23. Chapter 23
Chapter 23
D uring the next week, Fabienne resided in a happy little bubble, containing all the wonderful times with Brayden: going ice skating, building—or, hilariously failing at building—snow sculptures behind the house, playing cards or checkers by the fire in the evening. For New Year’s, they had a small celebration with the neighbors and some people from the town, including Mrs. Plaskett from the Sanitary Commission. Mulled wine, hot chocolate, and eggnog were passed among the guests in the parlor; the sweet, spicy, and fruity smells almost overwhelming to the senses. Even Jim’s grandfather made an appearance. He stretched cozily on a recliner by the fireplace and shared stories with anyone who had the stamina to listen.
After her second drink, Fabienne excused herself to fetch the dessert; Brayden followed her. When they rejoined the others—flushed and with a few hairs out of place—two pairs of eyes followed Fabienne: Gertrude, with pursed lips, and Caddie, an amused expression playing on her face. The latter joined Fabienne by the tree, murmured something about “hoping there’d be a bigger number in the house this time next year”, then sashayed away with a pat on the shoulder.
Fabienne locked the implication away with the rest of her well-suppressed guilty conscience.
Two days later, Fabienne and Brayden sat down at breakfast; she in a comfortable morning gown, he in a prim and polished business suit for a trip to Hartford.
“I’ll also send the letter to your aunt,” Brayden said as he finished his meal. “I’ll mail it to a fellow in Washington, and he’ll get it farther.”
“Thank you. Do you think we could correspond regularly now?”
“I see no reason why not. But given your speed of writing letters, you might want to start right away,” he teased. “I’ll be back in the afternoon. Have a good day.” He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. “I love you.”
Fabienne half-listened to the rustling sounds of him leaving the hallway and the creaking of the front door as she stared into the empty space in front of her. It hadn’t been a surprise when he’d said it. She felt it, in his words, his touches, his kisses. A part of her heart felt like it’d always known it, and accepted it as a simple fact of life. But when those simple three words were said, the almost dreamlike previous week became so real. So consequential.
Knocking and voices came from the hallway, and Mrs. Beasley entered the dining room. “Miss Ellison here to see you, ma’am.”
Gertrude? At this hour?
Well, she shouldn’t be surprised about the hour. Gertrude seemed like a morning bird. Who she didn’t seem like was someone who’d willingly seek Fabienne out.
The older woman waited for her in the parlor, sitting painfully straight, hands clasped. Mrs. Beasley followed Fabienne with a tea tray and set it down as Fabienne took her place opposite Gertrude.
“I’ve added your health mixture,” the housekeeper said. The day after the ball, Fabienne had dug up the pregnancy prevention herbs Robbins had given her and instructed the servants to put them into her tea once a day.
Fabienne shot an awkward look at Gertrude. She didn’t have a choice—she could hardly deny a guest a drink—so she let Mrs. Beasley pour two cups.
“How can I help you?” she said when the housekeeper left.
“Help me, indeed,” Gertrude grumbled and sipped the tea. She grimaced. “What’s in this?”
Annoyed as she was at her presence, Fabienne had to try hard to stifle a laugh. Well, if Gertrude had a secret lover on the side, she was safer now. “It’s a special herbal mix.”
Gertrude put the cup down, the lines on her face deepening with her scowl. “I’m not as blind as Caddie is when it comes to you.”
Fabienne knit her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“You came here without money, without a pedigree—your only living relative has attachments to the South. You insinuated yourself into our lives, charmed us with your wit and shocking words. Well, charmed others.” Gertrude’s scowl turned into a sour smile. “You certainly charmed Brayden. But you hadn’t fooled me.”
“It’s not my responsibility to be liked by everyone.”
“No, but it is a responsibility of a Marshall woman to upkeep the reputation of the family. They’ve always been liked, respected.”
“And your attack on me is by no means related to the fact you weren’t able to marry into the said family.”
Gertrude’s cup rattled on the table. She shot up and stalked toward Fabienne. “You’re right. I never married. I never had children. I’ve spent my entire life watching from the brink.” With Fabienne still sitting, she towered over her. “But Brayden is my family, as much as Caddie is. I’ve been there for everything. I’ve watched him run around the neighborhood as a little boy, laughing, playing. I’ve seen him become a fine young man with sound morals and a clear duty to his country. I’ve seen how that duty had changed him—how it changed everyone, made them fear for their lives, wish they could be back home.”
She circled the sofa. “And there’s Brayden, running away from safety, and in the center of it all—you.” She stopped in front of Fabienne. Despite her curt tone, tears glistened in the corner of her eyes. “I don’t know what it is about you, but you’re wrong . You’re a plague, and you’ll take him with you.”
With Fabienne too stunned to speak, Gertrude edged back toward the sofa. “And then I’ll have nothing. No one. Even just to watch from afar.” Her voice broke. She picked up her purse and tightened her shawl around her shoulder. “You have no family left. I suppose you know how that feels.”
She marched out.
Shortly after, Mrs. Beasley returned, her face stoic as she collected the cups and cleaned a few drops of spilled tea.
Does she, too, think I don’t belong here? Does she wish the master would’ve married someone better?
The air grew heavy and stifling with discomfort. She had to get out of here—away from people seeing her, judging her. She rushed past Mrs. Beasley, grabbed a cloak in the hallway, and stormed into the pristine white morning. Cold bit her nose, her breath swirling around her, as she let her legs take her where they wanted.
You’re a plague, and you’ll take him with you.
She walked faster, as if that could help her escape the endless loop playing in her mind.
No family left… no family left…
Before she knew it, she was on the familiar forest path, spraying the snow and mud with her boots. She forced her thoughts into a different topic. Robbins. She could check the cabin, see if he’d left any messages.
As she approached, a shadow passed by the window. She didn’t want to talk to another person… but it was just Robbins. He’d not hurl accusations at her—especially those that hit painfully close to the truth.
She flung the door open. “No need to leave a note this—”
It wasn’t Robbins.
A man, no, two of them. Thin and dirty, wearing overlarge coats and filthy rags.
She had no time to react before the first man grabbed a rifle from the table and pointed it into her face.
“No, please!” She held up her hands. “I-I don’t wish you any harm. I thought you were someone else.”
The man’s eyes widened, prominent in his smudged, bony face. The rifle wavered in his unsteady hand. His voice shook as he spoke. “You from the South, lady?”
His coat swiveled, revealing dirty trousers that might have originally been a butternut color, with a chaffed golden line on the side. The other man shivered in the corner.
Confederate soldiers.
At least a dozen heartbeats must’ve passed during her nod.
“Where from?”
“New Orleans.” No need to point out she wasn’t a native. “Where are you from?”
The rifle was still pointing at her, and she remained still, keeping her hands in view. The silence dragged before he responded, “Alabama.”
“You’re far from home.”
“So are you.”
“I know.” She gulped. “Would you mind putting that down?”
His eyes flicked to his compatriot. He gave a terse nod and lowered the rifle, keeping a finger on the trigger.
Fabienne’s pulse returned to the upper limit of normalcy. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”
“Y-you first.”
Fair enough. “My name’s Fabienne. I live nearby.”
“You said you lived in New Orleans.”
“I did. Circumstances brought me here. As they have you, apparently.”
“If you call a prison circumstances.”
“What were you in prison for?”
He glanced at the other man again. “Fightin’ for our right.”
Her heart pumped in her ears—could they hear it, too? But at least she managed to keep the shakiness out of her voice. “That’s not a very fair reason to lock someone up.”
“No, it ain’t. Is why we escaped. We’re headin’ home.”
“To your family, or your regiment?”
“Family, for me. Ain’t goin’ back to that hell, no sir. And my wife, she wrote me a letter just before I got captured, sayin’ I better get home, or they all gonna starve.”
Her heart squeezed. “I see. I’m sorry.”
“What for, lady? You ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”
Because I forgot. Forgot that life still existed outside my little bubble.
“You haven’t told me your names,” she said.
“David.”
“And your less talkative friend over there?”
“Jackson,” said the other.
“Nice to meet you both properly.”
“What do you plan on doin’ with us?” David adjusted his grip on the rifle.
They were scared. Hungry, too, and in dire need of proper winter clothes. She’d only read a few accounts on prisons, but both sides depicted them as horrible, inhumane places where the other side treated the prisoners worse than animals. David and Jackson showed no obvious bruises or wounds, but they certainly hadn’t had it easy.
That could’ve been Brayden. He could’ve been captured at any point—and if he escaped, he’d be stuck in enemy territory.
“I’ll help you,” she said. “You want to get home. You don’t want to cause any incidents here, yes?”
David nodded. “We won’t be stayin’ long. Just needed to rest.”
“That’s fine. What do you need? Food?”
Jackson perked up.
“I’ll bring you food. Inconspicuous clothes, some blankets, perhaps? Soap wouldn’t hurt, either.”
David and Jackson locked eyes, silently communicating.
“You won’t tell anyone we’re here?” David asked.
“No one needs to know.” Robbins. Maudit. “But there is one man who may come to the cabin. He doesn’t wish you any harm. If you spot him before he comes, hide.”
David nodded.
“I only need to see if he left me a message.” Fabienne gestured to the table. David’s eyes followed her intently as she lifted the lamp and retrieved a piece of paper. “In the meantime, I’ll bring you some supplies. I’ll try to come by tomorrow morning. You can wait until then?”
“We’ve been through worse.”
He leaned the rifle on the table, and finally, she relaxed.
“And when I come, please don’t wave that thing around. Where did you even get it?”
David looked proudly at the weapon. “Stole it. It’s one of them fancy Yankee things.”
“Well, there’s no need to use it here. We’re all friends. All right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” David said, and the soldier resurfaced as he saluted her.
Images of David and Jackson chased Fabienne all the way home, occasionally mixing with the echoes of Gertrude’s scolding. Rattled and chilled from the walk, she sat on her bed and unfolded the note. Robbins was much briefer in writing than he was in person.
Employer unimpressed with your progression. Master the new task in three weeks, or the deal is off.
The message was dated five days ago. She hadn’t even started practicing yet—and now she had two weeks to do it. Or she’d never see Antoine and Marion again.
No family left.
She brought out the watch. Gertrude may have been spiteful and jealous. David and Jackson may have chosen the wrong cause to fight for. They were misguided in some beliefs, but she couldn’t deny they at least knew the importance of one thing.
Family.
She brushed the floral-engraved lid of the watch. She clicked it open, then closed it again, hesitating. She’d always been too afraid to travel back there, to feel the pain of seeing her siblings again, when she knew she’d have to return to a time devoid of their presence. But the pain was just what she needed right now. A reminder.
Blinking away a stray tear, she did a quick calculation and set the watch. She didn’t need a specific time; any day back home in France would do.
***
Even before she opened her eyes, a citrusy fragrance welcomed her home. Oh, how much she’d missed her house!
The entrance hall bathed in the afternoon sun. She almost slipped on the terracotta tiles as she headed toward a deep laugh, drifting from the open parlor door. She brushed her fingers over the freshly polished rosewood cabinet, smelled the sunflower in a vase atop of it, caught her reflection in the round, ornately framed mirror on the wall.
Something about her eyes was different. A memory jabbed at her until she figured it out—they were lighter, just like Brayden’s used to be, back when they first met.
In the parlor, Antoine and Gaspard, their family friend, sat on their respective sofas, having drinks and apparently a very fine time.
“And you should meet the women,” Antoine said to Gaspard. “The southern belles, they call them, and there are none alike.”
She knew what time this was—Antoine planning the last visit to Dionne. He extended the invitation to Gaspard. The two men were of age, and Gaspard, having no siblings himself, ran with the little Beaumonts ever since they could run at all. He declined, as he had to tend to an ailing relative. A blessing in disguise.
The memory gripped Fabienne, and she grinned as she sneaked behind Antoine.
“You should also meet their fathers.” She leaned on the back of the sofa. “With their guns to your back,” she added with a mischievous smile toward Gaspard.
“And you, dearest sister,” Antoine said, “may meet a rich planter and marry and live in a grand mansion.”
“After she gives her husband a heart attack by sneaking up on him like that,” Gaspard said.
“A mansion without a husband to bother with? Seems fine to me.” The words came out of her mouth without effort, as if the memory was merely a well-rehearsed play.
Antoine explained more about New Orleans to Gaspard. She observed, drinking in every detail, every word they said, every little motion. How Gaspard liked to sit with one leg crossed to the other. How Antoine frequently tapped his fingers on the sofa. Overcome with emotion, she hugged him from behind, leaning her head onto his shoulder.
“What’s that for?” Antoine asked, surprised.
“I love you, you know that? All of you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re going to deny this later, aren’t you?”
“Probably.” Her past self would scarcely remember it, and therefore deny it. Thinking about it, that was exactly the case. Funny thing, time.
“Gaspard, you’re here as a witness,” Antoine said with an exaggerated importance.
Gaspard laughed. “I’m a witness to all your antics, and truth be told, sometimes I wish I wasn’t.”
Antoine tapped his fingers again.
God, how she’d missed him—them. Home. “Antoine, I…”
He looked at her, his eyes the same dark blue as hers. Family.
When they were little, and constantly pulled pranks on each other, they’d always say one thing at the end. She smiled—a soft expression for the sharp pin she needed to burst her happy little bubble.
“I’ll get you back,” she said to her brother.
She couldn’t stand to remain longer. She left the parlor and willed herself back.
***
The shadows had lengthened, painting her distorted silhouette on the bed, the sheets blue in the fading light.
The door opened.
“There you are.” Brayden sat next to her and idly caressed her hand. “I have an idea. We’ll dust off the sleigh. I know a place up in the north where we could go, for a few days’ holiday. Just the two of us. No distractions.”
No distractions. No training. No family left.
Cold, ghostly hands gripped her from behind, seeping into her like icy water. Marion’s tiny, scared voice peeped, “Are you going to let us die?”
Fabienne shook her head, but she couldn’t shake off the ghosts. Brayden gently turned her chin, and his warm gaze held her. Autumn forest eyes. She’d have to leave them here, in another time. In a bubble.
She snatched her hand away. “No.”