Without Refuge

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Bettina’s stomach twisted. “That’s not important. All those places are given to others now, I’m certain.” In post-revolutionary France, she felt this information better left unspoken.

  “I see. You’re a former countess, but stripped of all your feudal rights.” Joseph looked at her with increased interest, or was it suspicion? “Have you ever petitioned for a return of your property?”

  “I never needed those rights, the unfair taxation. No, I don’t want my property returned.” Bettina touched her unfamiliar pinned up hair, feeling drained. “I do not take sides in this battle between Royalists and rebels. They have both been wrong in their actions.” Where did this new government’s sympathies lie? The unknown future made her shiver.

  * * * *

  At the slam of the front door the following afternoon, Bettina hurried into the foyer with Julie. Joseph removed his hat, his lips in a frown, eyes sharp.

  “Is my husband all right? Did you see him?” Bettina had waited for news all day and her stomach felt like she’d swallowed hot cinders.

  “What is it, Joseph?” Julie asked, eyes wide. “You look very upset.”

  “I’ve just come from the prison.” Joseph handed his coat to a footman and turned to Bettina. “Madame Camborne, you didn’t tell me your husband struck a French army officer. That is a serious offence.” His glare rebuked her. “Quel faux pas, how could you omit that vital detail?”

  Julie’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh, Lisbette, you never confided in me.”

  “We were fleeing for our lives. The officer would have arrested Everett and he was innocent in the first place. Kidnapped off a merchant ship, brutally treated as a prisoner of war.” Bettina’s fear hammered through her. “I realize it wasn’t the wisest—”

  “It’s not a question of why he did it, but the fact it was done at all. If the prisons weren’t so glutted they’d have tried him before this, and who knows what the outcome would have been.” Joseph paced away from her, his face flushed.

  “Did you visit with Everett? Is he all right?” Bettina strained every muscle not to burst into tears. “Will they let me visit him, if only for a minute, please?”

  Joseph stopped pacing, his hand curled at the back of his neck. “Technicalities forbid your visiting, you could be imprisoned again. Your husband is as well as can be expected. Still, I regret there’s nothing I can do, in light of his offence. The Commandant wouldn’t even discuss it.”

  “No, I won’t give up. I cannot.” Bettina felt the room tilt. “What about—”

  “Joseph, there must be something someone can do,” Julie said to Bettina’s relief, echoing her frantic thoughts. She laid a hand on her husband’s arm.

  “Couldn’t you talk to your brother, General Bonaparte?” Bettina’s eyes brimmed with tears; her heart heaved in her chest. “He should be able to help.”

  “Napoleon?” Joseph opened a decanter on a sideboard. “I can’t bother him with this.”

  “This isn’t a ‘bother,’ a man’s life might be at stake.” Bettina gripped her quivering arms and almost stumbled. “Let me talk to him then.”

  Julie and Joseph gaped at her as if she’d lost her senses.

  “I’m pleading with you.” Bettina swiped away flowing tears and shoved down her panic.

  “Maybe...she could talk to him. Can you arrange it, Joseph?” Julie watched Bettina’s anguished face with pity.

  Joseph poured himself brandy, drank the glass and stared at the ceiling. “You’re aware of how Napoleon gets when he’s caught up in urgent business. He doesn’t have time for anything else.”

  “Please, you have to arrange it.” Bettina walked close to him, her shaking hands joined in supplication. “I’m not too proud to beg. This is a life or death situation for me.”

  “Ahh, well, Madame, I will try.” Joseph looked at her and Julie, then shrugged his shoulders and poured another brandy. “However, I can’t promise anything.”

  When he returned the following evening, Bettina awaited him in the foyer, her heart in her throat. If she had to discuss Italian décor and fashion one more time with her hostess, she’d have screamed. Though she hated behaving like a restless guest. “Did you pass my husband the note I gave you, Monsieur Bonaparte? Have you spoken with your brother?”

  “What did Napoleon say?” Julie fluttered in. “Oh, my dear, you’re all wet.”

  “Please, Madame. Julie. Give me a moment to breathe.” Joseph shook the rain from his coat. “Your husband has the note and the fresh fruit Julie sent.” He dropped his hat and coat into a footman’s arms and walked into the salon.

  “I do apologize for my impatience, but will your brother speak with me?” Bettina followed on his heels, Julie on hers.

  Joseph stopped and they almost collided. “I have to admit I performed no less than a miracle for you, Madame,” he said with disgruntled pride. “Napoleon is extremely busy, but I convinced him to see you.”

  “Grâce à Dieu!” Bettina almost sank to the floor in relief. “Bless you for doing this.”

  “I knew you could, as resourceful as you are.” Julie hunched her shoulders, her smile too broad, betraying the fact she hadn’t known any such thing.

  “When will we meet, how soon?” The breath she’d held all day released in a whoosh, Bettina’s body still quivered with tension.

  “At nine o’clock tonight.” Joseph backed to the fireplace flames and lifted the tails of his frock coat. “I told him you were...very attractive.”

  “Still…so late?” Julie gave her husband a strange look.

  “Late is fine. Oh, I do appreciate this. Merci beaucoup.” Bettina clasped his arm, ignoring the remark about her appearance and Julie’s concern. She’d rescue Everett, no matter what it took to accomplish.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Adele re-fixed Bettina’s hair in the flattering Greek style. Julie loaned her a shimmering white chemise trimmed in gold, and a pair of delicate sandals.

  Bettina inspected the results in a full-length Italian mirror. “I appear ready for a party, not a serious interview.”

  “You look beautiful. You’re sure to impress Napoleon.” Julie held up a tiny crystal bottle. “Do you want to put a dab of perfume here?” She pointed at Bettina’s cleavage, her smile distracted. “Oh, but he doesn’t like perfume, I forgot.”

  “I don’t want any, no.” Bettina tugged the gown’s low bodice up as far as she could. “And I don’t wish to impress the general with my looks, or smell, only my situation. I hope you have a wrap for this attire.”

  “A woman’s best persuasion is often…her gracefulness.” Julie handed her a silky wrap. Bettina draped the flimsy garment around her shoulders.

  They walked together through the shadowed manor, out the rear exit to her hosts’ coach. Julie leaned close to her ear. “Whatever you do, don’t behave too...brazenly, I suppose is the term. Napoleon appreciates feminine and demure women.”

  “I’ll try to behave.” Bettina nodded and climbed into the coach. She pulled the borrowed wrap closer about her shoulders against the night’s chill. The damp cut into the thin fabric of her gown and she shivered. By Julie’s standards Bettina’s recent experiences were tawdry. She pushed her doubts to the back of her mind, freeing Everett was what mattered. She’d treat this meeting as a business transaction—the plea for justice—that was essential.

  As the coach wove through the Paris streets toward the Luxembourg Palace, Bettina mused on the fact of this republic ousting the king for his opulent lifestyle; yet their current head of state now resided in a palace as if he were a king.

  At the Luxembourg, only a short distance from where Everett was in custody, a servant in a red jacket met her at the massive wooden doors of the entrance portico. They walked through another gate and across the courtyard and entered the right wing known as the Petit Lu
xembourg, which overlooked the Rue de Vaugirard. Passing through the Medici Gallery, where Rubens had glorified the life of Marie de Medici in paintings, Bettina noticed those panels were gone. The elaborate blue and gold wainscoting on the walls looked garish and contrasted with the empty neglect of the place. Her skin prickled with the ghosts of the past.

  Their shoes echoed on the bare parquet floors of this palace where royalty had once thrived, before it fell into abuse as a prison. Julie told her that the corrupt Directors had also lived here until disposed by the fiery young general.

  And what did she know of this General Bonaparte? Newspapers in Louisiana had often printed his exploits, plus the scathing editorials taken from the English papers about the Corsican ogre. A young, ambitious soldier who moved quickly up the ranks; a brilliant general with numerous victories—but what sort of man was he?

  The servant brought her to a gloomy, high-ceilinged room with a massive desk at the center. A fireplace with an inviting fire crackled to the right. Two beige, velvet-covered chairs and a green marble pedestal table were positioned near the hearth. Deposited in front of the desk, Bettina assumed she was alone and was annoyed by her host not being here. Only her resolve kept her steadfast.

  She started when a figure came out of the shadows beyond the desk. If it wasn’t for his resemblance to Joseph, she would have sworn this was the general’s aide. His build and stature slight, he wore a plain, green uniform with thin epaulets on the shoulders. This was the great General Bonaparte?

  “Madame Camborne.” He fixed his sharp gaze on her and she quivered despite herself.

  “Yes...General Bonaparte, thank you for seeing me.” Bettina wanted to shrink from his penetrating stare. His features were interesting, rather handsome. Not at all like the cruel drawings from the English papers.

  “Please, it’s drafty in here, have a seat near the fire.” His manner officious, he gestured toward the velvet chairs.

  “Your brother told you why I’m here?” She walked beside him, accepting one of the chairs. He sat opposite her.

  “You’re married to an Englishman, and he’s in Les Carmes. He struck one of my officers,” he replied, his tone even as he watched her. “Also, my lieutenant accused you both of being spies.”

  “Absolutely not; neither of us are spies. Allow me to explain, please...” Bettina clenched her fingers and bent forward. In a rush of words she described Everett’s capture from the merchant vessel; his subsequent imprisonment and escape; and the altercation with Bertrand. “He felt he was fighting for his life. He didn’t mean to hurt the lieutenant.”

  Bonaparte’s eyes grew sharper still. “Madame, I can’t possibly condone such behavior. And now you tell me this man is an escaped prisoner?”

  Bettina wet dry lips with her tongue. “I thought...you knew, or would appreciate knowing, all the details. It was a mistake for him to be at Brouage in the first place. He wasn’t involved in the warfare. Sometimes one must weigh every factor to…to make an informed decision.”

  “Vraiment. Do you know how many will request an audience with me now, with tales of woe such as yours?” He laced his fingers together, studying her in an unnerving fashion.

  “Probably a great many, as it is a woeful time in our history.” Then she feared his taking umbrage at yet another ill-conceived remark. “I meant because of the revolution, but—”

  “So you believe an absolute monarchy should have been preserved here in France?”

  “That’s not what I meant. Of course, I don’t want that any… I don’t know what I’m saying.” She bit her lip to stop her nervous babbling, and swallowed. “Could we discuss my husband’s detainment?”

  Bonaparte’s luminous eyes were shrewd. “What about your history, Madame? Tell me about you.”

  Bettina fidgeted in the chair, pulling the wrap tighter around her shoulders. “Why waste your valuable time discussing me? There’s nothing to tell.”

  “I find that impossible to believe,” he said in a gentler tone. His attention didn’t always stay on her face, but strayed to her décolleté.

  Bettina leaned back in the chair. Had Joseph enlightened him about her noble past and Bonaparte was testing her?

  “Since I have little left to lose.” Bettina tugged at a curl hanging down her cheek. “I was born here in Paris. My father was a nobleman, the Comte Homere de Jonquiere. He died in 1789. Then the revolution started...and I was sent to England, where I met my husband.” She stared into the fire, twisting her curl, as she delivered this stilted response.

  Bonaparte rose and went to the grate, tossing in another log. He stood for a moment, his back to her, hands clasped behind him. “So...you are a countess?”

  “Mais non. All titles were abolished. I’m only a private citizen...” She rubbed her fingers along the shawl edge, her courage faltering.

  “Was your family on the list of émigrés? Were you?”

  “I...do not know.” Her breath hitched. Recorded on this list in the past meant death to those who returned to France. She couldn’t fathom another complication. “Please, can we talk about my husband?”

  He sat across from her again. “It would be difficult, Madame, to justify the release of a man who struck an officer of the French army.”

  “I...I explained the circumstances, this is a huge misunderstanding.” His mien had turned cold, much to her despair, and a panic bubbled up inside her. “Please, General, I will do anything to secure the freedom of my husband.”

  Bonaparte raised his eyebrows, the hint of a sardonic smile on his lips.

  Bettina stared at her feet, bemoaning the faux pas, but this night seemed fraught with errors. When she looked at him again, his interest was obvious. She knew full well the connotation of her hastily spoken words. How should she conduct herself, seductive or plaintive? “What I intended to say is–”

  “Now you retreat, Madame. Not very courageous of you.” He rose abruptly and strode to his desk where he snatched up a piece of paper. “My information tells me that your father was a traitor to the revolutionary cause.”

  Bettina cringed at his sudden anger and this sensitive topic. “Mon Dieu.” She clutched the flimsy shawl around her, excuses jabbing through her weary brain. “My father was hardly acting treacherous, according to his own principles.”

  Bonaparte paced back, his polished boots clicking across the floor in brisk steps. He halted before her again. “You still insist you’re not a spy?” He leaned over the table, eyes sharp.

  “Yes, I do.” She sucked in her breath. Fingers shaking, she loosened the shawl slightly. “If you will please sit, General, I will explain. I retrieved the money this past spring.”

  “You recovered the money? Then where is it?” He sat on the arm of his chair, hunched forward.

  “This man, Emile Zacharie, though he swore it wasn’t his true name, kidnapped me back into France. He said he’d worked for the Jacobins at the start of the revolution. We found the money in a village near La Rochelle. My father...” she cleared her thickening throat, “...for some reason hid it in the tomb where my paternal grandparents are buried.”

  “Aha! I’ll have to send someone to track down this Zacharie, he might prove dangerous.” Bonaparte tapped his thigh and didn’t look at her now, his thoughts elsewhere.

  “Aren’t you all on the same side? What does it matter, isn’t that over and done with?” Bettina took a slow breath and gripped one chair arm. “I have righted a perceived wrong. Now what about my—”

  “Perceived?” His glare flashed on her again.

  She sighed and had to drag him back to the subject at hand.

  “You must admit my father paid a far more heinous price than the mere loss of money. However, I’m not here to argue about that. I’m here...to discuss my husband’s release.” Bettina stroked the silky shawl and allowed the garment to slide down he
r arms, revealing her cleavage as she wrestled with agitation. “Have you made a decision?”

  “Give me one substantial reason why I should grant your request?” His features grew hard and intimidating, his gray-blue eyes like slate, though his gaze lowered toward her bosom.

  Bettina bristled in frustration. He was all too aware of his power over her. “Because I come here as a common citizen, pleading for the release of an innocent man. Isn’t there some way we can come to terms?”

  “Terms?” Bonaparte smiled slyly. “An interesting analogy. I believe this calls for a...friendlier discussion.” Jumping to his feet, he shouted for his servant.

  Bettina rested her aching brow on her palm. Then she sat back, deciding again on a business approach. “If it’s money you want, I’m sure I can arrange for an amount when my husband reaches his bankers in London.”

  A bottle of cognac and two crystal glasses were carried in. The servant opened the bottle and poured their drinks, then discreetly excused himself.

  “To your health, Madame.” Bonaparte lifted his glass and took a sip. His face softened as he gazed at her. “I always admire a beautiful woman.”

  “You are too flattering, General.” She picked up her glass. Her hand unsteady she tasted the contents. Smooth yet burning. Her qualms gathered like pinpricks along her skin. “My husband and I…we are only guiltless victims of events. What about the money, name your price?”

  “I’m insulted you would offer me a bribe.” Bonaparte studied her with a gaze that seemed to measure every inch of her. “My price? You said you would do anything to secure the freedom of your husband? Those are the terms I wish to discuss.”

  Bettina gulped down the brandy. Her hand smoothed over her throat as if she might still her pulse. She fought the urge to stuff the shawl between her breasts. “I’m afraid I spoke rashly. Although my husband’s freedom is important, extremely important, there are certain things one...cannot be expected to do.”