She looked up at him. “My children?”
“I may reconsider my decision, Citizeness. Leave your bedchamber door open tonight, and we shall converse further on the matter,” he told her. “Now get up, and see to the dinner. I wish to go over my brother’s accounts.”
Anne-Marie d’Aumont stumbled from the library where they had been speaking. The house was quiet.
Only two of the servants had remained after her arrest. They hadn’t wanted to go, but she had sent them away, fearful for their safety under the circumstances. She had paid their year’s wages so they would not starve. The old cook had remained, and her maid who was now with the children. She hurried to the kitchen. “Thérèse,” she said in what she hoped passed for a normal voice, “do we have anything for supper? Monsieur Reynaud is remaining.”
“That one!” Thérèse spat. “What does he want, madame?”
“Le Verger,” the comtesse answered softly.
“Oh, the wicked devil,” the old cook cried. “If the monsignor were alive he would not dare. He cannot take Le Verger from the petit monsieur Jean-Robert, madame.”
“He can, and he means to do it. He wants to send my son to the army, and my daughter to a glovemaker in Paris, Thérèse. I am trying to reason with him. We must please him. Help me, I beg you!”
“Finely ground glass in his soup, madame,” the cook muttered balefully. “Or,” she made a slicing motion across her throat.
“We cannot kill him, Thérèse. He is the head of the Committee for Public Safety in St. Jean Baptiste. He is well known in Harfleur. If he disappeared we would all face Madame la Guillotine, I fear.”
“I can make a rabbit pie, and I have a chicken I can roast,” the cook said grudgingly. “I will do what I can to help, madame, but it will not please me to see Reynaudle bâtardsitting in monsignor’s place at the head of the table tonight.”
“Nor will it please me, Thérèse, but the times have changed. It is no longer the world we knew. If I can persuade Monsieur Reynaud to simply take Le Verger, I intend to make my way to my uncle in London with the children. I will see you have your wages, and a bit more I can spare.”
“Madame! Madame!” The old woman threw her apron over her face, and began to sob. “If you go, take me with you. My granddaughter, Céline, and I have no one but thefamilled’Aumont. We will not serve Reynaudle bâtard. Take us with you.”
“Are you sure Céline does not want to remain here? What of that young man she was walking out with, Thérèse?” the comtesse asked.
“He was taken to serve in General Bonaparte’s army, madame, and has not been heard of since,” Thérèse said.
Anne-Marie sighed softly. “If Monsieur Reynaud does not object, Thérèse, then you and Céline may come with us, but I do not know how we shall survive in England. I have little money, I fear.”
“Money.” The cook spat scornfully. “We will go with you, madame, for no money at all. Our family hasserved the d’Aumonts for centuries. A revolution will not change that for Céline and for me.”
The comtesse hugged the old cook, her blue eyes filling with tears. “Merci, Thérèse.Merci. We will all survive…somehow.”
“Oui, madame, we will, and we will be together,” the cook declared, as she hugged her mistress back.
“Feed the children here in the kitchens, Thérèse. I do not wanthimnear them. And tell Céline to remain with them tonight. They are to sleep in the nursery as they did when they were younger,” the comtesse instructed the cook. “I will go now, and set the table.”
“Très bien, madame,” the old cook said, understanding more than her mistress would have believed she did.
To Anne-Marie’s amazement Thérèse managed to present a wonderful dinner. The countess had set the table in hersalle à manger, and then changed her gown for something cleaner. She dressed her hair herself, twisting it into a neat chignon. She needed to give Reynaud the idea that she was not entirely helpless, or afraid, and was ready to bargain with him for her children’s safety. And Thérèse certainly did her part.
They began with a wonderful soup of onions and red wine. Next Thérèse brought forth trout, broiled in butter. There followed the rabbit pie with its thick brown gravy,petites carottes, and little shallots; a roasted chicken with an apple and bread stuffing,petits pois, bread, and sweet butter.
Reynaud d’Aumont ate heartily, smacking his lips, mopping up every bit of the winy gravy with bread. “The old lady hasn’t lost her touch,” he said, “but I have a younger woman to take her place.”
“Then you will not mind if she comes to England with me,” Anne-Marie said softly.
He grinned. “We have yet to come to a final arrangement, citizeness,” he told her.
“You may have whatever you want of me, Reynaud,” she said. “You may have Le Verger, and everything in it. Just let me go with my children. We will take nothing but the clothing on our backs. Just let us go. Surely you must have some feeling for the brother you betrayed. Marie-Claire and Jean-Robert are his children. They have loved you. Does your need for vengeance really demand the destruction of innocents? Have mercy, I beg you!”
“Go up to your bedchamber and wait for me,” he said. “We will see how well you can bargain for your children, Citizeness.”
She arose from the table, and curtseying to him left the room. Upstairs there was not a sound to be heard. Céline and Thérèse had obviously fed the children, and they were now in bed, sleeping, she prayed. Her bed, the bed she had shared with Jean-Claude, was turned back. She undressed without any help, leaving only her chemise on for a night garment. These days with no one to do the laundry, many of her garments did double duty, and were only washed when absolutely necessary. Undoing her hair she brushed it out, starting as the door to her bedchamber opened, and Reynaud came into the room.
Wordless at first, he removed his own clothing and boots. Finally clad only in his shirt he turned about and said to her, “Take off your chemise. I want to see what it is you have to offer me, citizeness.”
