A Woman of the Road and Sea

by Amy Wolof

  “Monsieur,” I addressed the Jesuit. “Friend.”

  Remembering its usefulness, I clumsily drew out my Crucifix.

  “Catholique!” I cried, having seen the word on a wall. “See.” I opened my purse. “I have guineas, monsieur, guineas! And I would like nothing better than to donate to your order.”

  The young priest’s manner changed from storm into sunshine. I could have sworn that he nearly smiled.

  “Merci,” he said as he took up a handful of gold. “Béni soit Dieu tout puissant!”

  “Dieu, Dieu,” I said, knowing only that this meant “God.” “Now . . . as to Frances?”

  I looked with hope upon my charity’s object.

  “Oui, monsieur, oui.”

  He motioned me to follow, and we mounted a flight of stairs. . . . then another . . . a

  third . . . and, at last, a fourth, until we reached the top. By the time we halted, my breath was coming in gasps.

  Father Guinea went before me and slowly opened a door. Within, I could see a young girl, bent assiduously over some book. As she absorbed the text, her lips moved along with her eyes. My guide bowed and must have departed—I did not see him go. Instead, I observed the small creature before me, who was now—what was it?—over twelve-and-a-half!

  She still had long, dark hair; but, as befit a young lady, it was gathered atop her head. Her features, formerly lost to baby fat, had taken on the sharpness of this September morn. The earnestness of her pose reminded me of Aventis; but in her small form and focus, I saw hints of myself. I noted that her form, clothed in a simple grey dress, was no longer that of child. This, I thought with pain, could mean trouble for us all . . .

  For the first time since I’d arrived, Frances looked up from her book.

  “Monsieur?” she inquired.

  She had clearly forgotten me.

  “Mademoiselle,” I answered, stepping into the room. It took all of my hardened will not to rush forward and hug her.

  She looked into my face and gave me a quizzical smile which unchained so many memories: there was the day of her birth, painful yet miraculous; then the day after, when she’d been ripped from my arms. At the last was my previous visit when she’d greeted me as a stranger.

  “I am still one,” I said, addressing myself more than her. Half in dread, I lowered my eyes to her neck.

  There it was. She still wore it! The single pearl I had gifted her, attached to a fine gold chain.

  “I brought you that,” I said, pointing.

  “Ah.” In her eyes I saw a flicker. “You were my English guest. And I believe I gave you a note . . . for my parents. Tell me, do they still live?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Yet, being your parents, they managed to get mixed up in the whole Monmouth affair.”

  She arched a dark brow.

  “I have heard of it,” she said. “The duke went against his king, which was very bad.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Then you will be glad to know,” I said, “that your father, Aventis, fought on the side of the king.”

  She clapped her hands in excitement.

  “Oh, I am so pleased! But what of my mother?”

  “She is . . . fine. But, being a Protestant, she supported Monmouth.”

  I watched her face fall, feeling my body tense as I prepared my next words.

  “Your mother fought too,” I said. “She was badly wounded, but thanks to your father, lives.”

  “She is . . . a soldier?” Frances asked.

  “Sometimes,” I said.

  “And . . . even though they took different sides, are my parents together?”

  “Not at the moment,” I said. “But I have not come seven-hundred miles to discuss events at home.”

  “Is it really that far?” she asked.

  “It is not the distance, but time,” I said. “In fact, this very moment has been over twelve years in the making.”

  With a trembling hand, I took off my hat and let down my hair.

  “What do you see?” I asked.

  “The gentleman who came to visit when I was very young.”

  I sighed and removed my two coats, untied my shirt’s laces, and revealed a curious sight: the sight of my taped-down breasts.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “Why, you—” she said, “—you-you are a woman!”

  “Yes,” I said. “And if you have your parents’s cunning, you can tell me which one.”

  Without hesitation, she ran from her chair and embraced me.

  “You are my mother!” she cried.

  I nodded.

  “Do you know why I could not tell you?”

  “I . . . I . . . no,” she breathed into my neck.

  “To you, I owe the whole truth. For the past twenty-five years, I have been Megs, notorious highwayman.”

  She pulled away slightly.

  “Your father is also an outlaw.”

  “I see.”

  Her face went white.

  “I pray you don’t judge us too harshly. There are reasons for all. Your father was forced on the road due to his Catholic faith, and I . . . by beatings and a near-forced marriage.”

  Thank God the priest had left! My full confession reached only one set of ears.

  “Do you disown me?” I asked. “Are you shamed to be the daughter of such a sinful woman?”

  Frances touched her forehead, her cheeks now flushing pink. She steadied herself with a chair while I steadied myself.

  “Certainly not!” she cried. “Do I not have in my veins the very same blood as yours? Does it not—and I never before knew why!—burn hot with longing, and even hotter with rage that I am shut up like a nun? Oh, mother . . .”

  She came toward me again, took up my hand, and kissed it.

  “How often I have tried to envisage you. I was told that my parents were English and had left me here for my safety. You will laugh, but I sometimes fancied you as nobles, and sometimes as rustic farmers. In my mind, you have been merchants, Puritans—even a priest and nun!”

  This made me laugh, for, in my life, there was only the cold, hard present. I was glad that Frances, at least, had had the leisure to dream.

  “You forgive us, then,” I asked. “for leaving you here for so long? Your heart is not filled with hate?”

  “Oh, no,” said Frances, and she looked a bit shocked. “What I have learned from the priests is that God Himself forgives. And so . . .” She creased her brow. “That is the source of forgiveness. It is how He wants us to live.”

  “Good Lord,” I mumbled, “you are on the path to a veil.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “It is all right,” I said. “As long as we do not disappoint.”

  “Oh, no!” she cried. You and father are so . . . Romantic.” She went into a kind of swoon. “Riding to rob the rich, with adventure round every bend!”

  Yes, I thought with a forced smile. Pistols, swords, ambush; Tyburn and the swinging bones on the Heath.

  “Aventis and I had no choice,” I said. “You need not take our path, thank almighty God!”

  I watched as she crossed herself.

  “Your father—who is a count, by the way—your father and I,” I said, “have managed to save quite a sum. You will not lack for anything and hence may stay off the road.”

  I saw her look disappointed, but she blinked it away.

  “Tell me,” she asked, “why is it that adults do as they like, then forbid those younger from doing the same?”

  “Because our vice is not like drinking,” I said. “The highwayman’s life, more often than not, ends before he is thirty.”

  I saw her looked unconvinced. Mother of God! Could she be as willful as . . . as someone else I well knew?

  “Mother,” she said, and I jumped at the address, “have you come to take me with you? I feel I am ready to go, for I have been taught the Bible and other venerable subjects.”

  I smiled.

  “Your father will be pleased
.”

  She looked at me with a kind of defiant pleading.

  “I promise to be no trouble,” she said. “I can keep house while you and father are robbing coaches.”

  At this, I had to laugh.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I believe we two have come to the literal end of the road. As for you . . .” I shook my head. “Honestly, I don’t know, but for now, let us go out. The air is crisp, the river clear, and you have been shut up far more than is good is you.”

  “Thank you, mother!” she cried, squeezing both of my hands.

  I proceeded to make myself decent, tying up my laces and hair.

  “Outside, you must address me as Megs,” I said.

  “Yes, moth—I beg your pardon, Monsieur Megs.” She gave me a wide grin. “Oh, I am quite delighted! To have such a mother, one so fierce and bold, not at all like the French nuns with only phlegm in their veins.”

  My shoulders shook with laughter.

  Rumors

  Where, I asked myself, could I possibly take Frances, a girl more sequestered than Catherine had been at her convent?

  My first act as a mother was to enlist her in crime—sneaking out of the college—and into the town of Lyon. The river caught my eye, so I started for a wall with turrets which divided its bank from the town. Scrambling up deftly, I offered my hand to Frances. Soon enough, she stood beside me, and we both overlooked the calm water.

  “This is the Rhône,” she said. “I have seen it but a few times.”

  I put my arm about her waist as we watched some boats pass.

  “Those ships are so curious,” she said, pointing toward one with an arched bow and stern. “What are they?”

  “I do not know,” I said. “I can tell you of Dutch merchant vessels; or swift, black-painted shallops which smuggle goods from Calais.”

  “Really?” she asked, wide-eyed. “You’ve led such an exciting life!”

  “That is one way to put it,” I said, then leapt down from the wall. It was not low. “At my age, I think I long for some quiet.”

  “Oh no!” cried Frances, landing on her feet beside me.

  “Well done,” I said. “Soon, you’ll be scaling castles.”

  “You cannot imagine, dear moth—Monsieur Megs, “she said, “how dull the college can be. I might as well be in the army: awake at five, prayers at six, then three hours of lessons; dinner at noon, four hours of study, a light supper, and bed.”

  Recalling my own youth filled with slaps and oaths, I wanted to upbraid her, but did not have the heart. Let her be, I thought, for she has never known hardship. The time will come soon enough.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked, as we walked from the Rhône toward a small auberge.

  “Famished!” she cried, following me inside.

  “You must speak for us,” I said as I eased into a chair. “Though I’ve been to France many times, I can barely master ‘merci.’”

  ‘You have been too busy,” she said, kindly excusing my defects. In French, she ordered Caux fowl with consommé; sweetbreads; and a fine, runny cheese. I confess I took pride in her skill with knife and napkin. If I could have dreamed a daughter, she sat directly opposite. . .

  “This is delicious,” said Frances, setting down her small glass. “You cannot conceive, dear Megs, how bland is the Jesuits’s fare. If they could live on air, they would do so without complaint.”

  I laughed, glad that she had a wit.

  “Well,” I said, “I hope to arrange things so you may avoid the air diet.”

  She looked at me with hope.

  “I have a notion,” I said, “to pay a call on a friend. He used to reside in Paris or sometimes at Versailles. Would you care to go with me?”

  Frances’s face brightened.

  “Oh, yes!” she cried. “I have always longed to see Paris and the Great Palace. One cannot think on it without wonder!”

  “As for the latter,” I said, “I can do naught but think, for I have never seen it.”

  A Journey to Paris

  “I am glad you are here,” I told her as we walked to a Lyon stables. “For once, I will not have to mime my request.”

  In her flawless French, Frances asked for a coach, and we were off to the north.

  As we settled into our seats, I told her, “This journey will not be easy. It is three-hundred miles to Paris, and this bench is harder than—” I was about to say, “the floor of Newgate,” but quickly changed to “—an outlaw’s heart.”

  “I do not mind,” she said, tossing her head. “What an adventure! I wonder what the priests will think.”

  “Uh . . . yes.”

  As much as it pained me, I could not risk a return. After all, they did not know me, and would hardly believe my relation to Frances. I only hoped they could find in their own hearts a bit of holy forgiveness . . .

  Once we left Lyon, Frances cried out at each sight she spotted through the coach window: she had never before seen a vineyard! Such a large herd of cows! Even a chapel or church beyond her own Trinité.

  “France is so big!” she exclaimed, when we were halfway to Paris. “I simply cannot conceive that anything lies beyond it.”

  “You would marvel,” I said, “to know how vast the world is. Even Hounslow Heath, though a mere speck in England, seems endless to one who rides it.”

  Though anxious to get to the capital, I must admit that our nights softened my outlaw’s heart. How strange it seemed to share a bed with my daughter and listen to her soft breathing. I awoke each morning with her arm around my shoulder, which helped to make up, in a small way, for our years apart.

  After our six-day journey, we finally arrived in Paris. Though the streets were as crowded as London’s, I still gasped, along with Frances, at the city’s beautiful buildings. Phillipe’s Palais-Royal seemed to me the grandest, and I had heard that the hidden gardens—designed by poor Henrietta—reflected her excellent taste.

  “Frances,” I said, “you must serve as my spokesman and see if the duke is at home.”

  “Yes, mama—Megs.”

  She carefully stepped from the coach and addressed a sort of guard.

  “What have you learned?” I asked upon her return.

  She sighed.

  “Your friend is not within, but neither is he at Versailles.”

  “I know where he is,” I said, then slid down the bench so she might rejoin me.

  The Princess Palatine

  “Do not trouble yourself,” I told Frances as we made our three-mile journey. “The Chateau Saint-Cloud can never disappoint.”

  Of course, I would miss seeing the Grand Cascade which sheltered magnificent gardens at the chateau’s rear. But, in compensation, I would not have to sneak (as I did last time with Aventis) through an open side door.

  “Look!”

  I pointed through the coach window as we stopped on a driveway where trees were lined with precision. Frances gasped as we descended and began our long walk toward the house. I noted that since my last visit, Phillipe must have been busy, for two massive wings now jutted from either side.

  “You must steel yourself,” I told Frances. “Though the Chapel is ornate, it will look like a stables compared to the home of Monsieur.”

  She seemed frightened as I knocked, to be answered by some kind of servant. I prodded her forward, where she discoursed in French. The butler, or valet, looked stern, but still issued a stiff bow before leading us through the rooms. My knees nearly buckled as we sighted blue-and-white porcelain crowding a gilt-etched room; grand chandeliers and curtains; and doors, almost as an afterthought, plated with real gold and silver.

  Though I confess I gaped, Frances was overcome: I actually had to push her over the parquet floors!

  “Magnifique,” she breathed as we came to a hall lined with paintings whose figures were bigger than we were. Even I felt slightly lightheaded as we ascended a staircase lined with gold candelabras. These stood beneath lush curtains framed by . . . naturally, gold. Dammee! I thought. If
only I were still a thief . . .

  I tried to dispel this desire as our guide led us into a wing which contained a vast gallery. It paid homage to Apollo, for his visage was everywhere, not least on the huge curved ceiling where he lectured his muses. My eyes filled with this god, they soon strayed to another:

  for seated on a pure silver divan framed by doors of gold sat my old friend Phillipe, the duc d’Orléans!

  “Monsieur,” I bowed.

  He was now about my own age, regal in his silk finery, and wore a wig much like the dark, curly one he’d sported in 1670.

  “Peut-il être?” he exclaimed, rising with the grace of dancer. “Monsieur Megs, auss Margaret! Je suis assez surpris de votre présence ici!”

  I turned to Frances, who, like her father, must translate.

  “He is very happy to see you,” she said, curtseying to Monsieur. “As for myself, I am ashamed at my plain dress.”

  “I assure you he does not care,” I said, as Monsieur did me the honor of offering me his glove. “Phillipe is able to see the true essence of a person.”

  Frances turned to Monsieur and repeated my words in French. He seemed truly moved and smiled.

  “Frances,” I requested, “please inform Monsieur of your relation to me. Also, please ask him if he was able to marry again.”

  Phillippe responded with what seemed a sonnet in French. I noted that as he spoke, he stared round at different Apollos. I could not say if he appealed to the god but did hear him sigh deeply.

  “Monsieur says he married his second wife shortly after Henrietta’s death. With her, Elizabeth Charlotte, he has had two more children: a boy, Phillippe; and a girl named after her.”

  I attempted not to react. Just as Monsieur well knew that I was not a man, I knew that he preferred men. Perhaps his new wife was liberal . . .