Echo in the Wind

by Regan Walker

  Built in a rectangle with an inner stone courtyard decorated with potted topiary, it was the most elegant of his three homes, though the château in Saintonge was much larger.

  Once the carriage passed through the arched entrance, it stopped in the courtyard in front of the glass doors. Jean climbed down and greeted his butler. After serving for years as a crewmember on la Reine Noire, when Jean bought the townhouse, Flèche had asked to move to Paris to help his widowed sister and her children. The majordome excelled at managing the household and his skill with a blade added to the security about the place.

  “Welcome back, Capitaine,” said Flèche. Taking Jean’s hat and sword, he passed them to a waiting footman. Determined to look the part of a proper butler, Flèche had insisted on wearing a wig and elaborately embroidered waistcoats, this one of bronze brocade. With the new clothes came a greatly improved speech. Few would recognize the former gunner who once wore gritty seaman’s clothes and spoke with rough speech.

  Jean assisted Joanna, her maid and his niece down from the carriage. For the sake of Émile’s pride, Jean allowed his quartermaster to exit the vehicle on his own. They’d arrived in the early afternoon, but he could see the carriage ride had left them weary.

  “Glad I am that ride’s over,” muttered Émile, as his feet touched the stone. He handed his hat and sword to the footman. “Bonjour, Flèche,” he said, shaking the butler’s hand.

  Jean introduced Flèche to Joanna, Zoé and Gabrielle, and they walked into the townhouse. Flèche asked, “How long might you be in Paris, Capitaine?”

  “That is unclear,” Jean replied. “I am here to see the king. You are aware I now have the title?”

  “Oui. Bequel sent word from England of the title and your preference not to use it. Allow me to congratulate you, Capitaine, on your new grandson.”

  “Thank you. ’Tis yet another reminder I grow older.” Glancing at Joanna, who was speaking in a low voice to his niece, he wondered again if she shouldn’t be with a younger man. He had left her alone that last night in Le Havre, thinking perhaps he should give her a choice.

  “I think tea might be in order, Flèche. In the salon, if you will. And see that chambers for my guests are made ready.”

  “Of course, Capitaine.” Flèche snapped his fingers and the footman hurried toward the kitchens. “I will personally see the maid about the rooms.”

  “Will you also help Lady Joanna’s maid get settled?

  “Oui, certainement.”

  Jean escorted Joanna and his niece into the salon, the room where he entertained dignitaries as well as friends. Gabrielle went with Flèche.

  Unusual for his taste, Jean had retained the existing décor, mostly shades of red, including the ceiling, the curtains and a red Aubusson carpet with ivory flowers. The walls were paneled in bird’s-eye maple inlaid with cream-colored marble. Gilded red velvet chairs and a pale salmon-colored sofa formed the main pieces of furniture clustered around the fireplace. An ebony desk, set against the back of the sofa, had been a favorite acquisition of his and a useful place to write letters.

  As tea was served, Jean watched Joanna. She appeared exhausted from the long carriage ride. Even his niece was flagging.

  Once she finished her tea, Joanna expressed a desire to retire to her bedchamber. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not.” He considered escorting her there, but thought better of it. Determined not to take her to his bed again until he had sorted out what to do with her, he would not allow himself to be tempted beyond his ability to resist.

  Zoé trailed behind Joanna, following the footman up the stairs.

  Émile took the seat across from Jean on the sofa. “Are ye off to Versailles, then?”

  “I wasn’t planning to call upon the king until tomorrow.”

  Flèche stepped into the salon and handed Jean a sealed missive on a silver tray. “The comte de Vergennes’ man brought this yesterday.”

  Jean recognized the familiar seal of the Foreign Minister, Louis XVI’s own choice for the post. Vergennes and Benjamin Franklin had been Jean’s partners in his privateering during the American War.

  He tore open the letter. M. le comte, see me before you go to Versailles.

  “It seems Vergennes requires my presence. Do you wish to come or would you stay and tend your shoulder?”

  Émile gently rolled his wounded shoulder, wincing only slightly, and got to his feet. “I have been sitting long enough. ’Sides, I’d like to hear what the Foreign Minister has to say.”

  They set off on horseback toward Passy, just west of Paris, and pulled rein in front of a gray stone château where Vergennes kept apartments when not at Versailles. It was here Jean and Émile had met with the Foreign Minister many times during the war to discuss the ships Jean had seized.

  In the antechamber, one of the minions who worked for Vergennes approached. “The minister will see you now.”

  Vergennes had not changed. Now in his sixth decade, surprisingly, his face bore few wrinkles. He looked more the country gentleman, retired to hunting and books, save for his blue eyes that sparkled with the energy of one consumed by the intrigues of state. Always bewigged, his temples were graced with silver curls. Ever loyal to the king, Vergennes backed those causes that diminished England’s power and made France more secure.

  “Monsieur,” said Jean, “I came as soon as I got your message. As you see, M’sieur Bequel is with me.”

  “Come, mes amis,” said Vergennes, gesturing them to two sofas on either side of a small table. The minister sat on one and Jean and Émile on the other. The minion who’d escorted them inside walked to Vergennes, who turned to Jean and Émile. “Something to drink?”

  “Brandy, s’il vous plaît,” said Jean.

  Émile nodded his agreement.

  “Brandy pour trois,” Vergennes instructed the footman.

  Once the servant had gone, the minister turned to Jean. “I must convey my sympathy on the deaths of your father and brother. I know the king has summoned you, but I wanted to see you first. There are things you need to know and, right now, I need you in your elevated status.”

  “Before you begin,” Jean said, “I assume you know of the carriage incident.”

  “Oui. A great tragedy.”

  Jean trusted Vergennes to hold the truth close. “I doubt you are aware their deaths were not an accident.”

  A furrow developed between Vergennes’ brows.

  “When I arrived at Saintonge, I discovered the carriage had been tampered with, the axle partly severed. And later, my estate manager told me he had found the driver’s body behind a building with his throat cut.”

  The conversation abruptly ceased as the footman entered and set a decanter of brandy and three glasses on the small table. When he left, the minister said, “I had no idea. Still, I am not altogether surprised.”

  Jean looked at Vergennes, perplexed. “Why are you unsurprised? I can think of no one, save his tenants, who might want my father dead and even they might not be so bold as to kill him.”

  Vergennes poured the brandy and sat back. He turned his glass in his hand, his steady gaze meeting Jean’s. “As irascible as your father could be, I am quite certain the target was not him, but your brother.”

  “Henri? How can that be?” In his mind he saw his brother as he remembered him, young and full of life. “He only made friends.”

  “In the past, that might have been true. But for some time, Henri had been making enemies on my behalf. You were not the only one working for me. He, too, offered his services.”

  Jean could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Henri?” He recalled Zoé telling him her papa had been away much of the time. “When?”

  “It began when you were off capturing English ships. I had enough problems with the Dutch and other matters of foreign affairs, but then the king made me chief of the Council of Finance and domestic matters also became my concern. Your brother helped me expose Jacques Necker, the Director of
Finance, for the dangerous man he is. His criticism of the king and spread of false information concerning our credit have weakened the French citizens’ confidence in the monarchy.”

  “Exactly what did Henri do for you?” Jean asked, sharing a look with Émile, who sat stone-faced before the minister.

  “Henri was my agent, moving among the nobility, secretly gathering information on Necker’s misdeeds, which I then brought to the attention of the king. Eh bien, following this, Necker was removed. Last November, with my support, Charles Alexandre, vicomte de Calonne, became the Controller General of Finances. He is working on a plan to help France out of its dire financial situation.”

  “I fear the hour is late for that,” Jean said. He felt the coming storm all too keenly and knew its cause. France’s support of America had cost the country much, leaving it deeply in debt. The peasants distrusted their king, who continued to spend. It was only a matter of time before they rose up in a violent temper. Jean only hoped at the end of it, France would retain what was good while throwing out the bad.

  Vergennes nodded. “True, but we must try. Necker did not help us. And among his Swiss friends, there is much bitterness for his being sent from Versailles in disgrace.”

  “You believe Necker’s friends wanted to kill my brother?”

  The minister sipped his brandy. “I fear it is so. And now they may seek your life believing you are your brother. After all, you and your brother are near twins.” His gaze darted to Jean’s hand. “I see you now wear the Saintonge ring. The first news we had from Saintonge spoke only of your father’s death and Henri’s injuries. Your brother would have been the comte, at least for the short time he lived. It may be that Necker’s friends see your return as Henri’s recovery.”

  Jean sat back, looking at the brandy he held in his hand, seeing Joanna’s eyes. “My carriage was attacked near Saintonge. I was not in it, but one of the men spoke of capturing my niece, Henri’s daughter, who is now my ward.”

  “Be prudent, mon ami. The wolves circle. They do not realize it is the privateer Jean Donet they hunt.”

  “I would have justice.”

  Vergennes shrugged. “Oui, and no one will fault you if you get it.”

  Reminded of the king’s request, he asked, “Do you know why Louis wants to see me?”

  “I told the king you survived Henri, so he knows you are now the comte de Saintonge. When we spoke of you, he recalled with amusement your efforts for his good friend, Monsieur Franklin. I think the young king is rather charmed by your life at sea, as was his grand-père when Monsieur Franklin bragged to him of the many ships you seized. He merely wants to be assured of your loyalty.”

  Jean set down his glass and got to his feet. “I thank you for the brandy and the warning, Monsieur.”

  Vergennes and Émile stood.

  “The king is giving a fete tonight at Versailles,” said Vergennes. “It would be a good time to visit him. Watch carefully the faces in the crowd and you may detect which are your enemies.”

  Chapter 23

  Versailles

  Joanna slipped her arm through Donet’s as they entered the crowd of elegantly attired men and women in the galerie des Glaces, the great hall of mirrors at Versailles. Intimidated by a sight so far removed from her experience, she drew comfort from knowing the man beside her had been invited by the king and could well navigate these waters.

  Tall arched windows overlooking the gardens faced a long row of mirrors, equally tall, that reflected the subtle light of a mid-summer’s eve.

  It seemed to her a magical place, the courtiers in their silks, satins and brocades with white wigs and powdered hair moving about like sugar sculptures on an iced cake. Even the men had rouged cheeks and lips, a scandalous sight if it were in London.

  Donet cut a very different figure here than he did on his ship. Though his black velvet coat, richly embroidered in gold thread, and his gold satin waistcoat spoke of his noble beginnings, his unpowdered ebony hair with its silver streaks hinted of a very different life. He had a masculine aura very unlike the dandies floating about the hall.

  Many women turned to admire him, leaving Joanna torn between pride and a rising jealousy.

  He placed his hand over hers as his gaze flitted about the room full of mirrors, gilded surfaces and crystal chandeliers. “A bit ostentatious, non?”

  “I have never seen anything so grand,” she answered truthfully. “The golden glitter dazzles the eye.”

  Beside her, Jean chortled. “I’ll not comment on the pale faces and rouged lips, but that display of gold, light and crystal you call dazzling is what Louis XIV thought necessary to convey the majesty of France.” Donet tilted his head back, gazing up at the barrel-vaulted ceiling. “The paintings above us speak of the Sun King’s victories over the foreign powers that dared to oppose France.” Lowering his head, he gave her a teasing smile. “The hundreds of gilded mirrors tell of his wealth and majesty. He had the building specially positioned to capture the rising and setting of the sun.”

  “He compared himself to Apollo?”

  “Just so,” Donet said in clipped fashion.

  Joanna experienced an overwhelming feeling of awe as her gaze roved about the long mirrored hall. Above and to the side of her were crystal chandeliers with hundreds of candles, their flickering light reflected in the mirrors and the polished parquet floors.

  Through the tall arched windows, she glimpsed the sky, which had become a muted canvas of blue, lavender and pink.

  Donet led her forward, examining the faces in the crowd as he spoke. “Two hundred years ago when the hall was finished, such a display would have been a rare luxury. Even today, Versailles is extraordinary in its splendor.”

  “And the courtiers who gather here are painted with the same elaborate brush,” Joanna remarked. Having worn one of the gowns Madame Provot had made for her in Lorient, Joanna did not feel inappropriately dressed.

  Fashioned from cream silk decorated with pale clusters of grapes, yellow flowers and leaves, it was lovely with its underskirt of verdigris green satin. Edged all around in the same green satin with bows at the waist and elbows, the effect was quite flattering against her auburn hair, unpowdered but piled high with curls. As she watched the other ladies, however, she could see no others whose hair was worn in its natural state. “Perhaps I should have powdered my hair?”

  “Nonsense. Your hair is one of the things I love about you, Joanna. Even the queen, known for her beauty, could not be more beautiful than you this night, though I am rather fond of you in breeches.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance at the reminder of her smuggler’s clothing. “Something tells me I’ll not be wearing breeches anytime soon.”

  “Never again in view of others, if I have my way.”

  She stiffened at his proprietary remark. “You have become quite domineering, M’sieur.”

  “Yes, I daresay I have, particularly when it comes to you.” And then, with a smirk, “Or, perhaps, you are just now seeing the real pirate.”

  She bit back a snort as men and women in their finery passed them by, giving them curious looks. None bothered to greet Donet. “Don’t they know you?”

  “Why ever should they? They are always here while I have only visited the king a few times and then surreptitiously. Most of these people have never seen me. Saintonge to them would be my father. I do not look like him. Henri and I favored our mother.”

  A man came toward them out of the crowd but then veered off at the last moment. His expression was one of shock. “That man must know you from your pirate days,” she said. “He appeared dismayed to see you here.”

  “En effet, he did.” Donet glanced over his shoulder, his gaze following the man as he strode away. An obvious aristocrat, the man’s clothing was not unlike that of the others, but his great height and very slender form distinguished him.

  “Do you think these people know anything of the peasants’ great unhappiness? I have often wondered the same thing when
I have attended elaborate balls in England.”

  “From what I have observed, the nobility in Paris remains blithely ignorant of the mounting danger. Instead, they take secret pleasure in attacking the Ancien Régime they consider antiquated and ridiculous, yet at the same time, you see how willingly they enjoy its pleasures.” He glanced ahead as they approached the end of the hall. “Louis is just ahead.”

  The king stood surrounded by a crowd of people. Behind him were watchful servants in blue livery decorated with red and white braid.

  As she and Donet drew near, the king looked over the shoulders of those speaking to him and smiled. “Ah, the comte de Saintonge finally comes.”

  Joanna would have guessed him to be the king even if Donet had not pointed him out. Louis had to be six feet tall. Where Donet was muscled and lithe, the king was slightly plump and his face round, even though he had to be a decade younger. Louis wore a red velvet coat and breeches, the shoulders embroidered in gold. His waistcoat, stretched over his belly, was ivory silk embellished in gold. He wore a white wig but his eyebrows were a light brown, making her think he might have fair hair.

  The king had a benevolent look about him that immediately put Joanna at ease. In his eyes, which were a brilliant blue, she glimpsed amusement as he gazed at Donet. The king beckoned Donet to him. The men speaking with the king stepped aside.

  Joanna gripped Donet’s arm and walked forward.

  He bowed before the king. “Your Majesty, I come to assure you of my continued loyalty.”

  The king smiled. “I would expect no less from one who has served me for many years.”

  Rising, Donet said, “May I introduce Lady Joanna West, sister of the Earl of Torrington?”

  Joanna sank into a deep curtsy. “My Lord.” She could not very well call him her king.

  “An Englishwoman?” Louis asked, his brows lifting toward the ceiling.

  Joanna blanched. Many French disliked the English. After all, they were ever enemies.