by C. S. Quinn
‘Atherton and I are perfectly matched,’ I say, avoiding Jemmy’s eyes. ‘We could hope for a good deal more happiness than most husbands and wives.’
‘A fine aspiration, to be sure,’ says Jemmy.
For a moment I allow myself to consider staying. Riding to Versailles, rescuing the Queen. Saving France from Robespierre.
I’m in a port. A message could be sent to reach Atherton by morning. Surely he would understand?
But he wouldn’t, because it makes no sense. I am English, not French, and I have made promises that must be kept.
Jemmy shakes his head. ‘Then go to our man, marry him. Don’t miss the tide.’ His voice sounds strained. ‘I only thought … Maybe you’d be better suited to someone more able to meet your love of adventure.’
‘You mean someone like you?’ I say it jokingly, but see something cross his face and regret my tone. I open my mouth to take it back, but the right words don’t come.
He looks away first, angrily.
‘I would never flatter myself,’ he says, ‘that I could aspire to a fine lady such as yerself.’
His reaction jolts me clear of the temptation to stay a little longer in France.
‘There is no question I shall return and marry Atherton,’ I say, speaking more to myself than to Jemmy. ‘Go talk to the ferryman,’ I tell him. ‘Ask for two people to cross.’
I shake my head, wrapping my arms about myself, since having given my coat to Centime, the rain falls on my bare arms.
‘So long as you are certain you can handle our passage,’ I conclude, trying to rub the goosebumps from my wet skin.
‘You may be sure of it.’ He glances at Centime, who is staring ahead with that same blank expression. ‘Better get the thing done. If we wait, there might be no port for her to leave by.’
Centime’s head turns suddenly towards us, and I wonder what she has heard. She presses a hand to the damp cobbles and raises herself to standing.
‘Centime, you are unwell.’ I walk to her side, helping her up, but she shrugs me off.
‘I am not ill,’ says Centime. ‘I only need take a little wine, that’s all.’ And her voice is so void of feeling I am frightened for her. She swings towards a little clutch of seedy-looking riverside taverns, each with a table-mounted barrel of wine at the front to show their wares. ‘Something to bring back my strength,’ she adds.
I glance at Jemmy, who nods quietly.
‘A cup of wine would be restorative,’ he agrees. ‘She’ll be boarded within the hour. Get a good slug of grog into the girl, all will be well.’ The look on Jemmy’s face suggests otherwise, however.
‘Not here,’ I tell Centime, looking at the dockside taverns. ‘Salvatore will likely have men on the local ports. You might be recognised. Let us go to a street back. Jemmy can meet us there.’
‘Give me a little time alone with my thoughts,’ says Centime. There is a steely set to her small jaw. ‘It will be the last time I see French soil.’
I open my mouth to protest, but Jemmy puts a hand on my arm and draws me away.
‘I can’t see the harm in it, Attica,’ he says. ‘The folk that frequent these old drinking dens are so soused, they wouldn’t know what day of the week it is, let alone recognise a fugitive.’
Against my better judgement, I let Jemmy lead me to the waterside, as Centime approaches one of the low drinking dens, looking entirely out of place, despite her disguise.
‘They’ll surely see through that tattered dress,’ I mutter. ‘She is far too well-fed.’
‘In my experience,’ says Jemmy, ‘when a woman gets that look, you leave her be.’ He glances at the tavern she’s headed for. ‘She’ll be safer there than with us,’ he adds. ‘Less to trouble her thinking.’ Jemmy shakes his head, watching her go. ‘A fine mess you’ve made, Attica. Did ye not think she’d have feelings for you?’
‘I have feelings for her too,’ I say, confused. ‘I am bringing her to freedom.’
‘And what if she does not want to be free?’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
AS JEMMY PREDICTED, MAKING THE DEAL WITH THE ferryman is easily done. A passage is arranged far cheaper than I might have thought possible. Jemmy relays my message, so it will reach the Sealed Knot, warning them of the danger to their subjects. We retire to the cobbled waterfront, leaving Centime to one last tankard of foul dockside wine, though we’re both uneasy about her state of mind.
With my head full of doubts, I’ve set to work whittling a stick with my knife, trying to distract myself. I cast the occasional glance at the tavern door, assuring myself Centime has not yet decided to come out of her own accord. I should go in. Console her. Somehow I can’t bring myself to have that conversation just yet.
‘Will there be any of that stick left when you’re done with it, Attica?’
‘I only hate the waiting part.’ I push the blade deep and peel off a layer of bark.
‘You and Centime will be loaded aboard within the hour,’ says Jemmy. ‘By my reckoning, that leaves us five hours until midnight. Time enough for a safe passage.’
He sits next to me on the dockside cobbles and eyes the rapidly diminishing stick.
‘Still wondering over whether to make the crossing?’ he asks gently.
‘No,’ I say untruthfully, halting my blade halfway down the skinned stick. ‘Even if we rode now to Versailles, Marie Antoinette is blinkered and stubborn, by all accounts. Likely she’d refuse to believe the worst until it is too late.’
‘True,’ agrees Jemmy, frowning as I chip off more pieces of bark. ‘Fortunately, there is no need to convince her of the imminent peril. All we need do is stop Robespierre from opening that gate.’
I shake my head fiercely. ‘A few English subjects in France. What does it really matter?’ My knife strips wood at high speed.
‘Not a great deal, if that is really all you fear for,’ says Jemmy. ‘The problem is, I think it is the French people you care for. All those innocent women and children who will be slaughtered at Versailles if the Queen dies. Robespierre could rise to power.’
My blade slips on the stick. I reset my knife to continue stripping bark.
‘There are things about being a noble you couldn’t understand,’ I say. ‘A birthright comes with responsibilities as well as privileges. And,’ I spread my hands, trying to explain, ‘I might be a half-breed, born out of wedlock, so expectations of me are less. All well and good. But I’m still my father’s only daughter. I have enjoyed great advantages from the family name, and now I must repay them.’
‘Not to mention,’ says Jemmy, ‘you are deeply in love with your future husband.’ He arches an eyebrow.
‘That hardly needs saying,’ I retort. ‘Perhaps I do not know where I am supposed to fit,’ I add. ‘But I do know I am in love with Atherton. I have been for years. All my adult life.’ I look down at the stick and begin peeling the length with my knife again. Great long shavings fall free.
‘You always did think too much,’ says Jemmy, watching the curls of wood drop. ‘You have a pirate’s heart, Attica, plain and simple. You are meant to roam, not be locked away as an English wife. Be true to your own code and worry not of anyone else’s.’
‘This isn’t something to be solved by one of your ocean wisdoms,’ I retort. ‘It isn’t the same for me. You were born free.’ It’s the nearest I’ve ever come to admitting aloud that I yearn for something other than the life that seems to be awaiting me.
‘Everyone is born free, Attica. It’s thinking we should be someone else that is the cage. You might rather you were a political person, writing speeches and making change that way. But the truth is you wouldn’t be much good at it.’ The corner of his mouth twitches. ‘Like it or not, you’re a lot more like me than them,’ he says. ‘We’re the idiots who rush in, guns blazing, risking life and limb. Those high-ups pretend to admire our courage but secretly they pity us. What they don’t know is that we love all this.’ He waves a hand at some unseen thing and I know exactl
y what he means. The explosive uncertainty of our life here. The daring rescues.
‘I can do more good—’ I begin.
‘In the drawing rooms,’ interrupts Jemmy. ‘So you keep telling me. But are you really made for such a task? Should it not be better filled by someone with the ability to sit quietly and listen? You cannot help who you are,’ he says. ‘You would not last a year at ambassadors’ parties before you began picking locks and avenging justice.’
He’s right.
Jemmy sighs and moves closer to me, lifting what’s left of the whittled stick out of my unresisting hand. ‘Shall I solve the problem for you?’ he suggests.
I look distractedly to the stick, wondering if he has some clever trick for whittling. But he lets it drop to the ground.
I frown, confused. ‘Why could you …?’
In answer Jemmy slides his hands on either side of my chin. It is such an assured gesture that I am momentarily frozen in surprise. When I was a girl, my father showed me how to tickle a trout under its belly, stilling it in the water. I always wondered how the fish felt, entranced. When Jemmy kisses me, it is salty ocean and wide-open skies, and the surprise of it has me momentarily mesmerised. Then he draws back, examining my eyes keenly.
‘If that felt like nothing to you,’ says Jemmy, ‘you must go back and marry your Englishman.’
Then he raises himself to standing and walks smartly back towards the ferryman, leaving me sat on the cold cobbles with my mouth open. I want to hit him.
‘I will go and marry my Englishman!’ I shout after him, getting to my feet. He doesn’t turn around, only calls over his shoulder.
‘You do that, Attica.’
‘It did feel like nothing!’ I add, raising my voice higher, recovering myself from his earlier spell and feeling the fury rise. ‘Less than any kiss from a girl on the Marais, you may be certain!’
‘Then board the ship with Centime. With a good tide you might arrive in time to be married yet. But just on the chance you decide against it, I’ll find us fresh horses.’
Jemmy continues walking without looking back, and something about the maddening swagger of his gait suggests he is confident I’ll decide against sailing back to England.
‘Bloody pirates,’ I mutter. My fingers move to touch my lips, and I pull them away quickly, annoyed with myself.
The truth is Jemmy is right about everything. The fact I cannot stand by and let women and children die at Versailles. A traitorous part of my heart that is not ready to be married tomorrow. And at the heart of it all: I cannot let Robespierre win.
Perhaps I will stay. Ride to Versailles and defend the French Queen. Jemmy’s crew will honour my promise to Centime.
I roll the idea around in my mind. The idea of boarding the boat to England feels grey and empty. I watch Jemmy’s retreating back, his kiss still tingling on my lips.
I won’t give Jemmy the satisfaction of telling him straight away.
First I should assure myself of Centime’s state of mind, I decide. At the very least I owe her a goodbye. I will keep Jemmy waiting just long enough to give him cause for concern at his own arrogant predictions.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
I FIND CENTIME IN THE FAR CORNER OF THE BARREL-BAR. It’s a low-ceilinged room made from three mariner’s cottages made one. A dirt floor is littered with broken stools and tables from old barrels. Greasy lamb-fat tapers fill the air with smoke.
Jemmy was right to think her striking looks would have little impact here. The little gaggle of customers are too drunk to notice anything, including the rat-faced landlady, who sways in her seat as she draws me wine from her tap.
Beyond is a small sparse room of crumbling plaster and visible wattle and daub peeking through at intervals. The only other customer, a dead drunk man, lies sprawled in a corner, snoring loudly enough to rattle the few remaining broken windowpanes.
My fears eased somewhat, I take a sip of wine. It is disgusting. The cheapest, most poorly cellared variety I’ve ever had the misfortune to drink. Most likely the landlady allows her barrels to sit on the street in full sun for as long as it takes to sell the contents. A mouthful of sediment catches at the back of my mouth and I take another swig to drive it down, examining the murky contents of my tankard accusingly.
Centime laughs good-naturedly. ‘Not to your taste?’
‘It is the bitterest wine I have ever drunk.’ I draw the liquid over my teeth, wincing. ‘And I have been to some low establishments in my time.’
‘Try mine,’ she says, adding a splash from her tankard. ‘In places like this you pay the extra sous for a dash of clove. It helps sweeten the mix.’
I sip tentatively, and find she’s right. The spice overwhelms the astringent sourness of the cheap wine.
‘You learn such things in cheap brothels,’ says Centime, with a faraway look. ‘Places like this.’
A shadow falls on the doorway. A shambolic prostitute has staggered into view then retreats, disappointed on seeing the newest arrival is a woman.
‘There’s a system,’ says Centime, watching her leave. ‘A creaking plank or a bell. Lets the dockside whores know when fresh meat has arrived. I was arrested in a place like this,’ she adds, not meeting my eye but looking through the peeling doorway to the riverbank beyond.
She glances at me, perhaps wondering if I’ll divulge the truth of my own tragic past. The parting from my mother. The life she gave for my freedom.
‘We sail to England soon?’ she asks, when I make her no reply.
‘It will not be long,’ I tell Centime. ‘By morning you shall be on English soil.’
‘English soil,’ she repeats, more to herself than to me. Her low mood seems to have taken another turn now. There is a strange energy to her beneath the layers of gloom. My guess is she has drunk a good deal too much wine during the wait, but bears deep drunkenness with practised aplomb.
‘Shall I bring some water?’ I suggest. ‘Something to dilute the wine?’
‘You do not like me drunk?’ asks Centime, leaning forward to overfill her tankard and taking three attempts to match the rim with her mouth.
‘I only fear for your safety. You must keep your wits about you.’
‘Naturally,’ says Centime, after a deep sip, ‘you must take me away with all speed. I am a threat to you, is that not so? If I were to reveal you as the Scarlet—’
I catch her hand. ‘Innocent lives will be lost. Centime, this isn’t a game.’
She looks away from me with a small smile. Her inebriation makes her difficult to read. I’m wondering which version of herself she will lapse into next. As if in answer she draws her hand gently free from where I hold it.
‘And when you are married to your fine lord?’ she asks softly, replacing her tankard on the table and leaning both her elbows either side of it. ‘Surely the game is over for you as surely as it is for me. One way or another,’ she adds morosely, following my gaze to the bottle-panes of the window.
I don’t reply, glancing to the doorway.
‘You are as bad as he is,’ accuses Centime. ‘I thought, in the windmill—’ She stops herself and gulps wine. ‘The way you were,’ she says quietly, shaking her head.
I reach across the table and take her hands. ‘Things are complicated. I’ve made promises. This isn’t about just me.’
She laughs bitterly. ‘You English are all cold,’ she says. ‘You are as bad as the lawyer.’
‘I didn’t realise you had spoken with Robespierre.’
She tries to hide her slip, tossing her head as though unconcerned.
‘Oh, we had a few words,’ she admits. ‘He wanted me to get him a map of Versailles Palace. I refused, out of loyalty to Salvatore.’
‘He told you his plans, didn’t he?’ I accuse.
She swallows more wine, then meets my eye triumphantly. ‘Robespierre means to let a mob into Versailles. If they enter by the Princes’ Court gate, they cut off the entrance for the guard. The Queen shall be trapped in her
bedroom.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘It is a ridiculous plan, Salvatore said so. Besides, you can hardly scold me for keeping back the truth,’ she adds, her eyes flaring. ‘You came here to tell me you would not make the crossing with me.’
The shock of the accusation must show because she smiles triumphantly.
‘I knew it all along,’ she says, staring down into her wine, then taking another long draught. ‘You are in love with him.’ She gestures her arm towards the street, and Jemmy’s face hovers in my vision.
‘I am betrothed and he, Atherton, will understand,’ I say, struggling to keep up with her leaps of logic. ‘I will make certain you will be well looked to on the boat. But there are innocent lives at stake. Hundreds. Maybe thousands.’ I take her hand, speaking quietly. ‘You will be free, Centime, away from a monster who mistreated you.’
To my surprise she only laughs again, seeming suddenly a great deal more sober.
‘I never expected you to understand,’ she says. ‘The monster is in here.’ She strikes her narrow chest. ‘I carry it with me wherever I go.’ Centime looks suddenly very thoughtful, and desperately sad.
‘You are right,’ she says. ‘I am too drunk. I am sorry. Might you bring me a little water? I must cause no trouble to the good men who will take me to the boat.’
She gives me such a vulnerable look of repentance that my frustration with her melts away. ‘Of course,’ I frown. ‘You will be happy, Centime, only wait and see.’
‘You are very good,’ she says quietly.
I rise and leave her sitting at the table, wondering if I am doing the right thing at all.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
WHEN I RETURN WITH A CARAFE OF VERY BROWN-LOOKING water, Centime seems to have recovered her old charming self.
‘Tell me about him,’ she says, as I reseat myself. ‘The one who is to be your husband.’
I hesitate, wondering if this line of conversation will only draw out the less predictable side to her.
