by Marie Laval
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
They rode in silence until they crossed the bridge over the River Saône. Soon they were on the main road leading to the town centre.
‘I met Uxeloup’s doctor, Gustave Karloff, the other night after the ball,’ Marie-Ange said. ‘He asked me about the Cross of Life. He too seems to believe I can find it.’
‘I wish I understood what this business of the Cross was all about. Karloff is a strange man who fancies himself as some sort of wise man or mage. I know Malleval trusts him with his…ahem…condition. I don’t. I am always suspicious of fanatics.’
‘Yes, he is very peculiar,’ she agreed, ‘and just as obsessed as Uxeloup.’ She wondered whether to tell him the old man had intruded into her bedroom and tried to hypnotise her, and that she heard his voice in her sleep every night. She came to the conclusion she should wait until she understood what it all meant.
The fog was lifting over the city, but it was still bitterly cold. The quays of the river Saône were lined with boats being loaded with cargo, sacks, and crates. Shops lined the other side of the street. Milliners’ windows displayed colourful hats and fabrics. Smells of freshly baked bread and pies escaped from bakeries. Outside brasseries and taverns lingered tantalising aromas of coffee, stew, and roast meats. Most of the buildings along the embankment were painted attractive shades of ochre, cream and light pink. Tall church spires lifted majestically towards the sky. A wooded hill with chateaux and elegant houses rose on the other side of the river. It was her first glimpse of the town in the daylight and it was beautiful.
‘Have you heard anything about my husband?’ she asked.
Saintclair tensed against her.
‘Not yet. I sent word that I’m looking for a man who calls himself Nallay. I wrote to my friend, Martin, requesting he do the same in Paris. We have to wait for his move now. If Nallay is indeed one of Fouché’s men, he will get in touch, one way or another.’
They reached the Place Louis le Grand. The flower market in the square bustled with traders and passers-by. He halted and dismounted in front of La Gargote, a large inn at the corner of the square. In one swift movement he swung Marie-Ange to the ground and set her gently on her feet. She grasped his arm for a moment until her legs were steady.
‘I will procure a place on the coach to St Genis for you and follow on horseback,’ he said before handing control of his mount to a stable boy. He held the door open and followed her into the inn. They were in luck. A coach was ready to leave for Vienne, stopping at various towns and villages on the way, including St Genis.
The coach pulled onto St Genis’ market square just over an hour later. They walked through the village’s narrow cobbled streets, with Saintclair leading his horse by the reins. It was after lunch and the village was quiet, apart from the immediate surroundings of a small tavern where several drunkards were causing a disturbance. One of them shouted as they walked past. He was short and stocky, with matted straw blond hair and bloodshot blue eyes. He wore filthy rags and clogs far too large for his bare feet.
‘Oye, Saintclair! Remember me?’ he called. ‘You threw me out of your regiment six months ago. You said I wasn’t good enough, even to scrub horse dung from your boots!’ He spat on the floor.
Saintclair ignored him and walked on, which served to make the man even more belligerent.
‘You think you’re so high and mighty, don’t you? But you’d better beware. I’ll show you and your family what I can do.’
‘Wait here,’ Saintclair told Marie-Ange.
He didn’t seem in any hurry as he tied the reins of his horse to a post and walked towards the drunk who suddenly appeared to lose all his bravado and cowered against the wall. Saintclair grabbed the collar of his dirty shirt, lifted him up effortlessly and pinned him against the wall. The man’s feet wriggled above the ground, he waved his arms about but couldn’t break free from the cuirassier’s iron grip.
‘Don’t you ever threaten my family again,’ Saintclair said in a low, growling voice. ‘Or I’ll slice you open and leave your carcass to rot in the gutter. Understood?’
The drunk nodded, his bloodshot blue eyes bulging, his face turning beetroot red. Saintclair released him and he fell in a heap onto the cobbles. Saintclair wiped his hands on his breeches and turned round. The man picked himself up and scampered away after shooting the Capitaine a look so filled with hatred it sent a shiver with fear down Marie-Ange’s back.
‘That man wishes you harm,’ she remarked.
The officer shrugged. ‘He’s a drunk. He’ll be dead in a matter of months, in a brawl if not from the bottle.’ His tone was dismissive, but she couldn’t help looking over her shoulder.
‘Here we are.’ He stopped outside a garden wall and pushed a freshly-painted green gate open. A gravel path led to an elegant, two storey house covered with ivy. The door opened onto a middle-aged woman dressed in a simple grey dress and a white pinafore. Her dark hair was neatly tucked under a white bonnet and she had the same piercing blue eyes as Saintclair.
‘Hugo! You never sent word that you were coming. Two visits in less than a week. We are lucky,’ she exclaimed, her face radiant.
She turned towards Marie-Ange. ‘And you brought a guest, too. Good afternoon, Madame. I am Hugo’s mother, Emilie Saintclair.’
She curtsied briefly. Saintclair introduced Marie-Ange and disappeared with his horse towards the back of the house.
‘Please come in.’ Madame Saintclair gestured to the open door.
Marie-Ange entered the black and white tiled hall. Rust coloured paper adorned the walls, house plants on a sideboard and a couple of landscape paintings near an oak staircase gave the hallway a welcoming, if unpretentious, appearance. Emilie Saintclair took Marie-Ange’s coat and gloves and hung them on the tall hall stand. There were cleaning cloths and some polishing balm on a console.
‘Hugo decided I should have a maid and a cook but I just can’t get used to it,’ she explained, her voice apologetic and her cheeks a little flushed as she folded the cloths and screwed the top back on the pot of polish. ‘It is so tedious to sit in the parlour, being waited upon all day. I much prefer to do my own chores.’
Saintclair came back, shook his boots on the mat and took his riding jacket off. He bent towards his mother and kissed her cheek.
‘How are you, Mother? And how is Lucie today?’
‘I am fine, my love, but your sister hasn’t been very well. Her cough has been troubling her again and her eyes…’ She didn’t finish but a heavy sigh escaped her lips. She led the way to a room at the back of the house.
Marie-Ange’s first impression of Lucie was of a fragile lily. The pale and slender girl was lying on a chaise longue near the window overlooking a large garden.
‘Hugo. What a lovely surprise.’ She tried to get up but was overcome by a fit of coughing and reclined onto the cushions, a handkerchief pressed to her pale lips. Saintclair rushed to her side and took her hands.
‘Don’t get up, darling.’ He kissed her forehead and arranged a few cushions around her. He turned towards Marie-Ange. ‘Lucie, this is Madame Norton. She is going to stay here a few days.’
Lucie’s face lit up. ‘You are the lady who helped Hugo choose these lovely kerchiefs in Paris for me!’ She showed Marie-Ange the delicately embroidered white and pink linen square she was clutching in her slim hand. ‘Come closer so I can see you.’ Lucie blinked a few times. Her eyes were inflamed and swollen.
‘You are as beautiful as Hugo said.’
Marie-Ange felt she was blushing.
‘Please come and sit near me. Hugo said you lived in England near the sea. I wish to know all about your house, and all about you.’
‘Of course.’ Marie-Ange sat next to the girl and took her hand, feeling an instinctive sympathy for Saintclair’s sister.
‘Can I leave you two ladies to chat while I ask Maman to get us something to eat? I’m famished.’ Saintclair walked towards the door, but lingered just inside the
room for a moment.
‘So do you really live in an old castle?’ Lucie asked.
Marie-Ange shook her head. ‘It isn’t a real castle. It is so old tiles fall off the roof almost every day, the chimneys don’t work properly, and the doors don’t shut right. It’s always cold and draughty too, as we are on the moors. Having said that, the coast is beautiful.’ Marie-Ange smiled wistfully as she spoke of Norton Place.
She turned to Saintclair. His expression was so tender and loving as he looked at his sister her throat tightened and tears pricked her eyes. He wasn’t the cynical cuirassier officer any longer but a deeply caring man, a loving brother.
‘I won’t be long,’ he promised before walking out.
Later in the afternoon, after a collation of hot chocolate and cakes for the ladies and thick slabs of bread, roast meat, and a pitcher of ale for Saintclair, Madame Saintclair showed Marie-Ange to her room. It was small but comfortable, with dark green curtains framing two windows overlooking the garden, and a large double bed covered with a thick pink and white counterpane.
‘Please make yourself at home, dear. I know this isn’t what you’re used to…’
‘This is perfect. You have such a lovely house, Madame Saintclair.’
‘Hugo works very hard for us all. Quite how he has managed to buy this property on an officer’s pay, I’ll never know.’
She gave a resigned smile. ‘Or maybe I’d rather not know. He was adamant that Lucie should move from our house in the old weavers’ district of Lyon. He was right, of course. It was far too damp for the girl, being so close to the river.’
The woman walked to the window and added quietly, ‘He is a good son, and a devoted brother.’ She turned to Marie-Ange, a little hesitant. ‘He told me you were in a spot of trouble. I want you to know that you are welcome to stay here for as long as you need.’ She curtsied again.
‘I am grateful for your hospitality, Madame Saintclair,’ Marie-Ange replied, her chest tight with guilt. Because of her, the Saintclairs risked losing the house which meant so much to them.
She put her reticule on the bed and proceeded to take out the few items she managed to cram in before fleeing Isle Barbe. She could do with more clothes and toiletries. All her things were either at Uxeloup’s mansion on the island or at Beauregard and who knew if she would be able to go back there anytime soon? She asked Madame Saintclair to recommend a laundry woman to help with her washing and a seamstress who could turn out a dress or two quickly.
‘Not to worry, dear. Give me your things and I will see that they are laundered. As for a seamstress, look no further. It was my occupation before we came to live here. My husband, Horace, has a small silk workshop in Lyon.’ She let out a sigh. ‘He always entertained the hope that Hugo would resign from the army and learn the trade, but I don’t think my son will ever consider becoming a soyeux. He is far too keen on travel and adventure.’ She sighed. ‘At any rate, I used to make dresses and ladies accessories and it would please me very much to make a dress for you.’
‘Oh, no, I really couldn’t let you,’ Marie-Ange protested.
‘I would be delighted. We will ask my husband to bring some samples from the workshop. For now, I will leave you to rest. You must be tired.’
Madame Saintclair closed the door softly behind her and Marie-Ange lay down on the bed. For the first time in days, she felt safe—safe enough to close her eyes and fall asleep in a matter of seconds.
She dreamt of her mother and it was her voice she heard, not Karloff’s. It was her beautiful face she saw instead of frightening shadows, and the warmth of her arms she felt around her instead of the cold, damp darkness.
Ma mie, ma rose de mai
Ma rose aux cinq pétales,
Qui dans la tour aux colombes,
Pleure l’amant dans la tombe….
Ecoute moi, Ne pleure pas,
Ton bel amour tu reverras,
La rose sur le coeur, tourne cinq fois,
Lève les yeux et l’aile tu trouveras.
Mais choisis bien, prudente et sage,
Si l’aile de la colombe
Est blanche comme celle de l’ange,
Elle n’ouvre pas les tombes.
The voice faded away. Her mother’s face became fainter.
Marie-Ange opened her eyes. That was the song. She remembered it now, all of it! She sang the words aloud a couple of times to make sure she memorised them. What a strange song it was, about a girl called Rose who cried for her dead lover. The girl went into a dovecote to retrieve an angel wing that would make her lover come back to life. This was the song Karloff so desperately wanted her to remember—a song about eternal life.
A rush of excitement surged through her. Perhaps the song referred to the Cross of Life and its relic? If so, they were hidden in a dovecote. She put her hand on her pounding heart. Could it be the dovecote at Beauregard, the one Count Saint Germain ordered a team of craftsmen to build? Feverishly, she took the sketchbook and turned the pages. There it was! She had always been fascinated by the drawings of the dovecote and the intricate carvings of roses inside it. Dozens and dozens of roses. Now that she looked more closely, she noticed that they were all very similar to her locket. She unclasped the pendant from her neck and held it in front of her.
‘Ma rose aux cinq pétales,’ she whispered. The rose embossed on the locket had five petals, too.
She knew a little about roses as they had been her father’s passion. William Jones had grown them and tended to them lovingly in the garden of their Plymouth townhouse. He had collected paintings, etchings, and writings about them and naturally, Marie-Ange had taken an interest in the flowers, too. Roses were powerful, conflicting, symbols of life and death, desire, passion and virginity; and because their heart was hidden in their fragrant folds, of esoteric knowledge and secrecy.
She recalled a medieval pamphlet she had read about the depiction of roses. A five petaled rose symbolised life, a six petaled rose represented love. The rarest was a flower with eight petals and it represented mystery. The roses on the locket, in the dovecote, and in the song all had five petals. They stood for the Fifth Element. Life force. Immortality.
Marie-Ange sang the song to herself again. How did the girl in the song get hold of the relic? She placed a rose on a heart and gave five turns. Were these supposed to be a real flower, a real heart? She looked down at the locket which Saint Germain had given her mother during his last visit at Beauregard, shortly before the dovecote was built and a few months before his death. It was important. She could sense it, but why?
She pressed it against her own heart and sighed. She was missing something. She leant over the drawing of the dovecote again. After several minutes of intense scrutiny she finally saw it. In the middle of the central beam, hidden among carvings of roses, was a heart shape.
The locket, the rose and the heart…She thought about it for a while. There was only one way to find out if she was right. She had to go to Beauregard.
A knock on the door startled her.
‘Supper is ready, dear,’ Madame Saintclair informed her.
Saintclair and Lucie were playing a game of piquet at the dining room table.
‘Hugo! You should be ashamed of yourself. Put these cards away! You are not in your officers’ canteen,’ Madame Saintclair reprimanded, a smile belying the severe tone of her voice.
Lucie laughed when she saw her brother put on a contrite expression.
‘Yes, Mother.’ He gathered the cards and slipped them in his pocket.
A tall and strongly built man with steel grey hair entered and took his place at the head of the table. He bowed to Marie-Ange.
‘Madame, we are honoured to have you as our guest.’ His voice was deep and pleasant. He bent his head and joined his hands to say grace. They were rough and calloused, probably because of his work with silk weaving looms.
During dinner, they talked about Lyon and the silk industry which was experiencing a revival in peace time.
&
nbsp; ‘My son and I disagreed about Napoleon for a long time,’ Monsieur Saintclair said. ‘Hugo was enthralled by him but I always had my doubts. He did our country a great deal of harm. All these wars almost ruined me and my fellow guild members, not to mention the hundreds of thousands of dead on the battlefields.’
Hugo nodded. ‘I have come to agree with you, Father. I’ll never be a royalist but have come to recognise that Napoleon’s wars cost far too many lives, caused too much destruction.’ He looked down and added in a low voice. ‘I shall never forget the horrors I saw during the Russian campaign. My men forced to slaughter and eat their horses; then force-marched in ragged uniforms on frozen roads for days, suffering from frostbite, crying with hunger and pain, hallucinating in the white hell.’ His voice was flat and distant, as if he was reliving terrible nightmares.
‘Hugo, my love,’ Madame Saintclair said quietly. ‘Not now.’
‘Sorry, Mother.’ He shook his head, let out a long sigh, and looked up.
Marie-Ange tightened her grip on her knife and fork to fight the overwhelming urge to touch the side of his face and soothe away the pain in his eyes.
‘Why don’t you leave the army and join Father at the workshop?’ Lucie asked brightly. ‘You know how much it would mean to us all, we wouldn’t have to worry about you getting killed or wounded anymore. And you could live nearby all the time. Maybe even marry.’
‘Lucie, please. The army is my life, you know that,’ Hugo said, his voice stern.
‘But I miss you so much when you are away.’
Hugo leant towards her and kissed her cheek. ‘I miss you too, sweetheart. Well, maybe one day…’
But Marie-Ange could see he didn’t mean it.
To lighten the mood, Madame Saintclair asked Marie-Ange about the latest fashion in England.
‘I am definitely not the right person to ask about fashion,’ Marie-Ange replied, pulling a face. ‘Most of my dresses are very dull. I never go to any elegant gathering. I did not even know how to dance the waltz before your brother showed me at Fouché’s ball the other night!’
