Hostage to Love

by Maggi Andersen

  “We can’t keep this up.” Henrietta wiped the rain out of her eyes with her arm. “We’ll lose the horse.”

  “We need an inn for the night,” Verity said. “We should find one soon.”

  “Can we afford it? I don’t have much money left.” Henrietta grimaced. “I wish I could have brought more. I’m not used to paying for things.”

  “We’ll manage.” Verity’s grave voice lifted. She pointed. “Look, a roof! Through those trees.”

  They drove into the forecourt of the Le Cockerel Rouge and Henrietta pulled the horse up with a sigh of relief. An ostler ran over and drove the trap to the stables while they entered the inn, their clothes dripping on the flagstone floor.

  The innkeeper’s wife bustled out. “What a night. Come to the fire or you’ll catch your death!”

  They peeled off their sodden cloaks. When the innkeeper’s wife saw their garish gowns, she pursed her lips.

  “We are actresses, Madame. We are on our way to perform in Paris.” Verity feared they’d be turned out into the night. The proprietress hesitated while Verity held her breath, her cold body tense.

  Henrietta sneezed, looking very young and desperate.

  The innkeeper’s wife clucked her tongue. denrietta sneezed, looking very young and despeartte

  “I’ll fetch towels. Come into the coffee room. A hearty soup will warm you.”

  The inn appeared to be empty, these were troubled times for France. Light-headed with hunger and shaking with cold, they took seats in the coffee room. It was cozy beneath the low oak beams with the heady smell of hops. A fire crackled and blazed in the cavernous fireplace. Verity savored every mouthful of the potato soup and chicken pie served to them. Exhausted, Henrietta fell silent.

  They burrowed into blissfully snug beds and slept like the dead. In the morning, Henrietta threw back the curtains. The sun shone through the tiny casement window. “Blue sky! I could not have endured another day like yesterday.”

  Verity pulled the bell. “Let’s wash away the mud and dress.”

  The innkeeper’s wife had dried their gowns by the fire during the night, but they were still damp. After bathing, Verity chose another gown, striped blue, white and red, the colors of the tricolor. She dressed her wig with tall feathers.

  “I love being a woman again.” Henrietta struck a pose in her apple green gown ornamented with black velvet buttons. She had added a saucy patch at the corner of her mouth.

  Verity laughed and clapped her hands. “We are fine ladies of the theatre.” She held out her hand. “Give me your travel papers.” She took them to the table and dipping a quill into the inkwell, altered the name on it from Henri to Henrietta. “Voilà!” She handed it back.

  ***

  Christian climbed the creaking stairs. He knocked three times, waited, then knocked twice more. A man of middle years opened the door. Dressed in soiled maroon velvet, his white wig askew on his head lent him a deranged air.

  “Baron Dubois?”

  Christian followed the baron into the attic room. Close examination revealed him to be younger, less than thirty.

  “Madame.” Christian bowed to a woman in lavender silk who drooped on a wooden chair. She was pretty, despite the tracks of tears on her dirt-stained cheeks. Two small, flaxen-haired children slept in a tumble of limbs on a mattress on the floor.

  “You have a plan to get us out of Paris, monsieur?” Dubois asked, a cynical expression in his brown eyes.

  Christian had grown used to being greeted this way and knew he needed to gain these people’s trust if they were to obey him implicitly. Exhausted, starving and hunted like vermin by their own countrymen, he had found they were not good at following orders from those they believed to be beneath them. Arrogant and self-serving many of them, but that had been the way of the world for centuries. This young family didn’t deserve to die for it.

  He opened the bag he carried and took out the peasant rags. “Yes, they are dirty, and they stink,” he said, as the woman shrugged her thin shoulders with distaste. “But dressing this way may save your lives.” As the man took them, Christian said, “Expect me back in an hour. Have the children ready. I will tell you more then.”

  As promised, Christian re-entered the room an hour later. The British embassy staff had left France, but he had contact at the Hotel D’Angleterre in Rue Jacob. He headed over there for further instructions.

  An hour later, he returned carrying money in a secret pocket of his coat along with forged travel documents. The family were dressed and waiting. The children complained in high, privileged voices. It would be a dead giveaway. Peasant’s children did not whine. They were too fresh-faced and well-fed for peasants, with their bright hair and eyes. Christian scooped ashes from the fireplace and took hold of the youngest, a girl. He smeared the ashes over her forehead and cheeks and into her hair. Taking hold of one tiny hand, he covered it in dirt and dust up to the elbow. She whimpered and tried to pull away as he repeated it with her other hand. “Do the same with the boy,” he instructed their father. “And then yourselves.”

  That done, Christian dabbed the warm, softened candle wax onto their skin. He removed a pot of rouge from his pocket, opened it and began to paint the children’s faces in circular motions around the wax, moving on to their legs and arms until it looked as if they had the blisters of the pox.

  “We leave Paris through the north barricade.” When they were ready, Christian led them from the room.

  “They will stop us—” the baron began, faltering in the street.

  “Do not speak, Baron unless you must,” Christian warned. “The children must not utter a word. Do you understand? Your lives depend on it.” He helped them climb into a cart laden with hay. “Your voices will give you away. Do not panic. I know someone who will let us through. The rest won’t examine you too closely for fear of catching what you have.” He addressed the children. “I want you pretend you are very ill. Both of you are to lie down in the hay and close your eyes when I say so. Can you do that for me?”

  The boy smiled and nodded. The little girl looked to her mother first before she shyly nodded. “Remember, leave the talking to me until we are safely out of Paris.” He put his fingers to his lips. “Not a word.”

  With a crack of the whip, the horse shuffled forward. They trundled north through the city. Their arrival had to be timed for when his contact manned the barricade. He paid him well. It had proved a regular source of income, so the fellow continued to allow him through. The day would come when he would decide it was too dangerous and refuse, and then Christian expected he would be thrown in prison. Each time he approached the barricade, he hoped this would not be the day.

  As they drew close, Christian saw a crowd gathered around the gate. An aristocrat in a silk coat was dragged cowering from a hidden compartment beneath the carriage seat. He was led away to jeers from the people.

  Christian flicked the reins and called in gutter French to the crowd, “Out of my way, I have sick people here.”

  The crowd parted like magic, and let him through, their faces a picture of curiosity, loathing and fear as he passed. Two soldiers barred his way at the gate. Christian stopped the cart. After ten nerve-wracking minutes, his contact, a barrel-chested man with fiery red hair, pushed his way forward.

  “Give way for this pox-ridden lot,” Christian called as his family began to groan.

  The man poked around the cart and furtively tucked inside his coat the drawstring bag of money that Christian had planted beneath the straw. He nodded and signaled for the gate to be opened. As the soldiers did his bidding, a cart approached from the opposite direction with two birds of paradise, ladies of the theatre, in high wigs and vivid gowns. They waved, winked, and blew kisses to the crowd.

  Shocked, Christian drew in a sharp breath. Henrietta! There was nothing he could do but lower his head to hide his face as she drove the cart past him. What was the odds of passing them again as in London? What the devil were they up to now?
/>   He slapped the reins and continued, leaving the bleak Paris streets behind him. He was responsible for this family and must see them safely to a port where a ship would carry them to England. His orders were to accompany them to English shores then present himself back in London, but he now had no intention of it. Once they were safe, he would return to Paris. He flicked the reins. They were still in great danger, so he must concentrate on his mission. But the image of Henrietta, her face roughed and painted like a trollop of the theatre, accompanied by Mademoiselle Garnier, made him curse and then give a reluctant chuckle. He sobered fast. Her appearance here meant only one thing; her father and her uncle were still in France.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Verity and Henrietta arrived at the Porte Saint Cloud barricade. “Passes.” A sentry emerged from his box as crowds of Parisians screamed for the blood of a hapless aristocrat. The man was pulled from his carriage and beaten.

  Distracted, the guard merely glanced at their papers and waved them on. The violence silenced Henrietta. She slapped the reins, and drove grimly on, departing the scene as quickly as the tired horse allowed. They both sat stiff and alert as they negotiated the cobbled Parisian streets crowded with vehicles.

  “Stop here a moment,” Verity said. She alighted to purchase two cockade ribbons from a street vendor. She climbed back onto the seat and pinned the bunch of red, white, and blue ribbons to Henrietta’s hat, adding one to her own.

  They traveled through fields of crops and tumbledown houses, along the lanes of La Butte Montmartre. The Rue des Martyrs rose up the steep hill to the pale, ancient walls of Saint-Pierre-de-Montmartre. The church looked down on them, its significance now in tatters, as its abbess and nuns had been arrested and awaited the guillotine. It had been the last straw for Verity’s father. He had lost all enthusiasm for the Revolution after learning of such appalling and senseless acts.

  At the cottage where Verity rented rooms, the brawny proprietor, Monsieur Balzac, rushed out to welcome them.

  “It is good to see you again, Monsieur Balzac. This is my friend, Henrietta.”

  “Bon jour, mademoiselle.”

  With the trunk on his powerful shoulders, he mounted the stairs.

  Henrietta gasped as they followed him into the house. “I could not have driven another mile.”

  Verity rushed away to pay an ostler at the stables nearby and arrange for the return of the horse and cart to Le Havre. Her money dwindled fast. It wouldn’t stretch to feed them or pay her rent beyond the end of the next week. She would have to find work or join the starving people in rags living on the streets. The thought filled her with horror, which she tried to hide from Henrietta.

  First, she would make inquiries about her father–and the very thought of how he must be suffering made her throat constrict–then she would visit friends and acquaintances who might be able to discover if Beaumont was in Paris, and if… he still lived. It was all extremely worrying, and exhaustion laid her low, seeping into her very bones.

  “I’m sorry my home is so humble,” she said when she returned to the house. “I moved here only recently. Monsieur Balzac is a good friend of my father’s.”

  They had both lost their mothers when young. Verity felt a kinship toward the younger girl because of it, but she was also aware of the luxurious life of privilege Henrietta was used to.

  After Verity’s father had lost his position at La Sorbonne, their comfortable life ended. She’d been forced to seek work. And work was hard to find. The only option was the risky world of the theatre.

  “This is a charming little house.” Henrietta seemed determined to sound cheerful, although her green eyes looked brittle, and impatience and anxiety added an edge to her voice. She wandered through the small apartment from the parlor to the bedchamber.

  “There’s nothing to eat,” Verity said from the kitchen alcove.

  Henrietta sat on the sofa. “I could fall sleep right here and now,” she announced. She pulled off her hat and tossed it and her wig aside. “A part of my body will never recover from that cart. She rubbed her derriere. I’m sure I have splinters.”

  Verity upended a jug where she kept her secret cache and counted the coins in her hand. She picked up her basket. “I’m off to the market. I warn you it will be simple fare. Food prices have risen to absurd heights in the last few years. I’ll buy eggs for an omelet, some cheese and perhaps asparagus. Tomorrow, I must seek out my friends.” She tied a shawl across her chest and round her waist to hide the bodice of the low-cut gown.

  “Tomorrow, I intend to find my father…” Henrietta began, rising to her feet.

  “Oui, but be patient, please Henrietta. You must wait here for me. You do not know La Butte Montmartre. It is not safe for you alone on the streets.”

  Henrietta’s lips trembled. “They kill people every day in this God-forsaken city. We have very little time. He may even now—”

  “I’m aware of that.” Verity came to squeeze the girl’s arm. “My contacts could save us a lot of time. Give me until noon tomorrow to see what I can do.”

  Henrietta bit her lip and nodded. She sank back on the sofa, her shoulders hunched.

  * * *

  The cell door clanged shut behind Josette, Anthony, and Philippe. Exhausted, bruised and roughened up by their captors, they fell onto the reeking straw. An aged couple dressed in tattered silks and laces barely noticed them. There was a bucket in the corner. Anthony had to fight not to gag at the stink. Through a high window voluminous white clouds drifted across an azure sky like a painting by Fragonard. The elegant country his dear wife had loved was gone. Out of the best of intentions sometimes the worse things come.

  He cursed under his breath. If only he hadn’t been so foolish as to risk getting shot. His arm had not yet healed, but it didn’t pain him so much now. Philippe’s wound had been made worse by the soldiers’ brutal treatment, and it looked to be bleeding again. Josette removed her fichu and bound his shoulder. She gazed at Anthony, chewing her lip, fear in her eyes.

  Anthony patted her arm. “You’ve been very brave, Josette. You don’t deserve this.”

  “All my fault,” Philippe whispered. He leaned back with his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “I should not have stayed so long in France. My estates don’t matter, but what of my loyal servants? It is impossible to find work. How will they live?”

  The elderly woman opened her eyes and gave an unfocused glance in their direction. She closed them again with a shudder. Her husband took her hand and squeezed it, murmuring something in her ear.

  Anthony felt fury rise like bile in his throat at the inhuman treatment of these people. He curled his hands into fists, ready to take on any guard who entered their cell. But the hours passed, and no one came.

  Finally, the cell door creaked open. A guard entered and pulled Josette to her feet.

  “Where are you taking her?” Philippe cried.

  Anthony jumped up. He planted himself between Josette and the guard. The guard hit him on the jaw with the butt of his gun and he dropped to the floor. Through a haze of pain, Anthony watched helplessly as they dragged Josette away. Phillipe shuddered and put his head in his hands.

  The cell door clanged shut.

  Anthony rubbed his sore jaw and swore.

  The hours passed, the man and wife couple not speaking. Helpless, he prayed that Henrietta would live a full and happy life without him, and have many children he would never see.

  He must have slept for a few hours. The sun shone onto the filthy floor, highlighting the path of an inquisitive rat. The cell door opened, and two soldiers entered. Without a word, they pulled the old man and woman to their feet and ushered them out.

  “Your turn next.” The soldier spat in Anthony’s direction, then pulled the door shut.

  Anthony listened to the turnkey in the huge lock. He could do nothing. The British consul could not come to his aid. He wandered over to the high window. Listened to the rush of the river below the prison. Damp cli
mbed the walls, the rank smell overpowering. From somewhere over the Seine, a crowd chanted above the clatter of the tumbrel wheels, where prisoners were taken to the guillotine.

  He turned to meet Philippe’s gaze. They didn’t speak. There was nothing to be said.

  * * *

  After Verity left the next morning, Henrietta prowled the rooms. They were scented with apple blossom. Verity’s dainty touch was everywhere. Paintings of bounding stags, camellias and pears hung around the walls. She ran a finger over the smooth surface of a tulipwood table. The furnishings were of excellent quality. Incongruous in this setting. As if Verity had come down in the world and brought a few of her possessions with her. The thought occurred to Henrietta again that she knew nothing of the actress’ past. She pulled aside the fringed damask window hangings and gazed down from the dormer window at the cobbled street below, busy with carts from the nearby market. Ragged peasants stumbled behind vehicles in the hope of something edible falling into their hands. Henrietta’s heart ached for these people, especially the children.

  While she sat crumpled on the sofa, Verity came in. “What did you hear?” Henrietta cried, jumping up.

  Pale with fatigue, Verity pulled off her gloves and bonnet. “I spoke to friends, but they can’t help us.” She held up a hand to silence Henrietta. “Except for Monsieur Morel at the theatre. He seems confident he can find out where your father is. I am to return at three of the clock.”