Trilogy No. 109: Sail Away

by Lee Rowan

  "Kiss me again?"

  "Aye-aye, ma'am."

  The third kiss was better, and the next better still. What a joy it would be to have a man who wanted her for who and what she was, not in spite of those things. A man strong enough to stay calm in the face of her father's inevitable furor, and overcome it. A man who thought she was beautiful.

  This man.

  The End

  SEE PARIS AND LIVE

  London, 1792

  "You must go, Kit.” Arethusa, Dowager Baroness Guilford, fixed her only son with a steely eye. “You simply must, or those French madmen will leave us high and dry."

  Her son settled into the armchair on the other side of the fireplace, exasperation battling with affection. “Mama ... You know I begrudge you no task, but is that really necessary?"

  "I believe it is, yes.” She flounced the loose edge of the needlework that had occupied her attention until he entered the room. “There are some situations that require a man's firm hand."

  Christopher St. John, eighteen years of age and the youngest Baron Guilford to head his family in the past century, was startled by this change of attitude. Ordinarily he had to move heaven and earth to escape her watchful eye. “I beg your pardon, madam—did I hear you correctly?"

  She laughed at his astonishment, and when she smiled he could see how this still-handsome woman, with her Titian locks and perfect skin, had made his father the envy of his set. “Yes, my dear. Your uncle Douglas came to call while you were out riding, and he reminded me that although you will always be my dear boy, you are nearly a gentleman grown! I must accept that you have reached an age that demands I treat you according to your station."

  By sending me into a nest of vipers. Thank you so much, Mama! Kit felt certain that his uncle had not intended that she acknowledge her son's arrival at a man's status by sending him on a fool's errand into the catastrophe that was the French Republic. But his mother's knowledge of politics was—well, he would be doing her a kindness to call it “narrow".

  Some ladies possessed much acumen in the way of the larger world. Sadly, the Dowager was not one of them. She possessed a limited intellect but a deep capacity for affection; her special talent lay in the closed circle of the nobility, staging entertainments and helping to launch her daughter and many nieces into Society. She was an affectionate parent, a superb hostess, and had been a great asset to the previous Baron before his untimely end in a hunting accident when Kit was only nine. Her brothers, Douglas and Eugene, had stepped in as trustees to guide the family fortunes until Kit was old enough to take the reins himself.

  He was beginning to suspect that the time had arrived. “Mama, the family's been doing business with M. Monfort since long before I was born. He's been entirely reliable."

  "He has been, dear, but just this past week my friend Hyacinth-that's Lady Rownham, you know—told me that half her last order from Monfort's went missing."

  "That does happen from time to time, you know. Accidents, broken bottles, even theft—"

  "It's those horrible revolutionaries. They're interfering with everything, and when they ‘inspect’ a cargo I believe they just help themselves and say it's been confiscated. Now, I have spoken with your uncle, and he has a ship sailing to France in ten days. You can travel aboard the Susanna. What could be more convenient?"

  "Mama—” Kit hated politics, British equally with French. For an upstanding member of the Church of England, his distaste was remarkably catholic. But at least the conflicts in Parliament did not usually involve swords and pistols; what was going on in France was quite another matter. He was no coward, but neither was he an idiot, and from what the papers said, Paris was a particularly fine place to avoid. “Mama, France is in a state of anarchy—armed anarchy. If they would seize goods on false pretences, don't you imagine they would do exactly the same under the snooty nose of an English aristo?"

  "They wouldn't dare.” And that was the end of that discussion, as far as Her Ladyship was concerned.

  They wouldn't dare try any flummery if his mother were giving them that fisheye, Kit was certain. He sighed. What Mama lacked in political acumen, she made up for in persistence. When I look at France, I see fools chasing a lost dream. When my mother looks, she sees the loss of her favorite brandy.

  Kit would not have argued with the revolutionary charge that Louis had been a wastrel of a king—His Royal Highness was a complete ass. But the revolutionaries had gone overboard by putting their own King under arrest. Better to have let him escape to England, though there were those who uncharitably said it was better for England's coffers not to have to support the profligate monarch as a guest.

  Now they had their King in prison, though, they couldn't let him out. The Citizens had backed themselves into an awkward corner, and no matter what they did, it would mean trouble for England. War was coming. Everyone knew that.

  And for Kit's mother, war meant embargo, and embargo meant that the finest French wines and brandies would be available only through smugglers. The Dowager would deal with these denizens of the dark if she had to—not personally, of course!—but she considered it more practical and farsighted to stock the wine-cellar to bursting while the trade was still legal than to hint delicately to the butler that it was time to place an order with the Free Trade gentlemen.

  He made one last attempt to wriggle free. “Mama, if I were to undertake this mission, I would be bound to miss Cousin Eugenia's birthday party. I might not even be back in time for the Carstairs’ ball.” Since Kit would not have full control of his estate or his life until the age of twenty-five, he had agreed to giving his mother charge of his social calendar. She'd cast him out in the world like a trout-fisher with a shiny lure, hoping to land a fecund daughter-in-law who would promptly produce grandchildren. Her particular wish was for a male grandchild to secure the succession and insure that Guilford, her home for the past twenty-three years, would not fall into the clutches of Aunt Rose, with whom she had a long-standing feud.

  His mother nodded. “Yes, love, and that is a pity. But you've met all the young ladies who will be in attendance, and I am at wits’ end to find new candidates! Perhaps while you are away I will have more luck."

  "Perhaps you're right, Mama.” Being bride-bait had become wearisome work. Kit suddenly realized that if he played his cards right and dawdled along the way, he would be obliged to miss several social engagements his mother had decreed he must attend.

  He'd known most of the eligible girls since they were all children, of course, and he enjoyed their company well enough. But familiarity had bred indifference: none of the young ladies woke a spark of passion, and he did not intend to marry without it. He knew what a love match could be; his parents had been besotted with one another and his earliest memories were full of their laughter and affectionate conversation. His mother, beautiful in her young widowhood, had mourned her husband for years, refusing handsome offers of marriage from several eligible gentlemen until they finally accepted that the Baron had been her one and only love.

  Kit wasn't about to settle for anything less, and he wouldn't mind missing a few parties. “Very well then, Milady, I shall take up your token and face down the dragons of the Seine. If you'll pardon me, I had better write a few letters and express my regrets to Aunt Helen."

  And after all, what could be so dangerous about buying wine in France?

  * * * *

  "Ahoy, Coz!"

  Kit blinked in surprise as the shoreboat carried him alongside the merchant brig Susanna. Squinting up at the figure outlined against a bright sky, he recognized his cousin Philip, who would eventually inherit the ship as well as the business. He waved in return as the oarsmen held steady, then passed them a tip and scrambled up to the wooden stair that had been let down alongside the curving hull.

  "Good to see I'll have company on this trip!” Philip was as exuberant as usual, and every bit as cheery. He seemed even broader than Kit remembered him, in a greatcoat with several layers of cape acr
oss the shoulders, and the beaver hat atop his fair hair made him loom over Kit's respectable five-foot-ten. “What—you didn't know?"

  "Not a word.” Kit had to raise his voice to be heard above the First Mate's shouted orders. “But I couldn't be happier. What brings you out?"

  Philip glanced around and shook his head. “My father thinks it's time I took a more active role in the business. But there's no point shouting. Let's go to my cabin and have a bite to eat."

  A few minutes later, seated at a folding table in the small but well-appointed owner's cabin, Philip poured them each a warming glass of sherry and leaned forward, a conspiratorial look on his handsome face. “You know my father's done business with Monfort's for an age."

  "So I reminded my mother,” Kit said. “Did me no good. What of it?"

  "You know the situation in Paris,” Philip said.

  "Going from mad to worse."

  Philip nodded. “Well, Monfort sent his family—wife, children, grandchildren—off to Bordeaux some months ago. Wanted to get them out of the city, he told the authorities—he owns a vineyard there, lots of work preparing for winter, it seemed reasonable enough. But the old fox had other plans. His son got the whole crew on a boat to England, then came to my father, asked him to help Monfort himself pull up stakes before they realize he's left no hostages to fortune."

  "He'll be coming back with us, then? Fine—my mother can deliver any complaints in person!"

  "We hope he'll be along. It may require a bit of finesse ... Les citoyens don't appreciate their compatriots attempting to escape the paradise they've created."

  Kit sighed. “Can't we leave that sort of thing to the Scarlet Pimpernel? Or is he just a myth, after all?"

  "Oh, he's real enough,” Philip said. “But with the press of aristos looking for safe passage, I can't think he'd bother with a mere wine-merchant. And in all truth I don't believe anyone will notice. Monfort's kept as clear of politics as possible, and he's made sure the Committee gets all the best vintages—at their estates outside the city, which means he has a pass to get in and out of Paris. He'll come aboard Susanna to supervise the packing, we raise sail—by the time the numbers are sorted out, we shall be back within the wooden walls.” He nodded out the window at those “walls", His Majesty's warships riding at anchor in Portsmouth Harbor. “Captain Bedlington says an old shipmate of his is on channel patrol. He'll see we aren't bothered. In any event, one wine merchant more or less isn't worth starting a war with England."

  "Something will be, though,” Kit said grimly. “It could be that as much as anything else."

  Philip's face sobered. “Yes. And I'd like to get the old fellow out before that happens. My father wanted to do it himself, as though his doctor would stand for that! But cheer up, Coz. They say Paris is livelier than ever—and it's high time we cut you free of your Mama's leading-strings!"

  "And fit me with a set of yours?” Kit retorted. “I've heard of the scrapes you got yourself into on your Grand Tour!"

  "Worth every penny,” Philip said with a reminiscent grin. “Coz, until you've been clasped in the arms of a Frenchwoman, you have not known life."

  Kit raised a skeptical eyebrow, along with his glass.

  * * * *

  I am going to die. I am going to die and I have never really lived.

  Zoe Colbert turned away from the narrow window of her father's town house, making certain the heavy drapes were completely closed. She did not want to watch the people in the street and wonder who among them were informers for the Citizens Committee, who the next victims. She had spent more time looking out, until the horrible day the mob paraded by carrying “bloody bouquets", the severed heads of the guillotine's victims.

  The sight was horrible enough in itself, but one of the trophies, barely recognizable, had been her friend Monique. Monique had been only sixteen, a girl who had done nothing but refuse the advances of an ugly man who proved to be someone with influence. Her face still haunted Zoe's dreams. How long would it be before the soldiers came for them?

  Her father's status as a physician gave them a little protection. It was necessary, even for tyrants, to have someone who could set bones and provide medicine when they fell ill. But she knew that her father did not question his patients’ politics before treating them, so it would be only a matter of time before he saved a life that certain people would rather see lost ... before he was labeled a traitor. Then it would be prison or death for them both, and probably for poor Marie as well, who had done nothing but keep the house clean and make meals for them out of next to nothing.

  What was it about revolution that turned neighbors into madmen?

  She heard a key turn in the lock of the front door, and rushed to answer. “Papa!"

  He hugged her, but his expression was sad, and she felt a pang at how old he looked. “Come in, Papa, Marie has made soup, and Madame Lesieur brought us a piece of bacon and some potatoes!"

  "No!"

  "Yes, in thanks for your help when her little Andre had the fever."

  "Where ever did she find them?” he asked.

  "Her son came downriver and brought provisions from a relative near Dijon. This will be enough for two or three days, Marie says.” There, that brought a smile to his face.

  But his words were not cheerful. “Ah, child, I am sorry to have brought you into such a world."

  "You brought me into the only world there is,” she said briskly. “Here, I will hang up your coat. Come into the kitchen, it is warmer there. A cup of mint tea will warm your bones."

  "You are so like your mother,” he said, as he always did. “I will come in a little while, my dear. I received a letter today from an old friend, a colleague, and I must answer it immediately."

  "I hope he is well?"

  "Yes, and he may come to visit if he is able."

  "Soon?"

  "Perhaps tomorrow. Within a week, if he can come at all."

  "I will air out the little bedroom in the morning, Papa.” Was this a good time to ask if she might go to the party Marie's niece Angelique had spoken of? Probably not; she smiled at her father as he went off down the hall.

  Zoe carefully brushed the dust of the street from her father's coat and put it away in the clothes-press. There would be music at a party of theatre people. Perhaps dancing, as well. It had been so long since she had heard any music but her own singing, and who felt like singing anymore? She resolved to ask permission after supper.

  Papa would probably say no. This would not be the sort of party a respectable girl ought to attend. Angelique sang in the chorus at the theatre; she was not at all respectable. Worse, she had chosen to live as a “free woman” and that was a goad to the gossips. Papa did not say Angelique was a bad girl—he seldom said anything unkind about anyone—but he was always worried about his daughter's reputation.

  My reputation. Zoe met the eyes of her reflection in the small mirror on the cupboard door, dark grey eyes in a white face, framed by sleek black hair confined by a cap. “Yes, that is so very important!" her mirror-twin mocked. "You will have a headstone like Monique's, a pure white stone that says ‘Here lies Zoe Colbert, who never did anything wrong in her life'. And everyone will be so proud of you!"

  She felt tears of frustration begin to well, and turned away from the mirror. No, that would be too much work for the stonecutter! My headstone will say, “Here lies Zoe Colbert, who had no life!"

  * * * *

  Kit decided he did not care for the New France.

  A sense of oppression hung over the people in the port of Le Havre, a sense of fear, except for those bravos enforcing the new Republic's rules, and they assumed the unappetizing role of bullies. The only smiles Kit saw were bitter or cynical. When he and Philip went to the hostler Phil remembered, the man said in disbelief, “You want to go to Paris?"

  Kit had to keep reminding himself that his previous visit to France—his only visit ever—had been in the springtime. It was December now, and the bare trees and brown, sere
meadows were only natural. But the mood of the folk they passed was not merely a reflection of the season. The looks of resentment and envy were enough to make him wish he had put his foot down and stayed at home. He could do nothing to help these people, and his presence only made everyone, especially himself, extremely uncomfortable.

  The line at the city gates went on forever. In the past, their carriage and its aristocratic passengers would have been allowed to pass ahead of the drays and waggons bringing in goods to the city-dwellers. Now they had to wait in line with everyone else and hope that the guards atop the vehicle would be able to protect their luggage from the ragged pedestrians that swarmed about the road. Kit almost would not blame the sorry-looking citizens for petty thievery—most of them looked as though they'd gone a long time between meals. On the advice of his uncle, he had traveled with nothing in his luggage that he could not bear to lose, and his money was secured about his person in several inner pockets.

  "I've never seen things so dreary,” Philip said. “When I was here last year, everyone seemed full of hope."

  "What hope can they have left?” Kit replied. “At least when the Americans rebelled, they had the example of Parliament to guide them in governing themselves—and we may yet see that experiment fail. But who among these poor fools has any experience in ruling? They must have been mad."

  "Some were, I suppose,” Philip said. “Mad, and desperate, and then there were the schemers who thought only of seizing power for themselves. France has exchanged one set of masters for another, that's all. And at least some of the old aristos had a sense of noblesse oblige.” The carriage shifted, and moved forward a little. “Ah. Perhaps we might make it through the gate before dark, after all."

  "Are you certain we will have a place to stay if we do?"

  "Oh, yes. M. Monfort has plenty of room with his family gone, if the hotel fails us. Though if it comes to that, you may wish you'd brought your valet."

  "I can shave myself if I have to,” Kit said. “You forget—I inherited Curtis from my father, and he was older than Papa. The poor old thing is terrified of setting foot on French soil. To let him near my throat with a razor, and him all a-tremble—no thank you!"