Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter by Carrie Fancett Pagels Page A

came in on that fine gelding?” A man shouted this question. It sounded as though several other men stamped their feet.
    “ Messieurs?” Cook’s plaintive question echoed up. “That horse belongs to the gardener’s nephew.”
    They didn’t respond.
    Either that or she couldn’t hear them. Suzanne froze as heavy footfalls pounded upstairs to the second level. One after the other, every door on the long hallway was thrown open.
    She cringed with each echo. Clutching her beads, hands shaking, she began to pray. Dear Lord, be merciful. Save me.
    “Come on!” Steps clamored to the third level.
    She shivered, awaiting her own door’s mistreatment. It banged against the wall, crashing something to the floor, which shattered. Her floor creaked with stealthy footsteps.
    “Looks like a girl’s room. Check carefully.”
    Thank goodness, she hadn’t disrobed, nor slept. The thick covering on the bed wouldn’t reveal that the sheets had been disturbed. Candlelight flickered on the toes of two pairs of boots, visible beneath the bed frame.
    “Nothing, no one up here.”
    “I’m tired of this nonsense. I want my pay and to go.”
    “Monsieur LeFort can sort this out himself. We’re done with this now. I say we return to Paris.” The soldier coughed. “Enough time wasted in this musty old place.”
    “Oui, she’s his problem from here.”
    Trembling, and taking short breaths through her itchy nose, Suzanne was sure she’d sneeze again. As they slammed the front door to the chateau, she sneezed loudly.

4
    Dinner with Madame Vachon and MonsieurKull the night before brought order to Suzanne’s mind, as did the full night’s rest.
    The poor gardener slept right outside her door, should anyone come.
    Bathed, her hair clean and pulled back, and donning a fresh set of young men’s clothing set everything aright, at least for the morning. Suzanne set out across the field to the barn to see Fury, Guillame’s black stallion.
    “Good morning, mademoiselle!” The stableman called out, the jaunty red scarf around his neck bobbing. “Your brother’s horse is ready whenever you are. I go to enjoy Madame Vachon’s excellent breakfast now.” He bowed slightly, and then headed for the back entrance of the chateau.
    How she’d love to take Fury all the way to the colonies with her. Impossible.
    Hooves tramped the dirt.
    Suzanne stepped behind the edge of the barn and peeked out.
    A dappled-gray gelding trotted up the road to the estate, his rider seated straight and high in the polished saddle, a gilded L glistening prominently near the pommel.
    She gasped. Etienne’s favorite horse, a gift from his parents for his last birthday. But the rider was too broad, sat too low in the saddle, to be her beau.
    Pierre LeFort rode the gift horse. So, he’d taken Etienne’s gelding, too, as he did everything else.
    Suzanne shuddered. She ran to the back of the stable to Fury’s stall, and willed her heart to stop hammering in her chest. She bent and took a slow breath. Think . After ensuring her hair all remained covered by her cap, she grabbed a pitchfork and began to muck out the stall, the black stallion nuzzling her pockets, searching for food. Suzanne Richelieu would never have cleaned a stable.
    Snuffling, stamping of hooves, and tails flicking sounded through the barn.
    From the corner of her eye, she sensed Pierre by the stall. “You there—come help me!”
    Feigning being startled, she hurled a forkful of manure in his direction. Suzanne choked back a laugh.
    Pierre jumped about, wiping at the horse dung that landed on his green brocade jacket and tan breeches. He waved his hat in the air as though to rid it of the filth. “How dare you, you insolent fool!”
    “Pardon, I didn’t know you were there.” Her peasant boy’s accent sounded believable to her ears and she hoped to his, also. If only she would stop shaking.
    “You imbecile, do you see any other stable boys within earshot?”
    “Non, monsieur.” She