Hostage to Love

by Maggi Andersen

  They were back at the bridge where the steps led to the street. Remi leaped onto the bank and tied up the boat. He helped Henrietta ashore.

  Anthony took Verity’s arm. When she was safely on the bank, he assisted his brother-in-law.

  “Josette?” Philippe murmured.

  “We’ll try to find her later, Philippe. When you’re stronger,” Anthony said. He looked bitter and disillusioned. He didn’t believe this woman still lived.

  Henrietta handed her earring to Remi.

  Verity did the same with the money they’d agreed on. “You did well, Remi. We are most grateful. I am sure you’ll have your own boat one day.”

  “I will.” Remi turned the earring over in his hand. “A big boat. Better than Papa’s.” He picked up his fish, and with a boyish grin, held it up. “And I have caught my dinner.”

  * * *

  They made their way back to the avenue. Two drivers stopped but refused to take four people such a distance. Henrietta sniffed fighting the urge to cry. Her father had taken to striding up and down the street, signaling the passing fiacres. They were attracting too much attention. She wasn’t sure that was wise, but as their escape could be discovered at any minute, she didn’t try to stop him. And he looked so different: remote, and grim.

  Her uncle sat with his head in his hands. “Are you ill, Uncle Philippe?” He raised his head. In the light of a street lamp, his face was the color of parchment.

  “A little unwell, Henrietta. But I shall rally,” he said. “I am so grateful to you both. You are remarkably brave.”

  “It was Verity. She asked the man to help you. He was an actor,” Henrietta said.

  “Later, you must tell me all about it,” he murmured. He slumped and closed his eyes.

  Henrietta edged closer to where Verity sat on the low brick wall. “I wonder how long before they discover them missing.”

  “We’ll be safe with my uncle for a while at least.”

  “But what about your father?”

  Verity scrubbed her hands over her face. “I shall have to return to Paris soon.”

  “Papa must be told the reason you came to London.”

  “Please, not now, Henrietta. I’ll tell him when the time is right. I promise.”

  Henrietta stared at her. Should she tell her father? He looked so exhausted. And Verity did seem intent on finding them somewhere safe to hide. “I won’t tell him now, but I’ll be watching you.”

  Verity nodded. “I invite you to do so.”

  A sure tread and Anthony approached. “I have a coach waiting.” He hefted Philippe up, and they hurried across the cobbles to a box-like, four-wheel vehicle, drawn by three horses.

  * * *

  They reached Argenteuil as the sun rose and traveled along a road flanked by tall poplars. A sailboat was moored on the river. The carriage stopped at her uncle’s cottage of gray stone, the garden a riot of sunflowers. Verity hadn’t been here since she was a very small girl. Uncle François must be up for smoke drifted from the chimney into the pastel, early morning sky.

  As they walked up the path a door banged, and a black and white dog of dubious origin ran barking to greet them. Verity greeted the dog as relief showed in Henrietta’s exhausted face. This was the perfect place to hide the men. There were no neighbors close by. Her uncle’s land was surrounded by meadows of red poppies, and woodland covered the hills. They would be able to see if anyone approached the property. Nevertheless, she was nervous. Would her uncle welcome her? He and her father’s views differed. They had not remained close. But in these harsh times surely, the ties of family remained strong.

  Gray-haired, his shoulders hunched, Uncle François looked blank, puzzled to find the scruffy, exhausted entourage camped on his front door step. He had the same hawk-like nose as her father, but somehow her father’s gentle eyes had softened his face. Verity stepped forward. “Uncle François, it’s your niece, Verity.”

  His expression changed to one of cautious relief. “Verity! Can that be you? I haven’t seen you in an age. You’ve grown up.”

  “Oui, ’tis I, uncle.” She pushed Henrietta forward. A pretty girl always lightened a tense situation. “We have need of your help.”

  “I can’t see how I… where are my manners?” He moved back with a slight limp and pushed open the door. “Do come inside.”

  They filed into the small parlor, simply furnished, with a welcome blaze in the fireplace. After Anthony helped Philippe to a chair, he turned to François. “Lord Beaumont, monsieur. Allow me to present my daughter, Lady Henrietta, and my brother-in-law, Baron St André. We are in desperate need, monsieur. We find ourselves without friends in France. We are trying to get to England.”

  “You find a friend here, Lord Beaumont.” François straightened his shoulders. “You are most welcome to the modest comforts I can offer. The baron appears to be in a bad way. We must get him upstairs to bed. Then we shall talk.”

  There were three small attic bedchambers. After Philippe was settled into bed. Verity placed a fresh dressing over his wound, and they returned to the parlor.

  “It is wonderful to find you well, Uncle.” She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned forward and kissed his papery cheek. “Have you any news concerning my father?”

  He shook his head. “Your father was too vocal in his opinions. It was bound to reach the ears of the authorities.”

  “A professor has the right to speak out. The people need to hear from learned men.” Verity found him unsympathetic, but she considered it prudent not to continue to argue.

  “I have read the works of Rousseau,” Henrietta said, not so inclined to hold her tongue. “Rousseau’s dream of France returning to the simple, golden age, without priests, nobles or kings to rule, threatens to become a nightmare.”

  A red flush tinted Uncle François’ cheeks. “Can we blame Rousseau for his belief that we are all nature’s children? Or Voltaire for distrusting democracy? You are too young and uninformed to voice such opinions.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “You will need a meal. Verity, come and assist me. My maidservant only comes here twice a week.”

  With a tiny shrug at Henrietta, Verity followed him into the kitchen.

  He added wood to the stove. “I’m fortunate to have acquired some excellent coffee.”

  Half an hour later, they sat around the table, enjoying hard boiled eggs, bread, and cheese, while Anthony brought François up to date.

  François listened carefully and praised the women for their ingenuity. “The sans culottes in their red woolen caps are everywhere now,” he said. “In the village guards occupy the bridge, day and night and search everyone’s papers.”

  “It’s going to be difficult to find a safe escape route,” Anthony said.

  François scratched his beard. “A man named Jean Cottereau has gathered together a peasant force. They find homes for the homeless and move people to safety. They call themselves the Chouan. Their signal is the hoot of an owl.”

  “Is there some way we might contact them?” Verity asked.

  “I’ll make discreet inquiries,” François said. “In the meantime, you must rest and regain your strength.”

  Henrietta and Verity returned the dishes to the kitchen., “Your uncle is fortunate,” Henrietta said. “He has a plentiful supply of flour and coffee. Was he a professor at the university like your father?”

  “Oui. Some years ago.”

  Henrietta began to scrape the plates. “He confuses me. He acts like a royalist, but then contradicts himself.”

  “Whether he’s a republican, or a royalist doesn’t matter. I am his flesh and blood. He would do nothing to hurt me.”

  “But what about the rest of us?”

  “He couldn’t give you up without endangering me.” As she said it, Verity recalled the bitter arguments between him and her father.

  Henrietta took a washed cup from her and began to dry it. “I hope you are right.”

  Verity shrugged. “We have little choi
ce.”

  “I’m grateful to you all the same.” Henrietta hung the cup on a hook. “I want you to know that I haven’t told Papa about Danton. I suppose I should, but you’re right. Now is not the time. He has enough to contend with. I’ve decided to trust you, Verity. For the moment.”

  “I said I would tell him myself. And I will.”

  “Understand that if you don’t, I will.”

  Her work done, Verity left Henrietta and went out into the garden, thinking of Anthony. She wanted him to trust her too. So much it hurt. The dog came up to her, tail wagging, and licked her hand. She stroked his smooth black head. As if in answer to her wish, Anthony appeared at the doorway. He came and sat down beside her on the bench beside a pink rose climbing a trellis. He’d removed his coat and there was blood on the torn sleeve of his linen shirt.

  “You’ve been hurt!”

  “A scratch, almost healed now.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall examine it.”

  “Later. Let’s just sit here awhile.” He studied her face, taking in every feature.

  In the long silence Verity listened to the chirp of crickets and swifts darting overhead. She yearned to lean into him and rest within his arms and was tense waiting for him to speak. Her deep anxious breaths drew in the sweet-smelling air: poppies, lavender and roses, the vegetable garden, and the pungent aroma of tilled earth.

  “I still can’t believe you two rescued us,” he said at last. “I can’t find the words to express the depth of my gratitude.”

  She looked away. “There’s no need.”

  He turned her face toward him. “Of course, there is. It would be extremely ungrateful for me to say I’d rather you hadn’t. But none of us may come out of this alive. And I would prefer it wasn’t you and Henrietta at risk.”

  She colored up under the scrutiny of his handsome brown eyes. “You blame me for bringing Henrietta to France.”

  “That’s what I’m wondering. Did you bring her? Or did she bring you?”

  She gave a soft smile of relief. “You know your daughter. She threatened to follow me. I thought it best to keep her with me.”

  “That sounds like Hetta.” He frowned. “Now we must find a safe means to get her back to England.”

  “Henrietta won’t go without you.” She studied her hands, the skin rough and her nails broken. Heaven knew how bad she must look. And she probably stank of the river.

  “You can’t stay in France after this. You two can get through the way you came. You must convince her. I’ll follow when Philippe is well enough to travel.”

  “We had luck on our side. Going back will not be so easy. And I cannot leave now, my lord.”

  He took her chin in his large hand and tilted it to gaze into her eyes. “My lord?”

  She flushed. “Anthony. I have urgent business in Paris.” Suddenly, the thought of what she had to do on the morrow brought tears to her eyes.

  Anthony slipped an arm around her and drew her against him. She sighed with relief. But it was foolish to think anything had changed.

  “Henrietta told me your father is in prison.” He rested his cheek against her hair. “What will you do?”

  “I must find out where he is. If he still lives.”

  “And if he does? What then?”

  She trembled as a sob escaped her throat. “I don’t know.”

  He raised her chin and kissed her. The touch of his lips banished the distasteful memory of Ramsbotham’s kisses. A long soft kiss, if not of passion, then compassion, and caring. She pushed away her anxieties and snuggled against his big reassuring body. There was passion and raw need in his eyes. “Can we go somewhere?” she whispered. She wanted him too, to make her feel alive.

  “I’m in sore need of a bath and a shave,” he said regretfully.

  “As am I.” She giggled. “Apart from the shave.” She stood and held out her hand to him. They walked through the kitchen garden. The scent of lavender and sage crushed beneath their feet rose to permeate the air. A goose honked and waddled out of their way, and a cloud of insects swirled around them and was gone. Once hidden from the house, she pulled him down. Grass tickled her neck. He flicked away an inquisitive insect. “Let me look at you.” His eyes were warm and appreciative. “You’re tired; there’s dirt on your cheek. Your hair is coming down, and you’ve never looked more beautiful.”

  She laughed. “Oh, that’s not true.”

  A brief grin lightened the savage planes of his face. “And I? I am a shadow of the man you knew.”

  She shook her head. “No. You are still that man.” She stroked his bristly cheek. “You need a barber. You look tired too, your cheeks are thinner.” She drew in a ragged breath and let it out slowly. “I’ve never desired you more.”

  In answer, Anthony’s mouth crushed hers. She knew him now: the familiar taste of his mouth; the feel of his soft lips claiming hers, the strength and weight of him, his chest against hers and the fast beat of his heart. She held him as if afraid someone would come and part them. His hand stroked her thigh under her petticoat. He kissed her again, moaning against her lips. Then he moved to settle between her legs. She whimpered, hot, burning with desire. The thought of discovery, or the possibility that death stalked close behind them, made life and love all the sweeter. She cried out with pleasure at the exquisite sense of completion when he pushed into her. Holding him close they rushed toward an explosive release, drowning in the pleasure of it.

  Anthony groaned, pulled her hair from its combs, and tangled his fingers in the strands. He thrust hard and fast and then withdrew with a cry. A startled a bird took flight from an overhanging bough. They lay together breathing fast, with no need of words.

  “Papa?”

  Henrietta’s call from the house had them scrambling to their feet and adjusting their clothing.

  Verity followed Anthony to the cottage while tidying her hair. She could do little to improve her disheveled appearance. The evidence of their lovemaking was no doubt there for all to see. She licked her swollen lips and tried to banish the dreamy look in her eyes.

  “It’s Philippe, Papa. He’s calling for you.” If Henrietta sensed what she’d interrupted, she gave nothing away. She was, after all, a young woman with no experience of love.

  Anthony ran into the house.

  Was Henrietta searching for a sign that Verity had told Anthony the truth? Waiting in the parlor together, Verity avoided her gaze.

  Anthony walked into the room, his expression mild. “Philippe seems a little better. He would like some food.”

  “Give him soup,” François said, entering through the door from his library. “Verity, you must help me to organize comfortable bedding for everyone.”

  “You are too kind, Uncle,” Verity said, going to hug him.

  He smiled, and embarrassed pulled himself free. “Not at all. Not at all.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Christian entered his rented room in St Germaine. He changed his clothes, becoming a modestly dressed citizen of Revolutionary France dressed in taupe breeches stained slightly at the knees, an indifferent gray waistcoat and badly cut olive-green coat. His cockade pinned to his tricorn hat, he headed to a tavern where a contact he’d cultivated would supply him with all the important news.

  Since La guillotine had become the official method of execution, it was in constant use in the Place de Grève beheading Aristocrats and other unfortunates deemed an enemy of the French Republic. A ghoulish mob crowded in to watch them. They clustered around the Tuileries, waiting for a chance to ridicule the king and queen. Even with the understand that these people had starved under the ancien regime, he was horrified by the level of bloodshed.

  His contact, Henri Lamoure at the Black Boar had heard nothing of a new English lady in Paris. Christian hadn’t expected him to, for Henrietta appeared to be traveling in disguise. Henri promised to keep his ear to the ground. He did know of an English nobleman who was held for treason in St Germaine Asylum awaiting the tribunal. Justice
from a tribunal could not be relied upon. Lamoure did not like his lordship’s chances.

  Christian downed his tankard of ale and left, heading for the prison. If Beaumont was in St Germain, he had a fair idea Henrietta wouldn’t be too far away. He found the asylum in chaos. He asked a frantic, sallow-faced clerk and received a garbled reply. It appeared that two prisoners had escaped.

  Amazed, Christian looked at the fortifications. “How did they manage it?”

  “By boat, monsieur!”

  “Ingenious.”

  “Ingenious as you say. Now we will lose our heads. Except the man who brought it about. Jean-Paul Aubrac has left France.”

  “Wise of him.” Christian tried to push through the man’s rising hysteria. “Who was it that benefited from this daring exploit?”

  “It couldn’t be worse. The man was wanted by Monsieur Danton. An English lord by the name of Beaumont. And with him, an aristo, Baron St André.”

  “By boat you say?” Christian hid his mounting excitement under a well-practiced, cool exterior.

  The clerk pulled at his hair. “Oui. During the change of guard at eleven. The mist was so dense no one saw them go.”

  Christian doffed his hat and left the clerk to his desperation. He walked along the avenue and turned into an alley which led to the river. From there, he could see the rear of the asylum and how it might have been done. Impossible to have crossed the river because buildings encroached on the opposite bank. That meant traveling further, either up or down the river. A busy bridge crossed the Seine to the west and would overlook them. He headed east.

  * * *

  The next morning at breakfast, after a restless night, Verity announced her decision to return to the city. “Uncle François has arranged a carriage and driver from the village.”