by Jane Feather
“No,” he said shortly. “I want to be on the road in an hour.” He strode away towards the rear of the building and she went inside, resigned to the fact that her only role now was a supporting one.
She had organized a decent breakfast, reasoning that in the absence of sleep, food was even more essential. Jack came into the parlor just as she was pouring coffee. He stood leaning against the door for a moment, then passed his hands over his face and went across to the dresser, where soap and water awaited him. Arabella had opened his valise and laid out his razor, and for a few minutes the only sound in the room was the rasp of the razor on stubble. Finally he buried his face in a towel, then turned to the table, where she sat quietly watching him.
He sat down, took a deep draught of ale, and said, “I want you to stay here and wait for me to come back with Charlotte.”
Arabella stared at him in shock. “What do you mean? Of course I’m coming with you.”
He shook his head. “You can’t possibly ride close to two hundred miles in less than two days. I couldn’t ask it of you.”
“You aren’t asking it of me,” she retorted, her eyes snapping. “I am demanding it of myself. You have nothing whatsoever to do with it, Jack Fortescu. If I hold you up, I give you leave to abandon me by the side of the road, but I do assure you I am coming with you.”
It was only what he had expected, he reflected. But he was afraid she would delay him.
“Besides,” she went on, pressing her point as she sensed that he was wavering. “Charlotte will need a woman with her, Jack. I have brought some things for her . . . clothes, some medicine, just in case . . .” Her voice faded then came back strongly. “She won’t be well, Jack. She’s bound to be weak. There are things I can do for her that you cannot.”
He stared down at his plate, imagining his sister. She had never been really strong, but a powerful will had compensated for physical frailty. That will would have enabled her to survive a good deal of hardship, but how much? Would it have held her together if she were hurt in some way? If she had not been killed in the massacre, she had been injured. The tricoteuse had not been mistaken in what she had seen. And the crone had not invented it. Charlotte had been bayoneted. Certainly raped. And perhaps left for dead.
“Jack?” Arabella’s voice, high with anxiety, finally pierced his wretched reverie. He looked up. She was gazing at him, her eyes filled with fear. “Stop it,” she said. “Whatever you’re thinking, Jack, stop it now. It can do no good.”
“No,” he said, his voice expressionless but his eyes still haunted. “It can do no good.”
The securité had been looking for him too. Frederick Lacey had spilled his guts that September afternoon, fingering everyone whose name he knew, English or French, it didn’t matter. If they were in Paris working against the revolution, the tribunals wanted them, the guillotine was hungry for them. Charlotte’s arrest had been the first of many, and Jack—with a small group of fellows—had escaped the city bare minutes before the securité had come knocking. And he had gone because Charlotte was dead and he had to live to avenge her.
He looked across the table at Frederick Lacey’s sister.
At Arabella, his wife. She returned his gaze steadily, compassionately. And he felt her strength, the power of a love that had nothing to do with Lacey and everything to do with the woman that she was.
“We must cover close to a hundred miles today,” he said. “Ten hours in the saddle.”
She merely nodded and sipped her coffee. “Eat, Jack.”
He obeyed, eating not because he had any appetite but because he knew he must. Gradually despair faded and he felt the power of purpose return in full measure. His fatigue became a vague background sensation that was easily ignored.
Arabella, toying with a slice of bread and butter, was relieved to sense the return of Jack to himself. She drank another cup of coffee and contemplated a slice of ham, then dismissed the idea. Something about sailing didn’t agree with her. Or else this queasy lack of appetite was a physical reaction to the stresses and strains of the last couple of days. She was more than ready to get on the road when Jack declared himself satisfied and went off to settle up with the landlord.
She went in search of the privy at the rear of the inn then made her way to the stable yard. Jack had hired two inelegant but sturdy-looking animals. “What they lack in speed they’ll make up for in stamina,” he observed as Arabella entered the yard.
He looked her over. The sadly abused riding habit was utterly suitable for this journey. It was as unremarkable as the horses, only the fine quality of her boots bespoke wealth. He himself wore only coat and britches, a plain linen cravat and a shirt unadorned with lace or ruffles. His hair as usual was confined in a plain black ribbon and his bicorn hat was a simple dark felt. He could be taken for a merchant or a country squire and he didn’t think the country folk would give either of them a second glance. They had less of the mob mentality than their city cousins, certainly less bloodlust.
He helped Arabella to mount, fastened her cloak bag securely to the back of her saddle, and swung astride his own horse. “Ready?”
She gave him a quick reassuring smile. “Ready.”
They changed horses twice that day. At the first stop Arabella bought bread, cheese, garlic sausage, and a leather flagon of wine from a woman in the market square of the little village while Jack exchanged their mounts in the livery stable. They ate in the saddle, saying little as the miles passed. The country lanes all became a blur, the little towns and villages all merged into one before Arabella’s eyes.
As dusk was falling they passed a small inn at a crossroads and Jack drew rein. A scruffy mongrel ran out from the yard and barked furiously.
“This seems sufficiently out of the way to be safe,” he observed. “We’ll rest here for the night.”
Arabella wrinkled her nose. “There’ll be fleas in the beds, mark my words.”
“Then we’ll sleep on the floor.” He dismounted, handing his reins to Arabella. The scruffy dog, as Arabella knew it would, began fawning over him the minute his feet touched the ground. Jack ignored the animal but it pranced around his ankles as he strode into the inn, dropping his head below the low lintel.
Jack emerged in a few minutes. “It’s not much, but it’ll do.”
“Fleas?” she asked with a quirked eyebrow.
“Doubtless.” He reached up and lifted her down, holding her for a minute between his hands. “There’s a cauldron of soup, however, a loaf of barley bread, and a deep tankard of home brew. I’ll bully some clean quilts out of the lady of the house. She’s slatternly but pleasant enough.”
Arabella in truth was too bone-tired to care if she made a banquet for fleas and bedbugs. The prospect of soup was appealing, and there would be a well or a pump. She reeked of sweat and horseflesh and longed for cold water and a sponge.
Jack made good on his promise and the landlady produced a pile of blankets and quilts that, while none too clean, had been kept in a cedar chest and were at least flea-free. Arabella declared the straw mattress on the rickety bed frame unspeakable and spread the bedding on the floor of the small chamber under the eaves. It was a cool night and she huddled against Jack under blankets that they piled on top of their own cloaks. To her relief Jack fell asleep even before she did and she turned on her side, clasping him in her arms, feeling the rhythmic movements of his chest as he slept.
They left before dawn the next morning and as they grew closer to Paris the atmosphere in the countryside changed. Where before they had aroused a passing curiosity if at all, now suspicious eyes watched them when they rode through the villages and small towns. When they changed horses they were met with surly responses and high prices. Arabella grew uneasy but was reassured to see that Jack took it all in his stride. He responded to rudeness with rudeness, glowers with the same, and it seemed that this deflected suspicion.
They approached the St. Denis gate into Paris just as the bells for closing the city g
ates were ringing. Jack spurred his horse forward to the gatehouse and Arabella followed suit.
The gendarme regarded the travelers with narrowed eyes filled with mistrust. “Gates are closing.”
“But they are not yet closed,” Jack pointed out evenly. “I ask leave for my wife and me to pass. We’re visiting her sick mother in Maubert. She might not last until morning.” Silver glinted in his gloved hand as he half opened it against his thigh.
Arabella gave a deep mournful sigh and said plaintively, “I beg you, sir, let me pass. My mother is sick unto death.”
Jack let his hand fall to lie alongside his booted foot in the stirrup. Again silver flashed as his fingers twitched. The gendarme approached. “Maubert, you say?”
“Rue de Bievre,” Jack responded, allowing his hand to fall open as the other’s slid beside it. The exchange was completed so quickly and so silently that no one in the guardhouse would guess that their colleague was now in possession of a considerable sum of livres.
“You’ve but half an hour to get off the streets before curfew,” the gendarme growled as he stepped back.
They walked their horses through the gates and they clanged shut behind them. Arabella swallowed a thickening lump in her throat. They were locked in this city of hell and terror. People moved along the streets and lanes, keeping to the shadows close to the walls. There was fear everywhere, on every face, in the sound of every footstep.
Jack leaned sideways and laid a hand on her bridle above the bit. “I think it would be best if I lead your horse. I know where we’re going and we mustn’t get separated.”
“No,” she agreed, “but I need my reins in my own hands. I won’t lose sight of you. Where are we going, by the way?”
“To Maubert, of course,” he said. “One mustn’t lie to the gendarmes.” A smile touched his lips, a humorless smile, and the gray eyes held a cold and reckless glint.
Arabella had been to Paris some years before the revolution but she knew little of the city’s geography outside the palaces of the Louvre and the Tuilleries, and the grand mansions of the nobles that surrounded them. Now they were riding through narrow streets whose high walls threw them into semidarkness. The cobbles were slimy and her horse slipped and would have gone down if she hadn’t hauled back on the reins, steadying him. It was a good job she had the reins in her own hands, she reflected a little grimly. They were having to ride in single file along some of the narrower streets and her mount needed little encouragement to keep his nose up against the backside of his leader.
They emerged into a large cobbled square across the river from the fearsome turreted edifice of the Conciergerie, its blank gray stone walls towering above the water. Arabella gazed at the structure in the center of the square. She had only ever seen pictures of it before, this supremely efficient instrument of execution. The blade hung at the top of a long post. The block with a neat indentation for the neck was on the dais immediately below. Even in the dim light of dusk, the rusty stains on the blade and the wooden block were visible.
This was where the queen had met her death. She had been brought from the prison of the Conciergerie in a tumbrel to this place. The city was still redolent of the stench of blood and death. Close by, she knew, lay the prison of Le Chatelet.
They rode over the bridge across the Seine, hurrying now as the bells for the street curfew began to toll from every church steeple. Jack turned through a bewildering series of alleyways running up from the river and she kept pace behind him as it grew ever darker, then he drew rein outside a tall building and looked up at the façade. Windows were all shuttered and the house looked unoccupied. He moved his horse close to the door and rapped with his knuckles in a curious repetitive series of knocks. Then he waited. He seemed to be counting, Arabella thought. Then he repeated the series. Three times this happened, and when he had fallen silent for the third time the door opened a crack.
Jack turned to Arabella, gesturing urgently that she should dismount and go inside. She fumbled with her cloak bag and he hissed, “Leave it.” She jumped down, staggering for an instant. She had been in the saddle for so many hours, her legs were unaccustomed to carrying her. She recovered quickly and edged her way through the crack in the door, glancing over her shoulder, but Jack and the horses had disappeared.
A woman, tall and gaunt, with white hair caught up under a kerchief, surveyed her with a suspicion that Arabella sensed was habitual rather than personal. “Who are you?”
“Jack’s wife.” Arabella pressed her hands into the small of her back to ease the crick. It seemed best to keep things simple.
At that the woman merely nodded and gestured towards the rear of the passageway. Arabella obeyed the gesture and found herself in a large, crowded kitchen—mostly men, but a few women bustling over pots and skillets, one rolling out pastry at the long, flour-strewn table. “Who’s this, then, Therese?”
“Jack’s back,” the woman announced. “This is his wife.”
There was no chorus of exclamations, no questions, merely calm scrutiny and nods of comprehension. “Come to the fire, Jack’s wife,” an elderly man said, gesturing to a stool. “Had a long ride, have you?”
“Two days,” she said, taking the stool. “From Calais.”
There were appreciative nods at this feat of endurance. Someone thrust a cup of wine into her hand and she sipped gratefully.
A door opened somewhere behind her and she felt rather than saw Jack come in. She assumed he’d been taking care of the horses. She turned her head, saw him drop their bags on the floor, and then saw him no more as he was engulfed in the crowd, who surrounded him, soft-voiced questions pouring forth so quickly that he was hard-put to answer them.
At the mention of Charlotte, a sudden absolute silence fell. Arabella gazed into the fire, letting the wine warm her, wondering how well these people had known Jack’s sister. She guessed that they were not all born of the nobility, but they were brought together in a common cause and she had the sense that they had been together fighting for this cause for a long time. How many of them had been lost? she wondered. She felt a little like an intruder and stayed on the stool by the fire, waiting for Jack to give her a lead.
At last he came over to her, resting his hand on the top of her head in a proprietorial gesture. “Arabella, will you explain what’s brought us here?”
She told the story that Claude Flamand had told her. Jack’s hand remained on top of her head. She kept her voice even, without emotion, concealing the upsurge of joy that Jack in front of his friends had acknowledged the part she had played, had declared her his partner.
“We heard nothing, Jack. Little information comes out of Chatelet at the best of times, but not a word of Charlotte.” Therese came over and put her hand on Jack’s shoulder. “The massacre at La Force was so . . . so complete.”
“I know,” he said, his voice a harsh rasp. His hand dropped away from Arabella and he reached to refill a goblet from the carafe on the table. “We know that Charlotte was part of the massacre. If by some miracle she survived, none of us could have known, my friends.”
Arabella, to her surprise, broke in strongly, “There’s little point in repining. If she is there, we have to get her out. I’m told money will do it.”
No one took offense at her interjection. Therese said, “If it’s directed in the right way, it can work. But if it goes to the wrong person, then it brings disaster. Men have been executed for trying to bribe the securité.” She gave a short laugh. “They are not all corrupt, astonishingly enough.”
“We must first discover if the comtesse is indeed in Le Chatelet.” A brawny man who looked like a stevedore spoke up as he hefted a massive log into the hearth. The roasting pig turning on the spit dropped grease onto the flames and the fire flared.
“Aye, Jean Marc. Someone needs to go in,” Therese said. “A woman. They don’t let men into the women’s quarters.” She looked around the assembled group. “Our faces are known on the streets. The jailers come fro
m these parts. There’s a great risk that one of us will be recognized.”
“I will go,” Arabella said. “If you tell me how.”
“No,” Jack said definitely.
“Yes,” she said as definitely.
There was another silence, broken only by the sound of spitting fat, the gurgle of wine streaming from a flagon into a cup, the thump of the rolling pin against the table. Arabella held Jack’s gaze.
“It makes sense for madame to go,” Therese said eventually. “We’ll dress her right, tell her where to go. It’s easy enough to get in if you’re selling something and can give the jailers a bit of a smile.”
“No,” Jack stated.
“Yes,” Arabella responded. “I can smile at a jailer as well as the next woman. My French will pass muster, particularly if I keep it simple. My accent is perhaps not quite convincing, but if I speak low . . .”
“They’re not ones for conversation at the best of times,” the elderly man by the fire said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “A smile, a giggle, take a little pinch, an’ you’re in, home free.”
Arabella couldn’t help smiling at Jack’s expression. She guessed rightly that it was the little pinch that was horrifying him. “I’m not made of porcelain, love,” she protested.
“That’s not the point.”
“Let’s eat. Time enough to talk about this on a full stomach,” Therese declared. “Come to the table, all of you.” She began to wipe the flour off the table with a damp cloth and the other women hurried around putting out skillets of potatoes and cabbage, loaves of bread with crocks of butter, earthenware plates and utensils. One of the men carved thick slices from the roasting pig still on the spit and piled them on a wooden trencher that was set in the middle of the table.
Arabella took a place on one of the long benches at the wooden table, Jack beside her. He refilled her cup as the flagon was passed around and forked meat onto her platter. She ate with appetite, listening to the conversation but participating little. It became clear not only that this little group had been responsible for getting Jack out of France after his sister’s arrest, but that Jack had worked closely with them during the worst of the revolution. They had all been part of the effort to get the hunted out of the city and on their way to the coast or across the borders into Austria or Switzerland.
