Daughters of the Storm (10 page)

‘Shall we sit down?'

William steered Sophie towards a convenient sofa in the smaller of the reception rooms, and they sat down.

‘How long are you planning to be in Paris?' he asked.

‘At least a year,' she replied. ‘I feel already that it is my second home. Of course I miss England and my parents, but less than I had imagined.'

Soon they were talking quite freely, and Sophie soon began to feel at ease with William. He enquired as to where she lived and she told him – but had the strangest feeling that, in describing High Mullions, she was describing that no longer was in her life. He, in turn, told her about his home in America and the reason for his visit. Sophie was interested.

‘You mean anyone can buy land in America?'

‘They can and they do. It is possible to make an excellent life in my country – if you don't mind hard work. We have plantation up-river and a town house in Williamsburg, and there is plenty of room for settlers.'

‘When did your family arrive?'

‘My grandparents left England after a series of misfortunes and they have never looked back. The land in Virginia is fertile, the tobacco luxuriant and our hams are famed throughout the nation.'

‘So you are a quarter English?'

William's drawl became more pronounced. ‘I like to think of myself as wholly American, Miss Luttrell.'

Although he was proud of his English heritage – for the most part - William's loyalties centred entirely on his Americanness and regarded his heritage as something which was, and would remain, in the past.

‘Nevertheless, we have something in common,' said Sophie and gave him one of her ravishing smiles. William determined there and then that he would make it his business to call on Miss Luttrell every day.

‘Have you been following events in France?' he asked, in order to collect his thoughts. ‘You may have been worried by the trouble at the Bastille.'

‘No, indeed. I am under the best protection, you know, and sufficiently in tune with what is happening to rather approve.'

‘Are you, Miss Luttrell? How very interesting. I admire that in you. It is so unusual to meet... What I mean is...' William did not wish to be rude and finished, ‘On what do you base your observations?'

‘On reading – I have been making use of my uncle's library and I have set myself a course to read through the winter – and by listening. It is not so hard to use one's wits, Mr Jones. I am sure you use yours.'

William permitted himself a wry reflection on just how important his wits were. ‘So you wish to see the king divested of his power?'

‘Dear me, no,' said Sophie, pleased that someone at last was interested in her opinions. ‘I would wish only that he rule with a parliament, like the system we have.'

William said nothing. Sophie frowned.

‘Mr Jones, forgive me, but you appear concerned. Is there something you know that we do not?'

‘No,' he answered. ‘Except to say that events, once set in train, have a habit of gathering speed and turning into something quite different. I have a feeling that France will be no exception to the rule.'

Sophie was not quite sure what the intriguing Mr Jones was driving at but he had succeeded in making her uneasy. William watched the pulse at the fusion of her collar-bone and neck and wished that he could touch the satin skin.

‘I wonder if you will be proved correct, Mr Jones,' was all she said.

‘Sophie.'

A voice cut into into their conversation. Sophie glanced up with a start. She had been so absorbed by Mr Jones that she had quite forgotten about Ned. He was leaning against the wall, watching them and taking a pinch of snuff.

‘Do introduce me, cousin,' he said.

William and Sophie got to their feet. The two men were of similar height and build. They sized each other up.

‘Ned, this is Mr Jones from Virginia in America. He has been telling me all about his country.'

‘So I see,' said Ned, making the briefest of bows.

Sophie stared at him. It was so unlike Ned to sound hostile.

‘Mr Jones is staying in Paris with Monsieur le Comte. Is that not fortunate?' she said quickly.

‘Very,' said Ned.

‘Oh, but I shall be travelling for the next few months. I plan to winter in the South and perhaps journey on into northern Spain for a while,' said William, for the first time regretting the fact. ‘I have some business there.'

‘Perhaps we shall see you when you return?'

Sophie sounded a little downcast, and Ned was quick to notice it.

‘If we are still in Paris, Sophie. We have not yet finalised our plans. Otherwise we would be delighted.'

‘Yes, but...'

Ned cut in on her.

‘It was very good of you to look after my cousin, Mr Jones, when there must be so many others you wish to talk to, but if you will permit me, it is time I claimed her back.'

William took the hint. He bowed, and Sophie could have sworn he was frowning.

‘I fear I have been monopolising Miss Luttrell,' he said politely, not at all pleased at his dismissal. ‘Perhaps we can further our acquaintance another time.'

He looked straight into her eyes as he spoke, and was rewarded by the response that leapt involuntarily into hers. Ned made no further comment.

Deciding that he did not like Ned Luttrell one bit, William took his leave and went to join the circle around de Choissy. They were discussing the unprecedented events that had taken place in the National Assembly one hot August night.

‘It was unbelievable,' declared the Chevalier de Bergère, who had been present on the occasion when, in a fit of collective madness, the nobility of France stood up and renounced their feudal rights and privileges.

‘That is all very well,' said de Choissy to his audience, ‘but have you considered the consequences?'

‘Meaning, Monsieur le Comte?' asked William, trying to work out exactly what relationship Ned Luttrell bore to the interesting Miss Luttrell.

‘Our revenues, my poor fool, our revenues,' replied his host. ‘I, for one, shall lose my moneys from the toll of the Dordogne and from the properties on the Loire.'

‘What you mean, my dear Hervé,' said an exquisite young man with a yawn, ‘is that you will have to restrict yourself to drinking the ordinary wine of the region instead of laying up a great store of vintage grape in that famous cellar of yours. Or perhaps', he added maliciously, ‘you will have to curtail the spending of your future comtesse.'

De Choissy glanced in the direction of Héloïse. She was fending off imminent abduction to the card table by some gallants who wished to avail themselves of Mademoiselle de Guinot's famous luck. Always painfully sensitive to his presence, Héloïse met his look. Then she dropped her gaze and allowed herself to be led towards the green and white card room which had been decorated with banks of foliage tied in white ribbon. De Choissy raised an eyebrow.

‘You may be right, my dear François,' he said thinly, dismissing the subject. ‘Now, Mr Jones,' he continued, tapping William on the arm, ‘let us discuss your forthcoming visit to Versailles before we rejoin the ladies.'

They moved away.

*

Ned unhooked Sophie's fan from her wrist and spread it open.

‘Who is he exactly?' he asked, examining the pretty pastoral scene depicted on it. Sophie dipped a curtsy to a very grand lady in silk brocade and sat down again on the sofa.

‘I know little more than you do,' she said. ‘Mr Jones is staying with Monsieur le Comte. I found him very interesting,' she added with a hint of mischief.

Ned shut her fan with a snap. ‘Is he?' he said lightly. ‘Well, you certainly made it obvious. I have been watching you for the past twenty minutes. You must have a care to your reputation, puss.'

‘Tiens!'
Sophie was bewildered. ‘What do you mean, Ned?'

‘I am sure my aunt will have warned you against flirting with strangers,' he replied.

Sophie relieved him of her fan. ‘Would you rather I flirted with someone I know?' she asked.

‘Don't be tedious, Sophie.' Ned's face darkened. Sophie had rarely spoken to him in such a tone and he did not care for it. ‘It is merely that you must be careful.'

Sophie was silent. She recognised Ned's expression. She recognised it because back at High Mullions she, too, had experienced just such a feeling of possessiveness, and more than a hint of jealousy, and understood a little of its nature.

He laced his fingers into her blue-gloved hand. ‘Remember, you belong to me,' he reminded her, ‘and you have the Luttrell name to uphold.'

‘I have never heard you talk in such a manner before,' Sophie said, by now thoroughly upset. ‘I did not think it mattered to you very much what I did. In fact, so attentive have you been to cousin Héloïse and to the others that I have been forced to conclude...'

Sophie fanned herself vigorously and to her horror felt tears pricking behind her eyes. She was tired and it was late and much of the pleasure had gone out of the evening.

‘There you are wrong,' he replied. ‘I mind very much. You were foolish to think otherwise.'

Sophie gazed at her lap and slowly disengaged her hand from Ned's.

‘I see. You may talk to whom you wish. What I mean is, you may visit Margaret Wainwright but I must be circumspect,' she finished in a rush.

‘What do you mean?' asked Ned. He was angry. ‘I forbid you to say any more.'

‘But it is true, isn't it, Ned?'

He neither confirmed nor denied her accusation.

‘You must not pry, Sophie.'

‘No,' she said miserably, ‘I promised myself that I would not.'

‘That is very wise of you, puss,' he said, softening, and again she caught the fleeting echo of a stronger emotion. ‘Now will you do as I say and take the greatest care?'

He bent towards her and his shadow fell across her face.

‘You are growing rather pretty, Miss Luttrell,' he teased her, ‘and I must look after you.'

Sophie closed her eyes. Ned was saying the things to her that she had wished so many times for him to say. From behind her lashes, she saw the room and willed it to memory. She also smelt the musk from a hundred bodies and tasted the wine she had drunk on her tongue – sensations that would be now forever woven into a memory of her longing for something, for someone. For Ned? She turned her head towards him, and Ned, who could never resist the sight of a female face tilted temptingly towards him, bent to kiss her. His lips pressed firm and dry against hers and she put up a hand to his shoulder. Ned leaned back with a smile.

Sophie spread her fan out to a quarter of its width. The vignette revealed on the painted silk showed a charming little shepherdess frolicking with her lover. She was looking over her shoulder while her swain held out his hand to guide her over a stile. Sophie spread the fan out to half its width. The sheep browsed peacefully on radiant fields and the sky shone with a clear blue. She spread it to its furthest extent and the scene changed abruptly. Lurking in the trees was the figure of another man, and it was he towards whom the shepherdess was extending her invitation.

There's Héloïse,' she said, to cover her confusion, for Ned had never attempted such intimacies before and Sophie had never received a kiss such as the one he had just given her. Ned got to his feet at once, and went to engage Héloïse in conversation. He left Sophie to gaze after him in some perplexity. At that precise moment her overwhelming emotions were of disappointment and confusion and she could not understand why.

In September 1789 the National Assembly in Versailles declared that all men ‘are born and remain free and equal in rights'.

Nevertheless, many of the nobles who had so recklessly stood up in the chamber to renounce their feudal dues regretted it when they reflected in the sober light of morning, and the king refused to countenance any measures that encroached on his authority or position.

The country seethed with rumours and the economic crisis was forcing hundreds of vagabonds on to the roads. Violence swept through the rural villages and towns and stalked the byways as roaming cadres of bandits swept through the countryside. The unease became pervasive..After a while, people came to talk of the time of the
Grande Peur,
when every stranger was regarded with suspicion and men took turns to stand guard over their fields. In Normandy, Hainault, Alsace, Franche-Comté and the Soane valley armed peasants attacked and despoiled the houses of their seigneurs and the rumours flew thick and fast that France was under attack from invading armies.

In Paris the struggle for existence continued. As a result of a drought which made it impossible for millers to grind their corn, bread was expensive and difficult to obtain. Bread queues became a familiar sight. They were neither quiet nor peaceful, and bakers, often in fear of their lives, requested guards to be posted outside their shops. The queues were fertile hunting grounds for agents provocateurs who slipped from quarter to quarter stirring the waters of revolution. ‘We must march on Versailles and bring back the king to the capital where he belongs. Only then will we have bread,' they said.

On October 1st a dinner was given in the opera house for the officers of the Flanders Regiment newly arrived at Versailles. The king and the queen, who held the dauphin in her arms, appeared in their box. But, later, the rumour spread that the red and blue cockade had been trampled underfoot by the royal party. . News of the royal banquet appeared in the
Courrier
on October 3rd. Unrest flamed into open rebellion.

On the morning of October 5th crowds of women gathered in the centre of Paris, desperate for food. While the tocsin rang out above the clamour, they shouted for action. Fishwives jostled with prostitutes, market-women rubbed shoulders with neatly clad bourgeoises, gauze-workers with seamstresses, the sick with the healthy, the old with the young in an unruly tide that swept down from the Faubourg St Antoine to the headquarters of the Parisian municipal authorities, the Hôtel de Ville.