DeVillaret muttered something not for her hearing and lapsed into a grim silence.
"That's women for you," muttered their obese host.
"Yes," Fleur agreed, irrationally content. Bumping along was hardly a happier state than walking but she could now see over the hedgerows. In fact she was one of the few women in France—in the world, actually—who had seen higher than over the hedgerows. She had flown! This morning's heady, wonderful adventure had been worth every moment and even if she was sharing it with an infuriating revolutionary, at least he was an attractive, if muddy, one.
"How is your shoulder?" she asked to appease him, for every rut was jarring.
The dark eyebrows rose. "Such solicitude," he drawled. "Well, it would be devilish easier if you could move over a fraction. I fear I am in danger of bruising the other one as well if I fall off this damned thing. Our friend there is taking up half the board. If you will permit, citizeness?" And he shifted his arm so that it lay along the rail behind her back.
With two male thighs like grindstones either side of her, it was hardly romantic or comfortable but Fleur was aware of de Villaret's every breath. He must be aware of hers; for the Jacobin was not just watching the passing, undulating fields. The curl of his fingers rested only a few inches from her breast. Was this what it felt like to have a lover? This reckless, sudden ache to be touched? It must be the carafe of cider still playing backgammon with her brain, Fleur decided. She stared down modestly at her clasped hands, and then sideways at the nankeen of de Villaret's breeches against her black skirt, imagining the muscles toned from riding and from rapierplay edging her naked skin. Within her lap, her hands made mirrored question marks; ah, now she understood that other hunger. Her befuddled mind had known that to ride back into the city in his company would be foolhardy. Civil war raged within her and common sense endorsed her earlier decision. His approval was not desirable. It never could be.
The driver nudged his huge leg closer to her with a chuckle, and a rumble of some rude ditty composed for longboats came from behind them.
"Find a cork for it, Robinet!" de Villaret growled as the wheels battled a deep rut. Pain sharpened the apex of lines stretching out from the edges of his eyelids.
Fleur wriggled round. "Pass me an empty sack, citizen."
"Boards too hard for your derriere, madame?" The sans-culotte shoved the cleanest looking over to her.
"Lean forward," she ordered de Villaret. Folding the sacking into a pad, she slid the hessian against the wooden backboard behind his shoulder.
"Thank you." He leaned back gingerly, his stony profile softening. She noticed his arm was again behind her, his hand almost an epaulette.
"Oohh, thank you, maman," mocked Robinet.
"You should see a physician when we get back, citizen," Fleur advised. "You might have dislocated something."
"My brain, I suspect."
"It's the kiss to make him better that he really wants, darling," chortled Robinet.
"Citizen Robinet," said Fleur gravely, "if there is another sack to hand, I suggest you climb into it headfirst." She ignored the mocking rise of a sans-culotte finger and attempted to put her more enigmatic companion in his place as well, especially while the deputy still had his eyes closed. Without that intelligent stare to scythe her, she might discover some answers to questions she had almost forgotten.
"So, citizen," she purred with deceptive amiability, "why was Columbine not there this morning?"
The dark lashes flicked open. "Which one is Columbine?" he asked lazily.
He was convincing; the pace of Fleur's breathing faltered. The long fingers by her shoulder flexed.
"L-La Coquette." It was necessary to clear her throat but her voice sounded husky, alien, as she added disapprovingly, "the actress you have been having an affaire with, citizen."
"I haven't been having an affaire. We are having an affaire." And he shut his eyes again, his fingertips making faint indents on the pouched gathers of her sleeve. "Nothing is free."
More words like these voiced in a dangerous male purr and something would overflow from her—emotional phrases that would be regretted later. Perplexed, she could only stare at the rusty swaying rumps of the labouring oxen as they travelled on in silence. The revolutionary shifted drowsily and idly gazed out across the ploughed furrows, showing no awareness that a nearby heart was thundering in haphazard confusion. Jealousy was not an emotion she had been aware of until now. Unless he meant...
"I had a mistress once." The massive carter's unexpected comment startled his companions and not just the sunshine warmed Fleur's complexion. "But then my wife found out," he added morosely. "Easier for you dwelling in a city."
"Why are you complaining?" rumbled Robinet. "You have haystacks and meadows."
"Meadows! That there meadow, see." A plump, speckled arm waved a whip towards a lush pasture. "Looks soft, eh? But women complain. Eh, how they complain. Damp, thistles, ants, flies." He slapped a hairy hand down on Fleur's leg and squeezed. "Grass stains."
"Pardon me," ground out Fleur, hoisting the farmer's wandering hand back across his gross knee, and instinctively edged back against de Villaret.
"Petition the Convention, mon brave," sniggered Robinet. "Get 'em to pass a law against women complaining." No one applauded.
"Must have cost a lot, your balloon," the peasant remarked, jerking an ear towards the ropes and basket. They had left behind the waterproofed membrane.
The deputy did not answer. He batted a fly with his free hand, and the others took the hint.
Fleur's fermented-apple euphoria had finally vaporised. By "we", this two-faced Jacobin had meant Columbine, definitely Columbine. He was a rake, a hypocritical bloody republican rake! She stiffened forwards, away from the dissolute shirtsleeve, resolving that from now on she would keep her distance from Deputy de Villaret no matter how enticing the invitation. All for a balloon! How could she have been so irresponsible, fanciful, reckless? Poor Thomas must be frantic with worry. She brushed a hand across her knees; the worst of the dirt had flaked away but some of it was ingrained into the fabric as it was into her reputation.
Nothing is free.
Good grief, this foolish scrape might be in one of those revolting broadsheets tomorrow. Christ forbid that word of this ever reached her brother in Coblenz. And her attempt to appear respectable had been a disaster. Even Hérault had warned her. Oh, if only these oxen would go faster. She hazarded another sideways glance at de Villaret and sighed. The Jacobin was indifferently observing a hovering goshawk. Probably deciding which premises to search tomorrow, she thought testily.
Raoul was actually relishing the passing play of light across the shadow growth of young wheat while he tried to forget politics and the sacrifices that might be needed on his part to protect Boissy, not to mention the escapes from La Force prison that were still his responsibility to solve. At least he and his fellow aviators were alive, and this was ridiculously idyllic. Idyllic? Aside, that was, from his aching shoulder, the fermenting, buzzing puddles, the clinging stink of byre, the plebeian chaperones—at least the oxen were sober—and the fact that the intriguing adventuress whom he was longing to seduce was possibly a murderess.
Had he been Fragonard, he would have loved this scene. A peasant hay cart—the hay an artistic amendment—in a sunlit lane! They should be wearing straw hats. No, perhaps not; the girl's incongruous black clothes and bowed head would draw the viewer's eye. Call the painting After the Funeral. The plain afternoon sky needed a wash of clouds to add interest, but the fresh green of the hawthorn and the rutted track with its tangled trimming of deadnettles, cow-parsley and brambles would do well enough. Such charming depictions were now considered frivolous. Not his style, ever.
The hero in such a frivolous painting would have stolen an arm about his companion's waist and kissed her all the way back to the Porte Saint-Cloud, but then an artist's hero did not have an unmannerly representative of the Commune behind him listening to every rustle. L
istening? The bastard was snoring! Raoul twisted round painfully and jabbed him. "Turn over!" The grizzled moustache vibrated and Robinet rolled onto his side with a mutter. Wincing, Raoul lifted his arm away from the backrest and rubbed his wrist.
"You miss the countryside, citizeness?" he asked her as a white admiral butterfly performed in front of them. His companion hesitated too long, then shook her head, unwilling to be drawn.
What was she at now, this damnable spinning coin of a creature? Raoul still had not got her measure and he was curious to discover why had she deliberately broadened her country vowels in front of his friends this morning. He could think of no reason unless she knew that Boissy had been high in Artois's service, but why should that disconcert her? Here or there he could hear a phrase perfectly delivered, as if she was cleverly borrowing her tones from the noblesse. Part of her acting talent, but he would swear she had served in an exalted household before the Revolution. A lady's maid perhaps, for she kept her own person proper. Maybe the noble family had been arrested. It would explain her reticence.
"Did you grow up in a town, citizeness?"
Her neat breasts rose maddeningly beneath the figured damask."The last few years I have come close to starvation. Will that suffice?" Her chin jutted higher, challenging him. "I dislike my past, citizen. I am sure you would too."
"Things will improve," he murmured. Oh, he would paint her, soon, yes, and then he would make love to her.
The lane halted at the Dreux road. Curving ruts dictated the cart should turn east to Paris and the oxen knew it too, falling in resignedly behind a wain packed precariously high with spiky movables and iced with insolent children.
"Improve?" The widow lifted a disdainful eyebrow at the children's protruding tongues and waggling fingers as if these epitomised the future. "So long as you are not talking about some form of motherhood on behalf of the Revolution," she said dryly. "Citizen Hérault tells me I should turn respectable."
The remark found some tiny unpatrolled square of sensitivity. Raoul took a deep breath. "Not with him, I trust. You'll have to deal with la belle Suzanne, not to mention chere Adéle, a former marquise in Haut Savoie who is waiting for his return."
"You think so?" she teased. "He has already sent me an invitation to Le Nid."
"Do not go. It's a cottage seraglio, thigh deep in satin cushions. He's caused a shortage. Bread, soap and cushions. No wonder there have been riots."
She laughed and Raoul felt foolishly gratified.
"So what will improve?" she asked him shyly. He let his expression tell her something else. Our rapport, he answered silently, and wondered if Hérault had already kissed her and whether she had liked it.
"I mean France," he said aloud, enjoying the way the sunlight discovered bronze glints in her nutbrown hair.
"Do you think so?" She bit her lip thoughtfully, her aqua gaze perusing his face. Tiny touches of bronze flecked the irises of her eyes. He must remember that when he painted her.
"Imagine France as a woman, citizeness," Raoul suggested, his gaze admiring the curves of her breasts beneath the vertical bands of black satin. "She has run away from her family and has to decide whether to be happy with her new lover and not care what Europe thinks of her."
The widow's lashes lowered, moved like a courtesan's fan, to tease. "And what if she is dismayed that her lover has slain her father and his servants in order to seize her? France may need convincing that she will not end in hell paying for her sins."
He grinned. "Ah, like any sensible woman she should accept her lover's protection and the decisions he makes on her behalf. He has risked all for love of her."
"But he offers her such an uncertain future, Citizen de Villaret." Her voice was low, velvety. "Society sees their union as unlawful and whispers she is a whore. And, alas, who is this true lover? It seems to me that poor France is being abused and knows not where to trust."The kissable lips pouted. Flirtatious La Coquette was showing in the widow's eyes like a mischievous ghost at a window. "I wager you the fickle jade may go for a soldier at the end of the day, lured by a fine uniform. Perhaps only a general's martial laurels can redeem her reputation."
Diable, the chit somehow knew how to prick him. Raoul did not answer. Past anger resurged; his father had wanted to send him to the military academy, to follow the family tradition. "Put away the palette, boy! Behave like a man! There is nothing finer than to be a soldier on behalf of your country." The final quarrel had been bitterest of all, the accusations on both sides ejected in ugly passion. Cut off penniless at fifteen, rebellious, surly and sure that he was right and the old man was wrong.
Raoul stared across the fields and with an aching heart remembered home—Berri—a childhood pastiche of golden summer. Behind the placid beauty had been the lowing misery of cows robbed of their calves; in their exquisite salon, his weeping mother had rocked in unhappiness, pleading with him to make his peace.
"So, Deputy, should France fall for a soldier?" the girl prompted, reminding him that he had not answered.
"Soldiers need continual glory," he answered curtly, "and the price of glory is continual war."
It was Fleur's turn not to answer. De Villaret had taken her light words personally. Darkness glimmered in his eyes; his mouth was a downward arc of displeasure. And there she had been merely teasing him about the hero, General Lafayette, who had regrettably fled across the border and was now a prisoner of the Austrians.
"Are you France's true lover, citizen?" she jibed mischievously.
He had recovered his composure, and amusement once more crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I would be so, citizeness." The words were like silk drawn caressingly across her skin as the golden gaze lowered and rose again appreciatively. "If France would have the courage to submit herself to me."
If she had been standing up, she might have melted, thought Fleur. He was good at this.
"Ah, that's what I call a decent bit of flirting," applauded the driver. "Wish I could do it like that. What's France going to do, eh?" Fleur's stays did not protect her ribs from the meaningful elbow jab by the leering farmer, but she still had some ammunition left against the man on her left.
"I believe France is still undecided," she announced, and added, "I noticed this morning, Citizen Deputy, that you didn't open the gate in case the cows misunderstood. I rather think that you learned that the hard way. People misunderstand easily, don't they?"
How very perceptive of her! "Maybe." Raoul refused to be drawn. The girl was rattling him to see what pawls and ratchets still worked, but it was the farmer who took a turn at cranking up his distinguished passenger's principles as they trundled past the last of the hawthorn to plod down the strung-out line of houses that would accompany them now until they reached the city.
"What do you think about the Paris Commune, Deputy? Getting too big for their boots?"
The dishevelled deputy regarded his own muddied boots, while Fleur, the object of his seduction campaign, put her fingers to her lips to smother her laughter. Raoul smiled at her; yes, this conversation would sail again when they had jettisoned the unwelcome ballast.
"The reason I'm asking, Deputy," pursued the farmer, rubbing a grubby finger along an itch in his moustache, "is that one of my neighbours was selling his vegetables at Les Halles market yesterday and heard the stall-keepers sayin' Mama Roland is agitating to shift the Convention from Paris to some other city where the Commune is weaker and the people will not interfere. Any truth in it?"
"She will not succeed."
"Ha, but look at Brittany, and further south—La Vendee. Seems like the rest of France is turning against Paris. What do you say to that? A worry, huh?"
"Yes, it is," de Villaret agreed, glancing at Fleur to see if he had her interest, "and it's easy to see why federalism is so attractive. Calvados, for instance, is governed by men like Leveque and Doulcet who want no interference from a central government in Paris. Don't you agree, citizeness?" It was a stab in the dark. He was testing her. Who sh
e knew, what she knew, who she was; but he had left it too late. The shadow of the Porte Saint-Cloud fell across the cart.
Behind them, the sans-culotte, stirring on his bedding like a dog instinctively scenting when home is near, struggled to a sitting position, scratched his chest and blinked blearily. "The city already?"
"No, Robinet, this is a facsimile," muttered de Villaret. "If you look carefully, you will see that everyone has cloven hooves. We did nominate you for the Heavenly Convention but Citizen Peter had to draw the line somewhere."
"Passes! Step down!" Officialdom emerged briskly out of the sentry box beneath the high arch and slid suspicious eyes over the dry mud appliqued to the lower half of Fleur's skirts as she followed the farmer down. Incredibly, Robinet was the cleanest of the four of them. De Villaret, respectable only from the front, instinctively reached for his coat before he sprang down and grimaced, empty-handed. "Ah."
"He is actually a Jacobin deputy." Fleur tried hard to keep a grave face as she spoke.
Large apple-red cheeks were sucked into concaves: "Oh yes," said portly officialdom, "and what's he been speaking at, citizeness, a farmyard assembly?"
De Villaret tried his most austere expression. "Friend, if I were an aristocrat, I'd be escaping from Paris, not entering it covered in cow dung."
Robinet leaned forward and poked the deputy. "Ah, but you could be an aristocrat rescuing another aristocrat, Raoul. Want to know how he got covered in shit, mon brave? He fell out of a balloon."
"Go to the Devil!" growled de Villaret.
Fleur turned her face to the cart and surrendered to laughter.
"Well, what do you want, then?" growled the deputy, glaring at the disbelieving officer. "My pocket watch left as surety?"
"Bribery, eh? That's an offence."The fellow sauntered round to the back of the cart. "You can give me a ride as far as the Place de Vendôme. It's the end of my duty for today." He settled himself on the back of the cart, legs dangling. "Heard you at the Jacobin Club, Deputy. Heard about the balloon too. It's all over Paris."
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