“Look,” I said, “if you want to stay here, I’ll go up to the château and tell Berta or Maurice that you’re here.”
The poor man was nothing but skin, bones, and eyes. Everything he thought was reflected in those large, gentle brown orbs. Right now, he was plainly thinking that whoever had tried to burn me at the stake had been on the right track.
“I have heard,” he began slowly, reaching for a fresh grip on his crucifix, “of an Englishwoman whom the Parisians call ‘La Dame Blanche.’ An associate of Raymond the Heretic.”
I sighed. “That’s me. Though I’m not an associate of Master Raymond’s, I don’t think. He’s just a friend.” Seeing him squint doubtfully at me, I inhaled again. “Pater Noster …”
“No, no, Madame, please.” To my surprise, he had lowered the crucifix, and was smiling.
“I also am an acquaintance of Master Raymond’s, whom I knew in Geneva. There he was a reputable physician and herbalist. Now, alas, I fear that he has turned to darker pursuits, though of course nothing was proved.”
“Proved? About what? And what’s all this about Raymond the Heretic?”
“You did not know?” Thin brows lifted over the brown eyes. “Ah. Then you are not associated with Master Raymond’s … activities.” He relaxed noticeably.
“Activity” seemed like a poor description for the way in which Raymond had healed me, so I shook my head.
“No, but I wish you’d tell me. Oh, but I shouldn’t be standing here talking; I should go and send Berta with food.”
He waved a hand, with some dignity.
“It is of no urgency, Madame. The appetites of the body are of no importance when weighed against the appetites of the soul. And Catholic or not, you have been kind to me. If you are not now associated with Master Raymond’s occult activities, then it is right that you should be warned in time.”
And ignoring the dirt and the splintered boards of the floor, he folded his legs and sat down against the wall of the shed, gracefully motioning me also to sit. Intrigued, I collapsed opposite him, tucking up the folds of my skirt to keep them from dragging in the manure.
“Have you heard of a man named du Carrefours, Madame?” the Pastor said. “No? Well, his name is well known in Paris, I assure you, but you would do well not to speak it. This man was the organizer and the leader of a ring of unspeakable vice and depravity, in association with the most debased occult practices. I cannot bring myself to mention to you some of the ceremonies that were performed in secret among the nobility. And they call me a witch!” he muttered, almost under his breath.
He raised one bony forefinger, as though to forestall my unspoken objection.
“I am aware, Madame, of the sort of gossip that is commonly spread, without reference to fact—who should know it better than we? But the activities of du Carrefours and his followers—these are a matter of common knowledge, for he was tried for them, imprisoned, and eventually burned in the Place de la Bastille as punishment for his crimes.”
I remembered Raymond’s light remark, “No one’s been burned in Paris in—oh, twenty years at least,” and shuddered, in spite of the warm weather.
“And you say that Master Raymond was associated with this du Carrefours?”
The Pastor frowned, scratching absently at his matted beard. He likely had both lice and fleas, I thought, and tried to move back imperceptibly.
“Well, it is difficult to say. No one knows where Master Raymond came from; he speaks several tongues, all without noticeable accent. A very mysterious man, Master Raymond, but—I would swear by the name of my God—a good one.”
I smiled at him. “I think so, too.”
He nodded, smiling, but then grew serious as he resumed his story. “Just so, Madame. Still, he corresponded with du Carrefours from Geneva; I know this, for he told me so himself—he supplied various substances to order: plants, elixirs, the dried skins of animals. Even a sort of fish—a most peculiar and frightening thing, which he told me was brought up from the darkest depths of the sea; a horrible thing, all teeth, with almost no flesh—but with the most horrifying small … lights … like tiny lanterns, beneath its eyes.”
“Really,” I said, fascinated.
Pastor Laurent shrugged. “All this may be quite innocent, of course, a mere matter of business. But he disappeared from Geneva at the same time that du Carrefours came at first under suspicion—and within weeks of du Carrefours’s execution, I had begun to hear stories that Master Raymond had established his business in Paris, and that he had taken over a number of du Carre-fours’s clandestine activities as well.”
“Hmm,” I said. I was thinking of Raymond’s inner room, and the cabinet painted with Cabbalistic signs. To keep out those who believed in them. “Anything else?”
The Reverend Laurent’s eyebrows arched skyward.
“No, Madame,” he said, rather weakly. “Nothing else, to my knowledge.”
“Well, I’m really not given to that sort of thing myself,” I assured him.
“Oh? Good,” he said, hesitantly. He sat silently for a moment, as though making up his mind about something, then inclined his head courteously toward me.
“You will pardon me if I intrude, Madame? Berta and Maurice have told me something of your loss. I am sorry, Madame.”
“Thank you,” I said, staring at the stripes of sunlight on the floor.
There was another silence, then Pastor Laurent said delicately, “Your husband, Madame? He is not here with you?”
“No,” I said, still keeping my eyes on the floor. Flies lighted momentarily, then zoomed off, finding no nourishment. “I don’t know where he is.”
I didn’t mean to say any more, but something made me look up at the ragged little preacher.
“He cared more for his honor than he did for me or his child or an innocent man,” I said bitterly. “I don’t care where he is; I never want to see him again!”
I stopped abruptly, shaken. I had not put it into words before, even to myself. But it was true. There had been a great trust between us, and Jamie had broken it, for the sake of revenge. I understood; I had seen the power of the thing that drove him, and knew it couldn’t be denied forever. But I had asked for a few months’ grace, which he had promised me. And then, unable to wait, he had broken his word, and by so doing, sacrificed everything that lay between him and me. Not only that: He had jeopardized the undertaking in which we were engaged. I could understand, but I would not forgive.
Pastor Laurent laid a hand on mine. It was grimy with crusted dirt, and his nails were broken and black-edged, but I didn’t draw away. I expected platitudes or a homily, but he didn’t speak, either; just held my hand, very gently, for a long time, as the sun moved across the floor and the flies buzzed slow and heavy past our heads.
“You had better go,” he said at last, releasing my hand. “You will be missed.”
“I suppose so.” I drew a deep breath, feeling at least steadier, if not better. I felt in the pocket of my gown; I had a small purse with me.
I hesitated, not wanting to offend him. After all, by his lights I was a heretic, even if not a witch.
“Will you let me give you some money?” I asked carefully.
He thought for a moment, then smiled, the light-brown eyes glowing.
“On one condition, Madame. If you will allow me to pray for you?”
“A bargain,” I said, and gave him the purse.
27
AN AUDIENCE WITH HIS MAJESTY
As the days passed at Fontainebleau, I gradually regained my bodily strength, though my mind continued to drift, my thoughts shying away from any sort of memory or action.
There were few visitors; the country house was a refuge, where the frenetic social life of Paris seemed like one more of the uneasy dreams that haunted me. I was surprised, then, to have a maid summon me to the drawing room to meet a visitor. The thought crossed my mind that it might be Jamie, and I felt a surge of dizzy sickness. But then reason reasserted itself;
Jamie must have left for Spain by now; he could not possibly return before late August. And when he did?
I couldn’t think of it. I pushed the idea into the back of my mind, but my hands shook as I fastened my laces to go downstairs.
Much to my surprise, the “visitor” was Magnus, the butler from Jared’s Paris house.
“Your pardon, Madame,” he said, bowing deeply when he saw me. “I did not wish to presume … but I could not tell whether perhaps the matter was of importance … and with the master gone …” Lordly in his own sphere of influence, the old man was badly discomposed by being so far afield. It took some time to extract a coherent story from him, but at length a note was produced, folded and sealed, addressed to me.
“The hand is that of Monsieur Murtagh,” Magnus said, in a tone of half-repugnant awe. That explained his hesitance, I thought. The servants in the Paris house all regarded Murtagh with a sort of respectful horror, which had been exaggerated by reports of the events in the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré.
It had come to the Paris house two weeks earlier, Magnus explained. Unsure what to do with it, the servants had dithered and conferred, but at length, he had decided that it must be brought to my attention.
“The master being gone,” he repeated. This time I paid attention to what he was saying.
“Gone?” I said. The note was crumpled and stained from its journey, light as a leaf in my hand. “You mean Jamie left before this note arrived?” I could make no sense of this; this must be Murtagh’s note giving the name and sailing date of the ship that would bear Charles Stuart’s port from Lisbon. Jamie could not have left for Spain before receiving the information.
As though to verify this, I broke the seal and unfolded the note. It was addressed to me, because Jamie had thought there was less chance of my mail being intercepted than his. From Lisbon, dated nearly a month before, the letter boasted no signature, but didn’t need one.
“The Scalamandre sails from Lisbon on the 18th of July” was all the note said. I was surprised to see what a small, neat hand Murtagh wrote; somehow I had been expecting a formless scrawl.
I looked up from the paper to see Magnus and Louise exchanging a very odd kind of look.
“What is it?” I said abruptly. “Where’s Jamie?” I had put down his absence from L’Hôpital des Anges after the miscarriage to his guilt at the knowledge that his reckless action had killed our child, had killed Frank, and had nearly cost me my life. At that point, I didn’t care; I didn’t want to see him, either. Now I began to think of another, more sinister explanation for his absence.
It was Louise who spoke at last, squaring her plump shoulders to the task.
“He’s in the Bastille,” she said, taking a deep breath. “For dueling.”
My knees felt watery, and I sat down on the nearest available surface.
“Why in hell didn’t you tell me?” I wasn’t sure what I felt at this news; shock, or horror—fear? or a small sense of satisfaction?
“I—I didn’t want to upset you, chérie,” Louise stammered, taken aback at my apparent distress. “You were so weak … and there was nothing you could do, after all. And you didn’t ask,” she pointed out.
“But what … how … how long is the sentence?” I demanded. Whatever my initial emotion, it was superseded by a sudden rush of urgency. Murtagh’s note had arrived at the Rue Tremoulins two weeks ago. Jamie should have left upon its receipt—but he hadn’t.
Louise was summoning servants and ordering wine and ammoniac spirits and burnt feathers, all at once; I must look rather alarming.
“It is a contravention of the King’s order,” she said, pausing in her flutter. “He will remain in prison at the King’s pleasure.”
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I muttered, wishing I had something stronger to say.
“It is fortunate that le petit James did not kill his opponent,” Louise hastened to add. “In that case, the penalty would have been much more … eek!” She twitched her striped skirts aside just in time to avoid the cascade of chocolate and biscuits as I knocked over the newly arrived refreshments. The tray clanged to the floor unregarded as I stared down at her. My hands were clasped tightly against my ribs, the right protectively curled over the gold ring on my left hand. The thin metal seemed to burn against my skin.
“He isn’t dead, then?” I asked, like one in a dream. “Captain Randall … he’s alive?”
“Why, yes,” she said, peering curiously up at me. “You did not know? He is badly wounded, but it is said that he recovers. Are you quite well, Claire? You look …” But the rest of what she was saying was lost in the roaring that filled my ears.
* * *
“You did too much, too soon,” Louise said severely, pulling back the curtains. “I said so, didn’t I?”
“I imagine so,” I said. I sat up and swung my legs out of bed, checking cautiously for any residual signs of faintness. No swimming of head, ringing of ears, double vision, or inclination to fall on the floor. Vital signs all right.
“I need my yellow gown, and then would you send for the carriage, Louise?” I asked.
Louise looked at me in horror. “You are not meaning to go out? Nonsense! Monsieur Clouseau is coming to attend you! I have sent a messenger to fetch him here at once!”
The news that Monsieur Clouseau, a prominent society physician, was coming from Paris to examine me, would have been sufficient grounds to get me on my feet, had I needed them.
The eighteenth of July was ten days away. With a fast horse, good weather, and a disregard for bodily comfort, the journey from Paris to Orvieto could be made in six. That left me four days to contrive Jamie’s release from the Bastille; no time to fiddle about with Monsieur Clouseau.
“Hmm,” I said, looking round the room thoughtfully. “Well, call the maid to dress me, at any rate. I don’t want Monsieur Clouseau to find me in my shift.”
Though she still looked suspicious, this sounded plausible; most ladies of the Court would rise from a deathbed in order to make sure they were dressed appropriately for the occasion.
“All right,” she agreed, turning to go. “But you stay in bed until Yvonne arrives, you hear?”
The yellow gown was one of my best, a loose, graceful thing made in the modish sacque style, with a wide rolled collar, full sleeves, and a beaded closure down the front. Powdered, combed, stockinged, and perfumed at last, I surveyed the pair of shoes Yvonne had laid out for me to step into. I turned my head this way and that, frowning appraisingly.
“Mm, no,” I said at last. “I don’t think so. I’ll wear the others, the ones with the red morocco heels, instead.”
The maid looked dubiously at my dress, as though mentally assessing the effect of red morocco with yellow moiré silk, but obediently turned to rummage in the foot of the huge armoire.
Tiptoeing silently up behind her in my stockinged feet, I shoved her headfirst into the armoire, and slammed the door on the heaving, shrieking mass beneath the pile of fallen dresses within. Turning the key in the door, I dropped it neatly into my pocket, mentally shaking hands with myself. Neat job, Beauchamp, I thought. All this political intrigue is teaching you things they never dreamt of in nursing school, no doubt about it.
“Don’t worry,” I told the shaking armoire soothingly. “Someone will be along to let you out soon, I imagine. And you can tell La Princesse that you didn’t let me go anywhere.”
A despairing wail from inside the armoire seemed to be mentioning Monsieur Clouseau’s name.
“Tell him to have a look at the monkey,” I called over my shoulder, “It’s got mange.”
* * *
The success of my encounter with Yvonne buoyed my mood. Once ensconced in the carriage, rattling back toward Paris, though, my spirits sank appreciably.
While I was no longer quite so angry at Jamie, I still did not wish to see him. My feelings were in complete turmoil, and I had no intention of examining them closely; it hurt too much. Grief was there, and a horrible sens
e of failure, and over all, the sense of betrayal; his and mine. He should never have gone to the Bois de Boulogne; I should never have gone after him.
But we both did as our natures and our feelings dictated, and together we had—perhaps—caused the death of our child. I had no wish to meet my partner in the crime, still less to expose my grief to him, to match my guilt with his. I fled from anything that reminded me of the dripping morning in the Bois; certainly I fled from any memory of Jamie, caught as I had last seen him, rising from the body of his victim, face glowing with the vengeance that would shortly claim his own family.
I could not think of it even in passing, without a terrible clenching in my stomach, that brought back the ghost of the pain of premature labor. I pressed my fists into the blue velvet of the carriage seat, raising myself to ease the imagined pressure on my back.
I turned to look out the window, hoping to distract myself, but the sights went blindly by, as my mind returned, unbidden, to thoughts of my journey. Whatever my feelings for Jamie, whether we would ever see each other again, what we might be, or not be, to one another—still the fact remained that he was in prison. And I rather thought I knew just what imprisonment might mean to him, with the memories of Wentworth that he carried; the groping hands that fondled him in dreams, the stone walls he hammered in his sleep.
More importantly, there was the matter of Charles and the ship from Portugal; the loan from Monsieur Duverney, and Murtagh, about to take ship from Lisbon for a rendezvous off Orvieto. The stakes were too high to allow my own emotions any play. For the sake of the Scottish clans, and the Highlands themselves, for Jamie’s family and tenants at Lallybroch, for the thousands who would die at Culloden and in its aftermath—it had to be tried. And to try, Jamie would have to be free; it wasn’t something I could undertake myself.
No, there was no question. I would have to do whatever I must to have him released from the Bastille.
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