Fleur tucked the tiny perfumed pillow down between her breasts with a smile. Madame Bosanquet! She tasted the name on her tongue as though it were some exotic sweetmeat. And now she was in Caen at Charlotte's aunt's house with a new identity, and the man who had given it to her was in a coffin.
Her wedding had hardly been the matter of dreams—vows to a dying stranger old enough to be her grandfather! Not for her a carriage pulled by four greys or a gown of ivory Brussels point-lace over silken petticoats. No seigneur of the family gave her away; instead old Guillaume, a sabot-maker who lived on the edge of the forest, had played her absent brother's part. Philippe would be livid that his permission had not been sought, but M. Bosanquet's condition had left no time for niceties. The will had been drawn up beforehand with M. Esnault's help. Oh, it was almost like a theatre piece—the lawyer not suspecting that the boy in work-stained trousers chopping wood behind the cottage had not yet been made "the wife" who was to receive all M. Bosanquet's worldly goods.
The rest of the dying man's affairs had been managed by a conspiracy of priests. Abbé Gombault officiated at the marriage and heard the dying man's confession, staying until the last, and then he and Guillaume carted the body to M. Bosanquet's mother's grave at the Chapel of Our Lady at la Delivrande where the local curé had buried him according to church rites. The hastiness of it worried Fleur but she had not dared risk a public funeral or a coroner's investigation. Better to leave the cottage, the abbé suggested, and set out for Paris as soon as possible. The trouble was she and Tante Estelle needed official passes to leave the district of Calvados.
"Fleur, are you listening to me? How does it feel?"
"Damnably uncomfortable," groaned Fleur, staring down at her thrust-up bosom as though her breasts were something alien. She had been used to flattening them beneath a towel.
"Well, I am relieved you are back to dressing as a young lady, even if you do not sound like one. At least the mayor will be impressed. He will be so occupied admiring your curves, you will have the pass for Paris in an instant."
Fleur's dry answer was lost in black bombazine as Charlotte flung the mourning gown over her friend's head.
"Only a few tucks necessary." Deft fingers twitched the bodice straight. "I cannot believe how much weight you have shed since leaving school."
"About the only compensation." Fleur drew Charlotte's black hat over her short curls and strode to the mirror above the mantelpiece. "Ohh!" The girl in the looking glass was unrecognisable. The high cheekbones were new to her and the crescent smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes suggested she was older than her nineteen years. The scratch where a flying chip of firewood had grazed her chin did not help either. "At least I look like a widow," she declared, arranging the veil over her hair. "Yes?"
Charlotte nodded behind her, fingertips rising surreptitiously to brush the moisture from the hint of crow's feet; perhaps she was remembering mourning for her mother in this very gown.
"I appreciate you letting me borrow this. You have been a good friend to me during the troubles, Charlotte." For a moment the two young women clung to each other.
"You had better go and get those passes if you want to take the Paris diligence at two o'clock this afternoon."
"One last touch." Fleur reached out to the pewter tray on Charlotte's bureau and withdrew a pinch of sand.
"What on earth..." In amazement, Charlotte watched as Fleur lifted her veil and threw back her head to drop the fine particles into her eyes.
"It's the small details that are important. My late and brief husband's advice. The first glimpse can be the most convincing. There, do I look as though I have been weeping?"
"Absolutely."
"I do not want to be arrested, do I? It's my last chance to live a normal life. Now, wish me well, dear Charlotte."
"Indeed, I do. Wait, do not forget the gloves, and no striding."
"Or whistling, spitting or swearing. To arms, hein?" And with a back of ramrod rigidity that their teachers at the Abbaye aux Dames would have beamed upon, Fleur descended the winding stairs to the courtyard with a courage that was barely skin-deep.
* * *
By the time she reached the bridge at the end of the Rue Saint-Jean, she was as jumpy as a deer hearing the hunter. Why was it wearing a gown made her more ill at ease than her workman's clothes? Why did people stare so? She was trying to walk with a feminine gait. Or was it merely curiosity, because they thought her a stranger and wondered whom she grieved for?
The broad facade of the two-hundred-year-old Hôtel d'Escoville which now served as the hôtel de ville (or, if you spoke in revolutionary jargon, the "common hall") glared down at her like some grand courtier of Louis XIV's Versailles, daring her to enter its courtyard. She would have darted across to the Église Saint-Pierre and sent a beseeching prayer to Our Lady save that a pair of national guardsmen were lolling in its doorway watching her and it was now the Temple of Reason.
With somewhat undue haste, she turned out of the cold wind into the shelter of the cobbled courtyard and halted. Another time she might have studied the ornate splendour of the dormer windows and Italianate turrets; instead she stared open-mouthed at the biblical statue of Judith holding the bloody head of Holofernes. An omen? It could be her head if the mayor grew too curious and began to ask questions with sticky tendrils and barbs. Nom de Diable! And there was another severed head! This time Goliath's, dangling from the shepherd boy David's hand.
"Looks gormless, hein? Wouldn't employ him to guard my flocks!" cackled an elderly woman, emerging, balanced by empty buckets from the arched porch on Fleur's left. Well, yes, David's face did look vacuous. "Lost, are you?"
"Good morning, I was seeking the mayor."
"Probably taking a nap," chuckled the crone, and spat ambiguously. "Well, go on up, dearie," she chided, noting Fleur's hesitation. "We are all equal now, ain't we?"
No, probably not, if you were male and called yourself an official, thought Fleur testily as she climbed the curving stone stairs and found herself upon a small, open balcony. With a choice of doors, she knocked upon the grander. Someone inside grunted and, with a deep breath, she let herself in. The chamber, which took up the entire wing, was pleasantly warm after the chill of the street and smelled of polished wood—a while since she had savoured that aroma of power.
At the far end of the room a man in a high-collared dark blue coat stood outlined against the window, his back turned. A dress sword hung from the tricolore sash that crossed his right shoulder, and a fulsome band of revolutionary colours encircled his waist. He gave her an uninterested glance over his shoulder as she closed the door behind her, but then as she straightened and waited for him to address her, he looked round again. Fleur lowered her gaze swiftly. The boy of two days ago would have stared back but a virtuous widow anxious for a pass needed to show some deference.
"Monsieur le Maire?" Her voice, so husky she barely recognised it, bruised the silence of the room and she knew instantly she was wrong. Someone else coughed and peered round from the high-backed chair that headed the long table; a scrawny man wearing the scarlet woollen bonnet which had become a la mode among supporters of the Revolution. One glance and the fellow ignored her, rustling his papers with an air of self-importance.
To whom should she address her request for a pass? A caped greatcoat was flung across one of the chairs. Fawn gauntlets, riding crop and a beaver hat profusely ornamented with scarlet, blue and white plumes lay together upon the table. Did these belong to the man at the window? Was he merely a visitor passing through?
She stepped forward, observing with misgivings the fellow dwarfed by the high chair-back. One really should not make swift judgments about people from their appearances, but with his unkempt hanks straggling across a greasy collar, he looked more like a slop-seller than a clerk.
"Good morning, citizen," she began serenely. "I came to see the mayor but..." She faltered, conscious that the room had stilled, that the gentleman at the window was suddenl
y listening intently. The person at the table cleared his throat, picked up a quill from the ink pot then jabbed it back in again. "Citizen Fournay. I am the acting municipal officer," he growled. "Citizen Enguerrand is not in Caen at present and Mayor Legoupil-Duclos is indisposed until further notice."
An ill beginning. "Ah, I see, well then, Citizen Fournay, perhaps you can assist me. I need a pass to return to Paris."
"Paris?" He was at last bothering to look at her. A leer surfaced between the long sideburns, and Fleur's flesh crawled. This was even worse than the other man's interest. Here she was veiled and gowned in black—clearly grieving—and this wretch had the audacity to... Her spine stiffened, her gloved nails pressed into her palms but she bit back a retort. At least she was not alone with the creature, for the man at the window stretched purposefully, the subtle crack of his clasped hands reminding the municipal officer of his presence.
"Why do you need a pass, Widow...?" Fournay asked with a sniff, recalling his duty.
"My name is Bosanquet, Citizen Fournay. Possibly you have heard what happened?" Fournay stared at her stonily. "We were attacked," she added with breathless indignation. "My husband was badly wounded. The forest people who helped us fetched Dr Talbert but unfortunately..." Wary of saying too much, she dramatically knuckled her cheek beneath her veil then drew a handkerchief from her reticule.
"Yes, yes, I heard. Bosanquet, eh? Originally from these parts?"
"From Calvados, yes, but my husband preferred to reside in Paris. The brigands took our papers. That is why I need a new pass from you."
"Royalists, probably." About to spit upon the glossy floor, he seemed to remember his new status and shrugged instead. "A pass—just for you, then?"
"And my aunt. She will be accompanying me."
"Most people are running away from Paris. Why do you not remain here?"
Fleur ignored his amusement. "I have property there, Monsieur Fournay. Urgent matters to be dealt with, as you can imagine."
"Property, you say?"
She could have bitten her tongue off. Fool she was, this creature would now want a bribe. Property? M. Bosanquet might own a hovel near a sewer for all she knew.
"I assume you would like the passes issued to you now." Fournay rubbed his thumb and fingertips together meaningfully. "Or perhaps you would like to collect the documents from my house tonight."
"Now will do." Unwillingly she drew off her gloves, careful to keep the hard skin of her hands hidden. Apart from Charlotte's late mother's wedding ring, borrowed to give her story credence, Fleur's only adornment was an aquamarine in a simple setting that Maman had given her on her fifteenth birthday. With a bitter heart, she forced herself to drop the aquamarine into his cupped hand.
"Not enough!" he mouthed at her.
"Let me see that!"
They both started and sprang apart like disturbed lovers. The other man had left the casement, his spurred boots sounding ominously on the wooden boards; his fist unfurled slowly, menacingly, between them, waiting. Fleur gave a hiss of breath; must she pay this upstart too?
Muttering, Fournay relinquished the ring into the outstretched, uncallused palm. Fleur's gaze followed the midnight blue sleeve of the stranger's coat and blinked in astonishment at the gold braid epaulette embellishing his unsashed shoulder. If a different man had been wearing such an overadorned uniform, she would have been amused at the absurdity, but he wore the republican colours like a victor who knew his own worth. Grand Dieu! Both these men were dangerous.
Fournay swallowed loudly but it was Fleur who was being weighed along with her ring. The cool stare was examining her. No nervousness, no trembling like a mouse, she told herself, just show a reasonable respect. Play the innocent widow, not the frightened aristocrat.
"Gentlemen, I should like to be on my way this afternoon," she admonished gently, and with a finely measured confidence she managed to lift her gaze from the man's uppermost gold button. She was aware of dark-brown hair restrained in a queue, of freckles faintly scattered across strong cheekbones, of fine teeth; but it was his eyes, bronze-hued, cold and intelligent, scrutinising her from beneath arched brows, that mesmerised her. A chill humour glinted in those dark depths.
"Perhaps you would like to unveil."
Something inside Fleur's body unfurled, awakened, as if it recognised a call to arms from the voice of a general. Her mind protested, uncomprehending such alien, sudden stirring.
"Citizeness?" The hard, golden eyes searched ruthlessly for rebellion. Slowly, reluctantly, she set back the black gauze. Search all you like, her gaze told him. Thank God she had rubbed the sand into her eyes.
Was he pretending suspicion, playing with her like a tomcat amused with a little widow mouse? She was armed for such battles. Her sisters might have served apprenticeships in flirting; Fleur's had been in survival and she knew when the hunter sensed a killing might be at hand.
Feel the character! Beneath the stranger's inspection, she deftly glanced away, letting her eyes water with unshed tears. Yes, she could do that. Not only had she played the tragic heroine in family theatricals, the last four years had taught her how to weep. Timing, oh yes, that too.
Slowly, she raised her eyes once more to the stranger, letting her misery turn to blandness, as if, just like the statue in the courtyard, she possessed a hollowness not worth further acquaintance. The ploy worked.
"Let her have a pass." Losing interest in her, her inquisitor examined the ring, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger before tossing it back to the municipal officer without any comment. With a snort, Fournay swiftly pocketed it in his waistcoat. "No, no, citizen," the visitor scolded, "you will donate it towards the local fund for the national guard. This nation does not run on venality any more." The clipped observation matched the young man's cold smile as he watched the older man tug the gem back out with an ill grace, then he said softly: "Now make out the widow's papers, Fournay. I have not all day."
With a grimace, the municipal officer resumed his seat and, riffling through the pile of papers, selected a clean sheet. "I'm not much at the shape of things, citizen," he muttered.
For an instant the stranger did not comprehend and then a slow smile crooked his mouth. "My pleasure. Are you ready?"
"Yes," growled the other, plucking a quill from the inkwell. "'Pass, given to Citizeness Bosanquet, widow.'" The scratching halted. "Age?"
"Twenty-three," she lied.
"Height? How tall are you, citizeness?"
"I—I don't know, Monsieur Fournay." Her glance flew unthinking to the young official's face. More than her height was being estimated by his trawling gaze but Fleur dared not rebuke him.
"Set down five foot four inches."
"Hair brown, then?"
"With a tint of chestnut, Fournay."
"Eyes?"
"Do not glance away, citizeness. Blue as an Italian lake."
The quill spluttered: "Blue."
"Nose?"
"Turn your head if you please, citizeness." A command not a request. His lower lip curled consideringly, and hidden in the folds of her skirts, so did Fleur's fists. "Neither long nor yet retroussé," murmured the maddeningly amiable voice, but Fournay was not enjoying the game.
"Merde, it's a cursed pass not a poem, citizen. Get on with it!"
"Please, messieurs, I do not wish to delay you," protested Fleur, but she was pinioned beneath the young man's scrutiny like a butterfly about to be labelled.
"Small, straight," growled Fournay. "Chin?"
"Gently rounded, I should say."
"Round will do. Face?"
"Enchantingly tragic and..." The soft laugh was measured. The full nib waited angrily. "Set down 'oval', citizen." He watched critically as Fournay scattered sand across the painful writing and unfortunate blots, then he slid the calculated charm back into cold officiousness: "You have forgotten to date it. Year II of the French Republic, remember." With that verbal slap, he bestowed a brisk, dismissive nod on Fleur, then strode b
ack to resume his vigilance at the casement. "And do not forget the other woman's," he called out over his shoulder.
"I need to see her, don't I?" muttered Fournay, unsure of procedure, but at a shrug of the visitor's shoulders he tugged out another sheet and took Fleur through her aunt's description.
She should have been grateful for the young official's playful interference, but he terrified her. No doubt some former schoolteacher or impoverished merchant's son! A self-satisfied nobody wallowing in his shiny new superiority, anxious to put notches on his belt! If he could spring to advancement by having her declared an enemy of the Revolution, he would do just that. And Paris would be teeming with men like him. It was all she could do to hide her nervousness as she watched Fournay fill in the last details for her aunt.
"Thank you," she said politely, relieved that the papers were finally in her hands, and darted a glance at the figure by the window. Head flung back arrogantly, he stood legs astride, hands clasped behind him. No doubt as smug as Narcissus. Could he see his reflection in the diamond panes?
"For heaven's sake, go, citizeness," he told her without turning. "You have what you came for."
Feeling as though she had just survived an audience with the Devil, Fleur sped down the stairs. The icy intelligence of that face haunted her. What had he discovered about her from the ring? She glanced up swiftly. He was gone from the window but the prickle between her shoulder blades intensified as she crossed the courtyard. As foolish as Orpheus, she could not resist looking round and discovered him standing on the balcony, framed by the high arch of golden limestone, watching her like a brooding god wondering whether to make mischief.
Fleur jerked her head forwards again, drawing down her veil over her flaming cheeks, and walked—don't stride!—as calmly as she could towards the street. Someone else in the courtyard was staring too: a workman sitting legs apart on a step with his crib beside him, swigging from a leather flask. Workman? No, the correct term now was sans-culotte if you did not wear breeches like your betters.
"Bonjour, madame." A different sans-culotte, cheerful and gnarled, paused in barrowing firewood off a cart and waited for her to pass.
Fleur-de-Lis Page 4