by Martha Keyes
"I confess," said a voice behind them, "that I did not expect to see you here, Miss Cosgrove." The Marquess of Restford tipped his hat and took another step toward them.
Cecilia felt her hands begin to shake with anger. In her eagerness to see Jacques, she hadn't considered that the marquess might attend. "And I might have guessed that you would be here."
He offered a half-smile. "Did I not tell you but a week ago that you had misjudged both me and the vicomte—or Mr. Levesque, rather?"
"You did tell me that," said Cecilia, "but it does not follow that I believe you were correct. Mr. Levesque is still more of a gentleman than you ever will be."
The marquess raised one brow. "I think you will find that the justices of the peace disagree with you."
Cecilia swallowed. "No doubt you have come to ensure that your wishes are carried out."
The marquess inclined his head, and put a hand over his chest. "I have only the wishes of this great country at heart, Miss Cosgrove. We cannot allow murderers and charlatans to take over—I am certain we all agree upon that at least."
Cecilia blew out a breath through her nose and shook her head, shutting her eyes and trying to remind herself that it would hardly work in Mr. Levesque’s favor for her to further antagonize the marquess.
She looked up at him, clasping her hands together. "You don't have to do this, Lord Retsford. Let them be."
Her pleading seemed to anger him, and his jaw hardened. "It is too late." He inclined his head once more, and walked into the building.
Isabel put an arm around Cecilia's shoulders.
"I am afraid," said Charles, looking in the direction of the marquess with narrowed eyes, "that if you marry that man, Miss Cosgrove, you will have to resign yourself to seeing much less of your sister and myself."
"There is no fear of that," Cecilia said softly, watching the last few prisoners trickle into the Sessions House. "I think he became disillusioned with me some time since and has no plans at all to offer anymore."
"Well," Isabel said, "that is surely a mercy, isn't it? Mama and Papa can hardly force you to marry a man who hasn't offered you the option."
Cecilia sighed. "No. But they will never forgive me for inspiring him with a distaste for my company. I think Papa has been engaged in mentally spending the marquess's money and making use of his influence for some time now."
Isabel pulled her more tightly toward her. "Charles and I will do whatever we may to help Mama and Papa see reason, Cecy. You are not alone."
They walked up the stone steps and into the building, coming to the top of a split stone staircase that led down to an entry hall, sun-lit by the rotunda above. Letty and Aunt Emily stood together just beyond the base of one staircase, and it was only a few seconds before Letty caught sight of Cecilia.
Her hand flew to her mouth, and she directed her mother's gaze to the top of the staircases before hurrying across the stone floor and coming up the stairs, her footsteps echoing loudly.
"I knew you loved him! I knew it!" she gushed, embracing Cecilia heartily.
Cecilia returned the embrace, blinking rapidly to dispel the tears in her eyes. What good was her love when she would be watching the first man she ever loved sentenced to deportation? Sent back to a war-torn country where there was nothing for him?
They entered the trial room together as a man in shackles pleaded his case to the three justices sitting before him, flanked by a jury on one side.
"Fourteen years transportation," the chairman declared.
A woman in the audience was heard to break into sobs, and the prisoner was taken away from the room.
Cecilia took her seat between Letty and Aunt Emily, aware that her hands were shaking.
"There he is," Letty said in a hushed voice.
Cecilia's heart jumped, and she followed the direction of Letty's gaze. Jacques sat next to his father, his head hanging down, hair tousled, and streaks of dirt on his cheek. His father, in his conspicuously bright but dirty clothing, stared ahead blankly.
The marquess sat opposite them, his head held high as he nodded his recognition at one of the justices of the peace.
Cecilia's heart sank. There was no hope at all.
Cecilia stared at Jacques, willing him to look at her. Would he be glad to see her there?
He sat up with a large sigh, turning his head to glance at the people in the seats that lined the hall, only to take a second, wide-eyed glance upon seeing Cecilia. His mouth opened slightly, and Cecilia tried to smile at him but had to take her lips between her teeth to keep from crying instead.
She saw a flicker of hope in his eyes, immediately extinguished when it was signaled that it was his turn for trial.
"The case of Misters Hugo and Jacques Levesque, brought to stand trial for violation of the Aliens Act of 1793."
Aunt Emily made a tsking sound. "They had already arrived in England before that act was passed."
Charles shook his head. "It doesn't matter, unfortunately. The Act specifies that foreigners must register with their local justice of the peace, providing their name, rank, address, and occupation. I imagine that they did so with false information, if at all."
"...brought forth by the Most Honorable Marquess of Retsford. How do the accused plead?"
"Not guilty," said Jacques, stepping forward slightly.
He nudged his father, who looked up and said in a barely audible voice, "Not guilty."
Cecilia squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the words of Lady Caroline: "...the only reason he was discovered was because of you."
"Your Honor," said Jacques, standing straight, with his shoulders back. "I wish to clarify some particulars about our situation, if I may."
The chairman nodded.
"My father and I came to England's shores nearly twenty-one years ago in the company of the Comte de Montreuil—my father was his valet, and I was somewhat of a pageboy. The Comte feared for his life and safety in France, and so it was that he decided to flee the violence and unfair treatment he believed he would receive at the hands of the French government. He brought over all of the belongings he could—anything of value, as he anticipated a lengthy stay in England.
"While the Comte was not particularly old, he had led a dissolute life, which had left him susceptible to illness and weakness. Unfortunately, the perilous journey to Dover proved too much for him, and he died shortly after our arrival. It was at this point that my father and I had to make some decisions. We had no money to pay for passage back to France, and even if we had, we would likely have been killed upon returning. Alternatively, to send our master's belongings back would be to effectively send them into the hands of the government that had just decided to abolish the existence of the Comte's title—nor did he have any heir that we were aware of. Who had a right to the Comte's valuables, then?
"It was very unclear. We decided that we would use the Comte's belongings to create a life for ourselves in England—the country that had been willing to accept people being pushed from their own country. Since that day, we have done our best to manage and grow the wealth we began with, creating a thriving estate, with happy tenants and successful harvests. If those people were here now, I assure you that they would beg for mercy on our behalf. We stand by our claim that we have been an asset rather than a drain on this beautiful country. We ask for your mercy. Let us stay, Your Honors."
He nodded and took a step back, bringing him back in line with his father, who had silent tears streaming down his face.
Cecilia found that she, too, was crying. Why had she never asked him more about his background, about the life he had lived before meeting her? His deceit had not stemmed, as the marquess had implied, from greed or hunger for power, but simply from a desire to survive. Given the circumstances, what were he and his father to do?
She looked at the two men, standing before the justices and jury, who were all conferring one with another. The glances of two jurymen and one of the justices of the peace were seen to frequently t
ravel to the marquess, who sat gravely, letting his hard eyes travel over them.
"The Lord Retsford," said the chairman, "will please come forward to present his evidence against the accused."
Cecilia's eyes whipped to the marquess, who met hers with a smiling sneer, before nodding at the justice of the peace.
He had no intent whatsoever of saving the Levesques.
22
Jacques watched as the marquess made his way away from them, having made his case against them—a case full of untruth which could not be proven untrue. His eyes bored into Jacques with satisfaction and mockery. The marquess would take them down together, even though he had no quarrel with Jacques's father.
He had accused them of murdering the Comte, an accusation which had generated a rumble of murmuring throughout the hall.
It was only one minute—one long, interminable minute—before the Jury was ready to state their decision.
"The jury," said one of the men, his eyes flitting briefly to the marquess, "finds the accused guilty."
Jacques's lids closed, and he took in a slow breath.
How had he managed to hope for anything different? It was clear that the marquess was well-acquainted with at least one of the justices and multiple members of the jury.
"You are found guilty," the chairman said, as Jacques grasped his father's shaking hand, "in violation of the Aliens Act of 1793 and are hereby sentenced to deportation, set to take place in two days' time from the port of Dover, where you will be conveyed..."
The chairman kept speaking, but it sounded muffled in Jacques's ears, as images from the last twenty years flashed through his head.
Arriving at Rothwell Park, tired and terrified, where Aunt Emily had welcomed them, fed them, and cared for them.
Holding baby Letty for the first time, when he had whispered in her ear in French, "I have always wished for a sister.”
Playing hide and seek with Letty among the boxwood hedges, where she could never manage to keep her position secret due to her constant giggles.
Stepping into their home at Honiton for the first time, awed at the knowledge that it was theirs.
Tracing the letters of his name on his first calling card.
Rubbing the cloth of his new coat, made of blue superfine.
Meeting Cecilia for the first time, his contempt melting away and morphing into admiration as she danced with Letty on the dark terrace.
The feel of Cecilia's soft lips on his, and the warmth that emanated from the small of her back, where his hand pulled her toward him.
His eyes flew open.
It was all over. It would all be nothing but distant, bittersweet memories in two days.
He felt his father nudge him and looked around. It was time for the next prisoner to face his fate—Jacques could only hope that it would be more kind to him than it had been to them.
A man took hold of Jacques's arm, pulling him away from the bench where the justices sat, white-wigged and unmoved by the plight of the men before them. The chairman began speaking to the prisoner before him—accused of stealing items from the dinner service of his master—and Jacques searched out the faces of Letty, Aunt Emily, and Cecilia.
They were pushing through the benches of attendees, making their way toward him and his father. Letty was crying freely, Aunt Emily was grave and silent, while Cecilia had her hands tightly clasped in front of her and silent tears trailing down her cheeks.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. What could he possibly say to them? What did one say to such a forgiving family? Or to the woman one loved madly but would never see again?
"Wait," Letty said to the men escorting Jacques and his father. "Please."
Jacques couldn't help but smile sadly as the men obliged, stopping just beyond the doors to the grand hall, in the slanting light of the rotunda. Letty had a way of getting just what she wanted, even from hardened, hefty men like the ones escorting him and his father.
Letty rested one hand on his father’s arm and one hand on Jacques's. "Jacques," she said in a tearful voice.
He could see the heartbreak in her eyes and attempted a smile at her. "I will miss you, ma petite soeur." He looked to his aunt. "And you, Aunt Emily. You are everything that is good and kind. And I am so sorry."
Aunt Emily covered her mouth and nose with a handkerchief and turned away to hide her emotion.
For the first time since their arrival at the Sessions House, Jacques’s father spoke, addressing himself to Letty and Aunt Emily. Jacques gave them their privacy, his heart beat tripping inside as he finally looked to Cecilia.
What did she think of him? Did she believe that he was a murderer? Why had she come? He had seen the hurt and anger in her eyes upon discovering the truth. But today, he had known a glimmer of hope when she had looked at him from the bench inside the hall—hope that she didn't despise him.
He met her eyes, and he watched her mouth tremble as she swallowed, her eyes never wavering from his, even as they filled with more tears.
He shook his head from side to side slowly, wishing he could reach out and take her hand in his, that he could wipe away the tears she could no longer hold in. "I never meant to hurt you or deceive you." He bit his lip to maintain control of his fraying emotions. "I would do anything to make you happy."
She took in a shaky breath, laying a hand to her chest. "I know." She averted her eyes and her head rocked from side to side. "This is all my fault," she said, her voice breaking. She looked up at him, her eyes intent on his. “I love you, Jacques. And I always shall.”
Jacques stepped toward her, his hand reaching out impulsively. But the man who held his arm pulled him back firmly, adding his strength to that of the irons, which had already stopped Jacques's movement.
"That's enough, I think," said the man, pulling Jacques forward in an unyielding grip, away from the woman he loved. The woman he would always love.
23
Cecilia stared blankly through the chaise window. Isabel and Charles sat across from her, maintaining silence throughout the carriage ride home, respecting Cecilia's grief and somber mood.
She wouldn't give in to tears. Not in the carriage. Not until she could indulge in them as loudly and for as long as she wished, muffling her anger and desperation into her pillow.
How could this be her reality? No sooner had she come to love a man than he was taken from her; no sooner had she given up pretending to be what everyone wanted her to be than the person who had seen her through it all was gone.
She had finally felt real, tangible happiness; hope for the future—until it had evaporated in her grasp without warning.
She was powerless to save the man she wished to spend her life with—the man who had taught her what it meant to open herself to love.
As the carriage rolled to a stop in Belport Street, reckless thoughts passed in and out of her head—sneaking onto the ship that he would board; helping him and his father escape from custody before they could set sail; throwing herself on the mercy of the marquess—offering herself as a sacrifice to save the Levesques.
She thought of Lady Caroline and the way she had smiled contentedly upon Cecilia's admission of her true feelings. Would she be smiling now to know of Jacques's fate?
Lady Caroline had said that Jacques had saved her life three times. Where was she now when Jacques himself needed saving?
Cecilia ran up the stairs, skipping steps at a time, bursting through the door to her bedroom, and pulling a paper toward her as she sat down.
She scrawled a note to Lady Caroline, ignoring the hot tears that dropped onto the page, creating small bubbled bumps as they seeped into the paper.
Folding and sealing it without even taking the time to reread her words, she rang the bell, slipping the note under the door so that she wouldn't be disturbed, and then dropped onto her bed, face in her pillow, until oblivion overtook her.
For the next two days, the hours seemed to creep, while the days themselves slipped by too quickly. The
day of the Levesques' deportation arrived, and Cecilia awoke with a gaping hole inside her.
She dressed without speaking more than five words to Anaïs, who, thankfully, seemed sensitive to her mistress's somber mood.
Unwilling to face her parents or the commentary with which they would no doubt fill the silence of the breakfast table, Cecilia asked to take her food upstairs, not venturing from her room all morning.
Even when her breakfast tray was brought in, she found she had no stomach for the tea or toast in front of her.
Her anger toward the marquess and even toward Lady Caroline—from whom she had had not a word—had dulled and numbed, just as the entire world around her seemed to have done. As she sat in front of her mirror, she hardly recognized herself. The sparkling blue of her eyes had been replaced by a dim, flinty hue.
She turned away and walked to the window. Had the Levesques left for Dover already? What would happen to them once they landed at Calais?
She had heard enough stories of émigrés returning to their homeland to know that even the best case scenario was hardly reassuring.
A knock sounded, and Cecilia felt a gush of irritation. Could she not have one morning of peace?
"What is it?" she said in a clipped tone.
"It is Lady Caroline Lamb," said Anaïs in her heavy French accent. "She wishes you to ride with her and awaits you outside."
Cecilia's nostrils flared. Now she came? Now that it was too late? "Please tell her that I am not at home to visitors."
"Yes, ma'am," said Anaïs, and her footsteps sounded, retreating from the doorway toward the staircase.
Cecilia turned around and leaned her back against the door, resting her head on it. It was hardly fair to take out her frustration on Lady Caroline, and yet her heart wished to place the blame somewhere.
A knock sounded again, startling her so that she jumped slightly. It only increased her irritation.