Chris’s question tore me out of my thoughts, and I forced a smile onto my face to match those of everyone looking on. “She’s wonderful.”
Why could I not be content? I had a good home, a loving family, and everything a country girl could possibly want. But logical or not, my mind still burned with the desire to stand on stage and sing. Almost against my will, my head turned, eyes searching the road disappearing into the trees with the hope I might see a carriage coming toward us. But it was empty.
“Well, we’d best be getting back,” Jér?me said. “Horses won’t feed themselves.”
I reluctantly slid off Fleur’s back, wishing she were wearing a bridle so that I might gallop off wherever my heart took me.
“I’ll bring her back when she’s ready,” Chris promised, patting the horse on the neck. “I’ll get her trained up good for you. Then I’ll take you riding.”
I smiled and nodded, saying all the things I should, but my mind was wrapped up in irritation with itself. Why couldn’t I be satisfied with what I had? Why did I want more when I knew that leaving would hurt those I loved?
The Girards said their goodbyes, and I silently watched them trot up the road on their horses, Fleur trailing along behind.
“What do you have planned for the rest of your afternoon?” my father asked. “Your sister said she’s doing the rest of your chores as a birthday gift.”
I smirked at Joss’s white lie, but didn’t out her. She was chasing my pony around the field in a fruitless attempt to catch him, so I suspected a lot of my chores would be waiting for me the following day. But my amusement didn’t last. I considered the options available to me, including stealing my pony back and riding to town to visit my best friend Sabine, trekking up to the pond to see if I could catch a trout, or sneaking over to the outskirts of the rockslide to see if I could find a glint of gold. On any other day, all three would be appealing, but I was reluctant to undertake anything that would take me away from the farm. What if she came while I was gone? What if she left because I wasn’t waiting?
My father raised one eyebrow. “Well?”
“Things,” I replied, hoping my tone suggested I had something better in mind than waiting in the ditch until dusk. Holding up my new long skirts, I started down the road.
“Cécile!”
I turned to look over my shoulder at him.
“She don’t wake much before noon. Will be a few more hours yet before you can expect her.”
* * *
I wandered through the forest, always making certain the road was within sight. There was only one way she could pass, and I wasn’t willing to risk missing a moment of her visit. Anticipation kept me moving, and I danced through the trees, singing random notes and attempting to imitate the birds flying overhead. My voice echoed through the woods, and closing my eyes, I imagined how it would sound in a theatre, what it would be like knowing the right songs to sing. What it would feel like having an audience listening.
Finding a patch of springy moss, I lay down, watching the clouds pass over the treetops through lids that grew heavier as the sun passed over the sky.
I don’t know how long I slept before the sound of cantering hooves and jingling harness startled me awake. Scrambling to my feet, I tore toward the road, heedless of the branches clutching at my hair and dress. Through the trees, flashes of grey and brown were visible, the carriage moving much faster than was advisable on the rough dirt track. I stumbled out onto the road just after the horses passed, and the coachman gave me an angry glare though none of the animals had spooked.
“Wait,” I called out.
But the carriage kept moving. I stood stock-still in the center of the road, certain they would stop. Certain that my mother had seen me or sensed my presence, and that the door would open, one slender hand emerging to beckon me inside. But the horses plowed onward, slowly disappearing into the distance.
“You been waiting in the bushes all day, im-be-Cécile? Good thing I got here before dark, or the trolls might have snatched you up for dinner. Not that you’d make much of a meal.”
I turned round to glare up at my older brother, who sat slouched in his saddle. “Hardly. I spent the morning doing your chores.”
“Aren’t my chores anymore.”
Fred dropped a stirrup for me and I swung up behind him, cursing my long skirts when they caught. “Bloody stones and sky.”
“Gran will wash your mouth out twice with soap if she hears you talking that way,” Fred said, starting down the road at a slow walk.
“You going to tell?” I asked, although I wasn’t really paying attention. The carriage was already out of sight. I dug my heels into the horse’s side, trying to urge it faster, but Fred checked the reins. The animal sidestepped, ears pinned back, so I left off the effort.
“Nah,” Fred replied. “She’d probably say you’d learnt it from me and wash mine out for good measure.”
“Probably.” I leaned around him, considering whether I’d be better off hopping down and running on my own two feet. “Could we go a little faster?”
“Ain’t I good enough company?” Fred turned around and grinned at me. He’d gotten taller in the intervening months, although no wider. Holding onto him was like holding onto a broomstick.
“Clearly we’re the ones who aren’t good enough company,” I retorted. “You haven’t been back once.”
The smile slid from his face and he turned back around. “It’s hard to get leave.” His voice was dark, the tone indicating to me that there was more to the story than just an overbearing commander.
“Maybe they think you’re coddled enough without time off, living with your mother and all,” I teased.
“I don’t live with her!”
I flinched, startled by the venom in his voice. “But I thought…”
“Well, you thought wrong. I live in the barracks now, and frankly, I’d rather sleep on the streets of Pigalle than spend another night under the same roof as her.”
My chest tightened and a million questions demanding answers sprang to my mind. But before I could say a word, Fred laid the reins to his horse’s shoulders and we were galloping full tilt down the road. I almost toppled off the back, but it wasn’t the first time he’d pulled such a stunt on me so I’d unconsciously been holding on. And anyway, I was far more concerned with the anger he’d directed at our mother than with the prospect of falling off a horse. What had she done?
As we tore down the lane toward the farm, I leaned around him to get a better look at the carriage. It was stopped. The coachman had secured the reins and was climbing off so he could open the door. My father stood a few paces away from the carriage, shoulders managing to be slumped and tense all at the same time.