Free One Thing More by Anne Perry Page B

it on the rail. ‘I gave her a cupful, but I can’t go on doing that.’
    ‘We’ve got more than most people,’ Célie agreed. ‘Citizen Bernave sees to that.’
    Marie-Jeanne’s face was deliberately expressionless. ‘Yes. We’re fortunate.’ She shook a small shirt hard to take out the creases. Her fingers moved swiftly, gently over it, as if she were thinking of the child to whom it belonged.
    Célie turned away. She could not think of anything so small without a return of the pain. She could remember Jean-Pierre so sharply, the weight of him in her arms, the milky smell. There were times when it was unbearable. She forced herself to turn back to the laundry. Some of the sheets were wearing thin. She would have to start cutting them down for pillowcases, or if things were hard enough, for shirts and drawers.
    Marie-Jeanne was frowning, as though she felt the need to explain herself, but could find no words. She was unaware of the turmoil in Célie. She knew nothing of Jean-Pierre’s death, or Amandine and Georges, or the terrible thing Célie had done in her agony.
    She was examining a jerkin of Fernand’s when St Felix returned. He came in through the back door again, soaked to the skin, his face and arms covered with mud, his hat missing, his hair plastered to his head.
    ‘Oh, my heavens!’ Marie-Jeanne dropped the jerkin and rushed forward. ‘Whatever happened to you? You look awful! Where did he send you this time? No—don’t bother! Sit down before you fall!’
    Célie thought of the wound in his arm, but Bernave’s haunted face was too sharp in her mind for anger.
    Célie was profoundly grateful that Amandine was not in the kitchen. At least she might not see St Felix until they had got him warm and dry. The first thing was to see what damage there was beneath the dirt and sodden clothes. She went to get water and warm it, then a little vinegar to wash any cuts and abrasions, and wine for St Felix to drink. Marie-Jeanne disappeared to fetch him some clean clothes of Fernand’s from upstairs.
    Célie had the water warmed by the time Marie-Jeanne returned, followed by Madame Lacoste. Madame’s face was dark and fierce, her brows drawn together, but she expressed no opinion. She could not know the urgency of the errand which had taken St Felix out. Whatever she thought of Bernave, she was too wise, or too careful to speak it aloud.
    ‘Here!’ she offered, taking the clothes from Marie-Jeanne and holding them out. Without looking at his face, she gestured to the blue jerkin and breeches St Felix had on. ‘Put that lot out of the door. Let the rain clean it!’
    He was too exhausted to argue, neither did he hesitate or look at her, but began to strip off. There were clean towels left where she had folded them only moments since.
    He stood in the middle of the floor, shuddering, his fair skin raised in goose bumps, his face haggard, cuts and bruises dark, blood seeping red through the linen bound around his arm. He looked beaten and frightened.
    Amandine came in. Her eyes went instantly to St Felix; she drew in her breath sharply, her hands clenching as if to stop herself from speaking.
    Very gently Célie unwound the bandage and looked at yesterday’s injury. It was angry and red, as if it had been caught by a new blow, but the bleeding was slight, and the edges of skin were still close together. The shock was that of revulsion and possibly terror more than physical damage. She could picture what must have happened. St Felix, for all the simple clothes he affected, might have seemed to someone like a gentleman. A joke would have got out of hand, became rough, and ended in a brawl. Ill feeling rose very quickly where there was drunkenness, and that strange turmoil of emotions that was in crowds these days. At last they had the power they had longed for, fought for, and yet they were still cold and hungry and just as helpless as before. The confusion turned to rage, but they did not know who or what