“He was very distressed to learn that your part in his escape had been discovered,” Henry said, “and will be overjoyed to see you.”
“As will the queen and all our English friends,” Will said. “Lascelles, let us haste back to Paris and bring him the happy news.”
The sun broke through the clouds as Henry and Will spurred their horses southward, and Jane felt that its golden rays had chased away the fears that had lurked in her heart since she had been parted from Charles. He was alive and singing her praises, and she might be with him by nightfall.
JOHN AND JANE WERE AT THE OUTSKIRTS OF PARIS WHEN A CARRIAGE appeared on the road before them, a cloud of dust raised by its wheels.
“What a hurry they are in,” John grumbled. “They’re likely to run right over us if we’re not careful. And Jesu, another carriage close behind.”
But Jane’s eyes were fixed on the face of the dark-haired man who was leaning out one of the windows of the carriage. Could it be? Now she could see that the man was peering towards her. She would know the tilt of his head anywhere.
“Charles!”
She called his name so familiarly before she could stop herself and ran towards the carriages. The doors of the front carriage flew open and Charles leaped out, followed by another young man, and he raced to meet her.
“Jane, my life, my life!” he cried, sweeping her into his arms. “Oh, Jane. I could scarce believe it when your cousin told me you were here.”
Jane clung to him, overcome at the feel of his arms so solidly around her. She looked up into his eyes, touching his face as if to reassure herself that he truly stood before her.
“You are safe. You are safe. Thank God. There were such rumours …”
“I know; they reached me even here. Yes, I am safe, though if you will believe me, I was yet in England another month and more after we parted. Oh, Jane.”
“No! Oh, I would never have left you if I had known,” Jane cried.
“But you couldn’t have known, no one could.” He kissed Jane’s hands. “But you—oh, my God, what grief I felt when I learned that no sooner had you returned home than you were discovered. Lascelles reached here before I did, and when there was no news of you, I feared the worst. Oh, my Jane.”
He kissed her full on the mouth, the kiss of a lover. Having held back her terror and longing for Charles for so long, Jane now succumbed. Sobs racked her as Charles held her to his chest, and for a moment there was no one in the world but the two of them
“But I’m ignoring your brave brother,” Charles said at length. “Colonel Lane, I bid you welcome. I am indebted to you more than I can ever hope to repay you, first for your help in conveying me from Staffordshire, and second for bringing Jane here to safety.”
Henry Lascelles and Will Carlis had emerged from the coach, and were standing awkwardly by with the younger man.
“Forgive me,” Charles said, releasing Jane from his arms but holding tight to her hand. “My brother, James, the Duke of York. This is Mistress Jane Lane and her brother Colonel John Lane, to whom I owe my life.”
The young duke inclined his head in greeting as Jane and John made their bows.
“But come,” Charles said. “My mother the queen is waiting in the carriage, and will rap my knuckles, no doubt, if I tarry any longer without presenting you.”
“The queen?” Jane said, appalled. “But look at me!”
“I see you, my heart.” Charles laughed. “But I assure you that she was most determined to come to greet you, and well knows the perils through which you have gone. She escaped from England disguised as a countrywoman herself, you know, during the wars.”
Jane thought that even so, the queen would not be able to guess at the half of what she had experienced. She went with Charles to the carriage, where a handsome dark-haired lady of about forty in a black gown smiled out at her.
“Madam, allow me to present the famous Jane Lane and her gallant brother John.”
“Your Majesty,” Jane said, curtsying to the ground as John bowed beside her.
“I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, both of you,” said Queen Mary. “And happy that we can spare you walking the last weary miles. Come, sit with me. Come, Charles.”
So Jane and John rode with Charles and his mother, while Henry and Will followed with the Duke of York in the second carriage, and a footman mounted John and Jane’s hired horse for the ride to Paris.
As the carriage rumbled along, Jane gazed at Charles, hardly believing that he was before her. It had been not even three months since they had parted, but so much had passed in that time that it seemed already that it had been in another life, another world, that they had known each other. She had missed him so desperately, prayed so fervently for his safety, and to be reunited with him was overwhelming. She wanted to enfold herself in the safe comfort of his arms, breathe in his scent, feel his heartbeat against her chest, to let loose the flood of tears that she had dammed up for so long, willing herself to be strong and to keep putting one foot before the other in the hundreds of miles between Bentley and Paris. Instead, she sat beside the queen, responding politely to her exclamations of what joyful surprise she and Charles had felt at hearing of Jane and John’s approach.
Charles, seated opposite her, smiled at her and joined in the small talk, but his eyes were sad and tired. There seemed to be a veil between them and she longed to draw it aside, revealing the lover who had been so intensely with her on their journey through England.
There will be time, she reminded herself. There will be time, now that we are together again. When we are alone, it will all be different.
The countryside gave way to city streets lined with tall houses. Paris. They were here at last. The road ran close to the river now, and the towering spires of a church rose ahead, greater by far than any Jane had seen before.
“What beautiful church is that?” she wondered.
“The cathedral of Notre Dame,” Charles said, with a glance outside.
“Which means,” said the queen, “that we are very nearly home.”
The carriage was passing between grand buildings on both sides. It turned into a vast courtyard and clattered to a halt, and the footman threw open the door and helped the queen to step down. Charles waved him aside and climbed out himself before handing Jane down. With a clear view now of her surroundings, she looked around in awe. The courtyard belonged to a magnificent palace, and just adjacent stood an even more enormous and imposing structure.
“The Palais Royal,” Charles said. “And the Louvre, over there, with the Palace of the Tuileries just beyond.”
The queen took Jane’s arm as they entered the palace, the men following behind.
“I’m afraid, Mistress Lane, that we have not very luxurious accommodation to offer you, guests as we are here. But we will do our best to make you comfortable. You will want to rest and bathe, no doubt, and this evening we shall celebrate your arrival.”
All seemed a blur to Jane as they walked through endless passageways. Henry and Will took John off with them, and Charles halted at the door of his mother’s apartments. Jane longed to be alone with him, but he took her hand and kissed it in farewell.
“My dear Jane,” he said. “Rest. And we will see each other a little later.”
“Martine will see that you have all that you need.” The queen smiled at Jane as a middle-aged lady in dove grey appeared and curtsied to her.
Martine led Jane to her own bedroom, and as the door closed behind her, the realisation swept over Jane that the long and anxious journey was finally over, and she sank onto the bed, overcome with exhaustion, barely getting her shoes off before she fell asleep.
WHEN JANE AWOKE, A TUB AND BATHWATER WERE BROUGHT TO Martine’s room, and Jane submerged herself, letting the blissfully steaming water soak away the dirt, sweat, and blood of the past weeks. Her poor feet were callused and chafed, the skin around her fingernails cracked and raw, and the stubby remains of her fingernails were rough and grimy.
Martine cleaned and filed Jane’s nails, produced a gown of lilac silk, a pair of stays, a chemise and petticoat, white silk stockings, and a pair of black kid shoes for Jane to wear, and helped her to dress and fix her hair in preparation for supper. Jane admired herself in a hand mirror, turning her head to see the effect of her back hair gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck and the rest falling in curls to her shoulders.
“Much better, no?” Martine asked, smiling.
“Better! A miracle is what it is!” Jane laughed. “Who will be at supper, mademoiselle?”
“Besides the queen and the young king,” Martine said, “there will be the Duke of York, whom you met this afternoon, and dear Minette—Princess Henriette Anne, that is—the king’s little sister. Elizabeth, the Princess Palatine, who is cousin to the king; and Lord Wilmot and Viscount Taaffe, His Majesty’s great friends. And of course your brother, your cousin Mr Lascelles, and Colonel Carlis.”
Jane was awed at the prospect of an intimate dinner with the royal family. She wished she had some further decoration for herself, some jewellery perhaps.
“You are just the thing,” Martine said, as if reading her thoughts. “No one has the money to dress in grand fashion. Poor little Minette has not even a second chemise.”
AS THE PARTY SAT DOWN TO SUPPER IN THE QUEEN’S APARTMENTS, Jane saw that what Martine had said was very true. The queen wore a different gown than she had earlier, but it was plain and the silk showed signs of wear, and little Minette, a bright-eyed gamine of seven years old, wore a dress whose hem and sleeves were beginning to fray. Charles and the other men were simply dressed, in coats and breeches far less splendid than Jane’s own father and brothers wore at home for special occasions. She and John smiled as they took in each other’s changed appearance. He, too, had been outfitted in borrowed clothes, and he had shaved and cut his hair.
The queen was gracious in her welcome and presided over the table with regal aplomb, but Jane was astonished at the sparsely furnished room, the simplicity of the meal, and the attendance of only two servants, and she began to realise in what poor circumstances Charles must be living.
“Will you favour us with the story of your adventures?” Lord Taaffe asked, looking from John to Jane, as the soup was served.
Taaffe had led the king’s forces in Ireland during the wars, Jane recalled. He was close to fifty, she guessed, wondering if his florid face was due to nature, drink, campaigning out of doors, or a combination of all three.
Jane and John told the story of their journey to exclamations of dismay at their encounter with the cavalry patrol and the distance they had walked through such wild land, sleeping rough with winter coming on. As if by silent agreement, they didn’t mention the deserter or their stay with Marjorie.
All of the men present except Lord Taaffe and the Duke of York had been at Worcester, and inevitably, the talk turned to that terrible day.
“Carlis was among the last to get out,” Charles said, turning to the colonel.
“Indeed, I think I saw the last man killed,” Will said. “The sun had set on a day of such carnage and despair as I had never seen. The rebels were within the city walls and converging on our headquarters. We knew that His Majesty was in danger of capture and every moment we could give him was vital, and though there were only a hundred of us or so, we rallied and made a desperate charge on the enemy near Sidbury Gate.”
“Only a hundred!” exclaimed Princess Elizabeth. She was about six or eight years older than Jane, pretty, though inclining to plumpness, with the same dark colouring as Charles, and like her aunt, her gown was sober black. “Out of how many to begin with?”
“We began the day with perhaps fifteen thousand,” Carlis said. “The rest were dead or fled.”
“My God,” Jane murmured. She had known the defeat was terrible, but it was hard to imagine such losses.
“Many of those left were the poor Scots infantry,” Carlis said, “reduced to fighting with their musket butts or fire pikes. The fighting was face-to-face, with any weapon that came to hand, and the streets ran with blood. I cut my way through the last of Oliver’s men who stood before me and ran for St Martin’s Gate. It was full night, and I made my way northward to Tong, and there hid upon the heath for two days, a friendly countryman bringing me food once or twice.”
“It rained so on those days,” Jane said, recalling the late-night arrival of old Father William Walker.
“Yes,” Will said. “And patrols were everywhere, and I knew I must find someplace better to hide myself. Charles Giffard of Boscobel had been under my command, and I knew if I could reach there, he would shelter me. So on the second night after the battle I set forth, and reached the house near dawn, to discover that His Majesty had miraculously been preserved and was also there.”
“Dick Penderel took me there,” Charles said, “after we found that there was no hope of crossing the Severn.” He shook his head in disbelief. “What a night that was. The shoes I was wearing were too tight and my feet were bleeding and blistered, and my stockings were soaking wet and full of gravel, and it was such agony to walk that I really thought it might be preferable to give myself up.”
All those present who had escaped from Worcester had suffered from blistered feet in the course of their travels, and they discussed the efficacy of washing the feet in vinegar, putting bits of rolled paper between the toes to prevent chafing, and a fervent mutual wish never to be forced to walk so many miles again.
“Cromwell’s men were searching the houses roundabout,” Will said, taking up their story, “so we hid ourselves high in an old oak tree. Will Penderel handed us up two pillows on a nut hook, and I desired His Majesty to lay his head upon my lap so that he might sleep.”
“I had been three nights without sleep,” Charles put in, “and laid my head down most gratefully.”
The mention of sleep made Jane both conscious of how weary she was and how she longed to lie with Charles, to feel the heat of his body against hers and the murmur of his voice in her ear as they made love.
“As His Majesty slept,” Will continued, “I could see soldiers going up and down, searching the woods. As they drew near, I feared His Majesty might wake and make some noise, and the only way I could think to alert him without speaking was to pinch him. Which I did.”
The company dissolved in laughter at this, Charles laughing more heartily than anyone.
“We sat there, quiet and still, until the soldiers at last were gone,” Will said. “Towards evening, we climbed down. It was grown late and we were hungry, and His Majesty expressed the desire for a loin of mutton.”
“I was clumsy enough not to realise that these fellows had not the luxury of eating meat but once in a while,” Charles said. “But William Penderel said he would make bold with one of his master’s sheep. He brought it into the cellar and went to fetch a knife, but good Carlis here was too impatient to wait, and stabbed the sheep with his dagger.”
“Dear me, how very bloodthirsty,” Princess Elizabeth exclaimed, and Will shrugged.
“Ah, do you see?” Charles said, with a sly grin at Jane. “He looks sheepish, does he not?”
“We hung the sheep on the door and flayed it,” Will said, “and then cut off a hindquarter, and His Majesty cut it into Scotch collops, which I put into the pan while His Majesty held it.”
“Which brings us to the pretty quandary,” Charles said, “of who was the cook and who the scullion? What say you all?”
There was a buzz of discussion, and then Princess Elizabeth held up a hand to still the talk.
“In my opinion, cousin, you were hic and nunc, both of them.”
“Ah, well judged,” Charles laughed. “Well, after our excellent supper, when it was grown dark, Dick Penderel took me to Mr Whitgreaves at Moseley, where I met again with my lord Wilmot.”
“And then he came that night to Bentley and told John that you were there!” Jane cried.
“Just so,” Charles said. “And the rest of my
story you know.”
“The king tells me you are a very learned lady,” Princess Elizabeth said, turning to Jane. “That you know Greek and Latin.”
“I do love to read, Your Highness,” Jane said. “It was one of the things I missed while we were travelling, not being able to distract myself with plays and poetry.”
“Then you must certainly come and visit with me.” The princess smiled. “And let me lend you some books while you are here.”
“You do me much honour, Your Highness.”
The princess waved away her thanks.
“We are all happy to do anything within our power to help you, mademoiselle, and you sirs”—she turned to John and Henry—“for the service you have done our royal cousin.”
The little party lingered late into the evening, and despite her exhaustion, Jane was reluctant to miss a minute of it. To be reunited with Charles was heaven, and the undisguised enchantment of the royal family at meeting her was intoxicating. But at length the party broke up. Charles kissed Jane’s cheek as they parted.
“I shall come and see you tomorrow,” he said. “Alas, I am so poor that that is the best entertainment I can offer you.”
“I want nothing more than to be by your side, wherever that might be,” she whispered.
A few minutes later, wearing a borrowed nightgown, she climbed into bed next to Martine and dropped instantly to sleep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JANE WOKE FROM A DARK DREAM TO SUN STREAMING IN THE window, unable for a moment to recall where she was. Martine appeared, and finding Jane awake, returned with a pot of hot chocolate and a plate with some little pastries of a kind Jane had never seen.
“So good,” Jane said, wiping a crumb from her dressing gown. “What are they?”
“Croissants,” Martine said. “Little crescent moons, you see?”
“Where might I find the king?” Jane asked as Martine helped her dress. “I should like to—thank him for his kind reception yesterday.”
“He is paying a call at the Tuileries, I believe, mademoiselle, but will no doubt be back before long.”
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