the drapes around the bed pulled back to let in fresh air. Flames roared in the fireplace, making the room almost unbearably hot.

  “Ah, peace,” Catherine whispered, quickly taking off her cloak.

  “Momentarily,” Grand-Mère responde
d.

  Catherine relayed Pastor Berger’s words about the Good Friday service. Amelie stirred. Catherine lowered her voice even more. “I will stay here so you can go.”

  Grand-Mère shook her head. “You will go.”

  Catherine nodded. She hadn’t expected her grandmother to leave Amelie. She certainly could do without the dragoons in the house, but she was enjoying the camaraderie of staying in Grand-Mère’s room with Amelie and now Estelle too.

  Catherine took her covering from her head and shook out her hair. “Perhaps this would be a good time to write to Suzanne.” She sat down at the desk and then glanced up at her grandmother. “What should I tell her?”

  Grand-Mère put her hand to her chin. “Say I hope to go see her. I know it has been years, but she is still a dear friend. Maybe she will be able to help us.”

  Her eyes met Catherine’s and they shared a look of anticipation mixed with concern.

  “Such a trip would depend on Amelie’s recovery, of course,” Grand-Mère continued. “And the dragoons… I will not leave if I think that would put Amelie and Estelle at risk.”

  “Of course not,” Catherine murmured.

  “I suppose… tell her about Amelie and the baby, and that I must wait to decide about traveling until Amelie is well. Write that if I can travel I am not sure who would come with me. Say that I need to speak with her about… our current situation.”

  Catherine nodded, taking a feather from the jar on the desk and running it along her cheek. Then she began to sharpen the quill with her small knife.

  “Tell her I would like her advice.” Grand-Mère sat in the chair next to the desk. Catherine met her gaze. “If I cannot come in the next few weeks, I will put the matter in a letter, but I would much rather speak to her in person.”

  Catherine set down the feather and opened the bottle of ink.

  “Add more. Make it interesting. Your letters bring her joy.”

  Suzanne had lost her husband the year before, and it clearly warmed Grand-Mère’s heart to know that Catherine’s letters comforted her friend.

  Grand-Mère stood and turned toward the bed. “After you are finished with Suzanne’s letter, write to my brother in Paris and tell him I am considering a trip—nothing more.” Grand-Mère yawned then, her eyes watering a little. “I am going to rest while the baby sleeps,” she said. “There is a reason God gives newborns to the young and not to the old.” A few minutes later, she was on the other side of Amelie, tucked under the covers too.