A Fierce Wind (Donet Trilogy Book 3)

by Regan Walker

  She gave him an indulgent look. “You are fortunate the ancient Pierre Bouchet decided to retire on Guernsey. He no longer practices medicine, but he agreed to tend your wound as a favor to Oncle Jean. When I inquired of the good surgeon a short while ago, he pronounced you ‘recovering’. I am not so sure. You appear particularly gaunt and pale.”

  The throbbing pain in his shoulder told him the bespectacled physician from Lorient had dug deep to remove the ball. His left shoulder was swathed in white muslin, his right shoulder bare above the blanket.

  There was genuine worry in Zoé’s gray eyes.

  “How delightful,” he said, trying to sound cheery. “And does my ghostly appearance appeal?”

  “All Englishmen appear pale to me,” she replied pertly, “but I would prefer you returned to your usual good health.”

  He acknowledged her comment with a small smile, sensing he’d lost track of time. “How long?”

  “You burned with fever for more than a day and slept the next.” With a shrug of her delicate shoulders now swathed in blue silk, the tender mounds of her breasts just visible beneath her lace fichu, she said, “I’ll spare you your ravings. I paid them no mind.”

  From her blush, he assumed his mutterings had spoken of her. He could only imagine what he had mumbled in his fevered state. He often woke from dreams of Zoé that featured heated kisses.

  Avoiding his eyes, she leaned over his bed and plumped his pillow, bringing her slender neck close to his lips. He inhaled her scent of roses and was sorely tempted to close the distance to her ivory skin with his lips.

  A stabbing jolt of pain forced him back against the pillow. “I don’t suppose Bouchet left me anything for the pain?”

  “Laudanum, but he said ’twas best, once you were awake, to eat something and take more only when the pain requires it and you are ready to sleep. Given how long you’ve been without food, I agree.” Thrusting a bowl of something steaming in front of him, she lifted the spoon to his mouth. “On this rare occasion that I offer to feed you, dear Freddie, you’d best submit. Besides, after the soup, there is your favorite truffle omelette.”

  Suddenly aware of his half-dressed state and her presence in his bedchamber, he said, “I’m hardly dressed to entertain young ladies.”

  The corner of her mouth rose in a smile. “Since when do we stand on formalities?”

  “Since you turned twenty and Donet watches over you like the pirate he once was.”

  Her only reply was to roll her eyes and press the spoon to his lips.

  The thought of her feeding him was not unappealing. “Tyrant,” he mumbled as he opened his mouth and swallowed the gingered carrot soup, another of his favorites. “Is Cook complaining of my special treatment?”

  “Not a word after I told her you probably saved my life and that of Oncle Jean’s.”

  When he finished the soup, she lifted a bite of omelette to his mouth. He took the fork from her hand. “How about you hold the plate and I handle the fork? We’ll work together, n’est-ce pas?”

  She returned him a fetching one-sided smile, seemingly content with her part as long as he continued to eat. Perhaps it was due to having lost her parents so young but, in the years he had known her, he had observed Zoé had a need to cosset those she loved. That he was considered friend enough to qualify for her care was at least something. One day, he hoped she would want him to be more.

  The last of the omelette soon disappeared. With a raised brow, she regarded the clean plate. “You appear to have been ravenous.”

  “Indeed, I was.”

  She handed him a napkin. “’Tis a good sign.” Reaching to the bedside table, she picked up a single sheet of paper. “I brought you the Gazette. What fills Guernsey’s meager newspaper is taken from the Paris journals we have yet to receive.”

  “I cannot imagine any news from Paris is good these days unless it’s a battle the Republic has lost to England and her allies.”

  “Normally, I would agree, however, ’tis a good day when Georges Danton meets the guillotine.”

  Freddie raised a brow. “The architect of the September Massacres is dead?”

  “Aye, along with Camille Desmoulins and thirteen others. It seems Robespierre has taken swift vengeance upon his opponents.” She glanced down at the newspaper. “According to this, ’tis because Danton and Desmoulins advocated peace with France’s enemies.”

  “Robespierre could not have been happy to learn Desmoulins, his childhood friend, desired peace.”

  “… with England, Austria and Prussia,” she finished. “And, more than that, Desmoulins wanted an end to the Terror Robespierre himself prescribed.” She handed him the paper. “Danton’s last words were, ‘Robespierre will follow me.’”

  “Would that it were so.” Freddie glanced at the Gazette then gazed out the open window next to his bed, past the flowers at the edge of the lawn to the sun shining off the azure blue waters surrounding Guernsey. A world away from the horrors in France yet only a short distance from the coast of Normandy. A wave of fatigue washed over him. He turned back to Zoé. “Meanwhile, Pigeon, did the refugees get safely to the ship?”

  “Aye, they did and now they are all here. Not that I’m displeased with your foolishness, Freddie. But why did you do it?”

  “Do what?” He hoped his feigned innocence was convincing.

  “Take that boat and come after me!” She narrowed her eyes. “It was me you came after, wasn’t it? You could not have known my uncle had arrived in Granville.”

  He summoned his rational self. He would not mention the horrible fear for her that had overcome him that night. “You were late. Moreover, I was perturbed that you left the ship knowing I meant to accompany you.” Seeing she remained unconvinced, he added, “You ask too many questions.”

  A movement at the open door caused Freddie to look up. There stood a striking young woman poised to enter. He did not recognize her as one of the Donets’ many servants but her lace-edged mobcap and simple gown marked her as such. “A new member of the household?” he asked Zoé.

  Regarding the woman over her shoulder, Zoé said, “’Tis Madame de Montconseil’s maidservant. What is it, Éloise?”

  The woman grinned at Freddie. “My mistress sent me to see if I may be of assistance.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” said Zoé, “but come and meet my friend, Frederick West.” She turned to Freddie and smiled. “The hero of the day.”

  Éloise padded toward his bed, her blue eyes twinkling as she dropped a brief curtsey. “Bonjour, M’sieur.”

  “Bon matin to you, Éloise.”

  Her forehead wrinkled in surprise. “You are Anglais?”

  “He is… well, almost always,” Zoé interjected.

  Freddie chided her with a frown. “Best not to venture into that, Pigeon, or you will confuse her. Besides, she need not know.” Zoé knew little of his work for the Crown, but there were times, and they could both recite the stories, when he had posed as a French merchant to help her retrieve the refugees. His French was that good he had never been detected as the Englishman he was.

  “Here,” Zoé said, handing him a small vial of liquid she retrieved from the bedside table, “for the pain.”

  Anxious to end the throbbing in his shoulder, Freddie downed the bitter liquid and returned the bottle to her. “My thanks.”

  She rose from the chair, her gaze sliding to his bandaged shoulder. Or was it that part of his chest that was bare that had drawn her attention? As she turned toward the door, she said under her breath, “Hopefully, you can get some rest.”

  Zoé ushered Éloise through the door, closing it behind her. “Freddie is the brother of my Tante Joanna.”

  “Je suppose that explains M’sieur West’s hair. ’Tis much like Madame Donet’s and that of her son, only darker.” The maidservant breathed out a sigh. “His eyes are the same enchanting color, like a rich brandy. M’sieur West est si beau.”

  Zoé didn’t much like the pretty hone
yed-hair woman sighing over her friend and speaking of his good looks. Why the compliment annoyed her she did not stop to consider. He was, after all, only Freddie, her friend for a decade.

  Finding a more suitable topic, she turned to the subject of Joanna’s son. “You have met Jack?”

  Éloise laughed. “Oh, oui, I have. So full of life, that one. And such a charmer. I left him explaining l’histoire of Guernsey to madame’s children.”

  “Jack quite enjoys doing that. He sees himself as a guide for all those coming to the island. Oncle Jean indulges him terribly.”

  Seven years ago, after three years of marriage, Joanna had given Zoé’s uncle a son. They named Jean-Jacques Henri after his father and uncle, Zoé’s father, who had died when she was ten. In deference to his mother’s country, the boy insisted everyone call him “Jack” because, he claimed, it sounded more English. As he was quite serious about the whole thing, the family complied.

  “You should see Jack wield a knife,” Zoé said.

  Éloise’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, it is not what you think. Oncle Jean taught us both, notwithstanding Tante Joanna’s objections. I have some aptitude with a blade but Jack’s skill will exceed mine in time.”

  Éloise nodded. “As a man, that one will be formidable. A bit like his cousin, M’sieur West, non? The eyes that sparkle, the séduisant smile.”

  Zoé had heard enough of the maidservant’s effervescing over Freddie’s virtues for one day. She turned and headed down the corridor, the maid following. “I imagine Tante Joanna is with your mistress. Does she have plans for today?”

  “Oui. Madame Donet is taking the princesse into town where she intends to sell some of her jewelry. Then she and the children will visit the modiste. I am to go with them. We came away with only what we were wearing when you met us and those were not even our clothes.”

  Zoé paused and turned, a wave of pity for the young woman washing over her. “That is often the case for the ones we help. Most are fortunate to flee with their lives. The princesse can be glad she still has her jewels.”

  “She had me carefully sew them into a pouch she wore beneath her clothing. Your aunt has been gracious to lend us proper attire until my mistress can acquire other clothing for us.”

  Struck with a pang of guilt for being angered at the maidservant’s fondness for Freddie, she thought to make pleasant conversation. “Your speech is that of an educated woman, Éloise. How did you come to work for Madame de Montconseil?”

  “My father died unexpectedly some time ago, which meant I had to work. A friend recommended me to the palace, which is how I met the princesse.”

  “Did you leave family behind?”

  “Oui and I worry for them. My mother remains in Paris with my brother. She is an excellent seamstress kept busy meeting the needs of the women close to the revolution’s leaders. My brother is… how you say… a clerk for the government. For the time being, he and my mother are safe unless a connection is made to my service in Versailles.”

  Zoé bit back the comment she was about to make about Paris being a very dangerous place. Anyone living there would be well aware of the escalation of the Terror, the prisons full to overflowing and the guillotine’s blade dropping in a steady succession of executions. But she thought it best not to remind the woman of the horrors her mother and brother still faced.

  They arrived at the end of the corridor and Éloise looked toward the top of the stairs where the nursery was located. “Peut-être I should check on the children. I need to make sure they are ready to leave when my mistress calls.”

  “Very well,” replied Zoé.

  Éloise turned to climb up the narrow servants’ stairs.

  Zoé descended the main stairs to the parlor, her favorite room in the house. Decorated in the warm colors of the gardens and filled with sunlight, spending time there always brightened her mood.

  “Good morning,” she said to her aunt and the princesse as she entered.

  “Come join us,” said her aunt, looking very pretty in a lemon yellow gown that complemented her auburn hair and reminded Zoé of the flowers blooming just outside the double glass doors. “I was about to pour some tea for Madame de Montconseil.”

  Joanna was her aunt only by marriage. But to the ten-year-old orphan Zoé had been when she first met her uncle’s future wife, Joanna had been more of a mother. They often took tea together in Saintonge when Joanna had first arrived, bringing into Zoé’s life a woman to guide her.

  “You look very different without the dirt on your face and dressed as the beautiful young lady you are,” said Madame de Montconseil.

  “Thank you,” Zoé said. Taking a seat on the sofa across from the princesse, she accepted a cup of tea from her aunt and a small plate of pastries. She’d been so anxious to see that Freddie had food she’d quite forgotten to eat and the cup of tea her aunt had brought earlier had not been enough to sustain her.

  “Is Freddie awake?” asked her aunt. “Jean wants to see him about a message that has just arrived from Jersey.”

  Zoé thought nothing of the message as Freddie frequently made trips to Jersey, the island that lay closest to Normandy.

  “He won’t be awake for some time. After he ate, I gave him laudanum for the pain in the hope it would allow him to rest.”

  “Ah, well, perhaps he will awaken by the time Jean returns. Just now, he is arranging for one of his ships to take the nuns to Jersey where there is a group of Ursulines teaching in the school for the children of the émigrés.”

  “Is that the one M’sieur d’Auvergne has started?”

  “It is.”

  “That will suit them well,” said Zoé. She directed her next question to the princesse. “Do you have in mind a place to settle in England, madame?”

  “I have friends in London we can visit. After that, I’m not sure. I rather like the countryside. For many years, I lived in a small country palace in the Bois de Boulogne near Paris.”

  “Then perhaps you should consider West Sussex,” offered Zoé’s aunt. “There is plenty of room at The Harrows, my family’s estate, and my brother, Richard, the Earl of Torrington, would welcome you and your children. It would be a fine place to recover from all you have been through at least until you decide. But, if you prefer, Richard could arrange for you and your children to travel with him the next time he goes to London.”

  “That is so very kind of you, Madame Donet.”

  “Not at all. It is settled. When my husband sails to England, you shall accompany him. Perhaps we’ll all go. I have not visited my brother in a while and he worries about me even though I am on Guernsey.”

  Madame de Montconseil said, “You must fear for your husband and niece going into France to rescue people like me. How ever do you stand the agony of awaiting their return?”

  Zoé recognized the subtle smile that crossed her aunt’s face. It was the look of a woman who had long ago conquered her demons. “I knew when I married Jean Donet I was marrying adventure itself. Oh, perhaps not the terrifying kind he now faces, defying the revolution’s madmen. For that, I think he and my niece are quite brave. But I have always known such a man would not be content to sit in his parlor and gaze at his vineyard, though he has—or rather, had—an excellent one. No, once he discovered the sea, there was no other life for him.”

  The princesse gave Zoé a questioning look. “I can see why Monsieur Donet would undertake the rescues, but why you?”

  “I made a vow to a friend that I would do all I could for the royalist cause, no matter the peril I must face.”

  Her aunt smiled. “Anyone who marries my niece will be making the same decision I made when I wed Jean Donet.”

  Freddie crumpled the message from Philippe d’Auvergne that arrived while he had been sleeping. The British naval officer on Jersey who acted as go-between with their superiors in London had issued a terse summons for Freddie to sail to Jersey. The demand, devoid of information or orders, caught him by surprise. Why hadn�
��t d’Auvergne reduced his orders to coded writing and placed them in the hands of trusted messengers as he had done before?

  Donet, sitting in the same chair Zoé had occupied earlier, gave him an assessing look, his eyes pausing as they passed over Freddie’s bandaged shoulder. “I’m sailing to Jersey tomorrow. Will you be recovered sufficiently to go with me?”

  “Did you know d’Auvergne demands I attend him there?”

  Donet leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I did assume.”

  Though ten years older than when Freddie had first met him, the sea captain still had a vigorous appearance, his black eyes intense, his features set in firm determination. The silver in his long black hair he confined at his nape only added to his aristocratic bearing.

  The laudanum had clouded Freddie’s mind for a brief moment after he’d awakened, but now he saw clearly the path before him. His wound notwithstanding, he must get to Jersey. “I’ll be ready.”

  “Good. I want to see the Ursuline sisters established there. After Jersey, I plan to sail to West Sussex. Your sister intends to take Madame de Montconseil to The Harrows. It would save time if I did not have to return you to Guernsey.”

  “I have not seen my home for a while. If d’Auvergne is not averse, I would be happy to sail to England for a respite.”

  Donet got to his feet and patted Freddie’s shoulder, the one not wrapped in bandages. “You certainly deserve one.”

  Before Donet reached the door, Freddie asked, “Will your niece be sailing with us?” After what happened in Granville, he didn’t want to leave Zoé free to roam the dangerous streets of France without him.

  “I will make sure she is included else my wife will not sleep.”

  Zoé appeared at the door just then. “Are you two discussing business already?” With a look of disapproval aimed at her uncle, she said, “I came to see if Freddie is ready for dinner. He may have shaken the fever but he has yet to heal.”

  “Which is why,” Freddie offered, “I have agreed to a brief rest at The Harrows. It seems my sister wants to take the princesse there.”