by Lee Rowan
"And the ghouls are all down at the guillotine, aren't they?” He closed his eyes and realized how wrong his head felt beneath the bandage—hot and puffy, throbbing with every beat of his heart. He could well believe his skull was cracked. And then his eyes flew open as a thought sent a shock through him. “Zoe, my God-you went out into a riot to collect my body?"
"I did not see where you had been shot,” she said. “I thought perhaps you were only wounded, not dead.” Her little chin had a decidedly stubborn set to it. “And I was correct, was I not?” Heedless of the attending physician, she kissed him on the cheek.
Kit groaned. “Oh, dear Lord..."
"Mademoiselle,” the doctor remonstrated. “I beg you, do not excite my patient. He must rest."
"The spirit is willing,” Kit said, “but the flesh is quite incapable of excitement. I don't know how to thank you—both of you."
"Avoid any more heroism until we can get you healed,” the doctor said brusquely. “I shall fix you a draught; you must drink it down and sleep. Our next step will be to get you out of France. And you might remember, next time you consider running amongst the jackals, that they have no respect for your title!"
"I will, sir. Thank you.” Get out of France. Yes, as soon as ever he could. He should have gone with Philip, of course. But Philip was gone, and the ship as well, and he was stranded here, dependent on strangers. This doctor seemed a good sort, though. “Doctor—I don't even know your name—"
"That can wait until we get out of here. I'd as soon you didn't use it; ‘Doctor’ will do. And I've not used your Christian name out of presumptuous familiarity, but to remind us all that it is dangerous to be anything but a commoner in France, in these times."
"I see. Thank you.” He realized he was, once more, wearing nothing but his shirt. “I had some money in my waistcoat—"
"Gone,” Zoe said.
"Look in the lining of my coat, then, and the waistband of my trousers. There should be something, somewhere. I left my grip at the hotel, shall I write a note to them?” He knew he was babbling, but he'd seen how people were living. They'd saved his life, he did not want to be a burden. “When I get back to England I can repay—"
"Don't worry about money, young man. Rest now; you'll need your strength for traveling. We may need to move you far sooner than I'd like.” The doctor took his leave and Zoe went with him, but she returned a few moments later with a horrible-smelling brew that Kit drank more from a sense of obligation than any conviction it was good for him. It made him sleepy, though, and released him from pain into oblivion once again. He woke briefly from time to time, and found either the English doctor, Zoe, or her father nearby. The two medical men helped him with the undignified personal necessities and put him through the ordeal of changing the dressings on his wound; the pain wasn't as bad as listening to them discuss the technical details of the surgery and his progress. Other times, Zoe fed him and told him a little of what was happening in the outside world. None of the news was good. When she saw that he was growing restless, she would change the topic and talk lightly of her friend Angelique and the amusing things the “theatre people” had done in happier times. He asked her to speak in French, so he could become more fluent. He didn't tell her that he usually lost track of what she was saying as he focused instead on the music of her voice.
The days passed, but he was unable to keep track of them. The air grew colder, and once he saw snow falling outside the window. The wound in his scalp became infected and he was feverish for awhile, time dissolving as he drifted in and out of consciousness, his breath a cold contrast to the heat in his body.
But at least he was seldom alone. Sometimes it was the doctor, pouring vile concoctions down his throat with reassurances that he was doing as well as could be expected. More often it was Zoe, easing the fever with a compress of snow wrapped in a cloth. Once he thought it was his mother, but as Zoe wiped his face yet again and called him back, he realized that was just a very old memory from his childhood, when he'd had the measles.
Eventually the fever broke and he was able to stay awake for longer periods of time, though he still felt frightfully weak. When he was beginning to mend they let him know that France had declared war on England, making it even more essential that he get out of the country. The doctor's plans for escape were apparently progressing well, and Kit thanked God that Zoe and her father were going to come with them.
But nobody chose to entrust him with the details. He didn't blame them. He'd heard enough tales from emigrés to know that was how one played this game. The less the “passengers” in an escape knew, the safer they all were. And Kit knew that, at least for now, he would be nothing more than a passenger. In case of capture and torture, what he did not know could not be wrested from him. He had no delusions of heroism. The shape he was in, he would crack like a brittle twig.
He wondered about the doctor, who apparently had some useful skills in the shady side of politics as well as papers that declared him to be an American citizen, one Dr. Pierce of Providence, Rhode Island. But men of science formed their own society, outside the bounds of political machinations—or above them—and the doctor seemed to have nothing but scorn for France's ill-fated revolution. What he had actually been doing here in Paris, Kit had not presumed to inquire. He suspected that the doctor knew no more about Rhode Island than he did himself.
The one thing he had insisted upon, as soon as he had strength to do it, was to let his mother know that he was alive. The doctor had promised to see it done discreetly, so that no spies in London would learn that Kit was still in France. He was not wanted by the government for any reason, but the mob hatred of the aristocracy was such that he would likely killed for what he was, not who he was.
Kit hated being a helpless burden. He still felt resentment that Philip had apparently not even tried to recover his body. He knew that was unreasonable, of course—he certainly would not have wanted his cousin to risk death or capture if he had really been dead. And in fact he probably would have died if they'd made any attempt to rescue him—it was only the doctor's timely intervention and specialized skill that had given him a chance at survival. But to have been left in the gutter like so much rubbish...
Well, no point in agonizing over that. The doctor seemed to have the matter well in hand. By the time Kit was sufficiently recovered to walk around the little attic room where they'd hidden him, his mysterious savior had arranged for passage on a small trading ship bound for Portugal. Their eventual destination was a conference in the neutral port of Lisbon. “Dr. Pierce” explained ironically that since the New Republic of France had been criticized by other nations for persecuting its scientists, it had decided to polish its reputation by allowing Dr. Colbert to travel with his American friend to the meeting of a scientific society, so long as he left his daughter behind in Paris.
The doctor's retinue would be a curious one. “Dr. Pierce” had ostensibly been visiting France to consult with his colleague on a particularly interesting case, a half-wit servant who had been struck dumb after being knocked unconscious in a drunken brawl. This unfortunate had (so the story went) been privileged to receive the most modern trepan surgery, and his physicians had great hope that his speech would eventually be restored. Zoe, dressed in her oldest clothes, would play the part of the half-wit's wife, included in the party to tend to her afflicted spouse. The explanation covered the obvious physical damage, and relieved St. John of the need to speak the commoner's French that he couldn't manage—though he really thought that making him a half-wit was an unnecessary bit of embroidery.
He appreciated the doctor's good judgement on that score after he'd tottered down a flight of stairs, stopping more than once to rest. His injuries and convalescence had left him with no strength at all; having half his wits working would be an improvement. And when he first saw a scruffy wretch with a shaven head—the fever, of course—and nearly a month's untrimmed beard staring back at him from a looking-glass, he was reassured that no
one would ever mistake him for the dapper, well-tailored Lord St. John who'd been shot dead in the street.
He had long since concluded that the doctor was some kind of agent, presumably for the British government, though his opinions were somewhat unorthodox. During their conversations, the physician had revealed a detailed knowledge of the political situation here in France, and although he admitted having had hopes that the Republic would be a success, he had been revolted by the violent excesses of the Citizens’ Committee. “All the potential, the possibilities for freedom and human dignity, and they have sunk to a worse level than the despots they overthrew."
"You are not a Royalist, then?” St John had asked.
"I think there may be better ways to govern, though at least our monarchy has Parliament to offset the excesses of power. Unfortunately, despite all that was admirable in France, the late King Louis had no such check, and he cared nothing for his people. But the new tyrants are worse—cannibals and hypocrites claiming to do the will of the French people. When you see a government persecuting its most intelligent citizens, my friend, you see a danger flag. They have let the mob rule—well, they will learn that the mob is a bloodthirsty beast. That villain Robespierre will eventually find it at his throat. God help France when this gang is overthrown—I feel sure something worse will follow."
The intensity of feeling in the plain little man had surprised St. John when he first saw it, but over time he came to recognize it as the source of the determination that made the surgeon's hands steady enough to go into a living skull and bring a man back from the dead. Kit wondered if he might know anyone who could find out more about the doctor, once he was back in England, then decided against it. If the doctor were involved in secret work, any inquiries about his identity might endanger him, and to make them would be a betrayal in itself.
Two things were clear: the first was that his rescue was only a footnote to some other effort that was prolonging their stay in Paris; the other was that the doctor operated at a level of considerable secrecy. Kit never left Dr. Colbert's home; in fact, he was never allowed below the second floor of the house. His exercise consisted of walking back and forth in the upstairs hall and climbing up and down the attic stairs. Once his eyes could bear light bright enough to read by, he was given books, but only during the day; no lights were permitted in the attic at night.
Zoe was a great comfort. She ran the little household with the assistance of a middle-aged housekeeper but spent as much time as she could up in the attic, keeping him company. She played both backgammon and chess with a skill that made him work to win, and he did so only a little more often than he lost. Kit had inquired obliquely whether she might be interested in resuming the close association they had begun the night they'd met, and learned to his dismay that the doctor had given her strict instructions regarding exertion of any sort. As his health improved, he began to wonder if those instructions were truly for his benefit or stemming from the doctor's respect for the proprieties. Either way, as a guest in the Colbert home, he could hardly persist with such an ungentlemanly line of inquiry.
Several anxious weeks passed before Zoe came skipping upstairs with the news that they would be leaving that night. The faithful Marie would be left with instructions to call the authorities in the morning and report the disappearance of her employer's daughter. Eventually, Zoe said, Marie would rent out the house and go to stay with her married daughter in Tours.
Events followed her announcement so quickly that by the time Kit caught his breath, they were on a little trading vessel sneaking along the coast. He didn't know how the doctor had gotten them past the inspection stops, but suspected it was a combination of hidden agents, well-forged documents, and bribery.
He had no opportunity to enquire. They had been at sea for only a little while before he was suffering from seasickness as he never had before the shooting, but he considered the queasiness a fair trade for leaving France with his head still attached to his body. The doctor established him in a swinging cot in a dim cubbyhole considerably less comfortable than his usual traveling arrangements, and gave him something to help him sleep through the adjustment.
Unfortunately, he never made the adjustment. He went on deck a time or two, hoping the change in air would help his body settle down, but it did not. The doctor's best guess was that this was an unexpected complication of his head injury. Solid food would not stay down, and Kit became heartily weary of soup. After a week of nearly continual sickness, the doctor regretfully informed him that if time did not cure him, he might wish to avoid sea travel once he was back in England.
Getting back to England anytime soon was looking less likely by the day. The doctor had hoped to be stopped by some official British vessel and transfer his passenger aboard, but although they twice had sight of English ships, both were engaged in battle with Frenchmen, and the captain of their vessel got them out of the way as quickly as he could. And so, with never an intention of going anywhere near the place, Kit found himself in the port city of Lisbon.
He saw very little of the town, although Zoe spent some hours in the shops and came back to the ship wearing a new dress—a simple thing, blue—and looking very pleased with herself. Kit complimented her on her appearance mostly because that was how he had been brought up. To him, she looked exquisite no matter what she wore, but he knew that ladies set much store of having notice taken of their clothing.
The conference that brought them here involved only a dozen scientific gentlemen besides the two doctors and their host. It was held on a comfortable, rambling estate about an hour's ride into the hills outside Lisbon. The landowner, Don Giraldo da Almansor, possessed a keen interest in natural science and philosophy, but his age and infirmity prevented him from exploring the world in search of new subjects. He had invited a group of medical and scientific gentlemen to hold their meeting at his home, and was voluble with gratitude for a packet of French insectivora that the doctor had somehow preserved through their travels.
Don Giraldo's estate produced grapes and olives, a combination of crops that required carefully tended rows of vines and long winding paths shaded by dusty-green olive trees. The bright Mediterranean sun was warm and hospitable, and while the scientific gentlemen entertained themselves with the minutiae of living things, Kit spent several hours each day in Zoe's company, wandering the rolling hills either on foot or in a little two-wheeled cart pulled by a patient, well-mannered donkey. As an invalid, Kit was apparently considered unable to misbehave—either that, or the widowed Don Giraldo ran a loose ship. Either way, it was a delight to wander about alone together.
Their perambulations were not aimless. They had been shown a vast collection of dead insects in a glass case, and Don Giraldo gave them a mission: to be alert for any such creatures that differed from those in the case, and bring them back for examination.
Thus far, their search had produced only specimens like the ones they'd seen, though Kit doubted he would be able to tell any of them apart. But they discovered that the trunks of olive trees were not only a splendid hunting ground for insects of all sorts, they were pleasant to lean against, and the shade beneath was cool and restful.
Paris seemed a thousand miles away, England even further. The days and weeks passed as in a dream. Kit could not think of a time in his life when he had been happier. And the more intimately he became acquainted with Zoe, the harder he found it to reconcile the well-mannered, slightly reserved doctor's daughter with the forthcoming young woman who had propositioned him in no uncertain terms. Here, she seemed uncomfortable if he so much as held her hand. Seeing that he owed her his life, Kit certainly did not want to offend her in any way—but as his health and strength returned, so did his interest.
Finally, he mustered his courage as they picnicked in the olive groves. “Zoe, I know there are things I don't remember. The doctor says I'll probably never get them back. But there's something I do remember with great fondness: one night shortly before my unfortunate accident."
Her eyes were very grave. “Yes?"
"I—I had the impression that you liked me, it seemed, very much. And I certainly felt the same about you. I realize it's a delicate question, but if I have inadvertently done anything to offend you—"
"Oh, Christophe, no.” Zoe shook her head. “You had been in Paris before that night, no? You saw how it was—people being denounced, the guillotine, the death. It was as if every day might be the last, every night. With such fear, one must pretend to be happy. My father was afraid to let me go to Angelique's party, but finally he told me to be careful, and enjoy what I could of my youth."
She touched his hand. “When you walked in, I said to Angelique, ‘Look at that beautiful young man!’ and I was so sad, that we would never meet, that I would never live long enough to meet anyone, to marry and be a mother, a grandmother ... And Angelique, she said, ‘I will get him for you, cheri. You will have him this very night!’”
Zoe turned a becoming shade of pink. “I think the wine made me bold, Christophe, and Angelique—I could not believe what she did! If I had been by myself, I would never have dared."
He took both her hands in his and kissed them. “Then God bless the vineyards of France. I owe Angelique more than I thought. I hope you were not—disappointed."
"Oh, no!” The small, secret smile that was hidden by her lashes made him want to repeat the event immediately, with just the two of them. “But everything is different now. It appears I will live; my father plans to settle in England, and I must be a credit to him. You warned me yourself that if—” she blushed. “If we were lovers, there might be a baby—"
"Yes, there might.” Kit found himself grinning like an idiot. For some reason, the idea of Zoe having a baby—his baby!—filled him with glee. “Lots of babies. As many as you like."
She blinked at him. “But think of my father, Christophe. I could not bring such shame upon him!"
