A/N: Since it has been a while between postings, "a brief reminder" that Mere and Therese arrived at the end of Chapter Six with a note from Stephen...

Nothing But Love

Chapter Seven

Reaching into her skirt pocket, Thèrése pulled out a folded square of paper and handed it to Christine. "I received this yesterday," she said softly, "and knew I must bring it to you as soon as I could."

Hungrily Christine scanned the brief note, Erik reading over her shoulder, his hands resting gently on her waist as she read aloud. " 'Thèrése, please go to Maman and Erik and tell them that you have heard from me and that I am well. Merci, Stephen.' " Sadly, she murmured, "There is no date, no indication of where he is."

Erik wrapped his arms around her, held her tightly against him. "No," he said, "but he did write, to try to reassure us that he is well." Turning his attention to the girl, he asked, "How did this come to you, Thèrése? Did someone bring it to you?"

"No, Monsieur," she answered with a shake of her head. "It arrived in the regular post yesterday."

Christine moved out of Erik's embrace and reached out to grasp both of the girl's hands in hers. "Merci, Thèrése, for bringing this to us immediately." A tear fell and splashed on their joined hands.

"I am so very sorry, Madame," she replied in a sad whisper. "I would do anything to return him to you."

Mère spoke for the first time. "Come, children, and sit down." She patted the sofa next to her and obediently Thèrése sank down beside her.

Erik and Christine perched on the edge of the loveseat opposite them and she reached out to pour the tea. But when she tried to pick up the pot, it wobbled dangerously and she set it down with a thud.

"If you will allow me, Madame, may I pour?" Thèrése asked gently, receiving a grateful nod from Christine and a small encouraging smile from Erik. Efficiently she poured four cups, serving them first, then Mère and lastly herself.

"Well done, child," murmured Mère after she had taken several sips. "Now," she continued, focusing her attention sharply on Erik and Christine, "just what steps have you taken to find our missing lad?"

They exchanged a sheepish look and Erik cleared his throat. "Other than to search the grounds here and at the orphanage thoroughly, not very much." He held up a hand to forestall the outburst he knew was forthcoming. "We are waiting to hear from Jean-Marc Gaspard about a retired Pinkerton detective from America. The only other available detective—and I use the term quite loosely—was Louis Chalfont, and we decided he did not meet our needs."

"Chalfont! Pah! If it were not so undignified, I would spit at the mention of his name," replied the nun indignantly, startling a short bark of laughter from Erik.

"Yes, well . . . That was essentially our opinion of him, also."

"He is nothing but a vile cochon!" The words burst from Thèrése, surprising the three adults.

Erik recovered first, speaking gently to her. "And what makes you say that, chere? Not from . . . personal experience, I hope."

Blowing out a deep breath, she answered a little more calmly. "No, Monsieur; at least not the type to which I believe you refer. I lived with my aunt after my parents died. She was a seamstress and her shop was a few blocks from Chalfont's office. When she first became ill, he came around, feigning concern while he checked the shop for anything he thought he could steal. And . . . I caught him looking at me, also, when he thought I was not watching him."

Mère took up the story. "And no sooner had Thèrése's aunt passed away than that . . . rat turned up, claiming that she had sold the shop to him—"

"Which was a damned lie!" spat the girl then ashamedly she added, "Pardon, Mère, Madame, Monsieur."

Clearing her throat, Mère continued. "Thèrése's aunt had the foresight to contact me, when the doctors told her there was little hope of a recovery, and when Thèrése came to me with the news of her death, I insisted that she remain with us for the night. By the time we returned the next morning to collect her belongings and make arrangements for the burial, Chalfont had moved in and we were powerless to evict him."

Erik surged to his feet and stalked to the fireplace. "Sale bâtard!" Immediately he whipped around and dipped his head. "Pardon, Mère, ladies."

Christine rose and joined the others on the sofa. "Thank God your aunt had contacted Mère," she said, squeezing Thèrése's hand.

"And thank God—and you, Madame and Monsieur—that Our Lady of the Angels was there, also." She gave them a huge smile. "I love living there, and especially helping the younger children learn to read."

The mantel clock chimed softly five times and almost immediately a rumble of thunder boomed outside, followed by the pounding of rain on the roof. "Please, join us for dinner," said Christine.

Erik echoed the invitation, adding, "If the rain continues, you know you are more than welcome to spend the night, also. Now we must take care of an important matter that we have postponed for too long."

"Nicolas again?" asked Mère with a tiny smile and Christine nodded ruefully as she rose from the sofa and walked to the door.

"I am afraid so," she murmured, "and I think this will be quite an eventful discussion." She gave the nun a wry smile. "Sometimes I despair of him ever growing up—and then I think of Stephen, who has grown up much too fast, it seems."


Nicolas sat slouched in the window seat of his room, staring sullenly at the rain falling on the gardens and the buildings that were at the rear of the house. "Having two older sisters just is not fair," he muttered.

"Perhaps not, but since there is nothing you can do about it, you will have to learn to live with it," responded Erik calmly, closing the door behind him as Christine walked toward their son.

Startled, the boy scrambled to his feet, standing almost at attention. Erik fought to keep a grin off his face and succeeded—barely. Motioning for Nicolas to sit down, he pulled two chairs over and the three of them sat with their knees nearly touching.

"All right, mon fils," said Christine. "We are waiting to hear your explanation for your actions this afternoon."

Suddenly ashamed, and more than a little worried about what his punishment would be, Nicolas swallowed hard. "I—I was in your study this afternoon, Papa, when Anna ran in crying. I heard her say that Maman is worried about Stephen and I—I just wanted to know why. Did something happen to him at Tante Meg's in Venice?"

His parents looked at each other, asking and answering questions in a single glance. Erik turned to Nicolas and said, "Stephen is not at Tante Meg's. He ran away from home and we do not know where he is."


"Between you and Jolie, you're gonna brush all the hair right off that little horse."

The words startled Stephen out of his reverie and made him drop the brush in the straw beneath Lady's feet. She snorted and shifted her weight, leaning against him, and he rubbed his hand down her back, murmuring to her.

With his hand still on the mare's swollen belly, he crouched down and found the brush. Straightening slowly he turned and faced Sara Jane. "Pardon, Mademoiselle. May I help you with something?"

"Actually, I've come to do something for you. I noticed at dinner tonight that you've got a tear in your shirt. I thought I'd sew it up for you," she said, lifting her sewing basket for him to see.

To her great surprise, a flush of embarrassment rose on the boy's cheeks. "I—this—this is my last clean shirt," he blurted out, making Sara Jane chuckle and shake her head.

"I'll take it and your other ones with me—tomorrow is wash day. Better give me your extra trousers, too," she added, unable to hold back a soft laugh when Stephen blushed again. "I'll find you an old shirt to wear until yours are dry."

Stephen went to the small room where he slept and gathered up his clothing, draping his spare blanket around his shoulders before awkwardly holding the bundle out for the cook to take.

She dropped it on the cot and sat down on its edge. "Light the lamp and move it a little closer," she told him, opening her sewing basket and pulling out a needle and a spool of white thread. "Oh, this fabric is very good quality . . . and expensive, I dare say." She looked at Stephen sharply, but he refused to meet her gaze.

He sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall with his knees pulled up almost to his chin, the blanket covering nearly all of him. "I did not steal it," he said a little defensively.

"Oh, I know you didn't—it fits you too well," she replied. "I've seen enough things in this old world to be a fairly decent judge of character. I think something happened that you couldn't deal with and you ran away from home."

The boy shifted uncomfortably but said nothing and Sara Jane laughed softly. "Oh, you don't have to admit it," she told him. "I can see it in your eyes." Those blue eyes looked at her in panic and she added hastily, "But only because I've been in a similar situation."

Pausing, she bit the thread in two and laid the shirt aside, picking up another and carefully examining it for tears or loose buttons. As she worked she began to talk slowly. "I was a scholarship student at Miss Kingsbury's Academy for Young Ladies in St. Louis when I was about your age. That meant that in exchange for being able to study, I did chores around the place—in the kitchen, the laundry, helped the maid, and so on."

Her needle flashed in and out of the fabric of another of Stephen's shirts as she continued, "And although you probably couldn't tell, I did receive a good education there—even learned a little French," she said in that language, with a decent accent.

Stephen's eyebrows shot up in surprise—she had only ever spoken English before. "How did you come to be in France, Mademoiselle? America and St. Louis are a long way from here."

A sad, faraway look crossed her face and she sighed. Then with a shake of her head she gave him a half smile. "It's a long, sad story, better saved for another day." Looking at him intently, she added, "Let me simply say that some good people helped me through that time and . . . if you need someone to talk to . . ."

Slowly she reached out and touched Stephen's shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze. His hand came up and covered hers, squeezing back. "Merci, Mademoiselle," he said quietly. "I will remember that." He frowned as she stared at him, beginning to feel more than a bit uneasy as long moments seemed to pass. "Mademoiselle?"

"Damned if you don't remind me of someone," muttered Sara Jane as she rose from the cot and picked up the bundle of clothing. "Not somebody I've met, but a picture I've seen, in a newspaper or something."

Stephen felt an icy ball of dread form in his stomach as he watched her go back to the house. As he lay down on the cot and covered up with the spare blanket, for the first time in his life he wished he did not resemble his papa quite so much.

His dreams were troubled and he woke gasping for air. "Sainte Mère!" he breathed, crossing himself. Pushing away the blanket, he got to his feet and walked the few steps to the wash stand, pouring out what little water remained in the pitcher. He splashed a handful of it on his face, drying it with a scrap of towel that hung from a nail in the wall above the stand.

Cautiously he opened the door and found an old faded blue shirt hanging on the doorknob. With a tiny smile he slipped it on, silently thanking Sara Jane for not forgetting.

As he moved farther out into the barn he heard the animals stirring restlessly—and heard Lady whinny nervously and then snort. Stephen walked to her stall quickly and found her lying down in the straw. "Oh, ma belle, your baby is coming," he crooned as he opened the stall door and knelt down next to her.

Stroking her neck gently, he prayed with all his heart. Oh, Lord, please help me not to fail this time, too.