The Secret of Love

by Wright, Cynthia

  “Clever girl.” Smiling, Madame began to bring pieces of carved wood, each one a few inches long, out of her reticule and set them on the table. “When I realized that he meant to dispose of the original frame, I mentioned that I enjoyed old relics and he told me to take it with his compliments.”

  Gabriel gave a delighted laugh, shaking his head. “I like the way you think, Madame.”

  “Alors, how do you think I survived—first as a woman artist in an often-unpleasant world of men, and then as a vagabond, forced to flee France during the Reign of Terror?” She sat up a little straighter and lifted her chin. “I have had to learn to become very resourceful!”

  Isabella blinked back more tears. “You are a great woman. I have been blessed to have you as my mentor.”

  “All women are great,” she replied, “because we do what we must, in spite of our fears, our burdens, and even our shame for all the ways we continually feel we’ve fallen short. I have had more experience at it because I’m much older than you.” Reaching over, Madame gently wiped a tear from Isabella’s cheek. “But now I am learning from you.”

  * * *

  Gabriel was packing the landaulet and Isabella had just tied the blue silk ribbons on her bonnet when Madame Le Brun emerged from her atelier and gestured for her to enter.

  Isabella loved the unpretentious, light-filled studio, so much like the one where Madame had painted in London. Everywhere she looked, she saw an expression of art: the best brushes, Madame’s palettes, her colorful bottles of the rarest powdered pigment, and several partially-completed paintings arrayed near a sunny window to dry.

  Isabella’s heart swelled with longing.

  “I wish things were different, and I could stay near you, to continue learning from you,” she said softly. “I wasn’t able to fully appreciate the experience when I studied with you in London. I didn’t believe in myself.”

  “Well, you were on a journey toward becoming a woman and an artist when we were together in London,” said Madame Le Brun. “We should believe that you came to me at the perfect moment. No matter how much we might wish to change the past, it is impossible.” Wistfully, she glanced toward one of her favorite portraits of Queen Marie-Antoinette hanging in sight of her easel. “It’s better to embrace our memories, I think.”

  Isabella closed her eyes against one of the familiar waves of heartache. “Sadness is part of life, I suppose.”

  “If you love, you will know heartbreak.” She touched Isabella’s cheek, smiling. “And you will be a better artist. Which reminds me, I have a present for you.”

  Isabella watched as her mentor went to a group of framed paintings that were stacked against one wall. Was it possible that the great Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun might be about to part with one of her own paintings?

  “Here we are.” She was smiling as she lifted the stretched but unframed canvas and carried it back to Isabella’s side. “I had almost forgotten about this portrait, stored away during the years I was in exile from France. I captured this likeness of a great friend of mine, many years ago, when she was visiting Paris during her own training as an artist. Perhaps you recognize her?”

  Isabella stared at the painting…and her own mother looked back at her. Executed in Madame’s exquisitely luminous style, the portrait of Charlotte Trevarre, Marchioness of Caverleigh, depicted a young woman Isabella had never known. She was radiantly beautiful, her fair hair styled simply and decorated only with a wreath of wildflowers, and her expression was joyous and contented.

  “Mama,” Isabella heard herself say. When was the last time she had called her mother that? Perhaps not since she was in leading-strings.

  “I made this portrait, perhaps, in 1775,” Madame explained. “Your mother came to France to improve her craft, and she brought your brother, Sebastian, who was, even at five years of age, a handsome little rogue! Charlotte and I spent many lovely afternoons, painting together in the gardens of Paris while little Sebastian chased butterflies.”

  “I knew that you were acquainted with my mother, but not that you were true friends,” said Isabella. “I have never seen her looking so happy.”

  Madame nodded. “I think she had been attempting to find some independence for herself in the midst of her marriage to a difficult man. Ultimately, she wasn’t successful, but during those few years, she was happy.”

  Just then, Gabriel put his head through the doorway. “I hesitate to intrude, but your carriage awaits, my lady!”

  “Have you space for this portrait of Isabella’s mother?” asked Madame, turning toward St. Briac. “I believe that it is small enough to fit in the trunk with the King.”

  Isabella laughed. “Mother would be delighted by the notion of being locked in a trunk with a da Vinci masterpiece!”

  With that, the two women started toward the door. Gabriel took the painting from them and Madame paused to embrace Isabella.

  “No farewells. You will return to Paris, I feel certain. And when you and Gabriel are married in Cornwall, I will be with you in spirit, from Switzerland. We shall not say farewell, but au revoir, my sweet Izzie.”

  “Thank you, for everything, Madame,” Isabella said, her throat swelling with emotion.

  As they went out through the stairhall into the courtyard, where the carriage awaited, Madame Le Brun said, “I will always be here for you, but I don’t think you will need me now that our dashing St. Briac has pledged to make you his wife.”

  After strapping the trunk to the roof of the little carriage, Gabriel jumped to the ground and pulled off one glove with his teeth. Then, he took Madame’s paint-daubed hand in his and kissed it. “I don’t know if I could have found Isabella without your help. You will always have our love and gratitude.”

  Minutes later, the landaulet was on its way, and Isabella turned in her seat to look out the back window. Through the smudged glass, she saw Madame Le Brun and Adelaide standing together in the doorway. The two women continued to wave until the carriage turned the corner and rolled away, into the bustling streets of Paris.

  Chapter 34

  As the coast of Cornwall came more clearly into view, St. Briac stood on the deck of Deux Frères and looked into his spyglass.

  “What the devil am I to say to your brother?” he asked, turning to look at Isabella, who leaned on the railing, her face lifted to receive the sunshine. “I was so consumed by our adventures in France that I conveniently forgot about Sebastian. But soon, I must face your family. Everything has changed between us since I last saw them.”

  “Don’t worry.” She came to him with a radiant smile. “I wrote them a letter before I stowed away on your ship, explaining that I was going to France to help you, and why.”

  He shook his head. “Do you think that will be enough to prevent Lord Sebastian from calling me out? I fully expect him to greet me on the dock with a choice of pistols or swords.”

  Eustache, who had been idling nearby with Lowenna, now hastened near to exclaim, “Fear not, monseigneur! You could dispatch him in a duel within moments.”

  “You speak of Lady Isabella’s brother,” St. Briac ground out. “In addition, Trevarre is my friend. Or he was, before I spirited his chaste, unmarried sister away to France and ruined her.”

  Isabella stared. “I believe I informed you, long ago in Roscoff, that Sebastian does not rule my life. I am an independent woman of four-and-twenty years.”

  “Eh bien. Perhaps he will be less inclined to murder me when he learns that we are betrothed.” St. Briac wore a bemused smile as he gazed out over the English Channel toward the steep, jagged outline of the Cornish coast. The Fowey estuary was just coming into view. “It won’t be long now.”

  “How beautiful Cornwall looks!”

  Just then, Martin climbed down from the mainmast and landed on the deck next to them. “Capitaine, a King’s ship is in pursuit,” he announced in French.

  St. Briac’s brow furrowed. This was a complication he hadn’t thought of. Although they had changed their Fr
ench flag for a Swiss one before crossing the Channel, he had been so preoccupied with the logistics of gathering up Eustache, Lowenna, and his crew and preparing for a long stay in Cornwall, he had not fully considered the risk of being searched by the English Customs Officers.

  “We have nothing to fear,” said Eustache. “We aren’t carrying contraband.”

  Isabella looked up at Gabriel and they shared a gaze heavy with meaning. Good God, the King was on board, which was a much more serious matter than tea or brandy!

  “Her ladyship and I are going below. Eustache, you and Lowenna come with us,” he said brusquely. “Martin, gather the crew and tell them we will not attempt to outrun the King’s ship. If it becomes clear that they mean to overtake us, let them do so.”

  Moments later, he was belowdecks, reaching up to grasp Isabella’s waist as she came down through the hatch.

  “My mind has been addled by love,” he told her when she was in his arms. “I should have had a plan in place before we ever sailed from Roscoff.”

  In spite of the renewed danger they faced, her eyes softened behind her adorable spectacles and he felt the intoxicating wave of arousal that now came over him whenever they touched. And the more they were together, especially in bed, the more intense it became.

  “I love you all the more for it,” she whispered. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him and their lips clung for a moment—until Lowenna’s chubby legs dangled through the hatch.

  Soon all four of them were together in the companionway and St. Briac looked at Eustache.

  “You realize, of course, that we are carrying the da Vinci portrait?” he said in low, harsh tones. “Lady Isabella and I went through too much to see it lost again, especially to a lot of bloody Customs men.”

  “But, the painting belongs to you,” protested Lowenna.

  “Do you think they would believe that? I’ve known too many unscrupulous Revenue men to take such a chance.”

  Eustache rose to his full, five-and-a-half-foot height. “How may we be of assistance, monseigneur?”

  “We must hide the painting, in a place they would never look,” said St. Briac.

  When Isabella didn’t reply, he looked down to find her staring into the dark, damp hold, where she had stowed away in the coffin during their crossing to France.

  “What about the coffin?” she said softly. “I will hide inside it with the painting. Of course, there should be a person inside, just in case they move it, or attempt to open it.”

  “No! Why should you have to endure that ordeal a second time?” protested St. Briac. Yet, even as he spoke, he knew the reason. She was the only one of them who was small enough to fit inside without crushing the portrait of King François.

  “There’s no time for us to argue,” she said. “You must bring me the King—and the portrait of my mother as well, just to be safe.”

  While he went to his cabin to retrieve the paintings from the trunk, Isabella moved an empty keg from the coffin and opened the lid. She had already climbed inside when St. Briac returned. He found Lowenna standing near the coffin, wringing her hands, while Eustache looked on with some alarm.

  “My lady!” cried the lady’s maid. “It’s not right!”

  Gabriel gave Eustache a harsh look. “Take her away and calm her down. This will all be over in a matter of minutes, I’m sure of it.”

  No sooner had the two servants left the hold, than Helivet’s sharp-nosed face appeared in the open hatch. “Capitaine!” he hissed.

  “What the devil do you want?” he asked impatiently.

  “The King’s boat is coming alongside! There’s a very officious officer who insists on boarding. He says he wants to search for a certain noblewoman who’s been kidnapped!”

  “Merci.” He felt his heart beating hard. “That’s all—go on and tell him there are no noblewomen on this ship. You heard me, now go! I shall come above in a few moments.”

  In the dark, musty hold, St. Briac found Isabella sitting up in the coffin. Her flowing hair and white muslin gown lent her a supernatural air that sent a chill down his spin.

  “It is Adolphus Lynton!” she cried softly. “He is still looking for me! There’s nothing that would give him greater pleasure than to arrest you for kidnapping me—then spread the news of my ruin, at the hands of a French smuggler, far and wide in Cornwall. He hates Sebastian and would do anything to—”

  “Cherie, you must calm down and stop talking.” Even though his own stomach churned with alarm, Gabriel knelt beside the coffin and clasped her shoulders with both hands.

  “Yes. Of course. You are right.” She bravely took several slow, deep breaths and lay back in the wooden casket. The Leonardo da Vinci painting, now in its original frame, was wrapped in a shawl along with the portrait of Lady Caverleigh.

  “Your bravery only makes me love you more,” he said.

  “Close the coffin, Gabriel, before that horrible man descends upon us.”

  Isabella held the wrapped paintings against her own body, smiling tensely. Just as he began to lower the lid, she put up her hand. “Wait. Will you give me your neckcloth? It will comfort me in the darkness.”

  This made no sense to him, but he obeyed, quickly untying his stock and handing her the length of starched cloth. Isabella pressed it to her face with one hand as St. Briac reluctantly lowered the lid. The sooner I go above and get rid of that weasel, he told himself, the sooner Isabella can be freed.

  When he emerged through the hatch, he saw Adolphus Lynton climbing over the railing as Martin went forward to confront him.

  St. Briac was proud to hear his first officer greet the Customs Officer with a calm, polite speech in French. Lynton, however, wasted no time on formalities.

  “Where is your wicked captain? I am here to search your ship!”

  “Wicked? How harsh you are, m’sieur.” Gabriel’s tone was light. As he approached, one eyebrow arched, he saw the Englishman’s wary expression. “Did I hear correctly that you have come aboard in search of something?”

  “Not something, but someone, m’sieur.”

  “Ah, I see.” He sketched a mocking bow. “We meet again, Lieutenant. Are you not the Searcher of Salt?” This was a low blow. Lynton had lost that position a decade earlier, after an embarrassing failure to capture Lord Sebastian Trevarre during his smuggling days.

  Adolphus Lynton pursed his lips. “I have no time for this idle chatter. I am here in search of Lady Isabella Trevarre, who was rumored to be kidnapped by you, m’sieur!”

  “Kidnapped?” St. Briac feigned shock. “I can assure you that I have never needed to kidnap women. On the contrary, they have always come to me quite willingly.”

  “My men and I must search your ship. Step aside!”

  Gabriel did so, but called after the Englishman, “You are welcome to do so, but I must warn you that we are transporting a body in the hold.”

  “A body?” Lynton, who had been about to descend through the hatch, turned back suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

  “A crew member died of smallpox a few days ago and his wish was to be buried in Cornwall, where his sweetheart was waiting for him.”

  “Smallpox?” The Englishman put a white hand up to his face. “Are you certain?”

  “Quite. There was no mistaking it.” He glanced over at Martin and Helivet, both of whom nodded vigorously.

  “’Twas a terrible death!” cried Helivet.

  “By the time Henri died, he was unrecognizable,” Martin chimed in. “He said he didn’t want to survive with his face so scarred!”

  Lynton stared, clearly trying to decide if they were telling the truth. “I’ve heard stories about your ruses, St. Briac. I’m going below!” He gestured to the tall, muscular Customs officer who accompanied him. “After you, Appleton!”

  The other man recoiled. “I can’t afford to be exposed to smallpox, Lieutenant. I do have children at home!”

  “All right, then, coward! I’ll go alone,” he snarled, and threw himself down
the ladder.

  St. Briac followed. In the companionway belowdecks, he took a lantern from the bulkhead and offered it to Lynton with a helpful smile. Just then, Eustache appeared.

  “Ah, Eustache, there you are. I was just telling Lieutenant Lynton about poor Henri’s death from smallpox.”

  To his relief, Eustache immediately fell in with the story. “I think I’ve made some headway with the smell, Capitaine.”

  “Smell?” Lynton exclaimed in alarm.

  St. Briac shrugged. “It has been several days since his death. We weren’t able to sail as quickly as we’d hoped…” He gestured with one hand toward the hold. “Would you like to start your search in here?”

  Adolphus took out a large handkerchief and covered his lower face with it, passing the lantern to back to Gabriel. “Fine, fine. Lead the way.”

  No sooner had they come into the hold, though, than the Englishman stopped. Ahead of them, the coffin was positioned in the middle of the floor, surrounded by now-empty barrels and crates. When St. Briac raised the lantern so that its light made an eerie halo around the casket, Lynton emitted a gasp.

  “God’s foot, there really is a body!” He stared hard at the coffin. “Of course, this could simply be a devious ploy to get me to leave without searching the ship. Perhaps the thing is empty!”

  “Because of the danger of contagion, we strive to keep a safe distance,” Gabriel said mildly, “but if you are welcome to open the casket yourself.”

  Still holding the handkerchief over his nose and mouth, Lynton took two steps closer to the casket and pushed at the base of it with one buckled shoe. The wooden coffin was too heavy to move even an inch. “It is a body!”

  “Bien sûr! What else would it be?” Eustache wondered in heavily accented English.

  Lynton whirled around and rushed back into the companionway, gasping for breath. “Never mind.” He leaned against the bulkhead, blinking as if he were about to lose consciousness. “Smallpox. I could die!”

  “Or be doomed live out your life with horrible scars,” Eustache agreed.