François sheathed his knife in his boot. “I lost my temper. I’ve been trying to keep from striking out since I arrived at that abbey and of a sudden I snapped. But I shouldn’t have frightened the servant when it was the mistress I wanted to skewer.”
“You didn’t like my mother?” Juliette asked. “How extraordinary. Most gentlemen do.”
“Do you have any friends or other relations in Paris?”
Juliette shook her head.
“There must be someone. What of Citizeness Vasaro?”
“Catherine’s guardian is Jean Marc Andreas. He has a house on the Place Royale but he’s not in residence at present.”
“Not the Place Royale.” François’s brow was creased in thought as he told her absently, “It’s the Place de l’Indivisibilité now.”
“Mother of God, not again? How does anyone find his way around the city? Such stupidity.” Juliette enunciated precisely. “Number Eighteen Place Royale.”
“Are there servants?”
Juliette shrugged. “I don’t know and I can’t ask Catherine.”
“No, you can’t ask her.” François’s gaze went to the carriage and Juliette again noticed that curiously intent expression on his face. “She’s not … well.”
Danton gazed quizzically down at them as they approached. “The marquise was not obliging?”
François shook his head. “The marquise is a bitch.”
“What a pity. I suppose you’ll just have to take these forlorn women to your bosom and care for them yourself.”
“The devil I will.” François opened the door of the carriage and half lifted, half pushed Juliette onto the seat next to Catherine. For the briefest instant his gaze rested on Catherine’s delicate features before he continued. “I detest spoiling your amusement, Georges Jacques, but when you feel you can bestir yourself, take us to the Place Royale.”
Danton’s lips twitched. “Place Royale? I do believe you’re being corrupted by these aristos.”
“I mean the Place de l’Indivisibilité.” François slammed the door of the carriage shut.
SEVEN
Thirty-six houses surrounded the elegant square. All were similar in architecture with their steeply slanted slate roofs and dormer windows but each possessed unique trimmings … and secrets. Beyond the brick and stone façades lay delightful courtyards and enchanting gardens where graceful fountains sprayed sparkling water and one could sit on marble benches and breathe in the intoxicating fragrance of roses and violets.
How did she know about those gardens? Catherine wondered numbly. Then she realized it was because Jean Marc lived in one of these houses. They were standing before the door of Jean Marc’s house on the Place Royale and someone was pounding on the front door. She hadn’t gone there since Jean Marc had invited her for Christmas three years before. He had surprised her with a splendid blue gown made from measurements the seamstress had received from the Mother Superior. She had been so disappointed Philippe had not been there to see her in it. Philippe had once told her he liked her in blue and she had—
Philippe.
Pain spiraled through her and she quickly drew the mist of numbness about her again.
François was forced to knock repeatedly before the door was opened a narrow crack to reveal the frightened face of a man in his twilight years. Wrinkles seamed his thin face and sparse white hair clung in tufts to his shiny pink scalp. As soon as he caught sight of François through the crack, he started to swing the door shut.
François pushed the door open and stepped into the marble foyer. “Make up two bedchambers.” He pulled Juliette and Catherine into the hall. “These ladies will be staying here for the next few days. However, as far as anyone else is concerned, the house is still unoccupied. Do you understand?”
“See here, you can’t walk in here and …” He met François’s gaze and his words trailed off as his glance slid away toward Juliette and Catherine. He stiffened and raised the candelabrum in his hand higher. “Mademoiselle Catherine?”
Juliette stepped forward. “She’s been injured and needs to be nursed. What’s your name?”
“Robert Dameraux. I’m head gardener for Monsieur Andreas and I care for the house when he’s in Marseilles.” His gaze was still fixed on Catherine. “Pauvre petite. So pale …”
“Robert.” Catherine’s vague gaze focused on his deeply lined face. “Violets. You gave me white violets.”
The old man nodded. “When you were a child you loved my flowers.”
“They looked so … clean. Like nothing had touched them since the beginning of time. I thought—” She swayed and would have fallen if the young man had not caught and steadied her. She couldn’t remember who he was. François, yes, that was his name. He and Juliette had been arguing in the coach.…
“A bedchamber,” he repeated curtly as he lifted Catherine in his arms.
Robert nodded and scurried ahead of them across the foyer and up the staircase.
François tightened his grip around Catherine’s body and started across the foyer. Catherine saw their reflections in the gilt-framed mirror affixed to the far wall. She could hardly recognize her own tattered, dirty image while he looked solid, dark, and formidably male. Catherine stiffened as panic soared through her. She mustn’t let him touch her. She mustn’t let any man touch her. Pain. Filth. She’d never be clean again.
“Stop trembling. I won’t hurt you.” His low voice was rough, but there was such raw force in his words, Catherine found herself relaxing. Juliette was right behind them on the stairs and was not objecting. If the man was a threat, Juliette would not have let him carry her. She could trust Juliette, if not the man who held her.
He was very strong, she thought remotely, stronger than he looked, the sinewy muscles hard and inflexible beneath the wool of his coat. His throat was only a few inches away, and she could see the throb of his heart in the hollow. She found herself staring at that rhythmic pulse in fascination. Life. She had never seen anyone so robustly alive. His face was hard, shuttered, and yet those glittering green eyes betrayed a restless male energy beneath the expressionless features.
Male. She shuddered and suddenly those fierce eyes were fastened on her face. He stared at her intently for a moment before shifting his gaze to Robert, who had reached the landing at the top of the stairs.
A moment later Robert opened the third door on the left and preceded them into a chamber. “You remember this room, Mademoiselle? You always liked a room overlooking my garden.”
Yes. She dimly recalled the wall hangings and bedcovers of blue watered silk with lilac and silver borders, the Sèvres plaque on the wall. She had sat for hours on that window seat, watching Robert work in the garden.
“Dieu, it smells musty in here.” Juliette crossed the room and threw open the casement window.
“The house has been closed for over a year,” Robert said defensively. “You gave us no warning. You can’t expect it to—”
“I’ll need warm water and clean linen, something for us both to sleep in and wear tomorrow. Anything will do,” Juliette interrupted. “Are there any other servants in the house?”
“My wife, Marie. She’s still in bed and—”
“I can’t do everything myself for Mademoiselle Catherine.” Juliette strode toward the door. “Come, we’ll roust your wife from her bed.”
Juliette was ordering everyone about again, Catherine realized dimly. Poor Robert, she should really say something to Juliette.
“Why are you just standing there holding her?” Juliette tossed over her shoulder at François. “Put her down on the bed.” She didn’t wait for an answer as she marched from the chamber.
François muttered something under his breath as he strode toward the bed.
“Don’t be angry with her. It’s her way,” Catherine whispered as he laid her on the silken coverlet.
“A virago’s way.”
“No, she means well.” Why was she defending Juliette? What did it matter what
this stranger thought? She closed her eyes and tried to go back into the comforting, mindless haze she had managed to gather about her in the coach.
She thought the young man had gone away, until he suddenly broke the silence. “You look like a corpse.”
She opened her eyes to see him gazing down at her. “Pardon?”
“You lay there like a dead woman. The pain will go away. Woman is made to take a man into her body. You will heal.”
Catherine shook her head. She would heal but she’d never be as she was. She would always carry this sickening stain. “You’re wrong.”
“No, I’m right. Don’t be foolish. The fault was not yours and you have no reason to feel shame. Inside you’re the same. What you are has nothing to do with your body.”
She gazed at him in bewilderment. His words carried the same soft vehemence that had swayed her downstairs.
“Do you hear me? You’re just the same. Nothing has been taken from you that’s of any importance.”
“Why are you shouting at her?” Juliette came back into the room carrying a basin of water and clean cloths. “Have you no sense? She’s had enough to endure without you bothering her.”
“I wasn’t shouting.”
Juliette sat down on the bed beside Catherine. “Go away. I have to wash her and get her to bed. Wait for me downstairs.”
François gave her a level glance before he turned and left the room.
She shouldn’t be lying here letting Juliette take care of her, Catherine thought. Dark circles ringed Juliette’s eyes and her hands were shaking as she dropped a cloth into the basin of water. Juliette was clearly exhausted and the horror of this night had taken its toll on her strength. Catherine reached for the cloth. “I can do it.”
Juliette slapped her hand aside. “Lie still.” She closed her lids tightly for an instant and then opened them to reveal tear-bright eyes. “Mother of God, I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” Catherine whispered. “I’m being such a bother to you. I’ll try to help—”
“Hush.” Juliette smiled shakily. “You can help me by not fighting over the little I can do for you. I don’t seem to have much strength to argue.”
A phantom of a smile touched Catherine’s lips. “How unusual. I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“See, you’re laughing at me. Things can’t be so terrible if you can still laugh. Just lie still and let me help you.”
Catherine closed her eyes and let the mists close about her and Juliette have her way.
“Well, what are you going to do?” Juliette strode into the salon close to an hour later and halted directly before François. “You can’t leave her here alone and unprotected.”
“She has you,” François said. “I’m surprised you think anyone else is necessary.”
“I’m not stupid enough to believe I can get us out of Paris to safety.” She met his gaze. “And we won’t be safe here, will we? You say Danton is one of the heroes of the revolution. If men that powerful are involved in what happened tonight …” She stopped, pushed back the memories flooding back to her and drew a deep breath. “Then the whole world has gone mad.” He didn’t answer and she braced herself to attack again. “I have to know what I’m fighting. Who were those men who attacked the abbey? Dupree called them Marseilles.”
“They’re hirelings from Marseilles and Genoa. Most of them are the spawn of the prisons. The Girondins hired them to come to Paris and protect them against the Paris Commune’s National Guard. Unfortunately, as soon as they arrived in Paris, Marat upped the Girondins’ offer and they now belong to him.”
“Girondins?”
“Even in the convent you must have heard of the Girondins.”
“Why should I have been interested in your idiotic politics? Tell me.”
“The National Assembly is run by members who belong to several different political clubs. There are actually three principal parties in the assembly. The Girondins, who want to walk a middle road and keep both the constitution and the monarchy. The Jacobins, who are radicals and want to dispose of the monarchy.”
“And this Paris Commune?”
“Most of them are Cordeliers. They control the National Guard and therefore Paris.” He smiled crookedly. “The threat of the sword can be more persuasive than the most eloquent oratory.”
“Dupree is a Cordelier?”
François nodded. “Jean Paul Marat controls the Paris Commune and Dupree is his agent.”
“And to what party does your great Danton belong?”
“He’s the leader of the Cordeliers and belongs to the Paris Commune.” He rushed on. “But he’s not a radical. He believes only in doing what’s best for the revolution.”
“And butchering women is best for the revolution.” She waved his protest aside. “Can I appeal to these Girondins for protection?”
“Not against the Commune. They talk a lot but do little.”
“So I obviously cannot count on sanity from anyone in the government. Catherine and I must protect ourselves.” A frown wrinkled her brow. “You must make sure no one knows we’re here and then find us a way to leave Paris at the earliest opportunity.”
“Indeed, and why must I do all this? You’re fortunate that I saw fit to intervene tonight.”
“I don’t consider myself fortunate.” Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I’m angry and someone must pay. You must pay.”
“Why?”
“Because you were there. If you didn’t expect to pay for that atrocity, you should never have gone to the abbey tonight.” She smiled grimly. “And if you wish another reason why you should help us, perhaps I should tell you that I killed the man who raped Catherine tonight. Do you think your Commune would take kindly to your aiding the murderess of one of its number?”
He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
Juliette called to him. “One more thing. Before you leave, talk to that old man, Robert. It would do no harm to be a little threatening.”
“I’m not accustomed to frightening old men.”
“Yes, you are. I think you’re accustomed to frightening anyone who stands in your way.”
François paused at the door of the salon. “The old man presents no danger. He appears fond of your friend.”
“Fear will make him more cautious with his tongue than will affection.”
“What a gentle nature you have, Citizeness.”
“Catherine is gentle. Did it save her?” Her fingers rose to rub her temples wearily. “I can’t really trust anyone. Everything is different now, isn’t it?”
François gazed at her for a moment. “Yes.” He turned. “I’ll have a word with Robert.”
As he left the room Juliette could feel the tension flow from her muscles, and a wave of exhaustion caused her to sway. She reached out blindly to clutch at the table next to her. She mustn’t give in to weakness. Catherine needed her, and the saints knew there was no one else she could count on. François Etchelet’s aid had been grudging at best, and he might balk at any moment. Danton obviously would help only to the extent Etchelet could persuade him, and Jean Marc Andreas was somewhere flitting around the countryside when Catherine needed him. Those strangers had no connection with Catherine, but Jean Marc had a responsibility toward her. Why hadn’t he come to the abbey for her before this monstrous thing could happen?
The surge of anger against Jean Marc momentarily banished her exhaustion and she welcomed it. She could deal with anger as she could not with fear and frustration. She needed to hold on for just a little longer and then she could rest. She would talk to Marie and Robert and then go find a bedchamber for herself. She would wash and then sleep and gain strength for the morrow.
She had picked up the candelabrum from the table and started for the door when a glimmer of color in the corner of the room caught her eye. She stopped abruptly, her gaze on the wall to the left of the doorway. Holding the candelabrum higher, she moved slowly forw
ard until she stood before the small painting on the wall.
The Wind Dancer.
She could execute it much better now, but it was not such a bad effort. Still, it was not as superior as the Bouchers, Doyens, Fragonards, and other artists whose works graced the walls. She frowned in puzzlement as she glanced around the room. The salon was decorated with restrained good taste, its white-paneled walls covered with exquisite gold arabesques, the furniture carefully fashioned of finest woods. Everything in the room whispered of excellence. So why had Jean Marc Andreas hung her painting here? She moved her shoulders uneasily. For that matter, why had she painted it for him? It was the real Wind Dancer he had wanted, not its likeness. She had told herself it was gratitude for arranging for her to be sent to the abbey, but was it something else? The memory of those days and nights at the inn had never entirely left her. Had she wanted him to remember her as she had remembered him over the years?
Nonsense. It was fascination with his face that held her enthralled. Nothing else. She had paid her debt and they were quits. She walked quickly from the room, returning the painting of the Wind Dancer to darkness.
“Your wounded lambs are settled?” Danton asked as François reached the carriage.
François nodded curtly.
“You don’t appear to be pleased to be rid of them.”
“I’m not rid of them. Juliette de Clement just told me she killed a man before she left the abbey.”
Danton gave a low whistle. “Which means we’ve not only aided an enemy of the state but a murderess of a hero of the revolution.” He chuckled. “I admit to respect for our little aristo. She has claws and is willing to use them.”
“On us.”
“Dupree’s been known to bargain. You could turn them over to him in return for forgetting our part in their escape.”
François had a sudden memory of Catherine Vasaro’s strained, bewildered expression in that last moment before Juliette had come back into the room. He knew well how she would fare in Dupree’s hands.