“In the neighborhood? For what?”
“Oh, just looking about. To see if bread costs less in any different quarters. You know how we could always do with saving a bit of money.”
Jean-Luc’s mind whirled. “But…who was looking after Mathieu?”
“Madame Grocque was minding him, just for a bit.”
“Hmm,” Jean-Luc muttered, considering this, certain that his wife wasn’t telling him everything. “I’m not certain I’m comfortable with that, leaving the boy downstairs in the tavern.”
“Then it won’t happen again,” she said, a bit too agreeably. “Now quit worrying and get back to the business at hand.” She resumed kissing him, sliding his nightshirt off as she ran her hands down his back. Before he could protest, Jean-Luc succumbed, his body rousing to her long-withheld touch.
“Papa?” Mathieu’s voice pierced the dark bedroom like a needle piercing an inflated balloon. Jean-Luc felt Marie’s body stiffen again. For a moment they both lay still and silent, hoping their son would roll back to sleep.
But Mathieu did not oblige, calling into the dark once more. “Papa?”
“What is it, Mathieu?” Already he could feel Marie’s body slipping away from his, and he could have groaned in frustration.
“Papa, I heard you say that you will have nightmares because of Citizen Lazare. But you don’t need to be ’fraid of him, Papa. He tells me: ‘Your daddy is very brave.’ When I am playing in the tavern he brings me biscuits and tells me that he will take me to see the flying balloon!”
Jean-Luc looked down at his wife and saw in her expression the same thing that he himself felt; there, in the cold glow of the milky moonlight, Marie’s face constricted with fear.
Spring 1798
André had nearly gasped aloud as he saw the familiar handwriting. How on earth had this letter found him here?
It had taken ages for this word to arrive from Paris, so many times had Jean-Luc’s letter been waylaid and redirected before it had reached his ship, l’Esprit de Liberté, in the waters off the coast of southern France. By the time the letter had arrived, it was creased and crumpled, its texture having taken on the briny air and sea—as altered from its former self, one might have said, as the man who now held it.
André, dressed in his sailor’s smock and taking his break on the deck of the naval frigate, had torn at the seal of the letter, starving for the words that would come, morsels of food to his lonely soul.
André, my friend,
A visitor showed up at our door, giving Marie and me quite a surprise: Sophie. She is safe with us. Mathieu seems smitten by his new “Aunt Sophie” and no longer has much time for his mother or father. We try to keep her out of sight whenever we can, and hopefully our neighbors believe us when we tell them we can indeed afford a maid.
All is well with us. We will keep Sophie safe, and Mathieu will be certain to keep her busy.
I hope that this letter finds you well. Or, at the very least, finds you at all; my inquiries into your destination have proven dishearteningly unfruitful. Please send word when you are able to.
Your friend,
Jean-Luc St. Clair
Postscript: I’m sure that I am not in fact the person from whom you hoped to hear. Enjoy.
Tucked into the envelope was a second letter, unsigned but written in an elegant, familiar hand.
My darling,
As you’ve heard from our mutual friend, I am safe in Paris. With my uncle gone from the city and back at the front, I don’t expect to find much trouble here.
The St. Clairs have proven themselves generous and gracious hosts. Though I must warn you: if you don’t hurry back, I fear that Mathieu St. Clair might be very much in danger of falling in love with me, and I with him. How can a girl resist such large brown eyes?
Writing through Jean-Luc seems the best course, for now, as I endeavor to maintain a discreet presence. Paris is much changed. The thing that struck me most upon my return was that passersby no longer seem to look one another in the eye.
Nevertheless, we have some hope—we hear, almost universally, that Napoleon Bonaparte is the leader to restore peace and order to France.
My darling, I am starved for information of you and your whereabouts. Please tell me that you are well. Are you getting enough to eat? Please tell me that you have not again found yourself in the same path as my uncle?
Please, my love, I beg you to promise me that you shall take care of yourself. Stay safe. And know that I remain your loving and devoted,
S
André clung to these letters, reading them and rereading them, glancing around to ensure that none of his fellow sailors witnessed the tears that filled his eyes. These words were a balm to a battered soul; he imagined Sophie—the guarded yet beautiful girl he had first met—now strolling around Paris under the guise of a domestic maid. The most beautiful maid the city could employ. He envied Jean-Luc, Marie, and Mathieu for their easy proximity to her, their ability to see her so often that they no longer thought much of it.