Sail Away

by Lee Rowan

  “Good to see I’ll have company on this trip!” Philip was as exuberant as usual, and every bit as cheery. He seemed even broader than Kit remembered, in a greatcoat with several layers of cape across the shoulders, and the beaver hat atop his fair hair made him loom over Kit’s respectable five foot ten. “What—you didn’t know?”

  “Not a word.” Kit had to raise his voice to be heard above the First Mate’s shouted orders. “But I couldn’t be happier. What brings you out?”

  Philip glanced around and shook his head. “My father thinks it’s time I took a more active role in the business. But there’s no point shouting. Let’s go to my cabin and have a bite to eat.”

  A few minutes later, seated at a folding table in the small but well-appointed owner’s cabin, Philip poured them each a warming glass of sherry and leaned forward, a conspiratorial look on his handsome face. “You know my father’s done business with Monfort’s for an age.”

  “So I reminded my mother,” Kit said. “Did me no good. What of it?”

  “You know the situation in Paris.”

  “Going from mad to worse.”

  Philip nodded. “Well, Monfort sent his family—wife, children, grandchildren—off to Bordeaux some months ago. Wanted to get them out of the city, he told the authorities—he owns a vineyard there, lots of work preparing for winter; it seemed reasonable enough. But the old fox had other plans. His son got the whole crew on a boat to England, then came to my father, asked him to help Monfort himself pull up stakes before they realize he’s left no hostages to fortune.”

  “He’ll be coming back with us, then? Fine—my mother can deliver any complaints in person!”

  “We hope he’ll be along. It may require a bit of finesse…. Les citoyens don’t appreciate their compatriots attempting to escape the paradise they’ve created.”

  Kit sighed. “Can’t we leave that sort of thing to the Scarlet Pimpernel? Or is he just a myth, after all?”

  “Oh, he’s real enough,” Philip said. “But with the press of aristos looking for safe passage, I can’t think he’d bother with a mere wine merchant. And in all truth, I don’t believe anyone will notice. Monfort’s kept as clear of politics as possible, and he’s made sure the Committee gets all the best vintages—at their estates outside the city, which means he has a pass to get in and out of Paris. He’ll come aboard Susanna to supervise the packing, we raise sail—by the time the numbers are sorted out, we shall be back within the wooden walls.” He nodded out the window at those “walls,” His Majesty’s warships riding at anchor in Portsmouth Harbor. “Captain Bedlington says an old shipmate of his is on Channel patrol. He’ll see we aren’t bothered. In any event, one wine merchant more or less isn’t worth starting a war with England.”

  “Something will be, though,” Kit said grimly. “It could be that as much as anything else.”

  Philip’s face sobered. “Yes. And I’d like to get the old fellow out before that happens. My father wanted to do it himself, as though his doctor would stand for that! But cheer up, Coz. They say Paris is livelier than ever—and it’s high time we cut you free of your mama’s leading strings!”

  “And fit me with a set of yours?” Kit retorted. “I’ve heard of the scrapes you got yourself into on your Grand Tour!”

  “Worth every penny,” Philip said with a reminiscent grin. “Coz, until you’ve been clasped in the arms of a Frenchwoman, you have not known life.”

  Kit raised a skeptical eyebrow, along with his glass.

  I AM going to die. I am going to die, and I have never really lived.

  Zoe Colbert turned away from the narrow window of her father’s townhouse, making certain the heavy drapes were completely closed. She did not want to watch the people in the street and wonder who among them were informers for the Citizens Committee, and who were the next victims. She had spent more time looking out, until the horrible day the mob paraded by carrying “bloody bouquets,” the severed heads of the guillotine’s victims.

  The sight was gruesome enough in itself, but one of the trophies, barely recognizable, had been her friend Monique. Monique had been only sixteen, a girl who had done nothing but refuse the advances of an ugly man who proved to be someone with influence. Her face still haunted Zoe’s dreams. How long would it be before the soldiers came for them?

  Her father’s status as a physician gave them a little protection. It was necessary, even for tyrants, to have someone who could set bones and provide medicine when they fell ill. But she knew that her father did not question his patients’ politics before treating them, so it would be only a matter of time before he saved a life that certain people would rather see lost. Before he was labeled a traitor. Then it would be prison or death for them both, and probably for poor Marie as well, who had done nothing but keep the house clean and make meals for them out of next to nothing.

  What was it about revolution that turned neighbors into madmen?

  She heard a key turn in the lock of the front door and rushed to answer. “Papa!”

  He hugged her, but his expression was sad, and she felt a pang at how old he looked.

  “Come in, Papa. Marie has made soup, and Madame Lesieur brought us a piece of bacon and some potatoes!”

  “No!”

  “Yes, in thanks for your help when her little Andre had the fever.”

  “Where ever did she find them?” he asked.

  “Her son came downriver and brought provisions from a relative near Dijon. This will be enough for two or three days, Marie says.” There, that put a smile on his face.

  But his words were not cheerful. “Ah, child, I am sorry to have brought you into such a world.”

  “You brought me into the only world there is,” she said briskly. “Here, I will hang up your coat. Come into the kitchen, it is warmer there. A cup of mint tea will warm your bones.”

  “You are so like your mother,” he said, as he always did. “I will come in a little while, my dear. I received a letter today from an old friend, a colleague, and I must answer it immediately.”

  “I hope he is well?”

  “Yes, and he may come to visit if he is able.”

  “Soon?”

  “Perhaps tomorrow. Within a week, if he can come at all.”

  “I will air out the little bedroom in the morning, Papa.” Was this a good time to ask if she might go to the party Marie’s niece Angelique had spoken of? Probably not. She smiled at her father as he went off down the hall.

  Zoe carefully brushed the dust of the street from her father’s coat and put it away in the clothespress. There would be music at a party of theater people. Perhaps dancing, as well. It had been so long since she had heard any music but her own singing, and who felt like singing anymore? She resolved to ask permission after supper.

  Papa would probably say no. This would not be the sort of party a respectable girl ought to attend. Angelique sang in the chorus at the theater; she was not at all respectable. Worse, she had chosen to live as a “free woman,” and that was a goad to the gossips. Papa did not say Angelique was a bad girl—he seldom said anything unkind about anyone—but he was always worried about his daughter’s reputation.

  My reputation. Zoe met the eyes of her reflection in the small mirror on the cupboard door, dark gray eyes in a white face, framed by sleek black hair confined by a cap. “Yes, that is so very important!” her mirror-twin mocked. “You will have a headstone like Monique’s, a pure white stone that says, ‘Here lies Zoe Colbert, who never did anything wrong in her life.’ And everyone will be so proud of you!”

  She felt tears of frustration begin to well and turned away from the mirror. No, that would be too much work for the stonecutter! My headstone will say, “Here lies Zoe Colbert, who had no life!”

  KIT DECIDED he did not care for the New France.

  A sense of oppression hung over the people in the port of Le Havre, a sense of fear, except for those bravos enforcing the new Republic’s rules, and they assumed the unappetizing role
of bullies. The only smiles Kit saw were bitter or cynical. When he and Philip went to the hostler Phil remembered, the man said in disbelief, “You want to go to Paris?”

  Kit had to keep reminding himself that his previous visit to France—his only visit ever—had been in the springtime. It was December now, and the bare trees and brown, sere meadows were only natural. But the mood of the folk they passed was not merely a reflection of the season. The looks of resentment and envy were enough to make him wish he had put his foot down and stayed at home. He could do nothing to help these people, and his presence only made everyone, especially himself, extremely uncomfortable.

  The line at the city gates went on forever. In the past, their carriage and its aristocratic passengers would have been allowed to pass ahead of the drays and wagons bringing in goods to the city dwellers. Now they had to wait in line with everyone else and hope that the guards atop the vehicle would be able to protect their luggage from the ragged pedestrians who swarmed about the road. Kit almost would not blame the sorry-looking citizens for petty thievery—most of them looked as though they’d gone a long time between meals. On the advice of his uncle, he had brought nothing from the ship that he could not bear to lose, and his money was secured about his person in several inner pockets.

  “I’ve never seen things so dreary,” Philip said. “When I was here last year, everyone seemed full of hope.”

  “What hope can they have left?” Kit replied. “At least when the Americans rebelled, they had the example of Parliament to guide them in governing themselves—and we may yet see that experiment fail. But who among these poor fools has any experience in ruling? They must have been mad.”

  “Some were, I suppose,” Philip said. “Mad, and desperate, and then there were the schemers who thought only of seizing power for themselves. France has exchanged one set of masters for another, that’s all. And at least some of the old aristos had a sense of noblesse oblige.” The carriage shifted and moved forward a little. “Ah. Perhaps we might make it through the gate before dark, after all.”

  “Are you certain we will have a place to stay if we do?”

  “Oh, yes. Monsieur Monfort has plenty of room with his family gone, if the hotel fails us. Though if it comes to that, you may wish you’d brought your valet.”

  “I can shave myself if I have to,” Kit said. “You forget—I inherited Curtis from my father, and he was older than Papa. The poor old thing is terrified of setting foot on French soil. To let him near my throat with a razor, and him all a-tremble—no, thank you!”

  Phil laughed and rummaged in his grip for his traveling chess set. It was a small, flat box with the squares painted upon the inner lid, and they whiled away the rest of the long wait by playing at soldiers. Neither of them was very good at the game, but any distraction was welcome.

  At last they reached the end of the line, presented their papers, and, after a great deal of useless deliberation, received a surly nod from the guardian at the gate. A second stalwart waved the carriage through. Even a country in revolution had to make a living, and even those who despised the new French government could not dispute the excellence of the old French wines.

  ZOE FOUND herself at the front window once more. It was foolish to keep coming back here, looking out. What was she searching for? Better to stay within the confines of the house and pretend that the world outside was as it had been before the Revolution… not an easy world, but one where a girl could grow into a woman, be courted and wed, and have some hope of a future.

  She had known a few young men who might have been suitors. They were gone now: one to the Navy, two to the Army. Another had vanished, no one knew where. She wondered about Louis sometimes, but she knew in her heart he was dead. Louis’s entire family had disappeared. His father had been a professor, and involved in politics. Now no one mentioned his name.

  A carriage, heavily laden, rolled down the street and drew up at Monfort’s wine shop, a few doors down the road. The luggage strapped on behind meant this was not one of M. Monfort’s local customers, and she had never seen the vehicle before. As she watched, a guard jumped down from the roof and opened the passenger door, and a giant emerged—a tall blond man, English by his clothing. He was followed by another young man, less imposing but beautifully dressed and very handsome, with hair the color of dark caramel. After a word with the coachman and some sort of payment, he followed the tall man into Monfort’s shop.

  Zoe let herself daydream. That beautiful young man had to be someone of importance or the son of an aristocratic family. Sir Handsome Englishman would find himself afflicted with a touch of dyspepsia and consult the excellent Dr. Colbert, and fall instantly in love with his daughter, and whisk them both away in his elegant carriage!

  Bonjour, milord! Je suis Mademoiselle Zoe Colbert, une jeune lunatique! She didn’t need Marie to scold her. Beautiful the young man might be, and well-to-do, and most probably engaged to some English girl of good family. And in any case, whatever business brought him to France would certainly never bring him under this roof.

  Nonetheless, she stayed at the window until the two young men had left Monfort’s and driven away in their carriage. Then she straightened her cap and went downstairs to see if Marie needed help in the kitchen. Papa would be home soon, God willing; she would appeal to him once again to give her permission to go to Angelique’s party. There might be some young man who would be worth a kiss, at least. And maybe something more?

  Of that, she could not be sure. She was not entirely certain what it was she was looking for. But she knew she would never find it hiding here at home until the soldiers came to take them to the guillotine.

  “A PARTY!” Kit contained his disbelief until the carriage was rattling down the street. “Good Lord, Phil, what do they have to celebrate?”

  “They’re still alive,” Philip said. “Who knows for how much longer? Eat, drink, and be merry. But, as Monfort told me while you were dutifully inspecting your mama’s order, a few of his customers are throwing a party to celebrate one of their members’ stage debut. She’s a member of some theater chorus, and the actress she understudies came down with laryngitis. The matinee is tomorrow afternoon, if the Citizens Committee lets the theater stay open.”

  “Are they likely to close it?”

  “Who knows? At any rate, Monfort says it’s his farewell to his favorite customers—he’s donating the wine, since he can’t take it with him. We may as well go, Kit. It would be rude to decline, and it’s not as though there will be anything else to do.”

  Kit sighed. “We are leaving soon, yes?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, if you like. Monfort’s got a barge ready to go down the Seine, and he says there’ll be room for us as well. It would be quicker than over land, if you don’t mind a bit of crowding.”

  “A barge?” Kit said. “If it means getting out of this hell pit tomorrow, I’d scull down the Seine in a hip bath.”

  “ARE YOU gentle with your women?”

  Kit blinked at the pretty blonde who had appeared noiselessly at his elbow as he stood with a glass in hand, trying to blend into this noisy, alien crowd. His third glass of wine—or was it the fourth? He felt a bit muzzy around the edges. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Pardon, je parle tres mal,” she said. “My name is Angelique, m’sieu. I—ask, are you kind to women?”

  He caught himself just short of a laugh. “I try to be,” he said, not certain where the conversation was leading. He added, “I speak a little French,” in that language, hoping she would not reply too quickly. “Do you need my help?”

  “Ah!” Her face lit up. “Not I, m’sieu. Do you see my friend, by the stair?”

  Kit glanced in the direction she indicated, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. The young woman beside him was quite pretty, in a candy-box sort of way—blonde curls, blue eyes, artfully applied cosmetics—but there was something about her charm that made him think she must be one of the ladies of the stage here to celebrate their colle
ague’s good fortune. But her friend by the stair… that girl did not belong here.

  She was tiny, scarcely over five feet tall, and she wore a simple pink gown trimmed with a few ribbons, another ribbon holding dark ringlets in place atop her head. She might have been mistaken for a child at first glance, but her figure was clearly that of a young woman. Her eyes met his, and held them, with an expression he found hard to describe. It was neither coquetry nor desire—more a sort of determination and possibly a touch of alarm. He felt drawn toward her. He had never seen this girl before, did not know who she might be, but it felt as though he had finally found someone he had been searching for.

  “I see her,” he said. “What—”

  “She would like to speak to you, m’sieu, but she is—shy? Is that the word? Timide. She is not often among us. Would you like to meet her?”

  “Yes, very much.” Oh, no, he protested inwardly. He knew what actresses did offstage. Granted, they likely had to, to keep body and soul together, but this beautiful creature could not be one of the muslin company. She must not.

  But Philip had said that most of the women at the party would be looking for a generous friend with whom to spend the night, and Phil had gone off with a vivacious brunette at least half an hour ago. Gentle with your women. Dear God. It wasn’t even women, plural. His sole experience had been one highly educational night with an amiable widow about ten years his senior whom Phil had introduced him to on the eve of his eighteenth birthday. In loco paternis, Phil had said, because, after all, Kit would be expected to marry a young maiden lady, and it was always helpful if someone knew what to do on the wedding night.