by Lee Rowan
The doctor’s retinue would be a curious one. “Dr. Pierce” had ostensibly been visiting France to consult with his colleague on a particularly interesting case, a half-wit servant who had been struck dumb after being knocked unconscious in a drunken brawl. This unfortunate had—so the story went—been privileged to receive the most modern trepan surgery, and his physicians had great hope that his speech would eventually be restored. Zoe, dressed in the housekeeper’s oldest clothes with layers of her own worn beneath for padding, would play the part of the half-wit’s wife, included in the party to tend to her afflicted spouse. The explanation covered the obvious physical damage, and relieved Kit of the need to speak the commoner’s French that he couldn’t manage—though he really thought that making him a half-wit was an unnecessary bit of embroidery.
He appreciated the doctor’s good judgment on that score after he’d tottered down a flight of stairs, stopping more than once to rest. His injuries and convalescence had left him with no strength at all; if half his wits were working, that would be an improvement. And when he first saw a scruffy wretch with a shaven head—the fever, of course—and nearly a month’s untrimmed beard staring back at him from the looking glass, he was reassured that no one would ever mistake him for the dapper, well-tailored Lord St. John who’d been shot dead in the street.
He had long since concluded that the doctor was some kind of agent, presumably for the British government, though his opinions were somewhat unorthodox. During their conversations, the physician had revealed a detailed knowledge of the political situation here in France, and although he admitted having had hopes that the Republic would be a success, he had been revolted by the violent excesses of the Citizens Committee. “All the potential, the possibilities for freedom and human dignity, and they have sunk to a worse level than the despots they overthrew.”
“You are not a Royalist, then?” Kit had asked.
“I think there may be better ways to govern, though at least our monarchy has Parliament to offset the excesses of power. Unfortunately, despite all that was admirable in France, the late King Louis had no such check, and he cared nothing for his people. But the new tyrants are worse—cannibals and hypocrites claiming to do the will of the French people. When you see a government persecuting its most intelligent citizens, my friend, you see a danger flag. They have let the mob rule—well, they will learn that the mob is a bloodthirsty beast. That villain Robespierre will eventually find it at his throat. God help France when this gang is overthrown—I feel sure something worse will follow.”
The intensity of feeling in the plain little man had surprised Kit when he first saw it, but over time he came to recognize it as the source of the determination that made the surgeon’s hands steady enough to go into a living skull and bring a man back from the dead. Kit wondered if he might know anyone who could find out more about the doctor, once he was back in England, then decided against it. If the doctor were involved in secret work, any inquiries about his identity might endanger him, and to make them would be a betrayal in itself.
Two things were clear: the first was that his rescue was only a footnote to some other effort that was prolonging their stay in Paris; the other was that the doctor operated at a level of considerable secrecy. Kit never left Dr. Colbert’s home; in fact, he was never allowed below the second floor of the house. His exercise consisted of walking back and forth in the upstairs hall and climbing up and down the attic stairs. Once his eyes could bear light bright enough to read by, he was given books, but only during the day; no lights were permitted in the attic at night.
Zoe was a great comfort. She ran the little household with the assistance of a middle-aged housekeeper but spent as much time as she could up in the attic, keeping him company. She played both backgammon and chess with a skill that made him work to win, and he did so only a little more often than he lost. Kit had inquired obliquely whether she might be interested in resuming the close association they had begun the night they’d met, and learned to his dismay that the doctor had given her strict instructions regarding exertion of any sort. As his health improved, he began to wonder if those instructions were truly for his benefit or stemming from the doctor’s respect for the proprieties. Either way, as a guest in the Colbert home, he could hardly persist with such an ungentlemanly line of inquiry.
Several anxious weeks passed before Zoe came skipping upstairs with the news that they would be leaving that night. The faithful Marie would be left with instructions to call the authorities in the morning and report the disappearance of her employer’s daughter. Eventually, Zoe said, Marie would rent out the house and go to stay with her married daughter in Tours.
Events followed her announcement so quickly that by the time Kit caught his breath, they were on a little trading vessel sneaking along the coast. He didn’t know how the doctor had got them past the inspection stops, but suspected it was a combination of hidden agents, well-forged documents, and bribery.
He had no opportunity to inquire. They had been at sea for only a little while before he was suffering from seasickness as he never had before the shooting, but he considered the queasiness a fair trade for leaving France with his head still attached to his body. The doctor established him in a swinging cot in a dim cubbyhole considerably less comfortable than his usual traveling arrangements, and gave him something to help him sleep through the adjustment.
Unfortunately, he never made the adjustment. He went on deck a time or two, hoping the change in air would help his body settle down, but it did not. The doctor’s best guess was that this was an unexpected complication of his head injury. Solid food would not stay down, and Kit became heartily weary of soup. After a week of nearly continual sickness, the doctor regretfully informed him that if time did not cure him, he might wish to avoid sea travel once he was back in England.
Getting back to England anytime soon was looking less likely by the day. The doctor had hoped to be stopped by some official British vessel and transfer his passenger aboard, but although they twice had sight of English ships, both were engaged in battle with Frenchmen, and the Captain of their vessel got them out of the way as quickly as he could. And so, with never an intention of going anywhere near the place, Kit found himself in the port city of Lisbon.
He saw very little of the town, although Zoe spent some hours in the shops and came back to the ship wearing a new dress—a simple thing, blue—and looking very pleased with herself. Kit complimented her on her appearance mostly because that was how he had been brought up. To him, she looked exquisite no matter what she wore, but he knew ladies set much store in having notice taken of their clothing.
The conference that brought them here involved only a dozen scientific gentlemen besides the two doctors and their host. It was held on a comfortable, rambling estate about an hour’s ride into the hills outside Lisbon. The landowner, Don Giraldo da Almansor, possessed a keen interest in natural science and philosophy, but his age and infirmity prevented him from exploring the world in search of new subjects. He had invited a group of medical and scientific gentlemen to hold their meeting at his home, and was voluble with gratitude for a packet of French Insectivora that the doctor had somehow preserved through their travels.
Don Giraldo’s estate produced grapes and olives, a combination of crops that required carefully tended rows of vines and long, winding paths shaded by dusty-green olive trees. The bright Mediterranean sun was warm and hospitable, and while the scientific gentlemen entertained themselves with the minutiae of living things, Kit spent several hours each day in Zoe’s company, wandering the rolling hills either on foot or in a little two-wheeled cart pulled by a patient, well-mannered donkey. As an invalid, Kit was apparently considered unable to misbehave—either that, or the widowed Don Giraldo ran a loose ship. Either way, it was a delight to wander about alone together.
Their perambulations were not aimless. They had been shown a vast collection of dead insects in a glass case, and Don Giraldo gave them a mission: to be aler
t for any such creatures that differed from those in the case and bring them back for examination.
Thus far, their search had produced only specimens like the ones they’d seen, though Kit doubted he would be able to tell any of them apart. They discovered that the trunks of olive trees were not only a splendid hunting ground for insects of all sorts, but were also pleasant to lean against, and the shade beneath was cool and restful.
Paris seemed a thousand miles away, England even farther. The days and weeks passed as in a dream. Kit could not think of a time in his life when he had been happier. And the more intimately he became acquainted with Zoe, the harder he found it to reconcile the well-mannered, slightly reserved doctor’s daughter with the forthcoming young woman who had propositioned him in no uncertain terms. Here, she seemed uncomfortable if he so much as held her hand. Seeing that he owed her his life, Kit certainly did not want to offend her in any way—but as his health and strength returned, so did his interest.
Finally, he mustered his courage as they picnicked in the olive groves. “Zoe, I know there are things I don’t remember. The doctor says I’ll probably never get them back. But there’s something I do remember with great fondness: one night shortly before my unfortunate accident.”
Her eyes were very grave. “Yes?”
“I—I had the impression that you liked me, it seemed, very much. And I certainly felt the same about you. I realize it’s a delicate question, but if I have inadvertently done anything to offend you—”
“Oh, Christophe, no.” Zoe shook her head. “You had been in Paris before that night, no? You saw how it was—people being denounced, the guillotine, the death. It was as if every day might be the last, every night. With such fear, one must pretend to be happy. My father was afraid to let me go to Angelique’s party, but finally he told me to be careful, and enjoy what I could of my youth.”
She touched his hand. “When you walked in, I said to Angelique, ‘Look at that beautiful young man!’ and I was so sad that we would never meet, that I would never live long enough to meet anyone, to marry and be a mother, a grandmother…. And Angelique, she said, ‘I will get him for you, chérie. You will have him this very night!’”
Zoe turned a becoming shade of pink. “I think the wine made me bold, Christophe, and Angelique—I could not believe what she did! If I had been by myself, I would never have dared.”
He took both her hands and kissed them. “Then God bless the vineyards of France. I owe Angelique more than I thought. I hope you were not—disappointed.”
“Oh, no!” The small, secret smile hidden by her lashes made him want to repeat the event immediately, with just the two of them. “But everything is different now, n’est-ce pas? It appears I will live. My father plans to settle in England, and I must be a credit to him. You warned me yourself that if….” She blushed. “If we were lovers, there might be a baby—”
“Yes, there might.” Kit found himself grinning like an idiot. For some reason the idea of Zoe having a baby—his baby!—filled him with glee. “Lots of babies. As many as you like.”
She blinked at him. “But think of my father, Christophe. I could not bring such shame upon him!”
“Darling, I see nothing shameful about a man and his wife making a baby!”
“Wife?”
“Well, concubines are generally frowned upon, at least in my family….”
“You—” Her lips parted but for a moment indignation left her speechless. “Christophe, you said nothing about a wife!”
“That’s because I haven’t got one, but I thought if you—if we—” He got no further. Zoe pushed him flat on the ground and kissed him with such ferocity he couldn’t think. By the time he collected himself, she stopped for a breath. “Zoe, for Heaven’s sake—”
“You—you English!” she said, and kissed him again.
He was ready for it this time, and it was a while before either of them came up for air. “I do apologize,” he said at the first opportunity. “Made a mess of it, but you should know I’ve never proposed marriage before—”
But this simply was not the time for a conversation; he decided to save the words for later and demonstrate his feelings more directly.
After a wholly delightful interval, he asked, hopefully, “May I take it your answer is yes?”
She ran a finger across his eyebrow, the one that now ended in a small, quirked scar. “If you can face your fine English ladies with a common French girl for a wife.”
“I’d hardly be the first,” he pointed out. “My cousin Reggie married an actress, for Heaven’s sake, and I will be much amazed if the emigrés in London do not add a great deal of joie de vivre to our English families. Besides, you are a most uncommon French girl. It may be more the knightly tradition to marry the damsel one has rescued, but I think that a damsel who can turn about and save her knight is a rare and wonderful lady.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you certain you would not someday want a more pretty, exciting woman, like Angelique?”
What in the world? “Angelique is in France. I hope she will be safe,” he said, sensing that this was one of those questions a man had to answer very carefully. “But I want a wife that I can trust—a partner in life, not a mere playmate.” It had been Zoe’s quick thinking and patient care that had kept him alive, after all. Kit silently thanked Venus and Cupid for giving him the sense to send Angelique off to play with Philip.
“You will not change your mind?”
Kit wished he could guess what was going on behind those big gray eyes. “Angelique is too wild and vivacious for me,” he said firmly. “She will have to find her own Englishman. I’m no Turkish prince, to service a seraglio. Two of you would exhaust my vital forces.”
She sat up and looked all around, then leaned back into the curve of his arm and put her lips very close to his ear. “How are your vital forces right now?”
Her breath tickled deliciously. “They’re very—very—vital.”
“Bon!” She busily began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Have we time, do you think? Will anyone see?”
He held her at arm’s length. “Zoe, for Heaven’s sake!”
“You do not want to make love? Christophe, that night was most wonderful. I have been waiting, I have tried so hard to behave respectably, but if we are to marry, I do not want to wait!” She had him unbuttoned and was busily tugging his shirt out of his trousers.
“What about babies?” he said, still trying to behave respectably. Her father trusted Kit not to seduce his daughter, but there were limits to anyone’s self-control.
“I want babies!” she said simply. “I want your babies!”
“My mother will adore you,” he said, trying to decide whether to catch her impertinent hands or help her get the trousers unbuttoned. How was any red-blooded man, however respectable, supposed to respond to a raven-haired beauty demanding the attention she so richly deserved?
Kit stood up just long enough to survey the countryside. The donkey was tethered nearby, grazing peacefully, the cart screened them on one side, some shrubbery on another, and they had the hill at their backs. If anyone approached, Zoe would have time to dart into cover, and they could claim she was answering a call of nature. Very well, then… if it was babies she wanted, it was his duty to help her achieve that laudable goal.
BUT THE long, lazy afternoons were drawing to a close. The day after his unconventional proposal, Kit was bereft of Zoe’s company; she found it necessary to travel to Lisbon with her father to visit the dressmaker she had seen when they’d arrived. He understood she wanted to be presentable in England and knew it would be a good thing if she looked her best when presented to the Dowager, but he grudged the lost time.
Before either of them was ready to leave, the conference was over and the doctor had made arrangements with another small boat that would get them out into the Channel. They bade a regretful farewell to Don Giraldo and his sunny estate with its many secluded trysting places.
Such a st
range courtship, Kit thought as they stood waiting for the shore boat. First that peculiar night together as strangers, then the honeymoon, and now, finally, they would sail home for the wedding. Assuming, of course, that he could find the courage to ask Dr. Colbert for his daughter’s hand!
It was not making the actual request that deterred him, but the circumstances. As far as he knew—and as far as Zoe herself knew—Dr. Colbert had not really opposed the Revolution. He had decided to leave when it became obvious that the rule of law had completely broken down, and anyone might be picked up and executed without any reason whatever. Dr. Colbert had never been anything but courteous to Kit, but for two people living under the same roof, they had spent remarkably little time in each other’s company.
What would this French citizen of a disordered Republic say to an aristo’s proposal of marriage to his daughter? The Revolution was a topic that everyone seemed to avoid; when either of the physicians said anything about it, their main regret seemed to be that it had failed. If Dr. Colbert felt strongly about the overthrow of aristocracy, Monsieur le Baron might be tossed out on his aristocratic ear for taking advantage of his position in the Colbert household—because of course Kit could not tell the man that the relationship between said Baron and his daughter had gone far past the point of no return. The presumption of bedding such a young girl, barely above the age of consent, might set Kit and his prospective father-in-law at pistol point, and that must be avoided at all costs.
Patience. He would have to have patience. Once back in England, Kit could pay courteous court to Mademoiselle Colbert, take her to the theater, go riding in the park, let her father become acquainted with the Dowager and other family members. When everything had settled down a bit, he could make the proposal in a decent way—if he could persuade Zoe to wait.