My Brother's Crown (21 page)

Jules turned to Catherine. “Go help Grand-Mère.”

She wrinkled her nose but darted to the housekeeper's cupboard,
unlocked the door, grabbed a handful of clean rags, relocked it, and headed back to the hall. She paused for a moment, hoping to hear more, but Jules spoke so quietly she could not make out his words.

Catherine found Grand-Mère sitting on the edge of the bed, the baby in one arm and her other hand on Amelie's forehead. “What is going on out there?” Grand-Mère asked. “Is that the physician already? I sent the footman after him, but I did not expect them back so soon.”

“No. It's dragoons.” Catherine handed over one of the cloths. “They have been assigned to our house.”

Grand-Mère groaned.

“One of them is Waltier Chaput.” She put the other rags on the table. “Do you remember him, Amelie? He was a friend of Pierre's.”

Amelie nodded but did not answer. Her hair was pulled back from her ashen face. It seemed her brown eyes had grown bigger in the last year and her cheekbones sharper.

“Go get your things from your room before they head up there,” Grand-Mère said to Catherine. “You will stay in here with us.”

Catherine grabbed one of the candles from the table and followed Grand-Mère's instructions, running up the stairs and then quickly gathering clothes from the pegs along the far wall and from her chest, shoving all of them into a large basket. Someone—probably the housekeeper—had already closed the wooden shutters over the windows, blocking her view of the courtyard. There were shouts below. Waltier and the other dragoons were probably forcing Monsieur Roen to care for their horses. As badly as she felt for their loyal coachman, she was grateful for the extra time the ruckus was bringing her.

She gathered up her books, her collection of writing tucked inside her leather satchel, and her pens and ink, wedging them along the sides of the basket. Then she hurried from the room, the basket under one arm and the candle in the other hand.

She made her way to the staircase as the flickering flame cast her shadow along the stone wall. As she started to descend, voices startled her.

“We will take any room we please,” one of the dragoons said and then laughed.

Holding back a gasp, she leaned against the stairwell to steady herself.

“I will escort you,” Jules said.

“No need,” the same dragoon replied.

Grateful her brother was there too, Catherine started down the stairs again, moving as quickly as she could. But before she reached the halfway point they started up, the loud one first. He leered at her. She kept barreling down the steps, but he stopped and spread his arms wide.

“
Excusez-moi
,” she said.

“Take the basket back upstairs.”

“
Pardonnez-moi
?”

He stepped closer. She turned her face to the side, away from his foul breath, and wedged the basket between them.

There was a scuffle at the bottom of the steps and then Pierre's voice, calling out, “You will act like gentlemen!”

The dragoon laughed.

“Let her pass,” Waltier said.

The loud dragoon's face grew hard, and he pressed against the basket. “You will soon see how this works. This is not the first Huguenot house I have billeted in—and to think there are two young ladies here. And both are ready to be married.” He laughed as he stepped back, without warning. Catherine fell forward, past him, and against Waltier. The basket slipped from her arms and tumbled down the steps, her belongings scattering.

The first dragoon stomped up the stairs, still laughing. Waltier muttered, “
Désolé
,” as he righted her. “It's only temporary until we are assigned south of here, along the Rhône.” As he followed the other dragoon, he hissed, “Basile, stop acting like a brute.”

Catherine bent down to grab an underskirt and then a pen. Pierre helped her collect her things, much to her embarrassment. Once they had gathered it all, Jules told her to go directly to Grand-Mère's apartment and not come back out again.

Looking to Pierre, he added, “You should go. What if dragoons have arrived at your house too?”

Pierre exhaled. “You're right. Mère would not handle that well at all.”

Catherine reached out to take the basket from him, but he insisted on carrying it for her. They walked together down the hall to the apartment, and when he handed it to her at the door, she looked up into his deep blue eyes.

“
Merci
,” she said. “Not just for this. For everything.”

A gentle smile came into his eyes as he gazed down at her and gave a slight shake of his head, as if to say
I only did it because I know how stubborn you are.

Their gaze lingered for a moment, and then with a final nod, she took the basket from him and slipped quietly into her grandmother's rooms.

The footman returned, saying he had left word for the physician but had no idea when he would come. Amelie tried to nurse the baby during the night, over and over, but the infant's cries became increasingly frantic. Before dawn, Grand-Mère stole out of the bedroom door. Catherine scooped the baby from the bed and followed her, thinking that maybe Amelie could get some sleep without all that crying in her ear.

Cook was stoking the fire when Catherine followed Grand-Mère into the kitchen. The baby stopped screaming for a moment, her eyes darting to the massive timbers overhead darkened by smoke and then to the flickering light from the lamp on the table.

Monsieur Roen sat at the end of it but stood in a hurry when they entered. Grand-Mère waved her hand at him and he sat back down.

“Has Jules already left for the day?” Catherine asked.

Cook nodded and reached for the baby. “Poor, miserable little thing,” she cooed, her mouth against Valentina's dark hair.

“We need a wet nurse.” Grand-Mère sounded exhausted.

“Of course you do,” Cook answered, her head still down.

“Do you know of one?”

Both servants shook their heads, but then Cook turned toward Monsieur Roen. “What about the young woman from mass, the
seamstress whose husband passed away back in January? Did she not just have her
bébé
? I know she is struggling to make ends meet. Perhaps…” Her voice trailed off as their eyes locked and something unspoken passed between them.

“Perhaps,” Monsieur Roen replied, though he sounded far less certain.

Grand-Mère interrupted. “Could you send word to the girl that I would like to speak with her about a job?”

Monsieur Roen pinched his lips together, his cheeks suddenly flushing a bright pink. When he did not reply, Grand-Mère glanced at Cook, but she busied herself by bouncing the squalling baby in her arms. Catherine realized what was going on. Obviously, Grand-Mère understood as well.

“Perhaps being paid for two jobs at once would be worth the risk of associating with Huguenots,” she said, an icy edge to her voice. “Tell her she would be allowed to do her regular seamstress work between feedings.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment until finally Monsieur Roen spoke. “I am not sure how to get in touch with the girl, but I will go see Father Philippe. He will direct me.”

“
Merci
,” Grand-Mère whispered. “As for our other problem, the matter of the dragoons…” Her voice trailed off as she stepped forward and took the baby from Cook. “I am aware of the extra work their presence is creating for both of you. More mouths to feed. More horses to tend. Perhaps you could each hire a temporary helper or two?”

Again, both Cook and Monsier Roen averted their eyes, responding to Grand-Mère's offer with shrugs and mumbles of “That is not necessary.” Obviously, no one would be willing to take on such a job—and all four of them knew it.

“Very well.” Pulling Valentina close, Grand-Mère turned to go but then paused and looked back at the two servants. “Both of you have worked here all these years, and I feel as if I need to be the one to say this. I understand if you would rather seek employment elsewhere.”

Cook kept her eyes on the fire. “Are you wanting us to leave, Madame?”

“Of course not. I do not want trouble for you. That is all.”

Monsieur Roen stood. “I am staying here.”

“So am I,” Cook said.

Grand-Mère nodded in response but did not speak. Then she hurried from the room, no doubt before they could see the tears of gratitude their loyalty had brought to her eyes.

The dragoons left the house just after sunrise, telling Cook they would be patrolling the other side of the Rhône all day but would be back in time for dinner.

An hour later Monsieur Roen returned, and Catherine traipsed after Grand-Mère, the crying baby in her arms, into the kitchen. A red-eyed and red-faced young woman stood on the stoop. She was young, perhaps a year or two younger than Catherine.

“I am here for the job,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “My name is Estelle.”

“
Merci
for coming, Estelle. And your
bébé
?” Grand-Mère said. “Where is she?”

The girl looked down toward the floor, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. “He,” she whispered.

“He, then. Did you not bring him with you? Because the two of you will have to move in here for as long as—”

“He has passed, Madame.”

Catherine's heart lurched. Her baby died? She and her grandmother shared a look of consternation.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” Grand-Mère said, turning back toward the girl. “But perhaps you did not understand correctly. We are looking for a wet nurse.”

“
Oui,
” the girl replied, barely audible now. “I am… I can… it just happened, two days ago. It's not too late.”

Grand-Mère nodded. “So was it an illness of some kind?” Her tone was gentle, but the question had to be asked.

The girl shook her head. “He just came too soon, more than a month early. So small, so helpless…” She did not need to go on.

“I am sorry,” Grand-Mère said again.

“
Oui,
Madame,” the girl replied, dabbing at her tears with the hem of her apron as she tried to pull herself together.

Without another word, Grand-Mère reached out and took Estelle's hand, pulled her inside, and sat her down at the table. Next, she dished up a bowl of gruel, spread jam on a piece of bread, poured a cup of tea, and then shooed everyone else from the room, including Cook.

Catherine retreated down the hall to Grand-Mère's apartment, bouncing the baby as she walked. Amelie sat up in bed, a bowl of untouched gruel on the table beside her. “Is someone here?”

“
Oui,
the wet nurse. Grand-Mère is speaking with her now.”

Amelie sank down into the bed, clearly relieved. Catherine started to add the second bit of news, that the girl's own baby had died, but she decided to wait for the time being. Valentina was still so tiny. Her mother needed no reminders that all too often babies did not survive.

For a moment Catherine longed to settle down on the bed across from her beloved cousin and simply talk. There was so much they both needed to catch up on, but the baby was wailing loudly, so Catherine set that notion aside and took the child back out to the hall. She paced up and down, wishing she felt as comfortable as Grand-Mère and Cook seemed with Valentina even when she was crying. The housekeeper made a brief appearance, bustling down the stairs and heading toward the empty study at the end of the hall, but otherwise Catherine was alone with the baby.