The Moonlight Mistress. Victoria Janssen
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snorted. “A woman alone, and a foreigner? Don’t be foolish. No one will give you a room.”
“A woman might,” she pointed out.
“If she had a room to spare. Even early this morning, I had difficulty in procuring lodging for an additional period. You are not the only person who has just discovered there are no trains. Come, we should hurry.”
He was correct. And after her long dusty walk to the train station, then her futile longer and dustier walk back to the Institute, Lucilla was in no mood to procure a newspaper, peruse its listings and then perhaps circumnavigate the entire town in the dark, alone and subject to male harassment, in search of a bed. “I wish you weren’t right,” she grumbled.
Fournier glanced over at her and smiled, a quick flash of white teeth beneath his mustache. For that moment, he looked no older than her baby brother, and twice as dangerous. Then he began walking even faster, and all her energy was consumed in keeping up. If she lost him, she would truly be in the soup.
Fournier ducked into a shop and she followed. He purchased cheese and biscuits, the only available choices. Lucilla realized she had forgotten all about food, but the need would soon become urgent. On the way out of the shop, she halted abruptly; a Polizist was demanding Fournier’s papers.
She wasn’t sure if approaching was the wisest idea, but Fournier was helping her, and she would not abandon him. She came up beside him just as the Polizist snarled an uncomplimentary phrase and tried to seize her arm. Fournier swiftly intervened, but the Polizist wouldn’t release her. She struggled in his gloved grip, dropped her bag and heard the unmistakable shattering of glass.
Fournier shoved the Polizist, hard. “Run!” he said, so she grabbed her bag and ran, her heart pounding, hearing the scuffling behind her. She ran for perhaps a block, enough to soak her in sweat, then flung herself around a corner and peered back. Fournier was fleeing down the street toward her, still clutching the wrapped package of cheese and tin of biscuits. His tie was jerked askew, his hat nearly falling off the back of his head. The Polizist lay curled on the sidewalk. She could hear him cursing.
“This way!” she said, grabbing Fournier’s arm. He shook her off but followed her down several alleys. She had no idea where she was leading him, but quick action was paramount. When she could run no more, she flung her back against a wall and gasped for breath. Fournier bent over his knees, panting.
“Are you hurt?” she asked. She felt light-headed and exhilarated at the same time.
He didn’t answer her. Eventually, he straightened and said, “This way.”
By the time they reached Fournier’s lodging, the night seemed even darker. He grabbed her hand and pulled her around the corner of the building, to the servants’ entrance. His long fingers engulfed hers. He might be abrupt and overbearing, but he’d rescued her, and defended her against the Polizist. She appreciated his warm and reassuring human touch in the midst of chaos. She was sorry when he let go, glanced around and pushed the door open. “The stairs,” he murmured once she was inside. “Second floor.”
Fournier’s room was last in a poorly lit, narrow corridor. He unlocked the door briskly and pushed her inside before slipping in after her and throwing the bolt. She sighed in relief, then nearly laughed; never before had she considered that being locked in a room with a strange man could be a good thing.
Street noise, the rumble of wagons and voices mingling like a river, pushed in through an open window. Lucilla sought out the light switch with her hand, then was glad she hadn’t tried to move farther. She saw scarcely two feet of bare floor, with perhaps another foot covered by an open rucksack and a scatter of notebooks. The room held one narrow bed with an overstuffed mattress, a small table supporting a jug and basin, and an upended steamer trunk. A hook above the trunk supported a single towel. She stood with the rucksack at her feet, near the wall. She could easily sag backward against that cool, comforting plaster and let it support her aching head. Her carpetbag felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Her elbows hurt from carrying it.
Fournier, the end of the bed at his back, was so close she could smell sweat and wool and the remnants of lime shaving lotion. He said nothing, instead dropping their dinner on the coverlet and futilely brushing at the dust on his charcoal jacket. He further loosened his navy tie and tossed his hat onto the steamer trunk.
Lucilla wanted to touch him again; an impulse, she was sure, caused by the close quarters and the sudden safety and intimacy implied by a closed and locked door. She was afraid. It had nothing to do with him personally. She worked closely with men every day, but she had never wanted to edge her body closer to any of them. A thought sprang from the depths of her mind. “Where will you sleep?” she asked.
Fournier snorted and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Better to ask, where will you sleep. I believe women are equal to men, and if that is so, then I should not have to yield my comfort to yours. It is hardly my fault you did not have the foresight to retain lodging. Besides, I cannot fold myself into this small patch of floor, and I cannot sleep in the corridor.”
His tone was harsh, but he made sense, and there was no use arguing when she agreed with him. Beggars could not be choosers. Lucilla squeezed past him and set her bag atop his steamer trunk. “No, you can’t sleep in the corridor,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Any foreigner is at risk at the moment, and if that Polizist finds us…” She could not deny the hostility and suspicion she’d felt in the air, steadily intensifying over the past few days.
“Many Germans still hate the French. I imagine they will find an excuse to declare war on us soon, and they know all Frenchmen have served their time in the army,” he said. “Any one of us might be a soldier.”
“Or a spy. This would be a wonderful opportunity to spy, if only I knew what to look for.”
Fournier grinned, just as briefly and startlingly as before. He blew breath out his nose, and she decided he was nervous, too. She began to feel more kindly toward him. He said, “Perhaps we will spy on the kitchen later, if we grow weary of cheese and biscuits. There is a bath down the corridor. I will guard the door, if you will do the same for me.”
“I have nothing clean to wear,” Lucilla said. Thinking she would be leaving today, she’d sent her trunk ahead, and her carpetbag held only toiletries and a change of linen for emergencies. And, of course, broken glass. She supposed it didn’t matter so much, not really, but she felt as if more had been broken than her glassware.
Fournier ducked his head. “A shirt,” he suggested. As if in afterthought, he added, “I am quite tall enough for it to be decent. Pah! Though why we should be concerned with niceties eludes me. It is obvious we no longer live in a world that rewards us for cherishing such concerns.”
Lucilla had no answer for him, not when her shoes chafed, her bust bodice chafed and the collar of her suit jacket chafed worst of all. “Thank you,” she said. “Though perhaps you should bathe first. I don’t want to guard you wearing only your shirt.”
“You are very sensible,” Fournier said, sounding surprised. Belatedly, he added, “And gracious.” Lucilla very carefully did not respond with her true thoughts at his belated compliment, which were uncharitable. As he stripped off his jacket, she held up her skirts and hurdled the rucksack, to sit on the end of the bed. She didn’t want to leave this room barefoot, so she would have to wait longer for the pleasure of removing her half boots, but simply being off her feet was lovely, and she sighed in relief. She unpinned her hat and set it aside.
Fournier reached for the towel, and it was then she saw his shirtsleeve was torn and stained with blood. “You’re injured,” she said, in case he’d planned to hide it from her.
“I was not quick enough to evade all injury,” he said, draping the towel over that arm, concealing it. He rummaged in the rucksack and produced a shaving kit. “That was from a disagreement earlier this morning. It’s a small price to pay for having later punched a rude Polizist in a tender place.