Silent Heart

Book 3: Love in Disguise

by Deborah Simmons

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

When survival depends on keeping secrets, dare they trust their hearts?

Dominique’s noble lineage marks her for death in Revolutionary France. Forced from her family’s home, she must assume a new identity to seek her father amid the tumult of Paris. But she isn’t the only one living a lie. 

The man who risks his neck to help others escape the guillotine avoids capture by allowing no one to get close to him. But one brave beauty could be his undoing...

Book #3 of Love in Disguise

Release date: September 28, 2015

Publisher: Bennett Street Books

Print pages: 296

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

October, 1792

Dominique stood over her dressing table, rooting through the contents impatiently. She tossed aside a shimmering gauze scarf that caressed an inlaid plaque of Sevres porcelain and slipped sparkling to the floor. A delicate ivory fan followed, clattering on the marble surface, where it rolled over and over, the small sound cutting like a knife through the heavy silence.

As if in answer, a voice whispered from across the room. “Hurry.”

Dominique looked up, shaken by the urgency invested in the word. Light from the single candelabra created dancing shadows across the white paneled walls and the pale ceiling, leaving the corners in shadow. But Dominique saw her maid by the windows.

Thérèse stood still as stone, her slight young body unnaturally tense as she peeked out from behind a heavy velvet hanging into the dark world below. Although she spoke softly, her words held more terror than a scream. “They’re coming,” she said. It was all she had to say.

For an instant, Dominique stood stupidly clutching a tiny handkerchief she had pulled from a drawer, then she dropped it and ran to where her maid waited. With trembling fingers, she reached around the motionless figure to pull back the edge of the drapery.

At first all she could see was blackness, but as her eyes adjusted, the pale glow of moonlight helped her pick out familiar landmarks on the lawns below. All seemed as it should be until she saw the lights, too low to be stars, that twinkled on the slope of the hill. With a sharp involuntary breath, Dominique identified the bobbing, bright spots as torches that signaled the approach of the villagers.

“I’m nearly ready,” she said softly to the girl beside her. But Thérèse, still staring rigidly into the night, gave no response.

Dominique, too, found it difficult to turn her gaze away from the horrifying scene. It was as though all the fear and dread of the past few hours, indeed the past several years, took shape before her, coalescing into the tiny pinpoints of fire and holding her riveted like a rabbit in a snare. She did not like the feeling, and with a slow shake of her head, she threw off the image of herself as a hunter’s helpless prey.

Dropping her hand, Dominique turned away from the window and remembered the errand that had been driven from her mind by the sight of the torches. She raced back to the dressing table, but in her rush, the plain shawl that was wrapped loosely around her shoulders caught on one of the open drawers.

Dominique pulled the shawl in frustration, heedlessly sweeping toiletries and keepsakes to the floor. Glass bottles fell silently to the deeply piled carpet, spilling their precious perfume onto once cherished letters, favorite hair ribbons and fragile fans. Dominique did not spare them a glance, for such trifles no longer held any importance for her. The item for which she searched, one long taken for granted, was worth more than all the vanities the dressing table could hold.

“We cannot wait any longer,” Thérèse whispered as she finally moved away from the window. Glancing up, Dominique saw that her maid’s pale blond hair framed a face that was white and drawn in the candlelight.

“It will soon be too late to escape, even through the woods,” Thérèse said, her rising voice edged with panic. “They will arrive, Dominique, and we will be burned, along with the château, unless we are dragged out first and stuck on a pike! Dominique, do you hear me?”

Dominique heard, but ignored the frantic summons to return to her task. She pulled open the last drawer with a violent tug. It had to be here! Oh, why was she so disorganized? Her clutter had been the bane of every maid, including Thérèse. Wait. There. In the back.

Finally her hand closed around the desired object, a locket holding portraits of her parents. They were not as grand as the portraits in the great hall below nor as lovely as the delicate rendering of her mother that graced the mantelpiece, but they were far easier to carry. Dominique clutched them to her breast with a small whisper of thanks just as Thérèse crossed the room.

“Alright. I’m ready,” she said.

Thérèse’s eyes lighted on the locket, and her brows drew together in disapproval. “Don’t take it. We may be searched.”

“I’ll say I stole it,” Dominique said. “I’ll put it in with the jewels.”

Thérèse frowned, as though ready to argue, but the look of determination on Dominique’s face must have stopped her, for she only sighed and turned away. “Here, your cloak,” she said, grabbing up a worn, but serviceable woolen mantle. “Pull the hood close to cover your hair.”

Although Thérèse was the shorter of the two, they were both young and slender, with blue eyes and pale complexions. Dominique’s peaches-and-cream coloring distinguished her, and Thérèse reached up to tuck in a few telltale strawberry-blond curls that were escaping from the hood.

“I’ll do that,” Dominique said, pushing Thérèse’s hands away impatiently. “You’ve got to stop being my maid.” Suddenly aware of the harshness of her words, Dominique frowned apologetically at Thérèse. Blue eyes met blue in silent reassurance, then Dominique turned away.

“Now,” Dominique said in a hushed but resolute voice. She picked up a large market basket from the bed and slipped the locket inside while Thérèse took up the small trunk they had packed, then she headed to the tall, elaborately carved doors that led to the hall.

Dominique silently turned the handle, opened the curved door and paused for a moment on the threshold as though she had left something lingering in the darkness. Behind her stood an impressive array of gilt medallion-backed chairs covered in a pattern of delicate flowers, a tall, mahogany bed draped in white lace and armoires packed with the finest dresses. Ahead, the hall stood ominously dim and quiet.

“Hurry,” said Thérèse, two steps behind her mistress, and Dominique moved forward without a backward glance at the rooms that had been her own for eighteen years.

The corridors were dimly lit and deserted. Even the loyal staff dared not face an unruly mob, for anarchy often ruled in the new France. Once word of the trouble brewing in the village reached the house, most had needed no urging to flee. Popular uprisings, often entailing destruction, violence and murder, were a staple of the revolution, and the threat of a nocturnal visit by the local citizenry was not taken lightly.

“Oh, the beautiful paintings.” Thérèse sighed as the two hurried by timeless works of art and tapestries, a small part of the expensive furnishings of the Château Dumont. “What will become of the portraits, the statues, the furniture? Oh, what of the silver pieces?”

“We haven’t time to worry about them,” Dominique said, without stopping to look at any of the family treasures. Her eyes focused solely on the servants’ stairway, which was more important to them now than any masterpiece.

The girls slipped down the narrow passage and into the kitchens, hesitating a moment in the near darkness. Dominique felt the evening coolness drifting in from a door that stood open, then she saw a small circle of lantern light beckoning from outside.

Stealthily she moved toward the exit, wary that some eager villager might have run ahead of his fellows to cut off their escape. But when she peeked around the heavy door, she saw only an old farm cart, manned by a gangly young boy with an unruly mop of dark hair.

Dominique knew Thérèse was following closely, yet she nearly jumped when she felt her maid’s soft tap from behind. “Jean will take us as far as Paris,” Thérèse said softly as she stepped forward into the light.

Dominique nodded to the youth, who returned her greeting, then pulled out a cockade, the symbol of the loyal citizen, and shoved it over his hair. Dominique clutched her basket tightly while she watched Thérèse thrust the trunk onto the cart. The slim maid climbed up herself, then held out a hand to her mistress. Dominique hesitated again.

Now that the moment, so long dreaded, had arrived, she found it difficult to take the final step. Despite her outward calm, a well of feelings bubbled just below the surface, waiting to overwhelm her. Dominique knew that she could not delay, but the temptation was so strong, the desire for one last look so fierce, that she could not resist.

Slowly she turned and gazed up at the circular towers that rose like twin peaks into the starry sky. Her heart breaking, she memorized every stone, every curve, every wall touched by the moonlight, as her eyes moved over the château built so proudly by her grandfather and loved like a living thing by her father, the Comte de Dumont.

The autumn wind blew up a gust of night air, stirring her cloak and freeing wisps of her hair from their woolen prison, but it had no power to move her. The dull rumble of the mob could be heard faintly in the distance, a fearful specter haunting the edge of her consciousness, yet still she could not tear herself away.

“Dominique.” Her name, spoken in an urgent whisper, finally broke the hold of her home. Dominique swallowed a sigh as she turned to her maid. Then suddenly a scream rent the night.

“Death to the aristos!” It was the kind of cry that chilled the blood, and both girls froze. Jean shuttered the lantern so that only the palest sliver of light showed. “Death to Morineau and his daughter!” It became a chant, growing louder, paralyzing the three figures at the rear of the château. “Death!” The voices rose again, and suddenly Dominique acted.

She slid the basket onto the cart as swiftly as possible and climbed aboard. Her feet had barely left the ground when Jean nudged the old farm horse and the cart jerked, throwing her roughly against the wooden boards. Her breath knocked out of her, she rolled over, pulling dry, scratchy straw on top of herself. More straw dusted her, and then she felt Thérèse’s fingers groping for her own.

In the darkness under the mound of fodder, afraid to speak, the two girls held their breath. Since she could not see, Dominique found her hearing sharpened accordingly. The horse’s hooves clopping against the grassy slope rang into the night, along with the rattle of the cart and the creak of its wheels.

The sound of their exit was so loud that Dominique did not see how it could escape the notice of the villagers, whose voices were carried on the breeze and so near that she knew the crowd must have reached the front steps of the château. Would these brave citizens, bent on slaughtering her and her servants, surround her home? Would one of the torchbearers suddenly step around the building and throw his light upon the wagon moving toward the trees that dotted the hillside?

Dominique’s fingers tightened their hold on Thérèse’s as the horse moved forward. The straw scratched her skin, and the planks were rough and hard. Apparently, the previous occupants of the cart had been pigs—literally—because the stench of hogs was so strong that Dominique began to suspect some tangible evidence of their existence remained.

It was a far cry from her usual conveyance. In her earlier travels, Dominique always had been snug in a luxurious coach with attentive servants and a phalanx of grooms and outriders. Only the finest gowns and furs would have graced her young form and only the sweetest perfumes would have filled the air about her. If forced to travel by night, Dominique would have read by the soft glow of a lamp before being gently rocked to sleep by the sway of the well-sprung carriage.

The contrast to her secret flight tonight was wrenching, and Dominique spared a minute of regret for the past. But she could not linger there. The present was too desperate. Her life, all of its lovely youth and all of its uncertain future, was balanced as if on the edge of a blade.

“Death!” The shriek was so clear and close that Dominique expected the cart to stop at any moment. She could almost see the bobbing torches and smell the flames, hissing at the house. Her heart banged in her chest, and her breathing dipped as she listened for the tramp of footsteps and a scream of recognition. But what she really heard was another, softer sound, which heralded hope instead of despair.

It was the rustle of leaves overhead, dancing in the breeze. Either still clinging to their branches or caught by a gust of wind to swirl to the ground, the leaves whispered their passing in the air and crackled under the wheels of the cart. What a lovely sound, Dominique thought, for it signaled their arrival among the trees behind the château. The reassuring crunch meant the cart was wending its way up the hill, away from the mob, and farther into the woods that would hide them.

Dominique listened and waited for what seemed an eternity as the horse plodded slowly onward, ever upward. No shout of discovery tore into the night and no fire was thrust in her face, yet she remained still and silent, clutching Thérèse’s hand, until the dread voices, promising death, were only a whisper on the wind.

When at last she could breathe more freely, Dominique moved enough to stretch her muscles, tight from fear and immobility. But she did not leave the haven of the straw. Not until the moon gave an eerie glow to patches of fields far from the château did Dominique dare to sit up and seek a more comfortable position. She and Thérèse plumped up the fodder behind them, leaned against the makeshift pillows and breathed sighs of relief.

“Thank God we have been delivered,” Thérèse whispered. When Dominique did not respond, Thérèse patted her hand. “You are safe now.”

Although Dominique knew better, she said nothing as she stared off into the night. The remains of the summer’s harvest appeared, tall and forbidding like ghostly sentries, their dry stalks flapping in the quiet. The still fields, growing thick with mists, seemed unearthly and far removed from the bloodthirsty crowd that had driven them from their home, yet Dominique knew the forces that threatened were everywhere.

She took a deep breath of cool air, filled with the familiar smell of leaves and smoke. “Let’s try to get some sleep,” she whispered. Thérèse, her face pale as a wraith in the moonlight, needed no further urging. The maid pulled the straw around her and settled in for a few hours of rest before dawn.

Dominique, too, nestled down, but sleep would not come as easily to her. Safe? She scoffed at the idea. As grateful as she was to be alive and away from the château, she knew she was fleeing from danger into danger and taking Thérèse with her. It wasn’t fair to her maid, and well she knew it. Tomorrow, Dominique decided, she would part company with Thérèse, hopefully ensuring that one of them would, indeed, be safe.