Keeping Her Head: First Book in the French Frontier Series

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Patricia Pfeiffer

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

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Cover Design by Jim Kelly Cover illustration by kathy Overland

ISBN: 0-595-25949-9 (pbk)

ISBN: 0-595-65457-6 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-469-77340-7 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

To my deceased father, Francis Charles DeMars, and to my children, David, Gerald, Susan, Barbara, Joyce, Karen and Diane and to my grandchildren and great-grandchild, I dedicate this fictional history of the woman who is my great-great-great grandmother. I also dedicate it to all the Demers, Demars, DeMars and the many variations of the name in the New World.

Contents

CHARACTERS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

AUTHOR NOTES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHARACTERS

PLACES

Brest—City on the coast to the west of the chateau Bretagne—Brittany Province on the northwest coast of France Le Havre—City to the northeast on coast of Brittany La Rennes—city southeast of Brittany La Vendée—Province to the south of Brittany, loyal to King Louis VI Le Vigne—imaginary village on northwest coast

PROLOGUE

August 1789 Paris

The Seine lay decaying in hot afternoon sun as the Comte Fromert Alain l`Heaureau guided his black stallion, Saracen, along the Quai D`Orsy and turned right along the Boulevard des Invalides. He threaded the horse among the litter of humanity lying there, snotfaced, ragged urchins and filthy beggars, some with amputated hands, some with suppurating sores covering their legs. He held a lace-edged silk handkerchief over his nose. When the press became too thick to pass without Saracen’s hooves stepping on someone, the comte threw a few coins, effectively clearing the passageway. Even as they lunged for them, hate-filled eyes followed him—an aristocrat—the cause of all their pain.

Poor devils, he muttered, and went on thinking, people will no longer be starving with no hope now that King Louis’ General Assembly has changed the government and given France a constitution, like in America. But France will keep its king and things will change. They must or someday soon these masses will rise and demand their rights.

In spite of sweltering August heat, Fromert l`Heaureau wore fawn leather breeches under a purple velvet waistcoat and a blue brocade coat heavily embroidered in silver. Shining black knee boots and a high beaver hat completed his ensemble. Dark hawk eyes brown with yellow lights frowned under shaggy brows.

The comte slowed Saracen to a walk as he passed beside a park. Perspiring aristocrats shouted disagreement over tennis scores. Ladies shook fists in protest, tottering on four-inch, red-heeled shoes, their bodices straining across mostly exposed breasts. Skirts caught dust along the hems. Diamonds sparkled on men’s white shirts embroidered on with silver thread. At the edge of the park, children, miniatures of adults, broke bits from crusty bread loaves to feed the pigeons, strutting languidly, fluffing their feathers against the heat. The birds bobbed heads to swallow the morsels and looked expectantly for more.

Outside this magic circle, the poor of Paris watched with hollow eyes, threadbare, dirty, their thin lips exposing broken teeth as mouths hung open, mentally tasting the bread. Almost under the stallion’s hooves, an urchin only bones and belly darted toward a girl in pink ruffles, grabbed her loaf of bread, clutched it under his arm and fled as the girl shrieked a mixture of terror and anger.

Fromert leaped from Saracen, threw the reins to a man shrieking for a gendarme, and picked up the girl. He cradled her in his arms, telling her in soft Breton French that she was only frightened, not hurt in the least.

Give me back my bread, she screamed, struggling in his arms. I want my bread.

All the commoners quickly disappeared. No adult turned from the game to notice.

Whose child is this? Fromert demanded in a voice that drew attention. Who leaves her unattended in the streets of Paris? Where is the father?

Babette! shrieked a woman, pushing through the crowd, flailing her arms, give me my child. The girl stopped twisting and escaped to her mother.

Fromert bowed deeply, arms outstretched. I am most happy that I could be here at this moment to rescue your little darling. Comte Fromert l`Heaureau at your service. With a bound he was on his horse to disappear down the first alley that opened.

He did not look for the boy. He knew the starving child would escape into the maze of Paris streets, but whether he would keep the bread—or his life—was another matter. Shortly Fromert paused outside an ancient brick stable and turned Saracen over to an elderly groom.

Take good care. I’ll not need him for some time, but he must be in the best condition when I come again. Spare no expense.

"Oui monsieur, as always I keep your horse myself. No one else touches him." The comte passed a handful of money to the groom and received a grin.

Now to work! What a charade these past weeks have been, thought Fromert. Who am I? A nobleman living on the Rue de Magenta, or a citoyen, a citizen of the New France to be? Turning the questions in his mind, he decided he was two men, one the noble, the other a common man. Fromert passed through an iron gate, unlocked a twelve-foot solid oak door in a gray stone building and sprinted up five flights of stairs. He opened a door with a key tied around his neck and entered an empty room, empty except for a wardrobe against a wall, a bare table, a chair, a heavy white pitcher of stale water and a bowl. He quickly changed into clothing from the locked wardrobe and emerged into the hall a different man, his former clothing securely locked away.

Released from the wig, shoulder-length black hair was tied at the back of his neck with a black ribbon. Long tight trousers instead of knee britches, a homespun shirt open at the neck and heavy brogues made him a commoner no different from the thousands crowding the streets outside, except that he was clean. Second son of a noted Breton family, he was now Fromert Destarte, a revolutionist, a sans coulottes. Gone were the knee britches, the beauty patch and the quizzing glass, gone the supercilious smile, the arrogant walk, the bored expression.

He waited until the dinner hour when most people were indoors before slipping along the hall and down narrow stairs. At the back of the house, he left by the tradesman’s entrance and ambled through a garden as though it were his own. At its end, he bounded over the fence and darted from doorway to doorway, making his way through lanes and alleys so narrow he could reach both sides by stretching out his arms, which led between tenements shouldering each other like drunken revelers, closing out the light. Only the poorest of Paris lived here. He glanced behind him before entering a leaning building and climbing to the fourth floor. The only light came from a window in the roof above him, filtered through centuries of dust. He walked down a dark hall, glancing over his shoulder to be sure he was not observed and scratched three times on a door. It opened a crack and one eye peered at him from the gloom. The eye brightened as a man let Fromert inside and locked the door behind him. A fragment of candle cut a circle of dim light in the gloom.

This most evil-looking man gripped Fromert’s hands firmly. A white scar seared bronze skin from right ear to twisted mouth. A red kerchief wrapped his head above an empty eye socket covered with a black cloth. He kissed Fromert on each cheek. Lips opened in a smile over white teeth. A gray coat came to his knees over slim black trousers. A wide leather belt around his waist held a wicked-looking knife with a handle made of deer horn.

The room was furnished with two cots, a table, chairs, a wardrobe, a cupboard and a brazier over which a pot of lentils simmered.

So, Cousin Hugh le Vigne, said Fromert, dropping his long frame onto a chair, at last I am home. I come now from Versailles. It took longer than we thought to convince the king that the common people meant business. Our sheer numbers overwhelmed the nobles. We’ve a constitution.

Hugh swallowed but said nothing. He went to a cupboard and retrieved a bottle of Burgundy, then set two glasses on the table and filled them.

Fromert took a deep drink and another. Good vintage; I wish I knew where you stole it. Hugh winked his one eye and with hunched shoulders spread his hands in the universal Gallic question that had no answer. Fromert grinned, then wiped his lips on the back of his hand, suddenly serious. You have word?

Hugh le Vigne reached a long, thin finger under his head cloth and retrieved a piece of paper. He handed it to Fromert, who studied it carefully.

So, Hugh, it is tonight they fire the warehouses? Fromert’s friend nodded. "I do not have to tell you the word on the streets is bread." He wiped his lips after another sip of wine.

"Oui, said Fromert, setting down his glass, your work here in Paris is done. He rose and walked the few steps to take a piece of paper from the cupboard and scratched a few words on it with a piece of charcoal. Here is the message for Allard. You are to meet him in Le Havre in a week’s time. His ship should be there about then. Go aboard and give him this message. When I’m free to come, I’ll meet you both in the usual hotel. I must see what results we get from this National Assembly first."

Citoyen le Vigne folded the paper into a tiny square and tucked it into the folds of his head cloth.

I doubt we’ll see any change in freedom, Fromert said, "equality or brotherhood. No, it will take bloodshed before noblemen see that change must come, but equality will come. Then, Comte le Vigne, you will dance again with Antoinette." Fromert eyes smiled and Hugh laughed out loud, opening his mouth to reveal he had no tongue.

While we are together with Allard in Le Havre, Fromert said, spooning stew into bowls, we’ll devise a plan to insure Jazelle escapes. What do you say, Hugh?

The mute man raised both fists and shook them toward the ceiling, his one eye fiery. The men set about eating. Fromert kept his eyes on his bowl, not watching Hugh toss his head back to swallow each bite.

Well, my cousin, Fromert said, stabbing a thick crust into the bowl with his knife, "perhaps we’ll live to see equality and justice, but for now Bread or Lives. I hear it muttered everywhere I go in Pairs. Hungry people will not wait for reason and common sense, not when their children are starving, when they know wheat lies hidden in warehouses all over Paris. Owners waiting for higher prices. He wiped the last of the stew with the crust and when finished chewing, said, Should I do something to protect the warehouse owners?"

Hugh shook his head vigorously, mouthing, "Non. Non."

Finally Fromert nodded, rose, clasped the man close and, pressing his cousin a kiss on each cheek, left the room. In spite of what Hugh advised, there was one warehouse owner he must see. He descended the stairs to enter the alley outside the tenement. He wandered through the tangle of lanes until he reached the Rue du Montparnasse and stopped before a three-story house facing the street. He dropped the knocker hard several times.

A servant in green livery opened the door a crack and looked down his nose at Fromert’s clothing. A nose like a sausage twitched as he prepared to slam the door, but the comte’s boot in the opening prevented him.

I am Fromert Destarte. Give Laurent Picard my name. He will see me. I must speak with him this instant. His wealth depends upon it.

Obviously not believing him, the man beckoned Fromert to follow him down a velvet-carpeted hall, lit every three feet by bees wax candles in sconces, and left him in a small parlor. Fromert kept his distaste hidden. Why was he doing this? Warning this miserable upstart? He knew the answer. This Laurent Picard, owner of this house and half of Paris’ warehouses, yes, this bourgeoisie’s money carefully fleeced from him would pave the way for revolution.

Laurent Picard entered the room on the run, snapping the door shut behind him. He was middle-aged, shoulders bent on a scrawny frame. His lips smiled over big teeth, but his eyes reminded Fromert of a fox.

Ah, Destarte, good to see you, Picard said in an ingratiating voice. Do sit down.

Fromert continued standing, looking down upon Picard. I’ve come, he said with no smile, to warn you. Picard leaned forward, little eyes peering at him. The street people of Paris are rising tonight. My spies tell me they plan to fire warehouses until they find wheat. Tonight! Yours are on the list.

Alarm widened Picard’s eyes. What shall I do…what…? the voice broke. Frantically he looked behind him toward the door.

Dig into your pockets and pay mercenaries well to protect your warehouses. Or…perhaps open one and give away the flour.

Give away? Picard visibly tensed. A scowl darkened his saturnine face. If I had a title, this would not happen. They would not dare.

Yes, if only you had a title, but you don’t. You have only money and flour to keep these people from destroying you. Use what you have, man. Your giving of wheat will make you a far greater man in Paris in the days ahead than a title ever will.

Fromert swallowed his distaste, as though swallowing a live frog. Why should he bother with this shriveled piece of humanity? The man would never understand. You’re grateful for this warning, are you not? Fromert said, going to the door and turning the handle.

Oh, to be sure. Picard dug frantically in the pockets of his black silk coat.

A million francs, Fromert said holding out his hand, or whatever you have about you at the moment.

Wait here, Picard said and scurried down the hall.

Fromert stepped back into the room and went from picture to picture on the cluttered wall, noting none were by great artists like those at the Chateau l`Heaureau. Ah, the chateau. I must go there in a few months and let Charles, Leon, and Warrane know what has happened to our beloved France. After I see what this new Assembly does. The revolution moves on, a peaceful one. I hope, but I have doubts. I have grave doubts.

Picard returned with a package and thrust it into Fromert’s hand, then hurried with him out the door and into the street. Each went his own way.

That night fires lit the skies above Paris, but none fired any of Picard’s warehouses. The street people of Paris shouted his name: "Picard! Picard! He gives us bread."

Fickle people, thought Fromert, as he climbed the stairs to Hugh le Vigne’s room. Don’t trust the street people of Paris, Monsieur Picard. Never trust the street people of Paris.

CHAPTER 1

October 1789

Chateau l`Heaureau, Bretagne

On a cold, blustery day in October, Jazelle Lenore Marie l`Heaureau pressed an ornately carved lily in the oak paneling, the only entrance to the central tower of the Chateau l`Heaureau. A portion of the wall slid open silently as she stepped into darkness relieved only by light filtering down from arrow slits far above her head in the foot-thick stonewalls. The girl lifted the front of her woolen skirt and began climbing the circular stairs, wrinkling her nose against the smell of moldering stone. Step by step, keeping her feet to the widest part of the tread, she climbed the circular stair. A misstep meant death. As she passed under each arrow slit in the wall wind moaned like specters attempting entrance, sending a chill that wasn’t all from the cold. Two years before, Charles had shown Jazelle and his sister Minette this secret passage in the tower, and now Jazelle climbed these stairs several times a week to view her world—and to search for him. There, she could watch peasants and servants and wait for the grand visitors her father brought from Paris, although he had not come for three years.

Her cat wound itself about her ankles, making the girl watch each step more carefully. Jazelle had rescued the kitten when the gardener would have drowned it because of a twisted leg. The leg, bandaged by Berthe, straightened and that cat, for that is what Berthe insisted on calling it, became Chatte, Jazelle constant companion. Chatte, aloof and regal as if she were a royal cat, knew every piece of furniture, every mouse hole and each movement of every person in the chateau.

How many times as a child she had searched the estate for Charles or his sister—or found the gardener, old Paget—just anyone to talk with. Now at fourteen and with a governess trying to make her into a lady, Jazelle must act as Mademoiselle l`Heaureau. Gone were those happy days when Charles helped her find batches of new kittens, rescued her from climbing too high and teased her unmercifully. She readily admitted that she loved Charles, first as a life-long playmate, only four years older than herself, and now in a new indefinable way she could not express. Oh, just to see him, just to see him. Perhaps he was working on the lawns leading up the main door, inspecting the sheep, or sweeping the cobblestone driveway.

Chatte, said Jazelle, move away or I shall trip over you. The gray tabby shot up the stairs ahead of her mistress.

At the top of the stairs, Jazelle pushed open a door and stepped into a wild autumn wind whipping dust like an angry jinn. She stretched as far as her five-foot height allowed to peer over the edge of one of the four openings, unmindful of amber curls being blown into tangles. Five stories below, beyond gray slate roofs, she saw flagstone paths winding through several acres of ornamental beds of oleander, pink Damask roses and purple asters, now dying under the heel of autumn frosts. The land sloped away toward the cove with the village of Baie le Vigne at its head. Beyond she caught a glimmer of light on the Atlantic, it’s waves beating in from Southern England. Chatte walked unerringly along the ledge, and whished her tail across Jazelle’s face, reminding her she was there.

Jazelle looked down, her eyes searching the paddocks where lazy gray horses nipped at each other over wooden fences and servants forked muck into piles from the barn. Beyond the stables, where the land sloped southwest toward the next province of La Vendée, Jazelle watched peasants tossing pearly grape clusters into carts. No voices reached her, although she knew fruit harvest was a time of laughter. Then a sudden change of wind brought the sound of singing and a pungent aroma of ripe grapes. Her eyes narrowed. Mine, all mine someday, this chateau l`Heaureau and all the estate. Mine because Father has no one to inherit except me. And when I am in control of this estate, how different it will be. There will be no more the nobility pulling the life-blood from my peasants. No, and now she smiled, then I will have married Charles and we will own this together and no more will those poor people tremble in fear of the Marquis Jean-Paul l`Heaureau. They will smile at Charles and me, for he will manage like his father and everyone will have food and a warm bed. When the marquis is dead, and I own this chateau. She turned from her secret dream to look for Charles.

Perhaps he was in the orchard, she thought, and looked down to her left where a sea of autumn leaves swayed toward Southern France. Today she saw no Charles moving among the apple trees where they played as children. The roof of the gardener’s shed had its stonewalls planted into the earth at the orchard’s edge. Directly below her, over the gray slates of the roof, lay a portion of lawn between the orchard and the chateau.

Jazelle brushed hair from her eyes, crossed the four-foot space to peer out the eastern opening, feeling the cold seep through the heavy wool of her skirt, hoping to see Charles below her on the drive. A pale sun peering through scudding salt and pepper clouds did nothing to take away the chill.

She pulled the lamb’s skin shawl closer about her shoulders. Then something caught her eye. A man was jumping his horse over the stonewall that circled the chateau. He will kill himself at the rate he is riding. Who can he be? It looks like Moise, but he is in Paris with father. Perhaps it was some servant bringing a message for Jacques. She looked beyond him, her eyes following the deeply grooved ruts that led into the forest. Down that road her father, the marquis, might come from Paris at any minute—or sometime—or never.

Jazelle dismissed the rider and let her thoughts wander. Will I ever go to Paris? Ever have my hair piled two feet high with plumes and wear dresses so wide no one can walk beside me? She scrubbed wind-tossed hair behind her ears. I’m not sure I want to see Paris, even to meet Queen Marie Antoinette, if it means leaving Charles. And Father might find a husband for me there. No, I will never leave the chateau. It’s mine—or perish the thought—he might marry again and have a son.

Jazelle looked toward the inlet. She leaned her chin against cold stone. A shaft of sunlight glittered on the water, too small to be called a bay or even have a name, although the peasants called it and the village at its end Baie le Vigne. Her eyes narrowed and she reached out farther into the opening. Yes, a ship lay at anchor, sails furled like a resting gulls. She leaned farther out. Allard Demers? Could it be? Her heart beat faster. She must tell Minette.

Turning to go, Jazelle saw a movement in the trees from which the rider had come. A half-mile away a lumbering carriage rolled out of the forest, with another behind it, and another. The heavy door behind Jazelle grated on its hinges.

Jazelle, shrieked Minette, at last I’ve found you. Your father is coming. Moise lathered his horse to warn us.

"My father is here!"

Minette ignored her question. Hurry. Look at you. Look at your skirt. There is barely time to change.

"My father! Mon Dieu." Only his unexpected arrival could have brought forth such words from Jazelle. She grabbed Minette’s hand and pointed it toward the road.

"Three carriages, Minette. See! Three carriages. Who can be with him?"

I’ll tell you when we are below. Minette’s sabots clattered on the stone. Jazelle followed her maid down the stairs as quickly as they dared go. Chatte flashed down before them like a frenzied demon. At the bottom, Jazelle leaned her ear against the panel. Hearing nothing, she touched a carved lily. The wall slid silently open, and the girls shut the wall behind them and raced up the servant stairs to Jazelle’s bedroom apartment on the third floor.

Hurry! Minette squeaked. Look at you. Cockleburs and dust all over your skirt. And your hair. It will take an hour of brushing and we have only minutes. And no doubt he has exalted guests with him, and their maids and valets and who know who else, and my mother is having a fine fit, as you can imagine.

Jazelle knew she need not answer; besides, who could get in a word when Minette was talking. She threw off the cape, unbuttoned her skirt and let it drop in a pile on the floor, then stepped into a blue serge gown Minette held out to her. She kicked off leather boots to dig her toes into blue kidskin slippers. Minette steered her toward a dressing table and had the hairbrush in hand before Jazelle seated herself on the pink velvet bench, faded and shiny from decades of wear.

With eyes gray as the sea under a cloudy sky, Jazelle looked into the mirror and smiled ruefully up at Minette from under dark brows a bit too heavy for beauty.

Minette, two years her senior, a grand sixteen, had been her lifelong playmate and was now her maid. She stood five inches taller than Jazelle, her dark hair brushed firmly behind her ears and imprisoned in a net at the back of her neck. It framed an oval face with dark sloe eyes under arching brows.

Jazelle held the sides of the bench against the brush’s pull. "Who do you suppose is with Père’?"

Minette did not answer. Instead she finished combing the girl’s hair with a steady hand and told Jazelle to straighten her skirt so she would look like the chatelaine of the chateau not a hoyden. She must act like lady now, not a willful schoolgirl. Jazelle did not feel like a grown woman who would descend the stairs and greet unknown guests. She felt like a little girl and shivered for no evident