Free The Unfortunate Son by Constance Leeds

down and scooped two fistfuls of wet sand that she let drain through her fingers. A dozen or so tiny silver-and-violet clams sat in her cupped hands. Luc held out the basket, and she let the clams slide in. He tightened the strap so that the basket nestled against his chest and stayed upright as he dug.
    The basket was only half full when Beatrice ran from the water. Cadeau barked and rushed to her.
    “Hey, where are you going? We don’t have enough of these clams for a meal,” called Luc.
    “I can’t feel my toes,” she said.
    “Of course, milady,” said Luc with a chuckle, and he kept digging.
    As Beatrice sat on the beach rubbing her feet, Cadeau started licking her face.
    “Stop it!” she said, laughing and pushing the dog away as she slipped on her shoes.
    Luc whistled, and Cadeau bounded into the water, barking and paddling in circles around Luc as he scooped.
    “Call Cadeau, Beatrice. I can’t find anything with him splashing around.”
    Beatrice called, and the dog charged out of the water, running to her. He stood over her and shook his coat.
    She screamed, and Luc started laughing. The basket was full, and he ran out of the water. He lay the basket at Beatrice’s feet, beaming, and grabbed the iron pot and filled it with seawater.
    “I’m soaking wet, thanks to that mongrel,” whined Beatrice.
    “Mongrel? That dog is better bred than you or I.”
    “Certainly than
you
,” said Beatrice standing up and wringing out her skirt. Then she added, “Whoever you are.”
    Luc puffed out his cheeks, exhaled, and stared at Beatrice. She was brushing the sand from her damp skirt; he leaned forward and dumped the pot of water over her head.
    She didn’t scream this time. She just glared at Luc, wide-eyed and furious. Then she turned and began to run home.
    Red-faced, fuming, and muttering to Cadeau about how mean Beatrice was, Luc carried the basket to the water and rinsed each clam before dropping it into the pot of seawater. Then he strapped on the empty basket, heaved up the full pot, and sloshed along the path to the cottage, where he found Mattie in front of a roaring fire. She was wrapping Beatrice in a blanket.
    “What got into you, boy?” said Mattie, her dark eyebrows low and her voice thick.
    “I’m sorry,” said Luc. “Is Beatrice all right?”
    “I should think you’re sorry. Poor girl was blue and hasn’t stopped shivering yet. And you’re not much better. Leave those clams here, and get yourself dry.”
    Beatrice turned her back to Luc and said nothing.
    “I’ll be back in a little while,” said Luc.
    “Don’t you go out, soaked like that,” said Mattie, but Luc was off at a trot, followed by Cadeau, whose coat was already half dry.
    When Luc returned, it was dark, and Mattie and Pons were sitting by the fire with Beatrice, who was scrubbed clean and wearing a gray dress Luc had never before seen; her hair was brushed and gleaming.
    “Where have you been?” said Mattie. “You missed dinner.”
    Luc held his hands behind his back. He bowed deeply and presented Mattie and Beatrice each with a bouquet of lilies of the valley.
    Mattie shook her head and took a deep breath.
    “Scamp. Do you know how I love these?”
    “The very first of the season,” said Luc proudly. “I spotted them this morning in a sheltered spot just off the path.”
    “Some say these little flowers are the tears of the Holy Virgin,” said Beatrice. She smiled as she held the white bouquet to her nose.
    “I’m sorry, Beatrice,” Luc said.
    Beatrice peeked at him over the flowers.
    “I’m sorry too, Luc. I shouldn’t have said anything about who you are.”
    “Like a pair of toddlers,” muttered Mattie. “Get out of that filthy old shirt, Luc.”
    Luc stripped off his shirt and stood by the fire rubbing his arms.
    “We saved you a bowl of clams. I’ll get them,” said Mattie.
    Beatrice rose and handed Luc a cloth bundle.
    “What’s this?” he asked.
    But he knew as soon as he took the