Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
A quick examination revealed the frustrating situation: there was a break in two of the spokes on one wheel.
It wasn’t so bad that they couldn’t keep going, but he also didn’t know how long the wheel would last or if it could endure further jarring.
These roads were rough, as evidenced by the very break he was assessing.
He made another circuit of the wagon, looking for more damage. Thankfully, he didn’t find any. They were in a tough spot, but they weren’t entirely sunk. He came back around to his side of the wagon, ready to climb back up, when he realized Céleste was sitting up and watching him.
“What did you find?” she asked.
“Broken wheel spokes. I don’t know that we can trust them overly long.”
She looked alert despite the lingering effects of sleep in her expression. “Should we look for another inn?”
“We’ve only been on the road for an hour at most. At the rate we’re going, it will take us a week to reach the coast.” Aldric did his best not to let his frustration sit too heavy in his voice.
Adèle was watching him every bit as closely as her aunt was.
He switched to English. “We don’t have enough money for a week’s worth of stays in inns.
And I suspect this”—he motioned in the direction of the broken wheel—“will have to be repaired, which is another expense.”
The gravity of the situation was not lost on Céleste, but she also didn’t crumble. “Have you noticed anyone following us?”
He shook his head. “Adèle and I decided that you needed to sleep this morning. So we didn’t wake you.”
Céleste looked to Adèle. She switched back to French. “Thank you for letting me sleep.”
“You were tired,” Adèle said.
“I feel much better now.” She glanced down at herself. “Though I’m a rumpled mess.”
“We all are.” Aldric helped her climb down.
“There are flowers at tonton Aldric’s house in England.” Adèle spoke with palpable excitement.
Uncle Aldric. He’d not asked her to call him that; he’d never even suggested it. But he hoped she never stopped.
“And he has a room with windows that has a garden inside,” Adèle continued. “That garden has flowers. One of the flowers is called—” Her brow furled. She made a valiant effort at the English words. “Love a fist.”
It was all Aldric could do not to laugh. He didn’t want to discourage her.
With a smile and a gentle tone, he said, “It’s called love-in-a-mist, ma petite douce.”
As she took her place on the bench beside her niece, Céleste said, “I’m not familiar with that flower.”
“It is a rare one. My mother was fond of it.” He had planted it in the conservatory at Norwood Manor specifically because of its connection to her. “The varieties I have at Norwood are blue and purple. The blue is supposed to be symbolic of freedom and seeking growth.”
“What is the purple variety symbolic of?” Céleste asked.
It was the symbolism of the purple that had led him to choose it for his conservatory in the first home that he’d been able to call his own.
“It represents the possibility that something can be either one’s saving grace or one’s downfall, either a source of healing or poison.
” The purple love-in-a-mist ought to have been featured prominently on the Benick family crest. “The flower is meant to be a hopeful but hesitant warning.”
He made his way back to his side of the wagon.
“Is it a beautiful flower?” Céleste asked.
“It is.” He sat and took hold of the reins once more. “The leaves all around it are almost like lace. And the blooms are star-shaped, made of row upon row of delicate petals. It’s stunning but also . . . ethereal.”
She smiled at him. “Little wonder your mother loved it.”
“She also understood it,” he said. “Healing or poison. I think life often felt that way to her.” It was more than he’d meant to say. He scolded himself for shifting what had been an enjoyable conversation into something so heavy. “Let’s see if we can find an inn and have these repairs made.”
As they continued on, Adèle asked a great many questions about the flowers at his house. He was grateful they would be returning there in the summer while the flowers would still be blooming.
He went slow as they wound their way down the road, paying attention to the catch-and-pull of the wagon and carefully navigating over any ruts or bumps he saw.
All the while, he watched the road behind them for signs of anyone following them.
He saw no one. It was the strangest thing, knowing they were running from legitimate pursuers but never actually seeing them.
Despite the care he was taking, the wagon felt worse the longer they drove.
He didn’t actually know how much farther they could get before they would be in dire circumstances.
When he spied what appeared to be a humble farm at a distance, he launched into a great internal debate.
Ought he to try his luck there? Most farmers knew how to repair vehicles; their livelihood depended on it.
But few were equipped to accommodate travelers, and he had no way of knowing if the people he would find there were trustworthy.
That, though, was true of any inn they might stop at, now that they no longer had recommendations to lean on.
A worrisome creak decided the matter for him. If the wagon sustained further damage, it might prove unusable or delay them longer than they dare tarry. They needed to stop and see what could be done.
Céleste didn’t look the least surprised when he guided the horse off the road and along the path leading to the humble house.
She must have had the same thoughts and come to the same conclusion.
He usually saw eye to eye with the other Gents, and he and Henri were famously in tune with each other most of the time.
But he wasn’t accustomed to the immediate and extensive accord he had with Céleste.
It was taking some getting used to, but he rather liked it.
“Stay in the cart with Adèle,” he told her quietly. “I’ll assess the situation.”
Céleste nodded and smiled at the little girl. “Will you tell me another story, ma poupette? I always enjoy when you tell me stories.”
That would keep Adèle distracted for a little while.
Aldric climbed down from the wagon and cautiously approached the door of the house. He knocked lightly, then stepped back, pulling the battered tricorn hat off his head.
After a moment, the door was answered, and a woman, likely in her seventies, perhaps even her eighties, stood on the other side.
“Forgive my intrusion, madam, but my wagon has two broken wheel spokes, and I haven’t the tools to fix it. Would you happen to be in a position to help?”
She studied him through slightly narrowed eyes. “Are you from Paris?” There was suspicion in the question, and he knew immediately his answer had better not be yes.
“We’ve come from Picardie.” It was the region where Fleur-de-la-Forêt was, so he was being truthful.
That brought relief to her face. “You’ve come a bit of a way.”
“A bit.” He nodded. “And we’ve farther to go still.
We don’t wish to intrude upon you. I debated stopping at all.
” He motioned back toward the wagon, where Céleste and Adèle were sitting.
“But I was worried the wheel would break entirely somewhere we’d no means of seeing to it and my sweet girls there would be stuck. ”
“You did right.” She motioned him away from the house and toward a stable. “My son can help you with the wheel.”
“I’d be very grateful to him. I haven’t much to offer in exchange.”
“We can find something you can do around the place. We could use the help more than we could use money.”
That was both a relief and a worry. It would save them money, but the arrangement might also give them away. Neither Aldric nor Céleste had ever labored on a farm. They might be asked to do something the people they were pretending to be would know how to do.
“I’ll do what I can,” Aldric said. “I’m grateful to you.”
He looked at the wagon and caught Céleste’s eye. He didn’t particularly want her sitting out there entirely by herself, so he waved her toward them, trusting her to understand what he was attempting to say.
He stepped inside the stone stable. His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dimness, but they did so quickly. A man, likely at least fifty years old, tossed pitchforks full of hay into a horse stall.
“Claude, this man has a damaged wheel on his wagon. He’s agreed to help a bit if you can repair the wheel and get his family on their way again.”
“Are they from Paris?” the man asked in the same suspicious tones his mother had used.
“From Picardie.”
And, again, a look of relief flitted across his face. He, however, offered an explanation, which his mother had not. “We’re hearing there’s a great deal of trouble in Paris just now. Plenty from there coming out this way calling for the same hereabouts.”
Aldric nodded. “There was trouble back at the inn we stayed at yesterday. Likely some of those Parisians.”
Their current benefactors’ distrust of strangers could very easily have meant that Aldric didn’t get the help he needed, but instead, it was actually going to be to their benefit.
Should anyone come sniffing about making trouble, this mother and son would be on the lookout.
And, Aldric suspected, highly unlikely to give away the fact that he, Adèle, and Céleste had been there.
Claude set his pitchfork against a wall. “Let’s have a look at that wheel.”
Aldric turned and spotted Céleste, holding Adèle in her arms, in the door of the barn. She was squinting, which he now realized was the result of darkness wreaking havoc on her vision. During the first soiree in Paris, he’d made the assumption she was expressing disapproval. How unfair he’d been.
“Thank you for your help,” she said to Claude and his mother. “The wagon sounds like it will fall to bits any minute.”
The woman set an arm across Céleste’s back and spoke in very grandmotherly tones. “Let’s get you and this little one inside the house. You both look like you are going to fall to bits any minute.”
“There was difficulty at the inn yesterday. I don’t think anyone there slept well.” Either Céleste had overheard his conversation and was repeating it to add authenticity, or they really were very shockingly in tune with each other.
The woman led Aldric’s ladies away. He breathed a sigh of relief. They would be watched over, and they could rest.