Everett took a deep breath. “We saw no signs of trouble on our way to West Africa, but on the way back two French Naval warships approached. Captain Sewell tried to outrun them, but they bombarded us with cannon much larger than anything we had. The escorting frigates couldn’t hold them off. Our ship lost her mainmast, half of another, crippling us. Their sailors boarded, ransacking, stealing our cargo. Some of the crew were killed…” His voice, raised in anger, now saddened. “The rest of us taken prisoner. The ship was so damaged it was blown apart and sunk into the ocean.
“No amount of protest mattered, we were prisoners of war. Of course, we English aren’t above similar undertakings against enemy vessels.” He shifted on the hard earth. “We were first landed at Brest, then soldiers transported us down the coast to Brouage. The prison was filthy, cold and cramped. The food infested with vermin. They whipped us to force confessions.” His fingers tightened on her scalp. “We should admit to being spies. I was innocent and confessed nothing. Time crawled by. No one was ever certain how much time did elapse. When you’re stripped of everything, stripped of your dignity...”
Tears filled her eyes and she clasped the hand he clenched on his chest. “You don’t have to say anymore, it’s too horrid. Grâce à Dieu, we are together now.” She kissed him and rubbed her wet cheeks against his shirt.
“I love you so, Bettina.” He turned and held her snug along the length of him. After a few, quick kisses they were both too drained to do anything but sleep.
As the first signs of daylight poked into the cave, Bettina shifted her body and jolted because Everett wasn’t within reach. She pushed up on her elbows, and breathed in relief. He sat at the cavern entrance, staring out.
She scooted up and rested her chin on his shoulder. His hand moved to stroke her face. “You had trouble sleeping?” she asked.
“I’ll be all right. I have to get used to freedom again.”
After the first gush of emotion, Bettina sensed an awkwardness as they each strained to erase the time that had separated them. He appeared almost a different person with his haggard features and beard.
“I suppose we will return to England now? You wouldn’t want to settle in Louisiana?”
“I’m an Englishman, England is my home.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. When he looked at her, his eyes clouded with haunted pain. “The irony is, I uncovered nothing about the alleged English pirates until after we were captured. In prison one of the crew confessed the First Mate was the culprit behind it. A man who was a casualty when we were boarded by the French. Captain Sewell was indeed innocent. Unfortunately for him, he bravely died with his ship.” Everett slapped his knee. “So many wasted lives.”
She rubbed his stiff shoulder. “This war has disrupted everything for many people. I do want to go back to Cornwall, oui. I think of it as home over this changed country, or the swamp of America. We’ll send for the children—how I desire to hug them—my mother can bring them to us.” Bettina slid from the cave entrance and massaged a cramp from her right leg. “Won’t they be surprised about all that has happened?”
“First, we need to find the quickest way out of France.” Everett’s features twisted in frustration. He slipped from the cave to stand. “Any freedom I have here is slight. I’ll face a firing squad if I’m caught now.”
Chapter Seventeen
For two days they trudged the back roads heading north, existing on berries and drinking from streams. Feet bleeding and blistered, weak and in need of heartier fare, on the third day, Bettina insisted she enter the large village they neared.
“If I find quick labor someplace, I might be able to earn a decent meal for us.” She tried to hide it, yet winced at Everett’s emaciated frame. “I want you to stay safe in the woods.”
He leaned against a birch tree, his brows knitted. “I’m tired of hiding like a thief. I intend to do my part. Maybe they have need in this town for a formerly drowned shipping merchant, my dear,” he replied in weary jest.
She smiled at his effort—though remained worried and clasped his hand. She hated to deny him his due as a man—her countrymen had beaten him down enough.
A few minutes after starting down the rutted road into the village, the galloping of horses’ hooves made Bettina turn. She tensed to see a small group of soldiers advancing on them.
“Ma foi, I knew this was not wise. Please do not say a word,” she whispered, clutching his arm. They continued their amble on wobbly knees.
Everett stared at the ground, his floppy hat concealing most of his face. The soldiers pulled abreast on their right and Bettina’s stomach knotted.
“Where are you going, Citoyens?” a pompous voice asked.
Not glancing up, she hoped Pierre wasn’t among them, sent in pursuit of his “sister.”
“To the town to find work for an honest person, if you pardon, Citoyen.”
“We are looking for escaped English prisoners from a garrison down the coast. Are you from this area, have you seen anyone?”
“No, I’ve not seen no one like that, vraiment.” Bettina affected her worst French, the two of them still walking. Everett’s arm muscles twitched under her nervous fingers.
A riding crop was thrust in her face, forcing her to stop. Everett halted beside her. Bettina looked up from under her bonnet with a servile expression. The man seemed a prissy sort, with his brown Pelisse coat buttoned to a high collar and Mirliton cap, like an inverted funnel, over his old-fashioned powdered hair.
“Does he speak?” the officer asked, waving his crop at Everett. “Does he know he should reply when addressed? Show me your papers allowing you to work in this region.”
A boy chasing a squawking chicken darted across the road in front of them.
“He cannot speak, pity to say.” Her mind raced for an explanation. “He’s my uncle. Stole two sheep from a farmer, a crazy jealous man ’cause they was courting the same woman. When he lied about it, the farmer cut out his tongue in a rage.” She squinted up at the officer. “Would you like to see it? Not a pretty sight, if I do say so.”
“No thank you, I don’t think that’s necessary.” The man reared back and glowered. “Only your papers.”
“Oh, papers, your honor, Citoyen. They’s here somewhere. Got a little messy sleeping in the sty last night. Lice, I’m afraid.” Bettina began to dig around in her bodice, at the same time scratching her neck and armpit, until the man grimaced and turned away.
“Never mind, you’re not worth it. You may proceed.” The officer kicked his horse and the group rode on in a toss of dust, bypassing the town to her relief.
Bettina sagged and gripped Everett’s arm. She relayed the conversation to him once the soldiers were out of sight. “At least it distracted him from inspecting the identification papers we don’t have. We must be more careful.”
“I’m sorry I put us in danger. Now we’re here, let’s get on with it.”
They walked past a few cottages, slowly. A dog barked. Then Everett chuckled.
“I have a smattering of French, but more Spanish, from my youthful travels. Now I wish I’d learned along with Frederick.” He patted her hand. “You do still confound me, Miss Laurant. A severed tongue?”
“Mrs. Camborne, if you please.” She’d used that name so long in New Orleans, she felt entitled to it.
“Miriam must be officially declared dead by now.” He stumbled and she steadied him, but not too obviously. “We’re free to marry…if I hadn’t gone to West Africa.”
“As we’ve discovered, we have no papers to prove who we are. We cannot marry, yet.” Bettina strained to sound practical, not sad. She’d lamented their lack of marital status for too many years. “I wish we could.”
“Ah, yes. We’ll take care of all that in England.” Everett hugged her to his shoulder. “Of course, you are always my true wife.”
&
nbsp; In the village of timber-framed buildings and a medieval stone church, they helped themselves to brackish water at the well. Discordant piano music drifted from an auberge across the street.
“They must do an excellent business to afford a pianoforte in such a small inn.” Bettina straightened her wrinkled clothes. “And where better to inquire for work?” She touched a finger to his lips. “We’ll pretend you’re mute. Your Englishness will be dangerous to admit to.”
They entered what was an unremarkable establishment, seedy with a dirt floor. The smell of beer, wine and perspiration. Beside the fireplace stood a pianoforte, where a woman plunked away with enthusiasm.
“Oh, bienvenue.” She smiled over her shoulder at the visitors, the skin on her forehead crinkling. “Are you in need of a room...food?”
“I was admiring your pianoforte.” Out of the corner of Bettina’s eye she saw Everett sink into a chair. She resisted asking him if he felt all right, since he hated to appear feeble.
“Yes, I am proud of it. My brother gave the piano to me. He says he ‘acquired’ it from an aristo.” The woman hopped to her stocking-clad feet, shaking out her gathered casaquin skirt. “He promised he didn’t harm anyone. I don’t believe in hurting people, no matter what these changing leaders have said.” She scanned the room as if government agents lurked in the corners. “A shame I only know the one tune, made it up myself, the one you just heard. Customers are a bit tired of it.” She laughed and shoved her feet into her wooden sabots.
“We’re looking for work, my husband and I. My husband is a mute. I’m familiar with the piano. Would you consider letting me play this evening for your customers, in exchange for a room and a meal?” Bettina asked.
“Is that so? Then let me hear you, so I’ll know for certain. Don’t think my husband will mind, if it shuts me up.” The woman stepped back. “My name is Camille.”
Bettina sat on the bench, relaxing her aching knees. She flexed her fingers, and played a brief scale to warm up. The piano needed tuning. So did she, not having played in years, since she’d left England. Deciding on some lively pieces she had performed as a child and to forego Mozart, she hoped she remembered them. Fingers positioned on the dirty ivory keys, she began. The notes rang slightly off.
“Oh, that is très bon. You’re very familiar, I agree. I will show you to a room.” Camille pulled a ring of clanking keys from her apron pocket.
“Merci.” Bettina gestured to Everett and they followed her up a narrow stairway to the back of the auberge.
“Supper’s at seven, then you can entertain. It should be quite a treat. I’ll bring you fresh water to wash.” Camille opened the door to a drab room with a lumpy bed that resembled paradise to Bettina.
The woman returned with a bowl of water and a cloth. Bettina scrubbed her face and hands. Everett did the same. They removed their shoes and washed their blistered feet.
He sat on the mattress with a groan, then yawned. “I haven’t had one of these for ages.”
“Let’s lie here and rest, I’m so exhausted,” she said, worried, and intent on restoring his health. “After we eat, our energy will be improved.”
“I’ll have to agree with that.” Everett scooted over on the bed and beckoned her beside him. Cuddled together on a soft surface they fell asleep until Camille woke them up.
* * * *
Downstairs Bettina and Everett gorged themselves on an oyster pie and wine, cherishing their first carefree moment. The wine tickled her stomach, the pie filling. She insisted that Everett drink a Breton beer for strengthening.
Bettina started to play when there were five customers. Others soon drifted in, gravitating to the unique sound. Her fingers hummed with the notes, her mind busy with her next movement, rather than stealth in the woods.
“Tres magnifique.” Camille fluttered through the room like a dowdy butterfly, as her stout husband dispensed drinks left and right. “Bring in the whole village. More wine over there? Another bier? I’m on my way.”
A man came up and plopped a coin on top of the piano. “Glad to hear some different melodies after all this time,” he said, winking at the innkeeper. Camille laughed.
Everett removed his hat and passed it around. The eager listeners dropped in their coins. Many of them looked as if they could ill afford it. France didn’t appear to be prosperous for these country folk in the aftermath of the revolution.
At close to midnight, they retired upstairs. Everett spilled the coins out on the bed.
“This is salvation. We have money for food tomorrow.” Bettina counted the vails: mostly centimes, a few livres, and even a silver Franc. “Maybe enough to last a few days. I did enjoy playing again.” She rubbed her fingertips over her worsted gown.
“You’re the one who is salvation.” Everett stroked a hand across her shoulder and she looked up at him. His gaze held that enveloping desire that made her legs turn to jelly.
“We’re blessed to have found each other again.” Bettina slid into his arms, banishing the image of the tormented prisoner and remembering the virile man who had opened his heart to her after a disastrous marriage. “I thought...I’d lost you forever. I didn’t want to live.”
He unfastened her gown. The fabric dropped around her feet. “I won’t ever let you out of my sight again.” His lips traced along her neck and jaw.
Naked in a matter of moments, they entangled on the bed. She kissed him deeply, his beard tickling her flesh, their shabby chamber transformed into opulence.
Everett kissed down her breasts, teasing her nipples with his tongue, savoring every inch of her. Bettina’s body tingled with sensations long denied. She had forgotten the thrill of being inflamed to her core. He trailed his lips down her belly, her thighs, and she felt his tongue at the aperture of her womanhood. She moaned, the throbbing inside her near to bursting.
Everett entered her and took her so savagely she thought the bed would break. His impassioned groaning and eyes bright with rapture pushed her over the top. She cried out, her body jerking in spasms. Together they satisfied the animal lust surging between them and collapsed sated onto the mattress.
At dawn Everett woke her, ripe for her once more. He moved into her slowly, every stroke sensual and measured. Her body rippled with pleasure, her legs wrapped around his back. They sighed then gasped into the sweet climax.
* * * *
Stocked up with food from Camille, several more days they traveled north then west. If possible, they avoided any main roads and towns. The two caught rides on peddler’s or farmer’s carts through the hilly countryside of red soil and chalky rock, with marshes and wild grass near the seashore. The sweet scent of honeysuckle drifted up from the fields. Everett tipped his face to the sun—though the air in this region of Bretagne grew cooler—and they rested their legs.
Later, in tense silence, he walked her past a burned-out chateau. An elegant estate laid to ruin years before by the angry mob. Bettina shuddered to think what Chateau Jonquiere must look like if ravaged by the rebels. She understood their fury over repression, but not their methods.
Picking figs, Bettina savored the mild sweet flavor. Their food gone, the fruit sustained them through the fifth day.
At sunset, they strode through the birch and chestnut trees and hugged each other for warmth. A flickering campfire drew their attention. Bettina motioned for Everett to stay back. She crept forward, praying no soldiers bivouacked here. The aroma of food enticed her stomach.
From around a tree trunk, she observed a lone man crouched next to the fire, drinking from a cup. A haphazardly built wooden structure was situated nearby. Bettina stepped on a twig, then clenched her hands at the crunch.
The man’s head jerked up. “Show yourself, be you friend or foe?” He spoke in a cultivated voice. “Come and sit if you wish, there’s food to share...for mes amis.”
Encouraged by his manner—no ruffian was he—she stepped forward into the fringe of firelight. “Excuse my intrusion, but we haven’t eaten since this morning, if you have anything to spare.”
“Ah, you dress as such, but my ear doesn’t fail me. You are no peasant, Madame.” The man stood and gracefully bowed. He had a prominent forehead with a receding hairline. “And did you say ‘we’?”
Charmed by the stranger’s smile—and he hadn’t addressed her as “citizen”—Bettina beckoned Everett forward. “My husband and I seek food, as I said.”
Eyes alert, Everett cautiously approached the fire.
“Then please, sit and join me. My name is Felix. Tell me where you journey.” The man indicated a few large stones. In his middle years, he might once have been plump, but now his frayed clothes of expensive cut billowed around him.
Bettina rubbed Everett’s rigid back and they both sank onto a stone. “You’re more than kind, sir,” she said. “Yet we journey to places better left unmentioned.”
“You are running from someone perhaps? No matter, I too hide from the throng.” Felix stooped to rummage through a knapsack, pulling out a bent tin receptacle. “I believe I have only one more cup left.”
“We can both share it, merci.” Bettina accepted the cup now filled with fragrant coffee, and offered it to Everett first.
“I hope you enjoy my feast.” Felix found two cracked china plates and dished out a rabbit stew from a pot bubbling over the flames.
Everett ate hungrily, his gaze darting to the man. He’d assumed his usual mute persona.
“We appreciate your generosity.” She shifted on the hard rock and tasted the broth floating with chunks of rabbit, savoring the rich, gamey flavor. “You are not a peasant either, sir.”
Felix inclined his head. “Mais oui. I am a vagabond, however. Set adrift by the chaotic circumstances of these last years. Are you revolutionaries, by any chance?”
Without Refuge Page 18
