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Chapter Seven - I was wrong
It was warm. And soft. And smelled like summer.
My eyes half-opened in the dim light, a world of misty red. I stared at the shimmering threads of the screen and realized that I was wrapped in a blanket, lying on the bed in Jules' cottage. Through it I could see more light, which cast a shadow against the screen - the iron stove being stoked by a tall figure. Beside me were Em and Cherry Louise, curled around each other and fast asleep. At the bottom of the bed was Robbie, tucked into a ball and resting on a pillow.
My left hand was wrapped in a large, soft towel and felt heavy, as if it was twice its size. I didn't move it . . . I was afraid. A sleepy warmth seemed to surround me, the feeling starting down deep in my stomach and stretching outward.
I heard the cottage door open and felt the chill of a draught for an instant before it closed. The shadow by the stove straightened, then stood still. "The Aurora?"
"I saw an answering flare from Passepartout--" Jules' voice, soft. "The worst of the storm seems to have passed; there's just a light rain. Should be nothing but mist by the time he gets here with the doctor."
A chair leg was dragged across the floor. The first man was the squire's son - I recognized him by the height of the shadow when he straightened. His voice was less threatening than when I'd heard it raised against the storm, and the horse, and us. "I've warmed your tea." There was a sputtering sound from Jules, as he continued, "And added something to strengthen it a bit. That should warm you."
"If it doesn't leave me senseless," answered Jules, laughter in his voice.
There was quiet, a long silence, but no scrape of a second chair - the squire's son was still standing by the fire.
"I'm sorry," said Jules. "About the children--"
"Trust you to turn a group of respectable English crofters' children into a revolutionary mob," said the squire's son. "Barricade, indeed!" It was a mocking tone, only half-serious.
"We were reading Dickens, 'A Tale of Two Cities.' And we talked about 'Les Miserables.' They--"
"Verne, that book's considered seditious in France and England. You were discussing it with children? What were you thinking?"
"Can you think of a better subject to discuss with children than freedom and the rights of man?"
"Crofters' children who are barely old enough to read, if any of them can? Certainly. Much better subjects. British history. British literature--"
"Dickens is--"
"Grammar. Spelling. Geography." The squire's son sighed in exasperation. "Whatever it is that schoolmasters teach."
"I'm not a schoolmaster."
"Evidently not," agreed the squire's son.
There was another pause, followed by the clink of a china cup against a saucer. "Henry can read. I think Peter's got a bit of a start. And I've been helping Polly."
"That's the girl the schoolmaster had refused to teach."
"Yes."
My heart rose in my throat when I heard my name - it set my stomach squirming to think that the squire's son knew who I was . . . and what I'd done. I waited to hear what he might say, certain in that mist of not-quite-feeling that he'd announce that he'd already found a new tenant for my family's cottage.
"We'll right that matter after harvest. Rebecca's told me she's found a suitable candidate, an ex-governess I gather, who holds some radical notions about teaching children to think for themselves or some such nonsense. In any case, she'll assure no one will be denied access to the schoolroom."
I was stunned by the news. I'd be allowed to return to school. With a lady schoolmaster? A governess? It was almost too much to be believed.
If we weren't turned out of our cottage . . . .
My thinking was all-sorts, scattered so that at first I wasn't paying attention to what Jules was saying. But the hard note in his voice brought me back to enough sense to listen more closely.
"--Of course. You'll take care of everything." The china clinked, and then clinked again and there was a long pause before he continued, that hard note softening a bit "How's Polly's hand?"
"Two fingers broken on the on the left - the thumb is fine, thank heavens - always tricky to reset that. They've been splinted until the doctor arrives. I've given her a touch of brandy in some tea while she was half-asleep, that should keep her quiet."
I felt uncomfortable, as if they were peering at me through the silk screen, even as the squire's son continued, "Nothing from the boys, yet - they'll have reached home by now and are probably out in the fields with their families, trying to save the corn. I gather their parents will come to collect the rest, once they've left the fields and have gotten word."
"They mustn't be punished," said Jules.
"Not punished? They lied to their parents, constructed a blockage in the middle of an essential bridge, pelted me with apples--"
"They--what?"
"It isn't among the worst attacks I've ever had to fend off, but I'll admit it's one of the more ingenious. Particularly that lanky boy - Peter, is it? Deadly aim with a soft-core, I promise you. He'll be one to watch." There was another pause. "That infant was nearly trampled, I was almost thrown, you were for the wash, as was that Polly-girl . . . ."
"Almost," said Jules softly. "The worst that's happened was the bridge was blocked, I've scraped a shin, and Polly's broken two fingers. If there's damage, Fogg, I'll pay for it -- don't blame the children for trying to protect me."
"I'll not interfere with whatever their parents decide," the squire's son said, with the same firmness of tone my papa had when not even my Em's tears could sway him from a decision. "As for blaming them - I'd put them on the New Year's honor list for trying to protect you, if it were within my power. As it's not, I'll keep them out of your way, to protect them." There was a sound of protest from Jules, and the squire's son added, "You've hardly a track record worth mentioning when it comes to your treatment of friends who've acted out of concern for your welfare."
"They didn't kill in my name."
"Neither did we."
"You're lying."
The accusation was made in a cold voice, bereft of belief. The sound of it was so chill and sudden, it completely awakened me from the comforting warmth in which I'd been drifting.
"If anyone was killed," said the squire's son, "their blood's on our hands, not yours. Come Judgment, you've no sins to answer for but your own foolish, pig-headed obstinacy."
The chair scraped back from the table; I heard Jules rise to his feet. "I never asked you to kill for me."
"If memory serves, neither of us offered. The bounty on your head was financed by the League, not by us. We merely made a counter offer - no one who tried to collect that bounty would live to spend it. Some learned by example, others learned only by experience."
"H-how many . . . learned by experience?"
"Seven."
"And how many times were you and Rebecca nearly killed?"
There was another pause, longer this time - I was certain there'd be no answer. And then--
"Twice. And only just, the second time. An accident with a fuse."
It made no sense to me, neither the words nor the tone of their voices, which seemed both angry and sad. Of the two, the squire's son's voice was colder, harder.
"I've nothing to say on my own behalf," he continued. "But Rebecca deserves better from you. This petulant silence is driving her to distraction; you've treated her abominably."
"You just told me I'd nearly gotten her killed - I think she'd be better off without endangering herself in trying to protect me."
"Damn you! The one has nothing to do with the other."
"Hasn't it?" The chair leg scraped again; Jules' shadow was seated. "I know the truth now - I'm an albatross. This was just the League's latest and it's not going to stop. They're going to keep coming after me until they get me . . . or until I'm dead. Maybe the ones Passepartout mentioned were right, I'm a target as long as I live--"
"He should never have--"
"If I were dead, it would end. You and Rebecca and Passepartout wouldn't be risking your lives trying to protect me from the League."
Another silence.
"You've not given that serious consideration, I hope."
"Consideration, yes. Serious consideration . . . no. I need to disappear. They'll look for me here, or in Paris, or even Nantes. Perhaps I could lose myself in America or Canada?"
"And do . . . what?"
"Teach." That suggestion was met by a harsh snort of laughter from the squire's son. "And write, eventually. If I hide, keep to myself, they won't find me and no one else will be endangered by my presence."
Jules was talking about leaving. It wasn't the squire's son driving him away, but something else, something I didn't understand. It had something to do with being afraid.
They had stopped talking. I'd chosen a bad time to get out of the bed - as a very-strained silence had fallen again - but I did so anyway. Holding the blanket closed around me with one hand, I tiptoed quiet as a mouse to the edge of the screen and peered around it.
Both Jules and the squire's son were down to their shirtsleeves, although Jules had lost his waistcoat as well. Jules was sitting at the table; his hands were wrapped so completely around one of the fragile teacups that it almost disappeared from view.
The squire, however, was still standing by the stove. The flat of his hand was up against the wall and he had his back to Jules, but I could see his profile in the dim light of the stove and the candle on the table. "You've thought this through."
If there had been anger in their voices earlier, there was no sign of it in their faces. Their expressions were hard and grim, like Papa's had been last year after the horse had stumbled and his leg had been too badly broken to mend.
"Yes."
"You do realize you've over-looked two flaws in your plan?"
Jules looked up at the squire, puzzled. "What?"
"You won't--" And then the squire's son stopped speaking, turning in an instant and fixing me with a glare, as if suddenly discovering that I was there.
I swear that I hadn't made a sound, not a creak or a whisper, and I barely breathed . . . there was no way he could have heard me. I stared right back at him, my bound hand held to my chest and my other clutching the blanket over my torn, damp shift.
Jules was startled enough that he nearly knocked over his chair as he rose and took a step toward me. "Polly, you should be in bed--"
"No, Verne . . . leave her," said the squire's son.
It was the kind of voice you'd expect from a squire's son, or a squire . . . you obeyed because you had to obey, there wasn't any choice in the matter. Jules stopped and looked at the squire's son as if he didn't understand, but the squire's son didn't look at him.
He looked at me, was still looking at me. And however grim the line of his lips, I could have sworn I saw the hint of a curve at the edge of one lip, as if he were trying not to smile.
That kindness disappeared beneath a stern look at he covered the distance between us in two steps - he had very long legs, like the stilt-walkers at the fair. I saw Jules start to move, as if he were going to intercept him, but the squire's son was too fast. I looked up and up and up and saw those very hard eyes staring down at me.
"Polly, is it?"
"Yes, sir," I answered in a small voice. My knee began to bend, as I automatically started to curtsey, but stopped myself when I realized that my shift and the blanket might not hold if I tried. I would have bowed my head, but for some reason I couldn't look away from those eyes.
Nor, really, did I want to. I summoned up my mad, as my mama calls it, and I stared right back at him. I had good reason to be angry. This was the squire's son, who was going to turn Jules out from the cottage and make him go away.
Only . . . he wasn't, was he? Yes, he was the squire's son, but from what I'd heard from them talking, leaving Shillingworth was Jules' idea. Jules was leaving because . . . well, I didn't understand the because, but it was his idea. The squire's son wasn't to blame.
I'd gotten it wrong. I'd gotten it all wrong.
Em had nearly been trampled, Jules had nearly been drowned, and we'd built a barricade and - and - and -
And the squire's son knew this. He knew all of this. There was no lying, no twisting of the truth. He knew what we'd done.
He stared down at me with those fire-dark eyes and I knew for sure we'd be turned out of our cottages.
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End of Chapter Seven
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