by C. S. Quinn
‘I believe I’ve heard of you,’ she says finally. ‘Attica, is it not? You were a slave once. The tavern near the river, the woman there speaks of you,’ she adds by way of explanation. ‘She likes you. Thinks you are one of us, despite your bad dress sense.’ She nods to my unfashionable clothes. ‘An English girl with a French heart, that is what she says. Courageous and fierce, but you drink too much to be happy.’
‘Surely a good deal of drink is just the right amount?’
She ignores this. ‘You shall have to decide which side you are on when the revolution comes,’ she opines. ‘The English are with the cold-blooded nobles. They do not like us oddities of the Marais.’
It’s the first time someone has said this aloud, although of course I knew it.
‘Perhaps you shall marry this man and become one of them. But you must know where you fit,’ the woman adds philosophically. ‘Their world or ours.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IN FAUBOURG SAINT-ANTOINE, THE WOMEN OF THE MARKET Hall are meeting to discuss bread prices. Without official premises, their meeting consists of a somewhat disorderly huddle. The poorly clad ladies form a circle, shoulder to shoulder, in the only venue they are entitled to: the cobbled bit by the broken fountain that smells of piss.
As usual, the main discussion is about the hated Marie Antoinette and her latest excesses.
‘Madame Veto, isn’t it?’ sneers a fish-seller. ‘That’s what she is now. She was Madame Deficit. Now she’s Madame Veto.’
‘What’s a veto, then?’
‘’S, like a tax, isn’t it? The royals want a new tax for our National Assembly.’
‘Poxed if they’re getting one!’
They’re interrupted by a high-pitched cough.
Smiling politely, Robespierre taps on the nearest shoulder. A gaunt woman turns on him accusingly.
‘’S a meeting,’ she tells him aggressively. ‘For the market ladies. No men. Get out of it.’
‘It’s all right, Eugenie,’ says another. ‘It’s the lawyer. He’s one of us, isn’t that right, Monsieur Robespierre?’
Robespierre inches between the women, coming up several inches shorter than several of them. He gives the same polite smile and resists the urge to bring his scented handkerchief to his nose as he is welcomed into their fetid midst.
The women greet him warmly now. Those that know him like him. Monsieur Robespierre is gaining a name for himself speaking for the women. He even believes they should have a vote. Those who do not know him cannot fail to be reassured by his pin-neat appearance and diminutive stature. He is like a smart little toy, their very own bijou member of the establishment. Not to mention he looks a little bit ill. That pale face and thin legs. He is in need of a good bowl of soup. The exact opposite of the brutish men they are used to encountering in their daily lives.
Then they see the woman behind him.
‘Whatcha brought Two-Face for?’ demands one aggressively, eyeballing Ovette’s stained complexion. ‘She’ll run tattle to the nearest guard.’
‘Madame Campan is a convert to the cause,’ says Robespierre. ‘She will be able to read you the pamphlets and so forth.’
Murmurs of discontent rumble around the women. They do not like the well-spoken Ovette in her too-clean clothes, who so clearly thinks she is better than them all.
‘S’pose we could do with a reader,’ grumbles one, with bad grace.
Ovette shuffles uncomfortably and looks at her feet.
Robespierre begins speaking, weaving tales of Bastille souvenirs winging their way across France, taking a message of freedom. The power of the people to enact such great change.
As his words fly, any illusions of his frailty fall away. It is agreed by all that he is a veritable sorcerer with words. The women listen entranced as he describes his perfect society. Where everyone is equal and hard-working men and woman are treated with respect, not scorn. At this last part a great cheer is raised.
Now he has the women in the palm of his hand, Robespierre lowers his voice, like a fireside storyteller.
‘There is a legend, told by the ancient Greeks, whose societies were built on perfect virtue, of a man named Sisyphus, who was condemned to a punishment in hell.’
He waits a moment to let this sink in. The women’s brows wrinkle in confusion.
‘Sisyphus was made to push a heavy boulder up a hill, but the moment he was about to reach the summit, with its tantalising promise of freedom, the boulder would roll back down again.’ Robespierre pauses for effect. ‘It is the same for us, is it not? The Bastille was stormed, the people declared their right to liberty. The King himself agreed to sign the new constitution. Then, just on the dawn of change, pfsst.’ He makes a noise through his teeth. ‘Gone.’
Robespierre’s eyes close. He looks suddenly boyish. ‘We are so close … so close.’ His eyes open, fiery behind his round glasses, his tiny hand is balled into a fist, outstretched as though to grasp something. ‘Just one small push is needed and we will meet the brow of the hill. The thing will tumble into a new dawn, running on its own momentum.’
There is a long silence. The women’s expressions are rapt, thoughtful.
Just one small push.
Speech concluded, Robespierre makes to leave. But the women are not finished with him. They press him with gifts – humble things but the best they have. Apples and leeks are pushed into his white fingers. He accepts them with gratitude.
‘Make it happen for us, Monsieur Robespierre,’ begs a woman with missing front teeth. ‘If you go to Versailles they will listen to you. Tell them our children starve.’
Robespierre bows, a faint smile on his lips.
‘I will endeavour to make your woes heard,’ he tells them, before glancing meaningfully at Ovette. ‘But I fear the King will only listen to an army.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I AWAKE TO A THUMPING HEAD AND AN EVEN LOUDER pounding at the door. Wincing against the commotion, I get to my feet, kicking over empty wine bottles. A scuff of rouge on the adjacent pillow to mine suggests I wasn’t alone last night. Whoever it was vacated early. Thoughts solidify in my head. A tavern in the Marais. Women dancing together. A dark-haired singer. I must have got there by way of the sailors’ den, and have a vague memory of the landlady insisting on finding me a sedan chair to pass through the more dangerous alleys.
I press a hand to my forehead and traipse from my bedchamber, grabbing a satin chemise from a chair and pulling it over my head. I fumble around in an open trunk, retrieving a wide lace sash and wrapping it around my waist as I cross into the single large reception room of my Paris apartment. The curtains are drawn and I tread on spent candles, cursing, and scatter playing cards with my feet as I make my way to the large door.
Atherton must have sent a letter to arrive this morning. The unexpected pleasure of this blends uneasily with my queasy morning-after regret. Only a little too much brandy, I tell myself. Once I’m married I shan’t have cause to go out alone on the Marais.
Something unsettling tugs at me all the same. But as I open the door, it is already receding, pushed away by the anticipation of Atherton’s letter. The delight of replying as his wife-to-be. A smile pulls at the corners of my lips, picturing my future husband’s face, quill in hand, writing earnestly.
Instead of a messenger, however, it is Jemmy, larger than life and a great deal more grinningly buoyant than my current fragile state allows for.
‘Late night or early morning?’ he asks, tilting his head to take in my pained features.
‘A little of both.’ I am disappointed not to receive a letter from Atherton, but pleased to see Jemmy all the same.
‘What in the hell is that?’ He is pointing to Atherton’s cockade of black ribbons, pinned limply to my dress. ‘You’ve taken to declaring your Englishness now, have ye?’
‘A little patriotism, that’s all,’ I say defensively, not willing to tell him about my engagement. ‘How did you get in unannounced?’ I add. ‘There’s a
doorman. You’re supposed to leave a card. It’s protocol.’
‘The fella waiting outside? He buys dockside contraband. I gave him a good price on a bundle of cloth for his wife a while ago. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
‘Come in.’ I lead him in, suddenly rather conscious of my apartment and its disarray. I reach out a hand and shut the door to my bedchamber, with its unmade bed heaped high in linens and silk, a half-bottle of white wine and two lipsticked glasses on the floor. A sandbag in the shape of a man lies beneath, pocked with stab marks where I practise my dagger skills.
He follows me into the large reception room, taking in the proportions and whistling admiringly.
‘So this is where you’ve been hiding?’ he says. ‘Fancy. Or at least it could be.’ He crosses to the thick velvet curtains and tugs them back mercilessly, letting strong sunlight spill through.
He runs a disapproving finger over a dusty windowsill. ‘I’ve seen drunkard deckhands with cleaner quarters. I thought ladies had maids.’
‘As I keep telling people, I’m not a lady.’
‘Ach, you’re all ladies to us common folk. Besides, even bourgeois shop-owners have a housekeeper.’
He draws up a stool. Sits.
‘Make yourself at home,’ I say drily.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ He lifts a loosely bound book.
‘Mechanics of the Ancient Greeks?’ he reads, labouring the words. ‘A little light reading?’
‘An interest of mine. Truthfully my passion is Italian engineering, but it’s hard to get the books.’
‘You’re a strange woman, to be sure. Is there anything to drink around here?’
I walk to a crate of red wine bottles left untidily where the vintner delivered it, and pull one free. I uncork it. When I return, Jemmy is picking up playing cards from the floor and sorting them into a neat deck.
‘I have no glasses,’ I begin, but Jemmy is already pulling free a tankard.
‘Didn’t imagine you would.’ He places the half-tidied cards at his feet. A queen of diamonds looks up at us accusingly.
I fill his cup. Sit uneasily across from him.
‘So what is the grand secret?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t play me for a fool, Attica. You come over on some steam-packet crossing without even telling me you’re back in Paris. Don’t show hide nor hair of yourself at the docks. Then I hear you have some mission or other. Is Robespierre up to his old tricks again?’
I consider lying to him, then decide against it. He would know anyway. Jemmy is a demon for poker.
‘Atherton is no longer married,’ I say. ‘Lord Pole seems to think arrangements could be made for us. To be wed, I mean.’
There’s a pause. Jemmy fingers his tankard.
‘Ah,’ he says, ‘your spy handler.’ He sounds strangely bitter. ‘Well, that explains your ridiculous royal cockade,’ he adds, eyeing my colourful ribbons. ‘Not very subtle. A little tribute from the most English of English grooms.’
I realise I’m winding my finger into my hair. I stop.
‘You don’t approve?’ I accuse, feeling unaccountably annoyed with him.
‘Of dressing yourself as an English nationalist? No. Though I knew you weren’t foolish enough to walk around Paris with that flag-waving nonsense pinned to your chest.’
‘I meant of my engagement,’ I say quietly.
Jemmy scoffs. ‘You? Married to that soft-handed popinjay?’
‘That popinjay has saved your life more than once. The fire sticks he invented. That exploding cape.’
‘To be sure, it’s a fine jest, Attica. You and … and this,’ he waves his hand vaguely, ‘inventor of things. What will you do as the wife of such a man? Embroider his linen?’
‘I’m not so skilled at embroidery.’
His gaze sweeps the room. ‘No, I shouldn’t think you are. So you are to be married, then. For certain?’ He looks at the floor. ‘The end of us working together, then.’
‘He has agreed we might complete one last mission before the wedding,’ I admit. ‘If you agree, that is.’
‘Generous of him. An English mission?’ Jemmy’s face is guarded. He doesn’t like anything to do with my government, as a rule.
‘My uncle has an idea our schemes might ally.’ I shoot him a rueful glance. Jemmy has met Lord Pole and knows his great ability for plots and schemes. ‘A matter in Paris.’
‘A Scarlet Pimpernel matter?’ asks Jemmy hopefully.
‘An overlap,’ I say. ‘You’d be paid in gold. I work for principle.’
‘See how principled you’d be if you were dirt poor, Your Ladyship. You might have been born on a slave plantation, but you got your silver spoon back right enough.’
It occurs to my aching head that this is the first time Jemmy has visited my apartment. It can’t have been easy for him to track me down, since I don’t like him to carry the risk of my whereabouts. Not with Robespierre so keen to find me. I realise Jemmy must have an important reason for coming here.
‘What brought you to my apartment?’ I ask him. ‘You bring news of your own?’
‘I do, Attica,’ says Jemmy, ‘some unfortunate news.’ He takes a deep drink, sits the bottle on a table. ‘The girl we meant to rescue.’
‘She made it to England?’ Hot panic sweeps through me.
Jemmy waves a hand, appeasing. ‘Of course she did. She was on my ship, was she not? I meant the next one. The lady who writes the pamphlets.’
‘Someone has threatened vengeance?’ I say. ‘Rebel factions make idle threats.’
‘Idle means they don’t carry it out.’ Jemmy’s face is grim. ‘She’s been found dead.’ He glances at me. ‘Not quietly assassinated like some of the other abolitionists. Murdered in a very special kind of way.’
The way he says ‘special’ makes his face contort, as though remembering something terrible.
‘The ancient regime had methods of executing criminals,’ he says. ‘The killer enacted those old ways on his victim.’
An awful certainty hits me. This is all sounding very familiar.
‘The body,’ I say, feeling unwell. ‘Was she left with a bullet in her hand? A musket ball inscribed with a letter?’
‘Exactly so. How did you know?’
I press my palm to my head, nod, trying to piece together the connection. I reach across for the bottle of wine. Take a swig. The sour flavour tastes wrong so early in the day.
‘The English government want me to find a killer,’ I say. ‘They believe him to be working to some kind of agenda, but don’t know what.’ I drink more wine. It tastes better. ‘I suppose that is the first part of the mission completed,’ I add philosophically. ‘He is assassinating those we mean to rescue.’
There is a heavy pause and Jemmy considers my proclamation.
‘She is the second,’ I tell him. ‘The first was Jenny Gunnel. Two women. Both British vocal anti-slavers come to Paris. Both on our list.’
Both tortured to death for unknown reasons.
‘That cannot be, Attica,’ says Jemmy. ‘No one could know our intended rescues. We never put names in writing, or even speak of them outside my ship.’
‘There is no possibility one of your crew—’
Jemmy holds up his hand, a furious expression on his face. ‘I will stop you, Attica, before you speak ill of one of my brothers.’
‘Robespierre, then.’
‘Robespierre is against the death penalty,’ Jemmy points out. ‘Not to mention he makes impassioned speeches against the very techniques used on those women.’
‘I have a feeling that he has not retired to humble law work as he would have us believe.’
Jemmy shrugs. ‘If so, he is covering himself well. Robespierre’s current occupation is a drive for equality of the forgotten sorts. Jews, actors, blacks.’ He casts a glance in my direction. ‘I even think you admire him a little.’
‘How could you say such a thing?’ I s
tand, my anger surpassing my aching head.
Jemmy leans back on his stool, unconcerned. He’s the only person I know who reacts this way to my temper.
‘Calm yourself, Attica. You could not have saved your friend from Robespierre’s orders. Fashioning your guilt as anger helps no one.’
The fight goes out of me.
‘I do admire Robespierre’s politics, how could I not?’ I concede, standing and pacing distractedly. ‘His ideals are excellent. Not so his manner of executing them.’
‘Even so, Attica, I’d say our boy is behaving himself.’
I shake my head. ‘Now he has crossed a line, it is only the start. He slowly realises what he is capable of. He will become emboldened.’
‘You sound as if you know him.’
I shake my head. ‘I only know killing changes a person, the same as you know it.’ I raise my eyes to look at Jemmy. ‘The stain is there. Even if he only orders the kill from afar, as Robespierre does, he is a killer now. Capable of more than he was before. The ends justifies the means,’ I tell Jemmy. ‘That is how he thinks. We only need understand what ends he is trying to accomplish.’
‘What does your government think?’ asks Jemmy, unconvinced.
‘The same as you. Robespierre is working as a lawyer, writing laws and making speeches for change.’
We are both quiet, thinking this through. It seems both unlikely and the only possible answer.
‘You saw the remains?’ I am stricken for Jemmy, since I know the manner of the murder.
‘I think he killed her first,’ says Jemmy quietly. ‘I hope he did, at least.’ My stomach turns. The awful methods used by nobles to keep the commoners afraid flick through my mind. Boilings, flayings, the removing of limbs.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, noting the deep horror in his eyes.
He waves a hand. ‘I’ve seen worse at sea.’ But I’m not sure he’s telling the truth. Jemmy upends his tankard. I refill it. He takes another few gulps of wine. ‘In any case,’ he says, ‘tell me about the bullet. The English know something of its meaning?’
