by Marie Laval
Chapter Four
They left Paris at daybreak. As soon as he climbed into the carriage, Saintclair stretched his legs, pulled his collar up, crossed his arms on his chest and fell asleep. The snow had almost completely melted and the streets were covered with brown slush and muddy puddles into which the horses’ hooves and the carriage wheels splashed.
Marie-Ange stared out of the window. The grey Paris suburbs gave way to villages, and then to a very dull, flat and colourless countryside, or perhaps it just looked like that because she was tired. She had spent half the night agonising about Louison George’s revelations and playing in her mind images of her childhood and of her father—the man she still thought of as her father, William Jones. Quiet and kind, if a little distant, he was a lawyer and always seemed busy at his Plymouth practice, in his study, or again in the garden where he lovingly tended his roses. The few memories she had of her parents together were of walks on the sea front, with them linking arms and smiling as she ran ahead; or of quiet Sundays afternoons when her father read to her in the drawing room while her mother worked at her embroidery. After her mother’s death, William Jones had become even more quiet, even more distant. He had however never given her any cause to suspect that she wasn’t his daughter. Yet he must have known. It explained why he was always so reluctant to talk about her mother’s past and her family.
Her thoughts turned to Christopher. Would she see him—or the man called Nallay—again soon? The more she thought about it, the more she recalled his face, the grey eyes and the unusual colour of his hair, the less doubts there were in her heart. Nalley was her husband. Something terrible must have happened to him, for it seemed he had lost his memory. But how would she manage to find him? How did one trace a spy?
With a sigh, she leant against the padded seat and closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, her cheek rested against something warm and strong. Mixed scents of sandalwood shaving soap and tobacco tickled her nose. Still half asleep, she patted tentatively at the coarse fabric of a jacket. Her fingers touched a metal button, then another. Goodness! That thumping sound wasn’t the horses’ galloping hooves, but a heartbeat! She opened her eyes. And pulled out of Saintclair’s arms.
‘Capitaine, how could you?’ she gasped. Her cheeks burning, she slid to the far end of the seat.
He shrugged. ‘Next time, I’ll let you fall off the seat if that’s what you want.’
She picked her grey bonnet from the floor and put it back on her dishevelled hair.
‘No, Capitaine, next time you will wake me up,’ she corrected haughtily, gripping the side of the seat as the carriage turned yet another bend on the bumpy road.
Hugo had rather enjoyed holding the young woman against him while she slept, her fingers splayed on his chest, her head resting snugly in the hollow of his shoulder and her curly hair caressing his face. He had never seen a woman’s hair so golden, so thick. He longed to unpin it, watch it fall on her shoulders and comb it with his fingers. His throat tightened and he swallowed hard. There were other things he longed to do, too…The woman was a mass of contradictions, a fascinating, tempting puzzle. Too tempting.
He shook his head. From now on, he would keep away from her. It was his responsibility to deliver her safe and sound to Malleval. It was in his interest too, and he’d better not forget it or the consequences for his family would be dire.
He would stop at the regimental barracks at Fontainebleau, pick up a horse and ride to Beauregard. They would both breathe more easily if they weren’t closeted together in that carriage.
They stopped at a roadside inn to have lunch and rest the horses. He discussed details of the itinerary with the driver, leaving Marie-Ange alone to eat a bowl of soup and drink coffee in the dining room. Back on the bumpy road, he spread the map on his knees and tried to plan the route to Beauregard but the young woman was in a talkative mood. Her incessant chatter made it impossible for him to keep to his resolution and ignore her.
‘Where are we stopping for the night?’
‘Sens.’
‘Is it a large town?’
‘Not really,’ he replied, not even bothering to lift his eyes from the map. Surely she would take the hint and stop talking.
She looked through the window. ‘This looks like wine-growing country. Look. Another beautiful chateau! Do they produce champagne around here?’
He nodded. ‘Some chateaux do.’
‘I have only had champagne twice before,’ she remarked, pulling a face. ‘And I did not like it at all.’
This time he smiled. ‘Then it wasn’t real champagne. Malleval has a well appointed cellar at Beauregard. I am sure he shall be pleased to do the honours.’ Hugo knew all about the wine in that cellar. It was what got him in trouble in the first place.
She was looking out of the window again. He glanced at her and held his breath, struck by the wonder and innocence in her eyes.
‘Now, that’s the most magnificent chateau I have ever seen,’ she whispered.
‘Fontainebleau,’ he announced as the carriage drove into the courtyard of army barracks. ‘That’s where we’re stopping.’
‘Why?’
He let out a sigh. ‘I am picking up a horse. I’ll ride for the rest of the journey.’
‘Oh…’ She turned away but not before he saw the look of relief on her face.
The carriage stopped and he jumped down.
Marie-Ange watched him talk and joke with his fellow cuirassiers officers and the stable lads who pulled several horses from their box to parade in front of him. Saintclair patted the animals’ sides, looked at their hooves, commented on their shiny coats and well brushed manes. Fifteen minutes later he pointed to a huge charger, black like a moonless night, and highly spirited judging by the way it bucked and stomped on the cobbles. Unconcerned, Saintclair stroked its neck and kept on talking as he saddled it. Then he swung up on it in a swift, fluid movement and they set off on the road to Sens.
It was night when they reached the large, comfortable inn on the main square where they would spend the night.
‘Tomorrow we’ll travel through the forest,’ Saintclair said when they parted for the night. He warned her of the dangers ahead. Wolves, boars, and robbers. She wasn’t overly anxious though. He would protect them. He was a cuirassier, a trained killer, and he carried a pistol tucked in his belt, under his riding coat, she had seen it.
They entered the deep, dark Burgundy forest the following afternoon. The ground was frozen, the trees fluffy with silver frost. Despite the extra blanket the coach driver provided which she had wrapped around her shoulders, Marie-Ange couldn’t stop shivering. Her feet were like blocks of ice and she had to keep rubbing her gloved hands together to warm them. The horses slowed to a walking pace as the road became a bumpy track and the forest closed in on them.
Daylight was fading when they arrived in a hamlet and stopped in front of a small tavern with a half-timbered black and white façade. The driver opened the door, helped Marie-Ange climb out, and carried her bag inside where they found Saintclair leaning over the counter, arguing with the innkeeper.
‘My apologies, Capitaine, I only have the one room,’ the innkeeper said, a contrite expression on his face. ‘And it won’t be available for long. A company of dragoons is heading this way. There must be trouble brewing down south, we already had two infantry battalions stopping by this week. Do you want the room or not?’
‘I suppose so,’ Saintclair grumbled. He took his purse out and gave the man a few silver coins. ‘We require supper too, for the lady, the coach driver, and myself. And mulled wine in the room straight away.’
Marie-Ange stood in the middle of the bedroom Saintclair escorted her to. Surely she had misunderstood. He wasn’t planning to share a bedroom with her, was he? While he busied himself lighting a fire, she looked around with dismay, pulling a face at the two battered armchairs, the bed piled high with quilts and blankets and the rickety washstand with its chipped bowl.
‘Don�
��t look so disgusted, it’s not that bad,’ Saintclair remarked, a wide grin on his face. ‘At least we have a room. The coachman has to sleep in the stables with the horses.’
‘What about you?’ she blurted out. ‘Could you not…?’
‘What? Sleep in the stables, too? I suppose I could but I don’t want to.’ He narrowed his eyes and paused. ‘I’ll manage very well with these two armchairs, unless you would rather share the bed. It would be warmer and certainly a lot more pleasant for both of us.’
His audacity left her speechless. His words about women purring like kittens in his arms echoed in her mind, and she didn’t need to look at her reflection in the mirror to guess that her face and throat had turned crimson. She took a deep breath.
‘A gentleman would never place a woman in this situation, even less so make this kind of salacious comments, Capitaine,’ she said when she trusted her voice not to shake.
He stepped forward, forcing her to tilt her head all the way up to look at him. She didn’t step back. He wasn’t going to intimidate her so easily. When he was only a few paces away, he stared into her eyes.
‘I never said I was a gentleman, Madame,’ he said, his voice almost too calm.
‘Very well, you can have the room to yourself. I will sleep quite comfortably in the lounge downstairs.’ She crossed her arms on her chest.
He took another step towards her. ‘I don’t think so. Did you not hear what the innkeeper said? He is expecting a company of dragoons tonight. You will stay where I can keep an eye on you, is that clear?’ His voice had a steely edge to it that brooked no disagreement.
He seemed about to add something when there was a knock on the door and a servant boy entered carrying a tray with pitchers of mulled wine.
‘Good lad. I’ll take that.’ Saintclair placed the tray on the dressing table and gave the boy a coin.
‘You should drink while it is hot,’ he said, handing a pitcher to Marie-Ange.
Their fingers brushed when she took hold of it. She jerked back and tightened her lips. Sainclair shrugged, turned to the fireplace and downed his steaming hot drink in a few gulps. He then declared he had to see to his horse.
‘I will meet you in the dining room in an hour,’ he said before walking out.
Heaving a sigh of relief now she was alone, she sat down near the fireplace and sipped the mulled wine. How was she going to bear the next few days travelling with such a brute? And how was she going to survive a night in the same room? She finished her drink and got up to unpack some of her clothes before going downstairs to ask the innkeeper for some hot water to be brought up to the room. After a quick toilette, she changed into a dark green dress and made her way down to the dining room, her freshly brushed hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck.
The company of dragoons had arrived. The dining room was packed with soldiers in grey and blue uniforms, eating, drinking, and getting more rowdy by the second. A few were in shirt sleeves, having thrown their coats on the floor. Others were already slumped in a drunken stupor against the walls. Saintclair waved at her from a table at the back. The dragoons stared as Marie-Ange walked across. Whistles and crude comments filled the air.
Saintclair stood up at once, his eyes cold and his face set in stone as he surveyed the room. ‘Behave, dragoons, and do your regiment proud,’ he said in a strong voice. Although he wasn’t wearing his uniform, his air of command quelled the situation. The men muttered apologies and went back to their pitchers of wine and ale. Saintclair pulled out a chair for Marie-Ange.
‘Let us get this meal over with quickly,’ he said as a servant brought bowls of soup, ham, and thick slices of bread.
He glanced around the room with a preoccupied air. ‘They are from the Fourth Regiment of Dragoons. Their major and half the company are stopping at a village nearby, leaving only a handful of low-ranking officers in charge here, and I’ll be damned if I know where they are right now, probably dealing with supplies.’ He shook his head, disgusted. ‘Look at them! They’re a disgrace. I wouldn’t tolerate such behaviour from my men.’
Night had fallen and camp fires could be seen through the inn’s small, dirty windows. There were tents, horses, men all over the courtyard, and probably all over the village, too.
‘Do you understand now why you will not be sleeping in the lounge tonight, Madame?’ he asked, a mocking grin on his face.
‘Yes.’ She sighed.
They finished their meal in silence and Saintclair escorted her to the bottom of the stairs.
‘I will come up shortly. In the meantime, bar the door.’
Back upstairs, she stood in the room, wondering whether to undress or sleep fully clothed. Having decided that the thick quilts and blankets piled on top of the bed would offer enough privacy, she stripped out of her dress, stockings and underwear, and slipped her white nightdress on. She was tightening the belt of Christopher’s faded blue dressing gown around her waist when Saintclair called from behind the door. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes when he saw her nightclothes and she wondered if she had done the right thing. He dropped the pillow and blankets he was carrying on the floor.
Unsure of what to do next, she sat in the armchair and tucked her feet under her. Saintclair sat in the chair opposite. They stared into the fire without talking for a while. The noise of the soldiers’ raucous laughter downstairs and in the camp outside echoed into the night.
‘I fear it’s going to be a long night,’ he said, breaking the silence.
She bit her lower lip. There was much she wanted to ask him about Uxeloup Malleval and his father, but she wasn’t quite sure how to start, especially after their unpleasant altercation earlier on.
‘It was a stroke of luck to meet Madame George the other night at the opera and to hear her stories about Edmond Malleval,’ she said at last. ‘He sounds like a frightful man.’
Saintclair nodded without looking her way.
‘You are correct. He wasn’t mourned by many when he passed away a few months ago. In fact, he was known as ‘The Butcher of Lyon’ and was, together with his two associates, Fouché and Collot d’Herbois, one of the most blood-thirsty and fanatical men the Revolution ever produced. Not surprising really, considering where he was from.’
‘Where was that?’
‘A village in the Pilat, a god-forsaken place to the south-west of Lyon, with mountains and gorges, deep forests and torrents gushing down rocky slopes. The people who live there are as harsh and unforgiving as their land. The village he came from is actually called Malleval.’
‘It is a rather sinister name, is it not?’
He nodded again. ‘It means ‘BadValley’. It was for centuries the lair of brigands who rampaged through the whole region.’
He hesitated. ‘Actually, I might as well tell you since you’ll only hear it from somebody else. These brigands were led by the Malleval family. That’s how they made their fortune, from robbing and killing.’
‘Really? Then how did Edmond become such a prominent statesman during the Revolution?’ Her voice was barely a whisper, her fingers tightly crossed in her lap.
‘The Revolution gave opportunities to all kinds of fanatics, rogues and gold-diggers to rise to the top. Edmond Malleval was one of them. Not only did he achieve a position of power within the system but he also made his fortune by buying cheap church and émigré estates. And of course, he married your grandmother. When Lyon rebelled against the revolution in July 1793, he led the repression against the insurgents. Thousands were massacred. My parents sent me to an aunt in the country at the time but they later told me about some of the atrocities he ordered. Women, men, and children chained up before being shot, the guillotine working day and night on the Place des Terreaux. At one point, both Lyon’s rivers ran red with blood.’
She turned to him. ‘My God!’
‘After several weeks, Malleval, Fouché and Collot d’Herbois actually signed a decree stating that Lyon was no more. They had managed to destroy the city
which dared stand against them.’
‘Madame George said he took my mother away by force from the Priory, and later he claimed she was dead.’
And yet her grandmother married him…Why?
‘What is Uxeloup like?’ she asked.
He sighed, raked his dark hair with his fingers.
‘He isn’t in the least like his father, if that’s what you’re worried about. He is far too self-absorbed and too concerned with having a good time. But for all his faults, he is a good fighter, a great Hussar.’ He smiled encouragingly.
‘What can you tell me about Fouché?’
He sat back in the armchair and studied her with half-closed eyes.
‘I am starting to wonder why you are taking such an interest in our former Minister of Police, Madame. Are you thinking of becoming one of his spies?’
She let out an impatient sigh.
‘Of course not. You said he had been an associate of Edmond Malleval. Does Uxeloup know him well, too?’
He nodded. ‘I believe they are close, although I really cannot understand why any man would wish to call that snake his friend. You will be able to make your own mind up about Fouché very soon. He is attending a ball on Saturday night in Lyon where Uxeloup is invited, so if we make it to Beauregard by Thursday as planned, you will meet him there.’
Her heart made a leap. ‘I will? That would be wonderful. We simply must be there on time.’
‘Why do you want to meet Fouché so badly?’ he asked, frowning with suspicion.
She ignored his question and jumped to her feet. ‘I wish you good night, Capitaine.’
He stood up too and pointed to the dressing gown. ‘Isn’t that a little too big for you?’
She tilted her chin. ‘It was my husband’s. I always wear it in the evenings. It reminds me of him.’
