Secrets of the Fearless

by Elizabeth Laird

  Chapter Thirty

  John glared into the mirror, moving his head to see between the cracks in the glass. He loathed the sight of himself in this silly rig. The white wig, liberally powdered by Betsy, made him look much older, and anonymous. He wasn’t himself at all.

  He went across to the bed in the corner of the huge room, on which his green livery tailcoat, resplendent with brass buttons, had been laid out. He put it on and did up the buttons, then slipped his stockinged feet into the shiny black buckled shoes which Mme de Montsegard had also provided.

  They squeaked as he walked across to the door. He hesitated on the threshold and looked back into the room. It had changed beyond recognition in the last few weeks. Since word had begun to leak out into the surrounding countryside that Mlle de Jalignac was not dead at all, but had returned to her chateau and was making moves to take control of her inheritance, the local farmers, one by one, had been calling at the gate. Anxious to make a good impression on one who might soon be their powerful landlady, and sorry for a young girl who had so cruelly lost her parents, they were returning items which they had, so many years ago, gleefully looted from the chateau.

  Every day Jean-Baptiste staggered up from the gate with some odd thing or other, a rolled-up tapestry, or a huge framed portrait balanced on his shoulder, or a carved wardrobe door tucked under one arm.

  These ill-assorted items were now scattered around the chateau’s echoing rooms. John’s own chamber, once so bare, now boasted three inlaid chairs, a porcelain candelabra and a small chest of drawers with gilded handles.

  He felt odd at the thought of leaving the chateau and going outside into the world beyond the rusting gates again. He hadn’t passed through them since that day, so many months before, when the old woman had hauled him, unconscious, out of her cart, and dumped him on the grass verge.

  He went downstairs to the hall and let himself out through the front door. Jean-Baptiste was there already, sitting on the coachman’s seat of the lumbering old carriage, to which two stolid plain horses, borrowed from a nearby farm, were harnessed. The old man’s wig was askew and his coat buttons were done up wrong. When he saw John, he fumblingly hid the bottle he’d been drinking from and fiddled ostentatiously with the reins.

  John leaped lightly up to him, fished the bottle out from behind him and flung it away into the bushes on the far side of the drive.

  ‘You’re drunk, you disgusting old man!’ he said. ‘Pull yourself together. You can’t let her down – not tonight.’

  Jean-Baptiste looked at him through wet bleary eyes.

  ‘J’ai peur,’ he whined. ‘It’s so long since I drove a coach and pair.’

  ‘I know . . . You’re nervous . . . It’s been a long time,’ John mimicked unsympathetically, pulling the man’s wig straight and redoing his buttons. ‘Sit up now. She’s coming.’

  Kit had appeared at the front door. John, who had jumped down from the box, frowned ferociously, trying not to let his heart turn over at the sight of her. She was wearing a simple, perfect high-waisted gown made of a floating white muslin, over which was an overdress of shimmering white satin. Tiny seed pearls were sewn round the puffed sleeves and at the neck, and over her arms was draped a shawl of the flimsiest cream silk. Her dark hair was piled in a mass of curls on the crown of her head. She looked much older, and almost frighteningly beautiful.

  ‘How do I look?’ she said, spinning round.

  ‘Lovely,’ his voice croaked.

  She had spun too far and nearly tripped, sending her little beaded reticule flying.

  ‘Devil take the plaguy thing,’ she said, in Jabez Barton’s deep voice.

  He laughed, feeling better, and went to retrieve her reticule.

  ‘Stop it, Kit. You’re supposed to be a lady, for heaven’s sake.’

  Betsy had opened the door of the coach and was doubtfully prodding the stained cushions of the seat.

  ‘Get in now, Miss Catherine. Mme de Montsegard will be waiting for you. And for heaven’s sake don’t lean back against them squabs. For all they’ve been brushed over a hundred times, I don’t trust this old contraption not to mark your dress.’

  Kit flung her arms round Betsy’s neck.

  ‘Thank you, dearest Betsy, for everything. You know I’m doing this for you. If I succeed, you’ll never want for anything again.’

  ‘I know, I know. Get on with you now.’

  ‘You’ll look after yourself, Betsy, while we’re gone?’

  ‘Lord, my lovey, you’ll be home again tomorrow morning. Now take care and mind your manners, no more than one glass of champagne, and if there are oysters don’t touch ’em. I ate a bad one in Bordeaux last year and it all but carried me off.’

  She had bundled Kit inside the coach and shut the door. John leaped up to the footman’s stand behind, Jean-Baptiste flicked his whip, the horses shook their manes and the ancient equipage groaned its way down the drive.

  Looking back at Jalignac as he closed the gates behind the coach, John had the oddest feeling that the great building itself, along with Betsy, who was waving from the front steps, was bidding them farewell.

  Flaming torches had been lit outside the Château Royal in the centre of Bordeaux. Now that darkness had fallen, they sent long shadows flickering across the flagstones as the line of carriages moved slowly up to the magnificent gateway, pausing only to set down their grandly dressed occupants before moving on to make way for the next one.

  The old Jalignac coach had been left, along with Jean-Baptiste, at Mme de Montsegard’s grand Bordeaux residence. Mme de Montsegard’s carriage, though quite small, was new and very smart, and the chestnut ponies that drew it were high-steppers. John had become almost used now to standing on the footman’s plate between the carriage’s back wheels. At least he wasn’t shut up inside, like poor Kit, with Mme de Montsegard, whose oily charm towards her young protégée made John’s skin creep.

  From this vantage point he could see over the heads of the crowd that had gathered to watch the fine folk arrive for the ball. He looked carefully at the magnificent cream stone building as they approached, on the lookout for a back entrance, an open window – some way out in case he had to make a hasty getaway.

  Mme de Montsegard’s footman stood beside him. A tall, gloomy-looking fellow, named Robert, he barely addressed a word to John.

  ‘Américain?’ he’d asked, when they’d first climbed up to the footman’s plate together.

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘Tu parles français?’

  ‘Non.’

  They’d left each other alone after that.

  The carriage pulled up at last outside the grand entrance and John and Robert jumped off. Robert opened the door on Mme de Montsegard’s side and let down the steps for her. John did the same for Kit.

  She clutched his hand convulsively as he helped her to descend.

  ‘Nervous?’ he asked.

  ‘Terrified.’

  ‘Me too. But we’ll be fine. Worse things happen at sea.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that? But I wish you were coming inside with me.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Mlle de Jalignac!’ Mme de Montsegard was staring at them with her eyebrows raised.

  ‘Pardon, madame.’ Kit quickly let go of John’s hand.

  Mme de Montsegard gave John a look of venomous dislike.

  ‘Viens, mon enfant. The Empress Josephine has already arrived.’

  John watched as Kit and Mme de Montsegard disappeared through the great doors and saw them mount the grand staircase. He had never seen anything as dazzling as the two rows of magnificently uniformed lancers that lined the steps, with their tall shakos and drawn swords. He had never seen the like, either, of the huge chandeliers, sparkling with such brilliance, or of the hordes of elegantly dressed young women, flocking together, chattering, as they moved slowly upwards to disappear into the gilded salons above.

  Robert tugged his sleeve.

  ‘Par ici,’ he said.
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br />   He followed Robert through a side door into a small room, which was already crowded with footmen in a variety of liveries. They were all elderly, and many seemed to know each other. They were exchanging shouted greetings, handshakes and slaps on the shoulder. He took a deep breath. This was a dangerous moment. He didn’t want questions. He didn’t want anyone to notice him.

  He stood near the door and, when his opportunity came, slipped outside into the cool of the evening. He sat down on a stone mounting block by the wall, settling himself for a long wait. From above, he could hear the sound of a band playing a polka and the murmur of conversation, above which a woman’s laugh or a man’s shout of greeting occasionally rose.

  The minutes passed slowly. He heard the quarter-hours chime on a distant clock. Nine, a quarter past, half past, a quarter to ten, ten.

  Napoleon’s wife is up there, he thought, and Kit’s fate is being decided.

  He leaned against the wall, and in spite of himself felt his eyelids droop. He could almost feel himself falling asleep.

  He was jerked upright by a hand on his shoulder. Robert was shaking him.

  ‘Your mademoiselle,’ Robert was saying. ‘She is calling you.’

  ‘Kit’s calling me? She wants me?’ he said stupidly. ‘Where?’

  Robert pointed upwards, shrugged and went back inside to join the other footmen.

  His heart in his mouth, John approached the great doors. The staircase was empty now. The guard of honour had left their posts on the steps and were standing about in ones and twos, yawning. They glanced at him as he entered, but seeing only another footman in a smart livery, looked away. Similar people had been coming and going all evening, summoned by their employers above.

  John ran up the staircase, trying not to go too fast. Why had Kit called him? Was she in trouble of some kind? Did she need him?

  He stood in the doorway of the great salon almost blinded by the brilliant light from the two vast chandeliers that winked and shone above. There was a huge crowd in here. How would he ever find her?

  And then suddenly she was beside him.

  ‘Jean! Enfin! Où étais-tu?’ she said loudly and angrily, for the benefit of a turbaned matron nearby, who was nodding and smiling at her. ‘Follow me,’ she said in English, under her breath.

  She moved round a corner. They were out of sight now behind a pillar.

  ‘What’s happening? Have you seen her?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘Seen who? Oh, the empress. Yes. She was very nice. She said she’d take my part. I don’t care what you think, John. I liked her. She’ll help me, I know she will.’

  ‘Then what’s happened? What’s the matter?’

  ‘You won’t believe this. In one of the coffee rooms. Off the main salon. I didn’t know at first, because that night I hardly saw them, but then I heard them speak. In English. With Scottish accents.’

  ‘Heard who? Who are you talking about? For heaven’s sake, Kit . . .’

  ‘Mr Creech and Mr Halkett! They’re here!’

  ‘What? It can’t be true! Are you sure?’

  ‘No. That’s why I sent for you. I thought you could pretend to be a waiter, and take in some wine or something. The waiters are all in powdered wigs, like yours. No one will notice you. You just need to take a quick look, no more. One glance will be enough to tell you if it’s them. Just think, John, we might find out more about this whole spying thing. It’s what we came ashore to discover, after all.’

  John’s heart was thudding.

  ‘They’ll see me. Mr Creech will recognize me, even if Mr Halkett doesn’t.’

  ‘He won’t. No one looks at waiters. Anyway, you look completely different in that livery, without your own hair showing. And you’re much taller than you were. You must be nearly six feet now, not like the young boy he last saw. They haven’t seen you for nearly two years, don’t forget. And they won’t be expecting to see you here. You’ll be miles away from their thoughts.’

  He knew she was right.

  ‘A tray. I’ll need a tray, with glasses on it. I’ll take wine into the room as if I was serving it.’

  ‘I thought of that. I noticed a tray that a waiter had put down on one of the small tables in the salon. I’ll show you. The coffee room is the first door on the left. They’re in there.’

  A man in a dark coat, with a medal sparkling on his chest, passed by and bowed politely. Kit smiled gracefully, then turned back to John.

  ‘That’s the comte de St Voir. I was introduced to him just now. Don’t you recognize him? He was the man in the fisherman’s cabin with Halkett and Creech. He must be their French contact.’

  She shivered, and John felt a cold chill pass over him too at the thought of the danger they would be in if their true identity was uncovered.

  ‘I’ll go now,’ he whispered, ‘and look at them myself – see if it’s really them. Where are they exactly?’

  ‘Follow me,’ said Kit, moving back into the ballroom.

  Holding his back stiff and keeping his expression as neutral as possible, John followed her into the crowded salon. No one looked at him. He was just a servant, as unremarkable as any of the dozens of other footmen and waiters. People parted to let him through without giving him a glance.

  ‘C’est Mlle de Jalignac,’ he heard people murmur. ‘Qu’elle est charmante!’

  He had a momentary glimpse, through a side opening, of a woman lounging gracefully on a dais, surrounded by a group of white-clad women. Jewels flashed in her hair as she turned her head. She was smiling with a condescending air at a man in a sumptuously braided military uniform who was bending over to kiss her hand.

  Josephine, he thought.

  Kit had stopped. She waited for him to catch up with her, indicated, with a flick of her head, a tray with glasses on it on a table by the wall and then looked pointedly at a door on the far side of the room.

  ‘Ah! Vous voilà, mademoiselle!’ someone cried. A stout young man who was sweating profusely inside the heavy uniform of Napoleon’s regiment of guards was forcing his way through the crowd towards them.

  ‘Mme de Montsegard’s horrid son,’ Kit said through gritted teeth, and then she was borne away on the young man’s arm.

  John picked up the tray and edged round the side of the salon towards the door of the coffee room. He looked inside. It was darker here. Card tables with seated players were dotted about the room, and the atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke. Clusters of men stood about talking, and waiters, all in white wigs, passed among them with trays of full glasses in their hands.

  John scanned the room. He saw Mr Creech immediately. The sight of that sharp, scrawny face and the hooded eyes set deep in it set his heart thudding and made his hands slippery with the sweat of fear.

  Mr Creech was in earnest conversation with two other men. One, he was almost sure, was Mr Halkett. He could see only the back of the other one. He swallowed hard and, gripping the tray so tightly that his knuckles showed white, approached the little group. He could hear Mr Creech’s loathsome voice now, though he was too far away to distinguish the words. The second man spoke. There was no mistaking that dry, precise Edinburgh voice. It was Mr Halkett, without a doubt.

  And then the third man moved sideways, out of the shadows, turning his head to answer Mr Halkett. John would have known that terrible profile anywhere, that puckered skin, the mouth drawn up towards the eye, the fearsome scars of an old burn that had disfigured the man forever.

  It was the first lieutenant of the Fearless, the man to whom, above all others, John would have entrusted his life. Mr Erskine.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  John froze. He stood immobile for a long moment, his mind in turmoil, unable to think. How could Mr Erskine possibly be here, out of naval uniform, in the heart of the enemy camp, under the very nose of the Empress Josephine, miles away from the Fearless?

  He must be one of them, he thought stupidly. A spy! A traitor! He can’t be! Not Mr Erskine! It isn’t possible. But if he isn
’t with them, whatever is he doing here?

  Someone bumped into him from behind and swore at him for standing in the way. John murmured an inaudible apology and stepped back. There was a convenient pillar beside an alcove near where Mr Erskine was standing with Mr Creech and Mr Halkett. If he stood beside it, holding his tray, he’d look just like any other waiter, and he’d be half concealed from them. He might be able to overhear something of their conversation.

  He took up his position, making his face as impassive as possible. He realized that the glasses on the tray were jingling together. His hands were shaking. He controlled them with an effort and strained his ears to pick out the English conversation. It was hard to hear anything against the hectic waltz music coming from the ballroom next door, and the babble of French all around, but he discovered that, if he stood at a certain angle, the concave wall acted as a sounding chamber. He could hear the men’s conversation quite well.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet fellow countrymen at such a time and in such a place,’ Mr Erskine was saying. ‘Since I arrived in Bordeaux I have been surprised at how many Scots and English there are here, and that we are still received in the best circles, in spite of the fact that our nations are at war. Have you gentlemen resided long here?’

  ‘We come and go, come and go,’ Mr Creech said, and his well-remembered voice sent a shudder down John’s spine. ‘The wine trade is our business, as it is of everyone else here, I imagine. In spite of the blockade, commerce struggles on. Men must drink, however hard the times, and wine must be found for them. There is, as you have pointed out, a considerable number of British people here. We lie low. We behave peaceably and try not to offend the authorities. They let us alone, for the most part, unless they suspect that we are here on government or military business. Then, of course, a quiet disappearance, a dungeon, a swift execution . . .’

  Mr Halkett broke in. ‘Ah . . . your name, my good sir. I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Ferguson. Andrew Ferguson,’ Mr Erskine said, ‘and, like yourselves, interested in matters of business. Your names also – in all this noise and bustle I failed to catch . . .’