by C. S. Quinn
The room is plain, with a cot bed and wool blanket. Grace enters.
‘It is lovely,’ she says. ‘Thank you, so much, I—’
She stops speaking. Behind the maid is an apparition. She never heard him approach. A scarred face and a single red eye beneath a broad-brimmed musketeer’s hat.
Grace opens her mouth to shout a warning, but nothing comes out.
The ghoulishly skeletal silver hand is curved into a hook. The maid is pulled backwards by her shoulders. Her eyes open wide, as cold metal slices her throat. Blood runs fast down, soaking her snowy apron.
When Grace speaks of this later, she will say how quickly it seemed to happen. The maid’s glassy-eyed body dropping to the floor. The musketeer’s soft boots padding towards her. She will say she couldn’t tell you how she picked up the candelabra and threw it. That it was sheer luck that the hot wax hit her assailant’s face and a flame set his ribbon sash ablaze.
All she really remembers is racing out into the hallway to see bodies of footmen and guards propped neatly against walls. And as she ran, she thought the blood pounding in her ears had turned her stone deaf. That was until she heard the musketeer call from the window as she reached the Embassy gardens.
‘Run, little rabbit,’ he had growled. ‘Wherever you go, I will catch you.’
CHAPTER 16
AS SOON AS JEMMY LEAVES TO SUPERVISE OUR DEPARTURE, I fall to my travelling trunk with its folded clothes. I select pinstripes for Paris. It’s fashionable in a distinctly French way, with a few more ruffles and bows than an Englishwoman would favour. But the grey and purple pattern has a pleasing sobriety about it and I’m eager not to seem frivolous. There are matching velvet gloves, a hanging pocket and pointed half-boots of soft-grey leather. All the better for running in.
I divest myself of my ragged Dover-tavern disguise, splash water to wash my face and pull the dress over my head, shrugging the upper part over my shoulders. The striped sleeves end at the elbow with a frill of lace, the neckline is low with dangling ribbons. I push the safe-passage papers Atherton gave me deep beneath the violet pinstripe.
The bodice is set with flash boning and I slide out a hollow tube with a top that unscrews. Inside is Atherton’s recent breakthrough: three fire-sticks.
I resist the urge to strike one and watch it flame like magic. Smiling, I drop them back in their hiding place, screw on the lid and replace the hollow bone, sliding it the length of my torso and taking in my reflection.
There’s no looking-glass, but I can just about make out my appearance in the large cabin window. I look decidedly aristocratic, despite my dark curls falling free.
Under the other dresses are more useful items. I lift a hidden compartment.
To my great delight, I see Atherton has left me his latest lock-pick. A thin, hooked blade, with the capacity to open even one of Mr Bramah’s famous new locks. I put it into my hanging purse.
There is also a fan showing a map of Paris streets when unfurled and a list of important houses and names. Next to that is a bag of gold coins and a box filled with jewellery, arranged by worth in francs, should I need to sell them. I slide on a few rings, ordering them least valuable on my little fingers and most expensive on my indexes.
Last in the array of items is a little black pouch. Inside is an ivory hair comb, the carved tusk shaped like a ‘y’. Beside it is a strip of rubber with a square patch attached.
I’m puzzling over it and suddenly I understand. I think it’s a kind of slingshot. This is Atherton’s little joke. But it isn’t like the sling I whirled in the air as a girl.
I put the pieces where I think they should go, lift a gold coin from the bag and fit it into the sling. I stretch the rubber back. I can feel the tension loaded there. I extend fully, fixing on a tankard on the far side of the room. I launch the projectile and though the aim is imperfect, the coin topples it. My face breaks into a wide grin.
The power!
Atherton must have known how much I’d like this.
I’m contemplating how best to test the range when the planked floor gives a sudden unnatural lurch. I stagger and catch my balance. Something is happening.
I push the ivory slingshot into my hair. I can hear a distant cannon – a warning shot from another ship to stay our course.
We’re being boarded.
Nightmares crowd in on me. I shut my eyes and mutter a strange little poem my mother taught me, to calm myself.
The door flies open and Jemmy enters. He takes in the greenish terror on my face.
‘You mustn’t fear,’ he says. ‘No harm will come to you on this ship. Bailey had the same for a time,’ he adds, moving closer and taking my arm. ‘You were transported?’
I nod.
‘I’d like to see the pirates to board us,’ he says with grim certainty. ‘No one gets aboard without my permission. Just put one foot in front of the other, you’ll stop shaking when we get out on deck.’
I let him lead me out and the terror abates.
‘If not pirates, then who?’ I ask, relief making my voice sharper than I intend.
Jemmy’s face clouds. ‘Royal Navy. I have to afford ’em certain courtesies. Part of staying legal.’ He tries for a smile but can’t hide his annoyance. ‘We’re barely an hour out of Dover,’ he says. ‘They’d have been better docking than stealing our supplies.’
A different fear pours back in on me now. I have an inkling of what this could be.
‘What do they want?’ I say, trying to keep my tone light. I’m desperate to catch sight of the boarding party, but there’s a sail between us and I don’t want to appear concerned.
Jemmy shrugs his narrow shoulders.
‘Provisions, most likely. Wine. We’re in France enough to maintain a good stock.’
This sounds reasonable. Perhaps I’m thinking too deeply. A gust of wind catches the sail obscuring my view and lifts it. And I see my instincts were all too correct.
The ship drawn up alongside us is the Vulcan, an English naval vessel of sorts. The sides are fitted out with gleaming cannons and the men boarding are well trained, uniformed and armed. In their centre, like a great black crow, is an all-too-familiar figure.
Lord Pole.
He’s clad in his usual black long robes and priest-like square-felt hat.
What is he doing here?
I feel my stomach tightening.
If he’s boarding the Esmerelda it can only mean one thing. He has come for me.
CHAPTER 17
I WATCH AS LORD POLE’S MEN FILE ON DECK. I MOMENTARILY consider hiding, but of course I can’t. Jemmy might be suspected of sheltering me and Lord Pole wouldn’t hesitate to tear his ship apart.
Lord Pole is looking at Jemmy now and I can see him processing, the same way I did. He is wondering how this man with his unbroken nose and enamelled pistol could be a murderous pirate. He looks more like the kind of third-born son who bets all or nothing on the turn of a card.
I walk clear out on the deck. Lord Pole’s small dark eyes settle on me. He doesn’t smile. Lord Pole always reminds me of a raven, silent, with an air of death.
Behind him, his men are throwing ropes, tethering the Vulcan to the Esmerelda. His vessel is black and gold with an understated Royal crest at the prow – he need not advertise his importance.
‘Lord Pole.’ I curtsey, not bothering to hide my displeasure. My eyes rest on the ropes joining our two vessels.
Lord Pole manages the briefest of bows. ‘Attica,’ he says, glancing at his ship, ‘if you’d be kind enough to join us aboard.’
‘What do you want?’ I demand.
Lord Pole’s lips press tight. ‘I bring information,’ he says, ‘concerning Lord Morgan.’
A dread grips me. What news can Lord Pole have of my father? A horrible, terrible memory comes back.
Father, not breathing, little stinking bottles of laudanum scattered all around.
But that was a lifetime ago. Surely nothing could have happened with his happy new
marriage? My mind won’t stop conjuring horrors.
Lord Pole turns abruptly, dark furs swinging, and snaps his fingers high. Men arrange themselves rapidly to follow in line.
Several of his men crowd around me. I don’t know what they’ve been told, but the language of their bodies is clear. They take me by means of a row-boat aboard Lord Pole’s tastefully decorated ship. We enter a dark little room at the back, thick-walled, thick-doored, the kind of place you imprison captives who might be of political importance. This must be his room, I think. Ebony-clad and neatly filed papers written in Lord Pole’s endless cramped script. No maps here, no spinning globes, no bed. Perhaps he doesn’t sleep.
Lord Pole is already sitting at a desk. He’s only a few years younger than my father and he’s aged well for a man who has seen what he’s seen. His head is bowed, so only the bridge of his long nose and black eyebrows are visible.
‘What news?’ I ask.
Lord Pole lifts his head, brooding brown eyes fixing on mine, and extends a hand to the chair facing him, gesturing I should sit. I pause and then I do. The faintly animal smell, born of Lord Pole’s layers of heavy dark furs, encloses me. Whether a human heart beats beneath is a mystery he will take to the grave.
‘Tell me,’ I demand, still working possibilities. I can get a fast horse at Dover. If I ride through the night I’ll be by my father’s side at dawn.
‘Your hanging purse,’ he says flatly. ‘Might I see inside?’
I pass it over, too agitated to question the strangeness of the request.
Lord Pole parts the velvet fabric and extracts my lock-pick. He pushes it inside his coat, then raises his dark eyes to mine.
‘Your father is in good health and sends his regards,’ he says smoothly.
The relief flooding through me is tinged with dull fury as I realize he’s tricked me. Lord Pole has taken my means of escape so he can imprison me in this secure little cabin and sail me back to Dover.
‘Have you no shame?’ I feel suddenly exhausted, torn between relief for my father and anger at Lord Pole’s subterfuge.
Lord Pole leans closer. ‘I would stoop to any deceit to protect our great nation. I have plans for you, plans that will not be altered.’ He sits back. ‘Everyone has their weak point, Attica, you mustn’t dwell on it. It’s my job to know such things. Yours is your father. And Atherton.’ He frowns at this. He’s always been uncertain what to make of my friendship with Atherton and Lord Pole needs to understand everything.
He reaches for a crystal decanter of whisky and pours two glass, slides one to me with his expensively ringed fingers. He plays the diplomat now, extending courtesies.
I pick it up, knowing before I even take a sip that this will be some excellent smuggled vintage that Lord Pole has acquired for his personal use.
‘Forgive the deception,’ he says, with a wave of his thickly jewelled hand, to suggest he thinks nothing of it himself. ‘Only you wouldn’t have come aboard if I’d told you the truth.’
‘Which is?’ My mind is whirling, wondering what possible reason he could have for tricking me on to his ship.
‘The situation in France has changed.’
‘Oh.’
‘It is a great deal more dangerous. And ... our need to see you married has become more pressing.’
I jerk back without meaning to.
‘Didn’t I warn you, Attica, you would not escape another wedding?’
Lord Pole makes a smile that isn’t a smile.
‘Your husband is a lord,’ he says, wincing with effort. ‘Or he will be when his father dies. Not an ancient family,’ he continues, ‘but considered a high match for ...’ He waves a hand in my direction.
‘For someone illegitimate.’ I fill in.
‘People like us must work harder to be accepted,’ he says. ‘There’s no shame in it.’
I sometimes forget that Lord Pole isn’t a true noble. His title came courtesy of a famously acrimonious marriage.
‘Even so,’ I’m still reeling, ‘what kind of lord-in-waiting would stoop to me for a bride?’
‘Your husband-to-be is a parliament man,’ says Lord Pole, ‘active in abolishing slavery.’
‘His name?’ I demand, tight-lipped.
Lord Pole looks up into a corner of the room as he searches for the right words.
‘There’s no right way to put this,’ he says. ‘It’s Godwin.’
‘But that cannot be.’ A sick feeling of fear is washing over me. ‘Godwin is betrothed to Grace.’
I feel a flush of affection to think of my clever cousin. I sometimes think Grace is what I might have been had I ever learned to follow the rules.
‘I’m afraid Grace has gone missing,’ says Lord Pole. ‘She journeyed to Paris and didn’t return.’
CHAPTER 18
LORD POLE’S CLOSE CABIN IS SUDDENLY SUFFOCATING. I feel the world falling away.
Grace is missing?
‘Grace may have become mixed up in some political thing,’ says Lord Pole. The flash of guilt on his face confirms my worst fears.
‘You used Grace to smuggle in the diamonds,’ I say, appalled. Lord Pole doesn’t even blink.
‘We needed someone above suspicion. A young English bride, come for her wedding trousseau.’
‘You sent my cousin to Paris,’ I say, my words tight and furious, ‘so you could steal away her husband and marry him to me?’
‘If only it were so simple.’ There’s a distant look in his eyes. ‘I worked hard to ensure the marriage between Grace and Godwin went ahead. Do you think his family agreed to such a preposterous arrangement without my help?’
I try to collect my thoughts. Now I’m truly frightened for Grace.
What has he done?
‘Where is she?’ I demand. ‘Where is Grace?’
‘Don’t get any ideas, Attica. It’s too dangerous. Besides, Godwin can’t be left unwed. It’s imperative he’s married to a Morgan girl before those bloody Spencers get their women lined up.’
I have the same awful, trapped feeling I remember as a girl. The silent rage of being property to be passed around.
‘Does Godwin have any feelings on his new bride?’ I ask. ‘He loves Grace!’
‘Godwin is sensible enough to listen to his family, who will want him married before the gossip of an aborted wedding begins. In his shock and grief, I’m sure he’ll be fairly pliable on the subject.’
Lord Pole appears to see something in my expression. ‘France has changed overnight,’ he says. ‘A pack of commoners finally stood up to their tyrant King. A group of lawyers went for a meeting at Versailles,’ he continues. ‘When the King locked them out, they refused to leave. They besieged themselves in his tennis court and made an oath not to part ways until France had a constitution.’
My eyes widen. ‘Did he have them all executed?’
‘No. He’s spent all his money. Can’t even afford his musketeers. He had to agree to the terms to get the men out of his Palace. The King gave over a great deal of power to the French people yesterday.’
I sit back, absorbing the magnitude of this.
‘The implications are bigger than you can ever imagine,’ says Lord Pole. ‘No one is getting in or out of Paris.’ He looks at me. ‘We’ve lost a lot of good men in the last few days.’
But I’m thinking, all the same. My eyes flick to his.
‘What if I were to go to France,’ I suggest, ignoring the slight, ‘and bring Grace home?’ I’m having the butterflies-inthe-stomach that come before doing something completely reckless. ‘You’d still have your Morgan wife.’
‘It was a misplaced charity of your father’s,’ he sighs, ‘to allow Grace to be tutored with you, gave her all kinds of political ideas above her station. It’s astounding you didn’t both grow beards. Not to mention the damage the two of you did to the grounds of the estate. And now you’re letting emotion get the better of you.’
‘You’ve always hated me.’ I don’t know what compels me to say it
aloud. Only my mind is buzzing with fear for my cousin.
To my surprise, Lord Pole looks shocked. For a moment, I think, even a little hurt, but I dismiss this idea as ridiculous.
‘I don’t hate you, Attica,’ he says quietly. He looks at his hands, frowning. ‘To cause a person you have great regard for to dislike you, for their own protection ...’ He spreads his hands. ‘It is the curse of men in my position to be hated. There is a nobility in it, I suppose. You know I see you more often than I visit my own daughters?’ He looks suddenly very tired.
It’s such a strange outburst that I hardly know how to respond. Before I can, Lord Pole collects himself. I can almost see the formal façade locking back into place.
He takes a deep breath, rubbing his hand across his lined lower face.
‘I am going to credit you with the same intelligence as a man,’ he says graciously, ‘and avail you of all the facts. I hope when I am finished you will understand why you cannot go to Paris.’
He breathes in deeply through his long nostrils.
‘Gaspard de Mayenne has been murdered.’
There’s a long pause whilst I absorb this.
‘Royalists got him?’ I say finally.
Lord Pole frowns. ‘We don’t know,’ he admits, and this in itself is a shock. Lord Pole knows everything.
‘Someone well known to Gaspard revealed his whereabouts,’ he adds. ‘A person he trusted.’
‘How did he die?’ The promise I made to Gaspard is ringing in my ears.
‘Gaspard was tortured,’ says Lord Pole briskly, ‘and his body placed in the Bastille mortuary.’
My mind is working over the details.
‘Royalists would have delivered Gaspard to the King,’ I say, meeting Lord Pole’s eye. ‘It must have been a revolutionary. Some kind of threat, perhaps?’
‘You have it exactly right. Gaspard’s death was a warning to the Sealed Knot to stay out of French affairs. Whoever left Gaspard’s body pushed a diamond between his lips.’
CHAPTER 19
LORD POLE LEANS OVER HIS DARK-WOOD DESK AND REFILLS the glass of whisky I hadn’t realized I’d emptied.