by Marie Laval
‘Who are you? Where are we?’
The man shrugged and pointed to the lighthouse. He gave the horse a kick, turned round and rode off.
She got up and looked at the lighthouse. Perhaps this was where her father was being held. Hope flared, but was replaced immediately by a dark fear. She was alone. The place seemed deserted, just seagulls circling over the waves, calling their mournful cry.
‘I told you I would come for you.’ A voice spoke behind her.
She turned around and narrowed her eyes against the sun. Christopher had his arms crossed on his chest, legs wide apart, his face twisted in a scowl. His pale blond hair shone in the sunlight.
‘Did you enjoy the fireworks?’ he asked. ‘I thought I’d get it right this time, not like in Lyon. Remember? You reported everything I told you to your Capitaine Saintclair—or Colonel, whatever his title is now—didn’t you? And together you got me dismissed and Fouché exiled.’
He took a few steps forward. Marie-Ange retreated until her back scraped against the wooden door of the lighthouse.
‘There is nowhere for you to go, my darling wife.’ He opened his arms. ‘It’s just you and me.’
She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Where is my father?’
Christopher shook his head in derision and pointed to the lighthouse. ‘In here. Dead. Or as good as, last time I looked.’
She put her hand in front of her mouth to stifle a sob.
‘Oh, and I should mention that once I have disposed of you, I will take care of your brat and his father.’ He threw his head back and laughed. He looked like a madman.
‘Why are you doing this, Christopher? What do you want?’ Her voice was shaking.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Me? I want to make you pay for ruining my life. Everything was going just fine for me until you and Saintclair turned up in Paris.’
‘That’s not true! I only wanted you to remember your past. I loved you so much. But you weren’t the same man anymore. Everybody who knew you thought so, too. Robert, the servants at Norton Place…’
His face hardened and he narrowed his eyes.
‘You turned them all against me. You dragged the Norton name in the muck and made me a laughing stock when you left. And then I was dismissed from the Royal Navy because of your statement. Even though it was anonymous, it didn’t take long for my superiors at the Admiralty to work out I was the agent in question. As they were anxious to establish a good relationship with the new Bourbon regime, I was shown the door.’
While he talked, she pushed the handle of the door down behind her back and frantically thought about what to do next. Could she hide in the lighthouse or should she run down the track? There must be a village nearby, people who could help.
‘Where do you live these days? In Trieste? Is that where you met Vittori?’ she asked, in a bid to keep him talking.
He looked annoyed. ‘I should have known the man was a waste of time. Yes, I am based in Trieste. It’s where I bumped into your father a few months ago. He didn’t know me, of course, so I was able to spy on him. That’s how I learnt you were travelling to Malta for the wedding. It was the chance I had been waiting for. At last, I would have you and your child at my mercy.’ He laughed. ‘And now, Saintclair is here, too. It has turned out better than I could ever have imagined.’
He walked towards her slowly, a grin twisting his thin lips, clearly enjoying watching the fear in her eyes. He raised his hand to take hold of her, but she twisted her body away and he caught the sleeve of her blue dress instead. He gripped it so tightly it ripped, sending her tumbling down onto the ground. Her head slammed against sharp rocks.
‘You won’t escape, you know.’ She heard him say and everything went black.
When she opened her eyes, her head was throbbing with pain. Christopher was bending over her, so close she saw the cold glint of steel in his grey eyes. She tried to wriggle away, but he stamped on her dress to keep her still. Behind him a door creaked open, footsteps crushed the loose stones of the path. Someone had walked out of the lighthouse. Someone she struggled to recognise.
Baldassare. His face was battered and gaunt, his eyes swollen and almost shut, his clothes torn and caked in blood and dirt.
‘Father!’ She cried in anguish.
Christopher straightened up and turned round sharply. ‘What? You’re still alive? I thought you’d be maggot food by now.’
‘You are not going to hurt my daughter, Norton,’ Baldassare said.
‘Do you think you can stop me? Look at you. You can hardly stand,’ Christopher sneered.
Baldassare shook his head. ‘Not me,’ he answered. ‘My brother. He is here to take care of us.’
Marie-Ange wondered why her father was talking about Alessandro. She wanted to go to him, but she couldn’t move because she was pinned to the ground by Christopher’s boot stamping on her dress.
‘I don’t see anybody around. Do you?’ Christopher pulled a knife out of his belt and walked towards Baldassare. ‘It’s time I finished with you.’
‘No! Please!’ Free at last, Marie-Ange scrambled to her feet.
And then she saw him. Standing against the sunlight, he was cloaked in black. A wide-rimmed hat covered his head. The figure moved silently towards them. There was something odd about him, she thought, something that whispered to her he wasn’t like any other man. Yet she felt no fear as he approached.
‘Here you are, brother,’ Baldassare said. A smile appeared on his dry, cracked lips. ‘It has been a long time.’ His eyes rolled back and he slid to the ground, still smiling. Marie-Ange wept and ran to his side.
‘Who the hell are you? How did you get here?’ Christopher asked, his voice hoarse, as the man walked towards him. He winced and put his hand to his chest.
The man carried on without answering. Christopher’s face was now distorted in a grimace of pain. He stepped back, fingers clutching his chest as if he wanted to rip it open. Still the man walked, pushing him closer and closer to the edge of the cliff.
‘Who are you?’ Christopher repeated weakly. He staggered, dangerously close to the precipice and the raging sea below.
The man lifted his hand and without ever touching him, pushed him over the edge.
Gasping in shock, Marie-Ange saw Christopher fall. She ran to the spot where he disappeared and peered over the cliff. His body lay broken on the sharp rocks below, washed by the surf. Looking up she stared into the man’s eyes.
‘You!’ She breathed out. So they had been right all along! Baldassare, her aunt, Uxeloup, and Edmond Malleval.
‘Our paths have never crossed before, Marie-Ange. I am glad to meet you at last,’ the man said.
‘How is it possible? How can you be…’
He put his finger on her lips and smiled. ‘Some things are not meant to be spoken of.’ Turning to Baldassare’s body lying on the ground, he added, ‘Your father was a good man. He served us well. He is at peace now.’
He smiled again. The same kind, thoughtful smile he had on the portrait at Beauregard.
‘Till we meet again.’ He nodded, touched the rim of his hat in a brief farewell and walked away into the blazing sun. Only when he was gone did she understand what she had found so odd about him. He hadn’t cast any shadow on the ground.
Kneeling down next to her father, she put his head gently into her lap. His face was battered and bruised. He must have suffered so much, beaten and held captive without food or drink for days. Her fingers stroked his hair as if to soothe away his pain. It was too late. A feeling of desolation invaded her as tears fell down her cheeks. Her father was dead. She lost track of how long she remained sitting there, her face and neck burning under the fierce sunshine, her head throbbing with pain where it had hit the rocks before.
The thunder of a horse’s gallop made her look up. Hugo drew reins and jumped down from his black charger in a cloud of dust before the horse had even stopped.
‘Marie-Ange!’ He ran to her.
She sto
od up and was immediately enfolded into his arms.
‘You’re hurt. You have a nasty gash on your forehead.’
He kissed her hair, her face. His hands were all over her arms, her shoulders, her back. ‘Thank Heavens I found you.’
He looked down at Baldassare’s body. ‘Your father…What happened?’
‘I think he suffered too much. His heart…’
He pressed her closer to him. ‘Where is that bastard Norton?’
She pointed her chin towards the cliff. ‘He fell. Or rather he was pushed.’
‘You pushed him?’ Hugo stared into her eyes.
‘Not me. There was a man. Didn’t you see him on the road?’
He shook his head. ‘I didn’t see anybody. Was he one of Norton’s henchmen?’
‘No. It was…’ Should she tell him? Would he even believe her?
‘It was my mother’s godfather,’ she said in one breath, gazing into his eyes. ‘Hugo, it was Count Saint Germain.’
He shook his head and smiled. ‘You just imagined him, Marie-Ange. You did have a knock to the head,’ he said, stroking her forehead gently with his finger. ‘And you’re burning hot. You must have heatstroke.’ He pulled her into his arms again and cradled her tightly. ‘Never mind how it happened as long as Norton’s dead. Don’t worry. I will speak to Major Harris when he gets here.’
Did he think she had pushed Christopher? ‘Hugo, it wasn’t me,’ she insisted. ‘It was Saint Germain.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said again. ‘I’ll sort things out.’
‘How did you know I was here?’ she asked.
‘I found your mantilla in the street after the crowd dispersed,’ he explained. ‘I took it back to the palace and Sophie said it was a present from your aunt, but Agata didn’t know anything about it. So I searched your room and found the note. You didn’t read it, did you?’
‘Which note?’ She cast her thoughts back to earlier in the afternoon. There had been a piece of paper in the parcel. ‘I thought it was the bill.’
‘It was a note from Norton. Telling you to enjoy the day before…’
‘Before?’
Hugo sighed. ‘Before it turned into a mass funeral. Your aunt declared that the mantilla was the work of lace makers in Marsaxlokk. When Paolo said that there was a lighthouse on the promontory past the village, I took a chance and set off.’
He held her tight against him. ‘And I found you.’
A dozen riders and an open carriage appeared on the road. Major Harris and his men.
‘About time,’ Hugo muttered as the English soldiers dismounted and the carriage stopped.
‘Well, well…What have we got here?’ They heard Major Harris exclaim in a loud voice.
Hugo squeezed Marie-Ange’s hand. ‘Let me do the talking.’
They were married the following week. It was a small, private affair.
As she stood in Our Lady of Victory Church, Marie-Ange felt her heart was ready to burst. Why did she want to cry when she felt so happy, she wondered, biting her lower lip to keep it from trembling. Throughout the short service, Hugo listened solemnly and intently to the priest. He took her hand, entwined her fingers with his and fixed his gaze on her. All she wanted was lose herself in his blue eyes. She was slightly breathless when she said her wedding vows, but Hugo’s voice was clear and strong in the near empty church.
Afterwards, the hint of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth as he bent down slowly to kiss her. He lifted her hand and pressed it to his heart. ‘Forever,’ he murmured before his lips brushed hers.
They left in the evening for Algiers, their first stop on the way to Bou Saada. Sophie had decided to travel with them.
‘I want to see this city of happiness for myself,’ she declared.
Night was falling when the ship sailed out of Valetta’s Great Harbour. They stood on deck, Lucas snug in Hugo’s arms, Marie-Ange leaning against his side.
‘Who’s that waving at us?’ Hugo asked, pointing to the figure of a man who was alone at the end of the jetty.
Marie-Ange peered into the thickening shadows at the silhouette of man cloaked in black. She saw him touch his wide-rimmed hat and bow in their direction.
‘It’s him,’ she answered with a smile. ‘He is wishing us good luck.’
Hugo turned to her sharply. ‘Who? You mean…’
When he turned again, there was nobody there.
Marie Laval
For more information about Marie Laval
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Published by Accent Press Ltd 2015
ISBN 9781682990742
Copyright © Marie Laval 2015
The right of Marie Laval to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN
