by Marie Laval
She looked at him and the words died on her lips. Her cheeks became painfully hot as she remembered what had happened after the dance, both in the cloister gardens and later at the cuirassiers’ barracks.
Saintclair held her gaze. A mischievous smile appeared on his lips. ‘I thought you managed very well, for someone so inexperienced,’ he said.
She looked down and fussed with her napkin.
‘You saw Fouché, then?’ Hugo’s father asked.
‘Yes, he was there.’
‘At least we have always agreed on that man. He is despicable, without honour or loyalty. How Napoleon tolerated him for so long is beyond me.’
‘He is a snake, I’ll grant you that,’ Hugo agreed. ‘His strength lies in the fact that he has no loyalty except to himself, and in the network of spies he has built over the years. Ministers, generals, members of the royal family and the emperor’s former entourage, everybody is afraid of him and of the information he holds on them.’
He didn’t look her way, but Marie-Ange knew it was for her benefit he spoke. She heaved a sigh. She didn’t like being reminded that Christopher was probably one of Fouché’s spies, even though he must have his reasons.
After supper, Lucie decreed that she was weary and wished to retire and her parents went upstairs with her, leaving Saintclair and Marie-Ange to sit alone in the drawing room.
‘You are lucky to have your family. They are kind and loving people.’
She spared a thought for Robert who must be waiting anxiously for news at Norton Place. She should write to him but was reluctant to mention her meeting with Christopher. She didn’t want to raise his hopes about his brother being alive just yet.
She leant towards Saintclair and whispered.
‘I think I know where to find the Cross of Life.’
Saintclair arched his eyebrows. ‘Go on.’
She explained about the song, the drawings of the dovecote, and about Aline’s letter. ‘My grandmother wrote that Saint Germain sent a team of craftsmen to build the dovecote. That was back in 1783, a few months before his death. Maybe he sensed it was time he hid the Cross.’ She paused and looked into the flames. ‘Perhaps he knew he would soon die.’
She closed her eyes, trying to remember more details of the letters. ‘Aline wrote that the men worked relentlessly day and night. They camped in the grounds of Beauregard. One man guarded the entrance to the tent at all times. My grandmother wondered what they had in there that was so valuable. What if they had the Cross with them?’
‘Among the hiding places he had access to all over Europe, why would Saint Germain choose to build a dovecote at Beauregard to hide the Cross?’ He sounded sceptical.
‘I’m not sure but it fits with the words of the song. Doves, a rose garden, the wing of an angel…’
Saintclair stared at her. ‘Your name, Marie-Ange, is rather unusual,’ he remarked.
‘My mother was called Catherine Marie-Ange, too. It was Saint Germain, her godfather, who named her.’
‘So Uxeloup may not be that mad after all. You do know how to retrieve that mysterious Cross and its relic, whatever that is.’
‘The song says it’s an angel wing.’ She smiled. ‘Well, obviously, it can’t be—angels don’t exist.’
Saintclair poked the fire and turned to gaze at her, his eyes smouldering and so caressing she felt her body respond.
‘Don’t they?’ he said, with a low voice.
Her lips parted, her breath quickened, her skin prickled all over. He stepped closer, took her hand and turned it over to caress her palm and then her wrist with his lips. It was so soft, so light and yet so powerful her breath left her in a gentle sigh. Desire shot through her veins. She threw her head back and closed her eyes.
He let go of her hand and she was jerked back to reality.
‘I am returning to Lyon tonight,’ he said. ‘I won’t be able to visit for a few days but when I come back, I will take you to Beauregard. We will go into the dovecote and resolve once and for all the mystery of the Cross of Life.’
He bowed in front of her. ‘Good night, Marie-Ange,’ he said. It was the first time he had called her by her first name. His voice and the way he looked at her made her shiver all over again.
‘Thank you for your help,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘And thank you for letting me stay with your family.’
He nodded and left. She sat in the drawing room a long time. Would he find news of Christopher waiting for him when he got back tonight? As she stared into the dying flames of the fire, she realised with a twinge of shame that the feelings Christopher’s name aroused in her heart tonight had faded and were no longer those of an all consuming love.
Chapter Twelve
The following days were happy and peaceful. Capitaine Saintclair’s family seemed to have adopted her unreservedly, and she found herself growing attached to them, particularly Lucie. The night terrors had stopped, and she was even considering the future with more optimism. She didn’t need Malleval’s money at all. Her great-aunt would probably help with her expenses while she waited for news of Christopher. And when she was reunited with him, he would sort out all her worries, and she would forget all about the Cross of Life.
She spent her time with Lucie and Madame Saintclair, mostly in the cosy drawing room overlooking the garden. In the mornings she helped with Lucie’s medication. She brewed her ginseng tea, prepared eyebright poultices that the young girl had to keep on at least an hour every day to help reduce the inflammation of her eyes. Emilie Saintclair had confided that the doctors feared her daughter would lose her sight before she reached her twentieth birthday.
One day, Marie-Ange was sitting at the kitchen table, grinding the yellow medicinal flowers on a wooden board. Next to her was a jug of boiled water, ready to mix with the flower powder to form a paste she would then spread onto pieces of cloth. She heard a man shout outside the garden door.
‘Give me more money, Martine. This is no way near enough for a crust of bread and a pitcher of wine.’
The voice sounded familiar. She stopped what she was doing to listen.
‘I need at least two Francs. I know the Saintclairs pay you well, the least you can do is help me out since it’s their son who threw me out of the army.’
It was the drunken soldier who had threatened Saintclair outside the tavern.
‘Stop this racket or someone will hear you,’ the woman answered back. There, I’ll give you one Franc. Try not to waste it all at the inn. Hurry now!’
The door opened and the scullery maid entered, dishevelled and her cheeks bright red. She looked surprised to see Marie-Ange in the kitchen and mumbled a greeting.
‘Why is that man coming here, Martine?’ Marie-Ange asked. She hadn’t forgotten the soldier’s threats against Saintclair and his family.
The woman put her fists on her hips and retorted defiantly, ‘Antoine is my cousin. I help him out sometimes. Give him scraps of food, a bit of money…’
‘I don’t think Capitaine Saintclair would approve of him coming into the garden or the house,’ Marie-Ange remonstrated. In fact, she was sure he would be irate if he ever found out. He would probably send the maid away too.
Martine approached and tugged at her arm. ‘Please Madame, don’t tell him. I promise I won’t let Antoine in ever again.’
Marie-Ange hesitated, bit her lower lip. ‘I don’t know…All right then, but you must give your word.’
Martine swore Antoine would not come in ever again. ‘Not even in the garden,’ she added.
Still uneasy, Marie-Ange resumed preparing Lucie’s poultices. It didn’t feel right to hide the drunken soldier’s visits from the Saintclairs. They were such kind people. Her thoughts turned to the dresses Madame Saintclair was making for her. Lucie and her mother had ordered silks in soft shades of periwinkle and coral from Horace Saintclair’s workshop. Marie-Ange had suggested more muted colours, but Madame Saintclair had shaken her head.
‘These shades of blue an
d pink suit you. Surely, you can now put an end to your mourning. In France, nobody would have any objections to a widow wearing bright colours after six years.’
So Marie-Ange had relented. After all, she wasn’t a widow any longer.
In the afternoon, when a pale sunshine pierced the clouds, she usually took Lucie for a stroll in the garden. They would link arms and walk along the gravel lanes. The girl had submitted her to a thorough interrogation. She now knew all about Wellcombe, about Norton Place and its occupants, including Robert, the servants and the two spaniels, Rusty and Splinter. Marie-Ange hadn’t said much about Christopher, only that he had been lost at sea. Lucie however wasn’t in the least interested in Christopher. She much preferred talking about Hugo, her hero.
‘It has been wonderful to have him at home these past few months,’ Lucie said during one of their walks. ‘I, for one, am glad peace has been restored and Napoleon sent into exile. Before, we would spend months without any news and Maman was worried sick about him. Hugo has been on so many campaigns, so many battlefields, all over Europe. I know that the worst one was Russia. He was much changed when he came back.’
One afternoon, they ventured outside the walled garden into the village. Lucie had talked about getting a dog and Martine mentioned a lady who lived near the church who had puppies for sale.
‘We will go today,’ Lucie had decreed. It was cold, grey and misty, but she was determined to take a look at the puppies.
As they walked through the winding village streets, she spoke about the ambush in the forest. ‘Hugo said you were the bravest woman he ever met.’
Marie-Ange tutted. ‘He shouldn’t have told you about the highwaymen. I am not proud of what I did.’ In fact, she was positively angry at Saintclair for telling his young sister she had killed three men.
‘Why not?’ Lucie leant towards her and squeezed her arm. ‘He thinks very highly of you, you know. I do hope you will live close by when you get married. You could even live in St Genis. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?’ Lucie clapped her hands together and laughed.
Marie-Ange gasped. What was the girl talking about? What had given her the idea that she would marry her brother?
‘Lucie, your brother and I are not getting married.’
‘Of course you are,’ the girl retorted. ‘I see the way you two look at each other. It’s just like in my romance novels. I am sure he is waiting for his promotion to major before he proposes. Hugo was always so determined to make to the top but I sometimes fear his ambition will get the better of him. It is as if he wants to constantly prove his worth to the world…or to himself.’
Marie-Ange thought Lucie’s remarks about her brother’s character very insightful for a young girl. Saintclair did indeed burn with ambition to pursue his military career to the very top. However, she couldn’t be more wrong about him wanting to marry her or being in love with her. The man had made it clear he didn’t believe in romance or marriage. As for her, she would never marry him, even if she wasn’t already married. The capitaine possessed too many undesirable traits. And of course, she did not love him.
She looked around uneasily. A thick fog had descended and covered the village roofs. The church spire had already disappeared.
‘We should go back, Lucie.’
The girl ignored her.
‘I wonder what your brother-in-law will say when he reads your letter. I hope you told him that Hugo was the bravest, the most honourable of men.’
Marie-Ange had at last written to Robert about the developments of her travel to France—or at least about some of them. It was only fair he should know there would be no inheritance, and therefore no prospect of him going to the Naval Academy just yet. She had not, however, mentioned Christopher.
‘Lucie, I don’t know why you think…’
The streets were very quiet now that the fog had thickened further, turning houses and trees into ghostly shapes. There was nobody else but them in the street. The eerie silence was broken by the thunderous sounds of a horse-drawn carriage behind them. Marie-Ange put her arm around Lucie’s shoulders to push her against the wall, out of harm’s way. Instead of overtaking them, the carriage stopped and blocked the street. A man sprang up in front of them, reeking of cheap wine and unwashed rags. It was the ex-soldier.
‘Here they are! The Capitaine’s strumpet and his little sister.’
He walked up to Marie-Ange, so close she saw the burst veins in his eyes and winced at the smell of his foul breath. He raised a grimy hand towards her face and she stepped back in disgust.
‘You sure are pretty, miss! Pretty enough to kiss.’
‘Enough! Shut up and scamper!’ A booming voice called from behind.
Marie-Ange turned round, her heart sinking as she recognised Rochefort. He climbed from the driver seat. He was holding a black hood and a length of rope in his hands.
‘You promised me three Francs. I told you they’d be here, and here they are,’ the drunkard protested.
So it was a trap. Martine had lured them to this deserted alleyway at the back of the church on behalf of her cousin. There were no puppies for sale.
Rochefort threw a few coins on the ground which the man picked them up before running off, swallowed by the fog. Lucie held onto Marie-Ange’s arm, terrified. Her breathing had become laboured and wheezy.
Marie-Ange decided to gain time.
‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Rochefort,’ she said with assurance. ‘Do you just happen to be visiting St Genis or did you come especially for me?’
‘If you come with me without making any fuss, the girl won’t be harmed and I won’t need to use these on you.’ He showed the black hood and the rope.
‘Where exactly are we going?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough, M’ame. Hurry now, get in.’ Rochefort stepped forward.
‘Marie-Ange, who is this man?’ Lucie asked, her voice quivering with fear. She was deadly pale now. Her lips had taken a blue tinge. With her hand pressed against her chest as if trying to slow her heartbeats, she looked about to faint. Marie-Ange took one look at her and decided she could not put the girl in any more danger.
‘It’s all right, Lucie. You can go home.’
Lucie shook her head. ‘No, I won’t leave you alone with him.’
‘Don’t argue with me. Go now!’ Marie-Ange almost shouted, pushing Lucie forward into the street.
She walked towards Rochefort. ‘I am coming.’
He grunted and gestured for her to get into the carriage. She opened the door. The thick black curtains were pulled across the windows but she glimpsed the black-clad figure of a man sitting in a corner. He leapt forward, grabbed her wrists to pull her to him and before she could scream, pressed a cloth on her face, forcing her to breathe in a strong, acrid substance. As she lost consciousness, Marie-Ange recognised the gleaming, dark brown eyes of Gustave Karloff.
She coughed, shivered violently, and opened her eyes. Her fingers scraped the hard, wet floor on which she was lying before she managed to sit up against the cold stone wall. Her head throbbed. She licked her dry lips and took several deep breaths to control the nausea that threatened to overtake her. When she felt a little steadier and the world had stopped spinning, she looked around. She was in a cell. There were iron rings and chains fastened to the bare stone walls and a couple of old straw beds on the floor. Where had Rochefort and Karloff taken her?
She put her hands in front of her. At least she wasn’t chained. Then she touched her dress. It was wet through, no wonder she was frozen to the core. She tried to get up but her legs wouldn’t obey and she slumped back against the wall.
Heavy footsteps outside and the noise of keys rattling against the door sent her heart pounding and she pressed herself against the damp, cold wall. The door creaked open and Rochefort came in.
‘Can you walk?’ he asked, gruff and with a scowl on his face. ‘I’ll carry you if you can’t.’
‘Where am I?’ She didn’t move.
‘Mall
eval,’ he replied. ‘I asked you if you could walk.’
‘Why am I here?’
‘Not my place to tell.’ He marched towards her, grabbed her arm and pulled her up roughly. His thick, hairy fingers formed an iron ring around her arm. It was pointless to resist as he dragged her along a dark corridor and up two dozen roughly carved stone steps. He was too strong. He opened a thick wooden door and pushed her through it. She stumbled into a brightly lit hall, with a chequered black and white tiled floor and dark wood panelled walls covered with hunting trophies—stuffed heads of deer complete with huge antlers, snarling silver wolves and brown bears.
Rochefort gestured to a staircase.
‘Up there.’
They climbed to the first floor. Rochefort opened a door and Marie-Ange stepped into a large, almost entirely black bedroom lit by thick, tall candles. The walls and the ceiling were painted black, too. The chimney breast was carved black granite. In a corner of the room was a four poster bed covered with black silk blankets and with black veils hanging down. It was the most sinister place she’d ever seen.
‘Sit down over there,’ Rochefort ordered.
Marie-Ange crossed her arms on her chest. ‘First I want to know why I’m here. And then I want you to take me back to St Genis,’ she said haughtily. Her voice faltered when she saw the mocking grin on Rochefort’s face.
‘Do as you’re told or I’ll give you another dose of medicine.’ He pointed to a basin of water near the fireplace. ‘There’s hot water and a change of clothes, if you want.’
He left, a key grated in the lock.
As soon as Rochefort was gone, she walked to the windows and lifted the black curtains. The windows were encased in thick iron bars. She pressed her face to the pane but it was too dark outside to see anything. Saintclair had said the village of Malleval was located in a small mountain range, with nothing but precipices and forests for miles around. She might as well be alone in the world.
She prayed Lucie had arrived home safely and raised the alarm, and that Monsieur and Madame Saintclair had alerted their son of her abduction by now. Capitaine Saintclair was her only hope.