Without Refuge

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Bettina gasped—she’d feared as much. “You found the money, didn’t you?” She tightened her fingers on his shabby frock coat lapels.

  Emile coughed into his fist. “Yes, but I’ll have no part in harming you.”

  Bettina stared into his eyes, her head spinning. “Then you will help me slip out of here, won’t you?”

  “I can’t help you any more than this,” he continued to whisper. “I’ve warned you. Do what you must. We will move after today, to a more sequestered spot.”

  Bettina gripped his shirt collar and he trembled beneath her touch. She smelled his nervousness. Her own panic clawed through her. “What about my family? What have you planned for them?”

  “Your family is safe. The sheriff of Mahieu keeps close watch on your mother and the others. It was an idle threat.” Emile caressed her shoulders as she stared in shock.

  The doorknob behind them rattled and he lurched back.

  The door swung open. Robine stood there, a scowl on her face. “What’s taking you so long? We have matters to discuss.”

  About to stretch tall and glare at Robine, Bettina slumped her shoulders and pretended a submissive pose. She steadied herself with the back of the chair.

  “I was convincing her to eat,” Emile muttered as he strode to his wife. He gave Bettina one more glance. “Do as I suggest, you will feel better.”

  Robine dragged her husband from the room, shut the door with a bang and snapped the key in the lock.

  Bettina covered her mouth to smother a sob. An idle threat? Thank God. Now she had only herself to save.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bettina paced like a madwoman across the floor. Robine intended to kill her. They’d recovered the money and now planned to rid themselves of the nuisance. She raked her fingers through her hair. She’d been cooperative until now, hoping to protect her family, but thanks to Emile the tactics were about to change.

  Bettina swallowed a groan and stared around the room. Only a spoon came with any food, never a fork. Her window guarded, she was left with one option. Escape through the door into the “public” inn.

  Schemes tumbled through her mind. She stepped to the door and wiggled a large splinter from the deteriorating frame. With a deep breath, she reached out and pounded on the door. Her anger made her thump harder, bruising her knuckles. “Robine! Robine! I need help!”

  Frantic footsteps sounded and the door unlocked. Robine’s scowling face poked in. “Keep quiet, what the devil’s gotten into you?”

  “I’m ill, the pain is unbearable. I require a doctor!” Bettina cried at the top of her lungs as she gripped the door’s edge. Robine shoved her back, trying to shut it in her face. Bettina wedged herself between the jamb and door.

  “Call the innkeeper, I desperately need a physician! Affreux.” Bettina wailed into the empty passage, wincing at the crush of the door.

  Robine’s eyes bulged. She almost lost her grip on the doorknob, then she rammed her body into Bettina’s. Bettina clenched her muscles, rooted in place, not about to give way.

  A man peered out from the door across the hall. “Is there anything wrong?”

  “Yes, I’m deathly sick! Fetch the innkeeper. This woman won’t let me see a doctor,” Bettina screeched. Her fingers ached from her grip, her back stung, jammed into the door frame. “She wants me to die.”

  “Stay out of this. She’s a raving lunatic!” Robine grunted—sweat beaded on her flushed forehead—as she pushed against Bettina’s efforts to slide into the passage.

  Emile rushed into the hallway, brows knitted, shoulders hunched. People opened doors, muttering. A few gravitated toward the commotion.

  “This man, he surprised me in my bath.” Bettina jabbed her chin toward Emile. “He forced me to lie with him and got me pregnant.” She gasped for breath, staring at her converging audience.

  “Pregnant? Emile? Stop your lies.” Robine eased her pressure against Bettina and glared at her husband. Emile’s cheeks flushed, then he shrugged and mumbled in vague protest.

  “Because of this, his wife denies me a doctor. I’ve started to bleed, I need immediate assistance.” Bettina squirmed past her into the passage. She almost cried with success. Backed to the wall, she slipped the splinter from her palm, bit down on her lip, and pricked two fingers behind her.

  “Tell everyone she’s lying. She’s insane. We’re taking her to an asylum.” Robine poked Emile’s shoulder. The onlookers scrutinized him. Emile shrugged again.

  Robine reached for Bettina, but she shoved her away.

  “Mon Dieu! Here comes another cramp.” Bettina doubled over and moaned in agony. She prayed that Emile would remain unobtrusive. Wincing, she pressed hard on the floor between her feet. She swiped blood on her crotch then held up a blood-smudged hand. “The blood is draining from my body. I’m weak, about to faint.”

  People gasped and drew closer. “Someone go for the innkeeper.” A man ran down the passage.

  “The poor girl.” An older woman shook her head.

  “You understand, you are most kind. These people treat me badly.” Bettina stepped toward the woman.

  “She’ll be fine, she needs her rest.” Robine grabbed Bettina’s arm and Bettina quivered with fury. She was too close to freedom now.

  A small, silver-haired man sprinted down the hall toward them. “What is all this noise? What is the problem here, mes amis?”

  “I’m telling you she’s my addled niece.” Cheeks scarlet, Robine’s eyes darted wild and uncertain. “Emile, help me. We must put her away before she does more damage.”

  “Are you the innkeeper?” Bettina jerked away from Robine, resisting the urge to punch her tormenter in the face. She snatched the little man by his shirt, staining it with blood. “I need a doctor, now.”

  His eyes widened. “I’ll get you one, yes, Madame, Citoyenne, at once.”

  “No, take me to him. I’ve waited long enough.” She pulled him toward the stairs.

  “Then I must go as well.” Robine grimaced and hurried to follow.

  “You stay away from me. You knew I carried your husband’s child and tried to force my losing it.” Bettina’s heart in her throat, sweat trickled under her arms and between her breasts. “I was their housekeeper, he raped me. Now this horrid woman wants me gotten rid of.”

  The spectators groaned, making sympathetic noises, whispering to one another.

  “She’s delirious, she has these spells. She isn’t pregnant. Tell them, Emile.” Robine’s neck veins bulged. She smacked her husband’s shoulder. “Did you hear me, tell them! Merde!”

  Bettina thrust out her blood-stained skirt. “Does this lie, I ask you?”

  “I still have to accompany her. She’s obviously unstable.” Robine advanced a pace, but Emile stepped up and captured her arm. Two of the onlookers also blocked her path.

  Robine’s cursing echoed down the passage as Bettina urged the little man to the landing.

  “Are you sure you can make it to the doctor?” the innkeeper asked. “I can bring him here, wouldn’t it—”

  “Mais non, keep walking, please. I’ll have to risk it.” Bettina stifled a sob and half dragged the man down the stairs and across the common room.

  Once outside, she checked to see if anyone followed. “Where is the doctor’s office?”

  “Around the corner, down here...”

  “Thank you for your help, monsieur.” Bettina released his arm and ran to the end of the block. Rounding the corner, she dashed through a maze of narrow streets, stone fronted and half-timbered houses, around carriages and carts. She slowed near the bank of the Sèvres Niortaise River, heaving like a wild animal let loose from a trap.

  * * * *

  Along the surging river, Bettina stopped to catch her breath. Freedom, but what to do now? The sun glistened o
ff the water. Emile had told her it was May—or Floréal in the new republican calendar—already.

  Abducted from Louisiana so many weeks before, she shuddered at what her family must think. Her babies would believe she’d deserted them. How could she get word to her mother?

  Bettina strode on, passing the market hall and a keep from a castle.At nightfall she entered a church and sat in the back, praying for guidance. She leaned her forehead on the pew in front of her, allowing herself a moment of collapse in the deserted chapel. She sobbed in relief and stretched out on the hard pew. She had to find a way home. She needed to reach the sea.

  In the morning, she awoke with an aching body and growling stomach.

  She followed the road west toward the English Channel, the closest water. Once there, she might find a boat to England. How she’d pay for it she had no idea. In London, Hobart would help her reach Louisiana.

  The region’s vineyards draped terraced slopes on the distant hills. Forests of evergreen oak and beech accumulated on the higher mountains. An occasional mulberry tree shaded her path as she passed fields of yellow clover. Only now did she reflect on how strange it was to be home, hearing her native language, yet feeling like an intruder.

  A coach rambled by and she cringed and stepped into the shadows, fearing Robine was in pursuit.

  She resumed her walk, her shoes pinching her feet. Her drab brown dress at least allowed her to blend in with the rustic folk. No one paid much attention to her.

  Her last time in this country she was fleeing a revolution, forced to travel to England, frightened and confused. Still, she had met and fallen in love with Everett, and that made everything worthwhile. Why had he gone on that ill-fated voyage, her own people—no, the rebels—attacking his ship? A surge of anger rumbled through her.

  In the next town, at a large baker’s shop, she begged a day’s work for a meal and a place to sleep that night. She scrubbed her face and hands at a pump. She ripped two strips of material from her shift hem and stuffed them into the heels of her shoes to form a cushion for her blisters.

  Bettina joined the baker’s son in mixing dough for bread. She had experience in baking after working at Maddie’s inn, but almost licked the dough from her fingers, she was so hungry.

  “I am traveling back to my home, on the channel coast,” she said to the baker’s questions. She plopped the dough into pans and wouldn’t dare admit she needed to be smuggled out of France. “I was robbed of my money, by someone I thought I trusted, so now must walk there.”

  “That will take you several days on foot, mon amie.” The baker twisted other dough already risen into long loaves. “The roads aren’t safe for a woman on her own.”

  “Did you run from your family with a man? Then he betrayed you?” The baker’s wife raised an eyebrow at her as she opened the large oven door and pulled out a tray of baked brioches.

  “Mais oui, I am ashamed to admit it.” Bettina gave the woman a sheepish smile, then breathed in the scrumptious aroma. “I was a fool.”

  The wife broke open a brioche, slathered it in butter and handed the roll to her. “You will be smarter the next time, non?”

  “Yes, I will, thank you.” Bettina’s mouth watered and she nibbled the soft bread. The creamy butter melted on her tongue.

  “My cousin runs a tavern where coaches leave from.” The baker twisted more loaves. “Maybe he can get you a place on one, for no fare. He owes me a favor.”

  “Grâce à Dieu. You are too kind.” She finished her meal and plopped more dough in a pan. A coach to the coast, closer to her children. She worked hard into the evening.

  The next day, Bettina walked to the tavern with a note from the baker to his cousin.

  Inside a smoky, low-beamed common room, several people milled about.

  Two soldiers sat at a table drinking wine. One stood and pulled out his pocket watch. “This is ridiculous, the coach is already an hour late,” he grumbled.

  “So, enjoy more wine,” his companion said. “We’ll reach Paris soon enough, with more work to perform.”

  Bettina stepped to a counter, near the table. “Excuse me, Monsieur.” She tried to get the attention of the busy proprietor. More people crowded up complaining about late coaches, and nudged her against the table.

  “Careful, ma cherie,” the sitting soldier said with a laugh. “You’ll spill my glass.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She turned to smile at him. She then squeezed between people and finally managed to slip the owner the note.

  “Ah, does he think his favors are worth this?” The owner rolled his eyes. “Sit and wait, while I deal with these citizens who’ve been here longer.”

  Bettina moved from the pushing, muttering customers toward the dirty window in the tiny room.

  The soldier standing scowled at his watch again and rattled it down on the table.

  “If you sold this, we could hire a private coach to Paris.” The sitting man picked up the watch, a fine gold item that looked too fancy for its owner in his threadbare uniform.

  “I’m giving it to my new woman,” he replied, “though I’ll scrape off the inscription first.”

  The sitting man gestured toward Bettina. “Have a drink with us, brown-eyed girl, since you must wait, too?”

  “Merci.” She walked toward the table, not about to turn down a free drink, restless that this cousin may not honor the favor. If she could get her hands on something of value like that watch, she could pay for a coach, food, perhaps escape, but she had little chance of stealing from two soldiers. How desperate she’d become.

  “Another glass over here!” The sitting man shouted. “Where are you headed, Citoyenne?”

  “The channel coast.” Bettina sat in the vacant chair. The watch’s owner picked it up and dangled it, the light from the window glinting off the gold.

  Her fingers clenched. “Where did you buy such a fine piece?”

  “Buy?” He laughed. “I confiscated it from a prisoner.” He showed her the inscription on the back.

  Bettina blinked then shuddered. She reached out and grasped the watch. The delicate script read: To Everett, with all my love. Forgive me.

  “Where…what prisoner?” She struggled to keep her voice even, her heart thumping in her ears. Everett’s watch—given to him by his mother. He was alive?

  “There were so many prisoners, all those Englishmen look the same.” He tugged the watch from her. “It was years ago.”

  “I see…” She swallowed hard and gripped her knees under the table. “Where were you stationed, with so many Englishmen?”

  “We’ve just come from Brouage, transferred to Paris now. Where is that serving girl?” The other soldier turned in his chair, glaring about the room.

  Bettina’s head swam. “Brouage? They keep English prisoners there, from the war…is it dangerous work?”

  “It can be dangerous. Paris will be a needed change.” The man slipped the watch back into his pocket.

  Bettina bit down on her lip to hold back more questions, hating to invite suspicion. She’d visited this town before, in her childhood. She thought of Hobart’s letters concerning the refugees. The accounts of escaped prisoners, Englishmen taken from English ships during battles and raids. Many still held in French prisons. Everett had been on a merchant ship, presumed drowned. Later, the Admiralty admitted to faulty investigations on sunken vessels due to the war. She struggled not to collapse in the chair. Could she dare hope Everett was still alive?

  * * * *

  On the diligence going west, a cumbersome vehicle resembling three coaches hitched together, Bettina was crammed in with a bevy of foul smelling individuals. Poked by their elbows, she discouraged any chatter by pretending to doze, but her mind wouldn’t rest.

  At the inn where they spent the night, she worked as a server in the taproom
for her bed—more experience from Maddie’s inn—and picked up a few coins in tips.

  For the next leg of her journey, she was forced to ride atop the diligence with other poorer passengers. Rain splattered on her hair and clothes and her stomach ached with hunger.

  At the walled town of Brouage, on the Bay of Biscay off the Atlantic, she ducked into a marchande de mode shop out of the drizzling rain. She asked the proprietress where she might find the garrison. “I am looking for my brother, who guards prisoners of war there.” She needed a viable reason, and couldn’t dare admit she sought an English prisoner.

  “Oh, ma chere, you don’t want to go out to that fort, a terrible place. They’re having so much trouble. I did hear some of the soldiers are at the café on the corner, celebrating a promotion or something. It would be safer if you talked to them there, if you’re searching for someone.”

  In the small café, Bettina spent the change she had left on a cup of coffee and a slice of bread. She sat down at a table opposite four young men in blue tunics with red cuffs and collars who conversed in loud voices. Their uniforms were frayed and worn thin. She looked down at her own disheveled state. How was she to broach her objective without causing suspicion? She must find a way inside the fort.

  The soldier nearest her looked barely out of school with his baby face and fine blond hair. He must have felt her eyes upon him, for he turned his head and smiled.

  “Good afternoon, Citoyenne. I haven’t seen you around here before.”

  Bettina took a sip of coffee. She forced a smile as she quivered inside. “No, I’m new in the town. I am looking for my brother, Antoine Duchamp.” She used her cousin’s name. Her father’s sister, her Aunt Melisande, was his mother. Her aunt used to live on this coast, farther north. Or she had before the revolution. “He is supposed to be stationed at the garrison here.”