Naomi Rawlings - Sanctuary for a Lady

“Well, Michel.” Narcise shifted, the saddle creaking under his weight. “We wanted to let you know Joseph Le Bon’s said to be coming this way.”

Michel wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The représentative en mission from the Convention. Great. He’d attended federalists meetings for more than a year now, and rather than sell his grain at the low price Paris demanded, he’d hid last year’s wheat in a lean-to in the woods. Now he could be guillotined for both—not to mention harboring an aristocrat. “When?”

“Don’t know.” Narcise puffed his chest. “Citoyen Le Bon’s supposedly had a few gangs of soldiers roaming this part of Picardy for a couple weeks, collecting accusations and ferreting out federalists and royalists.”

Was that what happened to the girl? Had soldiers, rather than a gang of robbers, found her? He should’ve asked. “Not to mention the grain hoarders.”

“Half the village didn’t sell their grain last year,” Father Albert said mildly, but then, it wasn’t Father Albert’s life in question. “No one could afford to with the price controls.”

Michel took a step closer, his eyes steady on Narcise’s. “The federalist meetings. Are the others…have they… Do we have an understanding?”

“No one who attended can afford to talk. That’s why we’re making these rounds. And I’ve not heard accusations from outsiders.”

“Doesn’t mean accusers won’t come once Le Bon rolls his guillotine into town.”

“Burn your wheat, Michel,” Narcise directed.

“Burn it! I’d’ve been better off selling it last fall.”

“Is one harvest worth your life? I can’t protect you if they search your property and find grain.”

“You can’t protect me, anyway,” Michel muttered.

“I aim to keep things under control. I won’t stand for foolish accusations. I’m still mayor here, and we’ll not have any Terror in these parts.”

“Le Bon’s from the Convention. You go blathering about how you have authority as mayor, and yours’ll be the first head to roll.”

“I won’t watch my friends die for something they haven’t done.”

“That’s the problem, Narcise. As far as the radicals are concerned, everyone in Abbeville’s done something.” Michel blew out a breath, wiped his sweaty hands on his thighs and resigned himself to what was coming. “I’m here if you need a hand.”

“We just wanted to warn you, son.” Father Albert raised his brow, concern etched across his face. “We can’t stop the Terror from coming.”

Michel slid his eyes shut and pictured Isabelle lying in the woods. “Something tells me the Terror’s already come.”

* * *

“Look at this one,” Jeanette exclaimed. Yet another child’s shirt—or what Isabelle thought was a child’s shirt—hung proudly between Jeanette’s hands. The garment sported three prominent patches, none of which matched either one another or the color of the shirt.

Isabelle settled back into the pillows of the bed and twisted a lock of hair. The smile plastered on her face turned genuine under the older woman’s enthusiasm. “You mended that one, too?”

Jeanette had been showing off the clothes she mended for the children’s orphanage since she walked inside a quarter hour ago.

“Fixed the shirt all up, I did. Those orphans need good shirts.” Jeanette raised her chin and puffed out her chest despite her short, frail body.

How different Jeanette appeared from her own mother’s tall, regal build.

Jeanette absently patted the side of her hair, which was done up in a sloppy knot of sorts. A few strands of graying brown came loose, as though she’d napped and not set her hair to rights.

Mère never had a hair out of place but her maid rushed to fix it. Mère never sewed an old garment but embroidered only the most delicate of handkerchiefs. And yet, the lines around Jeanette’s and Mère’s faces when they smiled at her, the concern in their eyes when they suspected something wrong, the gentle touch of their hands against her brow when they checked for fever, couldn’t be more similar.

“Michel and Father Albert love my donations. Figure it’s the best way for me to give back to the Good Lord. Why, He’s given me so much, I can’t help but return His goodness.”

Given Jeanette so much. Isabelle couldn’t help the longing for her mother, or the despair that flickered to life in her belly. From talking to Jeanette, Isabelle knew Michel owned enough land to make a decent living. They had a separate stable for their animals and thus no need to share their living quarters with the smelly beasts as so many farmers did. And they owned beautiful furniture, though she wondered how they obtained it.

A decade ago, she never would have called this small cottage and the surrounding farmland a blessing from God. Now these simple peasants possessed more than she did. She should have been grateful all those years ago, for the château and servants, the opulent food and dress, and her family. She lived in luxury while Michel and Jeanette and others like them struggled to get by. And now Jeanette’s Good Lord had reversed the situation. He’d stripped away all she held dear and still wouldn’t answer her prayers. She’d prayed the night she’d been attacked, and the soldiers still caught her and beat her and left her for dead.

But they hadn’t killed her.

Could that have been an answer to her prayer?

Bien sûr que non. What kind of a God let His child suffer all manner of humiliation and deprivation and torture before finally sparing her life? Michel’s finding her had been luck more than God. She could surely get to Saint-Valery-sur-Somme without more help from heaven.

“And my Michel’s so kind,” Jeanette prattled on, still chattering about her sewing for the orphans. “He won’t even let me mend his clothes. After they wear through, he says he’d rather I cut them up to make clothing for orphans.”

Isabelle couldn’t help but arch her brow and smile. No sane person could desire to go out in public wearing garments “mended” in such manner. “How charitable.”

“One of his shirts will make two or three for the orphans, he’s so large.”

Yes. He was large, indeed. She shoved the image of his powerful body from the night before out of her head before it could take root.

Jeanette fiddled with the shirt she held. “Fixing up clothes for the orphans started as a little hobby, it did, while my Charles was still alive. Now that he’s gone, it’s all I…” Jeanette’s shoulders shuddered. “That is…it makes me feel useful, I suppose.”

Isabelle’s heart caught. Surely this gentle creature didn’t doubt she was helpful. “Oh, Jeanette, you are most invaluable. I’m sure your work is important to the children, and I know how much your benevolence has meant to me.” Uncomfortable, she looked down and fidgeted with the handkerchief she’d been embroidering. “The orphans, you know, they’ve nothing at all. At least I have your kindness, and…”

What had she besides Jeanette’s kindness? Certainly not Michel’s favor. Or her passage money to England.

Moisture welled in her eyes. Certainly not her parents and brother. Certainly not the God whom she had spent her childhood worshiping, the God who allowed her family to be killed by a mob of peasants. And certainly not Marie, whom she had killed. Isabelle closed her eyes against the onslaught of guilt, but she couldn’t stop her hand from trembling or a tear from cresting.

At least she was alive. Why had God thought to spare her life, but not Marie’s? Not her family’s?

Jeanette moved to sit on the bedside, took Isabelle’s hand and patted it. “There, there. We’ll take care of you, we will. You needn’t cry.”