by C. S. Quinn
‘They’re afraid,’ I say. ‘It’s a good thing.’
‘Think the King will ever actually sign it?’
‘We can only hope. And continue to rescue those the plantation owners threaten.’
I raise my hand and knock on the door.
‘You might have worn something French,’ he says wistfully, looking at my rigid clothing as we wait. ‘Floaty gauzy things are all the fashion now.’
‘I wouldn’t expect an American to understand,’ I tell him. ‘But I have loyalty to my country. Not to mention, thick corsetry hides all manner of lethal things.’ I pat the sturdy confines of my stays.
‘Patriotism extends to fashion, does it?’
‘Of course it does. It’s the only way women can be political. You were born in a country that is not a country,’ I tell him. ‘There is a code to it all that is lost to you.’
I glance up at the house, wondering why it is taking so long to answer the door.
‘As you well know, I live to my own code,’ says Jemmy. ‘Be loyal to your crew, defend those who need defending—’
‘And don’t kill anyone you like,’ I finish. ‘I know. You are tiresome on the subject of pirate honour.’
‘And what is your code, Lady Morgan?’
‘I am English.’
He throws his hands up in frustration. ‘You were born illegitimate to an African slave mother, and spent the first five years of your life in America.’
‘My mother was Queen of her Congo tribe,’ I say, insulted. ‘And my parents were married in the sight of the elders—’
‘My point is, you’re no more English than I am.’ He shakes his head. ‘Perhaps less,’ he adds, ‘if my mother’s claims about my father are true. Though when my mammy’s not lying, she’s drinking, and when she’s not drinking, she’s whoring,’ he concludes philosophically, rubbing his nose and glancing up at the townhouse.
‘It isn’t about where you’re born. It’s a code, like yours. Keep your promises. Behave honourably.’
‘Qualities of a decent person, to be sure. Never knew England had the run of them.’
I think of my illegitimate uncle, Lord Pole, struggling always to be recognised as noble.
‘I am a spy,’ I tell him. ‘It is a low-down, dirty thing. If I don’t do it for the love of my country, it would make me … I don’t even know.’
‘A murdering criminal with integrity,’ beams Jemmy. ‘Like me.’ He leans forward and pounds aggressively on the door. ‘Manners aren’t always helpful,’ he adds with a wink.
I smile back at him despite myself. There is noise now inside, like someone coming down the stairs.
Jemmy makes an elaborate show of using the mud-scraper.
The door is opened by a maid who looks to have been caught halfway through eating. She takes my card, chewing violently, then swallows with effort before directing us to the first floor.
I can sense Jemmy mentally recoiling from the high hubbub of female voices in the room beyond, as the maid sails forth to deliver our card. An expensively dressed perfumer walks past us, his tray of little bottles tinkling, blazing a trail of his strongest stock in his wake.
‘You’re certain I need to be with you?’ tries Jemmy, edging back, waving away the scent.
‘Absolutely.’ I grab his arm. ‘We get our best information here. The salon ladies pay me no mind at all with a real-life pirate to paw at. Not even to bore me with their high views on Rousseau.’
‘It’s a poor business to be used as bait, so,’ says Jemmy, looking morose. ‘Not a single girl here cares a fig for their marriage vows.’
‘You cannot be as romantic as you pretend. You should go out in the city with me. See the sights.’
‘Oh no.’ He straightens his coat. ‘You’ll never see me in any of those bathhouses, Attica.’
‘It’s Paris. Everyone is doing it.’
‘Not me.’ He sighs, looking warily at the pack of decadently dressed women. ‘A little lapdog,’ mutters Jemmy miserably. ‘That’s what I am to those harpies.’
‘Don’t be so provincial. In any case, you love the macarons.’
CHAPTER FOUR
JEMMY AND I ARE WAITING FOR THE HOST, ABSORBING THE perfumed decadence of the salon. There are almost as many servants as guests, and women chatter animatedly as their dainty glasses are filled. A little band of musicians plays chamber music at a discreet volume in a far corner.
To his great delight, Jemmy has spotted the obligatory tray of macarons. His eyes follow the approaching maid, who now carries a silver salver of the pink delicacies. He takes four in a closed fist, then seeing my expression returns one, then another, awkwardly following after as the maid tries to take the tray away again.
‘Oh, let him take as many as he likes!’ says a shrill delighted voice. A cherub-lipped girl whose face holds the familiar hallmarks of noble descent bears down on us. She has a short, slanting forehead and a weak chin already giving way to fat, characteristics the French nobility have bred in over the last century. Combined with large brown eyes and thick, rather mannish brows, she reminds me of a friendly horse, right down to her hair, styled naturally, as is the fashion, but curled and ribboned as though she can’t quite go through with the lack of artifice. She smiles as she sails towards us, clapping her hands with glee, eyes only for Jemmy. ‘I’ll dare say they’re better than ship’s biscuits, Mr Avery.’
Jemmy, macaron halfway to his mouth, enacts some magic trick of vanishing it into his hand and bows deeply.
‘Madame du Quenoy,’ he says.
She curtseys in response, never shifting her eyes from his face, then notices me as an afterthought.
‘Mademoiselle Morgan.’ She curtseys politely. ‘I hope your translations are not keeping you up late?’ And without waiting for an answer, ‘Is this what they wear in England nowadays? Your people are becoming fashionable here, if you can believe it. Your unaffected country style.’ The words don’t match her open disdain for my rigidly panelled dress.
‘We’re simple people,’ I reply, eyeing her translucent muslin dress. ‘And as you see, I am traditional.’
‘Very good. Of course you are unmarried and must dress for an English husband.’ She gives a light laugh, then frowns a little, barely lining her sloped forehead.
‘Is there anyone you might like to be introduced to, Mademoiselle Morgan?’ she asks hopefully, eyes tracking between Jemmy and me in naked desperation to get him alone.
‘I shouldn’t be so bold as to suggest it,’ I say, as her face drops in dismay, ‘but I did hear Madame Pinochet’s husband might be in need of a translator.’
She brightens. ‘Allow me to take you to her.’ She links her arm in mine. ‘Don’t imagine you shall escape so easily,’ she adds, seeing Jemmy attempt to shuffle back out of view. ‘I must hear of your latest adventures.’
Madame du Quenoy marches us to a baffled-looking woman and all but throws me towards her.
‘Madame Pinochet, this is Mademoiselle Morgan. From England.’
The woman, thin as a rake with watery eyes and a beaky nose crusted with snuff, peers at me over a glass of wine. She makes the strange smile of an older lady who has learned not to crack her paste make-up, which has been applied liberally. Her ageing body, unaccustomed to the flowing liberty of the latest fashion, stoops and bulges as if yearning for support.
‘Mademoiselle Morgan,’ she says, not managing to hide her dismay as she curtseys. She looks around, hoping to find someone to foist me on. ‘Still working?’ she manages, her long finger trailing distractedly around the rim of her wine glass.
‘Oh yes.’ I smile. ‘I am making some very interesting Latin translations.’
‘Really?’ Her face strains with the effort of polite interest.
‘I’d love to tell you all about them,’ I add, as Jemmy is spirited away by our host. ‘But where are my manners? I should hear your news. Your husband travels to Versailles with the other plantation owners?’
‘Next Tuesday,�
�� she confirms guilelessly, relieved to be granted a reprieve from my academic discourse, as I mentally log the day. ‘Even nobles must fear the customs gates nowadays.’ She takes out a highly decorated snuffbox, turning it affectedly so I might notice the intricacy of the pearl enamelling.
‘Oh?’ I enquire politely, sipping wine. I glance across to Jemmy, who is now deep in the clutches of the young host. She has him backed against a wall whilst she leans in, head tilted, inviting him to give his opinion on a musk and rose oil behind her ears.
‘Of course, you are English,’ says my beaky-nosed companion. ‘You do not know how terrible things are here.’ The snuffbox makes another whirl through her fingers like a magician’s trick. She lowers her voice and leans in.
‘Since the Bastille fell, the King has put a customs guard on every gate out of the city.’
‘His Majesty wishes to tax the goods?’ I suggest, feigning ignorance.
‘Oh no, my dear. He wants to stop seditious books and papers. These filthy revolutionaries would spread their poison anywhere they could.’
I nod sympathetically.
‘But,’ she continues grandly, opening the snuffbox, ‘His Majesty is all the way out in Versailles. He has no idea what really happens in Paris.’ She shakes her head solemnly and I copy the gesture. ‘The men,’ she spits the word, ‘who guard the gates are open revolutionaries. They take it upon themselves to search everyone. Even their betters!’ She pauses to sprinkle snuff liberally on to the side of her hand and sniff violently. Her long nose goes into a kind of spasm and her bloodshot eyes shed a line of salty tears that slice through her paste make-up.
‘Last week my husband was detained for an hour while an upstart rifled his possessions. The guard even had the affront to wear the tricolour cockade in clear view.’
‘How very dreadful. I had no idea the city was in such disarray,’ I tell her. ‘I must be careful, for I wish to leave myself next week.’
‘Take the Porte Saint-Denis,’ she advises. ‘The King still had a few loyal men there.’
‘I am grateful to you,’ I say truthfully. ‘And I shall pray for your husband’s safe journey. You must be certain his carriage is well stocked,’ I prompt. ‘I am told there is no food to be had at the palace, for all the finery.’
‘Oh, they shall travel at night,’ she says, confirming my suspicion. ‘They mean to confound this dratted English fellow. The Scarlet Poppy, or some such, they call him. He seems to know all their plans even before they do.’
‘The Scarlet Pimpernel?’ I suggest.
‘Yes?’ The beady eyes settle on me in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Only by chance,’ I reply. ‘They say he is everywhere nowadays.’
Her eyes widen in alarm, imagining English villains lurking in every corner.
‘Allow me to fetch you more wine,’ I add. ‘You mustn’t concern yourself with the Pimpernel, madame. There is no question that you French nobles will find him out sooner or later.’
She nods vaguely as I depart, a small smile on my face.
CHAPTER FIVE
ROBESPIERRE ARRIVES AT THE CHEAP BROTHEL, HIS PRESSED lawyer’s suit of striped frock-coat with matching breeches and box-fresh wig entirely out of place. He is a diminutive man, a slip of laundered linen and polished leather in a byway of broad-shouldered sailors and loud-mouthed drunks.
With an expression of extreme distaste, he picks daintily around the animal droppings and rotting litter that have mulched into the mud of the streets, and looks in vain for a mud-scraper to clean his silver-buckled shoes.
The building was once a bishop’s house, but the lowceilinged style has fallen out of favour, and the church leases it cheaply. The carved oak door now stands perpetually open. Through it is a broad staircase, on which sailors stand in line, elbowing one another out of the way. On the landing above, a door opens and a man exits, rearranging his clothing. Behind him a tired-looking girl tilts her head at the long queue.
‘Next,’ she shouts, without enthusiasm.
Breathing in, to protect himself from the disease that must surely run rampant in the air, Robespierre pushes his way up the stairs, trying not to touch anything.
‘Hi there, city boy,’ says a drunken old salt, eyeing Robespierre’s neat clerical style. ‘There’s plenty of girls for you on the Champs Élysées. These cheap whores are for the sailors.’
‘I am not here for that purpose,’ mutters Robespierre.
‘Of course not,’ leers the old man, as the lawyer passes.
Robespierre ignores him, walking along the landing to the furthest door. A rabbit’s foot hangs on the handle. The symbol that the girl inside is not available.
‘She’ll not take kindly to being disturbed!’ shouts a man from midway on the staircase.
Ignoring him, Robespierre pushes open the door. A dark-skinned woman is squatting over a tin pot of dirty water, cleaning herself with a rag of strong-smelling chemicals. She pulls her skirts down hurriedly and stands, but not fast enough to disguise a rainbow of bruising along her flank.
Robespierre’s lips press tight together.
This is the famous Centime. He knows her. Or of her, rather. Has always pitied her at a distance. Even more so, now her brutal master has returned.
‘I have a keeper again now,’ she says fiercely. ‘You want a black girl, you must go elsewhere.’ Up close she is younger than he imagined, and her face is lovely. Large doe-like eyes, long-lashed and almost black. In contrast, her full lips are the softest, lightest pink, like a rose yet to bloom.
Robespierre is not generally a connoisseur of such things, but even he can see she is far too attractive for this low-rent place. The colour of her skin has counted against her. Probably, she believes herself lucky not to be walking the streets. He wonders which plantation she was shipped from.
‘He is in there?’ replies Robespierre simply, pointing to the door on the far side of the room.
Centime’s hostile expression drops away, replaced by several successive emotions.
‘He sent for you?’ she asks, fear twisting her face.
Robespierre crosses to Centime. His eyes dart to the door.
‘You must not fear,’ he says. ‘I mean you no harm.’ He remembers the bruises she tried to hide, thinking there are a hundred, a thousand, just like her, all over France.
‘His work?’ suggests Robespierre, gesturing at where the bruising lies.
‘He is a good and kind master,’ she says in a quavering voice. ‘You may not go in if you were not sent for.’
‘All this will soon be over.’ He sweeps a hand to encompass the brothel, perhaps France itself. ‘A new world is about to be born.’ Behind his glasses, his blue eyes are earnest. Something about his fervour calms her.
Without waiting for a reply, he turns the handle on the door, which has been partially covered by curtains. Despite his reassurances, his hand shakes as he enters the room.
It is far larger than the exterior might suggest, muggy with pipe smoke, and fashioned like an office with a large old desk. Sat behind it is a dark-haired nobleman with strong features – thick broad lips and heavy-lidded eyes with deep brows. They flick to the intruder, then narrow.
‘Who the devil are you?’ he demands. ‘I told that damned whore I was not to be disturbed.’
‘She is blameless. The fault is mine.’ Robespierre is taking in the spray of expensive lace at the man’s neck and cuffs, the golden threads that pepper his silken clothes.
‘Then you shall pay for it.’
‘The Marquis de Salvatore, I assume?’ says Robespierre, ignoring the threat, his lips tightening at the honorific title.
When the man’s face registers rage, Robespierre gives a thin smile. ‘You are more difficult to find out of the Bastille than inside it.’ He pulls a chair, hesitates for a moment, then sits with a brief glance at the seated marquis.
‘You dare sit before me?’ whispers Salvatore. ‘I shall have you whipped for your insolence.’<
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Robespierre gives the barest frown, his round glasses slipping fractionally down his nose.
‘Perhaps you should first ask yourself what kind of man has located you, here in this most secret of places, known only to your very closest of criminal companions,’ Robespierre pushes his glasses up with the tip of his finger, ‘before issuing the summary stock of threats you nobles aim at us commoners.’ Another frown sends the wire frames back down his nose.
Salvatore opens his mouth to reply, but Robespierre, perhaps sensing a second volley of displeasingly unoriginal denunciations, talks on.
‘You communicate with your colleagues in code, of sorts,’ says Robespierre, answering his own question without emotion. ‘I would suggest you look to something more sophisticated. Your current missives are very easy to break.’
He stands, and makes a short bow. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Monsieur Robespierre. A lawyer by trade. I have a business proposition for you.’
Salvatore leans back in his chair, dark features fathomless.
‘Well then,’ he says, ‘I shall hear it, before I have you beaten.’
Robespierre gives no indication he is afraid. Instead, he removes papers from his coat and wordlessly passes them across.
Salvatore stares at the papers for a long time.
‘These routes are real?’ he demands finally.
Robespierre bobs his head, birdlike. ‘I am adept at breaking codes. This is only a small part of what I have translated.’ Emboldened, Robespierre takes a step forward. Salvatore shoots him a fierce look.
‘With my help, your arms smuggling operations will double their profits. Perhaps even triple them.’
Salvatore doesn’t disagree, only stares at the routes.
‘Three hundred livres,’ he says finally. ‘That is a high payment considering your impertinence. You shall have it in gold, and once you have given me the routes I shall never see or hear of you again.’
Robespierre’s mouth compresses very slightly.
‘I do not ask for money.’
‘Then what? A title?’ There is an open sneer on Salvatore’s face.
