Black Gold (2 page)

Saint-Martin smiled inwardly. A little more than a year earlier, Quidor and his ruffians had tried to kidnap Comte de la Motte, who was in England selling off diamonds from the notorious stolen necklace intended for the French queen. Debarking near Newcastle like a small invading army, they witlessly stirred up the authorities and had to flee in confusion.

“I suggest you travel as a private person on vacation. I'll supply the money and documents you'll need.”

“And what of my duties as a provost of the Royal Highway Patrol?”

“I'll find someone to act in your place.” The baron paused, his voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “I do not intend to inform our foreign minister. He might become unduly alarmed. Our embassy in London, therefore, will not be aware of your mission. As I've said, this is a family affair. The less that's known of it, the better.”

The baron reached into a pile of papers on his desk, then looked up as if to say, if there's nothing else…?

“I understand what you expect of me,” said Saint-Martin, rising from his chair. “By the way, I'd like to take my adjutant, Georges Charpentier, with me as a valet.”

“By all means. Good man. Knows England. How soon can you leave?”

“By Friday, the 23rd, arriving in Bath a week later, with a couple of days in London en route.”

The baron wrinkled his brow in an afterthought, then drew a small silver case from his pocket. “Take this with you, Paul. And study it from time to time.”

Saint-Martin opened it to a recent miniature portrait of Sylvie in a gauzy white summer dress. She gazed at him with a happy, innocent expression. He felt profoundly saddened, then angered. A precious part of the young woman's spirit had been brutally destroyed. He snapped the case shut and muttered through tightly pressed lips, “This should help me remember why I'm going.” He bowed stiffly to the minister and stalked out.

***

Outside the baron's office, Saint-Martin's mind was churning. How could he apprehend a wily, ruthless, well-connected villain in England, a foreign country, France's enemy for centuries? He walked rapidly through the state apartments of the royal palace, oblivious to the bustle of courtiers and clerks around him. By an instinct he had learned to trust, he sought out the great palace garden that André Le Nôtre had built for Louis XIV over a century ago.

From the terrace outside the palace, Saint-Martin gazed out over this vast symbol of the Sun King's glory. Broad flights of stone steps led from one level down to another. Wide graveled avenues cut through a regimented forest of trees. Water jetted from fantastic fountains or mirrored the sky in still, pellucid pools. Colossal statues struck every conceivable attitude. A marvelous symmetry and balance ruled over all.

Saint-Martin drew a deep breath. The garden's formal grandeur, so striking in early spring with trees and bushes just beginning to bud, reassured him that the human mind could master even the most wayward impulses of nature. The human variety, included.

This place had once been little more than shifting sand and marsh. Louis XIV had decided it would become a great garden, cost what it might. His architect Le Nôtre designed an ambitious plan, brought in earth, water, and stone, set thousands of men to work to create a masterpiece of cultivated taste and intelligence, a symbol of the absolute authority of the French state and its monarch.

Saint-Martin felt certain that a similar intelligence and energy could be brought to bear on Fitzroy. Beneath his polished, elegant surface, the captain was a primitive man, a wily brute, all sand and marsh. Baron Breteuil was as determined as the great king and willing to spend whatever it would take to outwit and capture the miscreant. Like the king's architect, Saint-Martin would have to devise a credible plan and execute it. A daunting task, but in an odd way he felt lifted up by the majesty of the state. Its ideal of justice would inspire him, and its power would enable him to prevail.

He left the terrace and walked down the steps into the garden. The parterres to left and right still slept, awaiting their floral robes. In the Apollo basin, a gusty spring breeze rippled water around the sun god in his chariot rising from the depths. In the distance, the Grand Canal stretched out nearly to the horizon. A few pleasure boats drifted lazily on its shimmering surface.

He imagined himself out there with Anne, her hands dangling in the water while he rowed. “That's for a warmer season,” he murmured to himself, for the sun had slipped behind a cloud and the breeze had turned chilly. He found a sheltered bench with a view of Apollo's fountain, pulled a small case from his pocket, and opened it to a miniature portrait of Anne. Their deaf friend Michou had painted it last summer. Saint-Martin had carried it with him ever since.

As he gazed at Anne's image, his mind drifted back to that time. He and Anne had stood side by side at this very fountain after a private royal audience. She had handed over to the king the priceless stolen jewels she had recovered, having been wounded in a struggle with its thief. As a reward, the king had given her a fine cabochon emerald set in gold and hung on a gold chain.

In the fountain's reflected light, she had asked Saint-Martin to help her put it on. He had slipped behind her and fastened it around her neck. She had turned her head and ravished him with a tender smile. His heart leapt. It was a moment he would never forget.

Later in September, as Anne was leaving Paris for London, they had agreed to be friends. He had wanted a more committed relationship, perhaps marriage, but had cautiously yielded to her yearning for independence. She had said she'd only be gone for a few weeks, visiting grandparents and friends.

Saint-Martin looked up to the sky, searching for the sun, then sighed. The “few weeks” had stretched out into seven months. Anne had nursed her grandmother through a lingering fatal illness. Her letters had expressed an ardent wish to see him soon. But delay followed delay until he wondered if she were losing interest in returning to Paris, to Abbé de l'Épée's school, where she had been learning to teach deaf children. Had she been trapped into caring for other aged relatives? She might stay in England forever.

He stared again at Anne's portrait as if his gaze could somehow bring her back to his side. How he longed for her! He returned the case to his pocket, leaned back on the bench, and thought ahead to his forthcoming visit to England. He would seek her out in the village of Hampstead near London where she was staying with her grandfather. Would her face light up, her arms reach out, when he appeared on her doorstep?

Buoyed by a fragile hope, he imagined the two of them riding in the lovely green English countryside, her blue eyes teasing him, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. The prospect lifted his spirits. But a quiet voice within warned him not to let his hopes rise too high. Or distract him from his task. He rose from the bench and walked purposefully back to the palace.

Chapter 2

A Change of Plan

Tuesday, March 20

The scent of hay and freshly oiled leather filled the tackle room. A young woman stepped back to inspect her work and gave it a nod of approval. She believed in caring for her own saddle and her boots, never mind what the men thought. Out in the stable a mare whinnied softly, then snorted. The horse had been fed, now she wanted more personal attention.

“I'm coming, Mignon.” The young woman walked into the stable and stroked the fine-boned black thoroughbred's gleaming neck. It whinnied with pleasure, bent its head toward the young woman, and nuzzled her.

An old man's voice, still robust, came from the house close by. “I'm home, Annie. You've another letter from Paris. Can't
imagine
who sent it.” The language was French with a Norman accent, though the old man had lived his entire adult life in England. He had just returned from Hampstead with the mail. A daily morning ritual.

Anne Cartier smiled ruefully. She had detected an undertone of concern in her grandfather's teasing voice. He knew very well who had sent the letter. The French colonel. She closed the stable door behind her and hurried up the garden path to the house, a modest two-story brick building set on a gentle rise of land and surrounded by great oak trees and lush, grassy meadows.

Monsieur André Cartier sat quietly at the table on the garden terrace cleaning the barrel of a pistol. A square, ruddy-faced man with dark bushy eyebrows, he had about him even in repose an air of authority. Thick wiry steel gray hair attested to his seventy years. The recent loss of his wife had dulled the brilliance of his blue eyes. But he still managed a large gun shop in Hampstead a mile away, crafting duelling pistols, fowling pieces, and the like for wealthy customers. As Anne approached, he smiled at her with obvious affection.

Sheltered by the house from a cool spring breeze, the terrace gathered the full warmth of the March sun. The letter from Paris waited for her on the table. She took a seat facing her grandfather, drew a small case from her bag, and opened it to the miniature portrait of Paul that her deaf friend Michou had painted in Paris. For a few moments she gazed at the portrait, drawing in Paul's presence, then picked up the letter.

After reading a few lines, Anne wondered if she shouldn't have retired to the privacy of her room. Her face surely betrayed her yearning for this man. On the other hand, she had always felt comfortable confiding in her grandfather. Months ago, she had spoken about Paul de Saint-Martin. A provost of the Royal Highway Patrol, he had helped her clear the name of her stepfather, Antoine Dubois, falsely accused of murdering a woman in Paris, then killing himself.

During that investigation, she and Paul had grown fond of one another, despite the great social distance between them. It had been hard for her to leave him last September and return to England for a visit.

Her grandfather had listened to her patiently but with a skeptical ear. He had heard of the man before. Years ago, Anne and her parents had sung his praises. They had met him, then a young officer, during summers spent in France before the American War. Unfortunately, as a child, the old Huguenot had learned to hate the French monarchy and its church. His parents had suffered imprisonment and the loss of their property at the hands of the king's agents. Relatives in France were still subject to force and guile designed to bring about their conversion. As he grew older, he judged individual Catholics on their personal merits. But the ancient antipathy welled up whenever he pictured Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin in the king's uniform.

Sometimes Anne wondered if her grandfather also feared that another man might take away his beloved granddaughter. When she first mentioned Saint-Martin, Cartier had suggested the colonel might have ulterior motives in befriending her. Was he a typical nobleman looking for a mistress? Or, did he have marriage in mind? If so, was that in her best interest? Would his family accept her? Would he expect her to adopt his religion?

She had wrestled with these questions for the past several months. Her grandfather had suggested she stand back and take a sober look at Saint-Martin. Allow time and distance to test her feelings for him.

That she had done, aided by delays she could not avoid. In the end, as her reaction to today's letter confirmed, she wanted to be with Paul more than ever. But, marriage was a different matter. As she had said to her grandfather, she didn't want to
belong
to anyone. She wanted to manage her own life.

Her grandfather now seemed to read her mind. “Our law and customs are creating this quandary.” He reached across the table and held her hand. “You and the colonel could marry according to society's conventions but agree to treat each other as free and equal. That agreement would depend solely on the sincerity of your promises. Whether within or outside of marriage, your best guarantee of remaining your own person is the integrity of his love for you. Thus far, it has survived the test of separation.”

He gazed at her thoughtfully. A tinge of sadness came over his face. “Annie, consider the situation of your Protestant relatives in France. In public, they have to conform to the law requiring them to marry, baptize, and worship according to the rites of the Roman Catholic Church. In private, they act according to their consciences. It's galling to have to compromise in such matters but unavoidable.” He sighed deeply.

Squeezing his hand, she thanked him. The future remained unclear, but glancing again at the miniature portrait of Paul lying next to the letter, she felt hopeful. Michou had caught the frank cast of his brow, the quiet humor in the lines of his mouth, the glint of desire in his eyes. Anne caressed the portrait with her fingers.

She read Paul's letter again. He was still working on the special assignment Baron Breteuil had given him in January. A difficult, very troubling case. One day he would tell her about it. In the meantime, he missed her and was looking forward to a ride together at Chateau Beaumont.

He was referring to an early morning during the past summer. A tender moment. They were about to mount their horses when news came of a murder on a nearby estate. Reluctantly, they had to abandon the ride. The ensuing investigation absorbed their attention and the moment was lost.

Anne's desire to return to Paris strengthened with every line of the letter. She would resume her studies with Abbé de l'Épée and master his system for educating deaf children. And she would renew her friendship with Paul. At the end of the second reading, she laid the letter on the table and looked up at her grandfather. His smile was sad but accepting. She felt a tug at her heart.

“I'll be leaving for Paris by the Dover coach on Monday the 26th.”

“Yes, we've talked about it before. There's risk, but you've given it enough thought. Go to him. He seems to be an honorable man.”

“But I hate to leave you, especially since Grandmother is gone.” Anne imagined her grandfather alone in the house, its rooms filled with the mementos of a long married life. They would constantly remind him of the loss of his wife.

“Don't worry. I'll be fine. With spring coming, my mind will be busy with work on the estate as well as the gun business. I'll have my sister Adelaide. She'll soon come to live with me.”

Anne felt relieved. Her recently widowed aunt was an amiable, sensible person. They would comfort one another. Blowing him a kiss, Anne rose from the table. “I'm going to ride over to Hackney to say good-bye to Mr. Braidwood.”

Since returning to England in September, she had often visited his institute for the deaf, where she had worked prior to becoming involved in the Dubois case. Braidwood had entrusted a few of his students to her for tutoring and shown keen interest in her report on the work of Abbé de l'Épée in Paris, whom he viewed with suspicion as a rival.

“Julien will ride with you to Hackney,” said Monsieur Cartier in a voice that admitted no contradiction. “There's safety in numbers, especially on English highways.”

***

A few hours later, Anne Cartier rode sidesaddle on her thoroughbred down the gravel path that led to the highway. Julien, Monsieur Cartier's trusted groom, followed a few paces behind. Like his master, the groom had fled from Normandy to England as an infant together with his French Huguenot parents. He too had kept his mother tongue. Neither man felt entirely at home in England.

Anne cast a sidelong glance at him and smiled. He merely nodded back, but she could see a hint of pleasure in his eyes. A taciturn man, he spoke only when he thought he had good reason to do so. Yet she felt comfortable with him. And grateful. He had shared with Anne his knowledge of horses—he had served several youthful years in a British mounted regiment. Thanks to him, she could ride and shoot like a cavalryman.

On this day, Anne was especially happy that Julien allowed her to pursue her own thoughts. Halfway to Hackney, they passed by Islington, where she had fond memories of rope dancing and tumbling at Sadler's Wells, first with her stepfather, Antoine Dubois, and then, later, by herself.

There were darker, painful memories also, from a year and a half ago, when Jack Roach and his cronies attacked her at night outside her Islington cottage and trumped up charges of lewd solicitation and assault against her. She had spent the night in a wretched jail. The next day, Roach's ally, the magistrate, Tom Hammer, had condemned her in a farce of a trial. The crowd in the village marketplace had shouted, “French whore.” On the scaffold Hammer had cropped her thick golden hair. Even now, she shuddered at the thought of that bitter, humiliating experience.

With relief she spurred her horse toward Hackney. When she had felt depressed, Mr. Braidwood had given her comfort and rewarding work to do. She owed him a great deal.

At the institute an ancient servant showed her in, then gestured in the direction of Braidwood's reception room. “You know the way, Miss Cartier, you're at home here.” He bowed slightly and returned to his post.

She felt pleased to be thought of as one of the family. Wending her way through the building, she renewed her acquaintance with students and teachers. They greeted her warmly, if briefly, for the students—some twenty of them—were in the midst of their daily vocal exercises, tediously learning the position of lips and tongue for every sound their teachers wanted them to make.

Anne stopped at an open door to watch Mr. Braidwood's son John work with three young children. One student at a time, he shaped their mouths with his own fingers. Then he pronounced the vowels, and they followed his lead. To correct their mistakes, he chose a rounded silver instrument the length of a tobacco pipe, flattened at one end, with a small ball at the other. Placing it in the students' mouths, he moved their tongues to the exact position for each vowel.

Frustration flashed across the students' faces as their teacher calmly repeated the exercise again and again. But they endured it more or less patiently for they realized its purpose. They must learn to articulate clearly, or no one would ever understand what they said. Finally, he put the device in its case and smiled. They would move on to something more enjoyable.

The door to Braidwood's office stood ajar. Anne knocked, then cautiously stepped inside. Bent and gray, Braidwood was standing by the window, looking out at the garden. Hearing her enter, he turned and immediately straightened up. “What a pleasant and, I must say, fortunate surprise. For I've just now been thinking of you. In this morning's mail I've received a most troubling message. Let me tell you about it.”

The day was still warm and sunny, uncommon for March. He ordered tea, then led Anne to a sheltered table at the far end of the garden. When tea had been poured and they were alone, he met Anne's eye. “I'm concerned about little Charlie Rogers. You recall him, I'm sure. The eleven-year-old boy from Bristol. You tutored him frequently and got on well with him.”

“Of course. A sweet, bright child, rather small and frail, suffers from asthma. He's away on holiday with his parents at a spa, isn't he?”

Braidwood sighed. “Yes, he's in Bath. I learned this morning that he needs a new tutor for the next four or five weeks.” The old man shifted in his chair and took a sip of tea, as if gathering courage. “And you came to mind.”

Alarm bells rang in Anne's head. Several weeks tutoring in Bath? She wanted to leave Hampstead for Paris in six days!

Braidwood apparently failed to notice her consternation, for he went on explaining the “troubling message.” It came from Lady Margaret Rogers, the boy's mother. “His tutor Mary Campbell has suddenly died,” he said, his voice breaking. “Lady Margaret asks me to send a replacement.”

Anne drew back in horror. “That's incredible! How did it happen?”

“Accidentally. She fell. Lady Margaret didn't say how.”

Anne knew Mary Campbell, a likeable, conscientious seventeen-year-old whose parents were deaf. A hearing person herself, she was familiar with oral training of the deaf.

“Her parents studied with me in Scotland many years ago,” Braidwood continued. “We've kept in touch. Mary visited us here in Hackney in January when she moved to London. A kind, friendly girl. I thought she'd be a good companion for little Charlie, if not exactly a tutor. I recommended her to Lady Margaret.” Braidwood stared at the ground, shaking his head. “I feel devastated by her death and partly responsible for it. After all, I sent her to Bath.”

“Don't punish yourself.” Anne struggled for words that would console the stricken man. “You couldn't foresee an accident like this.”

“Thank you, Miss Cartier, for your kindness.” He looked up at her, knitting his brow. “But I should have done something. She had complained to her parents that the family was a hornet's nest. When I heard that, I should have called her back and sent an older person. She was perhaps too young and inexperienced. I also worry about the boy's well-being in such a family. His parents have little understanding of his disability and treat him as a nuisance or an embarrassment.”