But Cassy was laid up. And the man she had agreed to meet here at the Blue Boar Inn was not a client. Clarry would scoff if she knew she had fallen for a highwayman; would call him a thieving ruffian and forbid her to see him again. It would matter nothing to Clarry that Tom Leech had once been a Pall Mall footman. Clarry was too hardbitten to understand.
A chance meeting at Meller’s bakery where Tom had been lying low for a few days; a stolen kiss by the pump, the walking, the exchange of confidences – that first heady tumble in the yeasty attic. A promise to meet at the Blue Boar the night before Christmas.
But the clock by the door had long since struck seven. She did not believe that he had given her up, only worried what trouble had waylaid him.
‘Not coming, is he?’ This was not the voice she wanted to hear. ‘Or was it me you was waiting for‒?’
She pulled on her gloves, without a word gathered up her skirts. He caught her forearm as she attempted to leave. His iron grip and grim expression left her in no doubt that he would have his way. He batted away a gaudily dressed woman vying for his custom. Joanna glanced past him to the door, in a last vain hope but there was still no sign of Tom.
She decided against raising the alarm; the ostler had guessed her profession, doubtless others would too. She was not supposed to have been there in the first place so she could ill afford to draw attention to herself.
She allowed him to steer her upstairs to a floor lodging; the dingy room he shared with one other. Pushing a valise off one side of the mattress, he produced a jingle of coin to persuade the toothless old man curled up on the other side to follow the noise down to the taproom.
He was a bull-necked man, powerfully built across the shoulders and upper arms; a stevedore, or maybe a sailor. As he pulled off his shirt he turned deliberately so that she would see dark scars criss-crossing his flesh.
The valise was now propping the door shut. Joanna dropped her coat and gloves on to it. She had little dealings with the money – that had always been left to Cassy or Clarry – but she knew she must get the situation on to a business footing.
‘Three sovereigns,’ she said quickly.
‘You’re a new face,’ he grunted, removing a pistol from the belt that hung across his hips. He placed it on the window shelf then unbuckled the belt. ‘Which stable you from then?’
She glanced up from unlacing her gown. ‘I look after myself.’
‘A courtesan, eh?’ he mocked. ‘Wonder you’re not being kept in one of them Pall Mall lodgings.’ Clasping the belt buckle in his hand he wound the strap twice round his fist, and beat the mattress with it three times lifting a cloud of dust. With a wry grin he grabbed her wrist and jerked her towards him.
‘I looked after myself once – housebreaker. As you might see, my luck ran out – crossed the fence, as they say, now I bring others to the hangman ... bounty hunter, thief-taker call me what you will.’ He prised open the curled fingers of her right hand and struck her palm a stinging lash with the belt end. He held on as she recoiled with a pained squeal. Then, as if contrite, he fell to stroking her hair. He pressed his lips against her breast, against the reddened palm and urged her to be still.
He placed the belt into her hand then, threw himself face down on the mattress.
‘Curious what a flogging does to a body,’ he said screwing his face sideways, ‘the thrill that comes with pain ... bind me to the bed and none of your tickling, mind, draw blood – I can take it.’
Tearing a rag into strips Joanna tied him down, first his hands and then his ankles. Surer now, she dragged the loosened breeches down over his hips, so swiftly that he had only just begun to protest when she seized the pistol barrel in both hands and brought the butt hard down into the flesh of his buttocks. He snarled at the indignity, swung the mattress up as he wrestled with the bindings. Using every ounce of strength she struck him a second bruising blow, catching him even more squarely than the first time.
The air rang with foul oaths as he tipped the bed over on top of himself. Grabbing her things she gasped; ‘Keep your dirty money, thief-taker, you’ll have no more of me!’
Then she wrenched the door open and flew downstairs.
Outside in the stable yard the ostler looked up from the restless grey he was unsaddling. He had heard the bawling coming from the first floor window. He watched the young whore slip out under the stable arch.
And seeing, ordered his lad to follow her closely.
Awakenings
Louise hung back in the drawing room leaving Arnaud and Isabelle to receive their guest. She occupied herself threading the last few sprigs of rosemary through a laurel garland draped over the mantel shelf – adding the final touches to the Christmas decorations.
At first light she had gone to the spinney with the servant Ursula to fetch what they could find; hazel branches whippy enough to fashion into a sphere now hanging from a ribbon over the sideboard; trails of ivy and bryony to wind round the banister rail; spikes of holly to grace the candlesticks. Isabelle had gathered herbs from what had once been Kate’s garden. Pierre had been sent out for oranges and brandy and had come back with a suckling pig besides. Preparations for the Christmas feast and for the much anticipated visit of Captain Fuller.
With words of tender encouragement she had helped Isabelle choose her gown, adorning her fair hair with pearl-headed beads to complement the pearl drop at her throat. She brushed the shoulders of Arnaud’s dress jacket, straightened his waistcoat.
But in her heart, this day belonged only to François. The day of his birth, it was also the day five years ago in Paris with Kate, when Lady Eugenie Herries had told them of his death in the prison of Vincennes. Locked inside her mind, away from her husband, away even from her father, were images from the Paris catacombs; the terror of her kidnap by Vincent Martel ... all that had followed it. Though such things could never be told, François had come to them there, the potent spirit of a man already dead: come at Kate’s bidding. And in the hour of their need had destroyed the man who had meant to destroy her and Kate.
She did not care that the turban-style hat, the cut of the green brocade gown she was wearing, were now passé. These were the clothes she had been wearing that last time - before he sailed for France, when this room had served as a preparation room – the alcove behind the door, the place where they had enjoyed their last intimacy.
Standing by the hearth, the pungent scent of rosemary on her fingers, she gave herself a moment’s leave to imagine that François had never gone, that the child in her womb was theirs....
‘Ah, there you are, Louise!’ Arnaud’s voice shattered her reverie. She laughed to cover her guilty start then took his arm and went out with him into the hallway.
Their guest had his back to them as he conversed with Isabelle. His dark hair was tied back and the light of the candles reflected in the polished leather of the strap across the back of his blue uniform. She was aware of Pierre lounging in the shadowed recess of the surgery door across the hall; noticed how lovely Isabelle looked in her amber gown, her face flushed with pleasure.
‘Captain Fuller, my wife Louise.’
She held out her hand as he turned around, then froze.
This man was older, the gaze surer but there was no mistaking the smile. The steady light in his hazel eyes dispelled all doubt. With a polite nod, he squeezed her trembling fingers and gently pressed his lips to them.
‘Madame Chevalier,’ he said.
François accepted the glass of Calvados Arnaud offered him, savouring the quality of the liquor. They had moved into the drawing room. Where once there had been scrubbed tables and stacks of labelled drawers lining a preparation room there were now French polished cabinets and ornate chairs, brought with the Chevaliers from Paris.
Isabelle sat with Louise facing the fire, the men were ranged about them. He had known Louise would recognize him, had trusted that in the moment of recognition her reaction would not betray him. She had not disappointed him.
Wearing that dress it was as if the years had stood still ... as if she had been waiting for him to come back.
‘I must thank you for the safe escort you gave to my husband and daughter the other day, captain.’
But the tremor in her voice, her trembling hand, the ashen face and eyes so darkly ringed, betrayed her surety. He knew then that the dress honoured a dead man. She had not expected to confront the living one. The very touch of their hands seemed to sting her. He felt with her the aching loss, heard again her cry: François‒.
A fleeting interchange before Chevalier senior and the pretty Isabelle once more claimed his attention. The moment had passed but he was aware of the watchfulness of Chevalier’s son; the sly glances.
‘Is it true, captain, that we are now a kingdom without a king?’ asked the son, leaning against the decorated mantelshelf.
François considered him for a moment. He did not appreciate the superiority in his tone or the swagger in his pose. But for the sake of politeness he said; ‘King James was escorted from Whitehall by a party of Dutch guards under the command of Count Solms‒’
With a dismissive wave of the hand Pierre Chevalier cut him short; ‘To Gravesend and Rochester, thence to France.’
‘You are well informed,’ François said dryly.
‘Knowledge gleaned from an orange seller, no doubt,’ muttered the father, dismissively.
‘A Thames lighterman, sir,’ bridled the son.
Isabelle rose and took her brother’s arm. ‘Certainement Pierre, we have had our fill of politics these past months.’
The maid Ursula came in to bank the fire. Though François recognized her at once, she seemed not to notice him.
‘Will you be given leave tomorrow for religious observance, captain?’ Isabelle asked.
‘A simple service for the men, nothing more,’ he answered gently, ‘Lord Herries has a room set aside for the purpose.’
‘Ambassador Herries of Pall Mall?’ asked Arnaud.
‘Staunch papist,’ snorted Pierre, ‘agent of the old court.’
‘Lord Herries is an old friend,’ François returned quietly, ‘and a true servant of the Prince of Orange. My company is billeted under his roof.’
‘I had dealings with the ambassador several times in Paris,’ Arnaud reflected, ‘a man of sense as I recall.’
‘You must forgive my prejudice,’ retorted Pierre, ‘my family has lost much at the hands of papist bigots the likes of‒’
‘And the grievances of young men express themselves in equally thoughtless intolerance,’ snapped his father.
Isabelle said quickly; ‘The houses in Pall Mall are very fine.’
Arnaud’s mood switched in an instant. His scowl relaxed, he laughed and touched her shoulder. ‘Ever the peacemaker, daughter. You are quite right, we forget our manners. This is the season of good will; we should not trouble our guest with politics or religion.’
Louise was bent over Ursula, whispering in her ear. François looked away from them to laugh with his host.
‘Isabelle tells me,’ Arnaud was saying, topping up François’ brandy, ‘that you are no stranger to this house, captain; a close friend of the Jeakes son.’
‘I knew François,’ he agreed.
Keeping her back to the company, Louise drew herself up. He held Ursula’s gaze as she twisted round to look at him for the first time, held it and willed her to silence.
‘Then it is possible,’ Pierre cut in, ‘you are already acquainted with my stepmother – Mademoiselle Morin as she then was.’
‘You forget that my father and I were only lately in London at that time,’ Louise corrected, with a flash of irritation.
‘I could not have forgotten such a face, madame,’ added François. Lifting his glass in salute he turned to Arnaud; ‘May I congratulate you, sir, on your recent marriage.’
‘I have much to be thankful for, captain ... not least the fact that I am to be a father again.’
‘You will stay to dine with us, Captain Fuller?’ asked Louise. ‘The meat is waiting to be carved and the table set.’
‘I insist,’ said Arnaud hospitably.
In different rooms around the house, the clocks in staggered turns struck midnight. Arnaud, his face florid with good food and a good many glasses of wine, threw back the shutters and unlocked the door into the back garden. On impulse Isabelle took François’ hand and drew him outside to listen to the church bells pealing across the city. Louise followed behind, leaving Arnaud and Pierre inside.
There was a single canon salute, a ripple of fireworks and carousing. A dog howled mournfully, in the distance another answered it.
In the alley on the blind side of the garden wall, a drunkard sat with his back pressed against the brickwork, shaking his head and brandishing a bottle at the wolf as it sat, ears pricked ... watching him.
‘Thank you for the pleasure of your company tonight, mademoiselle.’ François murmured. They were standing under the tree, their moon shadows reaching back towards the house.
‘I would be glad if you would call me Isabelle.’ Her teeth were chattering with cold, her arms folded about her to keep warm. He began to unbutton his coat to give to her but she protested, ‘No, please, I’ll fetch my shawl.’ And flitted away.
The darkling shape in the alleyway prowled past the ironwork gate.
Louise breathed; ‘François‒’
Standing so that they could not be seen, he pressed her hand.
‘They said you were dead.’ Her voice cracked, ‘If I had known....’
‘Hush Louise – such matters are beyond our control.’
‘I thought I was dreaming when I saw your face from the chamber window the day you came to the door. Is this a waking dream?’
He stroked the inside of her palm. ‘When I saw your dress, I did wonder ... one day there will be time for us to talk.’
The pacing stopped at the gate. The head dropped. Green eyes pierced the darkness.
‘Why have you come here? It is too dangerous, my husband‒’
‘You summoned me.’
‘What?’
‘I know that you are being ill-used ... you called out to me more than once. I heard you call out my name. Who is doing this to you?’
A tremor passed through her body as she recalled the desperate moments her mind had reached out to him, to the memory of him. She was back in the catacombs; the grim image of François and the girl Madeleine appearing from the tunnels. Spectres summoned by Kate. But she was not Kate to conjure vengeful spirits, or to reach a man in his dreams. And yet her recent dream had foretold this night.
‘Mon Dieu,’ she shivered, ‘there is nothing to be done – it is too late.’
‘Your husband?’
‘No, Arnaud is a good man. Don’t press me further, François, I beg you.’
A swish of skirts signalled Isabelle’s return.
Louise felt the brush of his fingers against her face, heard him whisper; ‘Take strength from me.’ Then he was turning away to Isabelle, straightening the hastily donned shawl across her shoulders, solicitously fastening it at her neck.
Shortly after, he made his excuses; May I call on you again, mademoiselle?’
There was no doubting Isabelle’s reply, or the churning foreboding that came over Louise after he was gone. And as she helped Ursula once more shut out the night in the back rooms, they were disturbed by a piercing scream from outside in the alley; a sound more animal than human.
Then silence.
Animus
The closing door lifted the gauzy bed curtains as François quietly returned to his room. Margot had fallen asleep waiting for him to come back upstairs. She lay with her arms above her head, her head twisted into the crook of her left elbow. Done with waiting.
Within a half hour of his return from St Martin’s Lane, Lieutenant Louis Veron had called him down to one of the men. Gerard Armagne was a strapping countryman from Lyons- the brawniest soldier in the company and the most taciturn.
No-one had an inkling of the pain he was in until he collapsed and fell from the ladder climbing up to his bed above the stables after the evening’s high spirits.
The underlying problem was easy enough for François to see. Behind Gerard’s fist – hard pressed into his groin – bulged a rupture the size of a goose egg. Louis suggested sending for a physician but Gerard was adamant; through gritted teeth he vowed he would have the captain see to it or no-one.
Roused by the trafficking back and forth across the courtyard, Charles Herries helped carry the heavy man inside to the kitchen table. He fetched strong liquor from his own cabinet and a fine needle from Lady Eugenie’s embroidery box. He watched François incise and staunch and feed the hernia back inside the gut. And when the operation was done, he turned to the others present and declared:
‘Your captain has healing hands.’
Parting the curtains François leaned over Margot and tasted the salty musk between her neck and jaw line. They had been interrupted in their lovemaking and the sight of her stirred the ache in him again. But he would not disturb her.
She had been waiting for him on his return from the Chevalier dinner; sitting at the foot of the grand staircase – the only waking soul it had seemed in a house heavy with the mustiness of wine and male bodies.
‘You have seen her?’ she asked.
He had sat down beside her in the darkness; wrapped himself around her, around her hushed questions.
‘Monsieur Chevalier, he has hopes perhaps for his unmarried daughter?’
‘It is my key to the household ... the only way in.’
‘And the mademoiselle, if she were to entertain false hopes‒?’
The sense of injustice, the compulsion, that had steered him back to his old home, made him impatient of such notions – even from Margot’s lips. He spoke of means and ends. He reassured her that Isabelle would not lack for suitors; that in any case the deception would be short-lived.
The Sorcerer (The Witch Trilogy Book 3) Page 7