Angel Heart

by Marie Laval

  She breathed in deeply, suddenly intoxicated with the realisation she was alive. She had escaped the gruesome death Uxeloup had planned for her. A familiar voice shouted from outside the fortress walls.

  ‘Surrender now!’

  A warm, elated feeling spread through her. Hugo was there. He hadn’t been fooled by Rochefort’s trick after all. He must have guessed she was being taken to the Pilat and had followed them. It was only a question of minutes before he and his men stormed into the fortress. All the two women had to do was sneak out into the courtyard and hide in an outbuilding until they were rescued. They crept in the shadows along the wall, hoping Rochefort and the others were too busy defending the place to turn round and look behind them.

  The phial was now very hot in her hand. Inside the glass, the relic glowed, iridescent like an opal catching the moonlight. Only there was no moonlight. The night sky was giving way to a murky greyish dawn.

  ‘The stables are just behind there.’ Sophie took her elbow to direct her to the stable block.

  As they turned around a corner of the building, they came face to face with an armed man.

  ‘Over here! The women are escaping!’ He brought his pistol to bear on them.

  Marie-Ange and Sophie stopped dead in their tracks. Half a dozen men appeared and stood menacingly around them.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ Rochefort’s voice bellowed over the clamour of shouts and gunshots. He came nearer, a fierce expression on his face.

  Marie-Ange held the phial up in front of her. ‘Don’t come any nearer or I’ll drop it.’

  Rochefort turned to Sophie. ‘Where is Monsieur?’ he asked.

  ‘Inside. He fainted,’ she lied.

  Rochefort gestured to one of his men and ordered. ‘Gabet! Run to the study and see to Monsieur Malleval.’

  Marie-Ange was still holding the phial up in the air. The men looked at it, fascinated by its white glow which was getting brighter and brighter.

  ‘What is she holding? Why is it moving and changing colour? She must be a witch,’ one said.

  The storm gathered momentum. Ribbons of swirling snowflakes descended from the sky, wrapping themselves around the men, like slippery, ghostly figures.

  ‘Rochefort!’ The man named Gabet called. He was carrying Uxeloup, propping his limp body against him.

  Rochefort narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth.

  ‘What did you do to him? I swear if you hurt him…’ He glared at the two women.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ Gabet said, ‘but he’s bleeding.’ He looked at the women accusingly. ‘It looks like he’s been stabbed.’

  Rochefort pointed to the relic glowing in Marie-Ange’s hands.

  ‘Let’s see if this really does what it’s supposed to. Hand it over now or I’ll kill you where you stand.’ He aimed his pistol at Marie-Ange and armed the firing mechanism.

  There was an explosion at the other end of the courtyard and the large wooden gates blew open. Soldiers came running through, holding their rifles and bayonets in front of them.

  Several of Uxeloup’s men scampered towards the back of the fortress.

  ‘I said, hand it over!’ Rochefort held his hand out.

  The wind suddenly grew stronger. The snow fell in a thick, white curtain. Marie-Ange swayed, stumbled against the wall and dropped the phial. She cried out and reached to retrieve it, but then realised the phial hadn’t fallen on the ground. It swirled in the air in a flurry of snowflakes as if lifted up in ethereal white hands. It whirled higher and crashed onto the wall.

  ‘Where the hell is it?’

  Rochefort knelt down and frantically brushed the snow and pieces of shattered glass to retrieve the angel wing. He looked up, crestfallen. His hand was bleeding but he didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘It’s gone. Blown away.’ He turned to Uxeloup’s body, lying next to him.

  ‘Rochefort, we have to go!’ Someone urged. Men were running or riding out of the courtyard to escape the soldiers. Rocherfort grunted, lifted Uxeloup over his shoulder and ran. His bulky figure disappeared in the snow storm.

  ‘Marie-Ange.’

  Hugo ran to her, a look of sheer relief on his face. She took a few tentative steps. All she wanted was to be safe in his arms but he stopped a few feet from her.

  ‘I feared I would arrive too late,’ he said.

  They looked at each other and for a few moments, they were alone. The sounds of chaos vanished. Marie-Ange no longer felt the whipping wind and snow. All she wanted was to clasp her fingers behind his neck and bury her face against his shoulder. She yearned for the warmth of his arms around her, the sound of his heartbeat against her cheek. Yet she stood immobile, uncertain how to proceed. Hugo didn’t step any closer either.

  ‘What happened in there? Where is Malleval?’ He asked, breaking the silence between them.

  ‘Sophie saved me from him.’ She heaved a shaky breath.

  ‘He will be dead soon,’ Sophie said, gazing towards the hills. She started crying. ‘I killed the only man I ever loved, but I couldn’t do it…I couldn’t let him rip your heart out.’

  ‘What did you say? What did he want to do?’ Hugo walked to Sophie and put his hands on her shoulders.

  She raised a tear-stricken face towards him. ‘He said if he took Marie-Ange’s heart and drank her blood, he could hold the relic and become immortal.’

  Hugo hissed a breath between his teeth.

  ‘Will you go after him, bring him back?’ Sophie pleaded.

  ‘We will find him, and the rest of his men,’ he promised.

  He turned to Marie-Ange. ‘Do you still want to return to England?’

  She nodded. Nothing had changed. She was still a deported émigrée. She was still married to Christopher. And Hugo still didn’t love her.

  ‘Then my men will take you both back to Beauregard later this morning, when we’ve cleared up this den of thieves and murderers,’ he said, his eyes and his voice noticeably colder. ‘Go inside and wait for me.’ He walked away without giving her a second glance.

  Marie-Ange was still curious about the phial. Kneeling down where it had broken earlier, she brushed the snow with her finger, careful not to cut her hand on the pieces of shattered glass. Rochefort was right. The piece of fabric, the angel wing, or whatever it was, was gone, blown away by the wind. Or had it been taken by the angel? She may not have believed Karloff’s prophecy but she could have sworn she had seen the fluid shape of an arm, the outline of a white hand lifting the phial in the air.

  ‘I’m so cold.’ Sophie’s broken voice brought her back to reality.

  ‘Let’s go in.’ Marie-Ange took her hand and led her to a drawing room inside the fortress. ‘Try and rest,’ she said as the young woman huddled in a corner of the sofa and folded her feet under her body.

  Marie-Ange was far too tense to contemplate sitting down. Standing at the window, she watched the soldiers line Uxeloup’s men up in the courtyard. It stopped snowing. A brisk wind blew the clouds away. The sun coloured the sky and the snowy hills in delicate shades of pink and orange.

  There had to be something she could do. She went to the kitchens, found a couple of servants hiding, terrified, in the pantry and asked them to prepare some hot food for the soldiers and their prisoners. When the food was ready, they set up tables in the great hall and gathered as many cups and bowls they could find.

  ‘We are going to serve breakfast to the men,’ she decreed.

  She organised the soldiers and their prisoners, directed the servants and helped dish out hot porridge, soup, and coffee. It took over an hour to feed everybody. When there was nothing left, she cleared up the dirty bowls, spoons, and cups that cluttered the tables.

  He stood watching her tidy the dirty pots off the table. Her cheeks were rosy and strands of hair escaped her plait and curled at her neck. His fingers remembered the feel of her hair. The feel of her skin. He swallowed hard.

  ‘You would make a fetching tavern girl,’ he remarked.

 
She raised her head and smiled faintly. He took his hat and thick grey leather gloves off and put them on the table.

  ‘I am afraid there isn’t much left to eat but we can have a look in the kitchen if you are hungry.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he replied. He closed the distance separating them. ‘I am leaving a small detachment of my men here for the next few days until the gendarmes take over. How are you?’

  ‘Relieved this madness with Malleval is over at last, and glad to be alive, of course.’

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘Sophie is resting,’ she added, wiping her hands on her dress. ‘I will tell her we’re ready to leave.’

  Hugo grabbed her wrist and pulled her close to him. ‘Don’t go back to England, Marie-Ange. I want you with me. I’ll sort out the technicalities. As I said before, I can have your deportation order cancelled.’

  He bent down and kissed her lips. She remained cold and unresponsive.

  ‘This is the last time I will ask you.’

  Damn it, didn’t she know he would look after her? He might not be from the landed gentry like her husband, but she wouldn’t want for anything. And she would be his.

  Tears filled her eyes. She shook her head. ‘You must realize I have no choice. I can’t stay with you if you don’t lo…’

  He didn’t wait for her to end her sentence. He let go of her so abruptly she almost fell.

  ‘There is always a choice,’ he interrupted. ‘Very well. My men will escort you back to Beauregard, where Picard is waiting.’ He turned round. ‘I almost forgot…’ He searched his breast pocket and held out his hand. Inside was Marie-Ange’s wedding ring. She took it reluctantly.

  ‘You left it in my room in Lyon. It’s just as well I didn’t throw it away, isn’t it?’ He put his gloves and his hat back on. There was only cold anger in his heart now. ‘Uxeloup’s men were seen heading for the forest. I am going after them. I don’t think we will see each other again. I wish you a safe journey back to England, Madame.’

  He bowed and walked away. He shouted at a soldier to bring his horse, put his foot in the stirrup, and mounted. He galloped out of the courtyard without looking back.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  As promised, a dozen of Hugo’s cuirassiers escorted Marie-Ange and Sophie back to Beauregard later that day while the chase after Uxeloup, Rochefort, and what was left of their men carried on in the mountains.

  A cuirassier shook his head and remarked, ‘Le Colonnel est enragé!’ Others commented they had never seen Saintclair so angry and reported he had sworn not to give up until he had the fugitives at the tip of his sword, even if it took days.

  Before leaving Malleval, Marie-Ange took the Cross of Life from the study and wrapped it carefully in a piece of cloth. Her great-aunt at Marzac could decide what to do with it. As far as she was concerned, the cross could be locked away in a cupboard or thrown to the bottom of a well. She never wanted to set eyes on it again.

  Their sad, silent, and uncomfortable journey along bumpy, snowy, roads took two days. They arrived at Beauregard late the following morning.

  ‘I don’t want to stay here on my own,’ Sophie cried when she stepped out of the carriage.

  Marie-Ange helped her to her room and asked for hot food and drinks to be prepared. She then suggested Sophie invite a relative to stay with her for a few days.

  ‘I can’t think of anyone…my cousin maybe,’ Sophie agreed.

  One of Hugo’s men was dispatched to fetch the dressmaker from nearby Macon. Another rode to Beaujeu to inform Commandant Picard Marie-Ange had arrived safely back at Beauregard.

  ‘What a terrible ordeal, dear Madame!’ The gendarme exclaimed when he arrived soon after. He danced from one foot to the other, holding his hat, a blush spreading across his face.

  ‘I am deeply ashamed you should have been abducted while you were in my care. Colonel Saintclair and I chased after the man for almost an hour before the Colonel realized he was playing a game with us. The scoundrel even slowed down at times, as if making sure we could catch up to him.’ Picard coughed. ‘The Colonel told me to carry on with the chase whilst he turned back towards Chagny. Thank Heavens he did.’

  ‘Yes, thank Heavens,’ Marie-Ange agreed, shivering.

  During the journey to Beauregard, she had time to reflect on how close to death she had come. There were images she would never forget. Uxeloup’s crazed eyes as he explained how he would rip her heart from her chest and drain her blood. The snow swirling around the phial and lifting it in the air like an angel’s arm at dawn…

  She swallowed hard. ‘What about Monsieur Karloff? I heard he was killed.’

  Picard shook his head. ‘His body was found in the forest.’ He put his hat back on and informed her they must begin their journey to Le Havre as soon as possible. According to Napoleon’s orders, any émigrés still on French soil by the end of the week would be jailed.

  ‘Can you make sure my great-aunt at Marzac gets this?’ she asked, handing the Cross over to him.

  Picard nodded and promised to send someone to Marzac Manor that very afternoon.

  Marie-Ange took her leave of Sophie once again and climbed into yet another carriage. This time she was on the road to exile and there would be no going back.

  The rest of the journey was a blur. She looked through the window of the carriage, indifferent to landscapes, villages, and towns they drove through. Each passing hour was taking her away from the man she loved, and towards the stranger who was still her husband.

  Picard left her in Paris in the care of a colleague of his. At Le Havre, she boarded a French cutter bound for Portsmouth. This time the crossing was calm and she didn’t suffer as much from seasickness. She spent the journey on deck, staring at the horizon, wrapped in her cloak, her hood covering her head. The sailors called her ‘the widow’ and it brought a sad smile to her face. Now she was no longer a widow, she had never felt more like one.

  It was dusk when she arrived at Norton Place, early one rainy evening at the beginning of April. As she climbed down from the carriage, she breathed in the scents of wet earth and fresh grass mixed with the salty breeze blowing from the sea.

  ‘Welcome back, my Lady!’ Rosie, her chambermaid, opened the door and walked out, a smile on her face. Francis followed and muttered a greeting.

  ‘Is that Marie-Ange? Is she here?’ Robert called from the doorway.

  She couldn’t help smiling when the young man ran towards her and took her in his arms.

  ‘You’ve grown taller, Robert.’ She kissed his cheeks and ruffled his hair.

  ‘Marie-Ange, I have the most extraordinary, fantastic, incredible news! Guess what?’ He jumped up and down like an overexcited puppy.

  A cold fist gripped her heart and her smile froze. She knew exactly what he was going to say.

  ‘Christopher is back! Isn’t that just wonderful? My brother is alive! Your husband is here!’ He took her in his arms again and squeezed her against him. Suddenly faint, she swayed against him. She had hoped for more time before facing Christopher. Hugo’s revelations about the attempted coup on the Comte d’Artois’ life had reignited her fears about him and her doubts that she would ever be able to believe him, let alone love him again.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Robert said, frowning. ‘It was stupid of me to spring the news on you like that. I should have thought.’

  ‘It’s all right, Robert,’ she replied, holding onto his arm.

  Christopher’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. ‘Darling, at last! Welcome home.’ He descended the steps, approached her casually before stopping a few feet away and opening his arms. He clearly expected her to throw herself against him. Dutifully, and without any of the joy she should have felt, she stepped into his embrace. He kissed her cheeks and whispered in her ear.

  ‘Six long years, my darling, since I held you in my arms. We have such a long time to make up for.’

  Her skin prickled with fear. It sounded like a threat rather than of a
promise of love.

  He stepped back and looked down at her. ‘You are even more beautiful than the last time I saw you, on the quay at Southampton, that blustery January day when I left for Spain.’

  She looked up, surprised. So he didn’t want anyone to know about their meeting in France. Why?

  ‘You look different, too,’ she remarked, coldly. Then she put a forced smile on her face and a false, joyful note in her voice. She had to pretend to be happy. For Robert’s sake.

  ‘You must explain everything, Christopher. What happened to you? Where have you been all these years?’

  ‘Later, my darling.’ He kissed her again. She stiffened in his arms and pulled away.

  That evening, Marie-Ange played to perfection the part of the quietly overwhelmed but happy wife in front of Robert and the rest of the household. During supper, she asked Christopher again to explain his long absence. With a hushed voice, he talked about undercover missions, state secrets, foreign affairs dossiers. He mentioned recent meetings at Whitehall with Lord Melville—the First Lord of the Admiralty, and Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary. Leaning towards Robert, he even confided having been entrusted with a very special, highly confidential mission by Lord Liverpool, the Prime Minister, himself.

  ‘I’m afraid my mission will take me away from home again.’ He looked up at Marie-Ange. ‘As soon as tomorrow in fact.’

  ‘So soon?’ Robert protested. ‘But you only returned yesterday.’

  The young man was sitting next to Christopher, gazing admiringly at him and drinking in his every word. How different he would look at his elder brother if he knew the truth, Marie-Ange thought bitterly. She was curious though, very curious. How had Christopher managed to negotiate his release from Fouché’s services and his return to the Royal Navy? There must be some truth in his talk of secret missions and foreign affairs secrets.

  He smiled and covered her hand with his. She tried very hard not to withdraw it. Looking down at her fingers, he remarked.