by Jane Feather
“Thank you, sir.” Gilles filled a goblet and sat down opposite the colonel. “Not that anyone could detect, sir. And when she left he seemed displeased.”
“Hm.” The colonel frowned. “Because she was leaving, perhaps? Or had she offended him in some other fashion?”
“I don’t know, Colonel. But he was curt to the point of rudeness.”
Montaine rubbed his chin. Something didn’t sit quite right. Women never turned down Bonaparte’s advances, but could the widow Giverny be the exception, could she be impervious to the general’s power and seductive charm? Unlikely. If so, why would she have accepted the initial invitation?
“Does Madame Giverny remind you of anyone, Gilles?” he asked abruptly.
The equerry shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so, Colonel. Should she?”
The colonel’s frown deepened. “Bonaparte said she reminded him of someone, it was what caught his attention in the first place. I see no resemblance to any woman I’ve met before, but you’ve been with him longer than I have.”
Gilles shook his head again. “No, she rings no bells. But the general keeps a meticulous log. Perhaps there’s some reference there.”
“Perhaps.” Montaine picked up his wineglass. “I don’t relish the general discovering me snooping through his journals, however. I wouldn’t even know which year to start.” He drained his glass and reached again for the decanter.
“Do you suspect Madame Giverny of something?” Gilles regarded him curiously.
The colonel shrugged. “It’s just a feeling, Gilles. Nothing I can put my finger on. If Bonaparte goes to bed before dawn, I’ll try to take a look at his journals.” He didn’t sound too hopeful. The general survived on remarkably little sleep. Usually it was dawn by the time he lay down for the catnap that sufficed for a night’s rest, and by then headquarters would be a hive of activity again, making discreet spying a much more difficult operation.
“You could always ask him,” Gilles suggested.
Montaine gave a short laugh. “The last time I mentioned the lady to the general, I got my head snapped off. I don’t think I’ll risk it again. Good night, Gilles.”
The other man accepted this abrupt dismissal without surprise. The colonel was not known for the niceties of his manner. He drained his glass and stood up. “Good night, sir.”
Montaine twirled the stem of his wineglass between his fingers, gazing sightlessly into the middle distance. Finally he pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
He strolled casually down the hallway towards the general’s apartments. The drawing room door stood open and the general’s manservant was tidying the room. The colonel paused in the doorway. “Has General Bonaparte retired, Claude?”
“No, sir. He went out riding about half an hour ago.”
“Riding? But it’s past midnight.”
“Yes, sir. He said he needed some exercise.”
“Who accompanied him?”
“I believe one of the officers on duty, Colonel.”
“I see.” Montaine looked thoughtful. “I want to check the general’s diary for tomorrow.” He crossed the drawing room and entered the office. It was brightly lit as always; the general had unpredictable working hours and candles were kept burning throughout the night.
Montaine left the door slightly ajar and went to the shelves behind the desk where the general’s leather-bound logbooks were kept easily to hand. Each book bore the year on its spine and his hand hovered uncertainly. He had joined the general’s personal staff early the previous year. He had not come across a woman who closely resembled Madame Giverny, so the year before, perhaps? He drew out the relevant volume. Gilles had no recollection of such a woman either, and he had joined the general’s personal staff six months before the colonel.
He opened the book at January, 1796, the year the general had married Josephine Beauharnais. Montaine smiled a little grimly. Bonaparte adored his wife, but was so busy campaigning he barely saw her. Hence the need for these impulsive liaisons. He thumbed through the entries for the early months after the general had been put in command of the Army of Italy. They were meticulous accounts of the various engagements of the Italian campaign, interspersed with the general’s judgments of his own decisions, and occasional descriptions of social events. Interesting enough, but not what he was looking for. Although he was somewhat uncertain as to what that was. And then his eye fell on an item at the bottom of a page.
During the armistice of Cherasco, when Bonaparte was dictating the terms to the King of Savoy in Milan, the general noted a meeting with an Austrian woman, Ana Loeben.
April 30th: Introduced tonight by Giovanni Morelli to Countess Ana Loeben, delightful redhead, petite and charming, well educated, a fascinating conversationalist. Complaisant husband apparently. Worth pursuing?
Montaine tapped the question mark with a fingertip. Was this it? Had the general pursued Countess Loeben? More to the point, had he caught the countess? The colonel turned pages, but there was no other reference to the lady, which seemed to imply that she had not been caught. It could, of course, be pure coincidence that a woman so like the one that Bonaparte had noticed in Milan should appear from nowhere. But it was also a possibility, however faint, that someone had intended the Countess Giverny to catch the general’s susceptible eye. And as far as Montaine was concerned, a possibility of danger threatening his general must be considered a probability and acted upon.
He slotted the volume back onto the shelf and then froze at the sound of voices in the outer chamber. The door flew wide and Bonaparte stood there, tapping his riding crop against his boots.
“You’re here, Alain,” he observed without apparent surprise.
“I came to check your diary for tomorrow, General,” the colonel said calmly, knowing perfectly well that it would never occur to Bonaparte to question such an explanation. “The brigade majors requested a staff meeting to discuss leave policy.”
“Good God, man, that doesn’t require my attention,” the general said. “You can handle it, surely?”
“Yes, of course, sir,” Montaine said as calmly as before. “But before I arranged the meeting I wished to be sure that you didn’t require me yourself at that time.”
“Oh, I see.” The general nodded, apparently satisfied. “By the way, tomorrow evening I shall be going out, Alain. You may have the evening off, I won’t be requiring the services of any of my staff.”
“May I ask where you’re going, sir?”
“No, you may not,” Bonaparte stated, sitting at his desk. “Now, leave me. I have work to do.” He waved towards the door.
Montaine wished his general good night and left, his mind working overtime. He went downstairs and demanded to speak to the duty officer who had accompanied the general on his ride.
The junior lieutenant responded to the summons at a run. “Colonel.” He saluted, almost skidding to a halt in front of his superior.
“Where did you go with General Bonaparte this evening?”
“We rode out of town and the general stopped at a cottage. He told me to wait and he went inside. Then he came out and we rode back here.”
“He went inside? Did someone open the door for him?”
“I believe so, but I couldn’t really see. He told me to wait on the pathway. I waited for perhaps ten minutes, then General Bonaparte came out again and we rode back.”
“You had better take me there now.”
An hour later, Colonel Montaine gazed at the unremarkable lime-washed cottage set back from the path behind a low stone wall. He recognized it. A week earlier he and Bonaparte with a small group of officers had passed by here, and an elderly woman weeding in her garden had rushed out to greet them with voluble delight. She had pressed pieces of freshly baked cherry pie upon them, and Napoleon, whose sure touch with ordinary folk never failed him, had dismounted and strolled with her into the garden, where he’d eaten pie and talked with her and her husband for a few minutes before rejoining his men.
>
So what had brought him out here again so late at night? Why had he roused the old couple from their beds? What had he wanted from them?
Whatever it was, Montaine didn’t like it. Any more than he liked the idea of his general going off alone tomorrow night. Was Bonaparte intending to come here? Had he been arranging something with the old couple?
An assignation with Madame Giverny . . .
It seemed the obvious explanation. But usually the general’s fancies were smuggled into his quarters and smuggled out again at dawn. Why was this different? Why was she different?
Montaine rode back in abstracted silence. He knew Bonaparte wouldn’t listen to him if he expressed his unease with this assignation and his reservations about the widow, so he would have to take precautions without the general’s being aware. If he was wrong, then the consequences would be hard to bear, but if he was right and did nothing, the consequences for Bonaparte . . . for France herself . . . were unimaginable.
Meg awoke the next morning from a sleep so deep and dark it took her a few minutes to identify the source of the weight that seemed to be pressing on her chest. She sat up against the pillows and bleakly took stock. They were in the end game and to all intents and purposes her part was played. But it would never really be over. She would never be able to forget her part in a man’s death.
The door opened and Estelle entered with Meg’s morning chocolate. “Good morning, madame. A beautiful one it is again,” she said breezily. “I trust you’re feeling better this morning.” She set the tray down on the bedside table and went to open the curtains, letting in a flood of buttery sunlight that made Meg blink. It certainly didn’t suit her mood.
“Yes, thank you, Estelle,” she said, closing her eyes against the cheery light.
“A letter came for you, madame,” the abigail said, handing Meg a wafer-sealed paper before she poured a fragrant stream of chocolate into a shallow cup. “Bright and early the messenger was. I don’t even think M’sieur Charles was around.”
Meg murmured something in response and turned the folded, sealed paper over in her hands. There was nothing to identify the sender. No imprint on the wafer, no initials, no crest. Just her name written in bold black script.
She took the cup Estelle handed her and said, “I’ll ring when I’m ready for you, Estelle.”
The maid looked a little surprised. “Shouldn’t I put out your dress for the morning, madame?”
“Not right now,” Meg said with a touch of impatience. “I’m not ready to get up just yet. I’ll ring when I am.”
Estelle bobbed a curtsy and left. As soon as the door had closed, Meg slit the wafer with a fingernail and unfolded the sheet. It bore a time—10:30 p.m.—and a meticulously drawn map. The artist was a skilled cartographer. There was nothing else. No signature, no salutation, nothing but the time and the map.
Napoleon had clearly taken her insistence on secrecy to heart, she reflected. No one but herself could identify the author of this missive. No one but herself would understand what it meant.
She let the parchment drift to the coverlet and sipped her chocolate. It was for tonight, since there was no date. Could Cosimo be ready at such short notice? But it was really a rhetorical question. He would have been ready long since, just waiting for the time and the place to spring the trap.
Slowly a cold detachment descended upon her. If she was to get through this day and evening, she had to insulate herself from her imagination. She finished her chocolate, set the cup aside, and reached for the handbell.
_______
Cosimo was in the hall when she came downstairs half an hour later, the message from Bonaparte tucked into her sleeve.
“Good morning, madame.” He bowed with a polite smile but his sharp blue gaze scrutinized her appearance.
“Charles,” she said in response, moving towards the salon. “I have some errands I would like you to run for me this morning. Wait upon me in the salon . . . oh, and bring me coffee, please.”
“Certainly, madame.” He made his way to the kitchen, reflecting with a half smile that Meg had very little difficulty with the haughtiness aspect of her role.
He took a tray of coffee into the salon and set it on the table. Meg was sitting with her back to him at the secretaire and for a few minutes didn’t appear to acknowledge his presence. He coughed and said, “Shall I pour for you, madame?”
“Oh, yes, thank you, Charles,” she said rather absently.
Cosimo glanced around the deserted salon. The windows were closed, the door was closed, there were no pricked ears in the vicinity. There was no real need for Meg to maintain the act quite so punctiliously. He poured coffee before saying, “I understand you have some orders for me, madame.”
She turned then and he looked in vain for the glimmer of mischief he’d expected, but her pale face was sculpted in porcelain, not a hint of emotion of any kind. Silently she held out the parchment to him.
He looked at it, then nodded. “You have a luncheon engagement with Madame Beaufort?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must keep it. Do everything that you intended to do, don’t change your plans.”
“But this evening I’m engaged to attend a concert with a party of Major Guillaume’s.”
“Obviously you’ll cry off from that. I think it would be best if you were to mention casually at luncheon that you’re feeling a little under the weather . . . nothing serious, just a touch of the sun perhaps. I’ll deliver your message of excuse to Guillaume after I’ve brought you home from the Beauforts’.” He spoke swiftly, decisively, refolding Bonaparte’s map and tucking it into the inside pocket of his waistcoat.
“And then what?” Meg asked in the same distant tone.
He looked at her, noting anew her pallor, the deadness in those usually lively green eyes. “Sweetheart, I know this is hard—”
“Yes, it is,” she interrupted brusquely. “And the sooner it’s over, the better. You haven’t told me yet how we’re to get away from here, back to the Mary Rose.”
“You don’t need to know that at present,” he said, his tone once more decisive, all the tenderness banished. “You already know what you do need to know. We’ve been over it several times. Go to bed early and tell the household to do the same, dress in your britches, and at precisely eleven o’clock let yourself out of the house and make your way to the stables, where I’ll be waiting. Is that clear?”
Meg nodded. “Yes, it’s clear.”
“Good. I shall go off now and run these errands you have for me . . .” He tried a conspiratorial smile but received no response. With a shrug he turned to the door. “I’m going to follow the map but I’ll be back in time to drive you to the Beauforts’ at one o’clock.”
Meg heard the front door close almost immediately after he’d left her, and hurried to the window. Cosimo was striding down the street with the air of a man on a mission. He couldn’t possibly be checking out the rendezvous on foot, she thought. And then she shook her head dispiritedly. What did she know about his plans? He’d gone to considerable lengths to keep her from knowing anything except what was essential for her to play her own part.
Cosimo walked to a livery stable on the edge of the city and rented a nag that had seen better days. He didn’t argue the price, however, or comment on the animal’s woeful condition. He had no desire to draw attention to himself. He followed the beautifully drawn map and within a short space of time arrived at an isolated cottage set back from the pathway.
An old man was sitting on a wooden bench dozing in the sun while a woman picked beans in a kitchen garden. The only other buildings Cosimo could see were a lean-to outside of which a goat was tethered, and a hut that he guessed was the privy way off to the side of the cottage.
Humble quarters for General Bonaparte, he reflected. Were the old couple to be allowed to remain in situ for the assignation? Not that it would matter. They could offer no obstacle to the assassin. He dismounted and went to the gate. “M’s
ieur?”
The old man jerked awake. “Eh . . . eh?” He stared at the visitor as if he had dropped from the sky. The woman, on the other hand, set down her basket of beans and came over, wiping her hands on her apron.
“M’sieur?”
He smiled warmly and apologized for disturbing them. “Pardon, madame. I am looking for the road to La Valette.”
“Ah, m’sieur.” The woman threw up her hands in horror. “You are going in quite the wrong direction. Thataway, m’sieur.” She pointed back the way he had come.
He exclaimed suitably at his own stupidity, and wiped his brow pointedly with his handkerchief.
“Ah, come in . . . come in . . .” the old woman urged. “A drink of milk fresh from the goat will set you right. This way now. And my good man will water your horse.”
Cosimo with profuse thanks and apologies followed her into the low-ceilinged cottage. It was clean, freshly swept, and there was a ladder leading upwards into what he assumed was a loft. Well, Bonaparte would not think twice about such sleeping accommodations, he had enjoyed much worse on campaign, but it was still an interesting choice of venue for a night of passion with a gently bred lady. In other circumstances the thought would have made him chuckle.
He accepted a cup of warm goat’s milk, controlling a grimace of distaste even as his eyes darted around the small space looking for the right place to position himself for the ambush. The old couple would have to receive an urgent message that would take them out of the cottage, but from whom?
Gently he drew the woman out about her family and her circumstances. She was more than happy to chat and when her husband came in he proved even more garrulous. Cosimo learned of the daughter in the neighboring hamlet who was expecting a baby any day, and the son who had joined the army of the Republic under the flag of the great Bonaparte. He listened, prodded a little, and finally took his leave, discreetly putting two livres on the table in ostensible payment for the milk.
