My Brother's Crown Read online

  Catherine sighed, so weary of modesty and simplicity. She thought of the splendid stained-glass windows and statues in the cathedral and could not believe God wanted her to live such a drab existence in comparison. What was the point of being French, of living in the most elegant country in the world, if she could not dress fashionably?

  Of course, as soon as the question popped into her mind she felt bad about it. She also realized she was still standing on the street, gazing in wonder at the beautiful gown on the other side of the window. Even amid potential danger, the fact that she could be completely stopped by the sight of finery was shameful. Good thing Grand-Mère had not been with her, she told herself as she turned away, or the woman would have recited Bible verses to her about the love of money and the root of all evil.

  Catherine was nearly to the end of the block when she heard what sounded like several horses clip-clopping together along the upcoming side street. Her view was blocked by a building on the corner, and she could not see who it was, but fearing it might be dragoons, she quickly backtracked to the boutique and dashed inside. Shifting her stack of paper to her other arm, she took a deep breath and told herself to calm down.

  “May I help you?”

  Catherine turned to see her friend Janetta holding a bolt of satin in her hand, her blond hair piled atop her head, her blue eyes bright.

  “Bonjour,” Catherine said in relief at the sight of a familiar face. “When did you get back?”

  Janetta stared at her, blinking. “Excusez-moi?”

  Catherine took a step toward her friend, only then remembering her veil. The moment she reached up and pulled it from her face, Janetta’s demeanor changed.

  “Ah, Catherine! Bonjour! I’m sorry. I did not recognize you in those clothes.” Janetta moved forward and greeted her with a kiss.

  The clatter of horses’ hooves startled Catherine, and her head jerked toward the window. Three young men went racing by, shouting at each other in fun. The sound that had driven her inside had not come from dragoons after all.

  She turned back toward Janetta and tried not to seem flustered as she added, “Did you have a good trip?”

  “Oui. London was wonderful.” It was Janetta’s third visit to England with her father, who was a silk merchant. “You would love it there. It doesn’t compare to Paris, but at least there are not these hostilities against Protestants. You could probably live a normal life for a change.”

  Catherine couldn’t help but smile. Janetta always said exactly what she thought.

  “And the meals were much better than they used to be. They are adopting more and more of our food. Salades. Ragoûts. Fricassées. And fresh fruits and vegetables are finally becoming popular in England—all because of the French influence, of course.”

  Catherine smiled again.

  The young woman kept talking. “The fashions are not Parisian. They are a year behind at least, but still they appreciate good fabric. There is hope for them yet.”

  Now Catherine could not help but laugh. “Oui, but is there hope for me?”

  Janetta sighed, but then she smiled. “There is always hope for you. In fact, you look rather nice today.”

  “I was posing as a Catholic girl for my uncle’s funeral.”

  Janetta’s smile faded. “Oh, I am sorry. I heard he passed. How is Amelie?”

  Tears stung Catherine’s eyes. “I don’t know. She wasn’t there.”

  Before she could say more, someone from the back room called out Janetta’s name, probably her aunt who ran the shop, overseeing the tailors who worked for them.

  “Oh, dear,” Janetta said. “I had better go.” She held up the satin. “We are deciding on what fabrics to carry for summer. Then it’s on to Rome in September. Father says it would be too hot to travel any sooner. He’s going to start trading Italian silk along with the Lyonnaise. Everyone is asking for it. Business keeps getting better and better.”

  “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” With a another kiss, Catherine bid her friend au revoir and stepped back out to the street, her heart heavy as she resumed her walk toward home.

  As a Catholic, Janetta was able to live a life Catherine could not. And while she was truly happy for her friend, she had to admit that she coveted the girl’s freedom. Her adventures. Her clothes. All of it.

  Immediately, thoughts of Grand-Mère again came to mind. If she were here at the moment, she would quote from the Scriptures, A sound heart is the life of the flesh: but envy the rottenness of the bones. Catherine said the familiar verse to herself instead, trying to push envy aside and focus on the idea of London—not as a place of business, but one of refuge.

  Perhaps that was where her family and the Talbots should move, Catherine decided. As Janetta said, in London, being Protestant would not be a problem at all. They would simply join the other Huguenot refugees who were already there and live among them, free of harassment.

  They could open a print shop, and she and Pierre could finally be married. It couldn’t be that complicated to immigrate. They all spoke English. And London was a city, far, far larger than Lyon and infinitely bigger and better than the Plateau. Having grown up in Paris, Grand-Mère was a city girl at heart. She would be happy there. So would Catherine.

  True, leaving France would be painful, but the sooner they went the better. And at least London was more sophisticated than Switzerland or Germany, or the New World, or any other place Huguenots were fleeing to. People were leaving so often that on any given day another Huguenot home was found abandoned, its occupants having slipped away under cover of darkness. Had they obliged the king’s command to abandon their faith, they could have stayed. Many Huguenots, Uncle Edouard included, had done just that. But Catherine would never convert, no matter what, and neither would any of her loved ones.

  It was not until she crossed the street a block away from the family home on rue Juiverie that the dragoons reappeared, taking her by surprise. With a gasp, she ducked into the boulangerie and quickly secured the comb in her hair. Then she draped the lace of the veil back over her eyes and approached the counter, ordering baguettes from the baker. Wishing to stall for a moment, she pretended to search for a coin in her purse, keeping her back to the window.

  When her order was filled and paid for and she could delay no longer, she reluctantly left the shop, glancing up the street to see one lone dragoon still there, sitting on his horse. Before she could react, he raised his firearm as if in greeting and then turned and rode away.

  Puzzled, she stood there for a long moment. Then she heard a commotion and turned to see that the other dragoons were now at the cobbler’s shop down the block, harassing the owner, a friend and fellow church member at the Temple de Lyon. Catherine said a quick prayer for him and then hurried away in the opposite direction, toward home, her mind returning to the odd gesture of the dragoon.

  Why had he not pursued her?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Catherine

  As Catherine neared their home, she found herself trying to empathize with her brother, who seemed to hold on so tightly to it. It took up an entire block. Inside the stone wall were the house, a stable, and a courtyard with a beautiful old chestnut tree.

  Instead of going around to the front, she tried the wide gate that led to the stables. It was locked. Grasping the stack of paper in her left hand, she banged the bronzed doorknocker against the sheet of brass with her right, hoping Monsieur Roen would hear. He did—immediately. One side of the big double door creaked as it swung open.

  “I hoped it would be you,” he said, his pale blue eyes smiling. He waited for her to enter and then secured the door before heading back toward the stables. He had worked for Catherine’s family as coachman for as long as she could remember.

  She took off her veil as she passed under the golden-green leaves of the chestnut tree and stopped for a moment, overcome with relief at being safe within her family compound at last.

  She loved this house as well as the farm. The country pr
operty had been passed down from baron to baron until four generations ago when her great-great-grandfather chose to move into town. He studied the law and became the mayor of Lyon, a distinction that would have made the family nobility if they had not been already. True, the title of baron was not as high as count or marquis or duke, but it had afforded the family privileges and distinction for centuries, not to mention resources. Once he’d become mayor, he’d acquired this land on rue Juiverie and built the original structure. Everyone in Lyon knew of it.

  His son, Catherine’s great-grandfather, also studied the law and had added to the house, creating a rambling mansion and elegant gardens. He’d been the one to convert to the teachings of Jean Calvin soon after his comrade King Henri IV issued the Edict of Nantes, a grand gesture that guaranteed religious liberties to Protestants. Catherine’s great-grandfather ventured to Henri’s court several times and continued to gain favor with the king as well as the people of Lyon. All in all, peace and prosperity reigned regardless of faith.

  Over time, the family had become used to city life, so eventually her grandfather, who bucked family tradition by not studying the law, instead partnered with the Talbot family and started a printing business. A caretaker was hired to oversee the farming of the country estate. That was where Catherine used to go riding, and every morning milk, butter, and eggs were delivered to the house from the farm.

  She left the tree and walked to the well in the corner of the courtyard closest to the kitchen. Placing her things on a nearby table, she washed her hands in a basin of water.

  Sighing, she acknowledged to herself that it would be hard to leave this all behind. And Grand-Mère was right—it was not just their family who would suffer. All of the poor families, Protestant and Catholic alike, for whom Grand-Mère regularly provided food, clothing, and medicine, would miss her care. Grand-Mère often quoted a particular Scripture from Proverbs when it came to her work, saying, He that giveth unto the poor shall not lack: but he that hideth his eyes shall have many a curse. Catherine knew most of those living in poverty, and she often worked alongside Grand-Mère—though, she feared, with not nearly as much grace.

  Jules was right too. It was not just their family who would be cast off into a new life—it was all of their employees as well. At the farm. In the house. At the shop.

  Catherine sighed again. Jules had accused her of being simplistic. That was not true. Though their departure from Lyon would be a hardship for those who were dependent upon them, they still needed to get themselves to safety. If they were imprisoned or dead, they would be of no use to anyone. How could she make her brother—and Pierre, for that matter—understand?

  She dried her hands on the cloth left beside the basin and then ran it over her face and neck to take off the dust of the day. It was a few years ago that Louis XIV, disregarding his grandfather’s pledge to the Huguenots, began to slowly reverse the Edict of Nantes, although he had not revoked it outright—at least not yet. But almost everyone felt it was merely a matter of time. Property was being seized from Huguenots in the south, and men had been arrested and sent to the galleys. Families were being torn apart. So far, in Lyon, only Amelie’s husband, Paul, had been murdered, but more killings were bound to happen.

  Catherine stepped into the empty kitchen and put the baguettes on the center table. A pot hung over the fire, and the hearty smell of boiling meat filled the room. A basket filled with bread, herbs, cheese, and vegetables sat on a side table. Grand-Mère had not made her deliveries yet.

  Catherine left the kitchen and headed down the hallway, all the way around to her grandmother’s appartement.

  “Grand-Mére?” she asked, tapping on the door.

  “Is that you, ma petite fille?”

  “Oui.” Catherine pushed open the door and stepped inside. Grand-Mère was there in the sitting room at her desk, past the settee and chaise lounge.

  She turned toward her granddaughter. “Where have you been all this time? I was worried sick.” Grand-Mère squinted as she spoke. Her eyesight was growing worse. For a time a pair of spectacles had helped, but in the last year the problem was from the clouding of her eyes and could not be corrected.

  “I took a detour across the river.”

  Grand-Mère shook her head. “Catherine, why?”

  “I wanted to ask Jules to help me bring Amelie home.”

  Grand-Mère folded her hands in her lap and met Catherine’s gaze. “And?”

  “He said he would not. As did Pierre, though Eriq agreed to help me.”

  “Non, chérie.” Grand-Mère sighed. “That will not do.”

  Catherine wrinkled her nose, wanting to challenge her grandmother but remaining silent.

  “You know it is forbidden for you to go to the shop. Did you apologize to your brother for disobeying him?”

  “Uncle Edouard is gone. There is no reason for me not to go anymore.”

  “That is not what I asked.”

  Catherine shook her head and put her stack of paper on the edge of the desk.

  “Then you must apologize to Jules.”

  Catherine could not think of anything worse—at least not at the moment.

  Grand-Mère was adamant. “You must ask your brother’s forgiveness when he gets home.”

  Catherine knew God commanded that children honor their parents—or guardian in this case—no matter if he was right or wrong. So she said with a sigh, “I will.” And then, because she couldn’t help it, she added, “But he shouldn’t be so unreasonable. It wouldn’t surprise me if he decided to convert to save himself, just like Uncle.”

  Grand-Mère clucked her tongue. “Edouard did what he thought he needed to do for all of us.”

  “Well, he was wrong to do it.”

  “Catherine.” The disappointment in her grandmother’s voice was humbling.

  She blushed. She had not meant to be disrespectful to her uncle—and on the day of his funeral, no less.

  “Did the dragoons bother you?”

  Catherine shrugged. “Some. I wish they would be called back to Paris.”

  “They are not all from Paris. I have heard the newer ones are from around here.”

  “The king should be embarrassed. And so should his church. What happened to common decency? And freedom?”

  “Oui, the king is responsible. But not everyone in the church. Many are ashamed by what is going on.”

  “Who?”

  “Father Philippe, for one.”

  Catherine already knew that. “Who else?”

  Grand-Mère picked up an envelope from her desk. “Suzanne.”

  “A letter came?”

  “Oui.”

  Catherine wrote regularly to Duchesse de Navailles on Grand-Mère’s behalf. Sometimes she added a few words of her own as well, which the duchesse seemed to enjoy. Long ago, back when the king’s father was young, both Suzanne and Grand-Mère’s parents had been members of the court, and the two girls were close in age and had become friends. Suzanne’s father was a duke, his title passed down through his family for generations, while Grand-Mère’s grandfather had been knighted after having done some extensive legal work for Louis XIII. When Suzanne’s mother fell ill, she stayed with Grand-Mère and her family and the girls had formed a close bond.

  Suzanne married the Duc of Navailles, had seven children, and remained active in the court for many years. Her mother was the godmother of Madame de Maintenon, Louis XIV’s current favourite, and had in fact been the one who introduced the two of them in the first place.

  Though Catherine abhorred the king because of his treatment of the Huguenots, stories of Paris intrigued her, as much as did high fashion or the pageantry of the church. Letters with Suzanne were the closest she had ever come to any kind of court experience, even though her family was nobility.

  “I will read it to you,” Catherine said, taking the letter and sitting down in the chair on the other side of the desk. It began with a warm greeting to Grand-Mère and an inquiry about her health. Aft
er that, Catherine continued on with the next paragraph, keeping her voice deep and rich in an attempt to imitate what she imagined Suzanne’s sounded like.

  “ ‘I have been at Versailles for the last couple of weeks and will remain here for several months. All is well with His Majesty and even better with Madame de Maintenon. Yvonne, you should come to visit me at Versailles. It has been years since you have been to Paris. I know your brother would want you to stay with him. In fact, I saw Laurent last night and he said as much. We both agree you should bring your dear petite fille as well.’ ” Catherine smiled, pleased that the invitation had also been extended to her.

  “Continue,” Grand-Mère said.

  “ ‘As for your son… ’ ” Catherine’s voice trailed off at the mention of her late uncle, not just because of his death but also because Suzanne had never been told of his conversion to Catholicism. Too complicated to explain had been Grand-Mère’s response when Catherine had asked if she should write about it last year. The fact that Grand-Mère had left the Catholic church to become a Huguenot had always been a sore point with Suzanne. Perhaps Grand-Mère believed the woman would interpret Edouard’s conversion as a victory for all who shared the king’s opinions about religion—including Suzanne.

  “Tell her about Edouard when you respond,” Grand-Mère directed now, interrupting her thoughts. “Just that he died.”

  Catherine nodded and then started at the beginning of the sentence again. “ ‘As for your son, be sure he comes too for protection along the road. I am also enclosing a letter of passage for your coach that a captain of His Majesty’s soldiers assures me will bring you here safely.’ ” Catherine flipped to the second page. It was the letter of passage.

  She turned back again and continued reading. “ ‘I treasure your friendship and long to see you. Write back as soon as you know when you will be coming to Paris. There is no need for you to await my reply. Once you have arrived, send word with the exact date you plan to visit Versailles, which is only three hours away, and I will be here to greet you with open arms. Your loving friend, Suzanne.’ ” Catherine looked up. “There’s a postscript.”