The Forbidden Rose

Thirty-one

SHE WALKED THROUGH THE EARLIEST OF DAWN, through streets that were asleep under a white sky, side by side with Guillaume.

Papa was afraid of this man. He had cause to be. “Have you come to France to kill my father?” She was weary unto the death of lying to Guillaume LeBreton and receiving his lies in return.

“Why would you think that?”

“My father believes the English have sent men to kill him. I will not ask you to admit that you are an English spy, though I am becoming convinced of it. I will only say that you are not to kill my father. He is a great fool and half mad, but no one is to kill him for that.” As an afterthought she added quickly, “You are not to allow Adrian to kill him either.”

“The boy’s not killing anybody. Neither am I.” He fingered his scar. “If you think I’d make love to a woman and then kill her father, you don’t know much about me.”

“I think you would regret betraying a woman, but you would do it.”

She gave Guillaume time to answer. The streets turned corners and shut the noise of the city away. At this hour, at every house they passed, lanterns were being taken in. It was the work of the first servants awake to blow out the small candles that had been left to burn in the night and save the stubs to use again. Everyone was thrifty now.

It was very quiet. Her footsteps and Guillaume’s made a single cadence, like a single animal walking.

After some uncounted number of steps, Guillaume said, “I don’t mean any harm to your father. Can you send a message to him?”

“No.” That would be to admit she knew where he was.

“You went to talk to him. That’s why you were out all night. He’s still in Paris.”

“Will you tell me why you are looking for him?”

“Ah. Now that I can’t do.”

Exchanging words with Guillaume LeBreton was like pouring water into a cup with a hole in it.

“If you will not admit to being a spy for the English and you will not tell me why you want my father, the meat of this conversation has been plucked out and we do not need to have it. I will discover the truth, eventually. I will not like you at all when I know the truth about you.”

They did not return to her house directly. Guillaume chose a path of smaller streets. It might have been that he did not want to meet heavy carts and noisy carriages and these alleyways were less traveled. Now she saw this as sly and careful. He was not seen. She was not seen.

Guillaume took a hundred such precautions, because he was a spy. She had not wanted to think of this before.

He was large and comfortable to walk beside. He had decided his role of the moment permitted him to be attentive and take her arm to help her avoid the gutters in the middle of the alley. He was portraying several of the most popular masculine virtues. Two middle-aged women of great respectability nodded at him as they passed. A cat sat on a windowsill, washing. A laundry woman carried flat, white sheets, folded, in her basket. Guillaume kept his arm tightly around her, which she permitted by not thinking too deeply about the significance of it.

Somehow, at last, she was home.

Guillaume frowned down at her. Behind him the sky was the color of thin paper that has been laid on the fire, when the light glows behind it, just before it catches flame. It would be another hot day. “I don’t like to leave you alone here. Come with me. I’ll find somewhere to take you. We can—”

She shook her head. He knew the thousand reasons this was impossible.

“You’re not well.”

“Agnès will put me to bed and bring me warm bricks wrapped in cloth to hug to my stomach and I will not feel so sick. I will drink tisanes and lemonade and be better tomorrow.”

“Go inside, then. God, your eyes are staring out of your face. Go to bed. Let them take care of you.”

As he had upon another occasion, he reached past her and knocked on the door. The difference was, this time he kept his hand on her arm, holding on. “I’ll come back tonight, around at the kitchen. Tell them to let me in when I come.”

“No.” The sun was everywhere, getting brighter. She didn’t feel the warmth. She felt empty and ill and cold, and she was saying good-bye to Guillaume. Again. “You must not come here. Ever.” I will not let you find Papa. And I will not let Victor find you. “My cousin,” she swallowed and her mouth tasted vile, “is malicious. Whatever you are, he is dangerous to you. You must keep away from me. I will come to the café again, in a week or a month. Or someday. I will come and wait for you again. I can promise that much.”

She heard the lock of the door, turning.

Guillaume’s hand still rested on her arm. “It’s not over between us. Think about me. I need that much.”

“I have a hundred terrible things to think about. You are ninety-nine of them.”

“Maggie. No. Look this way again. Look at me.” He took her chin in his hand and edged her face into the sun, into a stinging assault of light. “Open your eyes. Are you using some kind of drops? Belladonna?”

The door opened behind her. “Do not be ridiculous. And let me go. I cannot stay.”

“Maggie. Stay a minute. There’s something wrong here.”

She slipped from his hold and through the door before Janvier had it fully open, leaving behind whatever words Guillaume said to keep her there.

The halls were empty of servants. She stumbled upstairs and around, through the length of the house, to the front windows of the parlor. She threw the curtains back. She would have one last glimpse of Guillaume as he walked away.

He was a spy. He did not give one small damn about her, really. He was using her to find her father. She knew this. She knew this completely. There was no connection between them that did not involve dishonor and lies and stupidities beyond counting.

He stayed at the door for a long minute. She was in time to see him go.

Below, on a street the color of rocks, Guillaume LeBreton walked away from her. Not in a hurry, not slowly. It was as if he had twenty tasks to do this morning and he had finished three and now proceeded on to the next, at which he would also be successful. He said all that with just his steps upon the street. No one created an intelligent and eloquent walk as he did.

She held aside the red brocade curtains of the salon and pressed her face to the glass so she would see him for the longest possible moment.

I am no heartsick girl to weep at the window for what I cannot have. She cried only because she was so tired.

Because she was being foolish about Guillaume, she saw him arrested.