Jack Chiltern's Wife (1999)

by Nichols, Mary

  It would be foolhardy to continue his search for James; it was more important to return to Kitty and Judith and ensure their safety. He was thankful that at the moment the rioting women were only interested in food shops, but it would not be long before they began systematically raiding other premises and the woodworkers might easily be next. If the ladies were found on Pierre’s property, then his life would also be forfeit.

  But when he arrived, he was shocked to learn the English women had left. Pierre told him he had tried to detain them, but they insisted.

  ‘Where have they gone?’

  Pierre shrugged. ‘I heard the young one say something about the British Embassy.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell them we are at war? That makes them enemy aliens. You should have made them stay.’

  ‘And lost our own heads for our pains?’ Madame Clavier put in. ‘No, citizen, and though we do not condone the killing of a king, it is done now, and we are loyal citizens of France.’

  ‘Yes, I beg your pardon,’ he said, realising his anger was unjustified. They had helped him only so long as they thought his first consideration was for France and the French people, but now France and Britain were at war, he could no longer rely on their support. He did not blame them, but it did mean the sooner Kitty and Judith left Paris, the better.

  ‘Jean, I will go now, but make sure you have no evidence for anyone to find. You understand me?’

  ‘Yes, rest easy, there is nothing to find except this.’ He held out the sovereign. ‘The young one left it as payment for their board. Gold it may be, but I dare not spend it. Take it, I do not want it.’

  Jack delved in his overcoat pocket and extracted a small leather bag. From this he selected two louis d’or which he dropped into Jean’s palm. ‘Two for one, is that fair?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He took Jack’s hand and held it in a firm grip. ‘Bon chance, mon ami.’

  Jack clattered down the stairs and out into the street. Resisting the temptation to run, he strode purposefully down the street, passing knots of women on the way. ‘Vive la République!’ they shouted at him.

  Laughing, he answered them and passed on his way unmolested, but his thoughts were not on the women, but on Kitty. What had become of her? If she found the British Embassy closed because of the declaration of war, what would she do? Look for her brother? But James was not to be found and Jack feared he might have been arrested. The same fate might well fall to Kitty and her maid.

  There were a dozen overcrowded and ill-documented prisons in Paris and anyone could easily be locked up and never heard of again. Or guillotined. The shock and revulsion he had felt on learning of Gabrielle’s fate rolled over him once again and he realised he was not as hard-hearted as he liked people to believe, and if, through his negligence and uncaring attitude, Kitty also died, then he would be twice damned.

  He had taught himself to smother his emotions, believing them to be a sign of weakness, especially since Gabrielle had taken all the love he had lavished on her and thrown it in his face. He had sworn never to allow another human being to rule his heart, but now he was forced to admit he did have a heart and one that could feel pain and tenderness. And, if that were so, what else could it feel?

  He began to run, pounding the slippery street, unmindful of the strident yelling of a band of women, who congregated along the Quai de la Mégisserie opposite the Palais de Justice. He had almost passed them when a glimpse of white lace carried on the top of a pike caught his eye. White lace was not the usual material used for their banners and he paused to look. It was then he heard a voice screaming in English. ‘No! No! No!’

  He turned and dashed into their midst, just in time to see Kitty, almost naked, hoisted to the top of the lamp post. For one terrible second he stood still, staring up at her, feeling sick and hating himself for bringing her to this. Then the need for action forced him to his senses and pushed his way forward, grabbing the rope from the women who had not yet tied it off. ‘What are you doing, citoyennes?’ he demanded. ‘What has this woman done?’

  ‘She is an enemy of the Republic. Une Anglaise and an aristo.’

  He knew he could not fight them off and must persuade them to let him have her body. And quickly. Already Kitty’s face was blue and though he tried to let her down, the women were pulling against him. ‘No, she is a poor misguided simpleton, whom I have the misfortune to have married.’

  ‘Are you rich enough to clothe her in lace?’

  ‘No, as you see, I am a humble farm labourer.’

  ‘Then where did she get this?’ One of the women waved a petticoat under his nose.

  In the last two or three years he had learned to think fast and if there was any hesitation in his answer it did not show. ‘She stole that from the home of our former seigneur after he and his wife were arrested. Don’t all women like pretty things? They took her eye and what must she do but put them on.

  ‘I told her it would lead to her downfall. I warned her but …’ He paused and shrugged, not wanting to appear in a rush, though every second was critical. ‘Please, citoyennes, you have done what you had to do, let me have her body for burial. Fool that she was, she was my wife and I cannot bear to see her left there to be pecked by hungry birds.’

  They looked from one to the other. ‘Oh, you might as well have her,’ their leader said, suddenly letting go of the rope so that Jack found himself almost bowled over as Kitty dropped into his arms. ‘We are more interested in food. Come, citoyennes, to the warehouses next.’

  Jack put Kitty on the ground and knelt beside her to take the rope from her neck. The knot was tight and it was some seconds, which felt like hours, before she was free of it. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a light pulse fluttering in her throat. He grabbed her scattered clothes and scooped her up in his arms before looking about for Judith. ‘Where is her mother?’

  One of the women who remained pointed along the street and for the first time he saw the dangling body. He would have to come and fetch it later for burial, but now he had to get Kitty to a safe place where she could be revived. He started to walk away, not hurrying, not daring to, but as soon as he had turned the corner, he began to run.

  ‘Don’t die on me,’ he murmured, as he ran. ‘Please don’t die. Oh, why did I ever bring you to this God-forsaken place? It is all my fault.’

  Telling himself that he wasn’t to know how much worse things had become since the King’s execution, that he had expected to find James easily, that she was headstrong enough to have come without him, did nothing to ease his conscience. He had made a mess of it. He should have put her back on the packet to England, he should not have allowed the forger to sway his judgement and he should have told Jean to keep her indoors by force if necessary.

  He looked down at her. She was still unconscious and there was a dreadful bruise round her neck, but she was beginning to breathe again in a ragged kind of way, gulping air. ‘Oh, my love,’ he said, hardly aware of the endearment. ‘You are going to have a dreadful sore throat, but thank God you will live.’

  A few minutes later he turned the corner into the market and ran under an archway to what had once been some stables and there, to his unbounded relief, he found his horse and cart and gently laid his burden in the back. He had thrown Lucie’s blankets over the horse to keep it warm, and now he pulled them off, folded one under Kitty’s head and put the other over her, adding his dirty old overcoat for extra warmth.

  He had a flask under the driving seat, but he dare not try to give her anything to drink while she remained unconscious. She was breathing a little more easily and he bent to kiss her before slipping off the back of the cart and going to the driver’s seat. It was not safe to stay in Paris, he could not burden any more of his contacts with his personal problems. Nor would his superiors condone it. There was too much at stake. But Kitty must be saved and there was no time to lose.

  It was not just that she was another human being needing help—it was far more than that. She had ta
ken that hard-shelled heart of his in her small hands and cracked it wide open to reveal the core of him, the need in him, the capacity for love he had stifled for so long.

  How had she done it, when he had put up a solid wall against such a happening? By being herself, he realised. There was nothing half-hearted about anything she did; that business with the guards at the barriers had proved that. Tiny as she was, she had immense courage. Her laughter was full-bodied, her anger red-hot. She was infuriating sometimes, but loyal and capable of infinite tenderness. Her hatred, he guessed, could be terrible, but her love steadfast to death. He knew it and he knew also that he loved her.

  ‘Oh, Kitty, what have you done to me?’ he murmured as he picked up the reins and the cart jolted out into the market place and made its way northwards to the Porte Saint-Denis.

  Kitty felt as though her throat was on fire and her body ached with every jolt of the cart. What had happened? Where was she being taken? Where was Judith? She tried to cry out, but could not. She was beset by images of women’s faces, of noise and a pounding in her ears, of her feet leaving the ground. Slowly, the horror of it all came back to her. She had been hanged and now, believing her dead, they were taking her for burial. She tried once again to move, to cry out.

  ‘You are safe,’ said a disembodied voice, somewhere above her. ‘Lie still. Don’t try to talk.’

  She knew the voice. Oh, blessed, blessed relief!

  The jolting of the cart increased until she could hardly bear it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, hearing her groan and wishing he could take her pain on himself. ‘We’ll soon have you comfortable again.’

  They stopped at last. Jack came round to the back of the cart and picked her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing at all. She tried to speak, to thank him, but could not. He carried her into the farmhouse they had left only three days before, though it seemed like a lifetime. Up the stairs they went to the room she had occupied before, where he put her gently on the bed and covered her before turning to light a candle.

  ‘You must stay here until you have fully recovered,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘Then we will talk.’

  He took the candle to the window and stood passing it from side to side, before setting it down and returning to sit on the side of the bed. ‘Lucie will see the light from her mother’s house and know that I need her. She will be here soon. Shall I fetch you a drink?’

  She managed to croak ‘Please’, but it hurt dreadfully and she put up her hand to her throat. She could feel the ridges left by the rope and shuddered.

  He took her hand away and held it in his own. ‘Don’t talk. I will get you a drink of water with a few drops of laudanum in it and that will help you sleep.’ He raised her hand to his lips, then got up and left the room.

  As soon as he had gone and she was alone, the terror returned. Every shadow caused by the flickering candle held a menace, the sound of the wind in the trees outside the window was threatening voices. The creak of the stair was her executioner coming for her. She sat up, opening her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. She was dumb.

  And she had lost the one person she held dear, the one person who cared enough to give her life for her. Judith. Judith had tried to protect her. She had died, hadn’t she? It wasn’t a terrible nightmare. What had happened to her body? Had someone taken her down and buried her? Poor, poor Judith. She had not wanted to come to France but, staunchly loyal, she had been prepared to follow her mistress wherever she went, whatever mad scheme she dreamed up.

  It was all her fault. All of it. Kitty flung herself face down and sobbed, thumping her pillow with a clenched fist.

  ‘Now, that will do you no good at all,’ Jack said, returning with a glass of cloudy liquid and sitting on the side of the bed to help her to drink it. ‘You must stay calm.’

  ‘Calm!’ she mouthed, turning to face him. ‘How can you talk of being calm? I don’t feel calm. I feel angry. Angry! Angry! Angry!’ With every silent word, she thumped the pillow.

  ‘Good,’ he said, grinning. ‘That’s more like the old Kitty. Now drink this and go to sleep. Tomorrow will be time enough to talk.’

  He held the glass to her lips and she sipped it very slowly, forcing herself to swallow, but the fire in her throat made every tiny mouthful agony. He was very patient, taking the glass away from time to time so that she could recover a little, then beginning again, until it had all gone. Then he put her back on the pillows and covered her up.

  ‘Sleep is what you need,’ he said softly. ‘Sleep and time to forget.’ He rose to leave, but she clung to his hand and would not let it go. He smiled. ‘Very well, I will stay.’

  He sat and held her hand until her even breathing told him she had fallen asleep but, instead of tiptoeing softly from the room, he sat on, watching her.

  There was no colour in her cheeks, or even in her lips, which made the red, mauve and yellow on her neck seem more pronounced. Her expressive eyes he could not see, but he noticed the long lashes and the finely drawn brows, the smooth forehead and the mop of dark hair framing her piquant face. One hand was flung out, the other lay in his palm, like a tiny bird in its nest. She was lovely and so innocent. It was that innocence which made her so vulnerable and so trusting, that and her courageous spirit which did not take caution or discretion into account.

  He must teach her not to trust; he must teach her to doubt all men, not to rely on anyone. For her own safety, he must teach her wisdom and cunning and how to be deceitful, because a time might come when he could not protect her. And in doing so he would spoil her. It had happened to Gabrielle.

  Oh, he had not corrupted his wife, others had. She had early learned to make demands and to turn to whomever would satisfy them. He didn’t understand it, her parents were not like that. The comte, whom he had—God forgive him—vilified to his card-playing companions, was a good man and he loved the comtesse like a second mother. If it hadn’t been for them, he would never have undertaken to find their wayward daughter, his wife, and embarked on his career as an agent.

  As he sat watching the sleeping Kitty, his mind went back over the years and he was once again a young man. He wasn’t old now, a mere thirty-one, but there had been so much pain and suffering, so many delusions shattered in that time that he felt ancient. Already there was grey in the hair at his temples.

  But ten years ago he had been carefree and in love and staying with his mother’s sister, Anne-Marie, and her husband, the Marquis de Saint-Gilbert, at their château above the village of Haute Saint-Gilbert just north of Lyons. Comte de Malincourt was their near neighbour and, during the course of that visit, he had been introduced to the comte’s daughter, Gabrielle. She had captivated him on sight and, before long, with the enthusiastic support of her parents, he had proposed and been accepted.

  He had taken her home to England, to his father’s estate in Wiltshire, but she hated it. It was too dull for her and she was not used to the strict etiquette prevailing in England. She, who was like an exotic butterfly, wanted to preen herself, to be the centre of attention, to go to balls and meet the top One Hundred, to flirt.

  At first he had humoured her, spending more time in London than he ought, alienating his father, who told him he should be stricter with her, and upsetting his mother, whom Gabrielle made no secret of disliking. There had been constant friction. And then she had taken a lover. His hurt when he learned of it had penetrated deep into his soul, making him withdrawn and bad-tempered.

  ‘I cannot see why you are in such a state about it,’ she had said, when he confronted her. ‘It is the natural thing to do. In France every man of any consequence has a mistress and every woman a lover.’

  ‘This is not France.’

  ‘More’s the pity. If we were in Paris, we could have a gay time and see whom we pleased and no one would think anything of it. We should be accepted at court and visit Versailles and …’ She had scolded on and on until, in order to try and save his marriage, he had moved to France, spending hal
f the year at Malincourt with her parents and half the year in Paris. It made little difference. Until the Revolution.

  Always one to keep abreast of current affairs, he had seen it coming, though not until the riots, which included the storming of the Bastille, was he able to persuade Gabrielle to return to England and then only because her parents had decided to flee the new regime and become part of that vast army of emigrés.

  His father had several properties in London and one of these he leased to the comte and that, together with the proceeds from the gold and jewellery they had managed to bring out of France, allowed them to live in some degree of comfort. He had taken Gabrielle back to the family estate in Wiltshire, but his hopes that she would settle down to life in England were dashed when, less than two years later, she disappeared with a new lover. Jack had followed her to France and been arrested leaving his uncle’s town villa.

  It was while he was in prison that he learned that his wife had told the authorities he was a spy. At that time it had never entered his head to do anything of the kind. After all, he was half-French himself. It was only later, after his escape, when the Minister for War approached him, that he agreed to do what he could.

  The danger excited him, made him forget his wife’s perfidy, and he believed he was doing some good, not only for England, but for France and all the oppressed people in that troubled country. He had tried to forget Gabrielle, to put her from his mind. Until yesterday in the Palais Royal, over a game of cards.

  It was as if a door had closed on his past, but it had not freed him, because another had opened and he had been fool enough to enter it. He looked down at the slight form sleeping so peacefully, her hand in his, and wondered how he could harden his heart again, temper it like a blacksmith forging a shoe, when every fibre of him wanted to protect her, to see her safe, to hold her close to him, unchanged and unchanging, to love and cherish her.