Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2)

by Baird Wells

  They pierced Madame’s eye with a pike, then jeered as she fell down. They made her get up again and again, slapping her face and bracing her, tormenting her until she could not be roused. Those who had tried to intervene, stopped. It was apparent by now that both the duc's and Lady LaValette's wounds were mortal. More violence occurred, by account of the witnesses, which I am loathe to record here, and then her head was raised aloft to terrible cheering. Ropes dragged their bodies in one direction, while a smaller mob carried M. LaValette's head in another...”

  Ty stopped, breathing as though he’d just run a mile and still struggling for air. He could feel the mob’s crush, hear their obscenities and the sting of their blows. He’d been in more than one village where hatred for the king boiled high, loyalty to Napoleon flowed free, and his enemies were greeted by nothing less than violence. To imagine Olivia in such a place, by then a woman in a child’s body, innocence in tatters… he shuddered.

  There was more, so much more, written out in horrid detail, ink like blood spattered over the ledger. Ty swallowed back his bile, skimming to the end.

  “A Misseur Beltran, who was waiting on the king's order for the duc to be released, claimed some of their garments from the gutter, depositing them here with the clerk. Some witnesses who came later, a street sweep and his companions, reported seeing the bodies of both souls dumped on the step of a dressmaker who refused to help them do up LaValette's body, as they demanded 'to match her head.’

  Others asserted that the remains were thrown into a pile of still more corpses, in an empty warehouse just near La Force where the fruits of Madame Guillotine had been tossed all day...”

  Beltran. He could have laughed and cried. All the time Olivia had scoured Paris, and her answer had been in their own safe house. Beltran had probably never seen Olivie de la Valette, and Whitehall had never shared her past with anyone, not even him. Ty massaged his temples at the sad twist of fate.

  He thumbed one last page in the ledger; a list of contents from Charlotte's pockets followed by a box number. Taking the rusted key from his coat, Ty seated it in the lock. A tumbler turned without protest despite its age, as though ready to be unburdened from the gruesome treasure contained within.

  The number four vault was long, running half the building's length, but still hardly wide enough for him to turn between its lengths. Rough wood framed shelves, the sort he had seen hastily cobbled together in dock warehouses, and reached for a cobwebbed ceiling above. Boxes of sturdy brown card paper, row upon row of them, lined the shelves like tiny coffins. Small brass foot plates framed hand-written epitaphs; '246 – Mme. DeEspey', '312 – Duc d. Clery'.

  Ty ran a finger through dust piled along the shelf's edge, watching it drift like ashes in the weak golden light of his candle. Finally, he came to it: '418 – Widow LaValette'.

  Nestling his candle into an empty space at the shelf's conclusion, he grasped curled edges with trembling fingers, pulling free the small case. He wouldn't open it in here, in dampness and dim light so like a mausoleum.

  Tucking the parcel under his arm, Ty claimed his stone candlestick and willed himself not to hurry from the vault.

  Placing the box atop the counter with the ledger, he inhaled and snapped off the warped lid.

  A torn cuff of blue wool from a man's coat waited on top. Beneath was a gold ring set with an opal, banded by a thin lock of bright blond hair – Olivia's perhaps. Beneath that was a carved ivory needle case, a tiny steel shears, and a handwritten list smudged by time and dampness. There were also coins. Next came a red leather bound prayer book no bigger than his palm, tissue thin pages thumbed until it could no longer close flat. When he plucked it from the container, something else fell onto the counter, then drifted to the floor.

  A scrap of expensive white vellum, a strip folded and formed into a heart. Ty guessed it had rested atop the collection, displaced when he tipped the box. It was new, newer than the box's contents by years, though how it came to be there he couldn't guess. He smoothed creases in the paper and examined its strangely familiar handwriting: 'Sacre Couer, Rue Fabienne. Sunday – Ten in the morning.’

  A church, Catholic. He knew it well, on a busier street and attended mostly by nobles and the well-to-do. Ten, he guessed, was mass.

  Turning the box [1] upside down, he dumped the contents out and raked them into his pocket. To hell with the ministry and to hell with their rules about taking property. If anyone wished to make an issue of his reclaiming the belongings, they were welcome to try.

  * * *

  “I nearly wish you hadn't told me. Today is only Friday.” Hanging at the edge of her chair, Olivia fought the consuming urge to get up, pace, fiddle with anything that might offer distraction. “And I wish you had told me something on Wednesday, taken me with you.” She tried to keep bitterness from her voice, but there was no helping it. Ty had done so much to find her parents, but possessiveness whispered that she had every right to be included.

  He took up a chair opposite her, throwing his hat to the floor and taking her hand. “No, Olivia, you do not. Some things are better…” His other hand balled into a fist, and he stared past. “Ignorance is best.”

  “I was there, Tyler. On the other side of the door when Fouche threw her out. Every cheer, every cry of 'whore'!” She got up, pacing from window to window, hating the chaotic hammering in her chest. It beat down rational thoughts and drummed up nightmares.

  Ty caught a fistful of her skirts on her next pass, drawing her up hard. He stood, and placed a warm rough palm on each of her cheeks. “Trust me now, as much as you ever have. Whatever you heard, whatever you have imagined, count it as kinder still than the truth.” Arms slipping around her back drug her close, and she buried her face in his shoulder. “Let me spare you something, Olivia. If I can carry some of this misery on my shoulders to lighten your burden, then let me.”

  She nodded against a rough wool sleeve, throat aching too much for any words. Pressing close, Olivia listened to a clock ticking in the hall and let Ty's warmth and the room's stillness calm her. She tried not to think about the future or the past.

  When he pulled away, Ty cupped her hand and dropped something into her palm. “There was more, but I only thought to bring this downstairs.”

  It was a ring. She turned it over, struggling to remember how it had looked on her mother's delicate index finger. “This was a gift from my mother's husband. She married young, divorced young. They stayed on good terms until he was guillotined during the first go-round.” Raking a fingernail over her hair woven into the setting, she tried and failed to remember the day Madame Toulon had cut it.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, giving the ring a last look before tucking it inside her pocket. “For everything.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Sunday

  Olivia hardly ate. She didn't sleep. It showed, when she reached the bottom of the stairs on Sunday morning, stiff-limbed and blinking at shadows under her eyes. Her black collar and bonnet, usually a flattering combination, framed stark features.

  Ty brushed a thumb over her cheek, heart stabbing. “You cannot do this to yourself.”

  “I know,” she snapped, scrubbing her face. “I know,” she repeated, voice softened. “You're right.”

  Settling his hat, he took Olivia's arm and led them out into the street. “You have a worry on your hands as it is,” he teased, locking the door.

  “Which is?”

  “Awfully brave of you, setting foot inside a church with me.”

  Her smile was thin, but genuine. “I like to think God feels about you the same way I do.”

  “Unconditional love?” he offered, tugging her arm.

  “Hmph. No.” She tugged back. “That church is the safest place for you to be.”

  He considered that a moment. “That theory has been tested before with mixed results.”

  Olivia snorted, shaking her head.

  The streets were emptier than normal, owing to a silver cast above that
filtered down sunlight even as it threatened rain. Smaller crowds revealed more of the city, and Ty enjoyed a moment to take it in.

  Summer in Paris. The only season more beautiful than winter in Paris. He wished more of it could be spent between the two of them. Small herds of young dandies crowded doorways, watching young ladies flit from shop to shop under the wary eyes of their chaperons. Color splashed the gray stone landscape with flower stalls on every corner brimming with lavender, roses, orange tulips, and scarlet carnations that reached out from a sea of mossy green foliage. Gnarled limbs of ancient trees formed a shady canopy overhead as they walked, and clusters of pink lilacs perfumed a cool breeze. He had never been young and in love, never courted anyone as a lad, but by his estimation, Paris had been made for it. And who better than Olivia to share it with?

  He sighed and pulled her closer, all too aware that they were on an errand, no matter how worthy.

  “Some black cloud has settled on you,” she murmured softly.

  Her words pricked at him. He opened his mouth to answer but was shouted down by a baker's boy waving a crusty loaf who was directing passersby to a tempting yeasty odor behind him. It took real effort not to shush him on a third attempt at conversation with Olivia. Frustrated, he pulled her along at a quick march until they reached an empty stretch of walkway.

  Finally, when things had quieted, he leaned against the nearby wall and sighed. “Just a moment to catch my breath. To walk with you and have no purpose. Wake up, make love and stay in bed all morning with no thought for the consequences. That is all I want.”

  “So he can be domesticated,” she teased, her soft voice almost drowned by a carriage rumbling past.

  “Webb and I met a shaman in India. Ketahn. Used him as a guide and sometimes for intelligence. He kept a lame tiger as a pet. Tamed for ten years, so he claimed.” Grinning, he appreciated a hint of color rising in her cheeks. “So yes, it is possible.”

  “I would hardly call you 'tamed',” she cut in.

  “Mrs. Burrell, whatever do you mean?” She had a retort but he missed it. He was too busy forming the words again. “Mrs. Burrell.”

  “What?”

  “I don't think I've said it before. Have you thought about that being your name?”

  Beside him, Olivia came to a stop so fast that he nearly jerked her over. “No. It never crossed my mind. With everything else, everything we’ve done…” She waved her hand vaguely. “No. No I haven’t.”

  “Me either.” He exhaled, blowing out some of his frustration. “Olivia, we need a moment of peace.”

  She squeezed his hand tightly and continued on, speeding up quickly, as if every step moved them toward the peace he’d spoken of.

  When they pushed through bustling traffic at a narrow end of the square, Ty was surprised to see people filing out of, rather than into, Sacre Couer's high stone arch. A priest, distinctive in his full-skirted black cassock, was posted at the church steps, well-wishing a newly returned flock. Catholic mass had become a novelty after Bonaparte's decade-long excommunication, and even those who did not necessarily abide by the good book were happy to attend simply because it was available.

  Olivia drew up, staring. “I thought the note said ten in the morning.”

  “It does.” He shared Olivia's confusion. “Perhaps they've moved the mass? This hasn't exactly been a regular occurrence for the last few years.”

  She sighed. “It could be worth asking.” She pointed out the priest. “Perhaps he knows something.”

  They waited behind the last two parishioners, a portly matron in dusty green velvet roped with rubies and her fashionable companion, a much younger man with no family resemblance. If they were not relations, Ty gave credit to both: her for taste and him for prudence.

  They caught the priest as he mounted wide steps. Ty called out, halting him just at the top. Wide dark eyes studied their approach over a kind smile. “Peace of the lord be with you.” A Spanish tongue trilled his 'r', deepened his 'u'. “Father Aguirre.”

  Ty accepted a proffered hand. “I see we have missed services today.”

  “You have, I am sorry to say.” Aguirre patted a stone facade with pride. “Nine in the morning like clockwork,” he offered proudly, “every day that mass has been held for the last fifty years.”

  “Strange,” said Olivia. “We were directed here at ten in the morning.”

  Aguirre's thick black brows jumped. “By whom?”

  “A note from a friend. Perhaps a Misseur Beltran?” offered Olivia.

  “Beltran!” gasped Aguirre. Then he recovered, patting at close cropped black hair and giving Olivia careful attention. “Olivie?”

  At first she stared, then nodded slowly.

  Aguirre's face turned down. “He could not have sent you today. Brother Beltran passed from this world a fortnight ago, God rest his soul.” Straightening, he smoothed his cassock, giving every appearance of being finished with their conversation. “Misseur Beltran spoke to me at his last rites, of a place that gave him peace. He urged me near his end that I should share that place, if I met with a certain friend.”

  “We should very much like to find it.” Ty struggled for his voice, while beside him Olivia seemed frozen in amber.

  “Brother Beltran enjoyed times of deep reflection in the Madeleine cemetery. There is a wild corner against the south wall. White roses, an English variety, if I recall.”

  Ty wondered at the emphasis and glanced at Olivia.

  Olivia was not looking at him or Aguirre. She stared past him, head shaking. Breath came fast through parted lips. “Why? Why did he never say a word to anyone?”

  He voiced something, a thought he’d turned over in his mind for two days. “I’m not certain he puzzled out that you were the one to tell. He left Olivie de la Valette a clue as best he knew how, and had to hope she would find it.”

  Olivia swallowed. “She did.” Her eyes were wide, glistening with a damp sheen, and, were he not so practiced at reading her lips, he would never have heard her over the crowd.

  Aguirre rested gentle fingers on Olivia's arm. “Beltran's retreat was a safe place, for himself and others through many uncertain times. He would not risk betraying that safety.”

  Now she met the priest's eyes, exhaling a long breath that seemed to relieve tension she must have carried for days. “I understand. Thank you, father.”

  Ty did not understand. Not when Olivia embraced Father Aguirre. Not as she took his arm, leading them toward the street. He glanced back twice, catching the priest's serene gaze and his parting wave as they were swept into bustling traffic. Beltran, his note, Father Aguirre; it all seemed too convenient. “What was that riddle at the end? I am entirely lost.”

  They were rushing now, Olivia forced to hold the crown of her bonnet to keep it in place. “My father was being set free that day. It is a very long story, but some of his votes benefiting the people made Napoleon's life easier, too, and the emperor was willing to reward that.”

  Ty snorted. “So after a sound beating to clear the air, Bonaparte was simply going to grant your father his freedom.”

  “It had already been granted.” She was talking faster, doubling their pace. “He came from the Conciergerie straight to La Force to claim us when he discovered we were still being held.” Her pretty features twisted up. “When Napoleon heard that father's first destination was to my mother and not to bow and kiss his ring...” Panting, she paused at the crossing, catching her breath.

  She needn't finish. He was beginning to put the pieces together. “The emperor took out his rage on your mother.”

  “Like a jealous woman,” she hissed. “First married to a traitor, then poisoning my father with her royalist sympathies, the emperor saw her as a wedge between himself and my father. She had no value to Napoleon, and he was ready to be rid of her.”

  They had come to the cemetery wall, columns of high ivory blocks standing sentinel between a lacy iron fence. Here Olivia paused and leaned against the stones, looking
tired again. “Metternich told my uncle that when Napoleon got word of father's murder, he wept.” She pressed knuckles to her lips a moment. “I don't know if I believe it.”

  He did. For all of the emperor's whims, his effortless dismissal of even his closest allies, he had moments of mortal frailty. There were a few people in the world for whom he felt a genuine attachment, even if was simple practicality. There was no sense opening that door with Olivia just now. His purpose was certainly not to change her mind regarding Napoleon, and anything else was moot just now.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she seemed to settle on her own answer. “He may have wept later. But in those hours after the massacre, his fury was equal to the mob. He forbade anyone from claiming my parents’ bodies, ordering the gravediggers to turn away any person who tried to bury them in consecrated ground.”

  “That much does not surprise me, but I'm still not grasping why that mattered, once...” Once they were dead. Olivia said it all the time; he couldn't bring himself to speak the words. “Once they were gone, how could his rage still threaten them?”

  “Vengeance,” she bit out. “Do you know how many remains were found, when Therese reburied her parents?”

  “Not a guess.” Others had been searched for, when the king and queen were discovered, but he had no idea how successful the efforts had been.

  “Almost none; a few pieces. Bodies were lymed in the pit, again and again.”

  Lyme ordinarily was a sanitary measure. They had used it on the battlefield a time or two, to speed decomposition and prevent disease spreading. That, he gathered, was not what Olivia was indicating.

  “Vengeance,” she rasped again, answering his silent question. “Napoleon wanted nothing left of his enemies. No relics, nothing to stir up rebellion. And no peace for me, for families who wondered at the fate of their loved ones.”