by Marie Laval
‘I see that you have misplaced your wedding ring.’
She stared back at him. ‘So have you, Christopher. Or was being a bachelor a cover for your very secret missions?’ Her tone was biting.
‘Marie-Ange, Christopher already said he wasn’t at liberty to explain about his work.’ Robert flew in his brother’s defence.
Christopher reclined on his chair and smiled smugly. ‘Not to worry. We shall have new rings made.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ she replied. ‘My wedding ring is in my jewellery box, in my travel trunk. You will see it on my finger tomorrow, if that is your wish.’
She excused herself after supper, claiming exhaustion and a headache, and sought the sanctuary of her bedchamber. She prayed Christopher would not join her later and insist on enforcing his rights as husband. The very thought of his hands on her body made her sick with dread. After unpacking some of her clothes, Rosie prepared a bath.
‘It’s good to have you back, my Lady,’ the girl said. ‘Sir, too, of course,’ she added, her voice guarded.
It felt so strange to be here. In a way, it was as if she’d never left. Her room was the same. Norton Place was the same. Robert was his usual self, a pleasant and boisterous young man. But she had changed.
She pinned her hair on top of her head and undressed. She asked Rosie to leave her when she slipped into the hot bath. She closed her eyes for a moment.
A noise nearby startled her. She must have fallen asleep. Opening her eyes, she let out a frightened cry. A shadow moved in a corner of the room.
‘You are really beautiful, you know,’ Christopher said, his voice hoarse. He walked into the light and knelt by the side of the tub. She sat up and tried to cover her breasts with her hands but he took hold of her wrists and pulled her arms apart.
‘Let me go, Christopher,’ she pleaded, breathing erratically as panic welled inside her. ‘Let me get out of the bath.’
He laughed. ‘All right, then.’ He stood and pulled her up roughly with him. He stepped back and grabbed the large bath cloth Rosie had spread on the back of an armchair.
‘You’ll be wanting this.’ He held it up but remained deliberately out of her grasp.
She breathed deeply and looked into his mocking grey eyes. He was toying with her. He wanted to upset and frighten her. She would show him no fear. Calmly, she stepped out of the bath, naked and dripping wet, and walked towards him. She raised her hand and he relinquished the towel, but as she began to wrap herself in the soft cloth, he seized her arm and dragged her to the bed.
Tipped off balance, she fell backward onto the counterpane, and he crashed on top of her, driving the breath from her lungs. She tried to wriggle free, but he pinned her down. There was no feeling in his eyes, just the grey coldness of steel. He raised one hand to her throat to stop her from moving.
‘Now, my dear, listen very carefully,’ he commanded.
‘To the eyes of the world, you are my wife. I own you and I will use you as I please. This time, you won’t push me away. I have all the power and you have nothing.’ He gave a little grunt as his hands slid over her bare skin, still damp from the bath. She gritted her teeth.
‘I know you were the French officer’s harlot, and I’m going to enjoy making you pay for it. He pulled the towel off her, looked down at her breasts. ‘Starting now…’ He chuckled. ‘In fact, it may not be such a bad thing that you slept with him. I bet he taught you a trick or two which will make our nights much more interesting.’
Although she felt sick with loathing and her heart beat like a wild bird trapped in a cage, she tried to remain as cold as a statue under his touch. She would have to beat him at his own game.
‘If you don’t get off me this instant, I swear I will tell everybody how we met in France. I will tell them about Karloff and the mesmerism session,’ she said.
His hand stopped moving, settled on her stomach. He was listening, waiting.
She played her last card. ‘I will tell them who is behind the assassination attempt on the King’s brother, the Comte d’Artois, in Lyon a few weeks ago. I bet that will change your employer’s prospects altogether and yours, too. I gather Fouché is still your employer, am I right? All this talk about missions for the Admiralty and the Foreign Affairs ministry is only half the story, isn’t it?’
He withdrew his hand and cursed.
She carried on, pushing her advantage. ‘I will go as high as necessary, to Lord Castlereagh…to Lord Liverpool himself.’
He rolled off her and she sat up, covering herself with the towel.
She gave a tight smile. ‘If you force me to, that is.’
He stood up and crossed his arms on his chest.
‘Well played, darling.’ The words hissed between his teeth. ‘There are indeed certain facts I would prefer to remain concealed for now. I am amazed at your perspicacity. What do you know about this?’
‘About Lyon? And Fouché trying to get the King—or his brother—murdered to make room for the emperor…or was it to discredit the emperor? Which was it?’ She pretended nonchalance, playing with the tassels of her towel. ‘Either way, I am sure Fouché would find it tricky to explain himself. Napoleon made it clear he didn’t want any member of the royal family harmed.’
Christopher was visibly shaken. He clearly didn’t expect her to know so much and to confront him so fearlessly.
‘What do the Sea Lords know about you, then?’ she asked. ‘Do they know how you really spent the last six years? Do they know you are still Fouché’s man?’
He shrugged. ‘They know some of it. Other things, like the unfortunate shamble outside the Lyon opera, I’d rather keep to myself.’
So he was admitting responsibility for the botched coup against the Comte d’Artois.
‘Why were you not arrested for treason when you came back to England?’
‘My superiors at the Admiralty Board and the Cabinet are aware of my involvement with Fouché. In fact, that’s what makes me invaluable to them at the moment. I am their direct line into Napoleon’s new Cabinet and with my help—and Fouché’s—they have a chance to topple it.’
He walked to the door, but turned towards her, his hand on the door knob.
So Hugo had been right. Fouché was already scheming to get rid of Napoleon, only a few weeks into his new reign. He had plotted with the British against Napoleon in April the year before, just before the emperor abdicated. This time he had Christopher to liaise secretly with the British.
‘Why did Fouché choose you for this particular mission?’ she asked, shivering as she recalled the razor-sharp face of the minister of police, his heavily hooded eyes and thin lips. She was reminded of what Christopher had said at Beauregard when he was under Karloff’s influence. That he and Fouché were very much alike because they had no feelings. Looking into her husband’s cold grey eyes now, it wasn’t hard to believe.
Christopher smiled. ‘Actually, he chose me because of you. After the opera house incident in Lyon, I had to lie low for a while. He was very displeased with me for failing to carry out my mission. I was about to go into hiding when I remembered you and your fancy story about me being your long-lost English husband. I thought you could provide me with a new start. So I came to Beauregard and pretended I remembered you.’
He sneered. ‘And you fell for it. It was all lies, you know. I didn’t have any flashbacks to our married life or to this place. I didn’t remember a thing! Fortunately, you obligingly filled all the gaps for me. I couldn’t have asked for a more helpful wife.’
Marie-Ange felt her heart grow colder. ‘You mean you didn’t remember Norton Place or people from the past. Or even me?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Of course I didn’t. When I came to Beauregard, I thought I’d go along with anything you said. Slipping into a dead man’s shoes would give me a good cover. It might make me useful to Fouché again, after the Lyon fiasco. If nothing else, it would give me a new identity, a chance to start again.’
He
paused for an instant. ‘Then you suggested Karloff hypnotise me, and the most incredible thing happened. I found out you had been right all along and that I actually was…myself.’
His voice held a trace of wonder. ‘I must say I hadn’t expected that.’
‘So we can say whatever happens next in French and European politics will have a lot to do with you, my darling, and with your obstinate belief in me.’
He opened the door and bowed. ‘I will travel back and forth to France under my French identity—Joseph Nallay. And I’d rather nobody else but I, the Admiralty Board, and a few carefully chosen people at the Ministry of Police Place Cambon know about it. So yes, you have won for now.’
His lips stretched into a thin, threatening smile. ‘But only because I am letting you win, and only just for now.’ He paused. ‘Another thing Marie-Ange, you will remain here at Norton Place until I decide what to do with you. I can see you and my foolish brother are very close, so if you give me any reason to be dissatisfied with you, I promise I’ll make him suffer. Trust me, I am very good at inflicting suffering. Good night.’
He walked out.
Once alone, Marie-Ange was consumed by uncontrollable tremors. She went to the fireplace, poked the logs to start the fire again, and stood staring at the flames until she stopped trembling. She had an important decision to take. Should she warn Hugo that, as he had suspected, Fouché was plotting against Napoleon? Or should she let Fouché bring down the emperor with the help of the British government? After all, if Napoleon was removed from the throne, there would be no more wars in Europe.
The emperor’s return was doomed because of a powerful enemy from within. No wonder the Admiralty Lords, and members of the Cabinet, welcomed Christopher back without probing too hard into his past. He offered them the chance to topple their long standing enemy. Thanks to him, they would be privy to Napoleon’s slightest move. As for Fouché, he would pour his poison into his emperor’s ears and sabotage his government. And get on with plotting his political survival.
It was late into the night when she reached a decision. She would write to Hugo and warn him about Fouché. She must be very careful. She was in no doubt that Christopher would be watching her like a hawk. She had made an enemy of her husband tonight. He would never forgive her for blackmailing him and taking the advantage over him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
10th August 1815—Norton Place
‘It’s all over this time. Napoleon is on board HMS Northumberland en route for Sainte Hélène. He won’t be coming back to France.’ Christopher smiled smugly. ‘Not standing, anyway. If he had been sent there in the first place, the carnage at Waterloo would have been avoided.’
He folded his newspaper and looked at Marie-Ange. ‘And what carnage it was. The latest figures have now been released. Over twenty-five thousand French soldiers dead—and almost twenty-two thousand of our own coalition forces lost. And thousands still unaccounted for. Mostly infantry, but many cavalry forces, too. Poor souls, they are probably rotting in a ditch under their horses. Do you remember Wellington’s account of the battle in the London Gazette a few weeks ago, my dear? According to him, the French cuirassiers bore the brunt of the Prussian and Hanoverian artillery. They were decimated.’
He put the paper to one side and tucked into his breakfast of ham and scrambled eggs. Marie-Ange closed her eyes, hearing his voice from a distance. He was now talking about the fall of Paris to the British and Prussians forces three weeks before, about the siege of Lyon by the Austrians and the surrender en masse of the French army to the coalition forces. He quoted the names of French casualties from Napoleon’s last campaign—the many high ranking officers who had died or suffered terrible injuries at Waterloo. There was one name she was desperate not to hear.
She had read descriptions of the Waterloo battlefield by Wellington and other witnesses. They were imprinted in her soul. The ‘canons belching fire and death’, ‘the roaring and shouting sounded like a volcano’. A Foot Guard’s captain had written that the French cuirassiers’ armours ‘glittered like a stormy wave of the sea’ and their galloping horses sounded like thunder as they charged. Then they fell, mowed down by the Allies artillery fire.
She finished her cup of tea and looked at Christopher. Cool and perfectly at ease, he talked about the outcome of the war England and its allies had just won as if the past six years had never happened, as if he had never worked for the French side. No, she was wrong, she corrected silently. He worked for Fouché, not for France. And now Napoleon was gone, Fouché was leading King Louis’s new government with a surprise ally—his old enemy Talleyrand. Both men succeeded in surviving another change of government. To his critics who accused him of turning his coat yet again, Fouché had replied, scornful, but with startling honesty, ‘I am everything people say I am—a royalist or a Jacobin—depending on what happens; I am, and will always be, the servant of circumstances.’
Christopher had good reason to be pleased with the outcome of events. He had helped his master, his ‘employer’ as he called him, gain a crucial position of power in France once again. He had travelled between England and France incessantly, no doubt delivering important instructions and messages from the British Cabinet to Fouché, and secret information about Napoleon’s plans to the British in return.
At least, his frequent travels meant that Marie-Ange didn’t have to endure his presence at Norton Place too often. If she had hoped that time would mellow him and help him become his old self, she was disappointed. He remained a cold and indifferent stranger, so much so that even Robert found it impossible to establish a brotherly relationship with him. After the first few weeks when he had been overjoyed by Christopher’s return, the young man had suffered from his brother’s sharp tone and constant rebukes.
‘I don’t know him, Marie-Ange,’ the young man confided one evening, his grey eyes tearful and his lips quivering. ‘Hell, I don’t like him!’
Robert had now started his three-year training at the royal navy academy in Portsmouth where Christopher had purchased a commission. Marie-Ange was pleased for him. He was at last pursuing his dream. It also meant Christopher had less of a hold on her. She didn’t fear quite so much that he would hurt the young man should she displease him.
Robert and Marie-Ange weren’t alone in finding Christopher difficult to live with. She had heard Francis, Mrs. Green, the cook, and Elias the gardener, comment on their master’s nasty temper. ‘Don’t you dare get on the wrong side of Sir Christopher,’ they had urged Rosie one day in the kitchen. ‘He’s nothing like he was in the old days.’
The manor house had changed too in the past five months. Christopher paid for extensive repairs to be carried out. The roof was redone, one wing re-pointed and another partly rebuilt. Inside, most rooms had undergone significant refurbishment. Architects and decorators were summoned from the most fashionable houses in London. Marie-Ange had to admit that the result was striking. The manor house was no longer a foreboding, crumbling, and draughty old house but a bright and beautiful home. She did wonder about the source of Christopher’s money though. Was it Fouché’s money—or in other words, treason money, blood money?
She gestured towards the newspaper, folded on the table next to her husband, and asked him to hand it over.
‘Are you sure it’s wise? I don’t want you having a fainting fit. You already look very pale,’ he answered with false concern. She knew he enjoyed telling her about the terrible losses the French, and the cuirassier regiments especially, had suffered at Waterloo. Instinctively, she placed a protective hand on the gentle curve of her belly and felt the baby move inside her. It was no more than a flutter but her lips formed a tender, secret smile. She put her hand back on the table straight away. Christopher had no idea she was expecting. The fashion for loose, high-waisted dresses had helped her conceal her pregnancy so far. However the time had come to tell him. It was the right thing to do. Especially since she also planned to inform him she was leaving him, Norton P
lace, and England.
Christopher put his tea cup down on the saucer. ‘I must get ready. Lord Admiral Melville is expecting me at the Admiralty tomorrow. I shall not be back before the end of the week at the earliest.’
‘Are there any new developments since the royalist cabinet was formed in Paris?’
She cast him a glance under her eyelashes and inwardly cursed her cowardice. She had to speak to him now, before he left for London, but she didn’t seem able to say the words.
He looked preoccupied for a few seconds. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
Rosie came in with a tray. ‘The post, sir.’ The maid glanced at Marie-Ange. ‘Would you like your correspondence, Madame?’
Christopher clicked his fingers, impatient. ‘Bring it all to me.’
Rosie smiled apologetically at Marie-Ange, but did as she was told. As she walked towards Christopher, her foot caught into the rug and she tripped, sending the letters and tray flying off onto the ground.
‘Silly girl! Look what you’ve done!’ Christopher raged.
‘Christopher, please, this isn’t anything to be angry about.’ Marie-Ange smiled at Rosie who scrambled to her feet and picked up the letters from the floor.
‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ Rosie said, her cheeks bright red, as she placed the tray in front of Christopher.
He looked through a pile of letters and stopped suddenly, holding a thin envelope adorned with an elaborate red wax seal in front of him.
‘This one is for you, dear. How odd…It comes from Catania in Sicily and bears the seal of the Knight Order of St John—the Knights Hospitaller.’ He leant over, arching his eyebrows. ‘Any idea whom that might be from?’
He toyed with the letter. ‘Maybe I should open it myself. You never know, it may be bad news.’
She stood up in protest. At last, news of her father! She had written to Baldassare at the beginning of May and had been waiting anxiously ever since for his reply.
‘That is mine, Christopher.’
