As they reached the upper storey, an enormous shout came from the square below. A man had appeared in the middle of the darkness, carrying two pairs of huge lamps which he proceeded to hang from the trees. "Gentlemen!" he cried, twirling round on the spot so that he could be seen from all sides of the piazza. "Gentlemen, I have great news!" He continued to yell at the top of his voice until crowds of people appeared from the cafés and gaming rooms.
Jack pulled Marguerite so close against his side that she could feel the shape of one of his pistols pressing against her hip bone. His breathing was shallow and uneven, and he had narrowed his eyes to watch the man below. Was he calculating how they might escape from here?
At last, the man in the square was satisfied with the size of his audience. "Gentlemen! A great triumph! The Emperor Napoleon reached Auxerre last night. Marshall Ney was waiting for him and our beloved Emperor embraced him as a comrade. The fat Bourbon's threats have come to nothing, as we knew they would. Everyone flocks to the Emperor. Except fat Louis, who has fled the country again, back to the arms of France's enemies. We are well rid of him and all the Bourbons. Let us rejoice, my friends. Our Emperor will be with us again, here in his capital, tomorrow."
Chapter Seventeen
"How could he break his oath? It was an oath to France." A night's sleep had made no difference to Marguerite's feelings. Her voice was still filled with loathing for the King she had supported so bravely. She had been prepared to die for him, while he, at the first sign of danger, had fled the country.
Jack did not know how to console her. There was no way he could defend King Louis. The man had made high-flown promises, but he was basically weak. Urged on by his cronies, he had turned the clock back towards repression rather than forward to reform, and now all France would be made to pay. Marguerite sounded totally disillusioned. Her royal hero had deceived her.
However, it was Marguerite herself who provided the solution. "Whatever he has done, we cannot desert the cause we serve," she announced proudly. "We must continue our mission. We, at least, shall not break our oaths."
Jack did not need that reminder. His vow to treat her as a sister was never far from his mind. He had told himself, throughout their journey from Lyons, that his oath must on no account be broken. He suspected that, if he kissed her again, she would respond willingly, and perhaps eagerly—there had been enough hints in her unguarded reactions that she was not indifferent to him—but she would despise him once their passion was spent. He was not prepared to risk that, even for the pleasure of making love to her. He was a grown man. He could wait.
"Since we cannot leave Paris until tomorrow, I suggest we make the most of today to do as much business as possible," she said brusquely. "I have the Duchess of Courland's silk to deliver."
"Do you think that is wise? Everyone knows that the duchess is a fervent royalist. Her house will be watched now that Bonaparte's success is assured."
"But she ordered this silk and—"
"She ordered it for a court dress. For King Louis's court, Marguerite. She will have no use for it now. And, to be frank, I would be surprised if she were prepared to pay you for it. Better to avoid the risk of going to her house."
"Oh." Marguerite dropped into her chair by the fireside. "And the same will be true of all the other great ladies, I suppose."
"I imagine so. The royalist ladies will not wish to buy, and the Bonapartist ladies have not yet returned to Paris. I am afraid that you are unlikely to find any buyers today."
Marguerite rose and crossed to where her trunk of silk sat against the wall opposite the fireplace. By day she kept it here in the little parlour; at night, it sat safely next to her bed. She ran a hand lovingly across the worn leather. "Can we take this with us in the diligence?"
"That is something we need to discuss, Marguerite. Thus far, we have pretended to be silk merchants, travelling to Paris to sell our wares. We cannot use that story on the road to Calais, for there are no great ladies there. I think we must leave your trunk behind."
She spun round, hands on hips, to stand protectively in front of the trunk. "No. There are months of work here. This silk is worth a small fortune to my family. I will not abandon it."
This was going to be very difficult. "Our luggage allowance on the diligence is only fifteen pounds each. Barely enough for our valises. The trunk would cost a great deal extra to transport, always assuming there was room for it."
"But—"
"Be reasonable, Marguerite. You must see that we cannot take it."
"I will not abandon it," she said again, even more forcefully.
Jack took a deep breath and thought hard. He could not afford to argue with her over the trunk, which was relatively unimportant in his view. He still had to persuade her about the convent. That might be much more difficult. "Perhaps we can find a secure deposit for it here in Paris," he suggested.
She was already shaking her head. "Nothing will be secure once Bonaparte arrives here. It would be better to put it on a cart for home."
"Now that gives me an idea," Jack said, beaming with relief. "You railed at me yesterday for spending so much time with the Lyons agent, but I begin to think it may have been worthwhile. I bought him a couple of glasses of red while he told me all about his business, and his troubles. It was good information. What's more, he owes me a favour now. He will be sending chaises and carriages south to Lyons. If I pay him well enough, he'll make sure your trunk is safely delivered back to Suzanne. What do you think?"
Marguerite smiled a little uncertainly. "I suppose it could work. The chaise owner in Lyons is well known to our family, since we often hire carriages from him. He wouldn't want to lose our custom."
"Excellent. I'll tell his Paris agent so. Then he'll take doubly good care of your trunk." He held out his hand. "If you give me the key, I'll take it to him now and send it off."
She shook her head. "There is no need to send the key. Suzanne has a spare at home." She paused for a moment. "Since no one else will be able to open the trunk," she mused, "I could put a letter inside, telling Suzanne what has happened. She will worry when the trunk arrives back in Lyons and I do not."
"You must not tell her about our mission, Marguerite," he snapped.
She glowered at him. "I thought you knew me better than that, Jacques." She marched back to the fire and sat down, staring pensively into the flames. Eventually, her frown eased. "I shall write things that she alone will understand. But I must also tell her where I am to be found." She looked enquiringly up at Jack. There was uncertainty in her eyes, but no fear. "Precisely where are we going? And where are we to part?"
She was very direct. And very brave. Jack owed her the truth. "I have to travel back to England, but I can leave from any port. Calais is the easiest crossing, but it is also the furthest from Paris. And it will probably be crawling with Bonaparte's spies by now. Boulogne would do as well. Or even Dieppe. What matters is finding a safe haven for you. I had thought to find a convent, well away from the main roads. Or perhaps a school?"
She surprised him. He had expected her to object to the very idea of a convent, but she said only, "I am too old to be left at a school, Jacques. Or had you not noticed?" She narrowed her eyes at him.
He felt himself reddening. She was a fully mature woman. He had most certainly noticed that.
She ignored his growing embarrassment. "A convent would do, though. There is the Abbaye des Dames at Caen, for example, and at Rouen— Oh." She flashed him a grin. "I have a much better idea." She waved him to the seat opposite her. She was suddenly feeling very pleased with herself. "I have the perfect plan. We shall tell anyone who asks that we are travelling via Rouen to Caen, where I am to enter the abbey as a novice. It will be perfectly proper for my brother to escort me there."
In spite of the urgency of their situation, he could not resist the chance to tease her. His sultry temptress would make a very unusual nun. "Do you truly think you can play the part of a novice, Marguerite?"
&nb
sp; She placed her palms together in an attitude of prayer and bowed her head meekly. "We shall not go to Caen," she continued solemnly, without lifting her head. "There is a village near Barentin, on the road from Rouen to Dieppe. The curé there used to be—" She cleared her throat. "The curé, Father Bertrand, knows my family well. He will shelter me until I am able to return to Lyons."
"I cannot say how long it will be before I am able to return for you, Marguerite. Are you sure—?"
"You need have no concerns. You will be able to travel on to Dieppe and take ship from there." She looked up at him with wide, sparkling eyes. Was she triumphant because she had found the solution they sought? Or was it—perhaps—because he had promised to return for her?
Jack did not dare to ask. Nor could he question her about the mysterious curé, though he was sure she was hiding something. How would a cleric from Normandy come to know a family from Lyons? How could Marguerite be so very sure the curé would take her in?
"That seems a splendid plan," he said heartily. His first priority had to be to get them both safely out of Paris. Their existing tickets to Calais would have to do. "We can take the diligence as far as Beauvais. With luck, we'll be able to hire a chaise to Rouen from there. Now, if you will write your letter to your sister, I will take your trunk to the agent and send it safely on its way. And in the meantime," he added with a grin, "you can practise your role as a silent and submissive postulant nun."
Marguerite was already in bed when the cheering began. She had been expecting it all day, but none the less it made her feel ill, as if she had swallowed something tainted.
She rose and dragged on her wrapper. From her tiny window, she could see nothing. She would have to go into the parlour.
Jacques was there before her. Unlike Marguerite, he had chosen not to retire early. He was still fully dressed. He turned at the sound of the latch and plastered a smile on to his features as soon as he saw her. But he had not been quick enough. She had seen the lines of worry on his face. She was worried, too. Paris was becoming ever more dangerous for royalists. Soon, it would be so all across France, and yet, in spite of the risks, Jacques had said he would return. For her. She could scarcely believe it. But it must be true. He would not fail to keep such a promise. Could it mean—?
Another burst of noise echoed in the distance. "I suppose they are cheering for Bonaparte?" she asked quietly.
He shrugged. "Who else could it be? To be honest, I had expected him to arrive before this. It's taken so long that I allowed myself to hope, for a moment, that the cavalry sent to arrest him had actually done their duty. Clearly they failed. Bonaparte will sleep soundly tonight, though some of the rest of us will not." He shook his head in disgust. "I had better go down to the Tuileries and see for myself how he is being received. London will wish to know if all Paris is cheering him."
"London is very naïve if it believes otherwise. It would be foolhardy for anyone not to cheer."
"Precisely so, but my masters will wish to have the testimony of their own eyewitness. So I shall go and cheer with the rest." He crossed to the door. "You had best return to your bedchamber while I am gone, Marguerite. And make sure you lock yourself in."
"You will take care, Jacques?" She had not intended to say it aloud. The thought had been in her mind and, somehow, it had turned itself into words.
He smiled at her. "Have no fear. I can play the Bonapartist with the best of them, as I think you may have noticed. Try to sleep. If it will reassure you, I will tap on your door when I return." The smile turned into a wicked grin. "I would not have you worrying all night, sister dear."
She looked round for something to throw at him, but their spartan parlour boasted neither cushions nor books. When she turned back, he had gone. She tried the window, but she could see nothing. Was he down there in the alley, making his way towards the light and the cheering crowds? With no flambeaux outside the pension, it was impossible to tell.
For a split second, she thought she heard the sound of a tin whistle, but then it was gone. She told herself she had probably imagined it. That silly little tune had been echoing round in her mind since the first time she heard it. The old soldier couldn't possibly be here again. Not in the dark.
Even though she knew she must be hearing things, she opened the window overlooking the alley. A rush of cold wind swirled round her, tugging at her wrapper and her hair. The dying fire coughed protesting smoke into the room. Shivering, Marguerite leaned out, straining her eyes to see. Nothing. And no sound either, nothing but the distant sounds of triumph as Paris acclaimed its returning hero.
Marguerite had been playing the part of the modest would-be nun for what seemed like hours now. She had the corner seat, facing forward, but there was barely room to move since all six inside seats were taken. The problem with being totally silent was that it gave her too much time to think. And to feel.
There was a very large woman in the other forward corner. She was dressed in so many layers of grubby skirts and petticoats that Jacques, in the middle, had barely room to breathe. Being a gentleman, he had not uttered a word of complaint. He had even made the appropriate noises in response to the large woman's almost ceaseless commentary on the towns they passed and the people she knew.
For Marguerite, it was a kind of glorious torture. Jacques was squeezed up against her so tightly that she could feel the heat of his body and the tiny movements of his thigh muscles every time he tried to shift to a slightly more comfortable position. She fancied he was trying not to push against her—did the constant contact start his temperature rising as it did hers?—but he really had no choice. For the first hour or so, she tried to shrink away, to give him room, to avoid the forbidden touch. But after a while, she began to lean into him, barely a fraction. Why not? There was nothing improper about what was happening between them. Travellers in a diligence were often forced to travel in such close proximity.
But the touch of him almost took her breath away.
In less than a day, they would part. Jacques would travel on to Dieppe, and England, leaving Marguerite in the charge of Father Bertrand. She was not even sure the curé would recognise her, since he had fled from Lyons more than fifteen years before, condemned for his service to royalist, aristocratic families. But he would recognise her family name. His allegiances would not have changed. She was sure that her name would be enough to secure his help.
Father Bertrand would offer her shelter. But what if he was dead, or could not be found? What then? Would Jacques abandon her in some chilly convent? No, he would not. He had promised to return for her. He had promised.
She risked a tiny sideways glance up at his face. He was staring directly ahead, his gaze unfocused, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. But his jaw was clenched. He was finding this journey as difficult as Marguerite was. On that satisfying discovery, she allowed herself to lean into him a fraction more. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, but otherwise he did not move. Marguerite bent her head once more and smiled down at her demurely clasped hands. She decided, in that moment, that she was not going to allow him to leave her without one more kiss. Not a sisterly peck on the cheek, but a real, passionate joining of man and woman. Since he would not take her with him, she would give him something momentous to remember, and to come back for.
It occurred to her then that she had never told him of his mistake about the oath. Would it make a difference if he knew he had not sworn to treat her as a sister? Possibly. But then again, possibly not. He had sworn to treat her with all honour as long as they travelled together. Did passionate kisses fall within his definition of honourable behaviour? She imagined not. If there was to be passion between them, the initiative would have to come from Marguerite. What she was contemplating would be improper, even scandalous. Would that stop her? No.
The unremarkable young man sitting directly opposite Marguerite had pulled a snuff box from the pocket of his threadbare coat. She noticed that his boots were cracked, too. He did not have the look of a
man who could afford to pay the inside fare from Paris to Calais. Yet the snuff box was of the finest workmanship and probably worth more than all the clothes on his back. He opened it with a caressing hand and Marguerite saw, through her lashes, that the lid bore a beautifully enamelled portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte. Her heart missed a beat and then began to race. Jacques must take care.
"That is a very fine box, sir." The fat woman leaned across Jacques to get a better view, pushing him even further against Marguerite.
She resisted the urge to reach out to Jacques. She had enough sense left to realise she would protect hi best by making no move at all.
"You are a supporter of our beloved Emperor, I take it?" the fat woman continued, smiling hopefully at the young man.
He took a delicate pinch of snuff and returned the box to his pocket with exaggerated care. "I serve the Emperor as best I may, ma'am." His tone was not encouraging. He clearly did not wish to converse with this gossipy stranger.
The woman sat back in her place, spread her arms to encourage the passengers to listen, and began to list all the enemies of the Empire who were fleeing Bonaparte's advance.
Marguerite closed her eyes and tried to shut out the sound. She needed to think. She should have wondered about that young man before now, but, besotted fool that she was, she had been totally focused on the man at her side, and on the feel of his body against hers. And as a result of her neglect, Jacques could be in real danger. The Bonapartist opposite had been the last passenger to climb into the diligence, only a moment before the off. He had been short of breath, as if he had been running. And, thinking back, Marguerite was almost sure the young man had brought no luggage.
Oh, heavens. Was he a Bonapartist agent set to follow Jacques? Perhaps to arrest him?
"And fat Louis's women have no courage, either," the fat woman said, warming to her theme. "Why, one of them fled the city in such haste that she left her grandchildren behind. She was gone even before fat Louis." She chortled. "It's quite a feat to be more of a coward than him, don't you think?"
His Forbidden Liaison: A brotherhood of spies in Napoleonic France (The Aikenhead Honours Book 3) Page 19