Angel Heart

by Marie Laval

  He held the letter up in the air. She recognized the warning in his eyes.

  ‘I will ask you again, then. Do you have any idea of who this letter might be from?’

  She sat down. She hadn’t told him about meeting Baldassare in France.

  ‘My father probably, or one of his associates,’ she replied with a low voice.

  Her husband dropped the letter on the table. ‘What on earth are you talking about? Your father died over seven years ago. And his business partners all reside in Plymouth.’

  ‘It’s a long story, Christopher.’

  He crossed his arms on his chest. ‘Go on.’

  She coughed to clear her voice. ‘During my trip to Beauregard, I learnt my real father was not William Jones but a gentleman from Malta called Baldassare dei Conti. Baldassare belongs to the Order of the Knights Hospitaller.’

  She conjured the image of her father’s face, of his kind smile, and pure blue eyes. ‘I was fortunate enough to meet him. He is indeed an extraordinary, brave, and very knowledgeable man. He said he would write.’

  She withheld details about Baldassare being a Turcopilar and the account of their dangerous quest for the Cross of Life.

  Christopher whistled between his teeth. ‘And you kept this to yourself since our return to England? Why?’

  She raised her head defiantly. ‘Because it had nothing to do with you.’

  ‘You are my wife. Everything that concerns you is my business.’

  She wanted to retort she was his wife in name only. Any feeling and affection had long gone from their marriage, but she held back.

  ‘Will you give me the letter now?’

  He didn’t answer but tore the envelope open and read it silently, a frown on his forehead.

  ‘This is fascinating. A Maltese family…Knights of St John…Well, I’d never…’

  He shook his head, folded the letter and put it in his coat pocket.

  ‘We will talk when I return from London.’ He stood up and added he had last minute preparations to make for his trip.

  Marie-Ange felt a surge of panic. Black butterflies danced in front of the eyes. She had vowed to tell Christopher about the baby before he left today. She clenched her fists and summoned her courage.

  ‘Actually, there is something I really must tell you before you leave.’

  ‘Can it not wait?’

  She swallowed hard and stood up to face him. ‘It’s important.’

  He closed the door again and walked back into the dining room. Then he sat down. His lips stretched in a thin grin. ‘What is it?’

  Now that the moment had come, the words she had carefully prepared vanished and her mind was blank.

  ‘I am expecting a child. It will be born in December,’ she blurted out, putting her hand on her stomach. Before her courage left her completely, she added, ‘And I am leaving you and Norton Place. Now that I am no longer considered an émigée, I will return to Beauregard.’

  She expected shouts of anger but only icy silence greeted her words.

  Had Christopher heard what she said? His face was frozen in a grin, his eyes hard.

  Eventually, he let out a long breath.

  ‘Two, no sorry, three, revelations in the space of half-an-hour. You are not sparing my feelings today, my dear.’ He leant back on his chair. ‘Who is the brat’s sire?’ he asked, but almost immediately raised his hand. ‘Actually, don’t tell me! Let me guess. It’s Saintclair, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, breathing out a sigh of relief. She had told him, at last. She dreaded this moment so much that she even contemplated running away to France like a coward while he was in London, leaving only a letter behind to explain herself.

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘In March, at Malleval,’ she replied weakly, remembering the freezing cold morning, the pink skies after the storm, and Hugo riding off into the snow covered hills.

  ‘Have you heard from him since?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Does he know you are with child?’ Christopher’s questions were precise, his tone matter-of-factly.

  She shook her head once more.

  ‘So for all you know, he may have been killed on the battlefields in June. At Quatre Bras, Waterloo, or somewhere else. Or he may be in some whore’s bed and not give a toss about you.’

  Her eyes filled with tears. Christopher gave voice to the very concerns that tormented her in the darkest hours of the night.

  ‘Surely, Marie-Ange, you know the score with men like Saintclair.’ He laughed. ‘You were stupid to get yourself pregnant, even more stupid if you actually fell in love with him.’ He stood up and came close to her.

  ‘I will not allow you to go to Beauregard. You are my wife and you will stay here.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. She tried to shake him off but he pressed down harder, hurting her.

  ‘Beauregard is where I want to live. Where I belong,’ she replied, wincing with pain. ‘Don’t you see we cannot carry on the way we are? I believed we might be able to live together, like man and wife again, even if we had both changed. I was wrong. This is wrong…’

  ‘How can you say you tried to be my wife when you were carrying another man’s child?’ His voice was cutting. ‘When you blackmailed me to stay away from your bed?’

  He let go of her so abruptly she almost fell backwards. ‘We will talk when I return from London. This child will be raised here as a Norton. I will not have the name of my family dishonoured by a woman who behaved little better than a soldier’s trollop.’ He clenched his jaws, and a vein throbbed on his temple.

  ‘I won’t be here when you come back.’ She might sound assertive but inside she was shaking with fear.

  ‘Then I promise I will come for you,’ he snarled and shot her a look full of hatred. ‘Someday, when you least expect it, I will come for you and your bastard child.’

  He turned on his heel and left the dining room.

  Marie-Ange collapsed into a chair and buried her face into her hands. She needed time to compose herself before facing the servants. The hateful tone of Christopher’s voice, and his threats, were still ringing in her ears.

  At least she had told him the truth. She was free from him. Her only regret was that she would not see Robert and explain her reasons for going away. The young man would be hurt, shocked, and probably angry, too.

  She now had to concentrate on organising her journey to France. She would sell some jewellery in Plymouth to pay for the passage across the Channel to Le Havre and the coach to Lyon. She wouldn’t take any money from Christopher. It was ironic she should struggle to pay for her journey considering she was now the undisputed heiress of Beauregard and all of Malleval’s fortune.

  Hermine had written in April to let her know of Uxeloup’s death.

  ‘Your colonel,’ as Hermine called Saintclair, ‘did an excellent job of wiping out most of the Malleval clan.’ As Marie-Ange was still considered an émigrée then, she wasn’t entitled to inherit. The French state had made moves to appropriate all of Uxeloup’s assets, but Hermine had been vigilant and put her lawyer on the case to slow proceedings down. In her last letter, dated just a couple of weeks before, she had written that Marie-Ange was free to return to France and take possession of her fortune ‘now that the ghastly little caporal had been exiled forever and our beloved King is back. Beauregard belongs once more to your family. You are Beauregard’s undisputed new owner and we are waiting for you.’

  Marie-Ange stood up and walked to the window. It had rained heavily during the night, but a strong breeze now blew the clouds away. The morning light emphasized the bright green of the grass and the tree foliage in the garden, the yellow hollyhocks, purple lobelias, and pink delphiniums borders. Very soon, she would leave this place, never to return…

  Would she see Hugo in France? She breathed in slowly to calm the wild beating of her heart and release the knot of anxiety at the pit of her stomach she always felt when she thought of him.
As Christopher had rightly pointed out, she didn’t even know if he was alive. If he was, would he acknowledge her and the baby? He never claimed to love her.

  She had written to Lucie when she got back to Norton Place at the end of April, adding a line of warning for Hugo. ‘Please tell your brother he was right about the fireworks at the opera house and everything else.’ She knew Hugo would understand.

  Lucie had not replied. She was probably still angry with her. Marie-Ange had not written again. And of course, in June, there had been Waterloo…

  Rosie came in and closed the door. She looked nervous.

  ‘Madame,’ she said. ‘This came for you this morning.’ She produced a small envelope from under her white apron and handed it to Marie-Ange. ‘It was delivered by courier at dawn. The man said it was very urgent and he insisted I give it to you personally.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He was foreign. French.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Marie-Ange’s throat was so tight she could hardly speak.

  Rosie blushed and stammered. ‘He was quite tall, blond, very handsome.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry about the other letter Madame, the one from Catania. I couldn’t keep both of them back. When Sir told me to bring the tray to him, I only thought about hiding this one. So I pretended to trip. I hope I did the right thing.’

  Marie-Ange took the envelope with a shaky hand. ‘Thank you Rosie. You did well,’ she said, dismissing the maid with a tight smile.

  Her heart thumped and black butterflies danced in front of her eyes. Her fingers shaking badly, she tore the envelop open and unfolded a thin sheet of paper.

  ‘Chapel on the cliff. Today. Eleven. Come alone. H.’

  He was alive! He wanted to see her! Her fingers shook as she scrunched up the paper and shoved it in the pocket of her dress.

  She looked at the mantel clock. Ten o’clock already. She heard Christopher’s voice in the hall and went to him. He was giving Francis instructions with his usual sharp tone of voice. When he saw her, he stopped talking and narrowed his eyes.

  She walked to him, hesitant. This might be the last time they ever saw each other. He seemed calmer now, but she saw the steely glint of anger in his eyes and understood he was putting up a front. She followed him outside.

  ‘Please give me my father’s letter back, Christopher. It can be of no use to you.’

  His lips stretched into a mean smile. ‘On the contrary, my dear… I meant what I said earlier, you know. I will come after you, and those you love. Leave me now at your own risk.’

  She didn’t reply, but he must have seen the resolve on her face. He climbed into the carriage and slammed the door shut. The coachman raised his whip and clicked his tongue and the horses moved off. Christopher leant out of the window. ‘I will see you again.’

  The carriage turned onto the main road and drove away.

  Marie-Ange heard a whimper and felt something tugging at her dress. She turned round.

  ‘Splinter…good dog.’ She knelt down next to the spaniel and stroked its black and brown coat. ‘Shall we go?’ The dog wagged its tail enthusiastically. If she walked fast, she would get to St Nictan’s chapel for eleven. She rushed back inside the hall and took her light blue cape from the hook.

  A few moments later, she was walking at a steady pace along the path towards the cliffs. Splinter and Rusty were chasing after each other. St Nictan Chapel stood in the distance.

  She stopped when she saw the sea, glittering in the morning sunshine. As well as the usual fishing boats sailing back to Wellcombe harbour and a couple of bricks on the distant horizon, a magnificent frigate moored in the bay. It was flying a white flag—the flag of the Bourbon monarchy. It must be Hugo’s ship.

  Someone was walking on the path towards her. A tall, heavy-built man. The sun was in her eyes. She blinked. Her heart seemed to beat to the same rhythm as the roaring waves crashing onto the rocks below. The shriek of seagulls circling the cliffs echoed around her. The breeze blew her hair free from her braid. She waited, her hands twisted underneath her cape for the man to come nearer.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘Madame Norton…Marie-Ange.’ Hugo bowed in front of her.

  ‘Colonel Saintclair.’ Her throat was so tight she couldn’t manage more than a whisper.

  For a few seconds, they stared at each other. His eyes were as bright, as blue, as the sea shimmering under the sunlight.

  Then he smiled and reached out for her hand.

  ‘You look radiant.’ There was a note of wonder in his voice. He hesitated. ‘Are you well? Are you happy?’

  ‘As happy as can be expected,’ she answered.

  She waited, heart pounding, as he squeezed her hand. Why had he come?

  ‘I hope my message didn’t alarm you.’ He let go of her hand and gestured towards the bay. ‘I need to talk to you, preferably on board the Pénélope.’

  She looked down at the beautiful three-mast warship rocking on the swell.

  ‘Oh. Why is that?’

  He bent his head and kicked some stones with the tip of his boot.

  ‘We need your help, to rid France of Fouché for good,’ he said when he looked up again.

  Marie-Ange let out a long sigh. Disappointment churned inside her, so raw and violent she wanted to be sick. So this had nothing to do with him and her. He hadn’t sailed to Devon to take her away. It was all about Fouché.

  She adjusted her cape around her slightly rounded body and raised her chin.

  ‘I don’t understand how I can help.’

  ‘I will explain when we are on board. It’s rather important. Shall we go down to the beach? There’s a craft waiting for us.’

  She shrugged weakly. ‘I suppose so.’

  She called her dogs and knelt down next to them, ruffling their coats and scratching behind their ears. ‘Go back. Go home…’ she ordered, pointing in the direction of Norton Place, but the two Spaniels stayed put and wagged their tails.

  Hugo found a couple of sticks he threw far away into the bushes. With a yelp, Splinter and Rusty sprinted off. He led the way, warning her about loose stones and slippery rocks as they made their way down. When they reached the beach she saw a small craft pushed onto the sand.

  Two sailors were waiting. On Hugo’s signal, they floated the dinghy and jumped in.

  ‘Please allow me.’ She stiffened as he scooped her in his arms and held her against him. He walked into the sea, lifted her into the boat. The small boat rocked precariously when it was his turn to climb in. His breeches and boots dripping wet, he sat on the narrow bench opposite her.

  The frigate looked close enough from the beach but it took over half-an-hour of energetic rowing by the two sailors to reach it. She looked at Hugo but he stared ahead, seemingly lost in thought. The wind blew his dark hair. His face was harder, tauter than she remembered. There were new lines at the corner of his eyes.

  She broke the silence. ‘I read terrible accounts of Waterloo in the papers. Were you there?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I was there.’

  ‘How did your regiment fare?’

  ‘We lost three hundred and seventy three cuirassiers, and twenty five still haven’t been accounted for.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘It was a blood bath.’

  There wasn’t much she could say after that. They didn’t talk until they reached the Pénélope.

  It was truly awe-inspiring with its two storey height, double rows of artillery portholes and high rear deck. Marie-Ange wondered how the row boat would manage to side along its massive hull without getting crushed. Then she worried about getting on board. One sailor grabbed a thick rope ladder that dangled down the side. Hugo went up first. He climbed quickly, and then it was her turn.

  ‘A vous!’

  She started to climb, petrified with fear. The ship swayed with the swell, the rope ladder was wet and slippery under her shaky fingers and her dress hampered her movements, but she soldiered on. She tried not to look at the wave
s frothing below. After what felt like an eternity, she finally reached the top deck. Looking up she saw Hugo lean over the side.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll get you on board.’ He put his hands under her arms and lifted her up, keeping her against him a little longer than was necessary. She breathed in his scent, felt the warmth of his hands on her back. Although all she wanted was to close her eyes and stay in his arms forever, she pulled back. She didn’t want him to notice her swollen belly just yet. Now wasn’t the time to tell him about the baby. She would wait until they were alone.

  The booming voice of Capitaine Martin called from behind them.

  ‘Madame Norton! How lovely to see you again!’

  Hugo was still holding her arm. He let go of her.

  ‘I need to tell you what we expect from you.’ His voice sounded official, with no trace of any past intimacy between them. ‘Please come with me to Commandant Janvier’s cabin.’

  He led her to the rear of the frigate. The deck was busy with men cleaning, scrubbing, and carrying out equipment maintenance tasks. They looked up and stared as she walked past.

  ‘This way.’

  He went into the captain’s quarters, pushed open a door into a spacious cabin with a large desk covered with maps and papers in the middle. Two men sat behind the desk. They stood and nodded towards her. The tallest one wore a dark navy and white uniform with red and gold braiding. He had a sharp, weather-beaten, clean-shaven face. The other man was dressed in civilian clothes. Short and slim, he had a tall forehead, dark blond hair, and inquisitive brown eyes.

  ‘Madame Norton,’ Hugo gestured to the smaller man, ‘this is Pierre Deval, French consul to the Barbary States.’ Deval bowed deeply. ‘And this is Commandant Janvier who is taking us to Algiers.’

  She started and looked at him, surprised. Did he say they were going to Algiers?

  ‘You are leaving France?’ she asked.

  ‘I have been sent to smooth relations between France and the new Dey, Omar Agha. Now that he’s been defeated by the American navy, he should be more amenable to our requests. The Deys and their pirates have been allowed to terrorise the seas for far too long. We need to make sure they respect the peace treaty this time.’