by Joan Smith
“How does it come you escaped and the others did not?” Degan asked, mistrusting that innocent smile, and the father’s instinctive reaction to it.
“Oh, that Belhomme, he would do anything for money. One of his lunatics turned on a servant girl and stabbed her with a butcher knife. It was Édouard who had the very clever idea of pretending it was I who had been killed. The girl was about my age. Her body was taken away and identified as mine, and I am officially Agnès Maillard. We kept it from the servants there, who would have reported it in a flash, but a few of the guests knew—they saw what happened. I got her carte civile, the certificate of good citizenship you know, and left Belhomme’s to come to England to get you to help us, and here I am.” She tossed up her hands and smiled, considering her story all told.
“That sounds a perilous voyage for a girl alone. How did you manage it?” Degan asked.
She shrugged her impertinent shoulders in a dismissing fashion, while the gown slipped a trifle. “I walked. Oh, Papa, I must tell you! I saw Grandpère guillotined! It was awful! The head snapped off in a flash. At least it was swift. That’s why they call it to sneeze in the basket. It was just like a sneeze—one jerk and it was over. And now they have killed Hébert too, the Cordelier leader you know, and nineteen others executed at the Place de la Révolution. They say it was like a public circus. Someone had put up grandstands on the corners of the square, and sold seats at a terrific price. There was a larger crowd than for the king’s execution. He was a great nuisance to Robespierre with his writings—Père Duchesne, he called himself.”
Degan swallowed and looked hard at the girl before him, who spoke of twenty heads chopped off as a circus, yet as he looked more closely, he saw the big eyes were not laughing now. There was a shadow of fear, terror, behind them. “Try to put that out of your mind,” he said, in a more gentle voice than he had formerly used with her.
“No!” she said fiercely. “That must never be forgotten. It is Mama’s fate, and Édouard’s, if they are not rescued, or at least money got to them. You will do it, Papa? You can arrange it?”
“Yes, my love. I shall speak to Pitt tomorrow and see what can be done.”
The girl nodded her copper curls, but Degan sat wondering how anything of the sort would be done. Pitt had never been able even to discover what had happened to the family. How would he make this impossible arrangement?
“Surely you didn’t walk all the way from Paris to London,” her father asked, to divert her mind.
“Oh no, not across the water,” she said with a pert smile, her eyes clearing. She believed implicitly in her father, Degan thought. She imagined Harlock had some magical powers to make all right.
“How did you get here?” Degan asked.
“It was not at all difficult. I had the carte civile of Agnès Maillard. I had also her clothes. It was fortunate her family lived in Berck, not so far from Calais, giving me a good excuse for my trip. With my carte civile and my bonnet rouge, I had only to smile prettily at the gardes and show my cockade, and I was allowed to pass everywhere. But it was very far—about two hundred kilometers to Berck, and another hundred to Calais along the coast. Comme j’étais fatigué!”
“You walked three hundred kilometers!” her father shouted. “How the devil far is that in miles, Degan?”
“Roughly one hundred and eighty, but that only takes her to Calais.”
“Oh, but from Dover to London, that was nothing,” Minou assured them blithely. “I didn’t walk all the way either. I had a very nice ride in a farmer’s cart, on top of his choux, from Argenteuil to Chantilly, and there a boy lent me his ass for five kilometers, and at Berck the Maillards took me in their fishing boat to Touquet—only ten kilometers, but it was a rest from walking. Oh, and very useful! They loaned me boy’s clothing to wear after I got to England, so that the men would stop pestering me, you know. They are really dreadful flirts, those Englishmen.”
Degan’s head jerked sharply toward her at this speech, but she was unaware of it. “Best of all, they arranged for me to cross the Channel in a smuggler’s boat. An English one, Papa, so you need not worry I was in any danger. Though the revenuers nearly caught us. There was a good chase off New Romney. Luckily it was extremely foggy, and we got away without dumping the brandy.”
“You walked from Romney to London? Why did you not send word to your father?” Degan demanded.
“I tried to do that, but my money, he was no good. I had only assignats, you see. French revolutionary paper money that that old fox Belhomme sold me—at the black-market prices too. I paid too much for it, but in France it was acceptable. They prefer gold, bien entendu. It was pleasant walking in England—so peaceful, no gardes anywhere to hide from, no notices with crowds around worrying what the government would ration next, no angry mobs. I enjoyed it, and the bakers were very kind. One in Tenterden gave me two stale loaves for only sweeping out his shop and washing the pans. I never tasted anything so good. Could I have some bread, Papa?” she asked, suddenly remembering that she had dined on only a cold half of chicken.
“Mercy, it slipped my mind. Reetch!” he called to the butler, and ordered a meal, while Minou continued with her story.
“It was not at all unpleasant in England, for the hayricks were quite dry, and made a soft bed. You are having a dry summer, non? Except for tonight. Malheureusement I was still two miles from London when the maudit rain started.” She adjusted her shawl nonchalantly, then turned again to her father to inquire in a polite tone, “And how do you go on, Papa? You are well, I hope?”
“Yes, yes, I am fine, but your mother and Edward—how are they?”
“They survive; it is enough. Mama is become thin. She looks very elegant, and has got her hair cropped à la victime, like myself, ready for the guillotine. They cut the hair first, you know. I found we looked peculiar at first, unpowdered too, but Mama has got a little gray, and looks well in the new do. Mademoiselle Lange said she should go on the stage, but of course mademoiselle is presently an enemy of the Revolution, and can arrange nothing. Rouzet, the deputy, was dangling after her—Mama, I mean—till the duchesse d’Orleans arrived and snapped him up. Could I have a glass of your excellent brandy while we await dinner?”
Her father poured her a glass, and she sipped it carefully, the care in an examination of its taste. “This is very good,” she complimented him. “I realize now Belhomme was watering the eau-de-vie, the scoundrel, and charging such a price for it. This is much richer.”
“This is rare excellent stuff. My bailiff at the Hall got it for me.”
“What are the ladies wearing nowadays? They must be at a loss with no new styles from Paris to copy, hein?”
Neither gentleman was much help to her in this sartorial question, but once her food arrived, she forgot clothing and dug in to consume an astonishing amount of bread and meat, with a compliment on every bite, and a million wishes that Mama and Édouard could share it. Her meal done, she pushed the tray aside and said, “I am très fatiguée. I shall retire now. Tomorrow I must see Henri, Papa. He is still in London, Henri Mérigot?”
“Yes, he is still here.”
“He is well? You see him often?”
“Not so very often, but he is here and well.”
“Mama particularly asked me to see him, to tell him she is safe.”
“Who is this Henri Mérigot?” Degan asked.
“A close relative of my mama’s,” Minou told him. She directed a level stare at her father as she said this. Almost an accusing look. It was known Harlock had no love for his French connections. This, Degan supposed, was the reason for some little feeling of rancor between the father and daughter at the mention of the man’s name.
“I shall write him a note tomorrow asking him to call on me. You permit?” She phrased it as a question, but it sounded strangely like a command. Harlock nodded in agreement. “Till I have some clothing, I cannot go about town. You will send a modiste to me with materials, Papa?”
“Yes, m
y dear. I will take care of it first thing in the morning. Run along to bed now, and don’t worry your head about a thing. I shall manage it all. Come and kiss me goodnight.”
She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Oh—I forgot!” she said suddenly, and held out her hand to him. On her left hand a small pearl ring sat. “Mama said to show you this ring, in case you did not believe I am me. She said you would remember it from Lyons. You remember, Papa?”
Harlock rubbed the little pearl, the first present to his wife when they were courting. “I remember it,” he said in an unsteady voice. “She kept it, eh?”
“Yes, it was not worth selling,” Minou said practically. Her diamonds and emeralds are sold, but a little pearl would lot bring much. A couple of loaves of maggoty bread perhaps.” She glanced at the tray, where a slice of bread was all that remained of her dinner. She picked it up jealously and went from the room, after curtsying to Lord Degan. Before she was out the door, she was already nibbling on the dry bread, and finding it delicious.
Chapter Three
Lord Degan and Lord Harlock sat long over their drinks, discussing the surprising turn events had taken. In his state of perturbation, Degan even sipped a glass of the infamous brandy, finding it very strong and unpleasant. They marveled to each other about the sort of life Marie and the children would have had these past years, being in the notorious Conciergerie, the black hole of Paris.
Degan was deeply disturbed as to what effect her experiences must have had on a young female of genteel birth, for of course the ring proved the girl was Lady Céleste. Harlock pooh-poohed it, saying Degan could see for himself the girl was in high gig, and certainly her looks had not gone off. “Pretty as a picture; very like her mama at the same age.”
“She is attractive in her physical appearance, in a certain loud, French fashion, but there are some bad habits that you want to correct, John. Well, brandy for one thing, and using language unfit for a lady, to say nothing of scampering about with smugglers and worse. That gown she had made up—how the deuce did she do it, anyway?”
“She is half French,” Harlock explained. “They’re all modistes at heart, the Frenchies. Marie the same. She could make a bonnet out of a flower basket. Well, she did, in fact, at the Hall, and very pretty it was too.”
“Yes, well, a pity your daughter hadn’t fashioned a top for that skirt she wore. You want to oversee the gowns she has made up. You don’t want her going about society in dresses with a French cut to ‘em.”
“Marion—there’s the one to see to it,” Harlock said, naming a spinster aunt. “I’ll send to the Hall and ask her to come to us. The gel will want to ride about the city and see the sights.”
“Better keep her under wraps till you get Marie and Edward out. How will you do it?”
“I’ll have to talk it over with some fellows from the Foreign Office. They’ll think of something, now that we know where they are. It was our not being able to put a finger on them before that made it impossible. Something can be done. Somebody will have to go over after them.”
“How about this Henri Mérigot Lady Céleste mentioned? A Frenchie—he might be of use.”
“No!” Harlock said sharply. Then more calmly, “No, he is too young. Only a stripling of a fellow with no influence and very little brains. We can do better than send a boy for them.”
“In the meanwhile, you must make up some creditable story to account for Lady Céleste’s coming to you. You won’t want it to get out what she’s been through. It would ruin her reputation. What you ought to do is make a good match for her as soon as possible.”
“Lud, she’s only nineteen and been in prison the last year. Let her enjoy herself a bit first.”
“You forget her dowry. The Dorset estate worth fifty thousand pounds. She’ll be the object of every fortune hunter in the city.”
“She won’t be throwing herself away on any riff-raff. That Marie will have drummed into her head, whatever about anything else.”
“With that set of French manners she brought with her, she’ll put off the decent gentlemen. I think your best bet would be to get her buckled up right away to some solid, strict, older—”
Harlock gave a look that said, “You’re mad.” He pursed his lips and shook his head slowly from side to side. “No, Degan. That is not the sort of a gentleman for Sal. Some nice lively lad who will appreciate her, not try to put too tight a rein on her high spirits.” Some unsettling memories of trying to curb the girl’s mother assailed him. High-handedness had never worked with Marie, and it would not work with the daughter. He had no notion of losing the child, and to treat her as Degan suggested would surely do it.
“She’d wind any young fellow around her thumb,” Degan pointed out.
“It is early to speak of marriage. I want to keep her with me till Marie gets here. That is what must be done first. Arrangements made on that score. And Edward, of course, my son.” His chest expanded a little at the word. Edward had never been so difficult to deal with as the females. There was more of the Harlock in him, in both appearance and character. He felt suddenly younger, more full of life. With his hand on the brandy decanter, he pushed it aside.
“I’d better get to bed,” he said. “The minx will be up at the crack of dawn, driving the servants crazy with orders for food. She was half-starved, poor thing. Maggoty bread! How has Marie stood it these five years? You’ll come by tomorrow and see us, Rob?”
“Yes, I’ll be here,” Degan said, and taking the hint, arose to leave, though he would not have refused an offer to remain overnight. It was pouring rain, and chilly. Nor did he particularly look forward to returning alone to a large empty house, devoid of any human life but for servants.
* * * *
Abovestairs, Minou had long since fallen to sleep. Her limbs ached from her long walk in the rain, her head spun from the brandy, and she felt glutted from having eaten too much food. She was no longer accustomed to full meals. A crust of bread, the plate scrapings in the kitchen of an inn—such had been her repasts of late. She was very happy to have reached Papa safely, with all the cares of France and travel behind her.
The only worry now was the safety of Mama and Édouard, and Papa would take care of that. He was not so fusty as Mama had warned her. Not nearly so handsome either—how he had grown old in only ten years! She had received hundreds of commands on how she must disport herself with her ridiculously strict English father, but had forgotten nine-tenths of them and was fast forgetting the remainder. Papa was not at all severe. The other gentleman, Degan, he was a dragon. She was sure he was her Papa when first she saw him. She hoped he was not a bon ami of Papa. On this thought, her lids closed, and she was oblivious to the world.
For three hours she slept on undisturbed. It was about this time that Lord Harlock began to let the cares of the night slip from his mind, and succumb to the languor of sleep. He was just drifting off when an ear-splitting scream rent the air. One sharp screech first, followed swiftly by a series of shrill, shorter sounds, with some French words. In a flash he was out of bed, grabbing up a candlestick, not for illumination but for a weapon. Someone was killing Sally. Some damned Frenchie revolutionary had followed her and was killing her. He darted down the hall, shouting, rousing no one but his valet, who was soon at his heels. They flew into Sally’s room, to find her sitting up in bed, unmolested, but in a state of hysteria, screaming.
It was a nightmare. In her agitation, she spoke in French, but with enough of English for her father to understand she had dreamed Mama and Édouard were being guillotined. It was having seen Augé killed that caused it, of course. That and her concern for the family. He sent his valet off to bed as soon as he had a candle lit, and stayed on alone with Sally till she was calmed.
Her forehead was wet with perspiration. Her face was white and tear-stained, and she trembled with fright. She looked very young and frightened and vulnerable. For half an hour he stayed with her, promising he would see to her mother’s safety and E
dward’s, first thing in the morning. He still sat beside her, holding her hand, when she again closed her eyes. “Merci bien, Papa,” she mumbled, and soon slept.
With no one to see him, Harlock indulged in a surreptitious tear, to see little Sal all grown up, and back with him. Only a tyke when she left ten years ago. Ten years—what a chunk out of a man’s life! Ten of his best years. He was no longer young. He had been young when they left—young and stupid. His thoughts were soon with the mother. He had been too hard on her. A hundred times already he had regretted packing her off. Pride, damned silly, youthful pride. It was not what she had done so much as her concealing it from him that had stirred him to anger, but he shouldn’t have cast her off. “It’s me or him; take your choice. You can’t have us both.”
Who would have thought she would choose anyone else but her husband? He shook his head sadly at his youthful folly. When she came to England, he’d take her back. His thoughts were soon roving to this Rouzet, the deputy Sal had mentioned, and to Belhomme, impervious to a flirtation with Lady Harlock, to the dozens of other flirts she had had while his wife. Damme but it was a curse being married to a Frenchie. But then, how dull, how ugly they made the solid muffins of English girls look! More charm in a finger than the home-grown variety had in their entire skinny bodies. Sylvia Rothely, for instance! No one but a Lord Degan could find her a likely wife.
For Degan to be speaking of getting Sal married to some strict Methodist of a fellow like himself—it wouldn’t last a month. Nonsense. Let her choose for herself. With her dowry, he doubted the proper gentlemen would take her few French tricks amiss. The best-looking filly in town for the fall season, not a doubt of it. With Marion Fawthrop and himself to steer her to a proper course, she would have her pick of the partis. If she chose not to marry, that was all right too.
He arose slowly and returned to his room, leaving her door open in case she called again. She suffered only one nightmare. There was no more disturbance till morning.
