Angel Heart

by Marie Laval

  ‘I promise I will be back soon.’ The moment she spoke, Marie-Ange bit her lips, wishing she could take the words back. It wasn’t true. She may never return to St Genis. For a moment she longed to stay here, surrounded by the warmth and affection of Saintclair’s family. Her future however depended on the outcome of tonight’s meeting with Christopher and her quest for the Cross at Beauregard.

  Saintclair glanced at her but said nothing. He was probably thinking the same thing.

  His mother returned to the drawing room, followed by a young maid carrying a tray with cups of coffee, hot chocolate, and a two-tiered cream cake. The girl was new. On their way to St Genis, Saintclair explained he had dismissed Martine as soon as he found out she had helped her cousin lure Marie-Ange and Lucie into a trap. ‘She tried to deny it at first but she broke down eventually and admitted the man forced her to lie about the puppies for sale in the village. As for him, he won’t be hanging around here anymore,’ he had said without offering further explanations.

  Madame Saintclair poured hot chocolate for the ladies and black coffee for Hugo. ‘What an ordeal this has been for you, poor Marie-Ange.’ She patted her hand. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Marie-Ange, do you? You must call me Emilie too. After all, you are practically family now. Lucie told me your wonderful news.’

  ‘What news?’ Saintclair and Marie-Ange asked in one voice.

  ‘Your engagement, of course!’ Madame Saintclair was beaming. ‘I knew there was something Hugo wasn’t telling me. You are the first lady he has ever brought home and I can see by the way he looks at you how much he loves you.’

  ‘Mother,’ Saintclair interrupted, a little shortly. ‘Marie-Ange and I are not engaged. In fact…’

  Marie-Ange sat very still, holding her cup of cocoa, hardly daring to breathe.

  ‘It appears that her husband, a Royal Navy Commander who was reported missing in action some years ago, is still alive.’ He paused and looked at Marie-Ange, his expression unreadable. ‘We are meeting him in Lyon tonight. If everything goes to plan, Marie-Ange will return to England with him.’ He drank his coffee and put the cup back onto the table.

  The only sound in the drawing room was the tic-tock of the clock on the mantle piece. Then Lucie started crying, quietly, holding her handkerchief against her mouth.

  ‘My poor Hugo,’ she whispered. She turned to Marie-Ange and shot her an angry glance. ‘You lied to me, to us,’ she hissed before running out. Her mother shook her head in dismay and went after her, leaving Marie-Ange alone with Saintclair.

  ‘I did not realise Lucie entertained such fanciful ideas about you and I…’ He sighed. ‘I keep telling her real life is nothing like her silly romantic stories but she won’t believe me.’ He got up and walked to the door. ‘Get what you need from your room. I want to leave as soon as possible.’

  She nodded. ‘Of course.’

  But she didn’t move. She needed a few moments alone to think about what Emilie Saintclair had said before Hugo interrupted her. That her son loved her. She put her hand on her heart. She couldn’t understand why she suddenly felt like crying and laughing at the same time.

  The door opened and Madame Saintclair entered the room. She closed the door and turned towards her hesitantly. ‘I am so sorry, my dear, for what just happened. Lucie and I got it all wrong. Of course, had we known about your husband…’ She sighed. ‘In any case, it was presumptuous of me to think that you would ever contemplate marrying my son. He does not deserve a proper lady like you.’

  Marie-Ange could not stand the apologetic tone of her voice. She owed her the truth.

  ‘I am no lady, Madame Saintclair,’ she confessed. ‘I made several shocking discoveries these past few weeks, one of them being that I am the illegitimate daughter of a Maltese soldier who seduced my mother when she was sixteen and abandoned her once she was pregnant. So, please, do not call me a lady.’ She took Emilie Saintclair’s hands in hers and carried on with a passion she was hardly aware of. ‘Your son helped me well beyond the call of duty. He has shown great courage, loyalty and honour. He is a strong, brave and wonderful man. Any woman would be proud to be his wife and I…’

  The words died on her lips. The true nature of her feelings for Hugo Saintclair hit her like a blow to the heart, so hard she gasped and had to close her eyes. She couldn’t hide from the truth any longer. What she felt wasn’t just physical attraction. She loved him. With all her heart. With all her soul.

  Madame Saintclair patted her hand and smiled. There was sympathy in her eyes.

  ‘I see…Well, if things don’t turn out the way you expect in Lyon tonight, you will always be welcome in our house. But for now, I think you had better get ready. Hugo is waiting outside.’

  Marie-Ange nodded, her throat tight and went up to her room to gather her things. She thrust her mother’s sketchbook and the few garments she had left behind in her reticule. She slipped Christopher’s dagger into her boot before finally clasping her locket around her neck. Grabbing her small bag, she closed the door with a heavy heart. Would she ever come back to Saintclair’s house? Before going downstairs, she knocked on Lucie’s door. There was a muffled response and she walked in.

  ‘What do you want?’ Lucie stared at her, a hostile frown on her face.

  ‘I came to say good bye. I want to thank you for being such a kind and loving friend. Whatever happens now, I will never forget you,’ she said softly.

  ‘Well, I hope we forget you,’ Lucie cried angrily. She crossed her arms on her chest and turned away.

  There was no coach leaving St Genis for Lyon that afternoon so Saintclair decreed they would ride his horse. It was no easy journey. She sat side-saddled in front of him, the warmth of his arms around her, the feel of his broad, hard chest against her cheek a sweet torture, giving her goose bumps and making her body tight with longing. Impatient and bad-tempered, Saintclair didn’t speak a word to her. He spurred his horse on to gain speed or pulled at the reins, cursing under his breath, when travellers got in his way.

  As they made their way into the city she was increasingly anxious about the forthcoming meeting at the Mère Vitry and about her feelings. She no longer knew what she wanted. Too preoccupied with her quest for Christopher, she had failed to grasp the true nature of her feelings for Saintclair and had ignored all the signs. Now she was about to be reunited with her husband, thoughts whirled in her mind…What if Christopher had lost his memory for good and didn’t want to resume his life at Norton Place? Her throat tightened and she closed her eyes in anguish. What if he wanted to resume their married life?

  As soon as they arrived at the cuirassiers’ barracks, Saintclair called for his batman and gave him instructions to bring some wine and a collation.

  ‘Will mademoiselle be staying here tonight?’ the man eyed Marie-Ange up and down. His impudence brought a flush to her cheeks and made her look away. It was obvious the man assumed she was his Capitaine’s latest conquest.

  Saintclair waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘I’m not sure yet, but make the spare bed up, just in case, will you? And not a word about Mademoiselle to anyone, do you understand?’

  The batman winked at her before clicking his heels.

  ‘Oui, mon Capitaine!’ Later he brought them soup, a loaf of bread, and a pitcher of wine and they sat at the table to eat.

  ‘The Mère Vitry Inn is in the old district on the other side of the Saône, in a street off Place Saint Paul,’ Saintclair explained, darting his cold blue eyes towards her. ‘Once I have spoken with…your husband,’ he paused, ‘and I’m sure it’s safe, I will come back for you.’ He finished his meal and looked towards the clock on the mantel piece. ‘It’s time.’ He got up, put his coat on, and went to the door.

  ‘Capitaine,’ Marie-Ange called. She walked up to him, tilted her face. They exchanged a long, intense look. ‘Please be careful.’

  He nodded. ‘Of course. Lock the door behind me.’ And he left.

  Marie-Ange had no intention of
waiting for his return. She wrapped herself in her cloak, covered her head with the hood, and slipped out of the room. As well as wishing to speak to Christopher straight away, she feared for Saintclair’s safety. The meeting at the Mère Vitry might be a trap. If Christopher was indeed one of Fouché’s men, a ruthless spy and killer, she had to watch Saintclair’s back. She couldn’t let the officer get hurt because of her. She was armed. She had her dagger.

  Marie-Ange hastened towards the inn, keeping her head down so as not to attract the attention of passers-by. The streets teamed with soldiers on leave, with merchants selling hot roasted chestnuts and mulled wine. Ignoring the beggars who pleaded for a few sous at every corner along the way, she kept her eyes on Saintclair’s tall silhouette ahead. He walked very fast and she had to run to keep up with him as he crossed the bridge over the River Saône, and then reached the far side of Place Saint Paul.

  The old district was even more crowded and echoed with the sounds of bawdy songs, shouting, and fighting. Men spilled out of taverns to fall over the cobbles. Some slumped in a drunken stupor on house porches while others relieved themselves against the walls. She pulled the hood forward over her face. A drunken soldier sprawled in a doorway grabbed her ankle as she walked past.

  ‘Belle demoiselle, un baiser,’ he bellowed.

  She kicked him off and caught a glimpse of Hugo as he walked in the Mère Vitry, which judging by its two steamed up windows and the racket coming from inside, was packed. She looked for somewhere to hide and elected an empty doorway with a deep recess from where she could keep watch. She didn’t have to wait long. Two familiar figures soon emerged into the street.

  Christopher wore a long grey coat. A black hat covered his pale blond hair. He came out first and looked around with suspicion. Saintclair followed and they started down the street, with Marie-Ange close behind. She couldn’t afford to lose them and made sure she kept them in her sight at all times. They turned into a narrow alley and disappeared into a doorway. It wasn’t the entrance to a dwelling but a long passage dimly lit with torches which seemed to go on forever. It was probably one of the traboules Madame Saintclair told her about. Silk workers used the covered passages to carry their wares across the district without getting them wet with rain.

  She couldn’t see the men or hear their footsteps any longer. Fearing she had lost them, she started to run. When she reached the end of the traboule she was back on Place Saint Paul. She spotted Saintclair and Christopher just as they disappeared around the bend of a steep alley climbing towards Fourvière, one of the hills overlooking the city. Her heart beating fast, she started after them. The alley was full of shadows. A cat dashed across the cobbles with a loud meow. She bit back a startled cry. Half-way up the hill, Saintclair and Christopher took a fork to the right into a small public garden. She slid, unseen, behind a tree to listen.

  ‘We’ll stop here. Now tell me why you’re looking for me and who you’re working for,’ Christopher said.

  ‘I’m not working for anyone. I’m helping out a young lady who wants to meet you,’ Saintclair answered calmly. ‘She believes you are…’

  ‘Wait! Do you mean you are associated with that English woman, the pretty blond who claims I am her husband? That woman is mad.’

  Marie-Ange’s heart was beating so hard it hurt. She resisted the urge to step out and speak with Christopher herself.

  ‘No, she isn’t mad,’ Saintclair replied, still calm.

  ‘Who is she? And more importantly, who does she think I am?’

  ‘Her name is Marie-Ange. She says you are Christopher Norton, from Norton Place in Devonshire. Six years ago, you were Commander on HMS Amazon, which sank off the coast of Corunna.’

  Christopher laughed. ‘Me, an English naval officer? Impossible! I don’t believe a word of this nonsense.’ He cursed loudly. ‘You’re lying. You both work for Talleyrand or the Police Prefect Bourienne. You seek to sabotage my mission here in Lyon.’

  ‘What mission?’ This time Hugo’s voice was strained. There was a silence and he resumed. ‘At any rate, you are mistaken about Marie-Ange. She wants to talk to you, that’s all. What shall I tell her? Will you at least agree to meet her? It’s the least you could do.’

  Christopher didn’t answer straight away. ‘Very well,’ he replied at last. ‘If it will get you off my tail, tell her to be at the Mère Vitry Inn at midnight. I’ll be in the yard near the back door.’

  Saintclair nodded. ‘That’s settled, then. We will meet you there.’

  He turned and made for the exit. The pale moonlight flashed on the knife Christopher pulled from his coat. In a swift movement he caught up with Saintclair and stabbed him in the back. The French officer stumbled to the ground with a grunt of pain. Christopher delivered a hard kick to the fallen man and raised the weapon to strike again.

  ‘Christopher! Stop,’ Marie-Ange cried, bolting from the shadow of the tree. She threw herself down next to Saintclair, touched the side of his neck to feel for a pulse. He was unconscious, but alive. Christopher loomed above her.

  ‘You!’ He snarled before grabbing her arm. He pulled her up roughly.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she implored. ‘You have to believe me. I am your wife, Christopher.’

  ‘This was a trap, wasn’t it? Where are the others?’ He looked around, and then glared at her with a look of pure hatred on his face.

  Marie-Ange breathed in deeply. This man was a stranger, a cruel, harsh stranger. Still she went on. ‘You are so very wrong. There is no trap. All I want is for you to remember.’ She carried on talking. ‘You are thirty-three years old. Your parents were Lady Susan and Sir George Norton. Sadly they both passed away. You have a younger brother, Robert, who is now eighteen and dreams of becoming a naval officer like you. You were a Commander on the HSM.’

  ‘So your friend said.’ He interrupted, pointing to the unconscious body of Saintclair. He pulled Marie-Ange against him and pinned both her arms behind her back. ‘So, my darling, tell me, how long were we married?’

  She could tell he didn’t believe her but carried on regardless. Maybe one tiny detail would jolt his memory. ‘We were married on October the twelfth, 1808 in Plymouth. It was a beautiful and warm, almost like a summer day. We were so happy together at Norton Place, but we only lived there together for four months. In January you boarded the HMS Amazon bound for Corunna. They said your ship sank, that you were dead, but I always knew you were alive.’ Marie-Ange tried to find a glint of recognition, of warmth, in his eyes. There was nothing.

  ‘The only problem, my darling, is that I am not your Christopher.’

  ‘Who are you then? Do you even know?’ she cried in desperation. ‘What do you remember of your childhood? What is your earliest memory? I bet it’s that of a battlefield or a French military hospital in Spain.’ A spasm of surprise crossed his face before he could hide it.

  ‘I knew it! You can’t remember anything of your life before Spain, can you? You were found unconscious near Corunna by Spanish fishermen or farmers or perhaps by the French army. Maybe you were in possession of another man’s coat, or carried a French soldier’s identification, a man called Nallay. Am I right? Did you ever wonder why you speak such good English? That’s because you are…’

  Christopher twisted her arms even tighter, and she let out a whimper of pain.

  ‘Stop this, you are driving me insane. I’ll tell you what, darling. Since you say we are married, I might as well use you. I could do with a woman tonight.’ His voice was hoarse and his eyes burned with an unholy hunger. Panic rose inside her and she tried to wriggle out of his grip.

  ‘No! You cannot mean to…’

  ‘You wouldn’t deny me my conjugal rights, would you?’ He snarled.

  She faced him, defiantly. ‘I won’t leave Saintclair. He will die if he stays out here in the freezing cold.’

  Christopher looked down, a cruel smile on his thin lips. ‘You don’t have a choice.’ He produced his knife and walked next to Saintclair’s body.
‘Come with me now, or I finish him off.’

  He grabbed her arm and led her, shaking with fear, out of the garden. She stole a last glance at Saintclair’s inert body before starting on the steep lane down the hill. This was a nightmare, not the loving reunion she’d been dreaming of for the past six years. Christopher didn’t remember anything. He didn’t want to remember anything. He was a dangerous man, a killer. And at this moment, she hated him.

  They walked back to Place Saint Paul, then on the embankment along the Saône, across a bridge, and down a series of narrow streets until Christopher stopped in front of a porch. Marie-Ange looked up but couldn’t see a plaque with the name of the street. Christopher pushed open a heavy wooden door and she found herself in a courtyard with a staircase at the far end.

  ‘This way, up to the second floor.’

  A short while later he pushed her into a small but comfortably furnished apartment. He closed the front door but left the key in the lock.

  ‘Get in.’

  Shivering with fear, she followed him into the drawing room where he proceeded to take his coat and jacket off. He smiled, loosened his black cravate and untied the top of his shirt and sat on the sofa.

  ‘Come here, wife, remind me of the old times,’ he said, patting his knees. ‘That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’

  Marie-Ange didn’t move. There was no love, no warmth for him in her heart. There was nothing but desolation and fear.

  ‘Come here, I said,’ he repeated, louder.

  ‘What happened to change you so much?’ she whispered. ‘You were the gentlest, the more honourable of men.’ At last she found the courage to cross the room and kneel in front of him. ‘Christopher. Why do you not remember? We used to walk along the cliffs and on the beach. I collected shells and wild flowers, you recited poetry.’

  Christopher grabbed her arms and pulled her into his lap. She struggled but he wrapped his arms around her to keep her still. ‘Shut up. I didn’t bring you here to talk. If you really want me to remember you, you’ll have to show me a bit more.’