by C. S. Quinn
The minister opens his mouth and shuts it again.
‘I … Your Majesty,’ he says, ‘they are already here. This is all we have. There is no rescue, Your Majesty. We are impossibly outnumbered. If we do not find a way to calm the mob, this is the end of it for all of us.’ He glances at the balcony. ‘Perhaps the King might go out to speak on the balcony,’ he adds. ‘The people like the King.’
As if in reply, another missile shatters glass, and the ugly shrieks begin to consolidate into a clear chant.
‘Bring us the Queen! Bring us the Queen!’
Marie Antoinette’s daughter begins to cry afresh, putting her mother’s hand to her lips. The Queen puts an arm around her and distractedly strokes her hair, whilst simultaneously drawing her son closer.
‘You,’ she says, addressing me. ‘The Englishwoman who claims to love the French. What does the friend of France think I should do?’
I hesitate, wondering for a moment if she really is addressing me. For a moment I am conflicted. It is hard to match the Marie Antoinette of the pamphlets with the mother standing before me. Perhaps she could change.
‘Your Majesty,’ I say, ‘those women are starving. They are angry. You are no Queen if you will not face your own subjects. I say, face them.’
Marie Antoinette turns to Lafayette.
‘What say you?’ she demands. ‘Shall I walk out to my execution?’
‘I think it the only chance you have to save your children,’ he says matter-of-factly.
Marie Antoinette swallows hard. She kisses her daughter’s tear-streaked face.
‘Be brave, chérie,’ she whispers. ‘You are a princess.’ Then Marie Antoinette straightens. She kisses her small son on both cheeks, and suppresses a sob.
‘Very well,’ she says. ‘I shall not hesitate. I will go.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
A DEADLY HUSH HAS FALLEN OVER THE NOBLES ASSEMBLED in the King’s apartment.
‘If she goes out on to that balcony,’ says Jemmy, leaning in so only I can hear, ‘anything could happen. Those people are exhausted, hungry, and they hate her. She only need walk a little too straight or seem haughty, and they’ll open fire.’
The chant for the Queen has got louder and clearer now, a steady morose chant.
Musket fire twangs against the wrought iron of the balcony balustrade, and another pane of glass shatters.
The Queen begins to walk slowly towards the window. No one tries to stop her. But as she comes into view of the crowd, just before the balcony opening, a volley of bullets is unleashed, pattering dustily into the stucco of the exterior.
A servant tries to place himself in front of the Queen to shield her from the bullets, but she moves him back.
‘The King cannot afford to lose such a faithful servant,’ she tells him. ‘Open the doors.’
Behind her, the white-faced princess cries silently. The prince stands a little apart, his small face white with shock, glancing to his father who looks at no one.
The great glass doors are moved apart, exposing the interior of the royal bedchambers to the angry crowd. There is a hush from outside. Gunfire and stone-throwing stops. They are waiting to see who will come.
‘Mama!’ the princess runs to her mother’s side, clutching at her hand. She is quickly followed by her brother, who takes the princess’s break in protocol as permission. They grab the Queen’s hands, the girl and smaller boy, holding tightly. When she tries to disengage herself they cling on. The young boy erupts in loud tears.
Lafayette steps forward.
‘They will not fire on children,’ he tells her. ‘It is a good idea to let the people see you with the Dauphin and his sister.’
She looks down, an uncertain smile for her children. Then white-faced Marie Antoinette steps out on to the balcony.
For a moment, there is a deadly hush. Then the jeers and the shouts begin again.
‘No children!’ shriek the mob. ‘No children! Away with them.’
Marie Antoinette turns and calmly leads the children back inside the palace, then steps out once again, her arms folded, eyes lifted to the heavens.
A hush falls across the crowd once more. She stands for some minutes. The Queen’s cheeks flush. Her lip trembles. She reaches a hand to steady herself on the balcony.
The tension in the King’s apartment is unbearable. It would take only one stone thrown to break the temporary deadlock. Everyone is waiting for the inevitable. The crowd will only watch for so long before someone takes action. Some brave soul is about to go down in history for killing the Queen of France.
We’re all wondering what is to be done, when Lafayette walks calmly towards the balcony.
‘What is he doing?’ I whisper to Jemmy.
‘Perhaps he has a plan to order them away,’ suggests Jemmy. ‘Tell them they break some law. He is a trusted commander.’
‘He’ll only succeed in making them furious.’
Jemmy says nothing, but his face reflects agreement. The last thing this crowd needs is someone to start laying down the law.
But Lafayette does not start issuing orders or edicts. Instead, he walks serenely to the Queen, and lifts her unresisting hand. Dropping to one knee, he kisses it ceremoniously.
The effect on the crowd is immediate. A ripple passes through the women, like a sigh. The sea of weapons, bristling in the air, loses some of its aggressive uprightness.
Lafayette stands and a look passes between him and Marie Antoinette. I cannot see her face, but the stiff line of her posture suggests she hates him.
Then from somewhere deep in the crowd, a woman’s voice rings out.
‘Long live the Queen!’ she shouts. ‘Long live the Queen!’
Incredibly, the cry is taken up. And suddenly Marie Antoinette faces a crowd of admirers, royalist subjects come to lavish regard on their sovereign.
‘I can’t believe it,’ I say, shocked. ‘Lafayette has done it.’
Marie Antoinette turns back to the apartment now, gliding graciously back over the threshold. But as soon as the doors close behind, her foot gives way and she staggers. Her lady-in-waiting takes her arm, staring into her face. The Queen convulses, a hand covering her mouth, then leans over, holding her stomach, breathing hard.
‘I am well,’ she manages, waving down any attempt to fuss around her. ‘A moment of feeling unwell is all. It has passed.’
Her eyes seek out her children, then fill with tears as she collects them to her.
‘It is well,’ says her lady. ‘You did well, Your Majesty. Surely their bile is passed now. You showed them—’
But another shout comes from outside. It is taken up en masse.
‘What do they say?’ The Queen turns to Lafayette, suddenly all ears as to his judgement.
He coughs into his hand. ‘They want you and the King to go to Paris, Your Majesty.’
Marie Antoinette turns to the King, her eyes wild.
‘But they will murder us! They will murder us if we go to Paris.’
‘They will murder you if you do not go,’ says Lafayette calmly. ‘That is for certain. We haven’t enough guard to protect you.’
The Queen’s features work through the facts of the situation. If she didn’t realise before that she should have left when Lafayette advised it, she realises it now.
‘You must defend us,’ she protests weakly.
‘Your Majesty, there is no guard,’ says Lafayette wearily. ‘There is nothing to protect you from a mob of ten thousand people. You have won their good grace. The only chance you have is to retain it.’
‘But it is twelve miles to Paris,’ she whispers. ‘I cannot …’ She puts a hand to her forehead, then rearranges her features, looking to her children again. ‘Very well,’ she says hoarsely. ‘We must give the people what they want.’
I glance at the King. He has a distant look in his eye, as though he has withdrawn from things completely. I wonder if he really understands what he has cost his family today.
&nbs
p; Servants begin making arrangements, issuing orders for carriages to be readied, clothing to be fetched.
Marie Antoinette watches them. Desperately, she swings towards me.
‘I did nothing wrong,’ she says. ‘I never harmed anyone.’
‘You had a duty, a great power. You were careless.’ I shake my head. ‘I am sorry, madame,’ I tell her. ‘You have been saved from the mob, but you cannot escape justice.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
THE DRIZZLE HAS BEGUN AGAIN AS THE ROYAL CARRIAGE IS readied to depart Versailles for the last time.
We all watch quietly – commoners, servants and nobles alike – as the King and Queen are packed silently into the carriage with their children. His Majesty sits tight-lipped and brooding, while Marie Antoinette strokes her daughter’s hair, and tries to pretend the trip is not enforced.
‘She is so brave, so courageous,’ says a minister, leaning towards me as the carriage jolts into motion. ‘She has had no sleep, no food.’
‘Every one of those women who marched,’ I tell him, ‘did so with not a crust of bread in their bodies. Marched miles in driving rain and cold, with children on their hips. Risked the worst kind of tortures as traitors, only to ask that their children might not starve. Yet you speak not of those women’s courage?’
‘She is the Queen,’ says the minister, white-lipped in outrage.
‘Let us see for how much longer,’ I tell him. ‘Certainly, she is the Queen of Versailles no more.’
The slow-moving carriage suggests it is to be a long, awful march back to Paris. Lafayette rides alongside, every muscle in his body tensed for the twelve-mile parade, expecting at any moment that things might take a turn for the worst. Part of the procession, moving at the same dismal pace, are citizens touting the severed heads of two royal guards, waving on pikes in the air.
The Queen catches sight of one and flinches, before setting her features to a stubborn look of outrage. The King, bearing a distant, haunted set to his eyes, gives no indication he has seen, whilst his children sit, pale with fear, and sneak terrified looks at the haggard commoners. It must be the first time the young royals have seen the emaciated people on whom their vast wealth depends.
The mood of the crowd is erratic, one minute shouting ‘Long live the King!’, then veering to bad-natured taunts about the royal guard.
‘You could have saved her, couldn’t you?’ observes Jemmy, watching Marie Antoinette’s squared jaw. ‘Why didn’t you?’
I watch the Royal carriage roll away from us, with the white-faced captives inside. Marie Antoinette sits straight-backed, not acknowledging her husband.
‘Her dress,’ I say. ‘The printed cotton. It’s picked from the slave plantations in Virginia. The Americas were on the cusp of disbanding them, for cotton was not profitable enough. No one wanted it. Then the Queen began her whimsy for informal floating things. Naturally the court ladies followed along, and soon every bourgeois lady in Paris wore cotton dresses.’
I look steadily at the King and Queen’s carriage departing. It is being driven inexpertly by a commoner, and the jolting wheels periodically jerk the royal occupants forward, but they are in no position to complain.
‘That woman’s thoughtlessness tripled the number of cotton slave plantations, just at the point they were falling from favour,’ I say. ‘Thousands of people owe their miserable enslavement to her alone. She could have done things differently. She didn’t.’
Jemmy absorbs this. ‘That is why you won’t wear the French-style chemise dress? I thought you were wedded to English fashion.’
I consider. ‘It is one of the reasons. But it’s also true the English style is better for wearing weaponry.’
Jemmy laughs. ‘They’re a funny kind of nation, the French,’ he says finally. ‘Think they’ll take the royals back to Paris and do for ’em there?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘They’re too tired. I imagine they’ll keep them under an unofficial house arrest in the Tuileries and make a fist at a constitutional monarchy. With the King they have it shall never work.’
Jemmy turns to me. ‘You sound quite the revolutionary,’ he observes, ‘and yet I heard you curtseyed to a French Queen. I should have liked to have seen it.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Lafayette got it from one of the ladies-in-waiting. Is it true?’
‘Absolutely not.’ I glance at his smiling face. ‘Never tell anyone of it.’
‘Pirate’s honour.’ He winks.
We’re both silent, acknowledging the momentous events.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
WHEN WE ARRIVE BACK IN PARIS, THE MOOD IN THE CITY is peculiarly subdued. A victory and a defeat. No one can decide what to feel, but they know they are still hungry.
Jemmy and I enter our favourite little tavern of the same mind. We have succeeded and failed all at once.
‘Shall we sit inside?’ I suggest, not able to bear our usual outside table, with the view of Porte Saint-Martin. The memories of Centime are too difficult.
Almost as soon as we pour wine, I am confronted with what I was dreading. A letter is already waiting for me from Atherton. It feels very strange to see the familiar handwriting outside of the usual Sealed Knot coding and blue wax.
I open it quietly, already predicting the accusations and hurt. Part of me wants to fold it back up without reading it and throw it on the burning embers under the nearby kettle of meat stew.
‘Better to face the music,’ says Jemmy, who must have noticed my glance towards the fireplace.
I read the note once, then twice, hardly believing the contents. Without meaning to, I laugh, shaking my head at the news. Then I fold the note back up and slip it into my pocket. Seeing Atherton’s writing has confirmed everything I have felt since leaving Versailles.
‘Bad news?’ suggests Jemmy, eyeing me cautiously over his tankard.
‘No,’ I say, although that is not entirely true. The new world that had been expanding before me has just been turned on its head.
‘He forgave you, then,’ he asks, ‘for leaving him at the altar?’ Jemmy takes a swig of wine. ‘If he writes so quickly he must have.’
‘Atherton wrote a day ago, asking to postpone the wedding,’ I say, giving Jemmy a baleful look. ‘He thought I might need more time for my wedding trousseau, so I might buy clothes in Paris. I must have … missed the letter.’
Jemmy suddenly seems very interested in the contents of his tankard.
‘You’ll be going back, then?’ He continues speaking before I can answer. ‘You beat Robespierre,’ Jemmy is looking everywhere but my face. ‘Stopped his plans for chaos. I thought you might stay and finish what you started.’
I smile thinly, watching the ghoulish march of citizens with their bloody trophies.
‘I would say,’ I tell Jemmy, ‘this was very much a draw.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re giving up, Lady Morgan.’ The words are light, but there is something pleading in his expression.
I smile, but make no answer. The truth is, I made a decision back in the King’s apartment, long before I received this letter.
When the Queen stepped on to the balcony, I finally realised something. It is time I faced my own fate and stopped running.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
London, One Week Later
MY FAMILY HOME FEELS DIFFERENT IN EVERY WAY, NOW it is intended for my wedding. The ancestral manor near King’s Cross has its own private chapel, and I had been hoping for a quiet affair. But my father’s latest wife was quite adamant the marriage of Lord Morgan’s only daughter be aptly celebrated.
For my own part, I’m hoping Atherton and I might slip away after the ceremony, and leave all the old people to congratulate themselves. But I can’t quite formulate the image of Atherton and me alone in a carriage, as husband and wife.
It feels ridiculous to be in the bedroom I slept in as a girl, with a lady’s maid hired especially for the occasion to fuss around my dress and finis
h my hair. And much as I wish I could deny it, a sick feeling has sat in my belly ever since I came back to England. Jemmy and I didn’t part on good terms, and I can’t make my peace with it.
There is a knock at the door.
‘Shall I send them away, miss?’ suggests the maid.
I glance at my rather plain wedding dress and shake my head. A silly notion grips me. An image of Jemmy with some urgent message. Even as I dismiss this as impossible, the urge to see his scarred face expands like a bubble in my chest. But Jemmy is far out at sea; he refused the invitation to my wedding for reasons I still don’t understand.
‘We could work together,’ I told him. ‘In Africa. There’s bound to be a requirement for someone with a fast ship.’
Jemmy had been positively haughty in his rejection. ‘Work for your men in London, Attica? No thank you,’ he replied. ‘Me boys and I are a pirate crew, with plenty of smuggling work to occupy us. We don’t take orders from government. And your fancy people won’t take kindly to a ruffian like me at a society wedding, no matter how clean me boots are.’
‘It will be a small wedding,’ I told him. And he shook his head and laughed.
‘If you think your fine family will let you marry on the quiet, then more fool you,’ he said, more bitterly than seemed appropriate. Though it transpires he was right. The Morgan manor has not seen such spectacular preparations since I can remember – not even for my father’s wedding to his American wife last year.
Then, for all his chagrin, Jemmy had still insisted on sailing me to England, his face making some complicated mixture of expressions all the while, as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
I sigh to myself as the maid walks to open the door. If I live a hundred years, I shall never understand pirates.
The door opens and the exciting prospect of seeing Atherton is quickly replaced by the reality of Lord Pole.
‘Attica!’ For the first time in my life, my uncle’s smile appears genuine. This marriage suits him well enough, of course. But it flashes through my mind that perhaps, beneath it all, Lord Pole has a glimmer of sentiment for his niece. He has even dispensed with a few of his heavy furs in honour of the joyous occasion, though he still wears his black parliamentary robes. Without the musky animal hides to bulk out his shoulders, he looks smaller and older.
