Unspeaking, they drifted past; I did not know how many there were, maybe half a dozen, maybe more. I only saw vague shapes in the mist, heard furtive movement and smelled them as they passed. I had never realised until that moment that Frenchmen have their own distinctive smell, like animals do. It was a combination of tobacco and garlic, with a whiff of something else. Foreign, I called it.
Charles had never smelled like that, I thought. Perhaps that was because he had been naked when first we found him. It is strange how these irrational thoughts race through one's mind at times of danger.
There was a sudden rift in the mist and in a gleam of moonlight I distinctly saw one of the Frenchmen. He was wearing the dreaded blue uniform of Bonaparte's soldiers, with white breeches and a tall shako-type hat. It was an image that I hoped never to see in my island, made all the worse by the long musket he carried and the fact that I lay prone on the ground beside a man I had cared for some long weeks but barely knew. How could I know him when he did not know himself?
I shivered, and Charles' arm eased around me. He said nothing yet I knew that he would look after me even against men of his own nation. That was another epiphany: nationality was of less importance than people. It was something I had never thought to learn.
The French slithered into the mist as the gap closed and the light eased away. We were alone on that bare hillside.
Charles shook me gently, put a hand to his lips and rose, very slowly, to his feet. I followed, shaking and weak yet determined not to allow any blasted Frenchmen scare me to death.
There were other voices now, honest Englishmen shouting to each other; the renewed barking of dogs and crisp orders through the dark. I distinctly heard a voice shout 'what the devil is happening,' recognised Captain Chadwick's tones and wondered if I cared to meet him any more than I wished to encounter Boney's infantry. In my eyes, both were equally obnoxious.
'We should go to them,' Charles said softly.
'And have you arrested or shot?' I said. 'Certainly not!' I could be quite sharp when needed, you see. 'I have not wasted so many weeks of my life keeping you safe to have you stuck in some filthy prison hulk now just because a few blasted Frenchmen are visiting!'
'They won't know I'm French.' For some reason, Charles was smiling.
'Of course they'll know,' I snapped. Really, that man was trying my patience; or perhaps my nerves were jangling after the events of the night. 'As soon as you open your mouth they will hear your accent.'
'I cannot remember being French,' Charles said, until I interrupted his nonsense with a deep sigh.
'Well you are,' I said. 'It seems as if we are stuck between the devil of Captain Chadwick and the deep blue sea of Boney's men.' I was thinking rapidly, trying to work out what was best to do. I had intended hiding Charles in Limestone Manor until the inquisitive Mr Howard gave up his search and left the island, but the French landing had altered all my plans.
Would Mr Howard still be searching for one lone man while the French invaded? Or would other matters occupy his attention. I had a sudden start. Perhaps the invasion was the reason that Mr Howard was here! Maybe he had been preparing the ground for the French, mapping all the villages and getting to know the defences and searching for Charles was only an excuse. That thought was so sobering that I gasped.
'Sarah? Are you all right?' Charles was instant attention.
'Yes,' I said. 'Yes thank you.' I was not sure if I was or not. There were so many thoughts racing through my head that I was confused: I hoped that Mother was all right, yet I knew that to bring Charles back to the inn would be foolish indeed. On every occasion that the Volunteers, Militia or even the regular army had their silly soldier games, they used the Horse Head as a temporary base. It would be no different during the invasion. My home would be full of officers with their arrogance and braying accents, while their men would infest the surroundings, drinking, spitting, smoking and doing worse things that I can hardly bear to think of let alone write about.
I hoped that Mother was safe, yet I knew that if the End of all Things were to happen tomorrow, then the very next day that indomitable woman would crawl out from under the wreckage, tidy it all up and organise those who survived the carnage to create a new and better world. Pity help the Frenchman who tried to damage her inn or her customers. Pushing that thought to the recesses of my mind, I wondered where else I could leave Charles while I found out what was happening in the island.
'Listen,' I said, 'can you hear anything?'
Charles shook his head. 'Not since that fellow Chadwick stopped shouting,' he said.
'Maybe we are safe to move,' I said.
'Where are we going? Back to Molly's cottage?' Charles looked around. The night was easing into dawn but the fog remained, hampering visibility so I could hardly make out the nearest tree yet alone see the progress of the invasion.
'Listen!' Charles put a hand on my sleeve. 'Musketry!'
It was distinct. I had heard the first report without registering it; now I heard others. Two muskets fired together; then a third, followed by an irregular volley and then another, solitary shot. A voice called through the mist, the words indistinct and the tone hoarse.
'Did you see the muzzle flashes?' Charles asked.
'I did not,' I admitted.
'Nor did I. They may be some distance off then, or merely hidden in a dip of the hills.' Charles sounded quite casual.
'Have you done this sort of thing before?' I asked, and added, greatly daring, 'are you another French spy, Charles, come to prepare the island for the invasion?'
'I wish I knew,' he said. 'What do you mean by another French spy? Do you have many French spies walking the Downs of Wight?'
'Mr Howard is the only one I know of,' I said.
'I see.' Despite our predicament, Charles managed to smile. 'Well, perhaps that is why he is searching for me, to ascertain what information I have found out.'
'And what information have you found out, Mr Durand? Or should that be Monsieur Durand?' I put some venom into my voice for if the truth be told I was finding it rather wearisome sitting on wet grass in the middle of a misty field with Frenchmen and Chadwicks and God-only-knew-what other men searching for me and firing their silly muskets all night long. I mean, a girl has other things to do except dodge strange men all her life.
'Plain old-fashioned mister will do me, I think,' Charles did not lose his smile. Honestly that man had the patience of a saint; or perhaps the patience of a French spy. 'I have found out that Wight women are amongst the most kind and amiable in the land,' he said, 'and one in particular has quite stolen my heart.'
'Molly has a way of doing that,' I said, suddenly tart. 'She knows how to mix herbs and potions to make people do as she desires. Her father was a vicar and I have heard that her mother was a witch. Aye, I quite believe it.'
'Kitty also has that skill of charming men,' Charles said.
Now, if he had said that only a few days previously I would have had such a twist of jealousy I swear that I might have reported him to Captain Chadwick or even the French, such was my spite. However, after hearing that Kitty had said nice things about me behind my back I was not prepared to react in such a dramatic way. Instead I merely smiled, hated Kitty a little and took a small step further away.
'Kitty is well favoured in many ways,' I said. 'She has a countenance that many men find pleasing, Mr Durand. You would not be the first, you do realise.'
'A girl with the looks and charm of Kitty Chillerton will never lack for suitors,' Charles said. 'It will be a lucky man who wins her heart and hand and keeps them both secure and chaste to himself.'
'That will be a lucky man indeed,' I murmured. The thought of Kitty being chaste made me smile.
As I spoke I felt an unusual hollow sensation within me, as if I had made a discovery and lost it all within the same instant, or I had found a penny and lost a sixpence. I did not understand this new feeling; I only knew that I had never felt anything quite like it before. One p
art of me wanted to examine and savour it, another part wished to push it as far away as possible, for I knew that if it remained, I would not be the same Sarah Bembridge again in my life. I needed time and space to think, yet here I was encumbered by this monkey-faced Frenchman while more French infested the island with their damned garlic and roamed around as if they owned the place.
'I need to go to the Long Stone,' I said.
'Where is that?' asked Charles. 'Who is there?'
'I am there.' I was not being intentionally cryptic; my mind and emotions were in such a whirl that I am not sure how I managed to sound even half coherent.
Charles gave me an odd sideways-on look, as if he was wondering who this mad woman was. I ignored that and rose quickly. I was very aware that there were hundreds of Frenchmen running loose on the island but I did not care. I knew, somehow, that I would reach the Long Stone safely despite Boney and all his minions, and Chadwick and all his too, come to think of it, so I marched confidently across the Downs with Charles a step or two behind me and the mist very gradually thinning out.
Once I reach the Long Stone, I told myself, all would be well. Things would work out, I would find the answers and the world would right itself. I had great faith, not in the power of that stone, for it is only a great chunk of rock set upon a hillside, but in the power of … of what I did not know. I only knew that once I reached my own favourite spot in all of Wight, something would happen.
It may have been fate, or luck, or just something that happened, but a gap had formed in the mist so the Long Stone stood erect in a clearing like a broad shouldered man, with the second, recumbent stone lying at his feet.
Charles looked around him as if expecting to see a house or an inn or some other sign of civilisation. 'What is this?'
'The Long Stone,' I told him quietly. 'It is my own special place.' I did not want to mention that I had brought David and William here within the last few months. Perhaps this stone was unlucky, rather than lucky.
'What is it?' Charles sounded puzzled. 'I have seen something similar before.' Reaching out, he touched the stone. 'La Longue Rocque,' he said. 'It is like La Longue Rocque.'
I felt something sink within me. All this time I had thought of Charles as being French but I had hoped that somehow he would remember something that proved he was not. True, his first words had been French but he also spoke perfect English enhanced by that delightful accent, and now at last when he remembered something, it was French he spoke again.
'Can you remember where this La Long Rock place is?' I asked, knowing that I did not wish to hear the answer but equally desperate to know the truth.
As Charles looked at me I saw the confusion in his eyes. 'I don't know,' he said and I swear he was as close to tears as I ever saw him. 'I don't know.' He ran his hands over the surface of the Long Stone as if it was an old friend, or a horse perhaps.
'Was it in France?' I pressed, hating myself for hurting him. 'Was it in Brittany? Are you a Breton? Or maybe Normandy? Are you from Calais perhaps? Do any of these names mean anything to you?'
Charles shook his head helplessly. 'No,' he said, 'they are only names. I remember the La Longue Rocque though. It is a stone like this one, and there is another smaller stone nearby.'
'Where are these stones?' I took hold of his shoulders and shook him. In my fear and frustration I nearly slapped him and perhaps that may have helped. I know that is what my Mother would have done if I had exasperated her so, but she knew me well, you see, and I did not know Charles well at all. If I had I would have slapped him hard as I could to shock the truth out of him and I swear we would have both laughed at it afterward.
Instead we stared at each other for a long minute before I took his hand. 'Don't take it too hard,' I said, feeling sick. 'It will come. You had one returned memory today. There are bound to be more and then, eventually you will remember everything once more.' I gave him my best impression of a confident smile. 'I wager you have a lovely French wife to go back home to.'
'Oh I am not married,' Charles said at once.
'You are sure of that?' I asked.
'Why yes,' he said. 'I have only ever had one sweetheart and she…' He shook his head. 'She went away with another man,' he said softly. 'There was a fight. Some sort of fight.' He shook his head again.
'Well then,' I could see he was upset and there is only one cure for an upset handsome young man. 'If you have no sweetheart, not even Kitty Chillerton, then there is nobody to complain if I do this.' And I kissed him.
To this day I do not know why I did that. There was nothing in his attitude to suggest any attraction to me, quite the reverse if his earlier statement about Kitty were to be believed, and I did not find him nearly as handsome as David or William. As far as future security was concerned my monkey-faced Frenchman had come into my life with only his naked skin and an addled head.
I stepped back, not sure if I had offended him, scared of my own actions and so embarrassed that I felt my face flushing as scarlet as the tunic of any Volunteer officer.
Charles put one hand to his lips. 'Sarah,' he said, so quietly that I had to strain to hear him. 'I have been hoping you would do that since I opened my first opened my eyes and thought you were an angel.'
'I am no angel,' I said, equally softly. 'Just a Caulkhead girl.' I tried to smile. 'I thought you would prefer a kiss from Kitty? A Kitty-kiss?'
'Not even a catty-kiss,' Charles said.
We were both speaking very quietly, uncaring of the mist that swirled around us, making the Long Stone the eye of a grey-white vortex that seemed to consume the entire island. At that moment were alone; the rest of the world did not matter. We lived in our own small, yet to us vitally important world.
We did not say much as our lives changed forever. Leaning forward, I kissed him again, this time without any doubt. I was not kissing him to reassure him, or to make him feel better; I was kissing him because I wanted to kiss him, and, to judge by his response, he had no objections to being kissed.
I pulled back again, with my heart hammering within me and my eyes wide open. I touched my lips with my fingers, and then touched his. 'Charles,' I said, and stopped. I did not know what I felt, yet alone what I should say.
He nodded. 'Yes,' he said.
'What is this?' I asked.
He shook his head and shrugged like a Frenchman. 'I don't know.'
I think we both knew. I also think we were reluctant to admit what we thought and how we felt. All around us the mist continued to swirl, blocking out the world. I had forgotten all about the French and the Volunteers and even Mr Howard as Charles held out his hand to me.
I took it, feeling the returning strength in his fingers, feeling the hardness of his muscles and the calluses at the base of each finger. 'Whoever you were,' I said, 'you were not a soft-living man. You have the hand of a seaman.'
The words were simple yet true. I had lived among men of the sea and men of the soil all my life. If I knew anything at all it was how to distinguish a man who worked with his hands from a man who did not. Charles had the hands of a seaman, hard and powerful from years of hauling ropes and wrestling canvas.
'Les Hanois,' Charles said at once. 'She is the finest vessel to sail the Channel.' He looked at me and repeated. 'Les Hanois: that is the name of my ship.'
'That is a French name,' I said.
'I fear so,' Charles said sadly. 'Yet she was named after something else. I cannot think what.' He shook his head violently. 'Oh this is so maddening!'
'Never mind,' I said quickly, unwilling to break the mood, or the bond that I had felt was forming between us. 'You got another name and you remembered you were a seaman; that is good.'
'I want to know more,' Charles said, so I kissed him again.
At first he did not respond, so I slipped my hands around him, feeling the wiry strength of him and remembering how he had looked when first I saw him. Unable to help myself, I pulled him closer. He responded, with his arms closing around me in the most
delightful way possible. Suddenly rather than me holding him, our positions were reversed and he was holding me, supporting all my weight and then he kissed me. His hands were busy on my back, insistent, caring, gentle as they caressed.
'Dear Lord,' I said as we slid to the ground beside the Long Stone. The grass was damp, the stone cool yet friendly as Charles' hands explored the outside of my legs and further up, smoothing over my hips and up my flanks to my breasts.
'Charles,' I said, softly, hopefully, pushing into him as he looked down on me. His eyes were soft with love as they met mine and I knew then that my two previous men had not been right for me. David had been a young man with an urge and William an adulterer looking for a younger woman. This man, this French seaman, this Charles Louis Durand, was my present and my future; this man was to be my husband and to the very devil with national boundaries, kings, queens, republics and anything else that acted as a barrier to what was undoubtedly, indisputably, unquestionably, right.
I had known that things would work out at the Long Stone and they had, even if not at all in the way that I had expected.
'Charles,' I said, and then I said nothing coherent for quite some time as we proved our love for each other at that ancient, beautiful place.
The mist was clearing as we lay together with his arms folded around me and my head pillowed on his chest. 'I wonder what this place was for,' Charles murmured. 'Maybe some religious site, a temple of the druids or a place to worship the sun or the moon.'
'That may be so,' I snuggled closer. Yes it was damp all around us but when one is in love the weather really does not matter, does it? You see that I used that word love again. By that time I knew that I was in love with Charles, in a way I had not been in love with either David or William. This was real; it was something that came from deep within me and with a certainty that precluded all others. I thought, briefly, of Mr Howard's clumsy attempts to woo me and was very glad that I had not entered the path he so artfully laid.
'I love you,' I made it official.
Sarah's Story Page 14
