by Diane Gaston
“It is not my place,” he responded. What could he wish her to know? That he was French? That he detested her country and its emphasis on class and status? That he’d sworn to kill for revenge?
She turned around and he was touched by the melancholy look on her face. “We cannot really be friends, can we?”
“Non.” For all those reasons.
What would she think of him if she knew he now had a plan to confront and kill Tranville under the very roof where she slept?
He must carry out this plan soon.
After this halcyon morning spent with Louisa, he realised he should not remain at Rappard Hall many more days. He did not know how much longer he could resist asking even more of Louisa. The attachment between them grew stronger with every hour they shared.
Would she despise him after he killed Tranville?
How could she not? That thought pained him as surely as if it were he who felt the stiletto’s sharp point.
Louisa glanced back to the vista below, Rappard Hall and its farm buildings.
“I dread returning,” she said.
“Your cousin. His guests. I wish I could make them be civil to you.” It offended his manhood that they should say things to her that a respectable young woman should not hear. He had no power, however, as a mere stable worker, to come to her defence.
“I will avoid them.” She glanced back at him with a smile. “They cannot be rude to me if I stay out of their way.”
As they descended the hill, they could see a small carriage drawn by one horse at the door of Rappard Hall.
Louisa shaded her eyes with her hand. “I wonder who that is. It looks like a man in uniform.”
A man walked around the carriage. He wore a British officer’s red coat and sash.
Claude’s nerves went on alert. What was a British officer doing out here?
Louisa laughed. “I hope he has come to chase my cousin and his friends away.”
Claude squinted into the sun. The officer climbed into a small carriage and disappeared behind the carriage’s hood. He could see no more than the man’s hands holding the ribbons. The carriage started off.
“He is leaving!” Louisa cried in a worried tone. “I should have been there to receive him. One never knows how George will deal with matters of importance.”
Claude’s brow furrowed. The officer could not be looking for him, could he? Non, it was impossible. No one in England knew of him. His mother was the only one who knew his plans and certainly she would reveal them to no one.
Even so, the red-coated officer felt like a bad omen, a sign he must no longer tarry.
As they entered the paddocks behind the stable, Claude gazed at Louisa, memorising this image of her, seated so expertly upon her horse. Her back was straight, her waist narrow, and a peek of brown curls were visible beneath her hat.
She turned to glance at him and smiled once more.
Perhaps that was what he would remember the best. Her lovely lips curved into a smile that lit up her eyes and put dimples in her cheeks. Perhaps on lonely nights he would remember that once a lovely English girl had smiled when she looked upon him.
He averted his gaze, following instead the small carriage that made its way down the path to the road. He scanned the farm, thinking how well tended it was, how kind Mr Sellars and the other grooms had been to him, how thrilled he was to have cared for and ridden such beautiful horses.
He patted Apollo on the neck and the horse bobbed his head in pleasure.
Apollo would be the third horse he’d come to love and the third horse he’d endure losing. His father’s horse. His own Coco. Now Apollo.
But even that paled in comparison to losing Louisa.
Gabe turned the gig on to the road back to the hill farm.
“What a stupid man,” Emmaline exclaimed. “Vile and stupid and stinking of spirits.”
“Indeed.” Gabe wondered something else, as well. Edwin looked more ill than drunk.
Emmaline shifted in her seat. “He should not have said those awful things to you about gentlemen. He is not a gentleman!”
He turned to her. “He was never a man of good character. If he had been, he would never have done what he did to you and Claude.”
“Ha!” She pulled at her gloves. “I did worse to him. Every day in the mirror he must look at what I did to him.”
Her anger was much more welcome to Gabe than her despair. Soon the fact that he’d failed her would again plunge her into desolation. Finding Edwin had accomplished nothing, after all.
Except they might discover that Claude was near. If they could find Claude and reason with him, Emmaline’s wish might come true at last.
She put her hand on his arm. “Do you think he tells the truth that he does not recall what happened?”
He frowned. “He was very drunk that day, much worse than usual. It is possible he has no memory of it.”
“It is unfair.” She gazed out at the road ahead. “Claude and I must always remember it.”
And I must remember as well, thought Gabe.
She grew silent and he knew her mind was filled with thoughts of her son.
He cleared his throat. “Let us stay the night with my uncle. Tomorrow you must rest. I will go to the nearby villages and enquire about Claude. If he is close, someone will know it. Someone will remember him.”
She wrapped her arm through his and leaned against him. “I will go with you.”
He glanced at her beautiful face. “We’ll see.”
Gabe turned his attention to the familiar land around him, land whose seasons had remained the same as the days of his boyhood. The scent of the grass, the baying of distant sheep, the warmth of the sun on his face, brought back memories of peaceful days. This land refreshed one’s spirits, restored one’s hopes.
Perhaps it would work its magic on her.
“What if we do not find Claude?” she asked, her voice taut with tension. “How can we stop him if Edwin will not let us near?”
“We try to find him first.”
“I feel Claude near, Gabriel,” she murmured. “I feel the danger.”
Gabe felt the danger, too, as well as a sudden unshakeable sense of doom.
In spite of the worry, they spent a bucolic evening at Uncle Will’s house. Emmaline cooked the dinner, roasting a chicken and making frites, the potatoes Gabe had not tasted since their shared dinners in Brussels. Uncle Will ate with such relish he barely spoke, except to say, over and over, “This is delicious.”
After dinner Emmaline insisted Gabe sit with his uncle while she washed dishes. Afterwards, she picked up some of Uncle Will’s mending, needing to keep busy, Gabe understood. By the time darkness fell, she sat by the lamp pushing a needle through the cloth and Gabe had nothing left to talk about with his uncle.
They sat in silence for several moments, until his uncle leaned back. “So tell me why you were so fired up to find that fellow at Rappard Hall.”
Gabe should have known his uncle would get around to asking. It was very apparent that Gabe and Emmaline had remained troubled since their return.
“I cannot speak of it,” Gabe said, glancing towards Emmaline.
He made it Emmaline’s decision what, if anything, to say to his uncle. Gabe knew Uncle Will would not press the matter, but he also knew his uncle would worry about what distressed his nephew.
Emmaline returned Gabe’s gaze with a resigned expression. “Tell your uncle all of it, Gabriel. I want him to know.”
He was surprised at her decision, but he faced his uncle and began the story at Badajoz. It was the only way to make Uncle Will understand Claude’s need for revenge. Gabe told his uncle how he and Emmaline had searched England for Edwin, knowing Claude might also be near. They’d hoped warning Edwin would be enough to keep him safe until they could locate Claude and convince him to abandon his dangerous plan. Gabe explained Edwin’s reaction to their warning.
Uncle Will
listened intently, his hands folded in front of his lips. When Gabe came to the end, his uncle slowly opened his hands and rubbed his face. He gazed off in the distance. “A French fellow… Seems to me I heard of a French fellow—”
Emmaline dropped her mending. “Where?”
He tapped his lips before going on. “Appleton—the blacksmith—seems to me he spoke of a Frenchman. Sellars—do you remember him?” he asked Gabe. “Sellars runs the Rappard stable. He hired a new fellow, Appleton said. A French fellow. Good with horses.”
Emmaline rose to her feet. “He is hired to work at the Rappard stables?”
He’d been within easy reach when they’d called upon Edwin at Rappard Hall.
Uncle Will nodded. “Best worker Sellars ever had, he told the smithy.”
It was like placing the wolf among the sheep.
Gabe shot to his feet. “It must be Claude!”
Emmaline rushed over to him. “We must go now! It cannot wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow might be too late.”
“I will go.” Gabe turned to his uncle. “Do you have a fast horse I might ride?”
“There’s only one horse fit for riding,” his uncle replied. “The riding horses were sold. Stapleton’s heir sold all he could. All that’s left are work horses.”
“Let us saddle him now,” Gabe said.
Emmaline grabbed her hat and gloves from a table near the door. “I will go with you. I must!”
He grasped Emmaline’s shoulders. “I can go faster if I ride alone.”
She clung to him. “You must let me go with you!”
He shook his head. “Time is of the essence. Trust me to do this.”
She nodded, but tears filled her eyes as she looked up at him. “I have this terrible feeling—”
He gave her a swift embrace and did not tell her he shared her worst fears.
Chapter Seventeen
Claude entered the house through an open door that led to the still room and the kitchen. A glow from embers in the oven gave the only light, but he’d seen and memorised enough of this level to grope his way to the stairway.
He was in luck. He easily discovered the servants’ staircase. As he climbed in the darkness, he kept an image of the house in his mind. He needed to find the right room on the right hallway.
On the second floor, he opened the door to the corridor. To his surprise it was lit by a sconce on the wall, making it easier for him to see, but also easier to be discovered. Heart pounding, he closed his eyes to visualize the house again. He was in the correct wing. Now he must choose the correct door. Opening his eyes, he counted. One. Two. Three.
Would he find his enemy there? From outside he’d watched him readying for bed, saw him extinguish his candle. Had Tranville remained in the room?
The rest of the house seemed quiet and dark, except for the flickering candle in the sconce. Holding his breath, Claude stepped out into the hallway and crept quietly to the third door. From somewhere he heard voices, muffled and distant. Dare he go on?
He’d come too far to stop now.
He reached the door and tried the knob. It turned. He opened the door only wide enough to slip through. Enough moonlight streamed through the curtains to reveal the shape of the bed and other furniture in the room. Gradually more details revealed themselves. The shape of bottles on a table. Clothing thrown over a chair.
The whole room smelled foul.
A loud snore startled him. He expelled an excited breath. Tranville was here.
Claude moved slowly towards the bed, reaching inside his coat to slip the stiletto from its sheath. As he got closer, the stench worsened and he recoiled. It was the stink of Tranville, even stronger than before.
He covered his nose and mouth with his hand until he reached the bedside and placed the point of the stiletto against Tranville’s throat.
“Wake up, you villain!” he spoke in a loud whisper.
Tranville woke with a start. The tip of the stiletto pierced his flesh. A drop of blood appeared. “What?”
“Silence or I’ll stick this all the way through your throat!” Claude pressed the point against Tranville’s skin again for emphasis.
“Who—who are you?” The whites of Tranville’s eyes seemed to glow in the dark. “You are French? You are the Frenchman? They said—I did not believe them.”
“Be quiet!” Claude growled. “I was once the boy whose mother you tried to violate. In Badajoz. Remember? You laughed when the others killed my father. I want their names. I’ll kill you if I do not have their names.” He would kill Tranville no matter what.
“I do not know their names. I wasn’t there, I tell you. You have the wrong man.” Tranville retched and the point pierced him again. More blood trickled from the wound. “Don’t kill me!”
Claude moved the point away slightly. “I have the right man. I heard your name. My mother sliced your face.”
Tranville’s hand touched his cheek. “I’m going to be sick.” He turned his head and retched.
“Answer my question!” Claude cut him again.
“I cannot!” A gurgle sounded in Tranville’s throat and he spat on to the bed linens.
Claude averted his face in disgust.
The man sat up and clutched at his abdomen. “This is a hoax. I told Deane so. He has gone too far.”
Claude whipped the stiletto against Tranville’s chest.
Deane had been the name of his mother’s English lover.
He put pressure on the stiletto. “Why do you mention Deane?”
Had Deane been the British soldier he and Louisa had seen earlier?
“Come, now. He is your partner, is he not? You are all in this together.” He sneered. “You made it too coincidental. Not well done at all. They come today; you come tonight. I’m too clever not to figure this out.”
“They?” Had there been another person in the small carriage? He’d been unable to seen anything more than a glimpse of a soldier.
Tranville’s expression turned defiant. “The French woman who said she cut my face. Did you not say that was your mother? Have you forgotten your lines in this little farce?”
His mother? Here? With Deane?
Claude pushed the stiletto against Tranville’s chest and drew more blood.
“I’m bleeding!” Tranville cried, raising his voice. “No!”
“Quiet!” demanded Claude.
He needed to end this. The risk of discovery was becoming too great. Deane was near. With his mother. He must finish this now and make his escape.
Claude gripped the stiletto and pushed the point in further.
Tranville cried aloud.
A vision of Louisa flashed through Claude’s mind. What if she woke from Tranville’s cry? What if she discovered him over Tranville’s lifeless body?
He moved the knife away.
Another cry rang out, this time a woman’s scream.
Louisa?
The sound came from somewhere in the house. Nearby.
“Help me!” It was Louisa’s voice. “Help!”
What was happening to her?
Claude could never ignore such a cry. With a frustrated growl he pulled himself away from Tranville’s bed and ran out of the room into the hallway, thinking only of Louisa.
“Someone help me!” she cried.
Shoving the stiletto in its sheath inside his coat, he followed the sound of her voice, turning down another corridor on this same floor. A sliver of light shone under a doorway. He made his way to that door and pressed his ear against it.
“Let me go, Nicholas. Go away,” he heard. “Someone will come to help me.”
A man laughed. “No one can hear you. Edwin is the only one on this floor and he’s probably passed out from drink. Stop acting the tease. You want this as much as I do.”
Claude opened the door. On the bed Nicholas Frye straddled Louisa, holding her by the wrists. She struggled to free herself.
Hot with r
age, Claude crossed the room and seized Nicholas by the collar, jerking him away. “Ne pas la toucher!” Do not touch her!
Nicholas rolled to the floor, but quickly found his feet again. Claude punched him in the stomach. A whoosh of air escaped the man’s lungs and he staggered back. Claude charged him, pushing him against a dressing table. It shattered and its bottles and pots broke on the floor, making a great noise and filling the room with the flowery scent of Louisa’s perfume.
