Or she could marry. She knew that if she wasn’t betrothed by the end of this season her aunt would be bitterly disappointed. Juliette was certain that Auguste would soon ask for her hand in marriage. Could she do that? Marry a man she didn’t love, for grand carriages and pretty dresses, for security against poverty? Many a young woman would tell her she was greatly privileged to have the chance. For Auguste was gentle, kind - and not elderly. Still, without love, it made everything a folly. She would never make him happy, and she knew she would never love him as she loved Yann.
That evening at supper she listened to her aunt discourse endlessly on the merits of marriage and the finer details of the Viscomte de Reignac’s fortune. Sido noticed that Henry, like her, was silent on the matter.
The next day Auguste came on the pretext of bringing Sido a book by Burke, Reflections on the Revolution in France.
‘I thought you would be interested in it,’ he said, as they sat in the drawing room.
‘We are planning a picnic on Hampstead Heath for the day after tomorrow if the weather holds,’ Juliette said. ‘We would be delighted to have your company.’
‘Alas, madame, I cannot. I am leaving London.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To America.’
‘But that is so far away.’
f‘I agree, but I own land in Boston and need to see that my interests are secure. I can assure you I shall be back here soon. In fact, nothing would keep me away.’
Sido felt a rising sense of panic as she saw her aunt get up to leave.
‘Where are you going, aunt?’ she said, a little too urgently.
‘I am sure, my dear, that you two have quite enough to talk about without my company. Viscount, shall I order some tea for you?’
Alone in the drawing room with the ticking clocks, Sido, terrified that Auguste was going to propose, said quickly, ‘Don’t, we are such good friends, and . . .’
‘I - I insist,’ he stammered. ‘I know you don’t love me, but I am in love with you and I want you to be my wife. It would be enough just to have you with me.’
‘No - oh, you deserve so much more than that. You must find love.’
He took Sido’s hand. ‘I would settle for your companionship, for your wit, intelligence and charm. I would be happy.’
‘No, no,’ said Sido. ‘What about passion? Surely there must be passion?’
‘It is a fleeting thing. I could live without it and perhaps - in time - you would come to love me.’
She turned away. ‘I couldn’t live without passion. It’s what makes us soar. And I refuse to think of you not finding that in your life.’ She laughed. ‘I tell you, when you do, you will wonder how we could ever have had this conversation.’
He took her hand. ‘Please don’t say “no”. Don’t turn me away. Think about my proposal. I sail in two days and I’m willing to wait until my return.’
‘No . . . I love . . .’ She stopped.
‘Yann Margoza,’ he said slowly.
‘How do you know?’
‘I would be a fool not to see it, the way your eyes light up when we talk of him. So tell me - is there any hope? Or am I just dreaming with my eyes open?’
‘I like you very much as a friend.’
‘Then that is a start, some would say a good start.’
‘I know I would never make you happy, and you who have been through such pain deserve to be loved, and I am certain that you will find it.’
Auguste took her hand and kissed it. ‘Then, ma chère Marquise, say no more, I understand. After all, I owe Yann my life. He is a lucky man to have won your heart. I will always be your friend. I hope our friendship, at least, may continue?’
‘Yes, by all means, yes.’
‘You have chosen a very fine man indeed. I hope he realises how fortunate he is.’
She watched him go, heard the front door click shut and saw Juliette standing in the hall, a look of disbelief on her face.
Two days later Auguste de Reignac sailed for America, by which time Juliette could hardly bring herself to speak to Sido, so furious was she that her niece should wilfully turn down a proposal of marriage, a proposal that would have set her up as a woman of means with property in France and America.
Again Henry regretted he had not told Juliette the truth about Yann, but now was not the time. The situation in Paris was deteriorating and he had received a report from Cordell confirming the truth of the unwelcome rumour that Count Kalliovski appeared to be alive and active. Henry, sitting in his office looking out over the square, was grateful for one thing: Sido was safe in London.
Chapter Twenty-One
It happened just as Sido was leaving Mr Trippen’s house in Maiden Lane. The maid, Betsy, had her hand on the latch of the front door when Mr Trippen called from the landing.
‘Wait, dear girl, before you go. You nearly forgot this.’ And he held out the talisman.
‘I thought,’ said Sido, ‘you had sent it back to Yann as I asked.’
‘No. I think he wouldn’t want that. You must keep it safely on you.’ He opened the catch and gently hung it round her neck.
Afterwards he was pleased he’d done it. In fact it was the only thing that brought him any comfort. For when Betsy did open the door, two armed men were standing there with handkerchiefs concealing their faces and their hats pulled down. Behind them the sedan chair lay on its side with the Laxtons’ two footmen out cold.
One thug grabbed Sido by the arm and Mr Trippen, without thinking, went into battle. He heard a loud bang, smelled burning flesh and thought nothing of it.
‘Let her go! Take your hands off her!’
Sido was lifted bodily and carried away. Mr Trippen, by now feeling as if he were made of air rather than flesh and blood, fell to the ground.
Betsy watched, ashen faced and stone-statue still as Sido was dragged down Maiden Lane to where a very smart berlin stood, its windows blacked out. She saw Sido bundled in to it and then the carriage disappeared from view.
All Sido could think of as the carriage drove off at speed was that her abductors had killed Mr Trippen. As she tried in the dark to open the door she became aware of someone sitting on the seat opposite.
Only when the man lit his clay pipe, the flame illuminating his face, did she recognise him.
‘You’ve got more spark about you than I expected,’ said Mr Tull.
‘You have killed Mr Trippen.’
‘The old fool should have minded his own business, instead of acting the hero.’ Mr Tull laughed. ‘As for you, if you don’t do as you’re told, miss, you’ll end up as dead meat. Do I make myself quite clear?’
It was early evening when they came to the courtyard of The Travellers’ Arms. It was busy and the arrival of one more coach, even with blackened windows, went almost unnoticed. Sido was bundled up the wooden steps that led to a gantry off which Mr Tull had arranged for two rooms. He locked Sido in the first room while he went to see about food, for Mr Tull was ruled by the needs of his stomach.
Sido looked hopelessly at the miserable furnishings: ponderous chairs and a small robust desk. Bored travellers, no doubt waiting for the packet to France, had carved their names on its surface. She turned the key, not expecting any good fortune, but found there a pot of nearly dried ink, some broken quills, and a few sheets of clean paper. It wasn’t until then that it struck her that this was her last opportunity to tell anyone what had befallen her. The nibs and the thickness of the ink made writing difficult.
I am alive. I am at an inn near the coast and fear I am to be to returned to France. Mr Tull kidnapped me, his man shot Mr Trippen.
She addressed it to Mr Laxton and propped it behind a painting of a galleon at sea, which hung on the wall above the desk. She wished she had said more, but her reason was so clouded by the fear of being caught she could hardly think straight. To her horror, she noticed an ink stain on her finger, and hurriedly licked and rubbed at it until the stain looked as if it had been there fo
r some time. She had managed to lock the desk and to slip the key through a crack in the floorboards, when she heard the door being unlocked and Mr Tull came in, a napkin tied round his neck, his mouth full. He snapped his fingers and two servants dressed in black entered, one carrying a silver goblet.
‘Drink this,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ demanded Sido, determined to show no fear.
Mr Tull smiled, or at least that was the impression he gave, though he looked less than pleased to have his order questioned.
‘Drink.’
‘Not unless I know what’s in—’
Mr Tull pulled the napkin from round his neck and threw it on the floor in disgust.
‘Do as you’re told, my girl.’
‘I insist you tell me what’s in it,’ Sido repeated.
She suddenly felt belligerent, knowing it was her only power, and she refused to let the feeling go. Mr Tull turned on his heel and left the room. Sido thought for a moment that she might have won, but then he came back carrying a metal funnel.
‘Hold her head back,’ he commanded the servants.
Sido was pushed, fighting, into the armchair. She struggled, biting Mr Tull hard on the hand. She could taste blood. He hit her across the face and for a moment she blacked out.
‘Hold her!’
Sido’s jaw was prised open and the funnel pushed down her throat. Gagging but unable to resist, she swallowed the bitter-tasting liquid.
She remembered trying to get up and Mr Tull shouting, ‘Give her some more.’
And again she was held down.
Then nothing, just a dark abyss.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Poor Citizen Aulard found the plays he had been instructed to put on, full of patriotic drivel, almost too hard to bear.
‘I tell you, Têtu, it was a travesty last night. You should have seen the nonsense. The minute the play started, this man in the audience stood up and said he had written a song and could he sing it. Never have you heard such sentimental rubbish from a Frenchman. After that, what need of the play? Everyone started to sing and shout and march upon the stage like barbarians. I could have wept.’
Têtu brought out cheese and a loaf of bread and put them on the theatre manager’s desk. Citizen Aulard’s eyes lit up.
‘Hunger, my friend, doesn’t help,’ said Têtu kindly. ‘What will happen tonight?’ he asked, producing two glasses and a bottle of wine.
Citizen Aulard raised his hands in the air. ‘More of the same,’ he said, then added, ‘I have been thinking.’
‘A dangerous thing, my friend, at a time like this.’
‘Maybe, but let me tell you: if we survive the Reign of Terror, I don’t wish to stay in France. I never thought I would live to say that. Perhaps I’ve become a gypsy in my old age. Still, I have a mind to go and take my chances in the New World, in America. There, Têtu, we could put on real magic performances. What I’m proposing is that we should be partners.’
Têtu laughed. ‘Better that you asked me for some gypsy luck, for that is what you need, not a partner.’
Iago squawked. ‘I’ve seen you where you never were ...’
‘Quiet,’ shouted Citizen Aulard. ‘That bird is getting on my nerves.’
‘One day you will be grateful you have a parrot. Anyway, it is a line from a gypsy poem. Shall I tell you it?’ And without waiting for a reply Têtu continued:‘I’ve seen you where you never were
And where you never be.
And yet within that very place
You can be seen by me.
For to tell what they do not know
Is the art of the Romany.’
Citizen Aulard laughed. ‘I thought I would end my days with a beautiful actress by my side. Instead I find a daft dwarf, who I am too fond of to be parted from.’
Têtu smiled. ‘The New World might well appeal to my restless feet, that is if we get out of this alive, but I am not certain that Yann would want to come.’
Citizen Aulard sighed. He had been avoiding this topic of conversation, for something was very wrong with Yann. Gone was his calm good sense, his cool head.
‘Explain to me what has happened to him. Ever since we lost Remon Quint he is a changed man.’
‘I know,’ said Têtu.
‘I have been told,’ said Citizen Aulard, ‘that silver blades are again being found after someone has escaped. It is madness, there is enough talk already. If he goes on like this, he will be . . .’ He drew his finger across his neck. ‘What is he trying to do? Get himself killed and us too in the process?’
Têtu went to the door and looked out.
‘What is it?’ asked Aulard.
‘Nothing. I thought I heard something.’
‘You see, we are all jumping like circus fleas. Yann must be stopped.’ Citizen Aulard looked thoughtfully at Têtu.
‘I’ve seen you where you never were . . .’ repeated the parrot.
‘There is an explanation for Yann’s behaviour, and I am not sure what to do,’ said Têtu.
‘That is most unlike you.’
‘Yann has stumbled on a secret that I have done my best to conceal from him, for his own sake.’
‘Already I don’t like the sound of this.’
‘It is hard to explain, but in our world the spirits play as great a role as the living. Yann’s mother, Anis, believed that his spirit father was her lost love, Manouche. She never wanted him to know the identity of his real father.’
Citizen Aulard took a sip of wine. ‘Come, it can’t be so terrible—’
‘One day I will tell you the whole story,’ interrupted Têtu. ‘It is Kalliovski.’
Wine sprayed in a fountain from the startled theatre manager’s mouth. He started coughing.
‘Kalliovski? No, no, tell me I have misheard. All the angels in heaven and hell! Tell me I have misheard!’
Outside the door, Anselm was lurking in the shadows. He’d come up from the stage door on an errand for Citizeness Manou. He was eager for any excuse to listen in on the theatre manager’s conversations. Like a magpie he collected gems of information and took them back to his master. He listened intently in the dust-filled silence, unable to believe what he was hearing.
Anselm, like many before him, had fallen under the Count’s spell, and he was sure the dwarf spoke nothing but poisonous lies. It was not possible that Yann Margoza was his master’s son. He had convinced himself that he was the rightful heir to the Kalliovski crown. Anselm walked slowly down the stairs to the stage door. Everything had turned red, vivid, bright red. He wanted to kill someone, it didn’t matter whom, just someone.
‘Well,’ said Citizeness Manou, ‘what did he say?’
‘What?’ said Anselm.
‘I sent you up there to give Citizen Aulard a message, and you forgot, didn’t you?’ She shuffled out of her sentry box, wheezing and panting. Pushing past him, she said, ‘As usual I have to do everything myself round here.’
Anselm, lost in a blind fury, didn’t answer. He left the theatre and, crossing the square, went to the Café du Coin where he sat shaking with rage, mulling over what he would do. He knew he would only find peace by killing. In the past a chicken would have satisfied him, but not now. Now he needed something more than a scrawny neck.
He saw Citizeness Manou leaving the theatre. She stopped to adjust her cap and set off, a long, thin quiff of smoke following her. Anselm felt his fingers tingle. Getting up, he paid and left.
Walking behind Citizeness Manou, keeping to the shadows, he waited to pounce. Then he saw his opportunity. An alleyway with a dead end and Citizeness Manou so obligingly stopping at the corner to relight her pipe.
Before she could even take in the face of her attacker, she found herself at the end of the alley where two cats were fighting over a fishbone. The stench of human waste and rotten meat made her gag.
‘What the hell—?’
He had his hands tight round her neck and a feeling of all-encompassing power filled him with ex
citement. This is what he should have done to Mother. He watched Manou’s face turn blue, her eyes nearly popping out of her head. He felt her last tobacco breath leave her body. As her tongue flopped from her mouth, he let her body drop to the ground.
The Silver Blade (Bk. 2) Page 16
