Jack Chiltern's Wife (1999)

by Nichols, Mary

  ‘That could be a problem … we shall have to admit you are English. I married you on a visit to England several years ago. You never think of it now, but cleave to France and the new administration.’

  ‘Do you? Cleave to the new regime, I mean.’

  ‘Jacques Faucon certainly does. He is fanatical about it.’

  ‘But Jack Chiltern?’

  ‘Jack Chiltern does not exist. From now on, we will never mention that name.’ He stood up and held his hand out to her. ‘I suggest you retire for the night. We have to be away from here by first light. I am afraid you will have to leave your baggage behind, Lucie will take care of it for you until we all come back here, God willing.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘Goodnight and au revoir, Miss Harston. Tomorrow I shall greet citoyenne Faucon, n’est-ce pas?’

  Kitty went up to her room in a daze, the feel of his lips still tingling on the back of her hand, his soft voice saying goodnight still echoing in her ears. How could he do this to her, make her feel as though she were melting away? She did not want to sleep, she wanted to savour it. But warmth, good food and wine, and the fatigue induced by five days of uncomfortable travelling overcame her and she slept soundly.

  ‘What I want to know is what have we got ourselves into?’ Judith demanded, the following morning. ‘I never thought I should have to dress in rags and pretend to be your mother while you passed yourself off as that … that charlatan’s wife. How could you agree? How could you think I would agree?’

  ‘If you don’t want to come, you could stay here with Lucie …’

  ‘No, I could not!’ Judith rounded on her. ‘If you think I would be so unmindful of my duty, you are mistaken. I came on this jaunt to look after you, and look after you I will.’

  She had been dressing in her ragged costume while she spoke, but she was doing it slowly, lacking enthusiasm for the adventure, unlike Kitty. She set the red cap on her grey curls and, looking in the mirror over Kitty’s shoulder, grimaced with distaste. ‘We know nothing of him. We have no idea what manner of man he is …’

  Kitty looked up and faced the worried reflection in the glass. ‘Then how do you know he is a charlatan?’

  ‘He dined with you alone. If Lucie had not insisted you were perfectly safe and looked as though she might hit me over the head with a skillet if I insisted, I should have burst in to rescue you. I wish I had now. Your good reputation will be in shreds.’

  Kitty laughed. ‘Oh, Judith, I no longer have a good reputation, surely you must know that?’

  ‘But to act his wife? What will you do when …’ she gulped ‘… when the time comes to retire? You cannot possibly share a room with him.’

  ‘Long before then we shall be with James. He will take care of us. It is only so that we may pass safely through the barriers.’

  Kitty, who had finished dressing, was surveying the results in the mirror. It was not realistic enough. She lacked the haggard look of most of the women she had come across; her eyes were still bright with untroubled youth, and her hair shone with Judith’s brushing. She picked up a pair of scissors from the dressing table and hacked at her long tresses.

  Judith was horrified. ‘Kitty! What are you doing?’

  ‘Cutting my hair. Have you not noticed that nearly all the women here have short hair? I suppose it is easier to keep free from vermin.’

  ‘Ugh! But I suppose you are right. Here, give me the scissors.’

  Kitty handed them over and sat patiently while her long hair was cut short and watched in surprise as it sprang into tight little curls. ‘Why, I do believe I like it,’ she said, setting the red cap on top. ‘Now for the eyes.’

  A finger run along the chimney produced enough blacking to smudge her eyes with fatigue, and with the addition of a line or two across her brow, served to make her look older and more careworn. She stood up and slouched slowly across the room, her shoulders drooping. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘It will serve, though I cannot say I approve.’

  ‘You must do the same.’

  Judith was too plump to look haggard, so Kitty contented herself with pulling her hair out of its neat coil and making it stand out round the cap, then blacking one or two of her teeth, which produced loud protests from her maid. ‘You are making me look an old hag.’

  ‘Exactly. We cannot afford pride, Judith, which is why I agreed to Mr Chil—’ She stopped and corrected herself. ‘Jacques’ plan. Come on, he will be waiting.’

  Outside the front door, they found the old horse harnessed to a farmcart loaded with cabbages, most of which were rotten and gave off a very unpleasant smell. Jacques, once more in ragged trousers and a well-worn greatcoat, thick with grease, was busy burrowing in the produce, hiding his leather bag.

  When it was done, he stood and looked at them, surveying them from head to toe, then laughed. ‘Very good, my dears, though I fancy you are too well shod. But no matter, a farmer can buy his wife a new pair of boots now and again. Rub them in the mud to make them look more worn and get on the seat. The sun will be up soon and we must join the line at the barrier.’

  Lucie came from the house, carrying two small blankets which she handed to Judith. ‘To keep out the cold,’ she said. ‘Au revoir, madame, ma’amselle.’ She turned to Jack. ‘Bon chance, monsieur.’ Her grey eyes spoke more than her words; there was in them a look of unalloyed adoration.

  He pulled her to him and kissed her on each cheek. ‘Go home to your maman until I send you word I need you, ma chérie.’

  He jumped up beside Kitty and the cart rumbled off along the lane they had traversed the night before. Rain mixed with sleet whipped against their faces and, in spite of Lucie’s blankets and the fact that both wore two or three petticoats beneath their rags, their fingers and toes were soon frozen, but they knew it would be useless to protest, nothing could be done about it.

  Jack himself seemed impervious to the weather; he was becoming more and more morose, hunching his chin into his coat collar. He appeared to shrink, to grow older and craggier before their eyes, until he hardly seemed the same upright, muscular man who had brought them from Calais. He did not speak. His ungloved hands, raw with cold, maintained their steady grip on the reins as the old horse plodded on with its burden.

  A few minutes later they pulled out on the main road and jolted towards the distant huddle of buildings and spires which Kitty assumed was Paris. Gradually the roads became busier as other carts joined in a procession. There were walkers, too, women and children, carrying produce in baskets. They were poorly clad and looked down at the ground as they walked, as if they had nothing to look forward to. Was this what the great Revolution had done to the people of France? They were the ones who had jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

  The line of carts came to a halt as the woods and fields gave way to a few sparse buildings. ‘The barrière of Saint-Denis,’ Jack murmured, as they stopped. ‘Now is the testing time.’

  It took half an hour to reach the front of the queue; by then, Kitty was taut with nerves, as she watched some people being let through and others, whose papers, or perhaps only their looks, had been unsatisfactory and they were dragged off to be interrogated.

  ‘Papers, citizen,’ one of the guards demanded, holding a grubby hand up to Jack, who silently groped in his pocket and handed over the forged documents. While the guard perused them, his companion walked all round the cart, then stopped to stare up at Kitty.

  Kitty looked dully back at him, trying not to let him see she was trembling. She pulled the blanket closer round her and stole a sideways glance at Jack. He seemed totally relaxed although the guard was taking an inordinate time to examine their papers.

  ‘What have you got in the cart?’ said the one who was staring at Kitty.

  ‘Potatoes and cabbages,’ Jack answered for her.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  The guard moved to the rear of the cart and began throwing the produce out. Kitty was afraid he would soon disc
over the case. Something must be done or they were lost. She pushed Jack’s shoulder and began shouting at him in lamentable French, calling him a pig and a dog and beating her fists against his body, grunting with the effort.

  For a second he did nothing, then he turned and cuffed her back, shouting even louder to drown her voice. It brought the guard back to their side.

  ‘The citizeness is a handful, old fellow. Can’t you shut her up?’

  ‘Would that I could,’ he said, trying to grapple with Kitty’s flailing arms. ‘Why, this is nothing to what she gives me at home. Grumble, grumble, all day long; I have not done this, I have neglected to do that. I don’t know why I didn’t leave her behind.’

  The first guard had stopped looking at their papers and was standing watching them with a broad grin on his face as Kitty rained blows on Jack. He retaliated by slapping her face, an action which was as sudden as it was unexpected and silenced her.

  ‘What is she complaining of?’ the guard asked, while Kitty put her hand up to her cheek and pushed Judith away when she attempted to comfort her.

  ‘Say nothing,’ she hissed.

  ‘She complains of the cold, as if I could do anything about the weather.’

  The man looked at Judith. ‘That one is quiet.’

  Jack laughed. ‘Being well-padded she does not feel the cold. And she knows better than to hold up the National Guard when they are only doing their duty.’

  ‘Are you going to stand there talking all day?’ someone shouted from the cart behind them. ‘We’ve got work to do, even if you haven’t.’

  ‘On you go,’ the guard said, returning their papers. ‘And if you take my advice, citizen, you’ll leave the shrew behind tomorrow.’

  ‘I might do that,’ Jack called, as the barrier was lifted and they rumbled slowly into the city down the rue Saint-Denis, once a wide street of fine houses, but now looking decidedly dilapidated.

  It was several minutes before anyone spoke and then it was Jack. ‘What was all that about?’ he demanded of Kitty.

  ‘Charades, you said, act the part.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you to bring the whole National Guard down on our heads.’

  She grinned. ‘No, but I stopped them finding your case, didn’t I?’

  ‘What makes you think that it was important enough to take such a terrible risk?’

  ‘You hid it, didn’t you? And though it is a matter of indifference to me whether you are arrested or not, I did not want it discovered before we found James.’

  He threw back his head and bellowed with laughter. ‘Oh, my, you’ll be the death of me,’ he said, wiping his eyes.

  ‘You ungrateful boor,’ she protested. ‘You pummel me black and blue and slap my face and then have the gall to laugh. That is the last time I shall try and help you.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Your help could have us all guillotined. From now on, remain silent and do nothing.’

  She was still smarting, both literally and figuratively, and she would not give him the satisfaction of cowing her. ‘And if I don’t agree?’

  ‘Then you will be left to your own devices and sooner or later someone will start asking questions; if your answers are not entirely satisfactory, you will be arrested.’

  ‘What would I be accused of?’

  ‘Anything, it does not matter. It would soon be turned to an indictment as a traitor to the Republic.’

  ‘How can I be a traitor to France when I am English?’

  ‘A spy, then.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me?’ He turned to look at her. Beneath the surface dirt her cheeks were pink and he regretted that slap with all his heart, but she had started the scuffle and he had been forced to make it realistic. And he had to make sure she did not repeat the experiment. ‘I should deny all knowledge of you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. The devil himself would not stoop to such an act of cowardice. You are bluffing.’

  ‘You think so? I advise you not to call my bluff, my dear, or you might have a rude awakening.’

  ‘Oh, Kitty,’ Judith wailed. ‘I never thought our position could be worse, but it is getting more dire with every minute. What are we to do?’

  ‘Shut up, woman,’ Jack said brusquely.

  ‘Yes, Judith, do be quiet, please. We are in Mr Chiltern’s hands and must trust him whether we like to or not.’

  ‘I am not Mr Chiltern, I am Jacques Faucon, your husband. citizen of France. Please remember that.’

  ‘All the same, you might at least acknowledge that I tried.’

  ‘You tried,’ he said laconically, staring straight ahead so that he did not have to look at her. She could melt the hardest heart and, though he pretended, he was not hard enough. She had been magnificent, beating him and screaming like any fishwife; if there really had been something of importance in that case, she would have saved the day. ‘Do you think I am fool enough to conceal anything incriminating in a pile of cabbages? The case contains nothing but a bottle of brandy.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That is all.’

  ‘But why hide it?’

  ‘Something hidden is something someone wishes not to be found. The men would have triumphed in uncovering it. A smuggled bottle of cognac confiscated is a small price to pay for being allowed to pass.’

  ‘It was meant to be found?’

  ‘Yes. Now we will speak of it no more.’

  She obeyed, falling silent. In truth, she was already regretting her impulse to show off her acting abilities; it could easily have resulted in tragedy, if he had not been quick thinking enough to answer her blow for blow. She had deserved to have her face slapped.

  The streets were busy in spite of the cold and wet. But nearly everyone was dressed poorly and wore the red cap of the Revolution. Many of the men wore black-and-grey striped trousers and coats, while the women were clad in kirtles and wool-shag blouses, with the tricolour scarf knotted round their waists. Some had blankets thrown about their shoulders. All were bare-legged and wore heavy wooden sabots on their feet.

  ‘Why are there no gentlefolk?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, there are. What you see is the fashion. Even the wealthy wear it to show they are one with the people.’

  ‘But do they have to appear so dirty?’

  ‘Soap is dear,’ he said.

  The wide road became narrower and dirtier as they made their way into the heart of the city, towards the river, but before they reached it, they turned off into an alley. It was dark and dismal, its overcrowded tenements leaning against each other, its cobbles wet and greasy, running with rotten vegetation and excrement. Judith flung her apron over her mouth and nose and Kitty did her best to quell the feeling of nausea which rose in her throat.

  ‘Where in God’s name are you taking us?’

  ‘Be quiet.’ This was a dangerous part of town and he was tense and on edge.

  A few minutes later, having passed through with no more than an odd stare of curiosity, they came to the rue Saint-Antoine. ‘This is where it all began,’ he whispered. ‘Up there is the Bastille, taken by the mob in its search for weapons and powder.’

  ‘Surely you are not taking us there?’

  ‘No, but this is the district of the artisan. It is here that some of the grand furniture English homes set so much store by used to be made. The demand has fallen off of late.’

  ‘In these hovels?’

  ‘Yes.’ He pulled up outside one of them and jumped down, turning to help them alight. ‘You will be safe here.’

  He threw a small coin to a ragged urchin to keep an eye on the horse and cart and conducted them into a dingy hallway. An open door to their right revealed a workshop, full of lengths of wood and half-finished chair legs. The floor and benches were covered in sawdust. Two people were at work, but they hardly spared the newcomers a glance as they passed and made their way up to the next floor. Jack knocked on the first of a series of doors.

  It was opened by a man of about J
ack’s age, wearing the universal trousers and rough wool shirt, over which was tied a large leather apron dusted with sawdust. He was a big man with tousled hair and shaggy eyebrows, also covered with sawdust. ‘Jacques!’ He held out his hand and Jack shook it. ‘You are a day late.’

  ‘Yes, Jean, my friend, I know, but it could not be helped. I am not alone.’ He turned and beckoned the two women to come forward. ‘This is Kitty and this is Judith. We need your help. May we come in?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ The man seemed a little reluctant to Kitty, but she could hardly blame him; she was coming to understand the fear that everyone seemed to have, the need to be vigilant, to view every newcomer with suspicion until they had proved themselves. Without Jack they would not even have passed the barrier, let alone found anyone to help them.

  ‘Kitty, this is citizen Jean Clavier and this …’ He turned to a woman who had risen from a chair before the fire. She was warmly clad in a wool gown with a shawl collar and long sleeves. She wore no cap and her short curls were a rich, bright auburn. ‘This is Thérèse, his wife. They are good friends of mine.’

  Kitty and Judith both bent their knees and inclined their heads in greeting.

  ‘Lord, don’t do that!’ Jack said. ‘No one does that in France now, you will give yourselves away.’ He turned to Jean. ‘You see the problem I have?’

  ‘Why are they here?’ Jean growled, not liking what he saw. ‘You’re not smuggling aristos, are you?’

  Jack laughed. ‘Not out of Paris, my friend, they wanted to come in.’

  ‘Then more fools they. And fool you are to help them. They will hinder you.’

  ‘I know, but they have been able to be of some service to me. You see before you citizen Jacques Faucon, his wife Kitty, a shrew if ever there was one, and her mother Judith, who remains silent and eats us out of house and home, which is why she has more meat on her than either of us.’

  It was as well this speech was made in French and Judith could not understand a word, except her own name. She smiled at Jean and Thérèse, while Kitty endeavoured to smother a giggle.

  ‘You had better tell me all, mon ami,’ Jean said, drawing Jack into an adjoining room. ‘There have been developments while you have been away.’