‘I do not understand you,’ she said. ‘When we were in Paris, I was sure you were a Royalist, now I begin to wonder …’
‘The King is dead, that is a fact. And the country must be brought to peace. James has been in the country less than a year, how can he understand? This is not England. It is nothing like England and it is useless to try and impose English thinking on French people who have been sorely tried over a great many years. And they are afraid.’
‘At least James is trying.’ She didn’t know why she was arguing with him when in many ways she agreed with him. It was not what she wanted to do. She wanted … she wanted him. She loved a man who loved his wife and loved his duty even more; there was no place in his life for her. England and home suddenly seemed very desirable and very far away.
‘Very trying,’ he said laconically.
‘You are in a very disagreeable mood,’ Nanette said. ‘Have you been to Malincourt?’
He looked at her sharply. ‘What made you say that?’
‘I thought you might have gone there to look for Gabrielle and that has made you miserable.’
‘Gabrielle.’ There was a ragged tone to his voice which betrayed his emotion; he was not as cold and hard as he would have them believe. ‘She is not at Malincourt. Now, if you will excuse me, I must change.’ He bowed to both girls and left them looking at each other in bewilderment.
‘I told you, didn’t I?’ Nanette said, as soon as he had gone. ‘Jamie is involved with the counter-revolutionaries. Oh, I wish he would come back, then Jack would persuade him to leave.’
‘And what about Gabrielle? Would Jack go without her?’
‘I don’t know. If he has no idea where she is …’
‘In that case he must be worried to death,’ Kitty said.
Jack’s worries had nothing to do with his wife, they were for Kitty. He sat in the hip bath which had been brought up to his room and took stock of a situation which was rapidly getting out of hand.
He was half-French, half-English, and he hated this war, but not so much as he loathed the despots who had taken over his beloved France and made it into a place of fear and reprisal. When he told Nanette and Kitty that he wanted peace, he had been telling the truth, but not peace at any price, not if it meant destroying everything that was great and good.
He had been instructed to see that James returned to England before he clumsily upset everything, but obeying that was secondary to his orders to scout out the strength of the Royalist faction, to find out what they needed and which of the leading men could be relied upon to welcome British intervention, if it were offered.
Admiral Hood was in the Mediterranean with the British fleet and he was successfully blockading the port of Toulon and preventing essential food stuffs, including the desperately needed grain, from reaching the people. How far were they prepared to go to obtain those supplies? Would they welcome an invasion for bread to put in their children’s mouths?
And he had no orders at all about Miss Kitty Harston. Kitty. She was rapidly undermining his ability to think dispassionately, to function as an agent. What should have been his last concern had become his first. He loved her.
In spite of his promise to himself never to let another woman rule his heart, to stick rigidly to what he conceived to be his duty, he had succumbed to those deep violet eyes and inviting mouth. But, more than that, he loved the person she was, bright, independent and thoroughly infuriating.
When he first met her, he had thought of her only as a spoiled child, used to having her own way, protected from the evils of the world to such an extent she could not recognise danger even when it was thrust under her nose. To a degree that was right, but she was far from unintelligent and she had learned quickly. Now he knew he could trust her in a tight situation and she would not panic; there had been enough sticky moments on their journey to convince him of that.
And every day he had grown closer to her, admired her more, chided her less, and every day he had been tempted to tell her that he loved her. But he could not. Once the words were out of his mouth, she would change, just as Gabrielle had changed. She would become the tyrant and he would be like clay in her hands. He could not afford to lose control. If she were arrested and let it be known, however inadvertently, that he loved her, they might use it, use it as bait as they had used Gabrielle. Except his wife had co-operated willingly.
On the other hand, could he rely on James to take Kitty safely home? James would turn aside whenever the opportunity for fresh adventure showed itself. His presence among the counter-revolutionaries proved that. Did James think he led a charmed life and nothing could touch him? He was in for a rude awakening if he did. He might very well forfeit his life. And Kitty’s.
The bath water was becoming cold and he heaved himself out of it and towelled himself dry. He must finish his business, find James and take them both south to Toulon. There were allied sympathisers there who would help them to join the British fleet.
Dressed once more in respectable breeches and stockings, a clean white shirt and neckcloth and striped waistcoat, he shrugged himself into a frockcoat and went down to join the ladies. Kitty was alone in the withdrawing room.
‘Nanette not here?’ he queried.
‘No, my lord …’
‘Oh, it’s my lord now, is it? What happened to Jack?’
‘I don’t know. He has gone. He disappeared when Nanette told me who you really are. I had no idea you were Viscount Chiltern and the son of an Earl. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Would it have made any difference if I had?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ she said slowly. She would still have fallen in love with him.
‘Then, I beg of you, forget it. Titles are never mentioned in France unless they have ci-devant in front of them.’
‘One time,’ she translated. ‘No, there is nothing of the past about you.’
He laughed and took her hand to kiss it, sending shivers of desire coursing through her. To hide her confusion, she turned away from him just as the door opened and the Marquis joined them.
‘My boy, there you are. Tell me the latest news …’
Kitty became increasingly concerned for her brother over the next few weeks. According to Jack, he had been seen in one place, heard of in another, was reported to be riding south, then north, then west to the Vendée where there were other counter-revolutionaries. ‘Mind, it might not be James,’ he told Kitty one day when they were walking in the garden with no other company but each other.
Neither was prepared to speak of what was in their hearts. To do so would have set off an avalanche of emotions which would engulf them and leave them gasping, unable to continue the roles they had set themselves. Keeping their relationship on an impersonal level was the only way they could survive.
It was almost midsummer and the flowers in the untended garden were a riot of colour: red geraniums, mauve bougainvillea, bright yellow mimosa, heavily scented jasmine. The uncut grass was parched and brown, and the roses a tangle of thorns and spilled petals. Kitty could imagine it in its heyday before the gardeners had disappeared.
‘He is not using his own name,’ Jack went on. ‘And I have only a description which is vague to say the least.’
He did not add that there was a price on the Englishman’s head and the people were so poor that they would denounce anyone for a precious loaf of bread.
‘Does he know I am here?’ Kitty asked him. ‘Have you been able to send a message to him?’
‘I dare not. It is impossible to know whom to trust.’
‘But he is safe?’
‘I have heard nothing to the contrary.’ Which was an evasive answer, but the only one he was prepared to give.
‘He will come back to Nanette, I am sure. He loves her. Love is the greatest force of all, don’t you think?’
He smiled wryly, looking down into her upturned face and forcing himself not to succumb to the urge to kiss her again, to enjoy the taste of her lips, the fee
l of her clinging to him as she had done that first time. ‘And naturally, you know all about it.’
‘I …’ She stopped, unable to go on.
‘Love is a tyranny,’ he said. ‘It commands obedience, it stifles free will, it makes a man act irrationally.’
‘How cynical you are,’ she said, wondering why he was so vehement about it if he loved his wife so dearly. ‘But I do not think you mean it.’
‘Oh, I do, believe me, and I have more important things on my mind than love. If I cannot find James in the next two days, we must leave without him.’
‘Why? What has happened? Are we not safe here?’
‘For the moment, but the situation is changing all the time and we shall soon have outstayed our welcome. I cannot put my uncle at risk. He is not a man who enjoys risk, which is why he has obeyed all the edicts of the Revolutionary government in return for being allowed to keep his home but …’
‘That might change? Is it because of what James is doing?’
She was extraordinarily perspicacious, he decided. James was stirring up a hornet’s nest and the outcome, if the bees buzzed too noisily, would be civil war. He dreaded that.
‘No, not altogether. I have heard that General Dumouriez has been driven back from the Netherlands and instead of rallying his army for a counter-attack, he tried to persuade them to march on to Paris and restore the monarchy. Louis’s young son is still held in the Temple prison, you know; he is the rightful king. But the troops refused to follow him and Dumouriez has fled to the allies. His desertion has started a wave of anti-Royalist agitation.’
‘Is that not good?’
‘No. A Committee of Public Safety and a Revolutionary Tribunal have been set up in Paris to prevent any more dissension. I hear the guillotine is becoming increasingly busy.’
‘But that is Paris, not here.’
‘Like a plague, it will spread. Representatives have been despatched throughout the country to make sure its decrees are obeyed and enforce the conscription of all able-bodied men into the army. Soon they will be combing this district and our presence here will not remain a secret much longer. Any strong young man not in uniform will be suspect.
‘Already there is a brand new guillotine in Lyons ready to execute the so-called enemies of equality, hoarders, capitalists, members of the nobility and priests who refuse to conform.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Not to mention Englishmen and women.’
‘You are worried on my behalf?’
‘Naturally I am. Until I find your brother, you are my responsibility.’
‘How can that be? I forced myself on you. It was not your choice.’
‘What would you have me do?’ he asked, his mouth lifting in the ghost of a smile. She was the most provocative woman he had ever met. ‘Should I have left you to hang? Should I abandon you now?’
‘You could.’
‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of that,’ he said grimly. ‘But I must also consider my uncle and aunt.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘Nanette told me the Marquis has already forfeited his title and his dues as a seigneur in order to appease the local government. She said they were safe as long as they did as they were told.’
‘Perhaps they are, but we are not helping by being here.’
‘You are suspect?’
He smiled grimly. ‘Jack Chiltern may be. Jacques Faucon is a true patriot.’
She giggled. ‘Are you still using that ridiculous name?’
‘Of course. It is what keeps us safe. For the moment.’
‘Does anyone know Jacques Faucon is staying here at the château?’
‘No, I do not think so. I live in a labourer’s cottage on the far side of the estate and make a living rearing pigs and growing cabbages.’
‘But then who am I? How did I arrive here?’
‘You are simply a visitor, a relative staying with the family. My uncle brought you back with him from Paris last year.’
‘I see. He brought a young lady back, not a man.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘I could say I came disguised as a boy—my brother and I are alike.’
He was forced to smile, though the situation was serious. ‘I sincerely hope you are not thinking of repeating your playacting performance at the Paris barriers, my dear.’
‘No, I have learned my lesson. But do you think we might be questioned?’
‘It is always possible.’ He reached for her hand, making her shiver with pleasure. His touch always affected her like that, but he seemed totally unaware of it. ‘While you are here, you are not citizeness Faucon, but Catherine Gilbert, a distant cousin of the Marquis, do you understand? It is why I keep your passport. If it was found in your possession …’ He stopped.
‘I understand. I know nothing of Jacques Faucon. I have never heard of him.’
‘Good. I am leaving now for a last look for James. I should be back in two days. Be ready to leave.’
There were visitors to the château the day after he had gone: six men in grubby pantaloons and red caps with tricolour cockades pinned to them. They had muskets in their hands and pistols in their belts. Kitty kept herself hidden while they spoke to the Marquis, the Marchioness and Nanette and, although they left soon afterwards, apparently satisfied with the answers they had received, they served to reinforce what Jack had said. There was danger everywhere.
She stood on the gallery above the vestibule as the Marquis and his wife watched them leave. ‘She can’t stay here,’ he said, turning to come back into the house. ‘She’ll have to go. We should never have let Jack persuade us to take her in. We have to think of our own skins …’
Kitty did not wait to hear any more. She ran to her room, changed into her old peasant skirt and packed everything else in her basket; Nanette would come looking for her soon and she must make haste. She scribbled a letter to her host and hostess, then went down the back way to the stables and hitched Samson to the old carriage, thankful that Jack had taught her how to do it while they had been on the road and had even allowed her to drive along some of the better roads.
Carefully she drew out of the yard and started off down the steep, winding hill. This was the most dangerous time because in some places the road could be seen from the château and from the town and she was not sure how far the guards had gone. But she passed no one except the lazy roadmender who sat beside his heap of stones, smoking a clay pipe and surveying the scenery as if filling holes was the last thing on his mind.
Remembering the alternative road she had seen from above the château, she decided to take that. It was more wooded and less open to prying eyes and with luck she would join the main road in the valley without being seen. From then on, she would have to say she had come direct from Paris. Her destination was … Where could she possibly be going? Italy. If she could cross the border, she would be safe.
But what about James? And Jack Chiltern? Jack was resourceful enough to survive, especially when he did not have her to hinder him. He would be glad she was no longer his responsibility and he could go and search for his wife with a clear conscience.
She did not consider how and when she would eat, where she would sleep, what she would do for money. She had not used any of her own since Jack had taken charge of her; he had even returned the sovereign she had left with the Claviers, saying it was useless. But it was gold, wasn’t it? Someone must accept it. And she had a pearl necklace her grandfather had given her—that might fetch something.
The road she had taken was even worse than the other one, steep and twisting, and she sat on the driving seat, hanging on for all she was worth, allowing the old horse to pick his own way down. She shouldn’t be here, she should never have come, never allowed Jack Chiltern to bring her here. It was a wild goose chase. He had no idea where her brother was and even less idea of how she felt.
She loved him. Hopelessly. She hated him, too, for making her love him. She hated France. She hated this dreadful flannel skirt which made her itch, hated the horrible red cap. She pulled it o
ff and flung it into the trees. She hated the women who had killed Judith, a kind gentle soul who had never done anyone any harm. She hated her brother for disappearing, Edward Lampeter for kissing her.
It was that kiss that started it and another which had enslaved her. Jack had said love was a tyrant; well, he was right there. She felt so helpless and lonely and so angry, she was weeping. Tears cascaded down her face, as the old carriage rumbled on. She did nothing to wipe them away, was hardly aware of them.
Immersed in misery for which she could blame no one but herself, she plodded on until she suddenly became aware that the track had widened; lying by the side of the road was a pair of iron gates, pulled off their hinges and flung into the undergrowth. She scrubbed at her tear-streaked face with the edge of her skirt and urged Samson on, but then she caught sight of the name interwoven in the scrolling of the gate: Malincourt. Looking to her left, she saw a weed-encrusted drive at the end of which stood a château.
Curiosity quenched her anger. She turned and went in past the gates. Nanette had been right; the house was much bigger than the Saint-Gilbert château. Its turrets soared above the surrounding trees; it must have once been very grand. But now weeds and overgrown shrubs had encroached almost up to the building itself.
Every window was broken, the great front door missing and the walls smoke-blackened. She stopped and climbed down, hitching the horse to an overgrown lilac bush. Picking her way over broken glass, roof tiles and smashed furniture, she stepped into the hall. It was black with soot and littered with debris and she could see the darkening sky through its roof. There wasn’t a whole piece of furniture, a picture or an ornament left. She supposed they had been looted.
No wonder Jack had been in such a miserable mood. It was enough to break anyone’s heart. She turned to go, to leave the place to its ghosts, but it was growing dark and she could not continue without the risk of toppling the horse and carriage into a pothole or turning it over the side of the road down the steep mountainside. She would find a corner to sleep in and go on in the morning.
The stable at the back still had its roof and it was big enough to hide the horse and the carriage. There was a little straw there, too, and a trough of water, but no hay. Sensibly she had thought of that; the inside of the coach, besides her basket, contained a few armfuls of hay and some carrots which she had taken from the Saint-Gilbert stables. The horse was fed, but she remained hungry. Stealing food for herself had not occurred to her.
Jack Chiltern's Wife (1999) Page 14
