All the male members of the staff were summarily bound, and Philip watched them while Cadoudal went out for the agreed ten minutes. Actually, the time stretched to twenty, and Megaera was frightened to death, thinking they had been abandoned. However, Cadoudal did return, and Megaera had spent the time usefully in removing all traces of blood from Philip’s face, finding a clean shirt and neckcloth for him among the landlord’s clothing, and in general removing any trace of the conflict from her own as well as Philip’s outer garments.
They returned to the Milles Colonnes, told the landlord that they would stay another day since they had met friends, and walked out carrying only the small parcel of silks Megaera had purchased—which were wrapped around the breeches, shirt, and jacket she had been wearing when Philip abducted her. The garments had been cleaned while they were at Monsieur Luroec’s farm and packed with Philip’s clothing in case they should need to make a run for it. Over his arm Philip carried the greatcoat he had taken from the agent, which concealed Megaera’s boots.
A fiacre took them to the stable where the horse and carriage that had brought them from Brittany were kept. Philip paid the bill (with Charon’s money—he thought that a nice touch) and left two francs to reserve a place two days hence when, he said, he and his wife would return. So far, although both Philip and Megaera had been watching as carefully as they could without being obvious, they had seen no sign of anyone following them. However, the worst was yet to come. If word of the failure of his plan had come to Fouché there had been time by now to have watchers at the gates.
Of the two, Megaera’s appearance was the more distinctive. She did what she could, sitting as far back in the carriage as possible, exchanging her pelisse for the extra greatcoat pinning her hair away from her face and covering it with the too-large hat. She also removed her shoes and put on the boots Philip had carried out. They took the road to Versailles, heading southwest toward Dreux, the road they had followed into Paris.
Since they were not stopped at the gate, Philip and Megaera assumed that Cadoudal had given them the few hours he had promised. Philip made the best of the time that he could, but he knew that pursuit could not be long delayed. When no report of what had happened came to Fouché he would send to find out why. Even if the landlord claimed the agents had taken him, Cadoudal, and Megaera away to protect himself, Fouché would know something had gone wrong.
When the horse tired, Philip stopped at a posting house. Megaera removed the man’s hat but continued to wear the overlarge greatcoat, which hung down right to her feet. Philip shepherded her tenderly into the inn and requested a private room with a good fire. His wife had caught a chill, he explained. He did not explain why he carried in a parcel, but that was not necessary. If it contained something valuable, he would not wish to leave it in the carriage. While Philip ordered something to eat—they had never had dinner with Cadoudal—Megaera changed into the men’s clothing that had been hidden in the parcel of silk. The waiter who brought the food noticed no difference in her, she was sitting by the fire still huddled in the greatcoat. Since her face was turned away, he did not see the sweat beading it.
They ate as quickly as possible and left. The horse was not rested, but that did not matter, since Philip did not intend to drive him much farther. He took the next crossroad leading north. Somewhere along that road Philip lost his red-haired wife and acquired a mute servant boy garbed in his master’s castoffs. Megaera quite willingly sacrificed her dark red mane, it was Philip’s eyes that were filled with tears as he hacked off her hair with his knife. She laughed at him, assuring him it would soon grow again, but he felt to blame for her sacrifice.
Next Philip drove the carriage into a field, unhitched the horse and bestrode it bareback with Megaera behind him, her women’s clothes now hidden in the parcel of silk. They rode to the next village. It was a small place. Here, Philip dared show Fouché’s pass and ordered that François Charon be supplied with horses. He said he had lost a wheel on his carriage, paid for two horses, and made an exchange of the other for two saddles. The owners might have made difficulties had Philip tried to make such arrangements on his own, but Fouché’s name was a talisman. The former Minister of Police might not be loved but, in or out of office, no one had any desire to cross him. Everything was settled quickly, and Philip and Megaera were off again.
They rode out of the village on the road, but it soon curved west and they abandoned it, riding across the barren, wintry fields as close to due north as they could. They had hardly spoken to each other at all, except for necessary questions and directions, but now Philip looked across at Megaera, utterly ridiculous in the too-large greatcoat and hat tied to her head with a scarf to keep it from falling off and exposing her.
“I must be insane,” he said.
“Why?” Megaera asked anxiously. “Are we lost?”
“No, of course we are not lost. It has just occurred to me that on some crazy pretense that I was protecting you, I have exposed you to hideous dangers, to the discomforts of riding all over a foreign country in the dead of winter…“
“I don’t mind,” Megaera said cheerfully. “In fact I’m rather enjoying myself. I do hope we won’t be caught, though.”
“You must be insane too!” Philip exclaimed.
Megaera glanced at him mischievously. “It is certainly best that we both be afflicted,” she agreed. “Otherwise we would be constantly at odds with each other, and that would be a sad shame.”
“Meg!” Philip sputtered, but he was still troubled and the laughter soon died. “Do you realize that I could have left you safe at Luroec’s farm until Pierre—”
“Oh no you couldn’t!” Megaera interrupted heatedly. “What do you think I am, a parcel that may be left until called for? I told you that you were an idiot to drag me to France, but once you did that you were stuck with me. Why, are you regretting my presence?”
“Bitterly,” Philip replied.
Megaera knew perfectly well that Philip was suffering pangs of conscience for not having foreseen that his task would not be quite as easy as he believed, but she chose to misunderstand. “I don’t see that I’ve been burden to you up to now,” she said huffily.
“Burden! I would be dead if not for you, my darling.”
“Then isn’t it fortunate that I am a little lacking in that modesty and delicacy which would make me miserable under these circumstances and instead—”
“You are a bold and bewitching wench,” Philip finished. “Oh, Meg I love you so. I wish—”
Megaera could see in his face that Philip was going to say something very serious, possibly explain why he could not propose marriage. What could she do? She was beginning to suspect he was more than a smuggler’s bastard, much more. If that were so, naturally he would not consider marrying her. She had said she was a bastard herself, and had slept with him without even a pretense of reluctance. She had already made herself ineligible to marry, she realized.
Nonetheless Megaera knew she would be furious if Philip offered her a carte blanche. Ridiculous as it was, she was hurt that he had accepted her story. She knew it was wrong but still felt he should have seen through the pretense, recognized her for what she was. She had not minded when he said he would “take her away with him” while she believed him to be Pierre’s illegitimate son. A smuggler’s bastard would not know any better. A gentleman, however, should know better, should recognize his own kind. Megaera could not bear to let him make the proposition. Desperately she tried to divert him.
“Not in a stubbly field in the middle of the winter!” she said.
“That was not what I was going to suggest,” Philip protested, laughing.
“Liar,” Megaera remarked succinctly.
“I am not!” Philip exclaimed. “I may be insane, but not insane enough to want to make love under those conditions.”
Megaera shrugged. “Then you are a liar in another way,” she said provocatively. “Didn’t you tell me—not so long ago either—that you wer
e always ready—hard up, you called it—when you were with me?”
Philip blinked. He knew perfectly well that Meg was teasing him, but he was not sure why. Was it just so that he would not go on blaming himself for exposing her to danger? He hardly knew how he replied because he suddenly wondered if he had been a fool. Did Meg want him to stop blathering on about how sorry he was he had brought her because he was frightening her? He studied her face, but there was no fear there. No, she must have stopped him because she did not want him to finish what he was saying. She didn’t want him to marry her and take over her family’s debts.
Damn it, she was insane, insisting on supporting that useless sister and father at the risk, of her own life. Well, that was over. If he had to tie her down or blow up Pierre’s ship, Meg’s smuggling days were over. And that was as foolish as Meg’s insistence on managing without help. She was no silly schoolgirl who could be ordered around. If he convinced Pierre to stop trading in Cornwall, that would only make matters worse. Nine chances out of ten Meg would just make contact with another smuggler—and that might be far more dangerous than leaving things alone.
Pierre really deserved the name generally bestowed on smugglers; he was a “gentleman”, but most were not. Somehow Philip knew he would have to convince Meg to let him shoulder her burden, but he had no idea at the moment of how to go about it. All in all he was grateful to her for stopping him. If he had proposed, she would have felt obliged to refuse him, and that would only have complicated the situation. This was not the time and place anyway. After they were safe he would be able to concentrate properly.
Having come to this conclusion, Philip put Meg’s personal problems out of his mind temporarily. The sun was pretty close to setting, and they needed to find a road before it grew dark. Fortunately this was not far to seek. Before they had traveled another fifteen minutes they saw the spire of a church. They were at Maule, Philip was told when he asked, and they were directed toward Mantes, where they could find a road going north to Abbeville. The farmer to whom they spoke did not seem surprised at their having lost their way. He thought they had come out of Paris on the new road being built to Boulogne. This was unfinished in many places, and there were detours on which many came to grief.
Philip was delighted with this information, since Mantes was on the direct road to Dieppe. It was highly unlikely that Fouché’s men could scour the countryside so thoroughly as to question this farmer. Nonetheless Philip was not taking even so remote a chance as to name their true destination. Their route out of Paris should direct their pursuers toward Brittany. If they should be traced this far, however, Philip’s questions would imply that they were going to cross at the shortest point, probably from Calais, or make for the Belgian border.
In addition to information, Philip obtained a loaf of bread, cheese, and sausage. They rode on, making better time along the road until the horses began to flag. Then they found a barn, warm enough with the heat of the cattle. They let the horses rest and lip over some hay while they themselves ate. Fortunately the barn was large and they stayed at the end farthest from the house. They intended to be quiet, of course, but they were both somewhat giddy with fatigue and the aftermath of extreme tension and they fell into giggles over the difficulties of eating in the dark.
Things were not so funny as the night wore on. They made their first change of horses without difficulty at Mantes, where Philip asked the way to Abbeville again. Since there was only one tired ostler and Philip wanted to be sure of good horses, he used Fouché’s pass. The ostler could not read, but he recognized the seal and he made haste to lead out two excellent mounts. In fact he was so awed that he never stopped to wonder why the master helped him to transfer the saddles while the servant leaned wearily against the wall with closed eyes.
Megaera was reaching the limit of her endurance, but she managed to mount and stick to the saddle for a while longer. She could feel Philip looking at her with anxiety every few minutes, and second by second she clung to her horse until, at last, all her efforts could not retain wakefulness. The reins slipped from her hand and she sagged. If it had not been for Philip’s watchfulness, she would have fallen. He caught her, brought the horses side by side, and with some feeble help from her took her up before him in the saddle.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, “so sorry…”
“Hush, beloved. Sleep.”
Although he was not much better off than Megaera, Philip drove himself on. It was about forty miles to Rouen from Mantes, and Philip felt that the worst danger would be there. He was eager to enter the town early in the morning when there would be a crush of people coming in to sell produce and do business while an equally large number were going out, too. The numbers would be less in winter than at other times, but traffic was still heavier in the morning and evening. Within the town it probably would be safe to change horses for the final thirty-five miles to Dieppe.
Finally he could drive himself no farther. When the arm that held Meg became so numb that he nearly dropped her, Philip began to search the sides of the road. Before disaster struck, he made out a darker shadow against the slightly lustrous dark of the clouded sky. He shook Meg awake, hating to do so but promising her she could sleep again as soon as they got to shelter. It was necessary to dismount and lead the horses over a stone fence, but once again their luck held good. The darkness was a barn with a decently filled hayloft. Philip unsaddled the horses, shut them into the pen usually used for calves, which were absent at this season, and somehow got up the ladder to the loft. He never remembered lying down in the hay and pulling it over him.
It was the horrors of the previous day, plus Megaera’s guilt over having failed, that saved them from oversleeping. For two hours she slept heavily, but after that bad dreams pursued her, the men she had shot, dripping blood, reaching to drag her from a horse that kept becoming insubstantial so that she slipped down toward those clutching hands. At last she jerked awake, crying out fearfully, to find that the barn was dimly visible around her. Now she shook Philip awake and he started up, his gun in his hand, staring around wildly.
“I think it’s dawn, Philip,” Meg said, pushing the barrel of the pistol down gently.
He uncocked the gun and struggled to his feet without answering, shoved the pistol back in his pocket, and made his way down the ladder. It was fortunate, he thought as he relieved himself, that the manure removed from a barn was seldom studied. The thought cheered him for some obscure reason, and he found a pail, pumped water into it, swilled it clean, pumped more water, and brought it in. If the sounds brought the farmer, he didn’t care. Travelers had passed inns in the dark and taken shelter in barns from time immemorial. If a coin did not soothe the man, there was always the pistol.
No one came, however Philip had the idea that someone had looked out the kitchen window when he was pumping water, come to just the conclusion he had expected, and decided not to inquire lest the traveler would want to be invited to breakfast. But they did not have that need since a good part of the bread, cheese, and sausage remained.
Megaera had relieved herself also by the time Philip brought the bucket in. He washed sketchily, she did not. It was the part of a servant to look dirty. Considering the temperature in the barn, Megaera did not envy Philip his cleanliness. She ate while he saddled the horses, and they were away again. They made good time but at the gates of Rouen realized they were no longer ahead of their pursuers. While they had slept in the barn, messengers had preceded them. However, either they were not the quarry being hunted or Fouché had no real information when he sent out to stop them. All carriages, particularly rented vehicles, were being stopped and searched, but no one gave more than a casual glance at the gentleman with a dirty servant in cast-off, too-large clothes.
In the jakes of the large, busy posting house where they stopped to eat and change horses for the third time, Philip destroyed François Charon’s passes. He would not dare use them again, and they could be incriminating if he were stopped and searched.
The sealed message Charon had been carrying, was sewn into the hem of Philip’s greatcoat—not the best hiding place, perhaps, but he had not dared to open his boot or purchase glue to seal it again.
Carriages were still being searched when they left Rouen, but riders were scarcely scrutinized. Fouché was still unaware of Meg’s exploits, Philip thought as they cleared the gate and spurred their horses along the road to Dieppe, so he did not think her capable of riding a horse so far and so fast. Then he grinned. Monsieur Fouché also seemed to be convinced that English agents were gallant gentlemen who would not abandon their female partners.
If Philip had known Fouché better, he would have been even more flattered. Monsieur Fouché never generalized about people. He had no preconceived notions about Englishmen, Frenchmen, or any man or woman of whatever nationality. Each individual was studied and judged on his or her own. It was because Philip was Roger’s son that Fouché was so sure he could not leave his woman behind. Fouché knew the whole story of Leonie’s rescue from Chaumette’s plot. Before he went to the guillotine, Chaumette had told the tale to Fouché. Chaumette had been still furious with Roger, still puzzled as to how Roger had found his wife, still convinced that if he had managed to get the dauphin into his hands he would never have been sent to the guillotine.
In any case, once again incomplete knowledge had deceived rather than enlightened. Fouché was correct that Philip would not under any circumstances leave his accomplice behind, but he lacked two essential pieces of information. Philip was not Roger; he did not have his father’s overanxious sense of responsibility. Also, Philip’s attitude toward Megaera was very different from Roger’s to Leonie. Double Leonie’s age when he met her and aware of her mistreatment, Roger always acted as if it were a miracle that his sturdy and courageous wife had sufficient strength to draw breath. Fouché had seen Roger with Leonie, had been told that Philip was obviously very much in love with his red-haired companion—and for once, jumped to the wrong conclusion.
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 41
