by Regan Walker
Freddie strode to the sideboard where decanters filled with brandy, sherry and port sat on a silver tray. He poured a glass of cognac for himself and a glass of sherry for Zoé while Annie directed the footman to serve the others.
He handed Zoé her sherry and took a seat across from her.
Once everyone was settled, Pitt sat back in the wing chair he had claimed and slowly sipped his port as if gathering his thoughts.
“So,” began Richard, “tell us what brings you this far south of London. We are all ears.”
Pitt turned to fix Donet with an intense look. “Before I speak, I must know, Monsieur Donet, are you with us this time?” The Prime Minister knew of Richard’s infamous brother-in-law, of course, who, with France’s approval, had served America in the last war. As a privateer, he’d seized a ship belonging to one of England’s privateers.
Donet raised his head, his dark eyes clear and his face without shadow. “You may count upon my full support, Prime Minister. I like not the revolutionary government, nor the Terror that has gripped France. Like you, I considered the execution of King Louis an atrocious act.” Lowering his gaze to his cognac, Donet said in a softer voice, “He was my friend.”
Raising his head, he let out a heavy sigh. “My estate in Saintonge is in the hands of others for the time being, as is my home in Lorient. I have moved to the Isle of Guernsey to continue my merchant shipping endeavors while serving the royalist cause. My wife, Torrington’s sister, should be returning shortly from taking the princesse d’Hénin for a tour of the countryside. The princesse is one of the émigrés we were recently able to help escape.”
Glancing at Zoé, Donet added, “My niece is my partner in rescuing those fleeing the Terror.”
Pitt gave Zoé an approving glance. “Good. Then you might be interested in my purpose in coming, though ’tis hardly a secret in London.” Addressing himself to Richard, Pitt said, “You are no doubt aware that after we seized Toulon, the French National Convention called for an amphibious assault upon England.”
Richard nodded. “Why, yes, I knew of France’s threat, all in England did. But I hardly thought anyone credited it.”
Pitt leaned forward in his chair. “Ridiculous though it might seem, we now believe the French government, or whoever is ruling the country these days, means to invade England.”
Richard returned Pitt a look of shock, his glass of brandy paused halfway to his mouth. “Are you telling us the threat is real?”
“I am,” replied Pitt. “That is one reason I have made public our commitment to the annihilation of le gouvernement révolutionnaire. I have harshly criticized France’s abolition of private property, the extinction of religion and the excesses of the Terror. It is hardly necessary to add that there can be no peace until the invasion of England is abandoned.”
Freddie did not put such an assault beyond Robespierre. He had done worse in an effort to persuade the French people they were winning the war. But to think of The Harrows being the subject of an attack by France seemed impossible.
Wide-eyed, Zoé stared at Freddie with a raised brow, her expression asking, would France do such a thing?
He gave her a nod.
Donet, who’d been silent until now, said, “A full-scale invasion is, to my way of thinking, inconceivable. France does not have the naval superiority to be successful in such an endeavor. Moreover, the leadership of the French Navy is, at the moment, in a state of disarray.”
“From all I hear, monsieur, you are correct,” said Pitt, “however, that large an invasion would not be their objective. Rather, they mean to terrify our people and distract the government from the war on the Continent. Recall that France did this in the Hundred Years’ War, burning Plymouth to the ground. It seems they plan to do it again but their purpose would not be conquest, as it was then. They mean to sow terror and panic. To do so, they will target small towns and major harbors, or perhaps a combination of both.”
“If Robespierre is serious,” said Donet in a contemplative manner, “I would think it would be a combination. ’Twould be more effective.”
“You are certain of France’s plans?” Richard asked Pitt.
The Prime Minister set his glass of port aside. “In addition to Dutch reports, we have information from other sources that suggest such an attack might be timed to coincide with French-inspired radicals rising in Britain. And then there are the troubling Admiralty reports of French naval activity in the Channel.”
“Good Lord,” said Richard. “Then ’tis true.” Annie reached out and patted his hand.
“Lord Moira,” continued Pitt, “who has been very helpful in our war with France in his role as major general, has told me he expects an assault on the Isle of Wight.”
“Why, that’s just west of here,” muttered Richard. “As to the reports of French naval activity on the Channel,” he said shooting Donet a knowing look, “I believe my brother-in-law can provide a fresh account.”
Pitt’s gaze shifted to Donet. “You have observed this?”
“More than observed,” said Donet. “On our way here, Mr. West and I did battle with the Trajan, a seventy-four gun French ship of the line.”
Zoé turned to Freddie with curious eyes. He had not told her of his role in the skirmish, content to let her believe he was a mere spectator. “The Trajan was pursuing the new packet out of Weymouth,” he offered to Pitt. “We intervened to see her safely on her way to Jersey.”
“’Twas fortunate your ship was near,” said the Prime Minister, glancing at Richard. “We have identified the most likely landing area for a French invasion to be somewhere between Brighton and Southampton. I don’t have to remind you that your lands are in the center of that stretch of coast, which brings me to my purpose in coming. It is imperative that we raise a voluntary militia to guard the southern coast.”
“A voluntary militia?” Richard inquired.
Picking up his glass of port, Pitt explained, “If every county adds two volunteer companies to its regular militia reserves, thousands could be added to the National Guard. Of course, we will move regular forces into the areas on the southern coast as well.
Richard pursed his lips. “You want me to raise two volunteer companies in West Sussex?”
“I do, indeed, old boy. Only gentlemen of weight and property can fund and equip the men needed to see the job done.”
Richard nodded. “Very well, you may count upon me to do all I can to deliver them.”
The rest of their conversation was taken up with news of the war on the Continent.
It wasn’t until dinner that the subject of the Vendée came up.
Zoé’s aunt and the princesse joined them a bit later. Once they had changed for dinner, Annie and Richard invited everyone into The Harrows’ dining room. As Freddie escorted Zoé from the parlor, she leaned in to whisper to him, “You might have told me you were in the thick of it on the Channel!”
Freddie shrugged dismissively, which only added to her irritation. “Your uncle required a master gunner and I know the position well.”
“Master gunner!” she said, incredulous. “I can see it now: you pacing the deck, your arm in a sling, shouting orders with guns firing all around you. You dolt! You might have been killed!”
He had the nerve to smirk. “‘Might have’ are the operative words, Pigeon. As you can see, I stand before you hale and hearty.”
Indeed, he did. The sling was gone and his broad shoulders were now encased in a black frock coat of superfine wool. Peeking from under his coat was a waistcoat of crimson velvet he wore over black trousers. His cravat was impeccably tied. Visions of his naked chest rose in her mind making it difficult to argue with him. Try as she might to carry her own, he was too handsome, too charming and, dare she admit it even to herself, too often right.
“As long as you are taking me to task for putting myself in danger,” he began, “how about—”
“Oh, very well,” she interrupted, not wishing to hear him scold her for t
he risks she had taken. “Let us hope you remain hale and hearty.” When he arrived at her chair, she took a seat and he went around the table to sit across from her.
Candles set in silver branched candlesticks stood in the center of the table over which hung a brilliant crystal chandelier. Gilded porcelain dishes painted with a Chinoiserie scene of flowers in blue and white were set upon the linen tablecloth. Like Guernsey, it all seemed a bit unreal to Zoé and far from the Terror she had witnessed in France.
The meal the Torringtons served the Prime Minister was an elaborate one. It began with turtle soup—thanks to her uncle’s gift of the turtle—followed by trout, stuffed partridges and platters of sliced roast veal. Asparagus and peas comprised the side dishes. The rich scent of the stuffed partridges made Zoé’s mouth water. She had eaten nothing since the gingerbread at the Barlows’ cottage.
Annie, as hostess, sat at one end of the long table, the Prime Minister on her right. Across from him was Madame de Montconseil, looking very much the French aristocrat in her pale peach silk gown with her dark hair drawn back from her face in an elaborate coiffure.
Zoé was only half-listening to their conversation in which Annie recounted for the princesse the activities engaged in by the émigrés in London when the discussion turned to the country the princesse had left behind.
Zoé’s ears perked up when the subject of the Vendée intruded into the conversation.
“It seems to me, madame,” remarked Pitt, “the royalists in the Vendée serve with more fervor than some of our allies. Prussia is a shaky partner at best and the Dutch and the Austrians contribute less than they might, whereas the Vendéens fight with few weapons. For that, they have my admiration.”
The princesse shook her head as if in dismay. “The word in Paris when I left was that Robespierre and his Committee of Public Safety had given orders to destroy the Vendée, even the women and children. A nasty, terrible man with no honor and no pity.”
Pitt laid aside his fork. “I grant you the reports from there are troubling. And any success the republicans have in the Vendée will make Paris less likely to yield to Britain and her allies.”
“Though I am loathe to speak of it,” said Zoé’s uncle, “I can confirm that thousands of Vendéens have been slain and the killing goes on.”
Across the table, Zoé met Freddie’s steady gaze.
With a pointed look at Zoé’s uncle, the Prime Minister said, “You could be most helpful in our desire to aid the royalists, Monsieur Donet.”
“My ships are at your disposal,” her uncle offered without hesitation.
Zoé caught the exchange of glances between her uncle and Freddie. Something is afoot and, before we sail for Guernsey, I mean to learn the truth of it.
From the other end of the table, Richard said, “Should the government decide to support the royalists in the northwestern provinces, it will make the Duke of Portland’s Whigs happy. The Vendée is ever on their tongues.”
Zoé had heard her aunt railing about the Whigs who followed Portland and were late to support Pitt’s ministry and the war with France. Zoé cared little for England’s politics except those that helped the fighters who wore the sacred heart patch. She tried to call to mind Henri’s angelic face framed by his blond curls, but the mental image proved oddly elusive. The passage of time had weakened her memory. The best she could conjure was a portrait surrounded by a glow of gold, like the painting of a saint in a breviary, halo and all. Had her gallant Henri really looked like that? Of course, he had not, but that was how she had begun to remember him.
“I am eager to end party differences,” Pitt told Richard, “and as long as Portland’s Whigs continue to support the war, we can find agreement on other matters.”
“England has exceeded the whole of Europe in extending its hospitality to the émigrés,” put in Madame de Montconseil with a look of gratitude aimed at Pitt. “I am certain they could be persuaded to join the fight in the Vendée, or what is left of it. I would think you have only to make your request known and they will rush to serve.”
“I need not ask them to go, dear princesse,” said Pitt. “The émigrés hound the ministry daily, clamoring for us to join the fight.”
By the time the pudding was served along with cheese and more port for the Prime Minister, Pitt had said he would seriously consider adding to his list of urgent matters support for the fighters in the northwest of France.
Zoé couldn’t have been more pleased, which is why she gave scant attention to the frown that appeared on Freddie’s face.
Freddie went searching for Zoé the next morning and found her in the garden dressed in an ivory gown over which she wore a peach pelisse against the chill. Dark ringlets framed her delicate face. It was hard to believe she was the same young woman who traveled the streets of Normandy as a soot-covered peasant.
At his approach, she straightened from where she had been bending over a white rose and turned to face him. Her eyes were the color of the overcast sky. “Good morning,” she said rather stiffly.
“Pigeon, I must speak with you.”
“And I must speak with you,” she threw back, her eyes growing stormy, which only added to his anxiety about a conversation he suspected would not go well. “What secret is shared between you and my uncle that you have chosen not to share with me?”
He let out a breath. “That is the matter I wanted to discuss.” Her forehead furrowed as he plunged in. “I have been asked to travel to Brittany and Maine to learn the needs of a royalist group there called the Chouans. It seems the surviving Vendéens have joined with them.”
“Mr. Pitt asked you?”
“Nay, ’twas Captain d’Auvergne while we were still on Jersey. I don’t believe Pitt knows the request has been put to me. I rather doubt he knows of my work in France.”
A shadow crossed her lovely face. “Oh, Freddie. It will be dangerous.”
“I’m relieved you recognize that fact, Pigeon, which is why I don’t want you to go.”
She returned him a look of surprise. “Why ever did you think I would?”
“Well, I—”
“Although now that I think of it,” she interrupted, “you cannot go alone.” He could already see her mind spinning with plans. She pursed her lips. “You will need someone to accompany you as a guard.” Chewing on her bottom lip, she added, “perhaps two.”
“Zoé,” he said in a stronger tone, hoping to take the conversation from himself, “D’Auvergne wants you to go with me, but I would be pleased to advise him you have declined.”
She turned from her planning to stare at him. “Me?”
“He has some notion your presence would be helpful due to the high regard the Vendéens have for you.” Freddie refused to admit the reason was her devotion to the Vendéens’ fallen hero; he hoped she had forgotten him.
“D’Auvergne believes I am essential to the effort to help the royalist fighters?”
Freddie looked down at the grass beneath his feet not wishing her to see how close she was to d’Auvergne’s actual words. “Something like that.”
She crossed her arms in front of her and tapped her toe. “Are you worried I might fail, Freddie?”
He raised his gaze to meet hers. “No, I am worried your life will be more at risk than it already is with your efforts to rescue the émigrés, which exploits, I might add, have caused me many sleepless nights.”
“I see.” She walked a few steps away and then turned to face him. “Does my uncle know of this?”
“He does.”
“And? What does he say?”
Freddie took a deep breath, searching for what he could say without telling her Donet had suggested they plan for her to go. “Your uncle will not insist you stay.”
“I should hope not,” she said emphatically. “He knows me too well for that. If I can help to identify the needs of the Vendéens and these Chouans, I will most certainly go.” Then as blithely as if she were suggesting a trip into town, she said, “When
do we leave?”
Freddie hung his head in defeat. He could deny her nothing when she looked at him with those pleading dove gray eyes. And, this time, he had not one ally in his desire to refuse her. She might be fearless but he was not, not where she was concerned. “If I cannot persuade you of the folly of tramping into the woods of Brittany, then you will follow my orders, is that clear?”
“Very.” She was too pleased with herself.
“We will prepare once we return to Guernsey.” Then he tossed in as an aside, “Your uncle suggested Gabe might go with us.”
She gave Freddie a look that told him she was not surprised at her uncle’s suggestion or his knowledge she would insist on going. “I think it might be well for us to bring Erwan, too. He is a Breton after all.”
Freddie shook his head. He did not have a good feeling about any of this.
Chapter 6
The coast of Brittany, France, early April 1794
It had taken several days for Zoé to convince her aunt the mission to Brittany was only to help Freddie gather information required by d’Auvergne. Even then, her aunt’s eyes reflected a grave concern for the danger she and Freddie would face once they left the coast and the safety of la Reine Noire’s guns. She could still hear the pleading tone of her aunt’s voice.
“Zoé, must you go? Is there no other they can send?”
“In this case, no, but Oncle Jean is sending Gabe to protect me.”
It wasn’t the first time Zoé had set out in the face of danger. When she had first begun helping those fleeing the Terror, she had considered the cost and willingly accepted the possibility she might die for the cause. After all, Henri had given his life.
And so it was, early one morning before dawn with only the light of the setting moon, a skiff launched from la Reine Noire dropped Zoé, Freddie and their two companions on an unfamiliar shore just south of Lorient in an area of the coast they were told was seldom visited by republican patrols.