Blog Tour and Giveaway! 'A Revolution of Hearts' by Ronda Gibb Hinrichsen

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Excerpt:

Paris

April 20, 1789

 

Soon I will meet with the love of my life, Dacia de Prideaux thought

as their driver stopped the carriage in front of Paris’s celebrated theater,

la Comédie-Française. Marcel, Dacia de Prideaux’s brother, cracked open

the carriage door. Cold wind gusted inside against the carriage’s back wall

even as rain plastered it from the outside. Dacia hunched her shoulders,

shielding herself from the cold, and touched her hairline at the base of her

neck. So far, her pouf hairstyle—including the glass star-shaped jewels her

lady’s maid had added to represent what she had called un beau ciel blond,

a lovely blond sky—had withstood the weather.

“I fear even the umbrella will do us little good in this weather,” Marcel

said. “We must rush for the entrance.”

Dacia hugged Sunna, her pet bichon, against her chest and scooted to

the edge of her seat.

“Or perhaps, Sister,” Marcel continued, “you would prefer we forgo

our evening with Romeo and Juliet? You might wish to spend the whole

of it in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket and”—he smirked—

“reading one of my latest manuscripts.”

“Your teasing will get you nowhere. You know very well I would not

forgo this evening for anything, especially not for one of your philosophies

on the proper use of political power. King Louis is the monarch, and that

is that.”

Marcel, still smirking, stepped outside. He pointed his umbrella toward

the wind and helped Dacia from the carriage. The two then hurried alongside

several other patrons over the wet cobblestone road and up the theater’s

staircase. They passed the line of uniformed guards, who with their rifles

propped over their shoulders, stood between the theater’s pillars and arched

doorways, warning all by their very presence that while some jeers and shouts

at the actors might be tolerated, on all accounts order would be maintained.

If only such measures actually worked.

Dacia and Marcel entered the theater’s vestibule and moved to the tall

round pillar closest to the wide staircase. After ascertaining Sunna, still cradled

in her arms, was none the worse for the rain, Dacia scanned the crowd. She

focused more on the stiff-fitted frock coats than the shimmering silks.

“You are certain our box is close to Noah’s?” she asked.

“Our box is as close to the de Lévis’s as I could procure without revealing

your purpose. Now, calm yourself, Sister. I am sure that no matter where

we are, you and your betrothed will find one another.”

“Hush.” She glanced at the men and women on either side of them.

“Noah and I are not engaged.”

“A fact time will very soon correct.”

“Monsieur de Prideaux?” a man’s voice said. “It is you, is it not?”

Both Dacia and Marcel turned to the squat man behind them. By the

looks of his gray coat and simple powdered wig, he was very likely in trade—

doing well, if the cut of his coat spoke the truth of the matter, but still in trade.

“I am Monsieur de Prideaux,” Marcel said. “What can I do for you,

monsieur?”

“Oh my. Nothing. Nothing at all. I only wanted to congratulate you on

your last essay on man’s right for happiness. Not many men would dare refer

to the corruption within our justice system or announce so publicly that the

peasants’ sons should not be forced into military service while the bourgeoisie’s

sons are not”—he lowered his voice—“though, many of us do say it in private.”

Not that again. Dacia frowned as several more men and just as many

women gathered round her brother. Next, they would be blaming the aristocracy

for the bread riots, as if it was their fault the weather had destroyed

France’s crops. Could they help what God decreed? At any rate, that fact

alone was proof enough the plebeians did not have enough sense to rule

themselves, much less all of France.

A masked Harlequin—one of the actors, no doubt—dressed in a

patterned costume of red, white, and black diamonds approached Marcel

and handed him a triple-folded note.

 

Marcel finished speaking with his latest admirer and read the note’s

contents. He handed the Harlequin a coin. “Tell the sender I am most

happy to meet with him after the performance.”

“Very good, monsieur.”

“On second thought . . .”

“Oui, monsieur?”

“Tell Monsieur Robespierre he may share our box this evening, if it

would please him to do so.” Marcel slipped the note inside his coat pocket

and told the man the location of their box on the second floor.

“Morbleu, Marcel,” Dacia said when the Harlequin had disappeared in

the crowd. “The two of you will be talking so much, you will forget all about

why we are here. You know how important this evening is to me.”

“Robespierre’s presence will not spoil your surprise. Truly, Sister, after

having been so many years away at school, de Lévis will certainly be anxious

to see you again.”

“That is the trouble. It has been years. What if he has forgotten me?”

“Do be serious. Surely his letters have left you no room for doubt on

that score.”

“You are right.” Dacia smiled, but inside her thoughts hitched. Was

Marcel right? The last letter she had received from Noah had arrived two

months ago. She had told herself he had not corresponded more because he

was busy finishing his school responsibilities and making arrangements for

his travel home; but after the first month had passed with no communication,

her certainty of his love for her had fallen prey to doubt, ridiculous though

it was.

Another of Marcel’s admirers approached, and Dacia stepped slightly

back from her brother. She rubbed Sunna’s neck, a little too anxiously, she suspected,

and again searched the crowd. No Noah. Her sources had been correct,

had they not, in saying Noah would be there that night? Or . . . maybe . . . had

he in fact heard she too would be at the theater and had wished to avoid seeing

her? By all reports, he had been home for a week. Surely, with an entire week

at his disposal, he could have found time to see her. They had been inseparable

in the weeks before he had left. And she simply could not have misunderstood

the note, consisting only of two hand-drawn lovebirds, that he had given her

their last evening together. Noah, Noah . . . where are you?

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