Paris, France
1792
Colette DeMer and her brother Pascoe
are two sides of the same coin, dependent upon one another in the tumultuous
world of the new Republic. Together they labor with other leaders of
the sans-culottes to ensure freedom for all the downtrodden
men and women of France.
But
then the popular uprisings turn bloody and the rhetoric proves false. Suddenly,
Colette finds herself at odds with Pascoe and struggling to unite her fractured
family against the lure of violence. Charged with protecting an innocent young
woman and desperately afraid of losing one of her beloved brothers, Colette
doesn’t know where to turn or whom to trust as the bloodshed creeps ever closer
to home.
Until
that distant day when peace returns to France, can she find the strength to
defend her loved ones . . . even from one another?
Coming
April 25, 2014
____________
Jill Stengl is the author of numerous romance novels including Inspirational
Reader's Choice Award- and Carol Award-winning Faithful Traitor,
and the bestselling novella, Fresh Highland Heir. She lives
with her husband in the beautiful Northwoods of Wisconsin, where she enjoys her
three cats, teaching a high school English Lit. class, playing keyboard for her
church family, and sipping coffee on the deck as she brainstorms for her next
novel.
(P.S. - She's also my HERO. :)
Opening of Chapter 1
I
was born believing that the world was unfair and that I was the person to make
it right.
One
of my earliest memories is of Papa setting me atop a nail keg in the forge; I
could not have been older than two at the time.
“Colette,
give Papa a kiss,” he said, tapping his cheek.
“Why?”
“Come
and sit on my knee.”
“Why?”
My
response to every order was the same, asked with genuine curiosity. I did not
understand why his watching friends chuckled. Why should I press my lips to
Papa’s sweaty, prickly cheek? Why should I hop down from the keg, where he had
just placed me, and run to sit on his knee, a most uncomfortable perch? I felt
justified in requesting a reason for each abrupt order, yet he never bothered
to give me one.
Mama,
when thus questioned, provided an answer in the form of a sharp swat. This I
could respect as definitive authority, although the reasoning behind it remained
dubious.
My
little brother Pascoe was born believing that the world was his to command. As
soon as he acquired his first vocabulary word, “No,” he and I joined ranks in
defiance of established authority.
Many
impediments cluttered the path of destiny in those early years: parents,
thirteen other siblings, physical ailments, and educational difficulties. And
as we grew into adulthood, more serious matters intervened, even parting us for
a time. But I will speak more of that later. For now, let me assure you that,
no matter the obstacles thrown in our way, our sibling bond seemed
indissoluble; the love between us remained unaffected by any outside
relationship.
Pascoe
and I were young adults when revolutionaries in Paris threw aside the tyranny
of centuries and established a new government based on the Rights of Man. From
the seclusion of our little village in Normandy we rejoiced over each battle
fought and won; and when our local physician, Doctor Hilliard, who had first
mentored then employed Pascoe for several years, was elected as deputy to the
National Assembly from our district, a whole new world opened at our feet.
My
story truly begins on a certain day in the spring of 1792, in the little domain
I had made for myself in the kitchen at the back of Doctor Hilliard’s Paris
house. Perhaps it wasn’t truly my domain, for it did not belong to me. I was
merely the doctor’s housekeeper and could lay no real claim. Nevertheless, the
kitchen was more mine than anything had ever been, and I loved that small, dark
room; especially during the hours when sunlight slanted through the
bubbled-glass kitchen windows, making bright, swirling shapes on the
whitewashed walls, or each evening when I arranged my latest culinary creation
on a platter and left it in the warming oven for the doctor to discover
whenever he arrived home. That kitchen was my home. Not the home I had grown up
in, but the home I had always craved.
On
that particular day, however, it did not feel the safe haven I had always
believed it to be. Loud voices drifted down from the upper floor where the
doctor and Pascoe were in conference, disturbing my calm. When I closed the
connecting door to the dining room, the angry voices drifted in through the
open kitchen windows. I couldn’t close the windows; I might smother of heat.
Yet I needed to block out the sound, to make it stop.
So
I slipped a filet of sole into a greased skillet and let it brown until golden
on both sides. The hiss and sizzle did not quite cover the shouting, but it
helped. Then I slid the fish onto a waiting plate lined with sautéed vegetables
fresh from my kitchen garden; and I topped all with an herbed wine-and-butter
sauce. A grind of fresh pepper finished off my creation.
But
my hands were still trembling, and I felt as if something inside me might fall
to pieces.
Pascoe
often shouted. Shouting was part of his fiery nature, a normal event. He
shouted when he gave speeches at section meetings. He shouted about overcooked
meals or inferior wines. He shouted when his lace jabot refused to fall into
perfect folds.
But
never before had I heard Doctor Hilliard raise his voice in anger.
Doctor
Hilliard was never angry. Doctor Hilliard never displayed emotion. At most, he
might indicate approval by the glance of a benevolent eye or disapprobation by
the merest lift of a brow. Yet there could be no mistaking the two furious
voices overhead. I well knew Pascoe’s sharp tenor with its sarcastic edge; but now
I also heard the doctor’s resonant voice crackling with fury.
I
managed to slide the hot plate into the warmer alongside a crusty loaf of bread
and closed the door, using a doubled towel to protect my shaking hands.
Behind
me the connecting door was flung open, and Pascoe burst in as I spun to face
him. “Gather your things; we are leaving,” he growled. His eyes blazed in his
pale face, and the jut of his jaw allowed for no questions. He clapped his tall
hat on his head as he passed through the room.
I
donned my bonnet and sabots and picked up my parasol. “What has happened?” I
asked just above a whisper.
“I’ll
tell you once we are away from this house.” His lips snapped tight. His chest
heaved with emotion, and he grasped a portfolio so tightly that his fingers
looked white.
I
could not recall the last time I had seen my brother in such a rage.
I can't wait! Can you? Learn more HERE.
