at such a time.
One by one the living and the dead quietly reunited with family and friends. Rachelle, still holding the baby in her arms, felt a refreshing sense of thankful relief when she saw Monsieur Scully alive and coming for his child. The child would have one loving parent, at least.
“Monsieur,” she said gently, “my mother and I will be at your disposal should you need us.”
“Merci, Mademoiselle,” he rasped as tears ran down his creased, tanned cheeks. He took his child, his hands trembling, and she watched him walk away. Rachelle’s prayer followed them.
Soon the dead were retrieved from the field for burial. Nothing remained of the barn church except blackened ruins against a bright spring sky.
Cousin Bertrand and Sir James Hudson were helped to the coach, and Marquis Fabien walked toward Rachelle, leading his horse. He paused in front of her, muscled and virile, with hair the color of sun-ripened wheat.
His eyes softened as they took her in. “You are exhausted, chérie . Permit me to ride you to the château — the coach has departed with the injured.”
He brought her beside his horse, but she paused and walked over to the small blue wildflower and plucked it carefully. This will go in my Bible to be pressed between the pages and kept in memory of Avril .
The marquis waited. She came up beside him, and he lifted her to the saddle, then mounted.
The wind blew across Lemoine’s hay fields. The mingled voices of prayer and rage had ceased. Soon, a bird returned to chirp in the branches of a tree and carry on as spring demanded.
One day, time would eliminate every vestige of what had occurred here. Many succeeding generations would pass. The grass would grow green again, the flowers would bloom, and who would remember but God?
They rode together toward the road, Rachelle looking at the flower.
They rode toward the Château de Silk, and to what awaited them all in the days and months ahead.
Au Revoir, My Love
R ACHELLE REMAINED TENSE AND UNCERTAIN AFTER RETURNING TO THE château with Marquis Fabien. What would be the outcome of the events which their good God had allowed to invade their lives? Why was the Lord allowing such painful trials as these? What had they done wrong? Were they being chastened? Was it satanic? Many questions ran through her mind, questions with no simple answers, leaving her downcast.
Rachelle was waiting near the rose garden when Marquis Fabien walked up. He stood looking down at her, the wide sleeves of his linen tunic and his plumed hat stirring in the wind.
“The roses still bloom; the leaves are yet green,” she murmured, looking toward the bushes. “Somehow I would have expected everything to have withered after such pain and sorrow, but life goes on, does it not?”
“You need not think of it now. It is an unfair weight upon your heart to attempt to come to terms with such loss and tragedy too quickly. Grief is a necessary part of healing. All things take time.”
He stepped toward her and took her face between his warm, strong hands and looked down at her tenderly. Her heart stirred to life again at his touch. As she gazed into his eyes, however, she saw that more was on his mind than having her so near. His gaze was serious and distant.
“What is it, Fabien?”
His smile was faint. “I must leave you for a while.”
“Oh, but — ”
“I shall return tonight. Le docteur is here now, and I think Pasteur Bertrand will recover. I have seen worse wounds. And the Englishman’s leg will also heal.”
He lifted her fingers to his lips, turned, and descended the veranda steps. Gallaudet came around from the side of the château leading two horses, and they rode away together. His other men-at-arms and lackeys must have remained at the stables. Where was he going?
The docteur, Maître Pierre Lancre, was grim faced and tight-lipped as he quickly scanned the worst of the injured, then turned back to treat them. Cousin Bertrand had a gunshot wound in
One by one the living and the dead quietly reunited with family and friends. Rachelle, still holding the baby in her arms, felt a refreshing sense of thankful relief when she saw Monsieur Scully alive and coming for his child. The child would have one loving parent, at least.
“Monsieur,” she said gently, “my mother and I will be at your disposal should you need us.”
“Merci, Mademoiselle,” he rasped as tears ran down his creased, tanned cheeks. He took his child, his hands trembling, and she watched him walk away. Rachelle’s prayer followed them.
Soon the dead were retrieved from the field for burial. Nothing remained of the barn church except blackened ruins against a bright spring sky.
Cousin Bertrand and Sir James Hudson were helped to the coach, and Marquis Fabien walked toward Rachelle, leading his horse. He paused in front of her, muscled and virile, with hair the color of sun-ripened wheat.
His eyes softened as they took her in. “You are exhausted, chérie . Permit me to ride you to the château — the coach has departed with the injured.”
He brought her beside his horse, but she paused and walked over to the small blue wildflower and plucked it carefully. This will go in my Bible to be pressed between the pages and kept in memory of Avril .
The marquis waited. She came up beside him, and he lifted her to the saddle, then mounted.
The wind blew across Lemoine’s hay fields. The mingled voices of prayer and rage had ceased. Soon, a bird returned to chirp in the branches of a tree and carry on as spring demanded.
One day, time would eliminate every vestige of what had occurred here. Many succeeding generations would pass. The grass would grow green again, the flowers would bloom, and who would remember but God?
They rode together toward the road, Rachelle looking at the flower.
They rode toward the Château de Silk, and to what awaited them all in the days and months ahead.
Au Revoir, My Love
R ACHELLE REMAINED TENSE AND UNCERTAIN AFTER RETURNING TO THE château with Marquis Fabien. What would be the outcome of the events which their good God had allowed to invade their lives? Why was the Lord allowing such painful trials as these? What had they done wrong? Were they being chastened? Was it satanic? Many questions ran through her mind, questions with no simple answers, leaving her downcast.
Rachelle was waiting near the rose garden when Marquis Fabien walked up. He stood looking down at her, the wide sleeves of his linen tunic and his plumed hat stirring in the wind.
“The roses still bloom; the leaves are yet green,” she murmured, looking toward the bushes. “Somehow I would have expected everything to have withered after such pain and sorrow, but life goes on, does it not?”
“You need not think of it now. It is an unfair weight upon your heart to attempt to come to terms with such loss and tragedy too quickly. Grief is a necessary part of healing. All things take time.”
He stepped toward her and took her face between his warm, strong hands and looked down at her tenderly. Her heart stirred to life again at his touch. As she gazed into his eyes, however, she saw that more was on his mind than having her so near. His gaze was serious and distant.
“What is it, Fabien?”
His smile was faint. “I must leave you for a while.”
“Oh, but — ”
“I shall return tonight. Le docteur is here now, and I think Pasteur Bertrand will recover. I have seen worse wounds. And the Englishman’s leg will also heal.”
He lifted her fingers to his lips, turned, and descended the veranda steps. Gallaudet came around from the side of the château leading two horses, and they rode away together. His other men-at-arms and lackeys must have remained at the stables. Where was he going?
The docteur, Maître Pierre Lancre, was grim faced and tight-lipped as he quickly scanned the worst of the injured, then turned back to treat them. Cousin Bertrand had a gunshot wound in
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