Emily gave birth in the New Year, precisely when the physicians predicted, and I was there wiping her brow and letting her squeeze my hand. “Just a few more pushes and you shall have your heart’s desire.”
Emily was close now, panting. “If only the baron were here.”
“Trust me, you don’t want him to see you like this. Your hair is an ungodly fright.”
Emily groaned. “You’re a monster . . .”
She didn’t think so when, not long after, I held the swaddled bundle, feeling a now-familiar maternal longing. But this was Emily’s child, not mine, so I put the bundle in her arms and said, “A perfect babe, fine and strong, with brown eyes just like yours. But better fashion sense, I hope.”
Emily laughed, melting all at once with the sentiments she had so feared she wouldn’t feel.
Later, we had lucky timing—the father himself came home on leave!
“I came as soon as I could,” LaGrange said breathlessly, having run from the train station. “Is Emily—”
“She’s doing well, and the baby too. Congratulations, Amaury. You have a daughter.”
He looked down, stamping snow off his boots until he could hide his disappointment at the sex of the child. At least he would hide it, I thought. “It is not ours to argue with nature,” I said, then led him into Emily’s bedchamber. “Now I’ll leave your little family to get acquainted . . .”
“You are part of our little family,” she said, warming my heart. It was wonderful to feel cherished. We were all so sentimental, but the baron had only two days’ leave from the fighting, and when it came to pilots, I was acutely aware of how precious such moments were. It still seemed some manner of miracle that he’d lived long enough to see his child, and I didn’t wish to intrude. I checked on Marthe, fast asleep in her cradle, and wondered why she couldn’t be mine. There were thousands of children in need—hundreds of thousands, in truth—but Max had placed this one into my arms, and maybe . . .
It was foolish. I wasn’t even doing right by my own boys. My husband would be of no help in caring for a baby, and I doubted very much he’d be willing to bring a foundling into his distinguished family line. Still, Willie did love to surprise me. So that night, my blood thrumming with hope, I decided to surprise him by visiting his house. I found him in bed earlier than he normally retired. Worse, he was unable to rise, his eyes dazed and blank as I had never seen them in all our years together or apart. This man, so full of vim and vigor, seemed suddenly vacant. I was terribly alarmed. Was it the months of drinking so hard that did this to him? I could almost wish him to be a raging drunk again . . .
“We must ring up a doctor,” I told his pretty secretary, whose name I didn’t bother to learn. “Something is wrong with Mr. Chanler.”
“The doctor has already been here, madame.”
And I followed her eyes to the bedside table, where I saw the vial and needle.
FORTY
ADRIENNE
Chavaniac
August 1792
“Maman!” Anastasie’s slippers skidded across the polished parquet floor, her auburn hair sweat-damp. “There are soldiers in the village.”
I’d been studying our plantation books to see where our lands could be parceled out and given to freed slaves, if only I could assure that their manumission papers would be honored. Now I closed the books and stood as a clatter of horse hooves on the cobbles echoed into my open window. “Which soldiers?”
Anastasie raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “National Guard, I think. They wear the tricolor . . .”
That was a relief. Or at least it should have been, but splintered shouts began to filter through the window.
“Burn the chateau!”
“—at least every aristo inside.”
I grabbed up my quill and parchment. “Tell the cook to prepare a feast. I’m going to invite the officers to dine. Meanwhile, have your sister and brother make up their beds for them.”
“Where will we sleep?”
“In my chambers,” I said.
Though Anastasie was more prone to argue than most children, she obeyed me at once. It was Aunt Charlotte who resisted. “I will not dine with the rabble!”
“You must,” I insisted with all the authority I could muster. “And for the love you bear your nephew, madame, adopt an egalitarian tone.”
Aunt Charlotte sucked her teeth, and the cook went pale at the notion of what must be prepared on short notice. Thankfully the commotion beyond our gates was powerful motivation to see it done. I arranged a wagon to bring jugs of milk, wheels of cheese, crates of cabbages, and sacks of potatoes from our stores. All this I sent out with a note of thanks on behalf of General Lafayette to all the brave gentlemen defending the nation. Then I dressed—no wig, no hoops, no jewels. A blue riding coat with buttons gave the best impression of a general’s wife, and this I wore over simple white. No rouge or powder either; the tricolor alone would serve for ornamentation. Truthfully, I dressed much the same before the Revolution, but was now conscious of it as a choice born of fear rather than pride.