Chapter Twenty-Two
Henrietta wiped tears on her sleeve as she chopped onion. Beside her Verity pounded the dough. Were all French women good cooks? She had no desire to learn. Her father and Christian had closeted themselves in Philippe’s room, deep in discussion. If Verity disliked being excluded, she didn’t show it. She wiped her cheek with a floury hand and seemed to enjoy preparing the food.
François was framed in the window, absorbed in weeding his cabbage patch. There might not be a better opportunity to investigate his library. Henrietta considered telling Verity what she planned to do, but dismissed it, afraid that she would try to stop her. He was her uncle after all, and she might be fond of him, although Henrietta doubted anyone could be.
While Verity stirred soup over the fire, Henrietta suggested picking flowers for the table.
“Flowers?” Verity laughed. “I believe you’re in love, Henrietta.”
Henrietta gave a quick grin as she opened the back door. She made sure François was crouching among his vegetables then darted around the corner, snatching up a handful of lavender from the garden before entering through the front door. In the booklined room, the secretaire stood open and littered with papers. She slipped inside. With an eye on the door she picked up his diary and flicked through it, opening pages at random. Written in his spidery hand, it was difficult to read the French words. She soon became absorbed in his chronicling of the Revolution, from its beginning to now, where he saw failure at every turn. He believed the king would soon be executed and agreed it was the only way to protect France from falling under the ancien regime again.
Frustrated, Henrietta struggled decipher his meaning It appeared that François was staunchly in favor of the new regime.
A slip of paper fell from inside the diary cover. She pounced on the letter from theComité de Surveillance. It was a request for François to write a manifesto. Henrietta’s fingers trembled, the paper shaking in her hand. She sensed someone behind her and turned.
“Disgraceful girl!” Francois thundered from the doorway. “Have you no manners? How dare you go through my papers?”
Behind him, her father and Christian paused on the stairs.
“I found this.” Henrietta thrust the letter at him. “You are in cahoots with the Jacobins!”
Françoise took the paper from her. “I never claimed to be a monarchist. In fact, I have never attempted to hide my beliefs from any of you.” He turned as Anthony and Christian entered the room with Verity, wide-eyed, behind them. “This is the thanks I get. I’ve taken you in, housed and fed you, while trying to find those who can help you.”
He thrust the letter at her father. “You may read it. I have nothing to hide.”
Silence fell in the room as her father glanced at it. “It’s not my right to question your beliefs, François.” He handed it back. “You have been an excellent host, placing your life in danger for us, and we are grateful for it.”
Mollified, François nodded.
Her father took Henrietta by the arm. “We will talk later, but now will enjoy the meal Verity has cooked and our kind host has provided for us.”
Shocked that her father trusted François’ motives without question, Henrietta allowed herself to be led to the dining table. It seemed she’d forgotten her manners. She refused to meet Christian’s searching gaze over the table. Conversation fell away as they ate their onion soup and the delicious cheese and mushroom tart and peach pie that followed.
Time dragged with each metallic clunk of the hall clock. Henrietta wanted to flee. She could hardly swallow a morsel. When at last the men left the room, she murmured to Verity that she would help her later and rushed out into the twilight. She shivered as a chilly breeze off the river curled around her. It did serve to cool her flushed cheeks. She was unused to feeling so alone. She’d been supported and loved all her life. Now no one took her side, not even her father. She rubbed her arms, mortified. Wasn’t it right to question everything?
* * *
When Anthony murmured a suggestion in Verity’s ear, she smiled, and they stole away from the house in the dark. Hidden behind the copse of beech trees, he drew her close. She listened to his heart beat, calm and strong.
“Have you forgiven me, Anthony?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. Let’s not mention it again, sweetheart.”
“You trust me?”
“With my life. You’ve saved it once, have you not?” He laid his cheek against her hair. “But should we trust your uncle?”
“He and father were never close. They disagreed on many things. He wasn’t surprised when I told him of Papa’s death, or particularly sorry.”
She shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“I’m confused and unnerved. I brought you here to what I thought was safety, and now I don’t know what to think. Henrietta was right to question him. Someone should. But François would have given us up to the authorities if that’s what he intended, wouldn’t he?”
“Unless he’s waiting for someone. Who could that be?”
“I don’t know. But I’m afraid.”
