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Rachelle pressed her hand on the pulse at Henriette’s neck. “She is dying.”
    Olivia slipped her hand in Bronwyn’s; they clung to each other. Only Rachelle didn’t flinch. “Who did this to you, ma mignonne? ”
    Henriette’s lips moved, but no words escaped. Bronwyn poured sherry from a carafe and offered it to Rachelle. Without looking up, Rachelle placed it at Henriette’s lips, but Henriette couldn’t drink. Dipping her finger into the liquid, Rachelle ran it over Henriette’s lips. “I thought you had run away with your young lord. You did not?”
    Henriette shook her head.
    “So he said. Does he know about this?”
    Another negative, and Henriette’s consciousness slipped away.
    Standing, Rachelle swung on the sisters. “How did you find her?”
    Bronwyn wet her lips. “She was imprisoned in the room next to ours. We broke in and—”
    Rachelle surged forward, and Bronwyn found herself pressed against a bony chest. “Of course. I should have recognized your courage at once.” She drew Olivia into the embrace. “And your courage was the greater, for you were petrified. Go with my friends. They will offer refreshments.”
    Following the gestures of the young women, Bronwyn and Olivia left the room. Bronwyn glanced back to see a ravaged Rachelle cradling Henriette in her arms. The portrait of Rachelle’s grief burned into her brain.
     
    Clasping hands with Bronwyn and Olivia, Rachelle drew them to the drawing room. “I care for all my charges, but Henriette was my daughter. Rebellious, headstrong, but my child nevertheless. And at sixteen, who is not determined to get into trouble? I barely held her in my arms, and she was gone.” The narrow, veined hands tightened on theirs in a convulsive grasp. Her head dropped as if it were heavy, and Bronwyn’s heart ached.
    Bronwyn stammered, “I’m sorry. I wish we could have helped.”
    “But you did help. You brought her home to me.”
    “Madame Rachelle,” Olivia said, “I must tell you I promised Henriette I would pray for her. This is a sacred trust. Do you know the placement of the nearest Catholic church?”
    “Your prayers will be answered as well if you pray in an Anglican church,” Bronwyn suggested.
    Olivia turned her reproachful gaze on her sister. “I promised her I would light candles for her soul, and I will do it in the proper circumstances.”
    Bronwyn recognized her sister’s—for her—rare determination. “Of course. We’ll stop on the way back to the inn. If Madame Rachelle would direct us?”
    Rachelle considered Olivia thoughtfully. “You are a dear child. In England, it is not easy to find a place to worship in my faith, so I have a chapel in my home.” She lifted a silver bell and rang it. One of the women answered the summons and led Olivia away.
    Rachelle pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of herskirt but did no more than dab her reddened nose. “You think I am heartless, do you not?”
    “No,” Bronwyn stammered. “No, I—”
    “Would your mother take the death of you or your sister as calmly as I am?” Her accent was stronger than Henriette’s; her character was forged in fire.
    “No…No, she would be devastated. Loudly devastated.”
    “I fled France to avoid just the same sort of nightmare that has now taken my daughter from me. It seems I have lived with this kind of pain every day, and pain has calloused me.” Rachelle pressed her flattened palms together and leaned over them, as if she fought a spasm. “Yet sometimes this anguish stabs me. I will have my revenge. I will find this brute who murdered her.”
    “If I think of anything else Henriette said, any other clue, I will contact you,” Bronwyn vowed.
    “I know you will.” Madame straightened and studied Bronwyn. Gesturing at her wig, Madame asked, “May I?” Before Bronwyn could reply, she whipped Bronwyn’s elaborate hairpiece away.
    Clutching her head, Bronwyn protested, “Madame Rachelle—”
    “Rachelle.” The lady lifted an