by Marie Laval
As if he sensed her doubts, he added. ‘Please, Marie-Ange.’
She took a deep breath and opened the front door. ‘Very well. Come in.’ She called a servant and gave orders for the horse to be stabled. She peeled off her drenched cloak and handed it to a maid. She led the way to the drawing room where a fire was lit. She invited Christopher to take a place on the sofa opposite her.
‘What do you want to know?’ she asked, her voice guarded, wishing to maintain a distance between them.
He spoke slowly. ‘Since the last time I saw you, in Lyon, I have had flashbacks about that place you told me about…the old manor house.’
‘Norton Place.’
He gazed at the fire. ‘I have been dreaming about England a lot lately. I see people’s faces, but I can’t remember any names.’ He looked at Marie-Ange. ‘And then, I have been dreaming about you…about us.’
She blushed as his eyes skimmed over her body. She remembered how rough he had been with her in Lyon and clenched her fists until the nails dug hard into the palms. Could she trust him?
Once again, he seemed to sense her doubts. ‘I need your help. I want you to tell me about my life—our life together.’
She breathed in sharply. At last tonight he acknowledged she had told the truth. Even though she didn’t love him anymore, she owed it to him to help him remember his past.
‘I will only help you if you tell me what happened to you after the battle of Corunna and how you became a French agent.’
Christopher stiffened. He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘You are aware of that? What else do you know about me?’
‘Only that you go under the name of Nallay.’ It was better to plead ignorance of the rest.
Christopher seemed relieved. ‘Very well…My earliest memories date from a French field hospital at Lugo. I suffered a serious head injury. When I regained consciousness, I was given what was left of my uniform: a ripped jacket with a few personal possessions, a pouch of tobacco, a clay pipe, a letter from my fiancée—Jacqueline Leblanc—and my requisition orders from the Fifteenth Infantry Regiment. All in the name of Joseph Nallay, from Charenton sur Marne. This is who I believed I was…until I met you in Fouché’s building on Rue de Condé.’
‘Didn’t you go back to Charenton to meet your fiancée, your family? They would have realised you weren’t Nallay.’
Christopher shrugged. ‘Why go back when I didn’t remember her, or anyone else. I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse by Marshall Soult’s état-major in Spain. And then, I went on to work for…my current employer.’
Fouché, she thought.
‘Did you really not know me when you first saw me in Paris, and again at the Palais Saint-Pierre in Lyon?’
‘I thought you were one of Talleyrand’s spies. He’s a devil for hiring beautiful women to ensnare rival agents. But your face haunted me, your eyes especially. I started to wonder if maybe you had told the truth.’
He turned to her. ‘Tell me about this place in England where I come from and about our life there.’
This time, she obliged. She spoke for a long time about his earlier life. His parents and his brother, Robert, about his successful career in the Royal Navy and how well he had got on with the formidable Admiral Jarvis while serving under his command. She recalled their meeting at a county ball, their brief courtship, and short married life before he embarked on the HMS Amazon for Northern Spain. Christopher listened without saying a word, his eyes staring right in front of him, his arms crossed on his chest. He was absorbing her every word.
Sophie came into the drawing room to announce supper was ready.
‘Sophie, this is my husband, Christopher Norton,’ Marie-Ange announced, a little awkwardly.
‘Your husband? I didn’t know…’ Sophie stuttered, her eyes wide with surprise.
‘Is Monsieur Karloff still upstairs?’ Marie-Ange had an idea suddenly. When Sophie answered in the affirmative she asked her to invite Karloff down for supper.
The physician was a hypnotist. Perhaps he could help Christopher remember the missing weeks between Corunna and the day he woke up in the French military hospital? It was worth a try. She mentioned the possibility to Christopher.
‘A hypnotist like this crook Mesmer? Certainly not!’
He flashed eyes of steel at her, cold and heartless, and she felt a shiver of fear snake down her spine. For the second time tonight, she wondered if she could trust the man standing in front of her. As if sensing her doubts, he smiled and his voice became conciliatory.
‘I’ve heard Dr. Mesmer used to poke his patients—his victims more like—with iron rods as they sat in some kind of wooden bucket while he supposedly manipulated their minds…is this the kind of treatment you would like to submit me to?’
She shook her head. ‘Of course, not. Monsieur Karloff does have certain abilities which could be helpful to your condition.’ She didn’t want to tell him about her own experience of Karloff’s skills.
‘At least consider it,’ she said, leading the way into the dining room. ‘This might be your only chance of finding out what happened after Corunna.’ Then she added. ‘Tomorrow will be too late.’
She explained that she was leaving for Chalons in the morning under an escort of gendarmes.
‘Yes, I know. As an émigrée, you are now persona non grata on French soil,’ Christopher said as they took their places around the dining table. ‘Actually, that’s partly why I came tonight.’ He poured himself a glass of red wine which he downed in one gulp.
Curious, she turned to him. ‘Really?’
He tipped more wine into his glass and looked at the deep ruby coloured liquid.
‘I have decided to go home with you, back to Norton Place.’
She gaped at him, lost for words.
‘You intend to return home?’ Her voice was shaky.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘That is where I belong, isn’t it? And if you will assist me with remembering my former life, I should be able to slip straight back in.’
‘How will you explain your years of absence to the Admiralty? Your work as an agent for Fouché?’ she objected.
He shrugged. ‘Let me worry about that, dear. The Admiralty need not know everything.’
‘Will Fouché let you go now he has been reappointed as Napoleon’s Minister of Police?’
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic about the prospect of my return.’ His expression was unreadable. ‘And yet I thought all you wanted was to be reunited with me. Your husband.’
Karloff entered the room and regarded Christopher with undisguised curiosity. Marie-Ange invited him to sit down, introduced her husband and explained what she wanted him to do.
‘I have dealt with mental traumas before, especially amnesia,’ Karloff agreed. ‘Battlefield amnesia can be caused not only by physical injuries but also mental scarring. Intense fear, for example, or the witnessing of atrocities.’
‘All right! I will try your sorcery.’ Christopher stood up. ‘I suppose I do need to know what happened to me.’
He put his hand on Marie-Ange’s arm. ‘But you must give me your word of honour that this man will only ask me about Spain, nothing else!’
‘Of course,’ she replied, uneasy. ‘That’s all I wish to know about.’
Was he afraid of revealing any state secrets or any of Fouché’s schemes, the plot to assassinate King Louis, maybe?
Karloff needed a dark room to carry out the experiment, so they settled in the library. He instructed Christopher to sit in front of the fireplace, took the place opposite him and asked Marie-Ange to stay at the back, in the shadows. The curtains were drawn against the night. The only light in the library was the golden glow of the fire. The logs crackled in the fireplace, rain pattered against the tall windows and the clock ticked in a corner of the room.
‘Breathe slowly and deeply. Let your shoulders drop and your hands fall into your lap.’ Karloff spoke in the quiet, monotonous voice Marie-Ange remembered only too well. He p
ulled out his golden watch from the pocket of his jacket and dangled it in front of Christopher’s face. The physician issued more instructions in the same dull and soothing voice. Christopher sighed with impatience several times.
‘Listen to my voice. Listen to the rain outside. Concentrate on your breathing…You are at sea,’ Karloff continued. ‘What is the name of your ship?’
Christopher’s breathing was now deep and slow. ‘HMS Amazon,’ he answered quietly.
‘What is your name?’
‘Commander Christopher Norton.’
‘What is the date, Commander Norton, and where is the Amazon?’
‘Eighteenth January 1809. We are moored off Corunna.’
‘What is happening on board your ship right now?’
‘The French are firing their heavy artillery from the hill tops of San Diego. My men are still trying to ferry the wounded from the harbour walls to the ship, but the smoke is becoming too dense. They can’t see where they’re going. Several rowing boats have sunk already. I can hear men shout as they fall into the freezing cold water, but we can’t get to them.’
‘Is the Amazon safe?’
Christopher shook his head. ‘No. We’ve been hit. The great mast has fallen and the sails are on fire. We need to evacuate but the men are too exhausted. Many are injured. We’re sinking, fast.’ Christopher brought his hands to his head.
‘Are you injured, Commandant Norton?’
‘Yes, a blow to the head.’ Christopher winced in pain. ‘I jumped into the water. It’s damn cold. I won’t last long if I don’t get to a boat or some kind of raft.’
Marie-Ange sat on the edge of the sofa, tense and hanging on his every word. At last, he started to remember!
‘My second, Wilson, is calling me. He’s with Lieutenant Padiham on a raft. They’re pulling me up with them. We’re drifting. The currents are strong and we have nothing to paddle with. We watch the fire of the cannons on the cliffs and the Amazon burn and sink.’
‘How long do you drift for?’ Karloff asked quietly.
‘All night. In the morning, there is a coastline in the distance. We must swim or we’ll die at sea. I say I’ll go first. It’s freezing. I must swim quickly. I hear a splash behind me as Wilson and Padiham jump too but I’m not waiting for them. I have to reach the shore.’
‘What happens now?’
Christopher shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m alone on the beach. I must passed out. It’s night time now.’ He shivered. ‘I walk. I have to find food. Find people.’
‘Do you meet anyone?’
‘No. I’m tired, I lie down behind some rocks and fall asleep. Next thing I know there are gunshots all around. When I look, there are bodies of French soldiers on the beach. I’m wet through, so I strip down to my long johns and undress one of the dead men. I slip his jacket and his breeches on. That’s better. There’s blood on his jacket but at least it’s dry.’
‘Do you see any other French soldiers around?’
‘Everybody’s dead. I walk to a village. An old woman is talking to me in Spanish. God! My head hurts.’ He moaned and took his head in his hands again.
‘There are French soldiers in the street. They take me away to the field hospital.’
‘How long do you stay at the hospital?’ Karloff asks.
‘I don’t know. They give me draughts for the pain. Then this man—a lieutenant—comes and speaks to me. He says I can help them with translating English messages. I work from the hospital at first. Then when I’m better I travel with the troops. They feel sorry for me because I don’t remember anything of my past. Not even my fiancée in Charenton.’
‘Do you stay with the army for long?’
‘Several months. I’ve been promoted, but I’m sick of battlefields, of gore, blood and field rations. So when one of Fouché’s men comes to my regiment to recruit new agents for the secret police and asks me to join, I take him up on his offer. I travel to Paris. I have an apartment. More money than I need. The job is easy enough. Fouché and I get along fine.’ He snorted. ‘We are alike in lots of ways. We don’t have any feelings. I can snap someone’s neck without…’
Marie-Ange rose hurriedly from the sofa and walked towards the fire light. ‘We’ll stop now. I gave him my word we would only enquire about what happened in Spain after the battle.’
The clock struck nine, its chiming melodic in the silence.
‘Very well,’ Karloff said. He turned to Christopher and put his watch back in his pocket.
‘When I count down from ten, you will wake up and remember everything you have just told me, Monsieur Norton,’ Karloff instructed. He snapped his fingers as he reached one.
Christopher kept his eyes closed for a few seconds and breathed in deeply. Then he looked at the old man in astonishment and shook his head.
‘You did it! Your wizardry worked. I remember everything.’
He got up and strode across the library towards Marie-Ange. ‘You were right. It was all true,’ he said, taking her hands and pulling her towards him.
Marie-Ange looked at him frowning. He seemed surprised, as if he had doubts about his past before Karloff hypnotised him.
‘Now, I am truly ready to go back home. To Norton Place.’
‘But are you free to leave? What about Fouché? Your duties?’ she asked again, gripped by panic. She needed time to think about what had just happened. The man wanted to pick up his life where he left it six years before, but she couldn’t do that. She loved another.
‘Don’t trouble yourself with that. In fact, everything is turning out quite nicely for me. I shall ride on to Paris tonight to negotiate the terms of my…how shall I phrase it? Release or new assignment?’ He laughed as if he had made a joke only he understood. ‘Then I will join you at Norton Place.’
Still holding her hands tightly, he bent down to kiss her, but she turned away and his lips only met her cheek.
‘I see,’ he said, his tone suddenly frosty. He stared at her hand.
‘I noticed that you no longer wear your wedding ring.’
She gave a small gasp. The ring. She’d left it behind at Saintclair’s quarters in Lyon. She had vowed never to wear it again.
He let go of her and stepped back.
‘I suppose we will have all the time in the world to re-establish our acquaintance. Try and find your ring and put it back on. I will see myself out.’ He bowed and left the room.
‘Christopher!’ Marie-Ange ran after him, feeling a mixture of remorse and anger. She didn’t know how to behave with him. He expected her to take him back as if six years hadn’t passed, as if he was still the same man. But he wasn’t. And what was more, she had changed as well…
He was already putting his coat and his hat on to leave. He asked a servant to bring his horse to the front of the chateau and turned to meet her gaze with his cool grey eyes.
‘We shall be together again soon. Should you get to Norton Place first, do not breathe a word about me. I will do all the explaining.’ He touched the rim of his hat and bowed slightly. ‘Farewell for now, my dear.’
She followed him onto the front porch, watched him climb on his horse, spur the animal into a trot on the path, and disappear into the night.
‘You will return to England with him?’ Sophie stood next to her, disbelief obvious on her face and in her voice.
Marie-Ange nodded. Her throat was so tight she couldn’t speak.
‘I’m not sure you are doing the right thing. He looks a harsh man.’
‘Yes, he does but he is my husband,’ Marie-Ange managed to say. ‘I have no choice, Sophie.’ She bent her head, her heart felt trapped in her chest. ‘No choice at all.’
‘What of Capitaine Saintclair?’ Sophie asked. ‘What will you tell him when he comes after you?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was still raining the next morning when Commandant Picard and his two gendarmes presented themselves at Beauregard.
‘Are you ill, Madame? You look very pale.�
� Picard gave Marie-Ange a searching look.
‘I will be fine, Commandant,’ she replied with a tight smile. In reality her head throbbed and she felt drained after a night spent trying to envisage what life at Norton Place would be like now Christopher was returning. What had once been her dearest dream had become a nightmare.
She didn’t think she would ever forgive her husband for stabbing Saintclair in the back or for molesting her. Every time she looked into his grey eyes she would be reminded of his past as an agent for Fouché’s secret police, capable of executing his employer’s enemies in cold blood when ordered to. She might never find it in her heart to respect him, let alone love him again.
If only she could stay at Beauregard a while longer, take the time to get to know him again…her husband, this stranger. He had made her uneasy the evening before, oscillating between disarming smiles and ruthless stares. He said he wanted to know all about Norton Place and his past, but never once asked her about herself and her life during his long absence. Instead, he only remarked on the fact she no longer wore his wedding ring. She looked down at her bare finger. She would have to buy another ring somewhere on the way to Devonshire.
She spent the early morning walking around the grounds, trying to commit to memory the images and sounds of Beauregard; the rose garden; the shadows made by the forest of evergreens around the park; the enchanting sounds of doves cooing and flying around the chateau.
Her luggage was loaded on the roof rack of her carriage.
‘It is time, Madame.’ Picard bowed in front of her.
She hugged Sophie and climbed into the coach. Numb beyond tears, she turned round for a last look at the chateau. She now understood a little of what her mother might have felt when she left. A grey shadow moved behind a window on the first floor. Karloff was watching. He had promised to leave later today.
The journey to Chalons was uneventful. They reached the small town on the banks of the River Saône in the afternoon. The outskirts of town had been taken over by army bivouacs and the town centre was heaving with soldiers. The coach driver stopped on the main square while Commandant Picard made some enquiries at several inns.
