She looked after the animal and was about to make herself comfortable in the straw when a sound disturbed her. She whirled round to find herself face to face with a man in the garb of a sans-culottes who blocked the doorway. He carried a musket which he was pointing at her. She froze.
Chapter Seven
‘She’s in here, citizen Santerre,’ he called to someone behind him. He stepped forward and walked round her as three more men entered.
‘Who … who are you?’ Kitty managed to ask, not daring to move, although her knees were shaking so much she was afraid they would let her down.
‘We ask the questions,’ a second man said. The cockade on his cap had a gold edging and she supposed that was a sign of authority. ‘You are under arrest.’
‘Pourquoi?’
‘That we will discover when you have been questioned. It is enough that you are suspect. Come with us.’ He grabbed her arm and dragged her out into the open where two more men waited on guard. It appeared they had arrived on foot; she supposed they were the men she had seen at the château. They must have looked back and seen her leave and followed her.
They harnessed the horse to the carriage again and bundled her inside. Two climbed in with her, two sat on the driver’s seat and two more walked either side of the horse’s head to guide it in the dark. And thus they arrived in Lyons just as dawn was breaking.
If Kitty had not been so immersed in her own seemingly insurmountable problems, she might have been able to admire the view from the steep cliffs above the city of Lyons. They were breathtaking. Lyons lay below them at the confluence of two rivers, the Saône and the Rhône, a sprawl of old and new, low red roofs, a church spire here and there, open tree-lined squares.
It was France’s second city and, according to Jack, had always prided itself on its independence from the central government, but now all that was changing. Paris was dictating policy.
Jack. Had these men been looking for Jack when they found her? Jack Chiltern or Jacques Faucon? Did they think she would betray him? If so, they would be disappointed. She was alone now and, whatever she did, she must not implicate him or say anything to endanger the Saint-Gilberts. She must remember what Jack had told her. She was an innocent visitor. She had simply been out for a drive and was drawn to the deserted château out of curiosity.
She knew there were huge holes in her story that any good lawyer would probe, but she would have to trust to luck. She could protest her innocence, pretend to be younger than she was, perhaps a little simple. Would that do?
She did not need to force the tears that ran down her cheeks as the old carriage bumped down the mountain track, on to a lower road and into the old town, through its warren of narrow streets and alleys, to a small square lined with elegant old houses built for the town’s rich bankers and silk weavers.
Years ago Kitty remembered her mother speaking of Lyons silk and showing her a lovely puce-coloured gown. What had happened to the silk weavers since the Revolution? she wondered. Had they, like Jack’s uncle, embraced the new regime or had they aligned themselves with the counter-revolutionaries?
Her captors, who smelled of sweat and drink, offered no conversation at all and seemed relieved to hand her over to the warder of the town prison when they arrived at its doors a few minutes later.
Here she was taken to a cell and locked in to await interrogation. She did not struggle; it was better to seem bemused. Her trial was the place to act the innocent. She would have a trial, wouldn’t she?
Although the room was small, it was crowded. Men and women jostled for places to sit against the walls or stood to breathe what little air came from the tiny barred window. It was unbelievably hot and Kitty could feel the perspiration running between her shoulder blades, making her clothes stick to her.
One woman, dressed almost identically to everyone else in the cell in black skirt and red peasant blouse topped with a shawl in the ubiquitous colours of the Revolution, edged up to make room for her on a narrow bench. ‘Another one for Madame Guillotine,’ she said cheerfully. ‘What are you accused of?’
‘I don’t know.’ Kitty smiled wanly, trying not to retch from the stench which assailed her nostrils. ‘They said I was being arrested on suspicion of being a suspect, which doesn’t make sense, does it?’
The woman cackled. ‘To them it does. You don’t come from round here, I can tell by the way you speak. Up north, was it?’
‘Yes.’ No sense in saying she was English. In fact, the less she spoke the better. ‘What are you accused of?’
‘Hoarding flour. Two kilos I had in my cupboard. Two kilos and me with ten mouths to feed. And my husband conscripted into the army.’
‘Oh, that is terrible. Surely they will not condemn you for that?’
‘I sent my eldest to fetch the curé. He’ll speak up for me. I’ve done my share for the Revolution, they know that. I am hopeful.’
Kitty, who had no one to defend her, was not so sanguine of her own chances. She had had one taste of revolutionary justice already, she certainly did not want another. But this time she was not being tried by rioting women but a court of law. Surely her accusers would realise their mistake and set her free?
A very small plate of food was brought to everyone later in the day, but Kitty had no idea what the time was, except that the light was fading. The food was cooked in oil which was rank and she could not swallow it. There was nothing to lie on, nowhere to be comfortable, and she spent the night sitting on the bench with her back against the wall. Sleep was impossible.
She tried to pass the time thinking of summer in England, of her childhood and her mother, but that made her sad. She tried to think of what she would do when she returned home and that led to wondering if she would ever go home and made her sadder still. She listened to the woman beside her chattering until the curé came and the prisoner was released. Others in the cell were crying, others singing loudly and raucously to cover their fear.
Dawn came and the prisoners began to stir and scratch, making Kitty itch too. Some thin gruel was served to them, but it was greasy and tasted foul. As with the meal the night before Kitty gave hers away.
One by one, the prisoners were led out to be tried. One by one they came back, crying, screaming or numbly silent. It was late afternoon and Kitty was just beginning to think that she would have to spend another night in uncertainty, when her turn came.
She was marched to a large hall where three men, dressed in unrelieved black, sat at a table on a dais. At a table below them was another man whom she supposed was the clerk to the court: he had pen, ink and papers on the table in front of him. There was a dock and a public gallery, but she soon discovered that was as far as the system went in following normally accepted legal procedure.
Her jailer pushed her into the dock. ‘Citizen Judge,’ he said, addressing the man who sat in the centre of the three on the dais. ‘This citizeness refuses to give her name and carries no passport. She was found looting at the Château Malincourt. Also she had stolen a horse and carriage, the carriage being that of the ci-devant comte de Malincourt, with the arms painted over. She was also carrying English gold coins.’
The judge peered down at her. She was weeping copious false tears and looking at her feet. ‘What do you say to that?’
Kitty did not know what to say. The horse and carriage were not hers and to say where she had come by them would implicate Jack. As for the money, that was perhaps the most damning evidence of all. This was not suspicion of being a suspect, this was real evidence and she had no answer that would satisfy them.
The crowd began to shout. ‘Trâitre! Trâitre! À la guillotine!’
The clerk to the court shouted for silence and, when order had been restored enough for him to be heard, the judge spoke to Kitty. ‘You are condemned by your own silence. Guilty! The sentence is death.’
That was too much. The tears were miraculously dried by anger. ‘Am I not to be allowed to say anything in my own defence?’
&nb
sp; ‘You were caught red-handed,’ the judge went on. ‘You have no defence. Take her away.’
The whole bizarre business had taken less than five minutes and she was dragged out and returned to her cell to await execution. It had happened so quickly, she thought it must be one of her nightmares, but after a few minutes back in the cell, the reality of her situation swept over her like a huge black cloud.
So this was the end. Was the guillotine quicker and more merciful than hanging? She was going to lose her life miles away from home, and no one would know what had become of her. Not her uncle, or James. Not even Jack. She had refused to give her name. She was going to die unknown and unmourned. Jack would never know how much she had loved him, or why she had decided to leave the château when he had told her not to. But at least she had not implicated him. He was safe.
‘Damn it all,’ James said for the hundredth time. He was riding up the winding road towards the Château de Saint-Gilbert beside Jack. The two men were wearing nondescript black clothing and were riding scrawny mounts which plodded along, as much affected by the heat as the men who had been riding all night and most of the morning.
James continually removed his tricorne hat to wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He was a good-looking young man with short dark curls, brown eyes and a ready smile, features which young ladies found attractive and which he often used to charm his way out of trouble. And he seemed to invite trouble. How he had survived as long as he had was a mystery to Jack.
‘Are you sure it is Kitty?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘But I cannot imagine her running away. She’s always been a dutiful little thing, wouldn’t say boo to a goose …’
‘When did you see her last?’
‘Oh, it must have been three years ago, maybe more. I didn’t go home very often when I was at Cambridge. Didn’t like the old stepmama, don’t you know. Then I went off on the Grand Tour and stopped off in Paris on the way home. You know all that.’
‘I was only pointing out that she was a child when you last saw her, but she’s a woman now. And a woman with a mind of her own.’
‘Dangerous, that,’ James mused. ‘Women with minds of their own.’
‘Quite. Which is why she must be got home as soon as possible.’
‘You brought her. You take her home. In fact, I think you should. There’ll be an almighty scandal.’
Jack turned in the saddle to look at the young man. Was he really as callous as he sounded? ‘Don’t you care?’
‘Of course I care. She’s m’sister, after all. But to bring her all this way unchaperoned …’
‘I would not have done if you had stayed in Paris as we arranged.’
‘The place got too hot for me.’ He laughed. ‘Now, I’ve got rather fond of your little cousin and …’
He stopped speaking as they approached the front of the château and the door was flung open. He dismounted as Nanette came running down the steps and threw herself into his arms. Jack, still sitting his horse, watched with a wry smile, wondering why Kitty had not also come out of the house to greet them.
‘Oh, I am so pleased to see you safe, Jamie,’ she cried. ‘But now Kitty has disappeared.’
Jack was off his horse in an instant. ‘Disappeared? When? What happened?’
‘It was after the gendarmes came …’
‘What did they want?’
‘Something to do with capitation tax. They had heard we had a visitor. Papa told them what you said, that Mama’s cousin’s daughter, Catherine Gilbert, was staying with us for a week or two, but would soon be leaving.’
‘And—’ He could hardly contain his impatience. ‘Did they see Kitty?’
‘No. She stayed out of sight, but when they had gone I went to find her and she had disappeared. She left a note for Papa …’
Jack did not wait to hear more. He left the two young people to make their own way into the house and hurried to find his uncle.
‘What’s this about Kitty going off alone?’
The Marquis shrugged. ‘Gone. Taken the old horse and carriage. Left a letter thanking me for my hospitality. Signed it Catherine.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes.’
Jack squashed his mounting exasperation in favour of action. Kitty must be found before she got herself and everyone else into more trouble. He turned went straight out of the house and remounted. There was only one road down the mountainside, discounting the track that went past Malincourt; she would not attempt that with the old top-heavy carriage.
Halfway down the hill he encountered the roadmender, shovelling stones into the potholes. ‘If you’re looking for the English ma’amselle,’ he said without bothering with a greeting, ‘she went down the old road.’
‘The old road?’ Jack drew up beside the man. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘God in heaven, she’d never make it. We’ll find her at the bottom of the ravine.’
‘No, she made it,’ the man said laconically. ‘With a little help.’
‘Help—what do you mean?’ His heart was thumping in his throat and he had to force himself not to go rushing off at half-cock.
‘The local National Guard found her and escorted her down.
Took her to Lyons gaol.’
‘They arrested her?’
‘Yes. Your cover’s blown, old man. It’s time to beat a hasty retreat.’
‘Not without Kitty.’
‘But they’ll know everything by now. Who you are, what you are, what you know.’
‘She knows nothing except my name.’
‘And that’s enough. Jack Chiltern was the man who engineered the escape of the Malincourts and that coach was last seen thundering along the road to Calais with the National Guard in hot pursuit. Now it’s back at Malincourt and even these dimwits can add two and two. Jack Chiltern is back in France …’ He left the end of the sentence unfinished.
‘I’ll lay odds she won’t talk.’
‘Then you’ve more faith in her than I have.’
‘I’m going into Lyons. I’ve got to get her out.’
‘You’ll be putting your own head in the jaws of Madame Guillotine.’
‘Then I die with Kitty. You can take the despatches back to England.’ He fetched a bundle of papers from the capacious pocket of his frock coat and handed them down to the roadmender.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know until I get there. If I succeed, I’ll meet you at your cottage and take those back.’ He nodded at the papers.
‘You’re mad, you know that, don’t you?’
Jack laughed, wheeling his horse round. ‘Tell James to meet us at the cottage.’ And with that he was gone.
Kitty heard the key grating in the lock and the door opened. ‘Where is the English bitch?’ the turnkey demanded.
The woman next to her poked her in the side. ‘I think he means you.’
Kitty tried to stand. Her legs felt boneless and there was a knot of pain in her stomach that almost doubled her up; she did not know how she was going to walk. She forced herself upright and stepped forward.
‘Come with me,’ the jailer said, grabbing her arm and pushing her in front of him. ‘This way.’
She shrugged him off to walk unaided. At least she could die with dignity. Her shoulders went back and her head went up. I am not afraid, she said to herself. Then, aloud, ‘I am not afraid.’
He laughed.
Outside in the street a horse and cart stood ready to convey her to the guillotine. Beside it stood Jack, looking very fierce in his red cap and dirty old greatcoat. Shocked to the core to see him, she stumbled and would have fallen if the jailer had not taken her arm again.
‘She’s all yours, citizen,’ he said, pushing her towards Jack who gave her a look which told her to say nothing. Not that she could have uttered a word; she was too bewildered. Was Jack planning on a rescue from the very jaws of the guillotine? Oh, what a ter
rible risk. Especially when she had been at such pains not to involve him. But, oh, how glad she was to see him!
None too gently he grabbed her from the jailer. ‘My thanks, citizen, though why I should bother my head with her, I do not know.’
‘You’re welcome. And if I were you I’d beat her for wasting everyone’s time.’
‘That I will do,’ Jack said, grinning at him. ‘Good day to you, citizen.’ He picked Kitty up and heaved her into the cart with no more care than he would a sack of potatoes. ‘Get in there with you, woman. And be quiet.’
He climbed up on the cross bench and Kitty felt the cart jolt into motion. ‘Keep down,’ he muttered in a low voice. ‘The people will not like being deprived of their spectacle.’
They moved agonisingly slowly. Unable to see where they were going, she lay in the bottom of the cart, and gave thanks for her deliverance. Once again, Jack Chiltern had saved her life. But the risk to himself was enormous. Why had he bothered?
They left the town behind; she could no longer see buildings between the cracks in the side of the cart and the smooth road had become a rutted track, she could tell by the added jolting. Still she dare not lift her head. There were trees blotting out the sky now and she wondered if they were going back to the château of Saint-Gilbert. She ought to tell him what she had overheard; there would be no welcome there, she was sure.
‘Jack, you must not—’
‘Save the talking for later, madam,’ he said so brusquely she felt it was wise to obey.
Half an hour later, he turned to look over his shoulder at her. She was crouched in the cart, looking crushed. He wanted desperately to soothe her, to comfort her, to tell her that he would go to the ends of the earth for her, but that would only make her think she could twist him round her little finger and behave with even less circumspection. It was too risky. ‘You can sit up now, if you like.’
Jack Chiltern's Wife (1999) Page 15
