Page 49 of The Darkest Oath

He nodded with a tight jaw and stepped back again, creating a space between them she wished to cross but knew he wouldn’t allow her to. He gave a half-bow before exiting the room with a soft, “Goodnight, Élise.” He lingered in the doorway for a moment, his hand brushing the frame and eyes glancing back at her before he stepped into the main room. The quiet click of the door closing felt like a finality she hadn’t anticipated.

She focused on the empty spot he had left behind, her heart in contradiction. He had provided her with hope only to walk away, and now he had offered her a home before departing again. He had given her warmth and space, kindness and quiet, yet her heart was adrift. How could she long for someone she wasn’t sure she could trust? If he spoke the truth, if his promises were good, if he was the man he portrayed himself to be, then she’d beg him to stay. They could have the peaceful life he wanted her to have—they could have it together. France was in turmoil. She doubted anyone had the time or resources to come looking for a deserter in Charonne, of all places.

She collapsed onto the bed’s edge and stared at the door, overwhelmed by a confusing mix of gratitude, yearning, and doubt.

She glanced at the bath and realized it would soon be cold, so she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the oblong wooden tub. The warm water embraced her body like a glove. She curled her knees to her chest, forcing the water beneath her chin. Her mother had bathed her once as a child, laughing and singing as warm water washed away the day’s grime. It was the last time she had truly felt safe, cocooned in a love that seemed unshakable. But like a flickering flame in the wind, the memory faded, leaving only the ache of its absence. Perhaps the memory was her mother telling her she was safe there with Rollant or in Charonne.

The water cradled her, and Élise sank her tense shoulders deeper into its warmth. Rollant’s act of care felt foreign. She wanted to shed the grime of her past along with the chill into the water, but her scars would not wash away so easily. Rollant’s words echoed in her memory, tugging at emotions she dared not name.

She had left the bakery to escape promises turned to chains, yet Rollant’s home felt different—less a chain, more a lifeline. Yet lifelines could fray. Could she afford to trust him, to believe in someone who would leave just as easily as he had arrived? Was hope worth the risk of heartbreak?

The warmth of the water seeped into her bones, loosening muscles clenched tight for years. Luscious, tallow soap awaited her, its surface smooth and slick against her fingers. She had never bathed with soap before—a wet rag was all she could afford. Her aunt had hoarded the one soap shard, she remembered, though even that had seemed like a luxury out of reach.

The soap bar slid over bruises, leaving a thin film of cleanliness behind. She wanted it to strip away more than dirt—the bruises. If Rollant saw her entire body covered in black and blue, he’d be disgusted. They were disgusting to her. Her fingers cradled a tender one on her neck before sliding to the cut on her lip. Dried blood flaked off. She stared at the black dots on the pad of her finger before curling it into her fist.

“Curse Gabin,” she muttered and slammed her fist into the water. “I hate you.”

Her gaze dropped to the ripples as though they reflected the turbulence in her heart. The hearth light made her skin glow, and its crackle soothed her brow.

She finished with the soap and cupped the water to wash her face. She removed the grime, water alone had missed all twenty years of her life.

Twenty years.

She wondered if she was the same age Amée had been. The war in the Americas started ten, twelve, years ago. If Rollant was twenty-six when she met him the prior spring, it meant he was either twenty-seven or almost, and he would have been eighteen or so when he joined the Navy and married Amée. She ran the numbers through her mind. Years of dealing with suppliers and customers had taught her basic mathematics. He said it had been years since Amée died. His voice had wavered when he spoke of Amée. Regret clung to his words. Maybe he still loved her. Maybe he loved Élise too, and that was why he pushed her away. Maybe in his mind, Élise was destined to become just another name in the litany of his guilt. Yet she wondered if she could ever become something more.

If Rollant carried such a heavy weight in his heart, it was strange how little it showed. Unlike her, with bruises on her skin and weariness etched into her soul, Rollant seemed untouched by time, as if the months apart had left no mark on him—no weariness, no signs of strain, no complaints of hardship.

He had been a year at sea since they’d met, only returning once to Paris, yet he bore no signs of the salt or wind. Time passed differently for him, it seemed. He had the same sharpness in his eyes, the same steady gait. The world had left him physically unscathed.

She shivered at the thought but also realized the water had turned cold. The oil in the lamp flickered, and she sighed. Her time in the water had to draw to a close. She dried off and slipped his shirt over her head. The hem brushed her at the mid-thigh, and she pushed the sleeves to her wrists. The smell of old wood and candle smoke embraced her, and she turned her nose into its collar. Odd how a navy man could smell of land and not of brine.

She washed her dress and hung it to dry near the fire. She filled the bedpan with bathwater before heating it and placing it under the mattress. She was excited to finally sleep in a bed alone in such a warm room.

She glanced back at the door and wondered if Rollant would be comfortable on the sofa and if he could stay warm. The urge to go to the door and see how he fared came over her, but he had said, “Good night.” He had everything else figured out for the evening, so he probably had his sleeping arrangements in order. The bed invited her in. The feather pillow molded to her head and shoulders. Her body, once tense with fear or anxiety, relaxed.

But a slow knock came at the door. She sat up, her shoulders once again around her neck. This was it—the true test of Rollant’s word. She was half-naked in his bed, allowing her to bathe first. She sighed and shook her head at the ridiculous notion. He was a kind man, she reassured herself.

“Élise,” Rollant said through the door. “I found the arnica balm on the table—the balm for your bruises. Did you want it for tonight?”

Élise didn’t move. Was it a ploy to get her to open the door? To see her half-naked? So he could finagle a reason to force her to bed?

“Stop,” she told herself in a whispered mutter.

“If you are already in bed,” Rollant continued.” I can walk it to you, or if you prefer, I can push it under the door, and you can retrieve it if you want it.”

She looked around the room. It was larger than anything she had ever lived in. Her belly was full, and he had not hit her. She rolled her shoulders back and took a deep breath to settle her quickening heartbeat.

“Come in,” she said and balled her fists beneath the sheets to hold back her fears.

The door creaked open, and she held her breath.

He kept his gaze on the floor as he entered. “Would you like me to walk it to the bed or leave it on the chest?”

She rationalized her answer as a test. “Please bring it here.”

His sock-covered feet made no sound as he approached. Without his hat, soft brown curls fell to his ears. He extended the little tin jar of balm but kept his eyes averted. She slipped it off his fingers. “Might you have a mirror?”

He nodded and pulled a small handheld mirror from the nightstand. She took it again. His eyes had never left the floor.

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