“Tell me.” she said breathlessly. She had to know.
“The prisoners were herded into a courtyard and killed. Your father was one of them. I’m truly sorry.”
Verity collapsed back against the wooden seat and covered her eyes with her hands as deep, racking sobs shook her shoulders.
Monsieur Balzac remained silent, rendered dumb by the terrible news. Christian jumped over onto the seat beside her and put his arm around her.
Verity wiped her eyes. “You are completely sure?”
He nodded, his gray eyes kind. “There is no possibility he could have survived.”
Monsieur Balzac made a strangled sound in his throat. Verity turned to him. “Oh monsieur, you were my father’s friend. I am sorry, you must be dreadfully upset.”
Monsieur Balzac wiped his nose with his sleeve. “A fine gentleman,” he muttered, and gave the reins a slap. The trap continued along the street.
Verity swallowed the pain at the back of her throat. Her beloved father, a good man who loved his country, was dead. And to die so violently. Fearing she would cry again, she tried not to dwell on it. There would be time later to give in to her grief.
Christian kindly remained beside her on the cramped seat in case she had need of his comfort. “Thank you for discovering the truth. Your connections are most impressive. I wish I knew who you are, monsieur.”
Christian took off his hat and leaned forward. Spoke softly. “I am someone who wishes he might have saved your father, but is determined to help you now.”
Verity nodded, grateful he was here.
He returned to sit on the trunk and the rest of the journey passed mostly in silence. Verity found herself spiraling into a hopeless melancholy. She had been so busy fighting to save her father, it had taken all her energy, and now it was over. When Anthony returned to England, she would be alone. Anxiety swirled around her. The future looked bleak indeed.
***
Henrietta worked beside her father and François as they mucked out the stables and forked hay. After her father left to check on Philippe, she edged closer to François. He worked well for an old man, his powerful arms sending the hay flying. “I heard men in the woods when I was riding. Who would they be?”
He paused and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his eyes narrowed in the glare of the afternoon sun. “Brigands. I hope you learned your lesson and won’t ride there again.”
Henrietta found his casual attitude at finding brigands on his doorstep surprising.
“Won’t they come here and rob you?”
“They might steal a chicken or two. I am not an aristocrat and there is little here of value to them. The Comte de Toulon’s chateau was ransacked; the peasants and brigands stripped the place of everything. Then they burned it down.”
“How dreadful.”
François shrugged. Stabbed his fork into the ground. “An arrogant man. He treated his servants abominably.”
“You are in favor of the revolution?”
“I welcome it in theory, but like all movements based on ideals, it is flawed and impractical.”
Henrietta was struck by the impassiveness of his words; impractical and flawed seemed an insensitive way to describe the deaths of thousands of innocent people.
She picked at a piece of hay. “Verity’s father did not share your opinions?”
François seized the fork and continued working. “We did not agree on many things.”
“Do you believe he is dead?”
“It would be a miracle if he were not.” He looked at her, his eyes clouded. “And I don’t believe in miracles.”
The sound of a vehicle sweeping around the corner, made them both turn. Henrietta ran to the corner of the house. “It’s Monsieur Balzac with Verity!” she cried. “And someone else.”
“I hope they don’t intend to stay,” François said. “We have little food.”
