Rendezvous (9781301288946) Read Free Page B

strewn with May blossoms, crowded with the
peasant folk who had come for a glimpse of their young lord's
English bride. And the heat . . . as though it were yesterday,
Belle could feel the sun's rays beating through the white crepe of
her gown, the lace pinniers of her bonnet hanging limp against her
neck.
    But it had been cool inside the nave of
Saint-Saveur. With her eyes tightly closed, Belle could still
envision the lofty rib vaulting of the roof above her head, the
tall windows of the lantern tower, the stained glass spilling a
quiltwork of colored light upon the altar.
    There had stood the newly consecrated
Pere Jerome, garbed in his vestments, his youthful face aglow with
the excitement of performing the marriage sacrament for the first
time, his voice quivering as he had put to her the
question.
    Would she, Isabelle Gordon, pledge to
honor, obey, and cherish forever Jean-Claude de Varens?
    Belle recalled how she had turned to
gaze up into the face of the young man at her side. With painful
clarity, she pictured Jean-Claude's solemn face, the waves of his
light brown hair, his mist-gray eyes giving the impression of one
always lost in a dream.
    She had promised to cherish him
forever, and he had echoed her vows, stooping to brush a chaste
kiss upon—
    Belle wrenched her eyes open, forcing
the image back behind the closed doors of her mind. There were no
forevers to be found in the France of 1789. The Revolution had
destroyed things more sacred than her marriage vows. St. Saveur was
no more. Rechristened the Temple of the Enlightenment, the colored
glass had been shattered, the golden candlesticks looted, the stone
before the altar stained with Father Jerome's blood.
    And the last time she had seen
Jean-Claude- Belle pressed her fingertips against her
eyes.
    "Mademoiselle?"
    She did not at first notice the touch
on her wrist, it was so butterfly soft.
    "Mademoiselle. I think we are
approaching the posting station." The tug at her arm became more
insistent.
    "What?" Belle lowered her hand to meet
Phillipe’s concerned gaze. "Oh, yes. The posting
station."
    When she glanced out the window, she
saw that the sun had set, the glass pane curtained with the purple
haze of twilight. The occasional flicker of a lantern marked their
approach to Lillefleur, a hamlet of thatch-roofed cottages with the
spire of a church set in their midst.
    "You looked so distressed a moment ago
when you first opened your eyes," Phillipe said. "Did you have a
bad dream?"
    "No. I never have dreams
anymore."
    Belle composed herself. By the time she
turned back to face Phillipe, she had shaken off the memory of
Jean-Claude. Gripping the back of her seat, she braced against the
jolt as the carriage trundled along the rough lane leading through
Lillefleur.
    Madame Coterin and her daughter were
startled awake. Sophie whimpered and Belle could hear the child's
frightened breathing like a small creature cornered in the
dark.
    "There is nothing to fear," Belle said.
"We are going to stop to change the horses. It will not take long,
and then we will be on our way again."
    Sophie ducked her head and burrowed
deeper against her mother. On the outskirts of the village, the
carriage halted in the yard before a row of long, low stables.
Belle could hear the postboy scrambling from his perch on the box,
the ancient Feydeau alighting at a slower pace. The coachman's
gruff voice rang out, greeting the station's ostlers and giving
them his commands.
    Presently, he stuck his grizzled head
inside the coach door. "The change, it take twenty—maybe thirty
minutes," he said.
    "So long," Madame Coterin
faltered.
    "My fault, it is not." Feydcau leveled
a fierce look at Belle. "What more is to be expected when you do
not send the outriders ahead to bespeak the horses."
    The lack of outriders had been a source
of contention between Belle and Feydeau at the outset of the
journey, Belle insisting that outriders would only serve to call
more attention to their