by Marie Laval
In any case, it was obvious Sophie loved him, although Marie-Ange couldn’t understand what she saw in him.
Sophie’s cousin, a plump, middle-aged woman with a ready smile, arrived within the hour, and when she handed the dress back to Marie-Ange, it looked as good as new.
Eager to set off for Lyon, Marie-Ange went out early the following morning to find Malleval’s carriage already stationed in front of the chateau. She paused a moment at the top of the front porch steps. The morning was still, silent. Ribbons of mist curled around the tree tops and hovered above the lawn in the park, lending Beauregard a dreamy, almost ghostly appearance. She took a deep breath. Scents of pine trees and wood smoke mingled in the frigid winter air.
A huge man dressed in a long furry brown coat appeared from behind Malleval’s carriage and charged like a bear towards her. Marie-Ange recoiled, a cry of alarm escaping from her lips. The man’s face was covered with a bushy beard, his small, beady black eyes shone under thick eyebrows. It was hard to see where his brown fur hat and shag pile coat started and his beard and long, grizzly hair stopped.
‘Are these yours?’ he grunted, pointing to her bags.
He must be Rochefort, Malleval’s coachman. She nodded and he lifted her travel bags and threw them onto the rack on top of the carriage as if they were no heavier than feather pillows.
‘Get in, M’ame,’ he said then, flinging the door open for her. ‘If we set off now, we’ll be in Lyon before dinner.’
And with another grunt he climbed onto the driver’s box.
The roads were busy. Stagecoaches and private carriages, army personnel and carts driven by farmers or market traders and laden with poultry, barrels of wine, and fresh produce made progress difficult. From time to time Rochefort let out a raucous shout, and even though Marie-Ange didn’t always understand what he was saying, it seemed to have some affect in persuading people to move aside and let them through.
They reached the outskirts of Lyon mid-afternoon.
Uxeloup’s townhouse was on Isle Barbe, an island on the River Saône, one of Lyon’s two rivers. Covered with woodland and evergreens, Isle Barbe seemed an emerald in the middle of the river, with a square church tower and several large stone buildings nestling within the trees.
The coach proceeded onto a narrow wooden bridge, and then drove through a village square lined with lime trees, their branches now winter bare. They continued onto a lane with Roman arches on both sides—probably the remains of a cloister. At the end of the lane, Rochefort waited for a pair of imposing cast iron gates to be opened. They were adorned with an intricate medallion bearing Malleval’s coat of arms—the letters A and M intertwined. The carriage rumbled into a cobblestone courtyard. Marie-Ange’s heart sank when the tall gates closed behind them, like prison doors.
Being on the balcony outside her bedroom was like standing on the deck of a ship, cut off from the world. Malleval’s house occupied the tip of the island in the middle of the Saône. The sky above was black and overcast. The river was dark too, with only a few flickers of light dancing on the surface, reflections of the windows of the buildings lining the quays on either side.
Marie-Ange shivered with cold and walked back in her room, admiring once again the green and pink silk wall coverings. Her gown lay on the elegant bed with the wooden posts rising towards the ceiling. A dark cherry wood dressing table covered with perfume bottles held her brush and mirror. The overall effect of the decor was one of beauty and refinement, not at all what she had expected from a house that had belonged to a blood-thirsty revolutionary brute. It was in fact a former Bishop’s palace Edmond Malleval had acquired after Church properties were confiscated, divided into lots, and auctioned off during the Revolution.
Sinking into the chaise longue near the fireplace, she glanced nervously at the mantel clock. Time had dragged since she arrived, or was it because she felt anxious about the ball, about seeing Malleval again and meeting Fouché?
At last a maid arrived to help her dress for the evening.
‘What a beautiful shade of blue,’ the girl marvelled once she’d slipped the gown over Marie-Ange’s head and settled it around her hips. The maid brushed her hair until it shone like gold, parted it in the middle and twisted each side into a coil secured with pins, leaving strands of golden curls to fall around her face. Marie-Ange clasped her mother’s gold locket around her neck. She didn’t often wear it but tonight the feel of the heavy pendant against her skin was reassuring. To finish, she slid her arms into long white gloves the maid held for her.
When she stood in front of the full-length mirror, Marie-Ange couldn’t repress a gasp of astonishment. It was the first time in six years that she wore anything other than a plain, long-sleeved, dark coloured gown. She could hardly recognise herself. Tentatively, her hands skimmed over the bodice of the dress, smoothed over the folds of the skirt before touching the curls framing her face.
‘You look beautiful, Madame,’ the girl exclaimed with a beaming smile on her face, before leading her down the stairs into the lobby where Rochefort was waiting to take her to the ball.
Capitaine Saintclair had explained that Palais Saint Pierre stood in the heart of the city. A former Benedictine convent, it had been closed down at the Revolution and was now the seat of the newly-established chamber of commerce. ‘Apparently, ghosts of nuns still haunt the place,’ Saintclair had said, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Many of my friends who attended events there reported being groped by invisible hands. They said they found the experience rather pleasurable.’
The Palais did look like a monastery with its austere, grey stone walls and large gates opening onto a cloister garden. Rochefort informed her he would station along the square until she was ready to go back. Alone and slightly intimidated, she followed the crowd of gentlemen in black evening suits, ladies in ball gowns, and officers in various regimental uniforms up to the first floor.
The ballroom was ablaze with light. Crystal chandeliers glittered brightly and reflected in massive gilded mirrors on the walls. Couples danced to the music of a small string orchestra while onlookers chattered and enjoyed a glass of champagne. She stepped into the room and glanced around, unsure of what to do next.
‘Madame Norton!’
Her heart skipped a beat and she could only stare as Saintclair strode through the crowd towards her, magnificent in his parade uniform. The imperial blue jacket ornamented with bright red shoulder pads and his crisp white shirt underneath made a stark contrast with his dark hair and tanned complexion. White breeches tucked into Hessian boots fitted his muscular legs snugly. The sword hanging on his side glinted under the lights.
He took his hat off and bowed in front of her. She swallowed hard and extended her hand.
‘Capitaine. I am glad to see you…Were you released from your duties for the ball?’ She was annoyed to hear that she sounded a little breathless.
He nodded and lifted her hand to his lips but his eyes never left hers. The warmth of his mouth through her glove sent shivers down her spine.
‘I was indeed.’ He cocked his head to one side to gaze at her. ‘You look different tonight,’ he remarked, an intense look in his blue eyes, before taking her elbow and guiding her through the crowd.
He pointed to a closed door. ‘Malleval disappeared with Fouché in the billiard room a while ago. Private meeting, I believe.’
A couple of men in cuirassier uniforms approached them.
‘Saintclair! Are you keeping this lovely lady to yourself?’ One of them asked, detailing Marie-Ange.
‘What are you doing here, de Mitre?’ Saintclair’s voice was cold. ‘I thought Colonel Mougeon asked you to supervise the barracks tonight.’
She remembered that name. Capitaine Martin said that de Mitre was given Saintclair’s promotion because he was a member of an old, aristocratic family. Caroline Dupin also mentioned him.
De Mitre laughed. ‘I delegated. One of the things I do well, I believe. I’d rather be here than in our stinky
barracks with all these new recruits. Have you seen the state of them? Peasants, the lot of them! They couldn’t tell a horse’s mouth from its arse, never mind fight on one.’
‘What a pity our old cuirassiers’s test was abolished last year,’ the other man said. ‘Not a single one of these new recruits would pass.’
‘Capitaine Martin mentioned that test before, did he not?’ Marie-Ange enquired of Saintclair. ‘What exactly did it consist of?’
Saintclair stared at her blankly while the other two laughed.
‘Shall you tell her or shall I?’ de Mitre asked Saintclair.
‘I don’t think it’s necessary to tell Madame anything,’ Saintclair replied. He turned away. ‘Come, I will show you the gardens,’ he said, putting his hand on Marie-Ange’s forearm to lead her away.
‘Not so fast,’ De Mitre protested. ‘Don’t be so modest, Saintclair. After all, Madame has the right to know what to expect from you.’ He turned to her. ‘You see, dear Madame, in the good old days, aspiring cuirassiers would be given three horses, three bottles of champagne, and three willing women. The test was to cover twenty miles, drink the champagne and…well…see to the ladies in three hours, and in any order they saw fit. Saintclair here still holds the regiment’s record. Two hours and…forty minutes. Was it? The ladies demanded an encore. The horses collapsed, exhausted. Saintclair asked for more champagne, and gallant as ever, he granted the three ladies their request.’
The men laughed coarsely. Marie-Ange felt her cheeks grow hot. Saintclair glanced at her, sighed impatiently and pointed to the other side of the ballroom.
‘Here are Malleval and Fouché. I will take you to them now.’ He sounded relieved to walk away.
Marie-Ange’s first impression of Joseph Fouché was that of a snake. He surveyed the ballroom crowd with cold, unflinching heavy-lidded brown eyes, barely acknowledging the men who nodded a deferential salute to him. His thin lips didn’t smile, his long face remained impassive. In fact, Marie-Ange thought as she approached, he stood very much in the superior manner of a Roman emperor—or maybe it was the image he tried to convey with the way he wore his steel grey hair, short all over with a few flicks on his high forehead.
Next to him, Uxeloup stood, very handsome in his black suit and white necktie. It was hard to reconcile the image of elegance he now presented with the memory of the half-naked madman of the night before at Beauregard
‘Dear Marie-Ange, here you are at last!’ He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘You look ravishing. You do remind me of your mother tonight.’
He leant forward and stared at her pendant.
‘This locket,’ he whispered, ‘it’s the same as Saint Germain’s.’
‘It was my mother’s,’ Marie-Ange answered, uneasy, and covering the locket with her hand. Maybe it had been a mistake wearing it tonight…
‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ Fouché interrupted.
Uxeloup took a deep breath and turned. ‘I’m sorry, Fouché. Please allow me to introduce a long-lost relative, Marie-Ange Norton, who just arrived from Devonshire.’
Fouché bowed, his lips stretched into a thin smile which didn’t reach his eyes. A shiver of repulsion skittered along her spine as his mouth brushed her gloved hand. She would be wasting her time trying to extract information from him about Nallay. This man would give nothing away. He had after all survived four successive regimes, turning from one master to another, betraying former associates—and even his emperor. He would keep his secrets close to his heart—if he had one—which, looking into his emotionless face, she very much doubted.
‘Devonshire? How charming,’ Fouché remarked. ‘So, you are the daughter of Catherine Beauregard whom I once met at Edmond’s house. You do bear an uncanny resemblance to her.’
Marie-Ange frowned. ‘I had no idea you had met my mother, Monsieur. When exactly was that?’
Fouché thought for a few seconds. ‘Let me think. Sometime in the winter of 1791, I suppose. Yes, it was definitely a couple of years before the Lyon rebellion.’
He turned to Uxeloup. ‘Don’t you remember? You were there too. You were only a boy, though quite a feisty one.’ His lips stretched into a tight smile which didn’t reach his eyes. ‘There was some incident between you and the young woman during which you did not particularly shine.’
Uxeloup looked uncomfortable. ‘Let’s not talk about it, Fouché. I do not wish to stir up unpleasant memories tonight.’ The orchestra was playing a quadrille and he offered Marie-Ange his arm.
‘Will you do me the honour, dear Marie-Ange?’
There was no way she could refuse without being rude so she walked with him to the centre of the parquet floor where they took their place with a dozen other couples. Throughout the dance she was aware of Saintclair’s intense blue gaze on her, and even though she tried to ignore him she missed her steps a few times.
Fouché’s comments confirmed her mother had been taken to Malleval’s village in the mountains. She had managed to escape. Had somebody helped her?
After the quadrille, the orchestra started the first notes of a waltz. The dance had caused scandal in England a few years before. Attempts had even been made to have it banned. It was now fashionable in London but still very much frowned upon in the rest of the country and had never been played at the Wellcombe village ball. Having never danced a waltz, she asked Malleval to excuse her.
‘You have never danced a waltz? What kind of barbarians do you mix with back in Devonshire?’ Malleval laughed as they walked back to Fouché and Saintclair.
‘Saintclair, you must show Marie-Ange how it is done.’
‘How what is done?’ Saintclair raised his eyebrows.
‘Dancing the waltz, of course. Our dear girl has never waltzed before,’ Malleval explained.
‘In that case, I will be happy to oblige. Shall we?’ Saintclair offered his arm and led her to the dance floor.
Her heart beat faster as he placed one hand on her waist and started turning slowly, guiding her through the steps. Although their bodies never actually touched, she could feel the heat from his arm around her, the strength of his hand holding hers. Her cheeks burning, she concentrated on the steps, too embarrassed to look up at him. After a while however, her body responded to the music and she started enjoying swirling among other couples. She looked up and smiled.
Then she saw him. Christopher. Nallay. Or rather, she caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror. She stiffened in Saintclair’s arms.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, alarm deepening his voice.
‘He’s here!’ She lifted her chin and pointed towards the entrance. Freeing herself from Saintclair’s arms, she ran out of the ballroom, bumping into people who stood in her way. Nalley was descending the staircase. Once on the ground floor, he walked towards the cloister gardens and vanished.
The gardens gleamed under the moonlight. Breathless, Marie-Ange looked around. Where could he have gone? She ventured into the shadows. Suddenly her arm was wrenched behind her, and a hand covered her mouth. She wriggled to free herself but the man holding her was too strong. He pulled her further into the darkness.
‘Je vous connais, je vous ai déjà vue…I’ve seen you before. Who are you? Why are you following me?’ He spoke French, his voice a harsh whisper. He opened his hand slightly to enable Marie-Ange to answer but applied more pressure to her arm as a warning not to scream.
‘Of course you have seen me before. I am…’ she answered in English.
‘I remember. It was in Paris, Rue de Condé,’ he interrupted impatiently, switching to English too. ‘So you’re English. Who are you working for? Talleyrand?’
There was no doubt in her mind. This man was her beloved Christopher. When he leant over her shoulder, she breathed in his familiar scent.
‘Christopher, it’s me, Marie-Ange.’ She turned her body towards him so he could see her face in the moonlight. ‘Do you not recognise your wife?’
His hold slackened for a few
seconds, but then he tightened his grip again.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she protested.
‘Tell me who you’re working for, or I shall hurt you even more.’
He didn’t seem to have heard what she said.
‘Speak now, I’m warning you…’
There were footsteps in the garden and a man’s voice called her name.
‘Madame Norton. Are you here?’ It was Saintclair’s voice. He had come after her.
Christopher pressed his hand hard on her mouth and whispered in her ear.
‘This isn’t over. I will find you and you will tell me the truth,’ he warned. He twisted her arm so tightly she gasped with pain before he released her and melted into the night.
Marie-Ange collapsed on the ground with a small cry of pain and dismay. Saintclair rushed to her side.
‘Are you hurt? What did the bastard do to you?’ he asked, lifting her to her feet.
The pain subsided, but the shock of her discovery overwhelmed her. Christopher was alive! Her darling husband was not dead…but he didn’t know her.
Sobs shook her as she stood in Saintclair’s grasp. How could Christopher have forgotten her? The capitaine touched her hair with an awkward hand. Uncertainty and worry twisted the handsome panes of his face.
And then she tilted her face towards his. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Her lips quivered and parted as she attempted to stop her sobs. Saintclair enfolded her into his arms, pressing her breasts against his chest. He buried his face in her hair. She heard him inhale harshly.
‘He has f-forgotten me,’ she stammered.
Abruptly, he put her away from him but still held her in the circle of his arms.
‘Who has forgotten you?’ His voice was a hoarse whisper. He paused. ‘How could any man ever forget you?’
He lifted his hand to her cheek to wipe her tears in a soft caress which sent shivers all over her body. She didn’t react when he slid a finger under her chin to tilt her face up and bent down to kiss her. All she could do was close her eyes as his mouth brushed, light and soft against hers, teasing her lips apart. With a low growl he deepened his kiss and wrapped his arms tightly around her waist.
