Becca swirled the sage she’d plucked this morning in a bucket of cool water. She shook off the moisture, then handed the herbs to her mother to be tied into small bundles and hung to air-dry behind the kitchen.
The two women worked together quietly, and Becca was grateful for the silence. She took a deep breath, inhaling the earthy aroma of the morning’s harvest. She didn’t want to answer more questions about the Opera House, Gabriel d’Aumont, or the ball at Versailles two nights ago.
And she didn’t want to think about those final few moments. After Gabriel plummeted to his death, Becca had collapsed, and Daniel had caught her. Last night, she dreamed that Gabriel d’Aumont and William Cunningham, the man who’d hunted them in New York City, both stood in the basement of the Morristown Storehouse. They smiled as they climbed toward her. Daniel held her when she woke sobbing.
Hannah peeked at Becca, then turned away. “’Tis a good thing Monsieur d’Aumont didn’t know more about poppy.” She tied bundles of rosemary and thyme to join the sage.
Becca tilted her head.
“They found the concoction he tried to force down your throat,” Hannah said. “He mixed sweet figs with the chopped dried poppy straws to make it more palatable. It is a bitter plant on its own.”
Becca swished more sage in the water.
When she didn’t object, Hannah continued. “Monsieur d’Aumont did not make his pill strong enough. He used too much fig and not enough poppy.”
“And that is why Daniel awoke too soon?” Becca concentrated on the sage.
“And why you did not sleep in time,” Hannah said.
“That is enough,” Becca said.
“You did not have a choice, Becca.”
“Enough,” Becca looked up, and Hannah nodded.
Becca’s stomach grumbled, and she looked expectantly to the kitchen door. For the last two days, she’d spent the early morning hours with her mother and the herbs. Cook sent breakfast out for them at about seven a.m. The breads and brioches had been lackluster since Michael’s departure, but Becca was grateful for the outdoor meal.
A petite kitchen maid backed out of the nearby door with a tray holding a pitcher of ale, eggs, ham, jam, and the slightly sweet, rich brioche. She lowered it onto a wooden box near the two women, bobbed a curtsy, and retreated to the house.
Hannah wiped her hands on one of the two towels on the tray, then took a bite of brioche. She swallowed and examined the sweet bread, taking another bite. Her eyes filled with tears.
Becca rushed to her as the kitchen door clicked open again.
Hannah sobbed a laugh, and Becca whirled toward the house.
Michael stood at the top of the steps. He crossed his arms, pushing out his lower lip. “Do you have a complaint about my bread? Is that why no one here is eating?” He grinned and took the five steps from kitchen to lawn in seconds, scooping Hannah up and whirling her round.
“When did you arrive?” “Why are you here?” “Are you safe?” “Can you stay?” Becca and Hannah peppered him with questions.
Michael lifted his hands, palm out. “I will tell you what I know, but you will have to ask Dr. Franklin. Mr. Alloway gets word to me yesterday that I may return here. I ask him to keep it a surprise, even from you, Mrs. Rebecca.”
“You are safe now?” Hannah asked.
“Mr. Alloway says that Dr. Franklin swears I am safe, at least for now. He says that something important has changed.”
Monsieur d’Aumont was gone. That was what had changed, Becca thought. He must have been hounding the police to find Michael.
He turned to Hannah. “I told you we would never be separated again, and I am here. But I am safe here in Dr. Franklin’s home only for now and only if I agree to leave France forever.” Two vertical lines carved themselves between Michael’s eyebrows. “This is a harsh punishment.”
“Come back to Morristown with us,” Hannah said. “You love America and independence. Come see if we live up to your dreams. Fight for American independence, if you like.”
Michael’s dark brown eyes lit with interest.
“Michael can live with us, can’t he? For a while?” Hannah asked Becca.
“Of course, he can.” A sudden wave of homesickness crashed over Becca. Who knew how long she and Augusta would remain in France.
“No.” Michael pushed his lower lip out again and crossed his arms. “I cannot live with you in a house in America when we are not married. Do you think I would show you such disrespect? Do you think I would expose you to gossip? No. I cannot.”
Michael’s gaze rose beyond Hannah. He took two heavy breaths as if his thoughts required courage.
There was something in the way he stood, the way his chest rose and fell. Becca’s jaw dropped.
“My childhood friend, my Hannah, my love, will you do me the honor of….”
Hannah leaped into his arms before he could complete his proposal.
Becca was not capable of happiness this soon after the evening at Versailles. But she watched Hannah and Michael long enough to borrow some of their joy. She left them there and grabbed one of Michael’s brioche, which she ate while drifting through the gardens.
An hour or so later, she returned to the sitting room.
“Something for you, madam. A package from America.” One of the servants held out a tray on which rested a small wicker basket tied with rope and a knife. Becca’s name and Dr. Franklin’s address were written on a tag, which was also tied to the basket.
“Thank you.” Becca examined the package before opening it. Who would be sending her anything here? She cut the ropes and opened the basket top to find a round jar of cosmetic powder. She clasped the jar between both hands, then opened the note that accompanied it. She knew exactly who’d sent the gift.
Dearest Mrs. Parcell, I wish that this Letter finds you well. I enclose for your Delight a Supply of that American Face Powder you and I have enjoyed so thoroughly. I write, as well, to Remind you of the Invitation I have extended for you and Mr. Alloway to visit us here in Virginia. That Invitation is Evergreen, and our hospitality is always available to the two of you. I am well, although we are continually Broken in upon by the Sons of Tumult and War. With Kindest Sentiments, Martha Washington.
Becca smiled, then laughed. Holding the powder, she strode from the room in search of Daniel.
They placed an old newspaper under the round jar, then fished out the small strips of paper she and Daniel expected to find there. Despite their care, white powder pockmarked the mahogany table around the French paper.
They sat next to each other on the sitting room couch. With no one else in the room, Becca allowed her upper arm to rest against his.
He grinned. “The old trick still works.”
In Philadelphia last year, they sent their messages to General Washington, buried in face powder that they addressed to his wife, Martha. Spies who regularly stole politicians’ correspondence never bothered to search cosmetics exchanged by women.
The message was simple. General Washington requested their assistance again. Daniel’s employer had graciously granted him a leave of absence to assist the general with a small matter of concern. How soon could they leave Paris?
“There’s a ship leaving from Le Havre and another from Bordeaux in a month,” Daniel took her hand. “I’ll purchase passages home for us all.”