AUTHOR: Susan M. Garrett
FEEDBACK: Abso-bloody-lutely.
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Contact author for permission to archive.
CATEGORY: Drama, adventure.
RATING/WARNINGS: PG, possibly a wee bit R later, but not too much.
MAIN CHARACTERS: Everyone.
THANKS: To my betas Tree and Vita. Thank you for reading with the understanding that I take responsibility only for mistakes of misspelling and grammar. What the characters do and say is entirely up to them.
****
Chapter One - The day we found the Frenchman
The hay was in, the corn not yet to be taken, and the sky was bright and blue, so we were on our own that day, me having milked the cow and done my chores before. Mama had said, "Take Em for some sun," which meant a day away from the cottage and sweeping floors and wiping down the bedsteads.
I carried Emmeline on my back down to the orchard end, where Henry and Peter and Robbie were fighting with wormy early apples. Cherry Louise was fighting too, but they paid her no mind because she was a girl, until she got Henry in the ear with a soft core that smooshed into his hair. Henry jumped on her and Robbie jumped on him - cause no one was apt to pound his sister 'lest it was him. They were all such children.
Took me some minutes to sort 'em all out and we finally fetched up on one of the best trees - the boys and Cherry in the branches and me at the base with Em, giving her near-ripe apples to bite into instead of the wormy ones she kept picking up.
"Could go down to the pond," said Peter. He sat up in the tree above me and swung his leg and I wished he wouldn't cause he had mud on his feet - I threw an apple at him to make him stop.
Henry made a face. "Nothing at the pond worth seeing. But maybe--"
Henry wasn't the sort to stop so short. I leaned back against the trunk, forgetting Em for a moment - Henry had good ideas sometimes. "What, Henry?"
"We could go and see the Frenchman."
"There's no Frenchman," said Peter crossly - he was angry at being kept from the pond, I guessed.
"A Frenchman? Really?" asked Robbie. He jumped down from the tree and I leaned forward enough to push him hard onto his bottom - he'd nearly landed on Em and she's no more than three summers old. He might have squished her.
"Really!" said Henry. "My da said there's a Frenchman in the old Morse cottage."
"Is he a spy?" asked Cherry, parting the leaves to peer at him through the branch on which she'd hidden herself.
"Spy!" I laughed and she hid herself again. She was seven and should know enough not to think such things. "We're not at war with France any more."
"We used to be," said Henry. "Grampa fought 'em at the 'Loo. Still got his sword and he let me touch it once."
We didn't know whether to believe the story about the sword, cause Henry was one to say things sometimes that weren't all true, but it was too good a story not to think about. And we'd all seen Henry's grampa in his uniform coat during fair, when the old men from the 'Loo got together and drilled . . . if they could still walk.
"Frenchmen have tails," said Henry.
"Do not," I protested. "Frenchman are like we are, 'cept they're French and they speak funny and we're English and speak rightly."
"Do so. Grampa said at the 'Loo they turned their tails and ran and he chased 'em. And he would know cause he was there."
We were quiet for a minute, thinking on this. Even if Henry stretched the truth a mite, his grampa was a real soldier and had been at the 'Loo and had even come back, which was more than my grampa or Peter's grampa had done.
"Frenchmen might have tails," said Cherry Louise, still from within the leafy apple branch.
"They do." Henry dropped down from the tree and put his fists at his hips defiantly. "Let's go see the Frenchman - that'll prove it to you." And then he turned and looked at me. "Come on, Pol. When'll you get to see a Frenchman again?"
They all looked at me, then, 'cause I was the oldest, at nine years. Henry was a year younger than me, but he knew if I said we should go, the others would follow. Even Cherry peeked out from the branches.
I looked over at Em; being three, she'd never seen much of anything. And if we just looked and we didn't get close, the Frenchman wouldn't hurt her. If nobody knew we were there, we couldn't get into trouble. And I still half believed that Henry was lying about there being a Frenchman at all.
But if was one there - would he have a tail?
"If we look," I said, glaring at Henry. "And we don't go near."
"The bushes are right up close to the cottage," said Henry. "He won't know that we're there."
"What happens if he finds us?" asked Peter, but he dropped from the tree anyway. "Will he eat us?"
There was a squeak from the branches above. "I don't want to be eaten by a Frenchman," said Cherry.
"Come on down," said Robbie, planting himself underneath the tree and holding his hands up - he was only six and Cherry was a year older, but he was always kind to his sister. "Cherry, I'd never let a Frenchman eat you. I'll kill him dead if he tried it."
"Would you, really?" she asked.
"Yep. Me and Henry. We'd use Henry's grampa's sword."
There was quiet for a moment as Cherry thought about it, then her bare feet and ankles appeared from the branches as she prepared to drop to the ground. "All right. I'll come to see the Frenchman, too."
"Come on, Polly," Henry pleaded.
I wanted to see the Frenchman, but I was supposed to be taking care of Em. If it was safe . . . .
"All right," I said. "But we're going to hide in the bushes and look and then run away."
Henry let out a whoop and started off to the Morse cottage at a run, with Peter close behind him. I picked up Em and set her on my back and followed as quickly as I could, Robbie and Cherry Louise staying close to me.
It wasn't far to the old cottage, a crofter's home like ours which had gone vacant when old Morse had died - they'd not found a new family to tend it yet. I remember papa sitting by the hearth with mama, saying something about the land agent fixing it up in a hurry and that the old squire's son was down to look at it, but I was supposed to be asleep and couldn't ask then. I'd forgotten until Henry mentioned it, but still . . . why would there be a Frenchman at the cottage? Was he a prisoner? Were we at war with the French and no one had told me?
That sort of thing happened often enough. Since the new schoolmaster had chased all us girls from the school, I'd no reason to go to the village proper unless I was with mama and that wasn't but twice a month, especially with the hay harvest coming in. Most often there wasn't much new to be said about anything. You'd think somebody would have mentioned a war.
Henry and Peter were already down and crawling behind bushes. Catching up to them, I followed their example, although it was harder for me, being bigger, and I had to put Em on the ground. She was small enough to stand up and no one could see her over the bush, but she plopped right down, still chewing on an apple, so I left her alone. Cherry and Robbie stayed behind me.
"He's there," whispered Henry. "See?"
He moved back so I could look through the bushes. I took his place and parted the leaves with my hands.
The old Morse cottage had been fixed - painted and thatched again and it even looked like there was real glass in the windows instead of oiled paper, which we could see because we were hidden at the side, near the very front. But it was the man in front of the cottage that Henry had talked about.
He didn't look French, seated on a bench and leaning back against the front wall of the cottage. He wore a white shirt with braces and brown trousers and was wearing shoes, like my papa, and a straw hat. There was a book on his lap, and even more on the bench beside him - he must be rich to have five whole books all by himself - and there was a pencil behind his ear. He looked funny to me, sorta sickly, and he wasn't old like I thought he'd be - but that's because I though of Frenchmen being old like Henry's grampa, cause they had fought at the 'Loo. In fact, he looked younger than the new schoolmaster did, and, I decided, sort of sad.
The others were also looking now, having parted the bushes around me.
"He doesn't look French," whispered Peter.
"And what does a Frenchman look like?" snorted Henry. "Like you would know?"
"They look just like us," I said softly, not even certain the words were mine. My eyes were on the books. Five whole books!
"He isn't French." Peter sat down on the ground and glared at Henry. "You're lying. He's not French at all. He's probably just the son of the land agent or a cousin or something."
"He is too French." Henry's face was getting red - if he and Peter had been standing up, I think he would have jumped on Peter and trounced him. Instead, he peered over the top of the bushes and said, "I'm gonna talk to him."
I nearly jumped up, but remembered just in time that we were supposed to be hiding. "Henry, you can't! What if he is French!"
"He'll eat you!" squealed Cherry. She hid her face in Robbie's shirt. "Robbie, don't let Henry get eaten by the Frenchman! Please!"
"I don't care," said Henry. "I'm gonna prove that he's French."
I reached out to catch hold of his leg and fell onto the grass - Henry had jumped up and dashed away. Afraid to watch, I still parted the leaves of the bush and peered out.
Henry could be quiet when he wanted; he'd caught a game hen on its nest last fall just by sneaking up on it, but we weren't supposed to talk about it because he might get in trouble for poaching. But he shared the eggs and mama never asked where they came from, so it was all right.
He ran through the grass to the side of the old Morse cottage, then crept along the bushes there till he was almost at the front. He waited at the corner - if he'd reached out his hand he could have touched one of the books. My heart was in my mouth when he straightened and then walked up to the Frenchman, who smiled when he saw him.
I hoped it wasn't a hungry smile.
"Are you French?" demanded Henry, fingers curled into fists and held at his hips.
"Yes," said the Frenchman - but he was speaking English. "I'm from Paris. Who are you?"
"I'm H-Henry."
"I can't look," whispered Cherry, beside me. "Is he going to kill Henry?"
I sighed and looked away from the Frenchman for a moment. "He isn't going to kill Henry," I told her. "He looks just like us. He's not a monster."
"Maybe he'll start eating Henry before he kills him," offered Peter, still gazing through the hedge. "Oh, Pol, look!"
Fearing that the Frenchman might have picked up Henry and shoved him in his mouth whole, I didn't even bother to part the leaves. I popped my head up over the bush, then drew in a fearful breath - Em had wandered away and was walking around Henry, right to the Frenchman. She held out the nibbled apple in her hand as she approached him, saying, "Wan n'apple?"
Now she was small enough to be eaten. I jumped up from behind the bushes and ran out, catching her around the middle and pulling her back just as the Frenchmen reached out his hand to take the apple from her. He had a look of surprise on him, like when you're running and fall and you come face to face with a hare and you've each just realized that the other one is there and you don't quite know what to do.
I hoisted Em up into my arms, spared a hand to tug down my dress over my knees, and stared back at him. He seemed harmless enough. And there were the books . . . .
"Do you have a tail?" asked Henry. "My grampa fought at the 'Loo and he said Frenchmen have tails."
The Frenchman laughed. "No, I don't have a tail." He looked back at me. "What's your name?"
Henry took a step forward, placing himself between me and Em and the Frenchman. "That's Polly. Em's her little sister."
"Emmeline," I corrected and Em squirmed in my arms, wanting to get down. I don't know where my voice had been, but now that I'd found it I wasn't going to let it get away again. "Are you really French?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing here?" asked Henry, his tone suspicious.
The smile left the Frenchman's face - I could see the sadness now as he seemed to struggle to find an answer. "Resting," he said, after a moment. "Just . . . resting."
There was a cane sitting by the side of the bench, with a gold grip at the top, and the wood of it was dark and smooth. Papa had used a cane - but not such a nice one - when the milk cow had stepped on him and broken his foot two autumns ago and many of Henry's grampa's friends from the 'Loo walked with canes when we saw them in the uniform coats at fair. Maybe the Frenchman had been hurt by a cow or had been in a war?
I put Em down on the ground and placed my hands on Henry's shoulders, moving him slightly to one side. "Are you a soldier?"
"No." He picked up the book from his lap and closed it, setting it aside. "I'm a writer," he said, with a sigh. "At least, I want to be a writer."
But it was enough that he had said the word. I knew that the others were here now, I could feel them - Cherry would be behind Robbie, but I heard Peter whispering to Henry behind my back. "Do you write . . . books?"
"I've written plays so far," he said, his eyes watching Em as she walked toward him, still trying to give him her apple. "But books . . . someday."
Plays were what we got to watch at fair, sometimes the puppets and sometimes people in strange clothes. For the Frenchman to have written plays . . . and to write books!
"You can read," I said very quietly, knowing that I had to be right.
He was smiling at Em, taking the apple and giving it back to her, which made her giggle. But he'd heard me and looked up. "Yes. Can't you?"
"My name," I admitted, in the same quiet voice. "And some words."
"She's not allowed at school," said Henry, with a laugh in his voice. "Mr. Harris says girls don't need to know such things and it's better if they don't."
My fingers curled into fists and I turned toward Henry, wanting to push him on the ground. "Mr. Harris will leave, just like the last schoolmaster did. And the next one will let me go to school. He will."
There was a touch at my hand - the Frenchman had leaned forward and caught hold of my fingers. I stared down at his hand and then looked up at him, suddenly wanting to run away and hide. But something stopped me. There was a look of anger in his face and I knew that he wasn't angry with me. "The schoolmaster won't allow girls in his classroom?"
I shook my head, unable to speak.
"Are you certain you don't have a tail?" asked Henry, disappointed.
I withdrew my hand from the Frenchman's grasp when he looked toward Henry. Em had moved to the books. I picked her up and set her down on the other side of me to keep her from the things, for they were worth more than any money our papa could afford to pay for their damage. I was close enough to touch the cover of one, let my fingers rest upon it as I picked out the letters on the cover. A T-A-L-E O-F--
The Frenchman had been speaking to Henry and I heard Peter's voice, but my eyes were fastened on the gold letters embossed in the cover of the book, bright as the stars in the night sky.
"Polly?"
The Frenchman had spoken my name once, and then again. I started, suddenly realizing that he'd been speaking to me and drew my hand back from the book quickly in case he should have caught me at trying to find the sense behind the letters.
He picked up the book and held it in his hands. "A Tale of Two Cities," he said. "That's by Charles Dickens - he's an English writer. Do you know him?"
"I don't know any writers," I answered. "Except you. You're the first writer I've ever met."
He smiled - he had a nice smile. "He tells very good stories. This one is about an Englishman who gets caught by the revolution in France."
"I know," said Peter happily. "Mr. Harris told us. You don't have a king anymore because you were bad and chopped off his head!" At Cherry's horrified gasp, he added, "Well, they did! And they have an Emperor now, instead of a proper king. And that's why we're better."
The Frenchman laughed again. "You mustn't forget - the English chopped off the head of one of their own kings once, Charles the first. And you did it long before we did."
"Is that true?" Cherry asked the Frenchman, eyes wide. She turned to Robbie and asked again, "Oh, it isn't true, is it Rob? We would never do such a naughty thing."
"Grown-ups do naughty things all the time," Robbie informed her. "They can be very bad and they don't get punished. Isn't that right?"
He had addressed his comment to the Frenchman, who didn't reply right away. The laughter left his eyes for a moment and then he looked away. "Sometimes," he said quietly.
I touched his arm and he looked up at me. "Could you read us the story?"
He seemed surprised. "Would you like to hear it?"
"Oh yes," said Henry, dropping immediately to the ground. "Especially if people's heads get chopped off."
"It's not only that," said the Frenchman. "There are people in prison, and costumes, and rescues--"
Peter had settled in beside Henry and tugged at bottom of Cherry's dress. "Come on, Cherry, he's going to tell us a story."
"Sit here, Polly," said the Frenchman, pushing aside the other books and clearing a space beside him. "You can look over my arm and see the words. They're in English," he promised.
I looked for Em and found her rolling her apple off the lintel of the cottage door - not too far away to keep out of trouble - then sat down on the bench beside him. He opened the book and there on the whiteness of the page were letters bunched together into words. It was dazzling, like crows against a sun-brilliant field of snow - I couldn't see how they could make any sense, even in English.
But he smiled at me, then looked back to the book. His finger dropped to the page, beneath the beginning of the first line of black letters, and he began, "It was the best of times--"
I do not think I breathed for at least an hour.
****
End of Chapter One
****