Without Refuge

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Open up, Citoyenne. I am Lieutenant Bertrand, and I wish to speak with your husband.”

  Everett vaulted from the bed at the brusque demand and jerked on his clothes.

  “Please wait a moment, I need to dress,” Bettina said with forced calm as her heart flopped to the pit of her stomach. She dressed with shaking hands.

  “Let him in,” Everett mouthed to her, backing to stand near the wall just before the bed.

  Bettina fumbled to clasp her last garter and slip on her shoes. Smoothing down her hair, she opened the door to a towering man in uniform. She smiled at this giant with his enormous nose and surly expression. “How can we help you, Lieutenant?”

  The officer stepped into the room in high, black boots. His vulture gaze fixed on Everett. “I need to check all reports of foreigners in this region. There was a large prison escape from one of our garrisons to the south. Many outlaws roam the countryside. British spies.” Now Bertrand spoke in heavily accented English. “Are you British? If so, what’s your business here in France?”

  “Hablar el espanol, por favor?” Everett bowed his head and answered in what sounded like a subservient tone in a strange language.

  Bettina stared at him from around the mammoth’s back.

  “My husband, of course, is Spanish,” Bettina gushed, regaining her tongue. She tapped Bertrand’s shoulder with an anxious hand. “So you see, everything is fine, oui?”

  “He does not look very Spanish.” The lieutenant swerved his beak toward her. “I was told an Englishman—”

  Everett struck the officer on the head with the heavy candlestick he’d concealed behind his back.

  Bettina gasped as Everett caught the unconscious man and eased him to the floor. “Be careful. Don’t hurt him...too much.”

  Everett stretched him out and removed his pistol. “Surely he didn’t come alone. There might be more soldiers downstairs.”

  “I will check.” Bettina went out onto the landing. Gulping a breath, she rushed down the stairs, almost tripping in her haste.

  Her quivering aunt stood in the foyer in her dressing gown, flanked by two soldiers.

  “The Englishman, he went out the window,” Bettina blurted in Breton French, mimicking her cousin. “And the Lieutenant, so angry, he went after him.”

  The soldiers glared in suspicion. “Who are you? Where is the Englishman’s wife?”

  “I am Marie...the maid.” She made an awkward curtsy and a nervous sniffle. “The wife went out the window too. She is quick, like a gazelle. The Lieutenant says you should follow him. Out the front way, you better hurry, they ran toward the harbor!”

  The men exchanged glances, hesitated for a tense moment, then dashed out the door.

  Melisande shut and locked it. Her hand clutched to her chest she turned to Bettina. “Affreux. I’m afraid Jacques had something to do with this. I had no idea he’d become so radical. I’m ashamed. Your husband jumped out the window? I hope he didn’t hurt–”

  “He’s still upstairs with the Lieutenant. I won’t go into details, the less you know the better.” Bettina wished Everett had throttled her cousin. “We have to leave immediately, before they come back.”

  Bettina ran up the stairs where Everett had bound the senseless lieutenant with a curtain chord, a handkerchief stuffed into his mouth.

  “I’m taking his pistol, money. If his boots fit, I’m swiping those as well.” He dragged the man’s boots and socks from his feet and pulled them on. “They fit well enough, let’s go.”

  When they hustled downstairs, Melisande waited with a parcel. “I packed some food...bread, fruit, please take it. I’m so sorry about this.”

  “It’s all right, Tante Mel. I love you, thank you for everything.” Bettina hugged her and kissed her cheek. “Wait forty minutes, if those soldiers don’t come back, untie the lieutenant. Tell him we were holding you hostage. You had no choice.”

  Melisande opened her back door and scanned the alley behind her house. “Don’t worry about me, I’m well acquainted with the local magistrate.”

  “Do you know someplace we might go for help?” Bettina clutched the food as Everett kissed her aunt’s cheek.

  “Mais oui. Follow the coast up the bay, then along the peninsula above us. There’s an old friend of mine who lives in a cottage out on the Cap de la Chevre. His name is Louis Simeon. He was Antoine’s fishing partner for years. He’ll help you...somehow. Please go see him.” She blurted additional directions before they fled down the alley.

  * * * *

  At dusk the following day, they located the cottage. A simple, rustic shack on a windswept cape, smoke drifted from the chimney. Like the north coast of Cornwall, only the tenacious broom, heather and gorse flourished out around the dwelling and jagged cliffs. The wind pummeled the beech trees and evergreen oaks cowering farther back.

  Bettina approached the door alone, the violet bell-heather rustling around her ankles. Peeking in a window with no curtains, she observed a bulky man with thick silver hair. He sat on a stool near the fire, whittling on a piece of wood.

  She prayed he would prove more trustworthy than her cousin, and knocked.

  The gale whistled around her and she shivered. A response seemed to take forever.

  The door creaked open. A bear of a man, hair waving in the wind, filled the doorframe. He scrutinized her with disdainful pale eyes.

  “Bonsoir, are you Monsieur Louis Simeon?” Bettina asked in an apologetic voice, now unsure if she wanted him to be that person.

  He frowned, his broad face creased and leathery from many years in the sun. “And if I am?”

  “Sorry to intrude at this hour. I’m the niece of Melisande Duchamp, wife of Antoine, a former fishing partner of yours.” Bettina shifted from one foot to the other.

  Simeon grunted, staring off over her shoulder. “Your aunt lives down in Douarnenez.”

  “Yes, I know. She has sent me to you.” Bettina sighed and questioned her aunt’s folly in doing so. “She said you could help us, in some way.”

  “Us?” Simeon scrutinized her again, as if she might split in two.

  “I am rather desperate,” Bettina whispered. She didn’t know what she’d do if he sent them away. “We require assistance on a journey. If you don’t wish to bother, I…”

  “Whoever is with you,” he shrugged and turned, “Come in.”

  Bettina gestured to Everett, who stepped from the shadows. They entered the tiny cottage.

  The big man eyed them both critically. “Welcome.”

  “Merci.” Relieved to be out of the wind, Bettina felt heavy with disappointment at their reception.

  The rough-hewn walls and slapped together shelves were filled with mementos from the sea: shells and coral, a tarnished brass bell, a grotesque fish skeleton. Also a variety of crude wooden figurines he no doubt whittled himself. Other than that, the place was devoid of any comfort or adornment.

  “Have you eaten?” At Simeon’s gruff question, a skinny old dog rose from in front of the fire and pricked up his ears. After stretching, the brindle-haired beast ambled over to sniff at their feet.

  “No, but we don’t want to be any trouble.” With the man’s disapproval and meager existence, she regretted that her aunt had erred in directing them here.

  “Sit down.” Simeon indicated a rickety table with two chairs near the wall. He stirred something in a pot over the fire. Then he spooned a fishy smelling stew into bowls, placing them on the table. He opened a bottle of wine and poured them each a glass.

  “This is very kind of you,” Bettina said, inhaling the rich aroma. She and Everett began to self-consciously eat.

  “Not used to much company. How is Melisande?”

  “She is well.” Bettina smiled over her sadness that they’d made this quest in vain. What would they
do now?

  “Explain this journey you need assistance with?” Simeon’s face softened a little as he sat on his stool by the fire.

  Bettina took a sip of wine, tart and dry. “I’m afraid my aunt was over-anxious in sending us to you. The truth is, my husband is English, and we need to find a way back to England. We have no identity papers.”

  Simeon nodded his head, his expression thoughtful. He picked up his whittling to shave a few strokes. Minutes crept by in silence, broken only by the click of spoons in bowls.

  “So...you want to return to England?” he asked in near-perfect English. The edges of his mouth strained into a wry smile. Bettina stared and Everett stopped eating, spoon in mid-air.

  “Yes, I speak English. Learned it from a man who used to work with me. An Englishman, back before the war, of course. Do you have money for a sail across?”

  “No, but I can arrange to send any amount you request when I reach London.” Everett’s shoulders relaxed and he sounded like a suffocating man at last allowed to breathe. “You would have to trust me for it. I know clandestine transactions still happen between our countries.”

  Simeon drank deep from his glass. “I might trust you, you’re related to Melisande. Still, the people I’d have to deal with, they wouldn’t be so trusting.”

  “What can we do without money?” Bettina asked, her brief moment of hope unraveling.

  “Mes amis, we’ll just have to figure something out.” Simeon drummed his fingers on his knee. The scraggly dog laid a head with doleful eyes on his other knee.

  The two men talked late into the night, while Bettina stretched out on a blanket near the fire. Slipping in and out of sleep, she absorbed snippets of conversation. Everett’s voice sounded easier. He believed himself on the brink of returning home. His enjoyment at speaking his own tongue with a friendly native was obvious. All their words were muddled together with the obtrusive snoring of the skinny dog lying at her back—a patch of warmth.

  By midnight they reached a decision. Everett was to work on the fishing boat of Simeon’s eldest son, Michel. If the catch was sufficient, he’d have the money to bribe someone into smuggling them across the Channel. Everett whispered this when he reclined next to her by the dying fire. She mumbled her assent before snuggling to his chest and falling back to sleep.

  * * * *

  The next seven weeks crawled by. Each day Everett rose before dawn to go out on Michel’s boat. He returned in the evening exhausted from the hard toil, skin sun burnt, his hands covered with blisters.

  Bettina endured the uncomfortable existence, sharing the tiny cottage with Simeon, by cooking meals of fish and potatoes and cleaning. She gathered honeysuckle in the woods and placed it in jars to sweeten the air. At night, she and Everett cuddled by the fire, refusing to usurp Simeon’s bed, but they had little chance to be intimate.

  At first she worried the arduous labor would harm Everett, he’d suffered so much in prison. Though near the finish of the season he looked healthier, his arm muscles taut, skin tanned. He gained back the weight he’d lost during confinement.

  The catch was hauled to the fishmonger in Brest and declared a triumph. At Michel’s modest home on the outskirts of Lanvéoc, the fishermen toasted their good fortune with endless rounds of wine and beer.

  Bettina enjoyed the earthy atmosphere, reminiscent of Maddie’s inn. She sipped the strong Breton beer, delighted to relive some aspects of her bawdy life in Cornwall.

  “The best season yet. I told you signs pointed to success, the sardines were early.” Michel chuckled and divided up the wages on his kitchen table in the middle of the celebration. Then he turned to Everett and slapped him on the back. “And let’s drink to our city-bred friend who made it through, non?”

  The others cheered and raised their glasses.

  “Not bad for an Americain.” Simeon winked at Bettina over Everett’s deception as to nationality.

  “To you, my new friends…mes amis.” Everett raised his glass, his other arm snug around Bettina.

  “My robust Americain.” She leaned into him, relieved that soon they’d make arrangements to sail across the channel, safe once more. Simeon knew one fisherman who might accommodate them.

  They left the party at twilight, walking with Simeon and a plump, frowsy woman named Astrid toward Simeon’s cottage a half-mile away.

  Slightly tipsy, Bettina pressed into Everett’s side and they stole kisses every few steps through the warm summer air.

  “This should be our night to celebrate,” Everett whispered as he trailed his fingers up her side, this thumb caressing her breast. Bettina quivered with rising heat.

  “You should visit me tonight, Louis.” Astrid sighed, hanging on the man’s shoulder. “It has been a long time. I have some good cognac I’m itching to share.”

  “I understand your itch.” Simeon hugged her around the waist, his laugh husky and suggestive. “Perhaps I will, if you promise not to behave yourself. So, we better take the path here.”

  “Now you can scratch my itch,” Bettina whispered with a giggle into Everett’s grin. “Let’s hurry to the cottage. We’ll be alone.”

  He stopped and squeezed her along the length of him in the growing shadows. Everett lowered his head and kissed her lips. She tasted their beer, his lust, drawing his breath into her lungs.

  Simeon’s and Astrid’s footsteps started off to the left.

  Horses’ hooves crunched up from behind. Bettina broke the kiss and turned to look.

  “Citoyens! Stop where you are.” A contingent of mounted soldiers loomed against the darkening sky.

  Everett stiffened and grimaced. Bettina froze, her hand gripped on his arm.

  Simeon and Astrid hurried back to stand beside them.

  One soldier swung long legs down from his horse. Another, brandishing a lantern, followed. Out of the gloom, the colossal form of Lieutenant Bertrand strode over to Everett. The officer jerked the lantern from his subordinate and thrust it in Everett’s face. “Ah, look a little different, English? Got some sun on your pale flesh, gained a bit of weight—but you’re wearing my boots. Put this man under arrest!”

  “Mais non. We’ll…we’ll pay for the boots. Please.” Bettina lurched forward, heart thumping. Everett dragged her back into his arms, then tucked her behind him.

  The remaining soldiers dismounted with pistols drawn.

  “Wait a moment, what is the charge? Thievery? They said they’d pay.” Simeon wedged himself in front of the officer. He formed a wide, sturdy block, but stood a head shorter than Bertrand. Astrid muffled a plaintive whimper.

  “If you value your freedom, old man, you’ll stay out of republican business.” Bertrand glowered down, puffing out his chest. “Do you want to be arrested for harboring a fugitive?”

  “We’ll manage this, Louis. Thank you for everything.” Everett clasped Simeon’s shoulder. “You must go home, it’s for the best.”

  “We-we cannot put you in danger, too.” Bettina hugged the big man, fighting her tears. “Do as the officer says, merci.”

  “Move along!” Bertrand shouted.

  Simeon stared with doubt and concern, but backed off and dragged Astrid with him. The two disappeared into the falling night as Astrid’s confused questions faded from their ears.

  Bettina clung to Everett and trembled. Her stomach roiled. He might be shot by a firing squad, and she’d beg to be shot as well. She couldn’t lose him again—though her children, they needed her too.

  “I love you.” He kissed her forehead, his fingers digging into her shoulders.

  “Our information was accurate,” Bertrand boasted to his comrades. In the lantern light his smile was menacing under his immense nose. “That we might find in this vicinity the Englishman who dared to strike an officer of the French Republic, putting me in bed these last weeks.
Tie him up!”

  Bettina almost retched her guts at what must have been Jacques’s further betrayal.

  “Please, Lieutenant Bertrand, don’t harm my husband.” She sobbed as a soldier jerked Everett’s arms behind his back. “There must be something we can do. A higher authority to explain our situation?”

  “Should we take him to Brouage? Is he one of the escaped prisoners, sir?” the soldier asked.

  “No. Nothing that simple for these two spies.” Bertrand’s saddle creaked as he remounted. “We’ll send them all the way to Paris, to be dealt with accordingly.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Bettina swiped her hands along her cheeks, gaunt from little food. “How long can they hold us with no trial?” She hugged her arms around herself, over clothes that reeked of mildew in the damp cell.

  “As long as they wish, unless you have friends or money. My friends negotiate for me as we speak, mon amie.” Leonie waddled closer. The other bedraggled inmates cringed in fear and scattered like rats from the obese woman.

  Bettina was too angry, too agitated, for fear. She raked her fingers through greasy hair. “You promised to sneak a note over to my husband. I need to know if he’s all right.”

  She breathed through her mouth to avoid the foul stench around her. How many weeks had passed in this wretched place? Each day she awoke, agonizing over Everett’s safety.

  When the soldiers had brought her through the gates on the rue de Vaugirard, she realized the stone edifice was Les Carmes, the former Carmelite Monastery in Paris. Since the revolution it had served as a prison. Everett was dragged off in another direction despite her pleading that they remain together. She at least spoke the language. What if he became ill, or they decided to punish him, execute him? Her muscles stayed clenched in the bitter struggle to remain in control of herself.

  Leonie draped a heavy arm over Bettina’s shoulder. “I’ll arrange something. If you promise to work for me when we are free. I could use a pretty girl like you in my salon.”