French Passion

by Briskin, Jacqueline;

“What’s going on here, you fat bastard?” the sailor demanded.

  “The lady’s trunk came untied, and when she cried out, I came in to help her.” He wrung his hands.

  “She scratched you for helping her? I’ll tell you what I think, you fat son-of-a-bitching bastard. I think your breeches came undone, not the trunk.”

  “The trunk did pin me down,” I whispered.

  The sailor glanced at the heavy trunk, saw the unlashed rope on the floor. “Here,” he said, handing Mr. Bullock the lantern, kneeling by me, his wet hands going impersonally over my arms and legs. “Nothing seems broken,” he said finally.

  “I’m enceinte … going to have a baby. I think it might’ve hurt me, the trunk. Is there a doctor on board?”

  “No doctor, but there’s another woman.”

  “My wife,” Mr. Bullock said, his kerchief over his cheek as he backed out the door. “She’s ill in her berth. Can’t come. Besides—only accusations if you do an act of Christian charity.”

  The door closed behind him.

  “What was that fat coward doing in here?” the sailor asked.

  A storm raged, and Mr. Bullock, a fat, terrified man, hadn’t meant to hurt me. Lust was his nepenthe, and he’d sought to obliterate his fears in my body.

  The pain was gone. I relaxed. Thank you, God, I thought. “He wasn’t doing anything, really,” I said.

  The sailor gave me a look of disbelief before helping me up the ladder to the railed bunk. He lashed down the baggage.

  “I best be getting back on deck,” he said. “You’ll be safe in here.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  He relit my lantern and was gone.

  My pelvis cramped, a mild cramp that soon ended. After a few minutes, though, another cramp started, tightening into pain. I gripped one of the protective bars, my nails digging into spoolwork. No, I thought wildly, no! These were the spaced pains I’d suffered during CoCo’s birth. I’d had a midwife and Aunt Thérèe tending me, Izette bringing me food and drink, Jean-Pierre wandering in and out of my lying-in, and always there were both of the Comte’s hard hands to grip.

  Now I was alone with the moving shadows cast by the crazily swaying lantern.

  The little boat wallowed desperately in mountainous waves and my premature labor worsened. As one particularly bad pain gripped me, I thought of that crowd milling beyond the iron fence of the Comte’s grounds. And in that moment I realized the crowd hadn’t gathered by random chance. The scene had been engineered by Goujon. He knew my terror of the mob—I’d told him myself. He had sent those hundreds of people for one purpose, and one purpose only. To throw me into hysteria. For then, he knew, the Comte would permit me to leave France.

  The pain tightened. I moaned.

  Goujon, his bearded face intent, had told me he could manage the Comte. I had never taken time to reflect on his means. Impetuous as always, I’d fled.

  Unwittingly, I’d fallen into Goujon’s scheme. The pain ended. Though the cabin was icy, perspiration beaded my forehead. I wanted this baby with all my heart. Yet in the most secret place of my being, I was aware that if I could turn back the clock, I would leave France again. Even knowing this tragic consequence, I would leave. Goujon had plotted for André. I would do anything for André.

  Time lost all meaning. A streak of lightening lit the blackness beyond the porthole, and I felt a great burst of agony. Warmth drenched my thighs.

  I had miscarried.

  I had lost my baby, lost the Comte’s only child.

  Through that endless night, the Dover Queen rose up on mountainous waves and wallowed in their depths. I folded my arms as if cradling a child, and, the storm tossing me from one side of the bunk to the other, I experienced the awesome guilt of a murderess.

  When we docked at Dover, two sailors came to unload my baggage. Seeing me, they ran for the captain, and he sent for a doctor.

  Two seamen carried me ashore on a litter. By now the wind had died to a crisp breeze, and through ragged, racing clouds a wan sun peeked. On the wharf I glimpsed Mr. Bullock. One buttery, unlined cheek was covered with a white plaster. A brief, hot rage engulfed me. If he hadn’t attacked me, if in the extremity of his terror he hadn’t dropped me so I fell across the cabin, my child would still be safe in my womb. Rage dissipated into numb weakness.

  I never again saw Mr. Bullock or his hatchet-faced, bony wife.

  The seamen carried me up to rooms in a hotel that faced the harbor. The doctor, who had accompanied us, asked if I had friends or relatives in England, and I gave him Jean-Pierre’s London address.

  After that I lay staring dry-eyed out the window. Gulls wheeled in an English sky. Emptiness is the only word to explain how I felt, inside me was so much emptiness.

  On the second day I tried to pray. In my terrible times, though, I have always seen God as vengeful, and this was no exception. I had left France out of love for a man who wasn’t my husband, and God, inflicting His awesome judgment, had taken my unborn child. Empty, I thought, empty, empty …

  On the third morning my door opened. Thinking it one of the fresh-faced serving girls, I turned.

  It was Jean-Pierre. His boots were muddy, his cape turned up over his ears. His cheeks blazed, and his eyes were glassy.

  I was out of bed and in his arms, and we were clutching each other like the lost, frightened orphans we once had been.

  “Manon, oh, Manon.”

  “Jean-Pierre, how I’ve missed you.”

  “I traveled all night on the mail. My poor little sister, what a sad happening.”

  “If there were one thing in this world I could sell my soul for, it would be for the Comte’s baby to be safe. I’m guilty, Jean-Pierre, so guilty.”

  “Hush, hush. The storm wasn’t your fault.”

  “I … I’m not here just to see you. I came away because of André.”

  “Égalité?”

  “If I’d stayed … something bad … would have happened to him.”

  “Hush,” Jean-Pierre repeated.

  “Losing the baby’s my punishment.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Jean-Pierre said. “In any case, I have you with me.”

  He began coughing violently. His cheek was hot, abnormally so. He had a high fever. Frantic as always during his illnesses, I rang the bell, and when the maid came, I rushed her off to get the doctor. I dressed, rang again for hot mustard plasters to put on Jean-Pierre’s susceptible chest.

  I pushed my grieving emptiness aside and set about nursing my brother.

  My dearest dear,

  When you are home, I will hold you while you weep, and then we will make other babies.…

  My dearest husband,

  I cannot return yet. My brother is gravely ill.…

  Your brother is always ill.…

  I have brought Jean-Pierre to London. The doctors fear consumption.…

  It is not in my nature to plead, so this is an order. Come home.…

  Please, please, come to me.…

  Comtesse,

  Since you refuse to act as a wife, I no longer act as a husband. Lloyd’s Bank has orders to grant you no further money drafts. My solicitors, Camberwell and Camberwell, have received orders to watch you. If there is infidelity on your part, you will be imprisoned according to British law. Your brother’s malingering repels me. I shall honor no more of his gambling debts.

  Comte,

  Jean-Pierre has coughed blood. This past three months the doctors have not permitted him to leave his bed, therefore he has no gambling winnings or losings. For my part, I assure you I would rather starve than accept your money.…

  I received no letter during that hot rose-scented English August, nor during the warm September.

  My dear husband,

  I apologize for my last letter. It was written in anger. Jean-Pierre recovers slowly. Please, please come to me. Otherwise I shall visit you.

  My dear Comtesse,

  You are not to return. The situation worsens,
and I do not allow you here. Should you disobey, I shall not see you. However, I have given orders that Lloyd’s Bank pay you whatever sum you—and your brother—need to live in accordance with your station.…

  Reading the letter on a foggy December morning, the Comte’s words seemed cold. To me, they were colder by far than the earlier letter, which obviously had been written during one of his uncontrollable rages.

  I didn’t pursue the idea of visiting. That same chill morning I discarded all thoughts of returning to France. If André discovered I was there, he might vent his anger on me and that would bring disaster on him. England was a harbor from the rage of the two so different men who loved me. I gazed musingly down at the dominant strokes of the Comte’s writing. It was the coldness of his words that made me wonder: Did either the Comte or André still love me?

  Chapter Fourteen

  I stepped back, holding up my paintbrush, squinting along it at the large, somewhat bulky yet handsome man with florid cheeks and boyishly clear Saxon blue eyes.

  He was Sir Robert Gill, one of the five hundred and forty baronets in England allowed to add Sir to his first name and to transmit his title to his children—should he marry and father them. He was a bachelor. I was painting his portrait.

  July, 1792. In September it would be two years since I’d taken any of the Comte’s money, and I earned my living doing full canvas portraits and watercolor sketches of the lesser nobility.

  “Well?” Sir Robert asked. “What’s your answer? Say you’ll come down to Foxwarren, Mademoiselle d’Epinay.”

  I used my maiden name. It seemed easier for a number of reasons. Jean-Pierre, who lived with me, and I shared the name: I didn’t have to explain why I had emigrated to England without my husband; most important, it somehow made the past with its tragedies less real to me.

  “You know I can’t accept that kind of invitation.”

  The hearty red-cheeked face sagged in disappointment. “A weekend party? And, by God, a decent one? My mother makes her home at Foxwarren, and she never sleeps, she’s a drum major by night, patrolling the corridors.”

  I laughed.

  “Mademoiselle d’Epinay, you have the most delightful laughter in the world.”

  “Even if it signifies no?”

  Again he looked disappointed. His broad shoulders slumped.

  “Sir Robert,” I said in a gentle voice, “please get back in your pose. Otherwise I’ll never finish this portrait.”

  “Dash it all, I don’t want you to finish.”

  “I need to earn my living. I know that’s déclassé, but—”

  “Déclassé doesn’t apply to émigrés, especially lovely ones like you.”

  And with this he lifted his large, round chin, gazing over my right shoulder. His pose.

  My easel and Sir Robert’s chair stood in the bay window. Behind me were the narrow doors leading to two tiny bed chambers, mine and Jean-Pierre’s. The living room-studio was shabbily furnished with oak chairs squatting on either side of the scarred dropleaf table, a lumbering Welsh dresser, and a heavy settle. I’d managed to brighten this drabness with great bowls of late daffodils and blue irises, as well as my bright watercolors of St. James’s Park—from this open window I could see the park’s spreading summer greenery.

  I daubed red paint onto Sir Robert’s portrait. It was Monsieur Sancerre who had started me on this career. The couturier, following his customers into exile, had immediately drawn a large clientele from the English gentry. Realizing I would need money, I’d asked him to let me again do his design sketches. I must earn my keep, I’d explained, but I have to watch my brother, he’s bedridden at the moment. Monsieur Sancerre had pointed out I could far more profitably do portraits in my lodgings. And then—good, kindly soul that he was—he had proceeded to advertise me to his new clients as a well-known painter to the French Court. Since my portraits endowed the thick-ankled, dowdy English ladies with the grace and charm of Frenchwomen, I rapidly became quite popular. I painted the ladies alone, I painted them with their sisters and mothers, with their children. None brought a husband. You’re far too pretty, one had told me quite frankly.

  Sir Robert had been referred to me through his sister, a stout, jolly young widow.

  I earned a reasonable living. Jean-Pierre had attempted three times to tutor, but each time in less than a week at the job he had relapsed into coughing spells, and I, fearing consumption, had pleaded with him to recuperate longer. Later you’ll earn for both of us, I’d said. So he’d fallen into the habit of haunting the cafés patronized by his friends, the émigrés.

  Personally I avoided our aristocratic countrymen. Despite their misfortunes, they retained their supercilious pride. I had insisted Jean-Pierre keep my marriage a secret—how could I shame a man like the Comte by letting his old friends know his wife worked? My reputation as a faithless courtesan had preceded me. The few times my brother coaxed me to meet his friends, the ladies whispered audibly about me, and the men made lewd advances.

  Yet I couldn’t hate the émigrés. News from home was getting worse, and daily they heard of relatives and friends being thrown into prison. Their money had been confiscated. They had to scrounge a living from the English, whom they privately scorned as barbarians.

  Despite my circumscribed life, though, I was happy. I had my brother. And, unfeminine as this may sound, I took much satisfaction in earning my own keep. The plain, solid English gentlewomen who sat for me were friendly, and their pink-cheeked offspring delightful. Evenings, Jean-Pierre and I would play dominoes or sing duets. If he went to gatherings of émigrés, I wrote letters to the Comte, who never replied, to Goujon, who answered spasmodically, and to Izette. Last December a miracle had happened. Izette had answered me herself. She had joined one of those new clubs, where women met like men, and another of the members had taught her her letters. From Goujon and Izette as well as poring through The Chronicle of London and The Courier, I gleaned French news. The King had signed the Constitution. André had become yet more important in the Assembly, where he was called The Incorruptible. This brought me great if sad pleasure.

  The front door closed. I stopped painting, hoping as the steps moved upstairs that they belonged to my brother. But the sound continued upward. It was another lodger.

  Sir Robert was looking inquiringly at me.

  “I’m expecting Captain d’Epinay,” I explained. “That wasn’t he.”

  “If your brother would join you in Foxwarren, would you come down?”

  I bit my lip, hesitating. A weekend out of sooty London would do Jean-Pierre a world of good. And, to be absolutely frank, I’d been so long without a party that the idea was very attractive. So why didn’t I assent? The answer was simple. I’d remained faithful to the Comte. And Sir Robert obviously had designs on me. Naturally it never occurred to me that this bluff, hearty English gentleman wanted more than a casual liaison. How could a baronet align himself with a penniless French girl déclassé enough to earn her own living in a manner that more befitted the male sex?

  “This weekend’s fairly important to me,” Sir Robert said with elaborate casualness. “I want you to see Foxwarren.”

  Stretching his arms over his head, he came behind me to examine his likeness. I was very conscious of the warmth of his large body. A voice inside me whispered: Why don’t you go on this weekend party, let this large full-blooded Englishman make love to you? I knew the answer to this question, too. One word. Honor. My body’s needs and aches were no reason to betray honor.

  “So that’s how you see me,” Sir Robert said. “Red-cheeked and jolly.”

  “It’s how the world sees you,” I replied, moving a bit away to wash my brushes in a cup of flax oil. My hands weren’t quite steady.

  He said, “On my way out last time I met Captain d’Epinay. We had a brandy. He mentioned you were orphaned early, and your guardian was a Comte de Créqui, King Louis’”—he said Lewis, as the English do—“most trusted adviser. The name rang a little bell in
my mind. I spoke to Mother. She remembered Father talking about a General de Créqui who’d fought in the Seven Years’ War. Very brave, this de Créqui, she said. Never surrendered. Never retreated. Your guardian?”

  I nodded, blushing, furious at Jean-Pierre for mentioning the Comte.

  “Bad form, prying. You French have such delicate manners. De Créqui, Mother recalled, came from one of the great French families.”

  I said nothing.

  “His funds must have been confiscated, then? Otherwise he surely would help you?”

  “As you said, Sir Robert, we French have delicate manners, and when a question is impolite, we remain silent.” I softened my curtness with a smile.

  Again the front door opened, and this time Jean-Pierre’s step came to our door, which I flung open. My brother had gained a little weight, yet he was still dangerously delicate. His cheeks no longer had those hectic circles. I worried a lot about him.

  After the bows and greetings, I cried, “Jean-Pierre, you should have worn your heavier suit.”

  “In July?” my brother replied.

  He and Sir Robert exchanged smiles so masculinely lofty that I had to smile, too.

  “Well, Sir Robert, has my pretty little sister finished you?”

  “Utterly and completely,” Sir Robert replied. “Not my portrait, understand. Captain d’Epinay, will you accept my invitation, you and Mademoiselle d’Epinay, to spend this weekend next at Foxwarren? My place in Sussex. Mother and I are having guests.”

  Jean-Pierre turned to me, his fine features aglow with eagerness. He’d always enjoyed gaiety, excitement, and since he’d left Versailles, his life had been threadbare dull. I moved my shoulders in a tiny shrug. If you wish, the gesture said.

  “We’ll be happy to come to Foxwarren,” Jean-Pierre said. “Does the public diligence pass near?”

  Sir Robert replied, “Of course I meant for you to go down with me, in my carriage. Friday at one?”

  Jean-Pierre glanced at me, and I glanced at my large appointment sheet. There were no sittings for Friday.

  “One is perfect,” I said, my voice bubbling. All at once I was excited. Jean-Pierre and I shared the d’Epinay pleasure-loving streak. How long had it been since I was at a real party? Years. Not since my salon. In my excitement and hapipness I thought: I just won’t let myself be alone with Sir Robert, that’s all.