Chapter 30
XXX
Saint-Julien-by-the-Stream
We left Mademoiselle Cecile’s home before the afternoon grew too late.
The hedge-witch and her daughter walked us to the door, under the watchful eyes of the red fox. Jacques was beginning to recover from Cecile’s enchantment.
Cecile handed me the remainder of the fresh-baked loaf, wrapped in cloth, along with a package of useful herbs—willow bark and poppy in white pouches; deadly foxgloves and monkshood in black.
“My thanks, Mademoiselle Cecile—and to you too, Lorette. Your hospitality has been a balm after a very trying journey.”
“A pleasure, sirs,” said Lorette, her tone so gracious it was almost certainly affected.
“And please pass on my regards to your wife, Lord Ocerne.” She gave a deep curtsy and then, inexplicably, her smile crumbled and she began to cry.
She pushed past her mother and disappeared once more into the garden, sobbing.
Jacques, still somewhat dazed, looked after her and sighed.
“I—I apologize,” I stammered. “I did not mean—”
“No, Professor,” said Cecile, raising a hand. She looked weary. “The apologies are mine to make, and not only to you. Sometimes I forget that Lorette does not often spend time . . . in company.”
“Ah,” I said, suddenly understanding. What Cecile really meant was “in company with young men.” Lorette’s obvious affection for Jacques was only half of the picture—just like her mother, Lorette would not be considered a suitable wife for any of the local bachelors.
She was already past the age at which most of her peers were courting and planning for marriage.
That she was also destined to deliver their babies was bitter recompense.
“Please, reconsider,” said Cecile. She clasped my hands in hers and the Sigil of Amity faded; our business was concluded. She looked fearful as we said farewell. “I wish I could tell you more, but I cannot.”
“I will set this to rights, Cecile, I promise you.”
Sarmodel offered his own fond farewell as we stepped outside.
Watch yourself, witch.
Before I lost my nerve, I put us on the high road to Chateau d’Ocerne. The time for delays was over, and I suddenly found myself with a great deal of business to manage. My impending reunion with Antoine had become the least of my concerns.
“What did you speak of, you and Mademoiselle Cecile?” asked Jacques suddenly, sitting high in the wagon. The road was steep and I walked alongside him to ease the burden on my poor draft horse. “I can scarcely remember—did I fall asleep?”
“You swooned, not long after your first sweet roll. An aftereffect of your medicine, I’m afraid,” I improvised. “Lorette took care of you. The ‘childhood friend’ of whom you spoke?”
“Yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “Growing up, I was friends with a number of the village children, Lorette included.”
“Really? And how long have you been in love?”
Jacques swore and closed his eyes. “Oh, but I would slap that pander’s grin from your face.”
“Surely I am not the first to notice, young sir. The girl looked as though she were about to fly apart the whole time we were there,” I said gently.
“You have betrayed your own feelings before—do not forget whose name you spoke during your fever in the mountains. Close to death, it was not your wife you called for, but the herbalist’s daughter.
And it is Lorette’s likeness on that cameo in your pocket, is it not? ”
“Very well.” Jacques looked miserable in every way. “As children, Lorette and I were close, and had I been one of the village boys, she would surely have been my sweetheart. As the baron’s son, I was always bound to marry my Eloise, but . . .”
“But?”
“But, Professor, I allowed my affection for Lorette to grow beyond respectable bounds, for much too long. It does not matter now—I am married, and it is time to set such selfish folly aside. I have made plain to Lorette that we will remain friends, but no more,” he said, sighing.
“I am not proud of myself. You must think me a villain.”
I adopted my most conciliatory tone. “Sir, I will offer no judgment on your romantic affairs—adultery is the very least of your misdeeds, as we both know. But might I suggest any future liaisons take place away from Lorette’s . . . political associates.”
Jacques swore again. It suited him. “Cecile told you. Must you know everything?”
“I try to. It helps prevent unpleasant surprises.” I looked at him pointedly. “Rubbing elbows with rabble-rousers and agitators, for the sake of a pretty girl? I thought you a smarter man than that.”
“I am not a complete fool, Professor. Do you believe I went for Lorette’s sake alone?
” Jacques’s cheeks were burning now, and it was not with fever.
“No. You have seen the ruinous state of Gévaudan. You have seen the way the common people starve, while the noble families fete each other with banquets. We believe—I believe there must be another way.”
“Another way? Noble families indeed! You speak as though you were not one of them.”
“Professor, you may sneer—you are doing it right now, in fact—but Gévaudan has been broken since the Red Winter, and there are those who would see it rebuilt for the good of the many. Lorette is one, yes, but there are others. I went to hear them.”
“Of course—you went to hear them, at clandestine meetings, late at night. Meetings at which I am certain your father received a ferocious roasting from the pulpit,” I said.
Jacques showed a flicker of the monster within—a slitting of the eyes, and a peeling of the lips.
“My father received nothing he does not deserve!” It lasted only a second, and then he was once again remorseful.
“I . . . I went only a handful of times. It was always in secret, and always in disguise. Lorette made sure that nobody knew who I was.”
“Yes, yes. And afterward I’m sure the two of you spent some time in private discussing the emancipation of the Third Estate.” I gave him a sly smile. “And the emancipation of your underclothes.”
“You are vulgar as ever,” he snapped, though I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. I wondered just how far down this dangerous path he had strayed.
“Does Antoine know?”
“About Lorette?” His mouth twisted. “Yes, since we were children. He forbade me to see her even then. As for the meetings and the rest . . .” He gave a defiant shrug that I’m sure drove his father mad.
“I suppose he must. We have certainly argued about his treatment of the working people in Ocerne, though he will see none of it. He is stubborn.”
“In that regard, you are certainly your father’s son. Your family disputes must be spectacular.”
“It matters little in any case. I have made it clear to Lorette that I can no longer join her in the village and that whatever we have had was only a child’s fancy kept alive too long.
There was never a future for us—a baron’s son and a midwife’s daughter—but I lacked the courage to end it until I was married.
” He looked as though he wanted to be sick.
“I wanted to give her the cameo as a keepsake, that she might know how much I care for her, even if we could not be together. She refused it. Quite forcefully.”
“You tried to buy her off.”
“I did not! I swear it! It was meant as a parting gift, nothing more.”
“Then you have much to learn about love, young sir.”
Jacques gave a small shudder. “This I certainly know. Now tell me, who is Lady Dayane? You mentioned her once before. And please—no tricks, no lies.”
I raised my eyebrows. Jacques had obviously been more aware in the parlor than I thought. “As you wish. She is an acquaintance I made during the Red Winter, and I believe she can help you. I will introduce you, soon.”
He seemed less than satisfied with my answer. “This is more of your weaseling, I can tell. I know every noble family in the eight baronies, and none of them bear that name. And still—still you have not told me what happened at the Bow and Brace.”
“In good time, sir. There are things you need to know before the truth about that final night. And still other things you should know about before we reach the chateau today—including the truth of Lady Dayane, yes. I am not the only one with obligations unfulfilled in Gévaudan, you see. Your father, also, has debts to pay. . . .”