Page 32 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
Léon glanced up, two sets of wary eyes meeting over the fire. “She’s not to burn.”
A relieved almost-smile lightened Henry’s face. His hands shifted to his hips, and he watched Léon, awaiting more.
But Léon could hardly go on, revealing the lot in front of Émile. Should he be caught, his aiding of a prisoner found out,Émile would be questioned. He had to make sure that Émile knew nothing of the affair. No more than he already did. To that aim, he said to him, “It is past your bedtime.” Émile looked, just as Léon did, towards the dark cabin. Léon softened the idea with, “I’ll be staying here tonight. With you.”
He looked up at Henry, who nodded eagerly in agreement.
“I’ll be in shortly,” Léon finished.
But Émile’s fingers were back in the tips of his hair, twisting. “I want to stay with you.”
“Émile…” Léon tried gently. He needed to talk to Henry, urgently, but the sensation of those little fingers, the expectation on his brother’s face, and the great need he had to keep him close and safe all fought against his duty.
Henry seemed to understand, and in a parental voice that was both endearing and infuriating, he said to Émile, “Lay your head down on Léon. We’ll wake you when we go in.”
“I’m not tired,” Émile protested.
“Then what harm can it do?” Henry argued.
Begrudgingly following his lead, Léon said, “It’s that or the cabin,” and he patted his thigh.
Émile looked askance at Léon’s leg, then, “Fine. But I won’t sleep. I’m not tired.” And he took the opportunity to cuddle up to Léon, who loosened his vest and dropped it over Émile’s shoulders. Émile accepted the comfort, snuggling down, and Henry and Léon fell into a trained understanding of such situations, each trying to be as dull and quiet as possible, so as to lull the child off to sleep.
“Did you eat?” Henry asked softly.
Léon glared again at the plate of food. “No.”
With a ruffle of his brow, “I’m sorry, I have no wine.”
“I don’t want wine,” Léon responded. Barely.
“But we did get some water from the stream.”
Léon’s throat screamed for it. He licked his parched lips. He gave a slight nod. Henry returned a small smile and fetched the water. Léon didn’t look at him when he took it from his hand. He drank the lot down fast, feeling his insides close over it, a sick crunch of his hungry stomach, cold and unpleasant, but it was desperately needed. The cup was refilled the same instant, and Léon placed it aside on the grass by his feet.
Henry removed to a log opposite, and the two sat in silence. Léon studied the flames licking and curling at the darkness. It was cold that night. But the fire went a long way to alleviating it, and it had a purpose until then, to cook their dinner. Léon’s stomach groaned again at the thought of it, and Émile opened his tired eyes to look up at him. Despite his disgust with the situation, his stomach was not about to stop protesting if he did nothing, so Léon dutifully took up the plate and shoved the meat into his mouth.
It was nothing special. There wasn’t even salt to add to the bird. But the meat was as fresh as it came, and on Léon’s starving palate, it was delicious. It took all his reserve of cold hatred to keep from wolfing the lot down in one go, but hate was something Léon had plenty of, and he chewed the pheasant slow, strand by strand, jaw tight, while he stared at the fire, waiting for Émile to fall asleep before he would say another word tothat man.
18
REVOLUTIONARY REPARTEE
Henry could see Léon’s clear revulsion of him in every action, all but the gentle touch of his fingers to Émile’s hair. He sat there, his shoulders, beneath a thin grey woollen sweater, rising against a chill breeze, his strong hand pulling his vest up to Émile’s ear, while Émile was perfectly content, stuffed full, warm, wrapped up safe against his big brother.
Henry thought of Catherine. He wondered how cold she was. Did she have a blanket? Was it clean? What clothes had they given her to wear? Was she alone? Was she at all safe?
He hadn’t seen her current cell, but he had seen the last one. Filthy, rat infested, the mattress soiled and the walls bare but for moss and the etchings of despairing prisoners, and her so small in the middle of it. He would have given anything to hold her just the way Léon held Émile.
He watched Léon’s fingers, and he could almost feel the touch of his sister’s hair. He looked at the boy’s closed eyes and long lashes, and there saw Catherine’s eyes smiling, a memory of a better time, in England, in their garden, before everything went so horribly wrong.
But then Henry became aware of Léon’s molten warning gaze on him. He realised the way he was looking at Émile, and he felt about a thousand times more guilty. What Léon must have thought of him…
He dropped to his knees to poke at the fire. “So,” he threw off just as casually as possible, “just to the prison and back then?”
The narrowing of Léon’s eyes and subsequent wrinkle of his lips paid due to the ridiculousness of the comment. Léon shook his head, and a lock of blond fell over his right eye. He threw it back carelessly and turned his face away to stare into the forest.
Yes, he despised Henry. And Henry would have loved to not care. But he’d had the entire afternoon to think things over.
