by Regan Walker
He patted her hand. “You will and soon.” He downed the rest of his coffee and finished his meal, then rose from the table. “I don’t suppose you know where I can find M’sieur Bequel.”
“When I came in, he was speaking with Monsieur Giroud, who wants to take you into the vineyard today to show you something.”
Amazed at all the girl gleaned from keeping her ears open, Jean made to leave.
Zoé said, “If you agree, Oncle Jean, I was hoping Lady Joanna and I could go to Saint Jean d’Angély. I want to show her the abbey church and the market.”
“I would like that,” said Lady Joanna from the doorway where she appeared, looking beautifully poised in a sky blue gown. Her cheeks were slightly flushed.
No one would guess she had spent the night in his bed where there had been very little sleeping. He desperately wanted to take her upstairs and make love to her again. Instead, he said, “Good morning, Lady Joanna.” He could not very well call her “Joanna” in front of his niece.
He pulled out a chair for her, catching a whiff of her floral scent. Was he imagining things or did she ease herself into the chair more carefully than usual? Now that he thought of it, she might need a few days to recover from their night together. And then what would he do? They could never go back to the way things had been, but how would they go forward?
“Good morning to you, M’sieur.” She took her seat and smiled at Zoé. “We can take Gabrielle with us.”
“And M’sieur Bequel,” Jean insisted, as he resumed his seat. “I will not have you roaming around the town without a guard. Giroud and I will be taking horses to the vineyard so you can have the carriage.”
“There is the Saintonge carriage,” offered Zoé.
He glanced at Joanna, hoping she saw his concern for their using any vehicle that announced a member of the Saintonge family was within. “For the time being, I’d prefer you take the one I brought from Lorient.”
Zoé didn’t seem to mind what vehicle they took. With eager anticipation, she turned to Joanna. “I have much to show you, my lady.”
The coachman snapped the whip and Joanna and her companions were off, taking the road that led through the vineyards. Zoé had told her the town of Saint Jean d’Angély lay only a few miles away. The sky had clouded over, portending rain, and, while not terribly cold, she and her two traveling companions had worn hooded cloaks.
M’sieur Bequel, who had bowed to his captain’s orders and agreed to escort them, rode on top.
Zoé, sitting next to her, pointed out the sights: a mill, a small church, some new vines and, when they had gone some distance, another nobleman’s château and vineyards.
Sitting across from Joanna, Gabrielle gazed out the window, wide-eyed.
“Have you never been here before, Gabrielle?” Joanna asked.
“Non. I am grateful to you for bringing me.” The young maid was a pleasure to be around. Perhaps the quality Joanna most valued at the moment was the maid’s discretion. She had asked no questions when she had arranged for the bathwater to be brought in that morning. Her gaze had taken in the unrumpled bed before looking away, making Joanna realize her mistake. She had sat upon the bed cover that Gabrielle had pulled down for the night, but it did not look slept in and the pillows lacked even a dent. What must Gabrielle think of her?
Many noblemen had mistresses. Very likely, her maid assumed Joanna was Donet’s chère amie, a label she never thought to bear. But it had been her choice to go to him, even knowing it might lead to this.
As they left the vineyards behind, Joanna glimpsed thatched cottages along each side of the road. Unlike those in Chichester, they were made of mud, not whitewashed. And they had no windows. In front of them, children played in the dirt in threadbare clothing and bare feet. The women standing nearby stared at their coach with hostile eyes.
“Those cottages are nothing but miserable heaps of dirt,” observed Joanna, sitting back, her voice laced with pity. “Whose are they?”
“Peasants,” said Zoé. “Some are vineyard workers, some farmers.”
“Their cottages have earthen chimneys,” remarked Joanna, “but few have windows. ’Tis worse than the homes of the poor families where I come from in England.”
Zoé’s face remained placid. “It has always been that way, my lady. Papa wanted to help them but Grand-père said not to. They fought over it.”
“When I was still in England,” said Joanna, “I was told the French people are unhappy. Now I see it for myself. If they pay taxes to live in such hovels, I can understand their discontent.”
The carriage moved on, but the somber scene she had witnessed remained with her. She would speak to Donet about what could be done. Perhaps for his own workers, he could at least provide new cottages.
Before they reached the town, Joanna heard a loud bell and turned to Zoé for an explanation.
“That’s the bell in the clock tower. ’Tis very old.”
The carriage slowed as it entered the small town. The narrow, cobblestone streets reminded Joanna of Chichester, except this town had more of a medieval feel with its gray stone buildings. And, instead of a great cathedral, it possessed the tall clock tower Zoé had spoken of and an old abbey church with two very impressive towers.
Zoé gazed out the window as they passed the huge edifice. “The abbey is not finished. The monks have been building it for a very long time.”
“Where are we going?” asked Joanna.
“Oncle Jean asked the driver to stop near the market. It’s in the center of town.”
“Your uncle thinks of everything.”
With her eyes reflecting her sorrow, Zoé said, “Just like Papa.”
Joanna put her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “I know what it is to lose both parents. It will get easier over time and you have your uncle who will be like a father to you.” She only hoped it would be true.
Once they alighted from the carriage, Zoé’s spirits picked up as she headed down one of the streets with Joanna and Gabrielle in tow and M’sieur Bequel following closely behind with sword and pistol at the ready. Joanna assumed the weapons were per Donet’s instructions, such precautions due to the carriage accident that hadn’t been an accident at all. He might be worried about his niece. But what kind of a monster would want to harm a child?
The people of the town were a mixture of the very poor and those who were more richly dressed and had money to spend or business to transact. Soot-faced children ran through the streets. An occasional beggar sat against a building, sheltered under an eave. Every place had its desperately poor and Joanna always noticed them.
Zoé led them to a cluster of stands and stalls where farmers and merchants sold a variety of things from bread and cheese to oysters and fish. Summer fruits were available in abundance.
Cloth, too, was displayed, mostly the plain muslin and wool worn by the working class. Occasionally, she glimpsed a seller of lace.
Mingled among the people standing around and shopping were small groups of soldiers, their cream-colored uniforms trimmed in dark green so different from those worn by British soldiers.
Zoé noticed her watching them. “The soldiers you are looking at are from the Régiment de Saintonge that has returned from the American War. My papa told me they served under the comte de Rochambeau who helped the Americans win a battle at a place called Yorktown.”
“Yorktown was a great victory for the Americans and a great loss for the British,” Joanna said.
“Do you mind so much?” asked Zoé.
“I am glad ’tis over, but it cost me my father.” In truth, Joanna had mixed feelings about the war, unpopular as it was in England. France had helped America win her independence, but the war had taken the lives of many of her countrymen. Her father had been killed early in the war at the Battle of Saratoga. Polly Ackerman lost her husband much later but in the same war.
“I am sorry,” said Zoé.
“Let’s just hope there will not be another.”
“I am sorry,” she told the quartermaster who, for a moment, looked very sad. “I, too, lost a brother who was a soldier.” Lord Hugh’s words came back to her. Would there be another war between England and France? And, if there were, would she be caught between her family in England and Donet in France? She thought of his exchange of fire with Commander Ellis off the coast of Bognor and shuddered. She couldn’t bear to think of Donet fighting against England.
Until he had taken to the sea, Jean had loved walking through the vines with his father. He and Henri would go with him, checking on each stage of the ripening grapes. As Jean walked among the vines with his estate manager, he thought of those earlier days. He had loved the familiar smell of the grapes, harvested in the winter, being pressed and then made into white wine, acidic and undrinkable, but perfect for distillation. Afterward, the distilled spirits, or eau de vie, would be aged in oak casks until the brandy became fine cognac.
That had been a lifetime ago. Today the sun was hidden behind gray clouds, the unripened green grapes long on the vines. In the time he’d been gone, his knowledge had not faded. He found it easy to fall back into the role of the master’s son asking questions of Giroud about the soil and condition of the vines. Only now he was the master.
As Jean thought of it, he preferred the merchant’s role to that of the grower and brandy maker. Transporting the casks from the estate and sailing them to England and other parts of Europe was more to his liking. For that, he wouldn’t have to live in Saintonge. He could retain Giroud and others to handle this end of things. It would be enough if he came several times a year, allowing him to live in Lorient. He would still keep his warehouse on Guernsey and, perhaps, his townhouse in Paris.
“The grapes are doing well,” he remarked.
Giroud, his wiry gray hair hanging in waves to his nape and his scant, short beard adorning his chin, stood next to Jean surveying the vines. “Oui, Monsieur, the grapes they are fine. For the time being, we have enough peasants to tend them. But I must speak to you of another matter, something that has concerned me in the last few years.”
Jean looked into the man’s ageless gray eyes. “What would that be?”
“I can show you as easily as I can explain it.”
Jean swept his arm away from the vines. “Lead on.”
Remounting their horses, they rode to the large warehouse next to the distillery where the brandy was stored and allowed to age. By now, this year’s eau de vie would be in the casks and the three prior years’ yield would be there as well, nearing the time they would sell it.
As they entered the warehouse, Jean looked around seeing the dusty oak casks. He blinked, unsure of what he was seeing. In the dim light from the windows, there appeared to be twice as many casks as he expected. “Why so many?” he asked Giroud. “Did mon père somehow increase production?”
“Non, Monsieur. While you have been gone, the taxes charged on Cognac’s brandy have trebled. Two years ago, they were raised again so that the growers pay double the amount levied on the vineyards near La Rochelle. Your father stopped shipping in protest even though the demand from Ireland and Holland had grown.”
“Et alors, he was a stubborn man. We will sell the extra stock. Aged longer, it will be more valuable. You have buyers, I assume?”
“Oui, many. Edinburgh, London and Ireland among them. The estate’s cognac is a fine one.”
“Très bien. Join me at dinner and we can discuss it. My initial thought is to change the shipping port from La Rochelle to Tonnay-Charente. ’Tis closer and, since it’s within Saintonge, we’ll pay fewer duties. You can use the existing shippers for now, but eventually I will keep at least one of my ships at the ready.”
Giroud grinned and dipped his head. “It will be done as you say, Monsieur le comte.”
He gave the maître du château a kindly look. “I have been Jean Donet for a very long time, old friend. M’sieur Donet will do. Oh, and tonight you can meet my guest from England, Lady Joanna West.”
Giroud nodded. Jean thought the man would walk away, but he hesitated as if not knowing how to broach whatever was on his mind. “There is something else I must tell you.”
Jean lifted his gaze expectantly. “Oui?”
His expression grave, Giroud said, “Shortly after the carriage accident, I found the body of the driver behind the warehouse. His throat had been slit. I buried him, but I have told no one. I can show you the grave if you would like.”
Jean let out a breath. “It is enough to know he was murdered. I do not need to see the grave. You should be aware, he is not the only one deliberately killed. In examining the carriage involved in the accident, I discovered it had been tampered with.”
The estate manager furrowed his brow. “Mon Dieu. Do you mean—”
“Exactement. Do you know anyone who would want to kill my father?”
Giroud shook his head. “Non. He was ever at odds with the other vineyard owners, of course, but then you would know that. The peasants are not happy, but that is due to more than your father. ’Tis possible someone meant the comte ill for his noble status, but I know of nothing specific.”
Jean thanked him and turned toward his horse. “Take care, Giroud. I will see you at supper.”
“’Twill be an honor, M’sieur.”
Jean rode back to the château thinking of the carriage driver. Why had he been killed? The most obvious answer, of course, was that he had been complicit in the crime and his partners, worried he might talk, did away with him.
Jean thought of Joanna and Zoé, wondering about their day. If someone had meant to kill the comte, would they next seek to kill his granddaughter? She could not inherit, of course, but vengeance would not consider that. And if Zoé was in danger, then Joanna might be as well.
And suddenly he had to know she was safe.
Joanna’s feet hurt and she stopped to rest on a stone bench in the gardens in front of the abbey. Overhead, the clouds had darkened to the same color as the stone towers of the church.
Several feet away, Zoé spoke in animated fashion to M’sieur Bequel about the monks and their slow work on the church. The quartermaster patiently listened, seemingly entertained.
Gabrielle joined Joanna on the bench.
“A remarkable little town,” observed Joanna.
“’Tis very different from Lorient,” said her maid.
“Are you missing your home, Gabrielle?”
“I think of it, Mademoiselle, but miss it? Non, I don’t think so. I am enjoying myself too much. What about you, mistress? Do you miss England?”
“Sometimes, but like you, I am glad to see more of France. I never thought I would have the chance.”
M’sieur Bequel came toward them, Zoé at his side. “I think we should go,” he said. “The capitaine will be wanting to know what I’ve done with ye.”
Joanna grinned. “Or what we have done with his quartermaster.”
Zoé did not protest, but docilely went with Bequel as he turned to go. The two made an odd pair, but she could tell they liked each other’s company.
Joanna got to her feet and, together with Gabrielle, followed Jean’s niece and his quartermaster as they retraced their steps back to the carriage.
Soon, they were on the same road they had taken from the château.
About halfway there, the road narrowed as they entered a dense stand of oak. Joanna was thinking of Donet and their night together when, all of a sudden, two men on horseback, their faces masked in black, rode out of the forest, brandishing pistols.
Gabrielle screamed. Zoé’s face was frozen in terror.
Joanna’s heart was in her throat as she ordered Zoé and the maid to the floor of the carriage. “Stay down!”
There must have been a third man for Joanna heard a voice in front of the carriage commanding the driver to
halt. At the same time, one of the two she could see shouted to his companion, “No shots into the carriage! He wants the girl.”
Suddenly, the air erupted in pistol shots. For a moment, smoke blocked her view. When it cleared, the two riders lay on the ground, blood seeping from their chests.
The sound of clashing steel sliced through the air. Bequel swore and hoof beats sounded as a rider galloped away.
Silence reigned until the quartermaster shouted, “Allons-y!” Presumably the coachman was still alive because she heard the lash of the whip and they took off, speeding down the road.
Gabrielle and Zoé resumed their seats, shaken but unharmed.
As the carriage raced ahead, the three of them were jostled about so badly they had to grab the strap and grip the windowsills to keep from being thrown together.
Heart pounding, Joanna peered out the window, wondering where the third brigand had gone.
Before they reached the château, the driver brought the carriage to a sudden stop. The horses snorted, restless in their traces. Joanna braced for another attack.
Unexpectedly, Donet appeared at the window astride a horse. He jumped down, yanked open the door and pulled Joanna into his arms, crushing her to his chest.
He pulled back, his forehead creased in an expression of concern. “You are all right?”
“Yes, all of us,” she said.
In the carriage window, Zoé nodded. “Bien. I must help Émile and the driver. They are wounded.”
Zoé leaned out of the window, watching anxiously as Joanna followed Donet. At the front of the carriage, he climbed on top. A ball had pierced the coachman’s calf and blood coated his stockings.
Joanna was sickened by the sight. Donet acted as if it were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps, for him, it was.
M’sieur Bequel was slumped over, blood oozing from his shoulder.
“I am fine, Capitaine,” he said. “Just a prick to my shoulder.”
“I’ll be making my own assessment, mon ami.” Donet took off his cravat and tied it around the driver’s wound. Then he helped the quartermaster down.
