Passion and Pride (A Historical Romance)

by Amelia Nolan

  Burke’s men had supplied a valise with a false bottom, perfect for smuggling objects. It was into this secret compartment that Evan placed a pair of dueling pistols – not his own, but Pemberly’s.

  “Take them. I shall never have any use for them,” Pemberly snorted.

  The next morning, the winds were favorable and the tide was in. Pemberly escorted Evan down to the docks and shook his hand.

  “Return her home safely, old boy,” Pemberly said somberly.

  Evan nodded, and stepped aboard the ship.

  “Yourself too, if you can manage it,” Pemberly added. “But keep in mind you’re of secondary importance.”

  Evan smiled wryly, made a rude gesture, and walked across the decks towards his fate.

  52

  Evan stood at the rail of the ship and watched the white cliffs of Dover disappear in the distance. He breathed deeply of the salt air and felt it invigorate him.

  Gradually the coast of France began to emerge on the horizon. He could see the spires of churches in the distance, followed by the buildings of Calais.

  Within an hour he had landed on the French shore. He noted as he walked up from the docks that the men and women he saw seemed much changed from his trip abroad just eight years before. Then they had been generally cheerful and full of life; now it seemed that they were beaten down, that they watched everyone with an air of mistrust. Each other, yes, but strangers most of all – and as he was most definitely a stranger, their dark stares lingered the longest on him.

  The men all wore red caps with the tri-color cockade pinned to the side. Blue, white, and red – liberté, égalité, fraternité.

  And imprisonment for those found wanting.

  He also noticed that the old fishermen’s wives muttered under their breath as he passed. “Sacre Anglais!”

  The fact that they recognized him as an Englishman did not make him feel any better.

  Other than that, he had few problems. Calais was not only a port city, it was a smuggler’s den, filled with bootleggers carrying illicit cargos of French wines and brandies in attempts to avoid English tariffs. Though his fine clothes attracted attention, Evan was only one of many Englishmen in the town.

  Despite the animosity between France and England, money conquered all.

  He hired a coach in town to take him as far as possible. Though it was perhaps 180 miles to France, he knew he would not be able to cover it in a day. Perhaps two.

  He was being overly optimistic, and by a great margin.

  The roads were terrible, the horses were worse, but the obstacles were outrageous. He had been lucky at Calais: they were accustomed to English smugglers, and thus paid him little mind. Outside Calais was another story.

  Every little town and village had a mob of ‘citizen-patriots’ with muskets at the ready. They stopped all travelers, looked for their names on lists, questioned them, held them back, or sent them on – sometimes with no apparent rhyme or reason.

  The lines his carriage had to wait in seemed interminable. At every stop he had the opportunity to exercise his rusty French as he showed the letters he was carrying, and explained that he was an Englishman carrying important papers between publishers.

  In the beginning, he did not mention Marian’s French pen name because it caused him a bit of pain, like pressing on an old wound not entirely healed. But after a few bouts of fruitless arguing, he found that if he said he was a messenger acting on behalf of ‘L’Anglaise,’ it always got a reaction. Whether it was a delighted smile, or arched eyebrows, or a disgusted look and spitting upon the ground, the atmosphere changed. He was no longer just a damned Englishman on a suspicious journey, but… something else. A delightful fellow, or a scurrilous pornographer, depending on the audience.

  But more than that, he was suddenly important.

  And more often than not, he was let through with little fanfare.

  After the fifth stop, he began to open with the sentence, “I am a messenger for the English publisher of ‘L’Anglaise,’ carrying papers for the authoress…”

  It speeded his travels considerably.

  53

  It took him four days, three inns, and five separate rented carriages to reach Paris.

  His first view of the city filled him with joy, despite the potential horrors that lay within. He could see Notre Dame’s twin towers in the distance, illuminated by the late afternoon sun.

  But before he could see any more of the city, he had to get inside the wall.

  His hired carriage rode up to the barrier, which was closed and strongly guarded. A soldier stopped the carriage, listened to his explanation (greatly improved by the dozen times he had delivered it over the past few days), and then disappeared inside the guard house.

  In a moment he reappeared and motioned Evan inside.

  At a simple wooden table sat a soldier in full regalia, a lieutenant. Women would have said he had a handsome face, but cruel. His dark eyes seemed to jab at Evan, probing for his secrets.

  “You have business in Paris?” he asked in French as he looked at Evan’s papers. His voice was deep and masculine, but smug and obscenely self-assured.

  “Yes, I am a courier for the publisher Laurent Dardanelle. Those papers are intended for him and L’Anglaise.”

  “L’Anglaise?” the man asked casually, but with an undercurrent of menace. “The writer?”

  “The very same.”

  “I know her. Is she expecting you?”

  Evan’s heart seized in his chest. He hoped his face did not betray his emotions.

  “No, but Monsieur Dardanelle is – ”

  “Citoyen Dardanelle,” the lieutenant interrupted.

  Evan was caught off-guard. “…excuse me?”

  “Citizen Dardanelle. It is the correct form of address now. But you would not know this, being an Englishman,” the soldier said with amused contempt. “Did you ever meet L’Anglaise when she lived in England?”

  Again, Evan’s heart felt as though it might burst.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “Ah, then your reunion will be a happy one. She is a very charming lady, even though her writings are scandalous. And these papers originate from…?”

  “Lord Pemberly, her London publisher.”

  The soldier tsked and smiled cruelly. “It is good her London publisher stays in London. We are not so fond of aristocrats here.”

  Evan was not so fond of this soldier, either, but he held his tongue.

  “How long will you remain in Paris?” the lieutenant asked.

  “I am not exactly sure. I am supposed to be retrieving L’Anglaise’s most recent novel for… her London publisher, but I do not know if she has entirely finished.”

  The lieutenant took a last look at the papers, then handed them back to Evan. “Enjoy your stay in Paris, but be careful. There are many dangers for the unwary traveler.”

  And for the unwary ‘citizen,’ I am sure.

  Evan smiled tightly. “Thank you, Lieutenant…?”

  “Villars,” the man replied, though he did not smile. “Lt. Villars.”

  “Thank you. Good day.”

  The lieutenant did not answer, but watched with a predator’s eyes as Evan left the guardhouse.

  54

  Once he got to the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, Evan settled up with the carriage driver and then entered the publishing house of Laurent Dardanelle.

  Two clerks behind paper-stacked desks looked up as he entered.

  “Is, um, Citizen Dardanelle here?” Evan asked in French.

  A short, chubby man with a baby-smooth face peeked out cautiously from a back room. “How may I help you?”

  “My name is Evan Blake. Pemberly sent me.”

  Immediately the man broke into a smile and clapped his hands. He looked like a very tall, very happy toddler.

  “Pemberly! Ah yes, splendid! Come with me, come with me! Have you eaten? It is almost dinnertime, no? My cook will prepare something for you! Let me help you wi
th your things, my lodging is right around the corner! Alphonse, Lucas – you may leave early, but lock up, eh? Alright, Monsieur, follow me!”

  Dardanelle lumbered along in the streets, wheezing under the weight of Evan’s two lightest bags.

  “We could hire a carriage – ” Evan protested, as he carried the heaviest pieces himself.

  “Mais non, we are right here, see? So close!”

  After about two blocks they arrived at a very nice home. Two small children, both younger than six years old, were playing outside in the front courtyard.

  “Children, go tell your maman that we have a visitor! Quickly, quickly!”

  Once inside, Dardanelle and Evan handed off their bags to a servant, who took them upstairs.

  Madame Dardanelle appeared from a drawing room. She was a sweet, apple-cheeked lady who smiled and asked Evan about his trip. The children swarmed him, asking if he had brought them a gift.

  “Go, go, you will be the death of Monsieur Blake!” Dardanelle said as he shooed them away.

  Madame Dardanelle smiled and told Evan she would be back in a moment – she had to tell the servants to set an extra place for dinner.

  The only thing Evan still held onto was the leather satchel with Pemberly’s papers. “I am supposed to deliver these to you – ”

  “Shh! Shh!” Dardanelle shushed him, and grabbed the satchel. “We talk after dinner – business after dinner!”

  He disappeared into his study, then returned without the satchel.

  Dardanelle showed Evan to a guest bedroom on the second floor, where he washed his face and changed into a fresh change of clothes before coming back downstairs.

  Dinner was quite nice, with a roasted chicken and a savory casserole.

  “There are some consolations to publishing L’Anglaise, eh, my dear?” Dardanelle teased his wife, whose face took on a disapproving frown when he mentioned the pen name. Dardanelle turned to Evan. “She does not approve.”

  “It is a sin,” the lady said, crossing herself.

  “But when half of Paris starves because flour has tripled in price, I tell her to be thankful for my little sins!” Dardanelle winked.

  Otherwise conversation during dinner was light, with the children peppering Evan with dozens of questions about England and London and why the English were so strange. Afterwards, Evan and Dardanelle retired to the study and the publisher shut the door.

  Dardanelle retrieved the leather satchel, laid the papers out on his desk, and examined them one by one.

  “They are from – ” Evan started, but the chubby man put a finger up to his lips.

  “The walls have ears,” the man said somberly. “Do not worry, I will get everything settled. When do you return to England?”

  “I’m not sure. I have come to persuade L’Anglaise to return to England with me.”

  Dardanelle let out a guffaw.

  “You do not approve?” Evan asked.

  “On the contrary, I agree with Pemberly. It would be much safer for her in England. As of now, things are not so bad – the food riots in the winter were the worst of it. And of course, war with Austria and Prussia. But Marian will not go, of this I am certain. Pemberly has tried innumerable times to convince her.”

  “Pemberly and… ah, his ‘compatriots’ seem to think that French aristocrats are in danger of being executed, and that their friends and acquaintances will be next.”

  “Shh!” the man said violently as his eyes darted to the door.

  “Good God, man, what is the matter?”

  “There are some things it is best not to talk about,” Dardanelle whispered. “Not if one can help it.”

  “In your own house?!”

  “In a house with servants, some of whom are Jacobins? Absolutely.”

  Evan looked around uneasily.

  “Better we talk about how you plan to persuade Marian,” Dardanelle continued.

  “First I need to see her.”

  “I can take her to you tomorrow.”

  Evan considered that. After four days of travel, he could use the rest. But the sooner he could convince her, the sooner they could leave this den of paranoia…

  “Can you not take me tonight?”

  “She will be attending the salon of Madame Renaud tonight. I can escort you there myself, if you wish. I have a standing invitation.”

  Evan winced. “She may not be happy to see me.”

  Dardanelle shrugged. “If you go to her living quarters, she may refuse to receive you. But you can approach her at the salon, no matter her objections.”

  “True… although her seeing me in a crowd of people might be an unwelcome shock.”

  “If I may be so bold, may I ask why she would not wish to see you?” Dardanelle asked delicately.

  “We were… involved romantically back in England.”

  “Ohhhhh,” Dardanelle said, his expression conveying that he understood something – and perhaps a great deal – of Evan and Marian’s history. “In that case, Monsieur, may I suggest that you most definitely approach her at the salon. Though she may make a scene, a scene is better than an outright refusal. At least you have a chance.”

  The Frenchman has a point, Evan thought grimly.

  55

  They left around seven o’clock in the evening, just the two of them. Dardanelle tucked his children into bed and kissed his wife goodbye. She was not happy to see him go, but he assured her that it was of the utmost importance, and that they would return as soon as possible.

  They hired a carriage to take them to Rue St. Denis. Only when they were on their way, and the carriage wheels were rattling noisily over the cobblestones, did Dardanelle lean forward to speak into Evan’s ear.

  “Forgive me for earlier. But it is a dangerous time now in France.”

  “Even amongst your servants?”

  “Especially amongst my servants. You should hear the more radical elements speak, it is enough to chill your marrow. There is a man named Marat who prints a newspaper, ‘The Friend Of The People.’ For over two years now he has been calling for blood – ‘Five or six hundred heads would have guaranteed your freedom and happiness… if you don’t strike now, millions of your brothers will die, your enemies will triumph and your blood will flood the streets. They'll slit your throats without mercy – ’”

  “‘They’?”

  “The King. The Queen. Aristocrats. Royalists. The Church. Anyone, in short, who does not agree with Marat. He has begun to gain more traction – you should hear the people on the street repeating his words, more and more every passing day. It is horrifying.”

  “The place we are going tonight – ”

  “Be very, very careful. While there will be aristocrats there, there will also be politicians, philosophers, and writers, all of whom are entranced with the Revolution. There is no need to stir up a political hornet’s nest.”

  “How would I stir it up?”

  “Certain topics are best avoided, even if you are asked your opinion.”

  “Such as…?”

  “Last Saturday, the San Antoine district demanded that the Assembly make the King forfeit all his royal rights to power by midnight tonight.”

  “Or else…?”

  Dardanelle crossed himself. “I do not wish to think of it.”

  “Has the King yielded power?”

  “Not yet, no. It will be a great point of discussion in certain circles this evening.”

  “Does everything in Paris revolve around the Revolution?” Evan asked jokingly.

  Dardanelle was deadly serious in his answer. “Everything.”

  “There are no supporters of the King and Queen?”

  “Oh yes, but it is not wise to admit such a thing in a public gathering such as this. His Majesty and his family are imprisoned in the Tuileries Palace, you know this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Make no mention of it. And for God’s sake, do not in any way suggest I am a supporter of the monarchy, either.”

  “Bu
t… you are, are you not?”

  Though they were in a small carriage, and the noise of the wheels on cobblestones nearly drowned out his voice, Dardanelle glanced around as though looking for spies. “Not tonight, I am not.”

  “What should I say, then, if I am asked my opinion?”

  “For God’s sake, do not give it. Not your true one, anyway. Platitudes about the equality of all men work well. Better yet, pretend your French is so poor that you do not understand the question, or stutter badly when you answer. Whatever you do, though, do not harp on your being English. The one thing all Frenchmen share in common, whether they are nobility or commoners, is a hatred for your king.”

  Evan still could not bear to speak her name aloud – so he used her nom de plume instead. “Then why do they love L’Anglaise so much?”

  Dardanelle chortled. “Despite her birth, Marian is more French than English. And in our love of scandalous matters, we French will overlook anyone’s nationality as long as they amuse us. She is quite amusing, you will see.”

  “I look forward to it,” Evan muttered.

  56

  The house of Madame Renaud was lovely, an old mansion situated inconspicuously amongst older buildings. The carriage dropped off Evan and Dardanelle in the cobblestone street, behind a string of other carriages. They made their way through the courtyard to the front door, where the butler recognized Dardanelle and ushered them both into the salon.

  The house was filled with guests. Some were dressed extravagantly, some simply but well. The adornments ranged from ornate wigs and white-powdered faces to simple ribbons tying back the men’s hair. A great many of the guests – usually the less elaborately dressed – also wore the tri-color cockade with its blue, white, and red.

  Everyone stood together in small groups of three to a dozen, drinking wine from crystal glasses and talking – some gaily, some argumentatively. Evan heard snatches of political discourse from one group as he passed, quotations from Rousseau in another, and heated discussion on the best region for wines in a third.

  But the largest group – and the loudest laughter – was centered around a sofa in the middle of the room. The crowd was composed entirely of men, of all ages and all social standings, and they all had a fawning attitude about them.