Black Gold (3 page)

Though realizing he desperately wanted her to take Mary's place, Anne remained silent. Her heart was set on her reunion with Paul. Moving into a strange household wasn't at all what she wanted to do. Yet she owed Braidwood a favor, and a small inner voice urged her to repay him.

“Couldn't someone from the staff here in Hackney be sent to replace her?” It shamed Anne that she was trying to evade his clear desire.

“My son's health is too delicate for the journey and for what are surely stressful circumstances. My assistants are needed here and are also too young and inexperienced.” He paused for a moment, then raised his hands palms up and smiled tentatively. “I thought of you from the start. You have worked with the boy over the past several months, and he likes you.” He paused, then continued with a more confident voice. “You are a mature, resourceful, and courageous woman, as you recently proved in Antoine Dubois' case. I would be most grateful if you could relieve my mind of this concern.”

“This comes as a complete surprise to me,” Anne responded as calmly as she could. “I have made plans to return to France this coming Monday. But, I see the urgency of Charlie's situation. Give me an hour's time and a quiet place to think it over.”

“I appreciate your willingness to consider my request. The garden is yours for as long as you need it.” Braidwood rose from the table, visibly hopeful, and returned to the house.

Anne paced up and down the garden paths, recalling Charlie's slender, delicate features, black wavy hair, high forehead, soft blue eyes. He was small and immature for his age, but an unusually intelligent and sensitive boy. Three years ago, a high fever had taken away his hearing. His parents placed him with Braidwood, who had just opened his institute in Hackney. Sharp-eyed and alert, the boy developed a remarkable talent for reading lips. Since he had acquired the habit of speech before his illness, he articulated well enough to be understood. But his voice had become monotone and unnaturally loud and high pitched. He stumbled on new words and certain sounds, like “ch.”

At home, Anne understood, the boy spoke reluctantly, fearing criticism or ridicule. She knew little about the boy's family, other than it was rich. Braidwood had mentioned that the father had made a fortune in West Indian trade, and his wife was an Irish baron's daughter. Under the circumstances, Anne reasoned, she could set her own terms: decent accommodations, good pay, and a suitable measure of freedom and respect. It was only for a month or so. The boy was isolated and lonely. Or, worse.

She glanced across the garden at the institute. Teaching here had helped her recover from her humiliation at the hands of Roach and Hammer. She owed Braidwood for that. He could have taken advantage of her but he didn't. And he wouldn't have asked her today if he had any other choice. Rising from the bench with a heavy heart, she knew she must postpone her return to Paris and travel immediately to Bath.

On her way to Braidwood's office, she began considering the preparations she must now make. Harriet Ware, her best friend from Sadler's Wells, was working as a singer and dancer at a theater in Bath. Anne would write to her this evening, announcing her imminent arrival. Then she would write to Paul. A tear escaped from her eye. She hoped he would understand.

Chapter 3

Despair

Thursday, March 22

Shortly after dawn, Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin strolled through the enclosed garden of his residence on Rue Saint-Honoré. The marks of winter were still visible everywhere: fallen twigs, moldering leaves, dry stalks of plants. But spring had arrived. In a few hours, the full heat of the sun would beat down on the flower beds. Daffodils were about to bloom.

He had risen early to ready the garden for its new season. It was his last opportunity. Tomorrow, he would leave Paris for England and didn't know how long he would be gone. He regretted that he might miss the spring flowers already making their way out of the ground. They cheered his spirit after the dreariness of winter. For over an hour he cleared away the debris and left it in a pile for servants to dispose of.

At seven o'clock, he broke off work. Time to talk to Georges about the trip. Up to this point, he had not involved his adjutant in the pursuit of Fitzroy. Georges Charpentier was an older man in his late forties, with a broad knowledge of policing. While Saint-Martin was away from Paris, Georges had capably managed the provost's office and investigated several crimes. Saint-Martin's substitute, a retired colonel, was happy that someone else looked after affairs. Had Georges been of noble birth, he could have expected to rise to a position of authority in the Royal Highway Patrol.

Saint-Martin had ordered breakfast to be served in his office. Georges appeared promptly, just as a servant was setting the table with plates and cups, baskets of bread, butter, preserves, and cheese. He poured coffee, set the pot on the table, and left the room. The adjutant rubbed his hands with relish, took a seat, and broke off a piece of bread.

Before he could bring it to his mouth, the colonel cleared his throat. “Georges, can you be ready to leave for England tomorrow?”

The adjutant blinked. “You're joking, aren't you?” He grinned and wagged his head.

“No. The baron gave me orders two days ago. Couldn't reach you yesterday. Fitzroy's been spotted in Bath. I need you to help me catch him and bring him back.”

Georges put down the bread, his brow furrowed. “I thought Fitzroy was a family matter. Should I be involved?”

His tone of voice was neutral, his expression detached. Still, the question had an edge that caught Saint-Martin by surprise and disquieted him.

“The baron wants to keep the affair out of the public eye. But, family honor isn't the only issue. Fitzroy raped and beat a young woman, who happens to be my cousin. He shouldn't be allowed to do that to anyone. I'm treating this as a serious criminal offense. Normally, we'd ask the English to give up a suspected felon. But, in this case, the procedure would expose Sylvie to public shame. And, the English might refuse to cooperate, preferring to accept Fitzroy's version of the incident.” He paused to gauge his adjutant's mind and noted his growing interest. “Now, to answer your question: Yes, I think you should be involved in catching Fitzroy; he's a fugitive. Furthermore, you're familiar with the English and speak their language. I couldn't find a better man in all of Paris.”

“That's true,” Georges remarked candidly. “Sartines was my master!”

The colonel had often heard Georges' homage to Lieutenant-General Sartines, the man in charge of French police more than a decade ago. Georges had in fact served Sartines as a spy in England.

Georges palmed the imaginary hair on his bald pate, grinning lecherously. “Well, it looks like the women of Paris will have to find another lover for a while. I'll warn them I'm being called away suddenly on business.” He lifted his cup and took a sip of coffee. “What role am I to play?”

“My valet. I'll be travelling as a tourist.” The colonel explained they would cross the Channel at Calais, spend a few days in London, then go on to Bath. “Baron Breteuil has arranged for Lieutenant Faure from Villejuif to move into this office while I'm gone.”

“Will we see Miss Cartier?” Georges asked, a sly look in his eye.

“I hope so,” Saint-Martin replied with feeling.

The two men had nearly finished breakfast when a message arrived. “From Comtesse Beaumont,” said Saint-Martin, scanning the page. “She wants me to visit her on Rue Traversine. Sylvie's with her. Something's wrong.” He stared at the note, then turned to his adjutant. “You had best come along, Georges.”

***

The two men hurried on foot through busy crowded streets to the comtesse's town house. She and Sylvie had come to Paris a few days ago. The young woman had been convalescing at Chateau Beaumont and had recovered to the point where she might benefit from meeting people, shopping, enjoying something light at the theater, attending a concert.

A maid met the two men at the entrance and showed them into Aunt Marie's parlor on the first floor. She and Sylvie were lingering over breakfast. Saint-Martin introduced Georges to Sylvie, who studied him with curious interest. The comtesse smiled a greeting; she already knew him. The men declined an offer of coffee but agreed to join the women at the table. When Georges hesitated to take a chair, the comtesse insisted.

While chatting about the unusually fine March weather, Saint-Martin observed Sylvie with growing concern. True, her facial bruises were gone. Her ribs appeared to have mended for she moved her body easily. But, her long blond hair was combed back severely and tied in a tight knot. She had lost weight, giving her an emaciated, haunted appearance. Her blue eyes were downcast, deep-set and dark. She spoke seldom, and then in flat, halting words.

In the course of conversation, Saint-Martin mentioned that he and Georges would leave Paris for England tomorrow.

Sylvie looked up with a start. “Have you found him?”

“Yes, we know he's in Bath.”

“Why do you bother going there? He said he had friends in England.” She spoke emphatically, her voice laced with scorn. “They'll believe his story and protect him.”

“He may be overconfident,” Saint-Martin replied. “With Georges' help, I intend to catch him.”

She glanced at Georges, then at Saint-Martin. “Good luck.” All feeling drained from her voice, her shoulders sagged. “Please excuse me.” She turned to the comtesse. “I'll retire to my room.”

When the young woman had left, Comtesse Marie sighed deeply, then explained that, yesterday, she and Sylvie had gone shopping in Palais-Royal close by. They had enjoyed themselves, trying on the enormous hats that had become fashionable. When they were tired, they stopped for tea in Café du Foy. Hardly had they sat down when Comtesse Louise de Joinville entered the restaurant together with several elegantly dressed men and women.

Saint-Martin grimaced; this tale could not come to a good end. Louise, his cousin, thirsted for malicious gossip. “What happened?” he asked apprehensively.

“She noticed us. Rushed over to express her sympathy. It was obvious to me, and certainly to Sylvie, that Louise was merely curious to see how much damage Fitzroy or—as she might have thought—Baron Breteuil had done. ‘Oh, Sylvie, you poor thing' she said again and again. Finally, she left us and joined her companions at another table. From their sidelong glances and their tittering, one could tell they were tattling about Sylvie.” The comtesse fell silent, glanced at Georges then at Saint-Martin. Finally, she shook her head, unable to continue.

Her nephew offered her water from a pitcher on the table. She sipped at her glass, took a deep breath, and went on. “That was one of the worst moments of my life. I had been nursing Sylvie for over two months. I knew exactly how she felt. She looked up at me and asked to go home, as if all hope had died within her.”

While his aunt recounted the incident, Saint-Martin thought of Sylvie. A good, sensible person, yet she had aspired to the conventional life of her class: parties, seeing and being seen, a successful marriage. Since Fitzroy's assault, she had come to realize she could no longer thrive in society. The rape had cast a deep shadow of shame over her and lessened her attractiveness to suitable men. Life seemed nothing but a dark abyss.

A sudden fear gripped Saint-Martin, his aunt, and Georges at the same instant. They stared at one another for a moment, then Comtesse Marie pulled a bell rope and called a maid. “Go to Sylvie's room and see if she's comfortable.”

In a minute, the maid came back. “She's not there, my lady. Shall I continue looking?” Comtesse Marie leaped from her chair, anticipating Saint-Martin and Georges by only a fraction of a second. “Paul! Check outside. The maids and I will search the house.”

Saint-Martin beckoned Georges. “To the stables! Follow me!” They ran downstairs, crossed the courtyard, and tried the stable door. Locked. “The bar drops down into a slot. Maybe I can force it out.” He slipped his sword through a narrow space between door and frame and lifted up. The door swung open and he saw her. “Go around the back way,” he whispered to Georges.

Sylvie stood in her shift on a stool, her clothes piled in front of her. She had thrown a rope over a low transverse beam and was tightening it around her neck. Saint-Martin took a step into the room, then stopped for fear of provoking her to jump. She stared at him blankly. “Go away, Paul. This is the end.”

“Stay alive, Sylvie, for the sake of those who love you. Louise and her kind are false friends. Vipers. There's much more to life than pleasing them.”

Her eyes widened but her mind appeared not to grasp what he was saying. She looked up to see whether the rope was secure on the beam. Georges crept into the room behind her. Saint-Martin, his throat parched, kept on talking. Suddenly, she gave him a faint, despairing smile, then jumped, kicking the stool aside.

At that instant, Georges leaped forward and slashed the rope with his sword. She fell to the floor, the rope coiling loosely over her. Saint-Martin felt weak in the knees, but he stumbled up to her. Georges was already easing the rope from her neck.

She clawed at his face, thrashed about, moaning, “No! No! Let me die.” They quickly restrained her and carried her into the house.

Aunt Marie met them on the way. “She's alive,” said Saint-Martin, “but desperate. Watch her constantly.”

“I'll see she gets the care she needs. There's surely a way out. She's a sound young woman.”

“Yes, dear aunt, there's hope for her.” But only a slim hope, he thought sadly. It would be difficult to save a woman who was determined to kill herself. “I want to know her progress. Write to Madame Francine Gagnon, Milsom Street, Bath. She can be trusted to pass your messages on to me.”

On the walk back to the provost's house on Rue Saint-Honoré, Georges was unusually quiet, head bent down studying the pavement. At the entrance, he leaned toward Saint-Martin and hissed through lips drawn tight with anger, “Colonel, I'm with you all the way. By God, we'll bring the bastard back to France!”