Without Refuge

by Diane Scott Lewis

  The outer door slammed, rattling the house. They both jumped.

  “Peste! She’s back already, you must excuse me.” Emile sucked in his breath. He fled the room, quickly shutting the door.

  Bettina gasped with relief. A milksop seductress she’d turned out to be, but the seed of temptation had been planted, to use to her advantage later. She lolled her head back on the tub’s rim and shivered in the cold water.

  * * * *

  The next morning, outside her room with the boarded-up window, Bettina heard strange voices whispering. She clenched her fists. Her captors’ cohorts had probably delivered the letter. She hurried and dressed.

  A sharp rap, a key turned in the lock, and her door opened. “Come out now, and into the kitchen,” Robine ordered.

  Bettina walked past the plaster chips and a scurrying rat into the kitchen.

  Emile waited. His face impassive he unfolded a piece of paper.

  Each crackle pricked along Bettina’s skin. She would finally read the words her father wrote to her before he died ten years ago.

  “We at last have the letter. Here, Citoyenne Jonquiere, read for yourself the information from your father.” Emile passed over the thin sheet of paper, then jammed his hands in his pockets and turned away. Robine raised her chin, her lips in their usual snarl.

  Bettina gripped the letter, but had to wait for the familiar script to stop swimming on the page, her fingers to cease trembling.

  My sweet daughter:

  Something terrible is about to happen in our country. People are dissatisfied. When one group is suppressed for so long, they eventually revolt. I’m afraid those of us who are fortunate to have wealth and title will be forced to suffer the consequences. I have done my best to hinder the progression of this anarchy.

  Remember that gift I gave you a short time ago? Cherish it and hold it close. If anything should happen to me, this will be salvation for you. More so, it is the key...

  The words ended there. Tears filled Bettina’s eyes. She refolded the letter, her throat tightening. Oh, Papa, I miss you, I love you. Her beloved father had validated her intelligence, her resiliency by entrusting her with vital, yet unfinished, information.

  “So what was this gift he speaks of?” Robine’s flinty eyes glared, her mouth a knife slash across her face.

  Bettina shook with a sob. She pressed the paper to her breast. “Mon Dieu. My father didn’t stop the anarchy, he only shortened his own life. He died for nothing.”

  “Enough of these dramatics, what was the damned gift?”

  “Robbie, please. Give her a moment.” Emile scooted over a chair. “Citoyenne, you should sit down.”

  Bettina’s breath shuddered up her throat. She’d so hoped her father’s words would reveal a clue to her. She crumpled the letter and sank into the chair. “It was a necklace. A very old necklace that belonged to Madame de Montespan, mistress to King Louis XIV. I sold it in England. The money I had is gone.”

  “You’re lying. Perhaps a beating will jar the truth from you!” Robine grabbed Bettina’s shoulder and pinched her.

  Bettina jerked aside. “Do not ever touch me like that again. I am telling the truth. All I know about is the necklace.” Tears dripped down her cheeks.

  “Compose yourselves, both of you.” Emile pulled his wife back and hugged her. “Such histrionics won’t further our cause.”

  “I won’t speak anymore in front of her.” Bettina swiped her sleeve under her eyes. She stuffed the letter into her bodice, between her breasts.

  “Wait out in the passage,” Emile said to his wife as he released her. Robine glared in hatred at Bettina, then stomped off. Her shadow betrayed that she’d barely stepped around the corner of the kitchen archway.

  Emile offered his handkerchief to Bettina. “All right now. If there was a necklace sold, how much did you receive for it?”

  Bettina hiccupped a few decent breaths. She dabbed around her eyes. “Three...three thousand pounds. The necklace was probably worth more, but I accepted the amount.”

  “We collected money from several wealthy people. You are aware that many in the upper classes wanted revolution. Some in your own Court. It was roughly the equivalent of...” Emile scratched his chin. “...thirty thousand pounds. So, there must be additional money somewhere.”

  “I don’t know about any other money. If I did...if I did…” Bettina swallowed down her fear and wracked her brain. “I would give it to you, Emile. I want to be done with you rebels, and…you must let me return to my children. Please.”

  Robine peered around the corner. Bettina made a possessive swipe of her eyes and nose with Emile’s handkerchief.

  “You read ‘it is the key,’ what could that mean?” Emile brushed his hand over Bettina’s shoulder. She tried not to cringe.

  “This is getting us nowhere.” Robine surged back in and nudged him aside with her elbow. “She would concoct any story to keep us from what’s rightfully ours. A little persuasion is necessary.”

  “I’m not telling a story. I don’t understand about the key. If the necklace is tied in with the rest of it... How?” Bettina pressed her hand to her bodice in case Robine tried to snatch back the letter.

  “You don’t think it has something to do with the king’s mistress, Madame de Montespan?”

  “What could it possibly have to do with a long-dead whore?” Robin demanded.

  “I don’t know. I…she was born in Charente-Inférieure. My grandmother, my father’s mother, also came from that region.” Bettina almost choked up again remembering her grandmother. “She would talk of Montespan, the most infamous woman—”

  “Merde, enough of these stupid reminiscences. There must be a ‘key’ somewhere.” Robine gripped the back of Bettina’s chair. The wood seemed to tremble with tension.

  “I said I don’t want to speak with her here, behaving like a madwoman.” Bettina glared at Emile, then softened it with a beseeching pout.

  “Robbie, bring me and our guest some coffee.” Emile stared at his wife. “Please.”

  “Of course, I’m the servant.” Robine threw up her hands and strode over to the pot. She returned and plopped down two cups, sloshing liquid from both.

  Emile took a slow sip, then looked at Bettina. “So your grandmother came from the same region, exactly where?”

  Bettina tasted the bitter brew in the chipped cup, anxious to wet her throat. “Near La Rochelle. She kept a country house there. Remote from Paris, but—”

  “A country house, worked in by underpaid servants. A place no doubt supported by more waste of the poor’s taxes.” Robine stood near the hearth and slurped her coffee.

  “Your mother lived in a fine house in New Orleans,” Bettina said through tight lips. “Madame Ray flaunted her wealth.”

  “Don’t you dare speak of my mother.” Robine glowered. “She has suffered much.”

  “And so has mine.” Bettina’s voice quivered. She forced more thoughts to her grandmother, anything to find the means to placate these people, to insure her children’s safety and earn her release.

  “Robbie, you aren’t helping.” Emile sighed. “Please go outside for a walk. I will handle the discussion.”

  “You think I’m leaving?” The veins in Robine’s skinny neck bulged. She slammed down her cup.

  “Yes, do this for me.” He gave her an indulgent smile. “Please.”

  “You had better be firm. If you have found out nothing when I return, we will handle matters my way.” The woman huffed her flat chest and strode out.

  Bettina squirmed in the chair. She wanted to jump up and run from this house, seek out help, but armed men lurked outside—and people watched her cottage in Louisiana.

  Bettina sniffed and wiped at more tears. “Emile, I’m not lying to you. I sold that necklace in London. I
haven’t a clue about any more money. I swear I’d tell you. Your wife will never believe me. Why is she so angry all the time?”

  Emile pulled over another chair. He sat and clasped Bettina’s hands in his. “Robine takes these matters personally. Her father complained to a viscount about unpaid bills and was shot and killed. The viscount was never prosecuted, claiming it was an accident.” Emile shifted his knees close to hers. “Now, let’s think, calm down and think, what the connection might be.”

  Bettina repressed a wince and endured his clammy grasp. “As I tried to say, my grandparents kept a country home in that region in the small village of Ursule.” Her paternal grandmother had been a commoner from a wealthy shipping family who’d married a count. Coincidently, her father had married Volet, also a commoner. Her mother must be frantic with worry since Bettina’s disappearance. She tightened her muscles to push back further sorrow.

  Emile leaned closer. “This village, have you ever been there?”

  “A few times, to visit my grandparents. My mother never liked the distance from Paris. The last time was when I was ten, after the funeral, to visit my grandmother’s grave.” She eased back her hands on the pretext of blowing her nose. “My mother says the house was torn down during the revolution.”

  “And this was your father’s mother? What else do you remember, about the village?” Emile grunted and wiped his hands on his breeches.

  “It’s a pretty place, tucked in a small valley. My last memory is of the stone church and the cemetery.” She sighed and rubbed the handkerchief between her fingers. “There was an angel on Grand-mère’s vault. A little stone angel. Such a sweet face, eyes looking upward...” Bettina frowned and stared at Emile. “Holding a key.”

  “A key?” His gaze sharpened.

  “Yes. ‘The key to heaven’ was the inscription, I believe.” She straightened. “Do you think it’s the key of the letter?”

  “You mean your father might have hidden the money, in your grandmother’s grave?”

  “I do not know. I’m afraid this information is all I have.” Bettina gripped her hands together. She thought of her father’s mysterious trip right before he gave her the necklace. She recalled he was about to tell her something more in relation to this gift, when they were interrupted by her mother. He must have decided to put it down in that letter. He couldn’t trust her mother’s vacillating nature. Her shoulders slumped. Then he’d died leaving the letter unfinished. Bettina swayed in the chair. “Maybe it is something we have to investigate?”

  * * * *

  The coach bumped along the twisting roads, through the valleys not far from the sea on France’s west coast. Bettina relished the fact they hadn’t blindfolded her this time, in the several days since they’d undertaken the journey. She watched the lush scenery and breathed in the familiar smells of marshland and salt, reminders of an uncomplicated, indulgent childhood.

  Robine held a map in her lap. She fingered it with a crackle. “Are you certain we are traveling in the correct direction?” She poked Bettina as she sat beside her.

  “I haven’t been here in almost seventeen years.” Bettina pushed the woman’s hand away. “As far as I remember, it is correct.”

  Emile sat across. He flashed his wife a warning glare as he munched on roasted nuts. Voices and rustling came from above—the faceless accomplices who rode atop the coach.

  Oak and beech trees opened up to a shallow valley. “This looks familiar.” Bettina peered out the window, the cool breeze on her face. They passed a road sign that said Ursule.

  The coach rambled down a narrow lane and into the village.

  Nestled among more beech and oak, Ursule’s limestone houses, intermixed with whitewashed timbered cottages surrounded a market square.

  They alighted near the church and walked past pink-flowered hollyhocks to the cemetery. Bettina trembled as more memories rose up inside her. She stumbled among the many gravestones, Emile holding tight to her arm.

  “There is the vault,” Bettina said. The angel loomed above them, still poised atop, blank eyes staring to heaven, clutching the stone key. She’d stood here with her parents back in those innocent times. She trembled with anger. Her grandparents’ graves were soon to be violated. She darted her gaze around the area.

  Robine stepped beside Bettina and gripped her arm. “Don’t do anything you, or your family, will regret,” the woman hissed.

  “Be gentle, Robbie. Take her into the church. If anyone is there, keep them occupied.” Emile pulled on leather gloves and stared about. Two other men, hats pulled low, carried shovels and pick axes.

  Birds chattered in the trees as the two women entered the chapel. Bettina walked slowly, her heart pounding as her skirt brushed against Robine’s. In the gloominess, a thick film of dust covered the pews. The place smelled musty. The slight scent of incense floated up. The stained-glass window above the pulpit was partially shattered—remnants of the revolution.

  An elderly priest hobbled out of the vestry. “Welcome, my children, welcome.”

  “Do you still have a congregation, Father?” Robine asked in an even voice that echoed in the quiet chapel.

  “Not like I used to, quel dommage.” He clasped his wrinkled hands together. “What may I do for you two young ladies?”

  Bettina stared into his faded eyes. An appeal for sanctuary rattled through her mind, yet she had no choice but to remain cooperative.

  “I have been in this chapel before,” she said. “May I light a candle?”

  Robine poked her with an elbow. “We have no money to spend on candles.”

  “I will light one for you, my dear.” The old priest ambled toward the altar and crossed himself. He picked up a white candle, lit it and set it in a holder on one side of the altar. “We don’t adhere to the old ways enough anymore.”

  “It’s to pray for the health of my children.” Bettina closed her eyes and said a pleading prayer. She also prayed for her deliverance. She wondered if this priest had been overlooked by the new Republic of France, where all Catholic priests were banished unless pledging fealty to the Republic and not the Pope. A neglected church and a forgotten man.

  “How have you fared in this new regime, Father?” Bettina fought off the grisly image of Emile and his henchmen breaking open her grandparent’s vault. They had to uncover the funds her father stole.

  “We are all God’s children, even the ones who have gone astray. They need our forgiveness even more.” The priest rambled on and Bettina tried to take comfort in his soothing voice. Robine crossed her arms and shifted from foot to foot. Several minutes passed.

  Footsteps sounded on the stone floor. “Ah, there you are.” Emile approached, his smile broad. Dirt soiled his stockings and shoes. “It’s time for us to leave.” He stepped behind them and pressed his hands on both their shoulders. “Bonjour, Father. I must claim my two women. Merci, for your time.” He hustled them out to the coach.

  Bettina sat rigid against the squabs as they trundled out of Ursule with no one saying a word.

  * * * *

  From the inn’s window Bettina recognized the medieval town of Niort, a place she’d visited as a child. The old town hall, a triangular building of the early sixteenth century with lantern, belfry and ornamental machicolations, sat on the end of the rue Saint-Jean below.

  She was surprised they weren’t in a private home as before, but gripped the sill and stared at the view in frustration.

  Home, in France. The idea barely had time to penetrate her thoughts, when all she wished for was escape. She glanced down below her window. A man milled about. He’d lurked there since she’d been locked in this room.

  Bettina pushed away from the window. Why weren’t her captors telling her if they’d found the money? If they had discovered nothing, then other avenues must be explored. If they were successful, this sile
nce couldn’t be healthy for her.

  The door unlocked. Emile came in carrying a tray. “Here is your breakfast.”

  Bettina leaned against the wall in what she hoped was a sultry pose. “Put it on the table.”

  He jiggled the tray across the room and set it on a small table. The smell of eggs and chocolate drifted up.

  Bettina sauntered over and took a slow sip of the chocolate. The liquid churned inside her. “So what happens now, Emile?”

  “Eat your breakfast before it grows cold.” He averted his eyes as he laid out a napkin.

  “Did you find the money? I think I’m entitled to know.” She picked up a slice of bread and tore away the crust. She ran the crust along her lower lip but her pulse thumped.

  He met her eyes and backed off, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “Sit and eat. You’ll…need your strength.”

  “If you didn’t find the money, we might discuss other possibilities.” She bit off a piece of the crust and chewed, but tasted little. “I have been so lonely with no one to talk to.”

  “You are playing with me, Citoyenne Jonquiere.” Emile grunted and rocked on the balls of his feet. “Because I said you were pretty, you think you can influence me. The time when you aristos controlled everything is done.”

  “And let it be done, I don’t care.” Bettina sipped more chocolate, to wet her dry mouth. “Emile, you don’t wish to see anything bad happen to me, do you?” She traced her finger around the cup’s rim, though struggled not to throw the liquid into his face.

  “No, I don’t.” Shoulders hunched, he cleared his throat twice and flicked his gaze over her. “Now stop pretending emotions you don’t feel.”

  “I’m desperate for any kindness.” She stepped close to him and forced herself to place her hands on his chest. “If you were successful, I will be released now, oui?”

  Emile’s mouth twisted as if he wanted to protest, but he didn’t move away. “Haven’t you noticed we’re in a public inn?” he asked in a whisper. “Robine wanted another secluded place. I insisted we stay here. I told her I had business nearby.” He stared toward the closed door. “You...won’t be released. Robine wants no witnesses.”