Tears flooded down her face. ‘If you want me to leave you, you must order me to do so yourself. I cannot willingly separate my life from yours.’
He spun on his heel, tearing away from her as roughly as a whirlwind, leaving her buffeted and alone.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Spring 1809
Marthe slammed her rolling pin into the pastry. The pastry was stubborn to stretch beneath her wooden pin. She prised it from the marble bench and slapped it down, taking her rolling pin to another corner.
‘Be more gentle,’ Dominic chided, putting a hand to her stiffened elbow.
She shrugged him away. The Emperor had stepped in front of her and she had done nothing. He was a man of flesh and blood after all. She had been so close, as close as she now stood to Dominic, close enough to touch him. She watched the knife flash in Dominic’s hand.
A year had passed and the cellars beneath Marthe’s kitchen filled and emptied as regularly as breathing. She could have stopped this senseless slaughter if she had been ready that day on the Quai Voltaire. The Clandestine had lost their moment to act. A few weeks later the Emperor sent his mistress home to Poland and their knowledge of the house in Quai Voltaire had brought them nothing. War with Spain began soon after and lasted all through the following summer and much of winter. The imbecile Spanish king wanted Napoleon’s help to keep his own sons from attacking him for his throne. The fool. She could’ve told him what would happen. Napoleon won his war, but put his own brother Joseph on the throne of Spain.
For now, the cellar beneath their feet was empty, but she did not think it would last. The Emperor had been back from Spain for only a matter of weeks and already there were rumours that Austria was growing more powerful and was intent on reclaiming its territories. In Paris, riots were breaking out. Men were fleeing the city, even committing suicide, unable to face another war. There were no young men left in Paris. All she saw were the old and lame. How long could this go on? They were trapped in an endless cycle like the seasons, with young men falling as easily as autumn leaves. There was no hope for lasting peace with a man who wanted empire.
She leaned forward, putting her weight into her arms and stretching the pastry towards each corner. Gradually, she felt it soften and relax. For some months she had been coming down to the kitchen to help Dominic with the preparation for their meals. She had dismissed their maid long ago, not wanting to risk her prattle. Marthe pushed at the pastry with her rolling pin, feeling it grow thin, working it again and again until it was pliable beneath her fingers.
‘It will be summer soon and the Emperor will spend his weekends at Malmaison,’ she said.
Dominic said nothing, his blade slicing wetly.
‘All I need to do is get close.’
Dominic grunted. ‘It is too dangerous. Leave it to us.’
‘And what do you propose? A whole year has passed and I have heard no plans. We protect these men, hide them at great risk to ourselves, and then they leave. You share nothing with me!’
‘It is for your own protection.’
‘You think I would betray you if we were caught. Why should I trust you?’
He shrugged and it infuriated her.
‘Don’t you have a network?’
‘What do you mean, a network? You know who we are. There is only the seven. And you.’
‘The cooks!’ She threw her arms wide. ‘All these men being hidden in houses around Paris. Someone is feeding them. Do you not speak with one another? If we knew when the Emperor was spending a weekend in Malmaison, then we would have our chance to strike.’
Dominic stabbed the board with the tip of his knife and Marthe jumped. But he turned to stare at her, his grey eyes shining.
‘Do you know the cook at Malmaison?’ she asked hopefully.
He smiled. It was a rare thing and she found his stubbled face transformed by it. ‘We will go to the markets at Rueil, near Malmaison.’
She understood. Listen to the gossip, speak with the traders, and watch what the cook purchased for the household. But she raised an eyebrow.
‘We?’ she asked.
‘Do you have other business to keep you entertained?’
‘I did not think you trusted me,’ she retorted.
‘Needs must,’ he said, returning to his blade. ‘You’ll do.’
It was a cold spring day when Marthe and Dominic set out for Rueil. They took a coach from Rue de Richelieu. ‘Inside or outside?’ called the driver sitting high on the coupe, flipping pages of the Moniteur and sucking on a pipe.
‘Inside,’ Marthe replied, eyeing Bonaparte’s propaganda news-sheet as she handed over her coin. Dominic opened the carriage door for her. She carried an empty basket and settled it on her knee. Space was tight inside the coach and Marthe looked across to see a face she recognised. The one-eyed man with his bean-shaped scar stared back at her. She averted her eyes. Dominic might trust her, but these men of the Clandestine did not.
The journey took almost two hours stopping only at Place de Passy to pick up more passengers. ‘A long way to go to do a bit of shopping,’ the driver said, as she stepped out of the coach. His observation startled her. Behind her, a loud scratch like a throat cleared made her jump. But it was just a boy and his shovel scraping manure from the cobble. She clutched her basket tight. When she turned back to the carriage, the one-eyed man had already disappeared.
‘We must use a different route next time,’ Dominic whispered in her ear. ‘The driver may become suspicious if he recognises us.’
In Rueil, the weather was grey. A gust of wind stole the voice of the village bells. Marthe watched the townsfolk dodging splatters of rain like it was hot pitch. She punched open her parasol and followed as Dominic set off for the inn.
Dominic’s missing arm was concealed by the thickness of his travelling cloak. From behind you would not have known. Not that a missing limb was anything out of the usual. Half the men remaining in Paris now wore a wooden leg. But still, it did not do to draw attention to themselves, and Marthe was relieved when they climbed the narrow stairs of the inn and locked themselves inside the attic room.
Her heart was pounding and not just from the climb up the stairs. She looked about the small room. A hard chair in the corner. A pot beneath it. They had decided to come the night before to be assured of being early to the market. It had seemed a wise plan, but now, as her eyes fell on the one iron bed, Marthe felt foolish. What was she doing here, with this man?
Dominic went immediately to the window. He shifted the curtain. ‘Good. A view of the market square.’
The bed had a simple iron bedhead and a soiled mattress. Marthe began to shake. She had not thought this through. What if Jacques were to find her here? She was living a fantasy thinking she could change anything in this world of men and their wars.
‘Are we mad?’ Marthe asked Dominic.
He kept his body facing the street below, but she saw him turn his head slightly towards her. Saw the line of his grey stubbled jaw. ‘Yes.’
He shrugged off his cloak and laid it on the floor. ‘I will sleep here.’
Marthe did not dissuade him. For the moment, she took the chair, leaving the bed untouched.
‘What did you tell Jacques?’ Marthe asked.
‘That I had to help move some men out of town.’
‘And he believed you?’
‘Why would he suspect? It happens often.’
Marthe shrugged. Her own lies to her husband were as easily believed. She told Jacques she had been invited to help Anne with her children for a few days. Her pocket carried a forged letter of invitation. But from the safety of her warm kitchen the danger had not seemed so real. Now she shivered ceaselessly.
Dominic watched her. ‘I will make a fire.’
Could she do it? she wondered. She had been so brave in announcing her intention to Dominic’s friends while hidden in a cellar. But what if they were to discover that the cook was ordering huge quantities of hare and pheasant, was buying enough vegeta
bles to feed a court descending for the weekend? Could she invite herself into Anne and Félix’s house with the intent to kill the Emperor? It seemed fantastical.
Dominic seemed to read her thoughts. ‘We are watching tomorrow, that is all. We identify the kitchen staff and then we leave.’ Marthe nodded shakily. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself.
‘We have support now, allies who will let us know when there is change in the normal pattern. We are making contact, that is all.’
Marthe rocked on her chair. ‘Of course he will not come this weekend.’ She forced a laugh to cheer herself. ‘What a strange coincidence that would be.’
‘We are not ready yet. Nothing needs to be done.’
He stepped towards her. She thought for a moment that he might reach out and touch her. She could smell him, sweat and the faint cling of onion caught in the grease of his hair. His grey eyes were intense, his face lined, and always his mouth so serious.
She stood up, moving quick and nervous. She fled to the window, watching the sun sink below the distant willows, silhouetted against a pale orange sky. Across the plaza the swallows were leaving the church bell towers. They burst out of their safe harbours under the eaves to twist and turn and chatter among themselves. To swoop and sing. Why did the swallows do this every evening? she wondered. Was it just the joy of finding others?
‘Why do this? Why risk your life?’ Marthe asked.
‘I could ask the same of you.’ Dominic slunk down the wall, leaning back. ‘For excitement?’ He fixed a stare on her.
The accusation stung. He knew nothing about her life, about her motivations. Michel did not deserve to die, cut down and pushed into the mud of some foreign field and rotting into oblivion. Her hands were shaking. She pushed herself away from the window, but found the bed protruding into the centre of the room like a tongue between them.
She paced. ‘I have lost people to his need for glory.’ Her tone implied, That is all you need to know.
Dominic was still watching her, judging her, and she did not like it.
‘And you?’ she asked harshly.
His face went slack. ‘I too have lost much.’ His eyes went distant, into a past that could no longer be touched. ‘Not only my limb.’
She paused, twisting her skirt in her fist, unused to conversation, the subtle art of inquisition. ‘What happened to your arm?’ she blurted.
‘I was a cook in Napoleon’s navy.’ He sighed. ‘There was an explosion, English cannon fire brought down our frigate in the Channel.’
It was the most she had ever managed to discover about their cook in the four years of his service. ‘How did you survive?’
‘A few of us were rescued from the water.’ He shrugged. ‘Eventually, I returned to Paris.’
‘To your family?’
But his eyes travelled down into the cracks in the floor and she lost her stomach for interrogation.
He rose suddenly. ‘We need an early start.’ He retreated to his cloak on the boards, lying down with a groan and throwing one edge around himself. The bed lay between them.
‘If I have the bed, you should have the pillow,’ Marthe said, her voice regaining its crispness. The pillow was a stained, flaccid roll. She picked it up quickly, barely touching it with her fingers, and threw it at him.
Dominic grunted his thanks and rolled away towards the wall.
Marthe lay down in her clothes, her hair itching, the skin of her whole body beginning to crawl. It was her imagination, she told herself, to feel the lice and fleas sensing the warmth of her body and marching en masse, like one of Napoleon’s armies, moving fleet-footed across the terrain of her mattress and out to her body, a breathing feast of warm flesh and blood.
‘How will we wake?’ she cried out, to divert her thoughts.
‘I am used to waking early,’ Dominic said. ‘And the bells.’
‘Of course, the village bells. The marketplace.’
She fell silent, listening to the deep-throated breathing of her companion becoming slower and steadier. And it occurred to her then how long it had been since she had lain in the dark and listened to the breathing of another human being.
Dominic shook her shoulder and Marthe woke startled, one moment riding astride in the hunt, pulling arrows from a scabbard around her chest like she was a young cavalier, and next she was waking in a strange room, grey light from the window, and feeling the age of her fifty years in the stiffness of her back.
The birds were singing. So loud, she thought, sitting up against the wall. Much louder here in Rueil than in Montmartre, even though she lived on a tree-lined avenue. But she could also hear the noise of the marketplace waking up. The heavy thump of crates being hauled and stacked in the town square, the rattle of wagons, the men greeting one another and the toll of bells calling everyone to market.
Dominic threw open the window. She breathed deep, taking in the scent of baking bread.
‘From here we can see if a cart from Malmaison should come.’
Marthe opened her eyes. Slowly she climbed from the bed, feeling her ankles stiff and swollen and walking jolt-hipped towards the window. She followed the direction of his pointing finger.
There were sentry posts in the distance, illuminated by the rising sun, guarding the gateway to Malmaison. It was true: they could sit here and watch the lane for when a cart left the grounds.
‘I won’t be long,’ Dominic said.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, feeling a sense of desertion welling up in her.
‘To check they have not already arrived. And get coffee.’
‘Oh!’ Marthe was embarrassed by her fear. She had spent so long alone without needing the company of others and this shift inside her was unsettling.
‘Let me join you.’ Why was she asking his permission? she wondered. Why was she surrendering to his plans? ‘I mean, I will join you.’
‘Someone needs to stay and watch the road.’
She conceded the point. ‘How will I signal you, if they come?’
‘Draw the curtains,’ he said, pulling the door closed behind him.
It rankled her that she was sitting mutely, bowing to his will. She had grown used to her independence. At least her husband’s distance gave her plenty of that.
A fine mist was hovering above the fields. She saw the stall holders stomp their feet in the cool morning. She watched Dominic weave his way through the tables, point to the new season peaches and ask the fruit seller about their ripeness. This was his arena, she realised. He moved with ease, talking to the butcher, to the vegetable seller. Which vegetables were in their prime, she imagined him asking, which had been sitting in the storehouse? The vegetable seller handed him a carrot and a stick of celery. She could almost hear the crunch as Dominic put it to the side of his mouth and bit.
With a flush of shame she realised she had forgotten to watch the road to Malmaison. When she looked up she felt relief. The road was empty. Her heartbeat slowed. But as she watched, almost as if she willed it there, she saw a carriage turn out into the lane. A flutter of indecision overcame her. It was a carriage not a cart; this did not look like the sort of transport a cook might use. It could be a visitor, returning early to Paris. But, then, this was no ordinary country manor. The chef himself might not trust his staff to see what was in season. He might want to sample all the produce in the same way that Dominic was coddling and prodding and tasting and testing. Who knew what vehicle the head chef of an emperor and empress might choose to travel to the market?
While these thoughts whirled in her mind the carriage drew closer. Following behind was an empty cart, drawn by a single bay horse, and passing through the sentries without notice.
Marthe made up her mind. She flung the heavy drapes closed and was plunged into immediate darkness. Now she could see nothing. She would not sit and wait in blindness, she thought, fumbling for her cloak. She must join Dominic in the marketplace below.
Marthe reached the market as the carriage halted a
longside the villagers’ horse-drawn carts and wheelbarrows. The question of how they would identify the cook of Malmaison was immediately answered. There could be no other house in the district that would send a fine carriage such as this to convey its kitchen staff. Marthe noted that armed guards stood like footmen at the rear of the carriage.
The chef and his entourage burst out of the carriage full of intention. Marthe resolved to follow closely, to listen to their chatter, knowing her presence would be ignored. Gossip about the Emperor and whether he was in residence would surely follow in their wake.
The chef picked up a peach, just as Dominic had done. He put it to his nose, breathing deeply. ‘Too soon,’ he muttered to the boy beside him.
Marthe sensed the tone of the marketplace had changed with the arrival of the carriage from Malmaison. Voices lowered, conversation faltered. Marthe had the sense that everyone, not just her, was watching the chef and his staff. There was deference in the way others stood back from queues, pulling caps from their heads and letting the chef make his way to the front. The pick of the produce was to be his, that much was certain.
The head chef was a portly man, dressed stiffly. He ordered well and heartily. At the poissonnerie, he lifted each fish to look it in the eye and sniff its gills before purchasing all the haddock left in stock. And sturgeon eggs. Marthe followed him as he bought the best seasonal produce—the asparagus, chard and radishes—and ordered whole sides of beef to be carried to the cart.
When the chef turned towards her and breezed past with his scurrying staff, Marthe busied herself with a stall of dolls. They were made from bunched twigs and dressed in homespun cloth, girls that might be country maids and boys that might be soldiers with wooden heads and painted hair. How strange to find this shrunken old man, with his suitcases of dolls on his little barrow, set up between the endives and the chickens.
She held a little soldier boy in her hand and listened to the chef haggle over the price of apples. Around her, the customers muttered in low voices. ‘Why did he need to come buy all our best stock? They have their own farm and produce.’ The voices were aggrieved but not daring to rise above a murmur.
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