Em was feeling poorly the next morning; she wouldn't eat her porridge and mama thought it best to keep her inside. As that meant I'd probably have to stay in as well to watch her, I was a bit worried, but mama decided I might get her some of the early apples from the orchard for a pie and for some sauce. Of course, mama meant that I should do that later in the day . . . .
I put on my best shift, combed my hair, and put the book in a burlap satchel I would use to bring back the apples. I slipped away before Em could see me, or mama could change her mind. It wasn't late enough in the morning for the others to have finished their chores, but at least I could get to the cottage before they did and ask Jules if he really was a spy.
The sun hadn't been up for very long and the grass was still wet with dew - the bottom of my shift slapped against my legs and stuck to me as I ran down the dirt path, over the stone bridge, and through the orchard to reach the Morse cottage. It was only when I saw the cottage ahead of me that I slowed, but still walked forward.
The shutters, which had been barely open the day before, now were wide apart enough to let out the lamplight from inside. There were two windows on the protected side of the cottage, the side close to the orchard, and it was through these that I could see someone moving inside.
The someone was not Jules.
I snuck up to the window and hid below it. The glass was not so thick that I couldn't hear some of what was being said.
"--Healing well enough," said Jules.
"Miss Rebecca said the doctor--"
"Rebecca isn't here. And I'm not an invalid."
There was a pause, long enough for me to get curious and peer over the windowsill. Jules was sitting in a chair at the table, his head in his hands. There were several covered baskets on the table and more bottles. The other man who had been speaking seemed to be unpacking the baskets, but when he looked down at Jules, there was something sad and maybe worried in his expression. He had very dark hair and a funny sort of beard, not a proper beard like my papa.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "They will be returning with the Aurora soon - it will only be a week more before you will be safe. And then, if it is your wishing, I will be taking you back to Paris."
"That's exactly what I wish," growled Jules, still not looking up.
The man with the odd beard picked up a loaf of bread from the basket and held it in his hands, as if weighing it. "Miss Rebecca and Master Fogg, they will not disrespect your wishes and come here unless you tell them they can. But they are wanting to see you greatly."
"I know." Jules' voice was much softer, so that I strained to make sense of his words. "But I can't. Not now, Passepartout. Not after . . . not now. Maybe not ever. I don't know."
The man with the odd beard looked up - for a moment I thought he had seen me, so I ducked down beneath the windowsill again. I waited and counted on my fingers to ten, then took a breath and peeked through the window again. I saw Jules, still sitting at the table, but the man with the odd beard was no longer there.
Before I could move, someone grabbed me from behind and lifted me up. "Here you are - a little spy, no?"
"I'm not a spy," I yelled. "Put me down! Jules! Help! Put me down!"
Kicking as hard as I could, I made the man holding me tip back into the wall. I lowered my head and bit his hand, hard enough to make him let me go - which he did, with a loud yell. I slid on the grass, then scrambled to my feet, turning to face him.
It was the man with the odd beard. I had messed up his tie and his jacket was pushed back from his shoulders. He was favoring his hand and glared at me, eyes shining. "I am thinking . . . you are not being . . . from the League of Darkness?" he said, words falling out between panted breaths.
I ran from him and nearly knocked Jules from his feet; he was rounding the corner with his cane. He grabbed my arm to steady himself and stared at me. "Polly? What are you doing here now?"
"We thought you might be a spy and might need to get away before Henry's grandfather killed you with his sword, 'cause he was at the 'Loo and hates Frenchmen. So if you are a spy, we have to tell someone, but we want you to get away first and I didn't want any of the others to get into trouble and you aren't a spy, are you really?"
I wasn't able to stop once I'd started and finished my explanation breathlessly, watching Jules' face and hoping that he wouldn't suddenly turn into a spy. Instead, he smiled and looked over my head toward the bearded man, who was limping toward us. "It's all right, Passepartout. This is Polly, one of the children from the crofter's cottages."
"She is a little young to be evil for the League," agreed Passepartout, his palm clasped firmly over the side of his right hand. "But she has the teeth of a beaver." And he followed that explanation by sucking back his lips and pretending that his two front teeth were very long.
I laughed - he seemed so silly. Jules gestured toward Passepartout with his cane. "Polly, this is my friend, Passepartout."
"I'm sorry I bit you," I explained, as we went back into the cottage. "But you scared me."
"It is not Passepartout's intention to be scaring young ladies," he answered. "But there are very bad peoples looking for Master Jules. And we must be sure he is safe here."
I looked at Jules and caught him making some sort of gesture to Passepartout, like he didn't want him to talk about something. "It's okay - we can take care of Jules. Henry and Peter are almost big enough to plow by themselves, Robbie is a really good kicker and Cherry can throw apples. And if you think I can bite, you should see Em!"
Passepartout winced and removed a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket as I was speaking, then wound it around his hand. "I am not looking forward to be making the acquaintance of this 'Em.'"
"She's an infant," said Jules, and when that didn't seem to make Passepartout any happier, he held his hand up from the floor at Em's height. "About this big."
"I am thinking English children with strong teeth may be a very good weapon," said Passepartout. He went back to the table and removed more bread from the basket, then looked down at me. "You are hungry, yes? I have been bringing food for Master Jules, but I think he would share."
The bread -- and things in the basket that didn't look like any bread I'd ever seen --smelled wonderful. I pressed the burlap satchel against my stomach to hide the growl. "I'm not hungry," I lied, hoping that my stomach would stay quiet; I'd run out of the house so quickly that I'd not even gotten to have porridge. "And I don't want to take Jules' food."
Passepartout brightened and looked up at Jules. "She says your name in a funny way, no? It is the accent." Then he walked behind me, pulled a chair from the table, and he gestured for me to sit at it. "Master Jules has not been eating much and I am thinking he does not like to eat alone. So if you are eating, then he will be eating and that would please Passepartout."
I wasn't sure exactly what Passepartout had said, but it would have been bad manners not to sit down. I put the burlap bag on the table and took out the book, which I handed to Jules. "I tried to read it, like you said, but some of the words are very hard."
"What did you have trouble with? Let me see."
Jules opened the book and I pointed out words to him, as Passepartout placed china before us, poured milk into real glasses, and set out some of the breads he had brought with him, as well as salted butter. He gave me a cup of tea with sugar and milk just like I was grownup, without even asking.
But then Jules took my attention back to the book, asking me to read him some words. I didn't even know that Passepartout was there for most of the time, but heard a clink as a glass was moved or a whisper when he tied a napkin around my neck, the fine cloth better then my shift and even better than mama's other dress, the best one. I was careful not to soil it, but Jules was very messy, dropping crumbs on the book as he pointed out a word on the page. I wiped off the crumbs very carefully, but he seemed not to notice, making me read a page aloud again and correcting me.
It seemed to me that I had been reading aloud for a very long time without Jules making any corrections when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up at Passepartout, who carefully lowered my book enough for me to see Jules asleep, his head resting on his hands on the tabletop.
"He has not been sleeping," said Passepartout softly, as he untied the napkin from my neck, then pulled out the chair for me. "Better for you to come back later with your friends, yes? Now, you will show Passepartout back to the road?"
There was no reason to answer - Passepartout herded me out of the cottage, with an empty basket on his arm the same way Peter's dog would work the sheep in the far meadow. I had to run back inside to get my burlap bag for the apples and once I explained what it was for, Passepartout said getting apples was a good idea and had me take him to the orchard so that he could get some, too.
The early morning sun had dried the dew from the leaves and branches, so I shinnied up one of the better trees and looked for ripe apples, while Passepartout waited with his basket below. I had seen him carefully close the shutters on the cottage and pull a string through the door - he said it was a lock so no one would get in to disturb Jules.
"Why would anyone want to hurt Jules?" I asked, peering down at him through the leaves. "Is he a spy?"
"Master Jules?" Passepartout chuckled and caught the apple I dropped for him. "No, he is a writer. And a very, very smart man. A genius of very great thoughts. And a student of law, sometimes. But not a spy."
"Then why is he hiding here?"
"There is a bad man who has offered money to other bad men if they will find Master Jules and kidnap him. We did not know this until they almost had Master Jules and he was hurt in escaping with us, so he is hiding here until he gets well. And until my master and Miss Rebecca can stop the bad men who are looking for Master Jules."
I climbed a little higher into the tree, the apples up above were riper, and considered his explanation. "Is he a rich man? Is that why the bad men want him?"
"Rich? No, Master Jules has no money." Passepartout laughed again. "He is rich in the head, in ideas. They want his ideas. The bad men want him to make bad things, instead of good things."
"He's very clever," I agreed, dropping an apple down through the leaves. A second apple slipped from my hand, but Passepartout caught it easily, two in one hand, then dropped the basket and picked up a third apple. I had seen jugglers at the fair before, but none that made it look so easy - the apples sailed through the air in a circle. He reached his headforward to take a bite from an apple and then spit it out with a grimace. "Too much worm," he said, "not enough apple."
I had seated myself on the tree branch and watched and clapped and laughed until he finally bowed, swept up the basket and pointed to the tree. "We will be needing more apples. I am thinking to make a pie for Jules."
There were more than enough apples ripe enough for my mama and for Passepartout's pie. When I'd filled his basket and my bag, I climbed out of the tree and realized with surprise just how many I'd taken.
Passepartout must have seen the frown on my face, because he asked, "Did you hurt yourself?"
"No. It's just that - these aren't really our apples," I admitted. "They belong to the old squire's son. And mama said that he didn't seem to mind if we took a few now and then, but we daren't take too many because these are his trees and that would be stealing."
"I do not think he would mind too much," said Passepartout. Leaning closer to me, he added softly, "And he does not think too much of apples."
I looked at him, a glimmer of hope stirring. "He doesn't like them, you mean?"
"He will eat them when he has them, but he does not think too often of them," said Passepartout, which totally confused me.
"Oh." I shrugged, took hold of my bag, and then led him back to the dirt road. "Just so long as he doesn't mind. Mama would be cross if she thought there was going to be trouble."
Passepartout walked beside me, even though his legs were longer and he could have taken much larger steps. "You and your friends, you will continue to see Jules? Because he has been very sad with very dark thoughts. When he told me of the children who visited him yesterday, he smiled. He does not smile so much now. It would be better if he smiled. And ate. And slept. So if you should eat with him and make him laugh and make him tired, this would be a very good thing for him. And for Passepartout."
We had reached the bridge. I stopped for a moment and leaned against the stone wall, looking up at Passepartout with a sigh. "We'd like to play with Jules, but . . . we have chores. Mama doesn't even know about Jules or that I took Em to see him - she'd be cross if she did. If Jules is in hiding, we can't tell anyone, can we? And it's harvest soon and the boys have school and--"
Passepartout rested the basket of apples on the stone wall, balancing it carefully. "Master Jules said that the schoolmaster will only teach the boys. This is true?"
"It's true," I admitted, trying not to appear too glum. "Mister Dickey taught all of us, but he went to Shropshire to be nearer his family. When the new master arrived, he made all of us girls leave; he wouldn't even let us in the schoolroom. He said girls who learned to read caused trouble."
There was a strange look on Passepartout's face, as if he were trying very hard not to smile. "This schoolmaster does not know Shillingworth very well, I am thinking." He placed a hand on my shoulder and nodded. "Passepartout will see what we can do - perhaps your families will let you see Master Jules when the right words are whispered in the right ears."
I knew that between the boys' lessons and the chores that awaited us, we couldn't spend time with Jules and get everything done, but I smiled, like I believed him. I pointed the way for him and watched Passepartout swing the basket of apples as he traveled down the path, humming a song beneath his breath. I hoped Jules wouldn't be too disappointed when we couldn't come to see him again.
But then, I had only met Passepartout and hadn't known him very well.
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End of Chapter Three
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