by Sophia James
He looked only perplexed. ‘This street has a cathedral and two small chapels, and when one operates within the boundaries of the expected there is seldom trouble.’
‘And further on? What happens then?’
‘We change into the next characters that make sense, allowing no chance of connection to the ones whom they see today.’
‘Because they might be able to remember us?’
‘No. Because they will. See that boy there, the one with the street urchins who lingers and watches us?’
She nodded.
‘His hands were softer than the rest and he did not reach for the bread with the same desperation as the others. He will report to his master tonight of our presence and that man will report to his handler at the very latest on the morrow. He will have seen which door we hailed from and after that it will be an easy leap from obscurity to recognition.’
‘They will find the gun?’
‘Aurelian will have taken that already and cleaned down the rooms. What will be spoken of is all the things that were not done. We did not pray at the cathedral. We did not take a bed in the house of the Lord for the night or attend a mass. What is expected is always more powerful than what isn’t and any digression will lead to questions.’
Celeste glanced at the sky. A little after eight in the morning. The sweat trickled between her breasts and soaked the lawn of her camisole beneath her armpits.
‘Which way should we go, then?’ Suddenly she felt afraid.
‘Which way would you go?’ The question surprised her.
‘Towards the south. They would not expect to find us heading there.’
‘Very well.’
He handed her the skin of water and she drank because the day was becoming hotter by the moment and because suddenly all she could think of was his large body against her own in the night, taut, muscled and warm.
‘We will be safe, Celeste. Don’t worry.’
She could not say to him that the reason for her frown was the memory of those hidden hours beside him, of those moments of being suspended into only feeling, the empty yawning holes of her life filled with something else. Joy, if she might name it, or delight. Usually sex simply provided a void of feeling and it had been so very long since she had known these other things.
So she said nothing and allowed him to think that she was frightened instead.
Twelve hours of daylight at least before they could lie together again in the safety of darkness. But would he want to? She had surprised him last night, she had seen it in his eyes and on his face and in the guardedness that had covered all his words today. Would he have other barriers up now, pre-warned as he was and watching? Would it be fair to go to him again after a difficult day of evading an enemy? Would she be one, too, for that matter? An enemy of a different sort, but broken and fragmented and impossible to make whole again?
She shook her head. She would not survive into the night if she was not focused and she needed all her wits around her if they were to reach safety in one piece.
She observed him as he walked and saw how he covered his limp with a gait that swung him from side to side. A birth defect? An injury long sustained and acknowledged? An impediment so noticeable none looked for the other hurt beneath. A further disguise.
This was how he had evaded capture in Portugal and Spain right under the noses of his enemy. By stealth and cunning and outright bravery. Even now he turned and smiled at her, the sun on his head showing up the small new bristles of blond and the depths in his eyes of velvet amber. The fear that had been a constant companion for so many years fell away under his competence, the chance of life shimmering through a curtain of disbelief.
They would head south on the road to Orléans and towards that wide and useful waterway of the Loire. There were barges they could board to keep them out of the public gaze until they arrived at Nantes, the island port of Brittany. The water was deep enough there for the American trade ships to anchor safely up the river and away from the British blockade. Celeste imagined Shayborne would easily be able to pretend to be an envoy of Madison or a citizen of the American states caught up in an unexpected war and seeking safety.
Perhaps they might even be stopped by a British man of war standing out to sea once they had passed out of the river mouth at St Nazaire? She had heard that they were there.
So many questions.
‘It will rain again later today and tomorrow as well by the looks of it.’ Summer was observing the sky and frowning.
‘A hot wet season,’ she answered, the talk of weather a neutral topic that at least allowed conversation.
They did not venture close to one another as they walked among the shadows of the buildings and through the archways that led to smaller streets, though every time they touched inadvertently she held her breath with hope.
Then, all of a sudden, he seemed to have had enough of the awkward silences for he stopped to lean against a wall.
‘Thank you for last night, Celeste.’
Of all the things she had expected him to say, that was the last of them.
‘It has been a long time since I bedded a woman, you understand,’ he finished, truth in his eyes.
‘Your wife...?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have not been so discreet,’ she offered this and watched him swallow quickly and look down. ‘My husband, others who I might seek information from, those in my way who needed distraction from my true purpose...’ She could have carried on, but she did not. The tawdry reality of her years in Paris spoken out loud was shameful and yet it was a necessary truth.
‘You use it as a weapon, then? Your body?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Last night?’
‘No. Last night I just needed to forget.’
‘Forget me?’
At that she smiled. ‘Perhaps not you.’
‘Then I am glad for it.’
And just like that, the shyness between them dispersed and a new strength lay in its place, for he had allowed their midnight tryst some fineness. She could work with that and manage. No mandate had been set to do it again, but neither had it been negated to the lost realms of a mistake.
Gathering their things, they moved on and Celeste pulled her hat down further across her eyes for anonymity and for protection. There was no one watching them, she was certain of it. No one lingered or tarried, no one walked towards them or away with any sense of a purpose other than their own. She would recognise a careful observation for it had, after all, been a part of her everyday habit for so very long, the feeling of scrutiny was etched into her bones.
‘It’s clear.’ Shayborne’s words. He’d been scanning the street as well then and had reached the same conclusion. It felt good to walk with someone else like this, a double protection, another set of eyes.
* * *
She saw them half an hour later, two lesser agents of Les Chevaliers, standing outside a tavern on the corner of Avenue Bois de Boulogne and the Place de la Pompe. She was walking behind Shayborne and was glad of it for otherwise he might have noticed the shock that consumed her. Had she been far enough back so that an enemy would fail to place the two of them together? Could he still stay safe even if she was not?
Stepping away into one of the dark alleys to her left, she saw them both change direction and come her way, the washing lines and melee of people separating her for this moment. She welcomed the wet slap of cloth and the pushing humanity of those in the street. If she could get to the river bank, then she would be safe, the water at her feet and the wide countryside before her.
But there were more of them at the next junction. Four others at her count and she knew then that she was in deep trouble. Part of her wondered whether she should even bother fighting, or should she simply give herself up to the inevitable. Without a gun in her pocket she had little chance of escape and she did not wish for the innocents about her to be caught in the violence of a capture. Like the Dubois children had been.
&nb
sp; Was this her punishment for the years she had lied and cheated and deceived? A small family moved past her and the fight in her was snuffed out. She waited for the knife or the bullet almost with calmness as she shut her eyes. A quick end and Summer would stay safe. She hoped he would take the rosary to her grandmother as she had asked him.
Then the major was standing there, tight fury beneath his smile and blood on his knuckles.
‘Let’s go.’
‘Where are they?’ She glanced around and saw not one of her stalkers.
‘Gone.’
She felt him pull her along, his fingers bruising her skin, the cries of people behind them fading as they turned a corner. He looked furious.
‘If you are not going to put up a fight, at least do me the courtesy of staying somewhere close so that I can do it for you.’
The dizzy fear that had consumed her made her nauseous and near tears. She had let in hope and the dry taste of it felt bitter on her tongue. Better not to care. Better to be isolated and alone as she always had been for so very long.
‘Thank you.’ She hated the breathlessness in her voice as she leaned against a door, knotting her shaking hands behind her and frustrated with the way she had handled herself. She was ashamed at her incompetence. Her mind flew now across an escape route and Paris was a city she knew well. ‘It is a half mile to the river. They will expect us to make for the bridge. If we turn towards the city wall, they may not follow.’ Celeste was pleased after such appalling ineptitude to offer at least a solution for escape.
She saw then that he had different clothes in his hands. A jacket and a shirt. When he peeled off the habit he wore trousers beneath, though his top half was bare and well muscled after all his years of soldiering. With speed he donned the shirt and tucked it into his trousers, handing the jacket to her.
‘Take off yours, too, and put this one on instead. Give me your hat and turn your old jacket inside out before wrapping it around your waist.’
He had done the same with his habit, rolled it into a wad of cloth and knotted it about him. The rope from his belt was formed into a rough coil and hung around his arm, like a fisherman might carry the tools of his trade, the hat jammed tight across clipped hair. Sucking at the blood on his knuckles, he lowered his hands.
It was the soldiers, Celeste was to think later, the ones who had passed them by so closely earlier. She had been rattled badly by them and had not recovered, the dreadful fear clawing at memory and leaving her breathless and brittle. At times like this in Paris, after meeting soldiers at a close call, she’d retreated to her apartment for days, curling into fragility until her usual steel returned and allowed her a resolution.
Here, she did not have such luxury. Here, she had to face her next enemy right on the heels of the last one, barely enough time to take in a breath.
Even after all these years the military smelt the same, she thought. Bitter. Pungent. Sharp. The softer scent of Summerley Shayborne rose to calm her. Caroline Debussy’s herbs. The ale he had consumed in the house of Aurelian de la Tomber was there, too, and the soap her father used. A mix of lavender and lemon.
Masculine. Safe. Familiar.
She swallowed away the lump in her throat and knotted the jacket. Out of Paris she would cope better. Her fingers fastened on the weighty butt of her knife in the pocket of her trousers and she clung to the steel with all that she was worth.
* * *
Celeste looked pale and shaky. The girl who had stood there with her eyes closed, expecting to be summarily slain, so unlike the woman who had walked into the underground dungeon of Les Chevaliers to save him that the shock still stung. Who was Celeste Fournier now? Which version of her was real?
He knew she kept a knife close in her pocket for he could see the tension in her left arm. Beads of sweat rose on the skin above her upper lip and her eyes looked glazed.
Fright, perhaps, he surmised, or memory? What had happened to bring her so easily to her knees in the face of a danger that was far less than the daring of her risky dungeon raid?
He weighed his options and made a decision, pulling her into a doorway a few hundred yards further on and tapping out a code.
The man who answered shut the portal firmly behind them as they came in. ‘De la Tomber said you might come.’
‘Is he here?’
‘No. Last night he arrived late and said there was a possibility you might have need of a room. You and the lad are to have the chamber at the top of the house. I’ll send up some food.’
The key was in his hand and then they were climbing, just the two of them, the small room situated among the rafters high above the street. The glass was so dirty he could barely see outside. For further protection, he thought, and pulled the curtain, waiting until the gloom settled into vision.
‘We’ll stay here until we know more about what’s happening. Someone will find us other clothes to wear.’ The doorknob was under his fingers.
‘You are going out?’
‘Just for a short time. Don’t worry, it’s safe.’
She’d sat down now, her hands either side of her splayed out. Like an anchor.
‘I am sorry.’
She didn’t elaborate, but he knew exactly what she meant.
‘Get some sleep.’ He could hear the irritation and shortness in his words as she looked away, her frown deepening, but he did not feel like being kind. He left before the pooling tears spilled across her cheeks.
* * *
It was full dark when she awoke and Summer was sitting on a chair by the opened window looking out towards the sky. He was dressed differently again, a crisp white shirt tucked into snug breeches, the leather boots below well polished. She went from sleep to wakefulness in a second and tried to gauge the time of night from the moon’s position.
Not as late as she thought. Somewhere around midnight perhaps? The empty silence of this part of Paris was unsettling. It almost surprised her when he finally spoke.
‘They think we have crossed the river already. From the information I have gathered, it is in the area of the cathedral at Saint Lambert they will now be looking.’
‘This information is to be trusted?’
‘As far as a good measure of gold will allow.’
‘And Aurelian de la Tomber?’
‘He’s the least of our worries.’
‘You knew him then, before Paris?’
‘In school at Eton. We met when he was being bullied by those who just needed someone to pick on and who didn’t care for his French accent. He’s been a friend ever since.’
‘He’s a soldier like you?’
He shook his head. ‘A diplomat. Trying to play both sides of an impossible game and coming up short in both camps. I told him to get out of it years ago, but he has...stuck. His father’s family is here and I suppose he does not want a repeat of the Terror when anyone with money and lineage in Paris was dragged from their house and murdered. Or at least, he wants to have a warning of it so that he can get them out. That’s what conflict comes down to sometimes. A personal fear and a vested interest as a way to protect those you love.’
‘Is it the same for you?’
He shook his head. ‘There was only ever one reason in it for me.’
‘England?’
At that he reached for a glass she had not seen before, raising it to the moonlight so that the numerous shapes reflected back into the room. Crystal, she supposed, and of good quality. ‘For all of her faults and for all of her glory, there is no place like home.’
A dig at her perhaps, caught without a past, a future, or a place to call home?
‘Your home is still in Sussex? At Luxford?’
The stillness in him magnified. ‘It is. My brother Jeremy is ill and one day I will need to be there.’
She remembered his older brother. He was tall and thin and he’d coughed a lot. His young wife, whose name she had forgotten, had always looked sad and there had been rumours even back then that they were having trou
ble conceiving an heir. She said none of this to him, though, the grief in his eyes palpable.
‘If you stop struggling, you stop living,’ she gave him this truism quietly, one of the sayings that Caroline Debussy had always been so very fond of. When he smiled she flushed, for he was probably thinking of her inane lack of struggle today and was too polite to say so. A woman who might give advice and yet take none herself. Tiredness swept in about her.
Summer would one day be a lord. Viscount Luxford. He stepped further and further away from her grasp with each and every thing he told her.
‘Aurelian said the day after tomorrow is the best day to leave Paris. There is some sort of celebration that the military will be involved in which will keep them occupied, so we will lay low here until he sends word. He also brought us wine. It’s a fine white from Cabarets, outside the walls of the city.’ He lifted up both the bottle and another glass.
Celeste recognised the flavour as she took the first sip and her mind sifted back into memory.
‘It is good.’
‘Different at least to the dry whites of Paris and no excise tax either.’
Summer told her this just as memory clicked. Once, she and August had sat on a painted barge on the Loire and watched the sunset each night for a week, drinking this same brew until they had finally made their way back to Paris. Once, August had been a good father. Once, he had been exciting and gentle and kind, until he had been buried under a bitter elixir of deceit and lies.
Then the zealousness had taken over and he had forgotten all the things that should have been important to him. Including her.
* * *
Shay had been watching her for a good hour before she’d woken and knew the broken restlessness of her slumber. In sleep she looked softer, younger, less prickly. She’d removed her jacket before retiring and the lawn of her undergarment had barely covered the outline of her full breasts. When she sat up she’d hauled the thing on again despite the heat, all of last night’s intimacy lost in the gesture.
He’d wanted to touch her. That thought was surprising. He’d wanted to feel again what he had before, that desperate relief. The warmth of the night loosened restraint, caught as they were in the heat above Paris. Somewhere he could hear music playing, an accordion by the sounds of it, plaintive and melancholic. He laid his head back against the leather rest and asked his question.
