by Sophia James
‘Then let us pray it will not come to that.’
* * *
His voice was changing even as he spoke into the pious, humble cadence of a servant of the Lord. With his closely shaved head, she could now see the light colour of his hair was back. In the sun it would show blond and the tips of his eyelashes were almost a white-gold.
‘Is there a safe box here? Something no one else would find easily if they were to search the place?’
‘Under the hearth,’ she replied and led him over to the fireplace. A quick catch of stone and a space opened, a space large enough even for a small person.
‘Papa had it fashioned for me.’
‘Did you ever use it?’
‘No.’
God, everything she ever told him of her life communicated other things to him as well. He cursed August and Mary Elizabeth Fournier for their careless guardianship of a daughter who should have been safer.
‘Put the pistols in here along with your harlot’s dress and the white wig.’ He had gathered up the strands of dark hair that he had shorn off himself and placed them in a twist of paper. These would go in there, too.
‘Let them guess who we are now.’ He jammed the medicines in the hole as well, keeping two twists of paper which he stuffed into the bag. The old marked bandage that had been around his thigh was also carefully hidden. Weakness was something he wanted to keep concealed. One sniff of weakness and the dogs of war would be after him with even more tenacity.
Finding a sheet of paper and a quill pen, he laid it on the writing desk.
‘Make up a fictitious name and address. Tell the recipient that you will be leaving for the north coast and that you will be there in two weeks if all goes well. Sign it with the name you are known as here and put as high a note as you can afford inside. I’d give you some, but they took everything in my pockets. The money should distract them. When you finish, date it and hide it in the bookshelf. They will find it.’
He was now circling the room, seeing it from the point of view of an enemy. Emptying the last of the wine into a glass, he wrapped the vessel in fabric along with the cork. Bundling this up he placed it into the bottom of the canvas bag that Caroline Debussy had bequeathed her. He took one of the small silver plates from the mantel and shoved it in, too, before picking a miniature framed portrait off from the wall.
August’s great-grandmother. The woman was dour and frowning, her clothes as dark and sombre as her mood.
‘She will do as the blessed Saint Barbara, one of the patron saints of soldiers,’ he said suddenly. ‘A protector.’
‘For you?’ Celeste could not quite understand what he meant and he shook his head.
‘A sop for all those who will chase us. Offer them up a prayer of guardianship and they will forget their suspicions of us.’
‘You know of such a prayer?’
He raised one hand and touched her on the head, speaking in low tones.
‘He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust...’
She looked at him in amazement.
‘Psalm Ninety-One,’ he continued. ‘The soldier’s verse. God gives four instructions to quell the sense of fear that rises in the hearts of those who fight.’
Celeste was astonished at his competency. How did he do it? What sort of a mind could keep in its grasp the prayer of aiding those who fought for their country when he had professed himself a disbeliever who did not follow any religion? Even she as a practising Catholic had no rote memory of such an entreaty.
‘Part of my job in Spain was to reassure those around me that what would happen next was hopeful. The first instruction, “you will not be afraid”, was crucial because after that the others would fall into place.’
‘The others?’
‘You will trust, watch, move forward and pray.’
‘And you did that?’
‘I never prayed much. Perhaps that was why they caught me finally, though one of the last human freedoms is to choose how you might react to new and unwanted circumstance.’
‘And you chose to fight?’
In his eyes the humour doused and Celeste was certain there was another story there. With care, she brought her rosary from her pocket. ‘I think you should have this, then. It would be an expected accoutrement of someone so very devout.’
‘It was August’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘I will give it back to you as soon as this character of a priest is no longer needed.’
She saw him draw the beads through his fingers and place the rosary in one of the pockets in his oversized habit as she nodded, the heavy silver crucifix hanging around his neck bright against brown cloth.
‘If I die, take it to my grandmother. She thinks I am dead already, but...’
‘You’d want her to know the truth?’
‘Yes.’ The word came from some place deep inside, a connection that was not as broken as she had always imagined it to be.
Summer had turned away already, collecting two blankets from the leather sofa and stuffing them into the bag with a ball of rope he had found.
‘I’d like to take more of use along with us, but a Catholic priest would likely have little in the way of earthly possessions.’
Her own persona was forming, too, as she gathered another sharp knife, a set of chisels and a mallet from her father’s workroom. August had taken up working with leather as a way of relaxing and she often watched him at it. Another strength, she thought, and added a punch for any holes needed.
If anyone asked her about her work as a leatherwork apprentice, she could answer with some expertise. It was the best she could hope for because, if not, she would place Summer in danger as well. The weft and warp of circumstance had strange ways of tying one back into the fabric of life.
* * *
They left just after ten o’clock in the morning, the rain having eased, although the wind was high. The marketplace at Boulevard de Clichy was busy, the vendors well into selling their day’s wares.
There were soldiers on the far side of Place Blanche and by the slight turn of head Celeste knew that Summer had seen them, too.
The trick was not to falter or hesitate. That was what the hunters would be looking for, that momentary stoppage or the first change of direction that would be the pointer to complicity. She had done this herself, looked through a crowd for the very same small thing over the years. So she kept her chin firm and walked behind Shayborne. He went slowly, the slight limp less noticeable as he spoke to a man next to him in a jovial way, of the weather and travel and the price of bread. Not just the two of them now, but others, she thought, a family to draw them in.
‘You are a priest who hails from the south, Father?’ Celeste was close enough to hear the conversation between Summer and the man next to him now.
‘Indeed, I am. I have had word that my mother is ill and so...’ He stopped and she could hear the grief in his words.
‘Then you must let me send you on your way with some bread and cheese. Maria?’ A woman she had not seen joined the man along with three very young children. ‘Could you give a wedge of cheese to the priest here?’
The soldiers were to their right now and close, but without any hesitation whatsoever Summerley Shayborne stopped to take the offered fare.
The soldiers gestured them on, a family who were travelling together, their gazes lingering on others now, smaller groups, people who loitered alone. And then they were in the wider alleys of Place Clichy, disgorged into space. A tavern full of patrons lay before them and, after offering his farewell to the family group, it was to this that Shayborne led her.
Taking a small seat to one side of the room, she squeezed in beside him as the barmaid came over with two tankards of ale.
‘The fellow over there sends you these with his regards. He hopes he might join you?’
‘I would be honoure
d,’ Shayborne replied and lifted his glass to a tall man in the corner who ambled over and sat down, too.
‘It’s not a good day out, Father. Is it a room you’d be wanting?’
‘A meal might be more to our liking.’ Summer pulled forth a purse that was thin and light, placing it down on to the seat beside him.
The man was quick, Celeste had to give him that. Before she could blink an eye his hand had slid across the wood and replaced it with another purse almost the same, only this one was far heavier. When Summer lifted it again he gave no sign at all of anything being different as he extracted a few of the coins.
Summerley Shayborne knew this man and he had expected him to be here at this time on this day. As she helped herself to some of the food his eyes caught her own. Trust me, they seemed to say, and her fingers slid back from the knife at her belt.
‘My sister and her husband own a place a few streets west from here. I should imagine they will be pleased to put you up for a few nights for a reasonable price. Do you know Boulevard Malesherbes?’
‘Indeed, I do.’
‘Here is the address, then.’ He pulled paper from the bag at his belt and proceeded to write out his direction, though as the clock on the wall behind them boomed out the hour the man stood. ‘I will leave you to your meal. Bon appetit.’
Then he was gone, out into the street as the noise in the tavern rolled around them again, convivial and loud. She did not speak, though, as she processed the events of the past few moments in silence. The bread was fresh and the beef stew tasty. As she ate she realised it had been two days since she’d had a proper meal of any sorts and she was starving. Shayborne ate, too, his face set into a smile, though the tight white of his knuckles told her that danger was close somewhere. Breathing out, she copied him, relaxing the lines of her shoulders against the wall behind and tipping down her hat.
The two men knew each other, that much at least was plain. How had he set up this meeting before he’d ever had the need to? The barmaid watched them from her place across the room. A new student in the game of intelligence, Celeste supposed, for she herself would not have glanced across once.
Sometimes she felt ancient.
‘We’ll leave Paris tomorrow.’ He said this quietly, the tankard hiding his lips.
When she nodded he turned away as if his words explained everything. And perhaps they did. Even in a foreign city, Shayborne had set up contacts that were in place should he have a need of them. There was a sort of artistry in such forethought, as well as comfort. After six years of existing in the underbelly of Parisian espionage she had not managed to weave a safety net around herself at all and such negligence said as much about her as it did about him.
He was a man who did not operate alone. He trusted others and depended on their integrity, something she had never grasped the knack of. His contacts were solid.
She’d always paid others well, even for questionable loyalty, whilst he garnered his respect merely by being the sort of man that he was. Honourable. Swallowing, she was saddened by the comparisons between them and, when the meat stuck in her throat, she coughed and took a deep sip of the ale.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to accompany him, after all. Perhaps she should have disappeared after saving him in the dungeon of Les Chevaliers when he still thought her...worthy. Such a word made her smile because in truth she was so far from being anything like him.
‘You are enjoying the meal?’
For the first time since their arrival at the tavern she looked straight at Summerley Shayborne. ‘It is always enlightening to see a master at work.’
‘Hardly that.’ The light caught at the new growth on his chin.
‘I have seen your friend before. I cannot quite remember where.’
‘I wondered if you might have. He recognised you.’
‘Is he...safe?’ The last word was whispered though the noise in the room was substantial.
‘We’ll talk of it later. Right now we need to go.’
She saw him glance at the clock in the corner. Half an hour exactly since the man had departed. Further instructions had been given unsaid. He left a silver coin on the table.
Outside the sun was shining through the rain in that particular way of summer deluges. The small drops of it marked his habit in a darker colour. Celeste liked the coolness on her face.
Five streets to the south-west they came to the Boulevard Malesherbes. The man from the tavern was waiting in the vestibule and beckoned them forward. Three more flights of steps and they were in front of a door that was green, the paint peeling so that a brighter yellow showed through.
Inside, the place was tidy and well furnished.
‘I’ve been waiting for you since the day before yesterday, Shay, for Axel said you had been taken in by Benet and Les Chevaliers for questioning.’ His eyes came across to Celeste, looking her up and down.
‘Brigitte Guerin.’ Summer gave this introduction, the protection of the name telling her a lot. ‘She got me out.’
‘Perhaps only to sell you off to someone else at a higher price?’
Celeste tried to school her annoyance.
‘Brigitte, meet Aurelian de la Tomber.’
Now memory clicked. ‘I know of you. You are one of Clarke’s men and your family owns the most expensive house in Faubourg Saint Honoré. Aristocrats who have survived the reign of Terror virtually intact?’
‘Impressive.’ De la Tomber smiled and she thought then that he was almost as beautiful as Shayborne. She had never met him directly, but she had heard of him. A dangerous man by all accounts, a man who played a game a thousand times more convoluted than her own. Right now he only looked puzzled.
‘You’d be best to stay here for a day or two until the heat dies down. I shan’t come back again until tomorrow morning for it’ll be safer that way. There is food and water in the kitchen and good wine, too. My agency thinks you have already left Paris, but there are others who are not so sure. They know you are wounded. A bullet to the thigh by all accounts and not an easy thing to walk upon?’
‘It is better now. The merest scratch.’
‘I have doubts that the minions of Benet are slipping so badly in their expertise of torture.’ He looked at the habit and at Shayborne’s shaved head. ‘The persona of a devout Catholic priest has a certain power in it. I hope you know your verses.’
‘Napoleon has his detractors in the church, Lian, and there are very many places in which to gain sanctuary and have few questions asked.’
‘Wellesley is offering a substantial reward to anyone who can extract you from the French. He hopes you might simply turn up to claim it yourself if you can make it to the border of Spain...’
Shayborne stopped him. ‘I have not yet decided which route we will travel.’
‘You will stay together, then?’ There was a heavy frown across his brow, but he did not pursue such an insult further. ‘There is more money in the desk and weaponry in the space behind the painting of boats in the hall. If you have need of me, leave a candle in the front window at eight o’clock in the evening and I will come.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, there is one more thing. Madame Debussy said that if I saw you, I was to give you this, Mademoiselle Guerin.’ He turned and lifted a book from the table, handing it to Summer.
So de la Tomber knew of her relationship with Caroline. That fact had her heart racing.
It was her father’s journal. Celeste knew the cover like the back of her hand and it was all she could do not to move forward and snatch it, her teeth digging into the soft flesh at the side of her mouth to prevent herself from speaking.
When he had gone, Shayborne passed the book over and she slipped it inside her jacket, every fibre in her body aching to open it. Not now. She needed time and space to read what her papa had written. At this moment it was enough that it was there, next to her heart. Safe.
* * *
Aurelian did not trust Celeste and Shay wondered what the
ir connection was for the book meant something, too. He could see the pulse in the soft folds of her throat beating at a pace almost twice what it had been before. So many possibilities. He seldom left things to such chance and felt uneasy because of it.
Part of him wanted to flee from Paris now, before the darkness came. If he had been alone, he would have, but Celeste Fournier looked tired, the rings beneath her eyes almost purple in this light. There was grazing on her chin, too, and a cut on the bridge of her nose. The brutal cold-hearted woman who had come into the dungeon of Les Chevaliers and saved him had disappeared completely.
Instead she looked lost and uncertain. And damn young. The smoky bruised blue of her eyes held a thousand thoughts, each one turning through worry before she could hide it.
Had she been anyone else he might have held out his hand in comfort, but too many emotions shimmered between them and he was cautious.
‘You need to sleep. I will take the first watch.’
Outside, the day was darkening, more summer rain on the horizon. He was glad she made no answer, but moved away to find the bedroom. Her footfalls were soft and his fingers uncurled from their tight fists as he heard that she was gone.
‘God, help me,’ he prayed under his breath, frowning as he realised that it was the absolution of lust that he asked for. He remembered her scarlet lips and the pink-tipped nipple before the man she had used her knife on had closed his mouth about her breast.
The freedom of lust is a balm for any emptiness, Major, I promise it.
It had been almost three years since he had lain with a woman and Celeste Fournier’s easy offer had set fire to a libido long asleep. It would mean nothing to her, he knew it, a quick toss of passion and a quest for completion, for she had told him so exactly.
Hardly, monsieur. There was a whole world of lovers I was yet to meet.
The anger in him smothered desire. Lian de la Tomber hadn’t liked her. He had seen this in the eyes of his friend.
Celeste thought she had killed the bearded man torturing him in the dungeon, but he did not think she had. He’d seen the twitch of his fingers as they had left the room and the shallow pulse of life still at his throat.
