by Amy Lake
Damn. “Elizabeth, wait—” he began, but it was too late.
“Marguerite!” she cried, and ran forward.
There was sudden silence as everyone turned to them. The old man, startled, swung the musket around and Peregrine, groaning, leaped from the rick to go after Elizabeth, and throw her to the ground if need be. But the man caught himself, and lowered the muzzle.
“Lizzie!” cried the young girl. “Ma soeur! Ma soeur!”
My sister! My sister!
The two young women—Lord Blakeley could see now that Marguerite, although thin, was all of the fifteen years that Miss Asherwood had said—met and embraced in a downpour of laughter and tears. An excited babble of words, Elizabeth’s soft voice mixing with the delightfully French-accented English of Marguerite, reached his ears, and Peregrine nodded to himself in satisfaction.
Well, that was settled, then.
For the moment the shouting had not resumed as everyone stared at the two girls. The black-haired woman moved forward to address Elizabeth, her face full of surprise. She was the comtesse, realized Lord Blakeley, and wondered how the woman came to be in such a state, because he could see that in addition to the disarray of her hair and dress, Alice du Merveille had a variety of scrapes and bruises, and looked half-dead from exhaustion.
What was this?
The English lord took over. Lord Blakeley strode into the middle of the group, keeping a wary eye on the musket.
“Explain this at once!” he demanded. “Who has injured this woman?”
Everyone began talking at once.
“All ruffians, I tell you!”
“I only meant—”
“They burned the library, and Marguerite had to hide—”
“Eh, and who be you anyway, mon ami?”
Then Alice du Merveille’s voice rang out over every other.
“It does not matter,” she said. “Marguerite and I are home. If you can convince this individual to leave, and to never return, I will count myself well satisfied.”
She pointed to Lefèvre. Lord Blakeley turned to the man, eyes narrowed. He knew the type.
Miss Asherwood had remained arm in arm with her sister during Lord Blakeley’s conversation with Lefèvre. He realized from her quizzical glances back and forth that she had little idea of what was being said, although Marguerite whispered a few words in her ear from time to time. When matters were settled, and Lefèvre had left—the villagers declared themselves satisfied, although Peregrine had to restrain Armand from throwing a rock at the man’s back—he went to Elizabeth’s side.
“I told him that you are Marguerite’s sister, and that you are in regular communication with the comtesse,” said Lord Blakeley. “And furthermore, that if he ever harmed either of them, in any way, I would hunt him to the ends of the earth, and I would see him dead.”
Elizabeth blanched. She could not entirely disagree with this sentiment. Still—
“Don’t worry,” said Blakeley, noticing her expression. “I wouldn’t really kill him. But he’ll never be sure of it.”
Armand St. Juste got his share of attention that afternoon. Alice du Merveille had hugged him fiercely after hearing more of Marguerite’s story of the past few days and promised him a horse, which he could stable at Beauvoir. Then the comtesse, her daughter and Miss Asherwood disappeared into the house, while Peregrine made arrangements for a fresh team and a few supplies for the trip back to Calais.
“There are rumours,” said one of the men to Lord Blakeley, when the women had left. “Soldiers nearby. You should not stay long.”
So they would start off immediately, even if they could not get far that day.
The village men also decided, as a group, that Lord Blakeley’s current attire was entirely too well-made to be convincing, even if he did roll up his sleeves, and the cook’s husband, a farmer, said he would be happy to trade Peregrine’s clothing for his own.
The exchange was made and the men professed themselves satisfied. Lord Blakeley suspected they were also rather amused, as the man had come directly in from mucking out the goats.
* * * *
After a quick tour of Beauvoir Miss Asherwood and her sister returned. Elizabeth coughed a little when she got close enough to smell Lord Blakeley’s clothing, but said nothing. Marguerite just grinned and went off to talk to Armand.
“They’ve said their goodbyes,” said Miss Asherwood. “Marguerite is a little torn, I think, but her mother will not hear of her staying.”
“Is the comtesse accompanying us back to England?” he asked, his voice low. Alice du Merveille had not accompanied her daughter outside.
“No,” said Miss Asherwood. “I asked, I begged really, but she refuses. She does not want to leave Beauvoir.”
“She may be at some risk. Not much, perhaps, but—” He shrugged.
“I believe she knows that. But she will not discuss it further, not in front of Marguerite. I also think,” added Elizabeth, “that she feels London society will be more accepting if the girl comes by herself.”
Peregrine nodded. “Unfortunately, that’s probably true.”
“Armand would go, though,” added Lizzie, smiling.
“The boy?”
“Yes. I think he has a tendre for my sister. But she is asking him to stay and help the comtesse.”
“Well, at least she has allies in the village. And the old man’s musket, God help them.”
“Will they come here, do you think? The revolutionaries?”
Peregrine was honest. “I don’t know.”
“The comtesse insists Marguerite leave with us.”
He shrugged. “She is a mother.”
* * *
Chapter 60
The French Officer
Elizabeth and Marguerite sat together in the back of the rick as Lord Blakeley drove. Occasionally he would turn around to look at them, and to smile and wink at Marguerite. The younger girl leaned against her sister’s shoulder, perfectly at home in the straw, although it made her sneeze.
Both Peregrine and Miss Asherwood had thought to reassure Marguerite about the comtesse, but the girl seemed unperturbed.
“Maman said there will be no more problems,” said Marguerite. “Armand and old Baston will take care of her. She is giving Armand a horse, did you hear?”
That would have to do for now, thought Elizabeth. Lord Blakeley had said that with the support of the village, in all likelihood Alice du Merveille would be safe.
And speaking of Lord Blakeley—
Lizzie wrinkled her nose. His lordship’s previous outfit had apparently been deemed ‘too clean’ by the men, and Blakeley now wore the filthiest clothes imaginable; a long coat of indeterminate color, stained breeches, and a lumpy, wide-brimmed hat. Nothing of the English gentleman remained.
Lizzie suspected that he was enjoying this.
She and Marguerite talked without stopping, and the miles flew by. They managed to find a rather nice inn just north of Saint-Pol-sur-Ternoise, one which did have two rooms to let. The innkeeper was unimpressed with Blakeley’s clothing, but he seemed satisfied enough with his lordship’s coin.
Marguerite fell asleep within minutes. Elizabeth watched her for a short time, then stepped out onto the small balcony.
She realized immediately that this balcony was shared with his lordship’s room. But the day had been warm and the cool air felt marvelous, and she could not convince herself to retreat. She stood for a minute and wondered what would happen—would the stars fall? would the sun be moved from its course?—if she walked into that second room.
You cannot, said a little voice.
Why not? said another.
Once she counted herself happy that Lord Blakeley had sat with her on the library sofa at Aisling House, and she had served him tea. Now she wanted more.
From a rake? asked the first voice, but Lizzie ignored it. Perhaps his lordship was a rake, but she didn’t think so; and what was more, she didn’t much care.
He l
oved her, she was sure of it. As she loved him. And she would not marry Lord Winthrop, no matter what London society said, whether Lord Blakeley would have her or not. And even if it hurt Geoffrey, which she had no wish to do, but marrying him when she loved someone else would hurt him more, in the end.
She would never make Lord Winthrop happy.
Her eyes were closed when she felt Peregrine Blakeley behind her, a hesitant step and a soft brush of fingertips against her cheek.
“I haven’t thanked you,” said Elizabeth, not turning around, “for helping me to find my sister.”
“You’re welcome,” he whispered.
“I guess I wasn’t as well-prepared for a trip to France as I thought.”
She heard a soft chuckle.
“I was unaware,” he said, “that you were prepared at all.”
“I just thought—Lord Winthrop and I had quarreled—and I wanted to do something.”
He said nothing to that. A shooting star flared across the sky.
“Did you make a wish?” said Lord Blakeley.
“When we return to London,” Elizabeth told him, “ask me again.”
* * * *
The cart rocked and bumped along the dirt track, until Lizzie was obliged to catch hold of one side. She watched the woods give way to small fields, with hedgerows to either side of the track. The eastern sky changed from a deep violet to cerulean, and birdsong sounded from every direction. Swallows dipped and swooped; a hawk circled higher overhead.
The landscape awoke peacefully, looking not so different from the woods and fields around London. It seemed impossible that there could be any danger here, and the steady clop-clop of the dray was hypnotic. Her sister, to Elizabeth’s surprise, fell asleep again.
They stopped several times in the course of that second day, as it was clear that sitting for hours on end was almost impossible for Marguerite. She and Miss Asherwood were treating their journey as a romp, which Lord Blakeley was glad of, even while he watched the road carefully for any sign of the patrols.
The village men had been worried, he could tell.
On one such stop Blakeley climbed into the back of the rick, and the three of them ate a quick meal of bread and cheese, washed down with a dipper of water from a nearby creek. Marguerite was teasing Miss Asherwood.
“Say it again,” the girl told Elizabeth. “Say ‘comment allez-vous’.”
Miss Asherwood made an attempt. Lord Blakeley repressed a grin as Marguerite collapsed in giggles.
The girl turned to Peregrine. “We always wrote in English,” Marguerite informed him, “but I never imagined—”
Something prickled at the back of Lord Blakeley’s neck. He turned around.
A lone rider. They had passed several such that day, but this one—
Peregrine looked carefully.
Gods, no. A blue jacket with red piping, black bicorne hat—those hats looked ridiculous, Peregrine had always thought—
An officer. An officer of the revolutionary army, no irregular, but someone who would surely notice two pretty young women accompanied by a farmer who smelled strongly of goat. And who might only be curious, but who would be accustomed to having his curiosity satisfied.
And here they were, stopped at the side of the road, a prime target for questions. Marguerite’s appearance placed her in the aristocracy. As for Miss Asherwood—
Blakeley lunged forward, pushing them both down into the straw.
“Mmph,” Lizzie protested. What was he doing?
He covered her mouth with his hand, his lips at her ear.
“Do not move,” he said. “Do not make a sound.”
Blakeley ripped his coat off and threw it haphazardly in the direction of their feet. He kicked more straw over them, until Lizzie feared she would suffocate.
A loud whinny. Her heart pounding, she looked at Marguerite. The girl looked a little frightened, but Elizabeth dared not move or say anything to reassure her. Through the straw she could just see Blakeley, sitting on the side of the cart, one long leg extended, with that execrable cap pulled low over his eyes.
The sound of a horse approaching. Elizabeth stopped breathing. She held Marguerite close.
A low murmur of voices.
Suddenly the horse snorted, seemingly in her ear. She felt Marguerite start.
“Où vais-tu?”
‘Where are you going?’ whispered her sister, into her ear.
She saw Blakeley tip his cap, stare blearily up at—someone.
“Eh?” he said, one syllable so guttural and strange that Elizabeth recognized nothing of his own voice.
“Chien! Où vais-tu?”
Chien. Dog.
Blakeley spat, by happenstance in the direction of the two women. Elizabeth looked daggers at him through the straw.
“Que?” he said, finally. What?
“Où vais-tu?”
“Coulogne,” said Blakeley, clearly bored.
“Pah,” said the voice, followed by a longer spate of rapid-fire French which Marguerite did not attempt to translate.
Peregrine shrugged. “J’ ne sais,” he said. I dunno.
“Pah.”
Elizabeth could hear the horse stamping and restive, feel its warm breath snorting into the straw over their heads. She had to admire Blakeley’s rendition of ‘the peasant who knew nothing.’ It was a superb performance.
She saw Blakeley sink back against the side of the cart. He pulled his cap down over his eyes and spat again. A long, silent moment, then Elizabeth heard the man cluck softly to his mount.
“Chien,” he threw back at Blakeley, in disgust. “Métis.”
Blakeley yawned. Thank heavens, thought Elizabeth. It’s over.
Marguerite sneezed.
“Eh!”
Elizabeth heard a shout, heard the loud neigh of a horse pulled hard to the bit and rearing. Time slowed. She turned and saw, as in a nightmare through the shrouding straw, a man on horseback. He wore a blue jacket and a strange cap; his expression was fierce. She saw the Frenchman raise his pistol and point toward them—toward her and Marguerite. He shouted something that she didn’t understand—
How could he? she thought. It could be anyone, she’s a child—
How could he? No, no—
She tried to sit up, to throw herself over her sister, but Blakeley had already surged to his feet.
One shot, deafening.
Then silence.
“No!” Elizabeth flung away handfuls of straw and kicked frantically at the cloak covering her feet, efforts which seemed to take hours. Finally she stood, coughing, calling out for Blakeley, terrified and ready to fight, ready to strike at anything in her path.
I have no weapon, thought Elizabeth. I have nothing—
But Lord Blakeley stood in the cart, unharmed, a pistol in his hand. As Elizabeth stared, the soldier crumpled sideways from his mount, slowly, bleeding, fell and fell until Elizabeth could not watch it anymore, blood smeared and dripping down the tawny coat of the horse.
He hit the ground with a thud. The animal stomped and reared, and Blakeley jumped down, catching the reins and speaking to it softly.
Elizabeth turned to Marguerite, who sat up, brushing straw from her hair.
“Lizzie?” she asked.
“We’re fine,” said Elizabeth. “Everything’s fine. It’s over.”
The girl stood up. “I’m sorry, Lizzie! I couldn’t help it, I tried not to sneeze—”
“I know,” said Elizabeth, “It’s fine, everything is fine.” She tried to catch the girl’s attention, direct it away from the body and blood-soaked ground at the side of the cart.
But Marguerite saw. She gave an eloquent, Gallic shrug. “Chien,” said her sister, looking down at the man. “So who is the dog now?”
* * *
Chapter 61
Several Important Questions
A few days passed easily enough in Calais, and Lord Winthrop became quite fond of brioches. He was also developing an appreciation for t
he local wines, and made his way downstairs one evening in anticipation of a small glass or two in the salon, only to find Monsieur and Madame Berard in agitated conversation. They looked at him in some alarm.
“We have only just heard,” said the man. “There has been a . . . killing. On the road from Ardres.”
It took Geoffrey a moment to realize the significance of this information.
“The irréguliers have been patrolling more frequently of late,” said the innkeep. “We are afraid . . . we are not sure . . . but your friends were to return this evening.”
Lord Winthrop, who had spent very little of the previous few days thinking about his impending marriage, and a great deal about Miss Forbes-Treffy, felt the world drop from beneath his feet.
He sank into a chair.
What was the man saying? Was he saying that Miss Asherwood had been hurt? That was impossible, why would anyone want to hurt Lizzie?
“Seigneur—”
Lord Winthrop slowly became aware that Monsieur Berard was still talking to him, but his thoughts flew in every direction, and he was unable to concentrate enough to understand the words. He stared without reply at the innkeep, who eventually left him to his own thoughts.
Why should it be Lizzie who was hurt? Geoffrey told himself. And yet what an uncomfortable coincidence, that on the very day an English lord and a well-bred woman traveled that road—
Two hours went by and Lord Winthrop had not moved. Madame Berard brought him a large glass of his favorite wine, which he did not touch. She spoke to her husband in a whisper; Geoffrey did not care.
The outside door opened, and three people entered. Lord Winthrop, who had forgotten all about Marguerite, had been waiting for two, and for a moment he paid little attention. Then he heard Madame Berard’s exclamation.
“Dieu merci!”
Thank God.
It was indeed Miss Asherwood, who stood staring at him in shock, with Lord Blakeley and a young girl at her side. And Geoffrey, flooded with relief, realized something in that moment, realized it with the absolute clarity of life-changing knowledge; that although he did not wish to marry her, Elizabeth Asherwood was his friend. They had known each other from childhood. They had climbed trees together, and learned to ride together, and shared a first dance at a grown-up ball.
