“Vivienne, how you pale. Have you seen a ghost?” Sebastien asked.
A ghost indeed. The apparition of a monarchy which lived or died in the body of one person: Louis-Charles. She fought to keep from looking again at Henri. “I’m just tired.”
“You work too hard. Would you not prefer a life in which you have no need?” A bell tinkled above the door as Sebastien opened it, and Henri slipped out ahead of Vivienne. “A life which includes a partner with whom to raise the child?” He caught her hand.
Wariness crept through her as she studied the youthful shine of his face, the pomaded black hair in its queue. The hand squeezing hers was distastefully smooth compared to the gentle calluses she remembered on Liam’s. She tugged Sebastien outside where Henri waited, but he would not let go of her.
The door slammed shut behind him. “Every boy needs a father, and this one deserves one even more. If he’s to be a leader of men—”
“And if he is not?” Vienne pulled her hand free. “If he is an ordinary boy, what would he deserve then?”
“So he is not . . . ?”
Exasperated, she broke from Sebastien to close the distance separating her from Henri, who lingered at the corner ahead. Scuffing the toe of his shoe at a broken brick, he swung Bucephalus behind him. Henri’s golden head lifted when a man in sailor’s clothing addressed him. The boy responded to the stranger with a bright smile and French words.
A French sailor? Her pulse quickened. This close to the river, the smell of oysters and rum breezed in from Water Street, and she could hear sea gulls crying, could imagine them plunging into the water to snatch their prey. Her hastening steps were muted by a mat of fallen leaves. “Henri,” she called, a tocsin sounding between her ears. How had he gotten so far from her already?
He turned and waved. “I get to see his boat! But I have to do it right now, he says, because—”
A yank, and the child disappeared.
“No!” But it was only a whisper and not the scream she heard in her mind. Panic exploded in her chest. “Stop!” Fisting her skirt, she ran toward the alley, but Sebastien darted past her, hurling himself into the shadows after Henri and the man who had taken him.
Breathless, she reached the alley’s edge and saw the boy being dragged by his elbow through drifts of spotting yellow leaves, his thin legs buckling from a pace he could not match. “Mademoiselle?” His small voice pierced her to the core.
“Halt! Unhand him!” Sebastien’s shouts ricocheted between walls that seemed to be closing in. Barely slowing his stride, he snatched an empty wooden crate from the ground and launched it. It crashed into the man’s head, stunning him enough that he let go of his prize. Henri staggered to a halt, and the sailor hesitated, eyeing him, but then sprinted toward the end of the alley. Sebastien gave chase.
“Henri!” Vienne shouted, running toward him.
His white silk stockings gleamed among the shadows as he scampered toward her as fast as his legs would allow. Kneeling in the dirt, she captured him to her, and he collapsed on her lap, panting.
“He seemed nice,” Henri whispered against her neck. Her shoulder grew damp with his tears. “He spoke French, you see, and I thought it would be nice to see his ship.”
“Oh, Henri!” Vienne pressed a kiss to his hair. “You must never go off with a stranger.”
“But you were very close by.”
She shook her head. “Never again. Do you understand me?”
He nodded, and she held him close, her heartbeat thundering. She had come so close to losing him.
“I lost him.” Sebastien loomed over her suddenly, for she had not heard or seen him approach. “He’s probably hiding under a dock or in a grog shop somewhere. I’m sorry. But the important thing is that Henri is safe.” He helped Vivienne to her feet. “Do you see what I mean, now? That was no random attempt. Faith! If I hadn’t been here . . .”
“Yes, thank you. I am grateful.” She struggled for composure.
“Can you keep him safe, Vivienne?” Doubt infused his tone. “This is important. He is important. And we are not the only ones who know it.”
Vienne recalled the heated exchange between herself and Henri in the tavern cellar. Any number of the kitchen staff could have repeated the story afterward. This was how rumors took flight, scattering like seed in the wind.
“Oh no. Bucephalus!” Henri wailed. “He took my horse!”
Dread rattled through her. Whoever had tried to abduct him now possessed evidence that possibly, quite possibly, the young king of France was in Philadelphia.
Inside their pension garret at last, Vienne locked the door, then turned and leaned against it. Henri curled on his side on his bed, face blotchy from crying over the loss of his favorite toy.
Crossing the room, she knelt beside the bed and placed a hand on his back, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his shuddering breath. “I’m sorry you lost Bucephalus, mon cher.”
“I didn’t lose him. He was taken from me, which is ten times worse.”
“Yes, that is worse,” she agreed. “But do you know what would have been the very worst of all? The worst thing that could happen to me?”
He blinked at her, and one more tear rolled down his nose. “What?” he whispered.
“If you had been taken from me.” Slowly, she rubbed his back.
“Oh. Would you have cried, too? Even more than you already did?”
“Like a river.” She smiled, eyes burning.
“For me?”
“Of course.” Her hand moved up to his collar, and she fingered the lace. “Henri, do you know why that man tried to take you? Any idea why he chose you among all the other children today?”
“No.”
She dropped her hand to her lap. “You have heard the stories all over the city that young Louis-Charles is not imprisoned, but hiding somewhere else, no? And stories that say he is here in America. Perhaps even in this city.”
His face revealed nothing.
“Do you know, some people might even believe he is you?” She waited a moment, watching him, ready to catch any flicker of expression that might offer some clue. “You are wearing his collar today. I made it myself. And I cannot forget that you once told me that your name is really Louis. Please, you can trust me. But it’s important that we are honest with each other, so I can take care of you in the way you need. I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you, please, to answer me.”
He nodded, pushing the hair back from his brow.
She rolled her lips between her teeth and folded her hands. “Are you Louis-Charles, the son of Marie Antoinette? Are you Louis XVII, the king of France?”
“Would you love me more if I were?” His composure crumbled, and he pulled his knees under his chin. “Would you love me more if I were king? Or less, because I could not belong to you, after all?”
“I love you either way,” Vivienne gasped, devastated that he should even wonder if his value came from his parents. Was this what he had learned from her and Sebastien? That Henri could win or lose their affections based on his answer to their questions? Fearing that she’d just pushed him further away, she sat beside him and drew him into her arms. “I love you,” she said again, “no matter what.”
But I still don’t know who you are. Prayers for help spiraled through her as she held him, but she could think of no other words to say.
A knock sounded. “Vivienne?” Paulette’s voice floated through the door. “You have a caller.”
Vienne crossed to the door and opened it. “Thank you, Paulette, but would you please tell Monsieur Lemoine that we are tired after our outing and wish to rest instead?”
Paulette’s eyebrow quirked up with the corner of her mouth. “I would do that if it were Monsieur Lemoine calling. A Mr. Delaney for you. Says he’s sorry he can’t wait till tomorrow at the tavern, but he’s got something to say to you now. You and Henri both.”
Vienne glanced over her shoulder at Henri, who climbed out of bed, pulling at his
shirt to straighten it. “All right,” she told the maid. “We’ll meet him in the parlor in a moment, thank you.”
After washing the tears from their faces, Vivienne and Henri went downstairs.
Liam stood when he saw them, hat in his hands. “What happened?” He waved his hat at her skirt.
She had completely forgotten that she’d soiled her gown when she knelt in the alley with Henri. She pressed a hand to her aching head.
“Sit.” Liam waited until she and Henri sat on the sofa, then hung his black tricorn hat on the stand and lowered himself into an armchair. He leaned forward before clasping his hands between his knees. “Tell me.”
With her arm around Henri’s shoulders, Vivienne briefed Liam in whispered tones and watched a fire kindle in his eyes.
“Well, that was exciting, wasn’t it?” His words to Henri were buoyant, but his tone—and the color flaming in his cheeks—betrayed his concern. “You’re all right?”
Henri’s chin bobbed. “But he took my horse.”
Liam clicked his tongue. “A dastardly thing to do. Every man needs his horse, eh, lad?” He leaned back, his broad shoulders looking out of place against Madame’s doily-topped velvet armchair. His gaze shifted back to Vienne. “And you? How are you?”
The clock ticked loudly on the mantel. A blade of sun struck between the curtains and across the parlor, landing on a beveled glass decanter on the table between them. Prisms of rainbowed light trembled high on the toile-papered walls.
“Vienne?” Liam asked again.
“Pardon me,” she breathed. “I am not myself quite yet. But there was something you came to tell us?”
“To be sure. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, early.”
She had expected this. It was the personal good-bye that surprised her. “You must be looking forward to getting home.”
“I am, indeed. But that won’t be where I’m headed.” He squeezed his hands into fists. “I’m going west. With the army that will put down the insurrectionaries.”
“The whiskey rebels?” she clarified at the unfamiliar word, and he nodded. “But I thought—”
“Are they like revolutionaries?” Henri interrupted, crushing a fold of Vienne’s skirt in his small hand. “Watch out for them, Mr. Delaney. Please.”
“I will take care,” Liam assured him.
He had not said he would be fine. Vivienne told Henri to say his good-byes and wait for her upstairs in their room. When she could no longer hear his faint tread on the steps, she turned her focus to the man before her. “I thought you were on their side. Isn’t Finn a whiskey rebel?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. I’ve been called up for militia service, and I cannot refuse.” He explained what his role would be, and how his land would be managed in the months of his absence.
“There will be fighting, then.” Vienne’s fingers worried the furbelows on her sleeve.
“I pray not. But likely so.” He stood, his message thus delivered. “Keep Tara in line for me while I’m away.”
Dazed by his brevity, she rose, as well, standing in his shadow as she smoothed the wrinkles from her filthy gown. “We will pray for your safety and well-being.”
“And I will pray for yours.” He retrieved his hat and tapped it against his leg. “I want you to remember something while I’m gone. That boy upstairs is a child of the King—the only King that matters—no matter who his parents were. And so are you.”
His tender words drew a knot to Vivienne’s chest, and a burn to her eyes. Nodding, she attempted a smile.
He settled his hat into place, lips pressed tight as if there were more he might say, but wouldn’t. Then he left, releasing a flock of hopes and fears inside her.
Chapter Sixteen
Philadelphia
October 1794
Henri put a pillow over his head when Paulette knocked on the door and quietly called his name. Surely she knew by now that he wouldn’t be coming down for breakfast. Ever. The longer he stayed in bed in the morning, the shorter the wait, it seemed, until Vivienne came home.
The knocking stopped, and Henri pushed the pillow aside to look out the window. Bare branches tapped the glass, as persistent as the maid, while wind haunted the pension with the sighs and whispers of a hundred ghosts.
Shuddering, Henri reached beneath the sheets to draw Bucephalus close, then remembered afresh that this small comfort was gone, like so many other things. He was ten now and shouldn’t need a child’s toy, but the truth was, he missed it desperately. Naming the horse Bucephalus after Alexander the Great’s famous horse had been his father’s idea. But the gift also reminded him of his mother—it had carried her scent, or the memory of it. Years ago she’d sprayed her perfume on its velvet for him until the fabric was nearly drenched. It made him choke at first, but after its potency mellowed, the smell sank him into calm, like a stone in deep water.
Without it, he felt himself folding inward. Sometimes he hated that about himself. He knew Vivienne would be pleased if he let her in. Still, he’d been trained to build a cage about himself and found that he could not find the key to unlock it. Not yet, anyway. But oh, how lonely was this secret place of his own making.
A pain unfolded in his belly, but it wasn’t hunger. Cringing, he turned onto his side, curling into a ball. Teeth clenched, he had to fight not to hold his breath. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Sweat dampened his forehead with the effort of merely breathing until the pain passed. It made him feel so weak.
Moments passed, or maybe minutes, and then he swung his legs over the bed and hopped to the floor. In the corner of the garret room, Henri knelt in his nightdress and swept his hand over the floorboards until his finger caught in a small hollow knot in the wood. With one more glance toward the door, he yanked up the board and set it aside. His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he fished out a small velvet bag. Plucking it open, he poured the contents into his palm and smiled.
He didn’t feel weak anymore.
Taking it out like this, handling it, even just to look at it—Maman had said it would be dangerous. But she’d been so often afraid, and the signet ring of Louis XVI was the last treasure he possessed. The gold was so heavy in his hand, and yet he felt a lifting in his spirit, a sense of something important. He wondered when it would be safe to go back to France and be who he was supposed to be, and who would take him.
Outside the pension, the sky was bleak and gray, with wind that grabbed the trees and shook them. But contained in Henri’s palm, the ring glowed golden, the color of sunshine. It was a symbol of power, and the promise of power to come. But most important, it held the fingerprints of his mother, who had touched it last. He tried to remember what Maman was like before the revolution had changed her. She’d been happy to see him and quick to laugh. Her smile had been the sun that lit his days. Closing his eyes, he slipped the ring over his thumb and tried to believe that cool touch was his mother, holding his hand.
But of course it wasn’t.
He returned the ring to its hiding place, and the snap of the floorboard back in its place felt to him like the snipping of a bond that was not meant to break.
Henri still missed Bucephalus. Rising, he went to wash his face at the basin and peered at his reflection in the mirror. His throat hurt, he noticed. He must be getting sick.
Allegheny Mountains, Pennsylvania
October 21, 1794
Rain poured in sheets from the sky, plastering Liam’s shirt to his body. Drenched and shivering, he rode Shadow, the gray horse secured for his use, in a long line of soldiers through ankle-deep mud. Towering rocks and ancient pines would have dimmed the narrow mountain pass in daylight even without the rain. It was well that Washington had returned to Philadelphia already. This terrain would not have been kind to the sixty-two-year-old president, whose back was already stiff from decades of riding.
This left Alexander Hamilton in charge of the troops.
Shadow stumbled on a rock in the path, and Liam d
ipped with the borrowed horse, bracing himself for a bumpy ride down the east side of the mountain. “Easy, boy.” He poured all the calm he could muster into his voice, and Shadow regained his footing. The poor beast was ill-used, with as little to eat as the men. Some horses had fallen in the mud and simply never gotten up again.
Alex rode directly in front of Liam on the path. As he stared at Alex’s back, he could scarcely conjure a charitable thought.
Hamilton’s army was a joke. No, worse. It was a disgrace, and everyone knew it. Nicknamed the Watermelon Army, much to their chagrin, it was made up of men from Virginia, New Jersey, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. Gentlemen officers itching for a battle and the subsequent glory, and militiamen, most of whom were inexperienced and undisciplined. In Carlisle, soldiers had accidentally killed two civilians—an innocent boy and a tavern drunk. Rations were days behind them, if they were coming at all, and Liam, like the rest of the army, was desperate for food and decent clothing.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and lightning split the sky. Night was falling. In the mountains, that meant utter darkness would be upon them all too soon.
“We gonna stop for the night?” a soldier called from behind. “Or do you intend for us to plunge to our eternal sleep instead?”
A series of echoes followed, but Liam ignored them. He was tasked with protecting Hamilton from those who would harm him, and it was not his job to answer. Besides, he was in no mood to waste breath pointing out the obvious—there was simply no place to stop, unless they wanted to sleep in the mud where they were.
Finally, the grade leveled somewhat beneath Shadow’s hooves.
“There!” Alex called out, pointing up ahead, where the path turned. Beyond it, hovels crouched between oak and sugar maple, chestnut and birch trees. Army horses were tied to the trunks, and wheeled carts sat beside them, ready to be loaded. Alex turned to Liam. “I see the quartermaster corps has paved the way for us.”
No doubt they had. Washington had given strict parameters that there should be no illegal plundering of civilian property, so Alex had made it legal. “If we don’t impress it, either the army will starve or take to thieving. What choice do I have?” he had said. And so instead of the soldiers going hungry for the journey, these mountain people would starve for the winter, for the army went through their provisions like a plague of locusts.
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