‘1800,’ Jean-Luc said. ‘The year I was taken out of school.’ He looked, Sophia thought, as if he had been punched in the stomach. ‘But who was the recipient of these payments?’
‘Ah, now that is a mystery my father never fully resolved.’ Monsieur Fallon settled himself more comfortably in his chair. ‘Once a year, a fixed sum of money was to be withdrawn from the safe and transported to the church of Saint-Pierre in the little hamlet of Archiac—do you know it, Monsieur Bauduin? It is about two or three days on horseback from Bordeaux.’
‘And about half a day from Cognac, where I was raised,’ Jean-Luc said.
Monsieur Fallon’s brows shot up. ‘We always assumed that Angoulême was the money’s final destination. It is the largest town, and also less than a day’s ride from Archiac.’
‘Forgive me, monsieur,’ Jean-Luc said, ‘but I am afraid I’m not privy to your assumptions yet.’
His clipped tone made the lawyer sit up. ‘I can see this has come as a shock to you. I understand your wine business, Monsieur Bauduin, is based in Cognac? Yes, I see, it is beginning to make sense.’
‘Not to me.’
‘No.’ Monsieur Fallon shook his head several times. ‘Well, the story is quickly told, albeit the cloak-and-dagger nature of it offends my lawyerly sensibilities. The money was deposited in a leather purse, on the same day every year, in the same place, hidden behind the altar of the church. We had no idea who collected it and, as I said, my father assumed that whoever it was resided in Angoulême.’
‘But I note that the amounts diminish significantly in the later years.’
‘I applaud your observational skills, sir. The lump sum was sufficient for the payments to be made for five years from the initiation of the fund in 1790, with a little contingency built in. A prudent suggestion of my father’s, I believe. He taught me to consider all eventualities. Advice that has stood me in good stead. In 1790 you were, Monsieur Bauduin, two years old, I think?’
Waiting only for a nod from Jean-Luc the lawyer continued. ‘The Duke and Duchess died in 1794, as you know, but they were, like almost everyone else, trapped in Paris from the previous year, when The Terror began. If they tried to communicate with my father, word never reached him. As you can see, after 1794 he reduced the sum each year in an effort to eke it out, but by 1800 there was nothing left.’
‘The Duke’s financial arrangements are obviously fascinating, but what do you think this account has to do with my visit here and the marriage contract?’
Monsieur Fallon spread his hands. ‘My father’s view was that the only explanation which made sense was that the money was payment for the care of the Duke’s son. The boy was being raised in the château, as all the Montendre children always were. In the autumn of 1790 the Duke and Duchess returned to Paris, to protect their palace in the turmoil of the Revolution. They let it be known that they were taking their son with him. This account was opened by the Duke before he left, as you can see. Only my father guessed the reason, and only then when he had word from a connection in Paris that the boy was not, as everyone believed, with his parents.’
‘So your father surmised that the Duke had placed his son into hiding as a precaution, given that members of the aristocracy were starting to be executed? Yet when your father heard the Duke himself had fallen victim to the guillotine, he made no attempt to recover the child?’
‘My father was sworn to secrecy by the Duke, Monsieur Bauduin. He made a solemn vow never to speak of this fund, never to make any attempt to trace the recipient, under any circumstances whatsoever. It was imperative that the boy’s identity remained a secret, for his own safety. That vow gave my father many sleepless nights after the Duke’s death, he told me, but there was nothing to be done. This little account book seemed set to be a mystery never to be resolved.’ Monsieur Fallon’s eyes brightened. ‘Until I received your letter. I cannot help but think from your expression, that this document means something to you.’
‘It proves that the money paid for the upbringing of the Duke’s son dried up at exactly the same time as my parents’ finances dried up. But that is all it proves. It certainly is not evidence enough to conclude that I am the lost heir of the Duc de Montendre.’
‘Not on its own, of course not. But a most persuasive case can be made when all the other circumstantial evidence is taken into account. The marriage contract. Mademoiselle de Cressy’s family tale which makes a direct link between your name and the Montendre one. This little account book here, which ties in with the changes in your own youthful circumstances. And the fact that you have been able to find no trace of your birth—or more correctly I should say the birth of Jean-Luc Bauduin.’ Monsieur Fallon pursed his lips. ‘That is a great accumulation of evidence. You are, Monsieur Bauduin, in my legal opinion, in a very strong position to press a claim to be the rightful heir to the Montendre title. If I may say so you look much less excited than I would be, in your shoes.’
Jean-Luc got to his feet. ‘That is because I am not yet certain in whose shoes I am standing. I would be very much obliged if you would keep the content of this meeting confidential, for the time being.’
‘But there is so much to do if you wish to reclaim your title. The château, the Paris house...’
‘A shell and a ruin,’ Jean-Luc said, sardonically. ‘You get ahead of yourself, monsieur, nothing is yet proved irrefutably.’ He got to his feet, holding his hand out for Sophia. ‘I need time to assimilate all you have told me. I will be in touch when I have decided what, if anything I wish to do. In the meantime, I rely on your discretion, and bid you good day.’
* * *
Jean-Luc hired a carriage to take them to the Château Montendre, which was an hour’s drive south-west of Bordeaux on the Garonne River. The majestic ruin looked to have its origins in mediaeval times, judging by the huge keep, which had formed the original structure. The main building, four storeys high and now roofless, was built between two other, smaller towers whose steeply pitched roofs, perched like witches’ hats, had survived the fire. Ivy covered all the south-facing façade. The carriageway and formal gardens were almost entirely overgrown, though the crumbling walls of the kitchen garden still stood on three of the four sides, small, hard fruit from the peach and apricot trees which had once been espaliered, rotting in the tall grass.
It was a melancholy place, Sophia thought as they followed the remains of a path into a cluster of outbuildings built around a courtyard. A row of broken barrels sat outside one of them. This must have been where the estate wine was produced, though on the slopes which surrounded them, the endless rows of vines looked dead. The hot, arid air of the summer afternoon was permeated by the sweet scent of decay.
Jean-Luc had said almost nothing since leaving the lawyer’s office, shaking his head in answer to her anxious enquiries, lost deep in thought on the drive, a heavy frown drawing his brows together.
Standing now, shading the sun from his eyes with his hand, for he had abandoned his hat and coat in the carriage, he sighed heavily. ‘Absolutely none of this is familiar. Nothing strikes a chord, not a single thing. Perhaps if the interior had not been destroyed...’ He grimaced. ‘But like everything else in my history, it no longer exists. I have no idea who I am, never mind who I am not.’
‘You are the person you have always been.’
‘I most sincerely doubt it.’ Sweat trickled down his temples. He mopped it with his kerchief. ‘I forget how hot it gets here. Come, let us see if we can find some shade.’
There was a stone bench on the north-facing wall of the kitchen garden. Sophia removed her pelisse, fanning her face with her bonnet. ‘You think it is true, then?’
‘Fallon was right. Taking all the circumstances together, it’s simply too much of a coincidence. My parents are not my parents. My name is not even my name. I can’t take it in. Why didn’t Maman say anything? Why couldn’t she have explained...?’
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A pulse beat in his cheek as he fought for control, but he sat so rigidly, Sophia was afraid if she tried to touch him he would break. ‘Monsieur Fallon’s father was sworn to secrecy. Your parents probably were too. The Duke...’ The Duke! Jean-Luc’s father. She was finding it almost as impossible to believe as he.
‘I know,’ Jean-Luc said, with a poor attempt at a smile, as if he had read her thoughts, ‘it’s preposterous.
And dreadful. If she’d thought any future with Jean-Luc Bauduin, wine merchant was impossible, how much more preposterous would it be to imagine herself the wife of a duke? Sophia’s stomach lurched. Not that she had imagined herself as Jean-Luc’s wife, she reminded herself. In fact she’d cautioned herself against imagining just that this morning. Was it only this morning? It seemed like a lifetime ago. And if she felt that, what must Jean-Luc be feeling?
She risked taking his hand. To her relief, his fingers curled tightly around hers. ‘You were only two years old. They must have loved you a great deal, Jean-Luc, to send you away for safekeeping, as they did. It must have been an agony for them to part with you.’
‘You think so? They abandoned me.’
‘To a woman who loved you as her own. Perhaps she was your nurse.’
‘I’ll never know now. One of the many things I’ll never know. I don’t even have any idea what my real parents looked like. Do I resemble them?’ He thumped his free hand on his thigh. ‘What the hell do you think they were playing at, Sophia? What did they imagine would happen to me?’
It was an agony to see him, normally so certain and confident, now so vulnerable, and to be able to do so little to help. ‘You heard what Monsieur Fallon said. The Duke left enough funds to support you for five years, with a little more besides. It was 1790, long before the Terror. He would not have imagined that he and the duchess would be trapped so long in Paris, and it would have been beyond his wildest imaginings at that point, thinking that they would be executed, else they would have escaped, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps they tried to get a message to Cognac, but it didn’t make it.’
‘Or perhaps it did,’ Jean-Luc said heavily, ‘and the instructions were to keep me in the dark for ever.’
‘I don’t believe that.’ Sophia gave his arm a shake. ‘To have gone to such lengths to protect you as the Duke and Duchess did proves how much they cared. And as for your maman—’
‘Who was not my mother,’ he interjected bitterly.
‘No, but she was the next best thing. She loved you. She tried to do the best she could for you, under very difficult circumstances, making sacrifices, never complaining.’
‘As you did, for your sister?’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘No. At least my—my father made some provision for me. What you did for your sister, Sophia, it was beyond admirable. I hope she appreciated it.’
‘She never knew.’
Jean-Luc’s brows shot up. ‘She did not know you were married?’
Sophia’s mind went blank for a horrible few seconds. ‘Don’t change the subject. What I’m trying to tell you, Jean-Luc, is that you were loved. Not by one set of parents, but by two.’
If he noticed it was she and not he who changed the subject, he made no comment. ‘Now I understand why my father—my adopted father—resented me a little.’
‘No doubt he too thought that situation was temporary. It must have been a terrible strain for him, when the money began to dry up. And he’d have known, don’t you think, that the Duke and Duchess were executed?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You said he was proud of you in the end, Jean-Luc. Don’t forget that.’
‘I should be grateful to him. It was he who found me work at the vintner’s. As the son of a duke, I would have been permitted to drink any amount of the wine I sell, but trade in it—no!’ He nodded at the château. ‘They would have been appalled.’
‘Or perhaps they too would have been proud,’ Sophia countered. ‘Not of the way that you earned your living, but the reasons for it. You worked hard so that your parents—adoptive parents—could live comfortably, didn’t you? And as I believe I have informed you on several occasions,’ she added softly, ‘you are the most honourable man I have ever met. I think they would be proud of you.’
He kissed her hand. ‘Thank you, you are a very loyal wife, but... What is it, Sophia?’
‘Juliette,’ she exclaimed, horrified. ‘The contract. Her claim is valid. You are legally obliged to marry her.’ She clutched at her heart, which seemed to be intent on lurching out of her chest.
‘No!’ Jean-Luc leapt to his feet. ‘Under no circumstances!’
‘You gave her your word of honour that you would inform her of the outcome of our investigations.’
‘There is no definitive outcome yet! There is not yet irrefutable evidence...’
‘And yet your own instincts tell you otherwise.’
‘No!’ He swore, kicking a stone, sending it flying high into the ruined succession house where it shattered one of the few remaining panes of glass. ‘There goes one of the last pieces of my heritage,’ he said sardonically, but the action seemed to calm him. ‘It is too soon to be making decisions about anything. I need time to become accustomed, to consider my options.’
‘Of course you do.’ Sophia tucked her arm into his. ‘To say that today has been momentous is one of the great understatements.’
They made their way back round to the front of the château, where Jean-Luc had left the carriage in the shade of what had once been an alley of lime trees, but which was now a veritable forest. Tying the ribbons of her bonnet, Sophia wandered up the shallow flight of steps to the main door, a massive affair of oak and iron, which lay off its hinges at a crazy angle. ‘There is a crest above the door,’ she said over her shoulder to Jean-Luc, who was pulling on his coat. ‘It’s Latin, I think. Ab Ordine Libertas. Something about freedom?’
‘From order comes freedom.’ Jean-Luc said. ‘I may have left school prematurely, but while I was there, I was a most attentive pupil.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘A monastery boarding school to learn Latin and Greek! Why the devil didn’t I question that!’ He held out his hand. ‘Enough. If we don’t leave now, we’ll miss our dinner. I’ve ordered a seafood extravaganza for you.’
‘Then let us make haste,’ Sophia said, taking his hand. Her fingers encountered his heavy gold signet ring. ‘Jean-Luc.’
‘What is it?’
‘This. You said it was given to you by your father—Monsieur Bauduin, I mean—but do you remember, we thought there had once been a stone set in it. And on the back...’
‘The inscription.’ He twisted the ring off, frowning down at it. ‘I always assumed it was two words, a name.’
‘A... R... D... N... L... B... S...’ Sophia said, tracing the faint outline of the few remaining letters. ‘Do you think...?’
Jean-Luc’s gaze was fixed on the Montendre family motto above the door. ‘Ab Ordine Libertas. From order comes freedom.’ He turned back to her, his eyes stormy. ‘The irrefutable proof I was referring to. My family motto lauds freedom. That is appropriate, because I do not intend to surrender mine.’
* * *
Although Jean-Luc took dinner with her, he was present in body only throughout the lavish meal, eating little, saying less, and staring often, distractedly, at the engraving on the back of his signet ring. He excused himself immediately after, telling her rather unnecessarily that he was not fit company for her, and that he needed time to think. Though Sophia desperately wanted to help him, she understood his need to be alone. Waking in the night, she heard him pacing in the drawing room of their suite, but forced herself not to go to him, trusting that he would come to her when he was ready.
* * *
He arrived while she was finishing her brea
kfast the next morning, freshly shaved, only the dark shadows under his eyes testament to his sleepless night, but she was relieved to see he seemed in good spirits, that his smile was not forced when he leaned over to kiss her. ‘I’m perfectly well, I promise.’
‘I heard you pacing in the night. I confess, I was very tempted to join you, but I didn’t think you would welcome my presence.’
‘Just this once, you were right. I needed to be alone, to try to accustom myself to the situation.’
‘Your world has just been turned upside down, I imagine it will take more than a day for you to accustom yourself to this particular situation, which is almost unprecedented.’
He took a cup of coffee from her, draining it in one gulp, pulling out a chair to sit down beside her. ‘Yesterday was a shock, a huge shock, but it was being faced with the evidence, rather than the outcome itself. You know, because I’ve told you, that I’ve been questioning, doubting my own history—the history that I thought was mine,’ he added wryly. ‘None of it made sense, and now it does. I couldn’t prove who I thought I was because I wasn’t who I thought I was.’
‘So you believe you are the Duc de Montendre?’
He laughed, shaking his head. ‘That will take a great deal of getting used to. I believe that I am the lost heir. At least now I can start to uncover my history. There are people here who knew my family, some who may even remember me as a child, servants, estate workers. I called on Monsieur Fallon first thing this morning to ask him to find some of them for me to talk to, and to set my claim in motion. I’ve also asked him to liaise with Maxime in order to obtain a sworn statement from Mademoiselle de Cressy. Her testimony, ironically, is vital, since it establishes the link between the Bauduin and the Montendre names.’
‘She will be very happy to help, I am sure.’
‘Don’t give me that forced smile, ma belle, I can see right through it.’
‘She’s the perfect wife for you. It was your father’s dearest wish...’
‘No.’ He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. ‘Throughout all this, from the very beginning, I have been certain of one thing. I am not going to marry Juliette de Cressy. And as time has passed, I have become even more certain. Now, it is as you say, my world has been turned upside down, but even were I to be sent to live on the moon, and even if she was the only woman there, I wouldn’t marry her.’
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife Page 18
