Page 72

A Love to Hold

A new group seized control of the National Convention and turned its blade inward, executing the democratic tyrant, Robespierre, by the same instrument he had so liberally used on others.

He and his radical followers fell beneath the guillotine, and the Terror’s reign of blood waned after July.

France stumbled forward, weary and fractured but yearning for peace.

The war had not been kind to its soldiers.

The National Guard, stretched thin and underfunded, sent the Temple guards home in shifts or forced them to volunteer without pay.

With Antoine Simon executed, Louis Charles was in better hands—though not good ones.

Rollant could do little for him. Marie-Thérèse was left forgotten in the Temple’s tower. Rollant could do nothing for her.

For two days a week, Rollant was forced home, and for two more, he stayed without a wage. But his thoughts were elsewhere.

élise.

The memory of her lingered with every breath, with every night spent in the barracks. He should have returned to her sooner—should have gone back the moment he knew Charonne was safe. But a selfish fear had held him back.

She would not choose to stay his wife.

She would not choose him.

Still, he had promised. He left the city behind in the middle of September and rode through the countryside, the familiar path stretching before him in golden fields and shadowed woods. It was a day and a half on horseback, and he pushed through most of the night.

By noon, he reached Valmont. The crisp mountain air refreshed his lungs, and he dreaded returning to the stench of the city.

As he entered the square, the town came alive around him. People rushed from their homes, pressing against his horse, hands reaching toward him, some clutching flowers. A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd.

He searched the sea of faces, his pulse quickening. He recognized them all but could not find the one he wanted to see.

Instead, he found Hugo.

The herbalist stood at the front, a woman at his side. Her hand was tucked firmly beneath his arm, and their fingers intertwined in a quiet declaration.

Rollant pulled his horse to a stop as Hugo stepped forward, flanked by the village elder.

“Seigneur Montvieux,” Clement greeted, lifting his hands to calm the crowd. “We are glad you have returned.”

A hush fell over the people.

Rollant glanced at Hugo before dismounting. “The land is safe again,” he said slowly. “The residents of Charonne are free to return home.”

A flicker of hesitation passed over Hugo’s face. His grip on his wife’s hand tightened as he glanced toward the people who had followed him. “I have decided to stay with my wife. And I believe the community has chosen to remain as well.”

The words landed like a blow to his stomach.

Rollant kept his expression still, but the unspoken question rose in his chest like a tightening fist. “All of them?” His whisper was barely audible.

Hugo hesitated, rubbing his thumb along his wife’s wrist. “Not all,” he finally said, voice low. “One has not decided.”

Rollant’s stomach twisted. The words hung between them, and he almost didn’t dare ask. But he had to.

“élise?” His voice was barely more than a breath.

Hugo nodded.

Clement clapped his hands together with an air of forced joy. “Your wife will go with you, Seigneur Montvieux. She would not stay with us now that it is safe for her to return.”

His gaze swept the crowd, searching. His heart pounded as he scanned the square, expecting her to step forward—to emerge from behind one of the villagers with those same fiery eyes that had haunted his dreams.

But she was not there.

His throat tightened. “But where is she?”

Hugo’s expression darkened. His wife cast her gaze downward as Hugo spoke. “She has been living in your ancestral home since the early summer. She ventures into the village now and then, but?—”

Clement interrupted, his voice carried a slight tremble. “We did everything we could to ensure she was respected as your wife. We begged her to stay.”

Rollant’s jaw clenched. He inhaled sharply, glancing between Hugo and the elder.

“I have no doubt you all tried,” he said, though his voice was tight. He imagined the shunning she endured and how bad it must have been to drive her to solitude in a place with the dead.

Hugo stepped closer. “She left of her own accord,” he insisted. “She went there once and then a few more times, a few days, then she stayed. We did not drive her away.”

Rollant’s throat burned. He dipped his chin to Hugo. “I believe you,” he said, though a few doubts still lingered.

Hugo gestured toward the distant hills. “None of us dared follow her. The ghost of your ancestor, you see. But she never seemed afraid. We helped her cut wood and give her what she needed.”

“Cut wood?” Rollant asked.

“She decided she wanted to make a home there again . . . for you,” Hugo said with eyes full of sincerity.

For a month, he had let his fears hold him back, convincing himself that she would choose another life, that she was better off without him.

But the idea of élise waiting for him, alone in the ruins of his past, gnawed at something raw inside him.

He had been a coward to stay away so long, wasting time convincing himself she would choose another life while she waited for him.

Rollant nodded slowly as his doubts about her treatment faded but did not vanish. “Then, I must go to her.”

Clement smiled. “Very well, Seigneur Montvieux,” he said, with the hesitation in his voice gone. “We shall not hold you any longer. Please, take our finest foods for your return journey and give our well wishes to Dame Montvieux.”

“Thank you,” Rollant said with a gentleman’s nod to Hugo and the elder.

Then, turning to the crowd, he spoke with quiet certainty, “Thank you, people of Valmont, for taking in the residents of Charonne. To the community I brought here, I see why you would wish to remain. The land is beautiful, and life is simple.” His voice steadied.

“I will not return for some time. But I will always see to my lands.”

The villagers moved forward, pressing baskets of dried meats and fresh bread into his hands. Flowers were tucked into his saddle.

He took it all in, but his mind was already elsewhere.

As he mounted his horse, the elder stepped back. Hugo gave a final nod.

Then Rollant turned his horse toward the distant hills.

To the place where she waited. To the home she had rebuilt for him.

* * *

Rollant dismounted and tied his horse at the iron gate, still bent from time.

Though stubborn weeds still crept between the cracks, the cobblestone path had been cleared of its wild overgrowth.

The house, once a proud stone estate six hundred years prior, was a pile of rubble.

Near the well, a small, simple wooden lean-to had been constructed.

A few of the old garden beds had been recently harvested as a quiet testament to the life of solitude élise had embraced there.

His gaze fell beyond the garden and the ruins, where the creek ran clear. There, bent over the water, filling her cup, was élise. She had cleared headstones and placed fresh flowers on each one.

His throat tightened.

“élise?” he called out.

She glanced over her shoulder and stood. The moment recognition set in, her expression transformed—weariness melting into a radiant smile.

“Rollant!”

She ran toward him with her skirt billowing behind her.

He barely had time to restrain himself as her arms wrapped around his waist, and her head slammed into his chest.

His hands clenched at his sides. He wanted to hold her. More than anything, he wanted to hold her. Instead, he stood rigid, willing to endure her touch.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

She lifted her face to his and, without hesitation, kissed him.

His resolve shattered.

He let himself feel her lips against his, the warmth, the desperate certainty in how she held him. But as quickly as he gave in, he pulled back, his hands gripping her arms to put space between them.

“Why?” His breath came unevenly. “Why would you live here?”

élise cupped his face, her thumb brushing along his cheekbone. “You told me to see what my life would be like with you,” she said softly. “So I did.”

His brow furrowed.

“I thought—what better way to understand than to live as Amée did? To see, to feel, to know.” Her fingers tightened against his jaw. “And I found clarity here, Rollant. I want to be your wife. Forever.”

His chest tightened.

“I meant for you to see the graves,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “That is where you will end up. A name carved in stone. An empty plot beside you.” His throat burned. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

His stomach dropped.

“I will never be able to hold you, élise. Never. I will never wrap my arms around you. I will stay as this, and you will age and die.” He searched her face, willing her to see the life she was throwing away. “Is that truly what you want?”

Her gaze did not waver. “You have my heart, Rollant. That is all that matters.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“I ask only this,” she continued, her voice filled with raw vulnerability.

“When I die, lay me beside Amée with an inscription just as beautiful as hers. And when you have forgotten my face, I hope you find another love and do the same for her. And the next. And the next.” She swallowed hard.

“Because life is nothing without love, Rollant. Until I met you, I never truly believed that.”

His fingers curled into fists.

“Life is nothing without death, too,” he said, a tremor in his voice. “Do not be disillusioned with love.”

“I am not disillusioned.” She stepped closer. “You have always given me a choice. Since the day we met, you let me find my own fate and make my own decisions, and you supported each one. Why won’t you support this one?”