“He said something about our Emile, didn’t he?” Brewster demanded when we emerged from the shop. The long summer day was finally waning, twilight touching the sky. “I understand some words, like cousin, and I heard the lad’s name.”
“He did.” I turned my steps to the bridge and gave Brewster a truncated translation of the conversation as we went.
“This looks bad,” was Brewster’s pronouncement.
“I agree. Why the devil didn’t either of them let on they were together?”
Brewster huffed as we hastened toward the stone bridge that crossed the Rhône. “Stands to reason, they didn’t want anyone to know. Not you, not their dads, not their uncles, not the gendarmes.”
“Yes,” I said grimly. I halted at the pillar that marked the change from the street’s pavement to the bridge’s. “Why did the proprietor say they’d gone that way?” I nodded downriver. “If they were heading to their own homes, there are no more convenient bridges south of here.”
“Maybe they know a better route than you do. We’re not from here, are we?”
“While that is true, I think they meant to stay in La Guillotière a while longer.”
“What for? Landlord said it were dangerous after dark.” Brewster glanced about, not in fear but in agreement. Dangerous for people who couldn’t defend themselves, he meant.
“I intend to ask them.” I started across the bridge, Brewster falling into step beside me.
Once in the Presqu’île, I sought a hired hack and asked the coachman to take me south, toward the factory and the village that housed Emile and his family.
I learned from a servant at Auguste Devere’s brick and stucco home that the young master was dining tonight with the Auberges, not far down the road. Auguste himself was still with his brothers, his wife calling on friends.
I debated for a moment, then bade the coachman take me to the farm where my former wife lived with her new husband and my daughter.
Chapter 10
The Auberges lived in a two-story house of golden stone, which had impressed me with its size but Donata had pronounced charming. Auberge had turned farmer when he’d retired from the wars, inheriting the estate from his father and continuing to work it.
When I’d first heard about Auberge’s farm, I’d pictured a medieval structure with four wings enclosing a courtyard, with pigs and chickens sharing the interior space.
In contrast, this maison was fairly modern, bearing tall windows with blue shutters, iron railings on balconies, and a tiled roof. The outbuildings that housed the farm’s few animals lay down a hill from the house, and beyond them spread the fields where Auberge’s farmhands toiled.
Carlotta had grown up on a similar estate in England, where I’d found and fallen in love with her at a ridiculously young age. I suppose Auberge’s offer of a quiet life in this place had been familiar and more appealing than following me through army camps, a baby in tow.
Tonight, when I descended from the coach, Brewster climbing down behind me, I did not give myself time for old regrets.
I approached the front door, painted in a faded blue that matched the long shutters, and rapped upon it. A maidservant in black with a mobcap opened it, starting to find me on the doorstep.
“Father?” Before I could state my business and ask to speak to Emile, Gabriella came floating along the hall behind her, a smile of delighted welcome on her face. “I did not know you were coming. Is Lady Donata with you? Mr. Brewster, good evening.”
So greeting us, she grasped the door the maid had kept half closed and flung it wide.
“We have just finished supping,” Gabriella continued. “Dreadfully early by London hours, I know. Shall you join us for coffee? Can I bring you anything, Mr. Brewster?”
Gabriella would break my heart with her kindness, which stemmed from her natural generosity.
“Might take a stroll,” Brewster said. “Fine night, ain’t it? I’ll leave you to it, guv.”
“The path up the hill leads to a lovely view.” Gabriella pointed out the door and to the right of the house. “You can see the river and the lights of Lyon.”
“Very nice.” Brewster regarded Gabriella with unfeigned fondness. “Give us a shout when you’re done with ’im.” He jabbed a thumb at me then ambled off in the direction Gabriella had indicated.
“Never mind, Marie,” Gabriella said to the waiting maid. “I know you are busy this evening. I’ll take my father in.”
The maid curtsied with a look as indulgent as Brewster’s and scuttled into the dim recesses behind the staircase. Gabriella took me by the hand and pulled me inside.
The entrance hall, paved in cool and echoing slate, was open to the next floor, with a gallery encircling above. This hall led to the public rooms on the ground floor and ended in long windows that overlooked the garden.
