Daughters of the Storm (11 page)

The tocsin clanged. This was war. . By the time the Hôtel de Ville had been plundered for arms, its cannon seized and its guards persuaded to join the march, the rabble army was over 6,000 strong.

Through Paris they surged, sweeping up anybody who lay in their path and calling to their brothers and sisters to accompany them. The streets filled with the cry of ... ‘To Versailles. To Versailles...'

Chapter 7

The recent elevation of the marquis to minister of supplies required his constant presence around the king. It was, therefore, sensible that the de Guinots removed themselves to Versailles where the marquise could organise a series of weekly dinners and maintain a firm supervision of petitioners and contacts. The move had been arranged for the first week of October. Marie-Victoire was kept busy sorting linen and supervising Sophie and Héloïse's wardrobe, and checking and rechecking chests, bags and bandboxes for which she was responsible. By the time the marquise was handed into the first of the two waiting coaches and her maid and secretary disposed beside her, Marie-Victoire was quite exhausted.

There had been no time to reflect on Jacques during the last few months, nor did she wish to. All she knew was Jacques had fled from La Joyeuse after his beating, and had apparently stolen some silver teaspoons. She knew, too, that that fact alone would ensure that he never returned, because he would like as not be hanged for the teaspoon crime. Luckily for Marie-Victoire, there had been no complications from the rape, although in contrast to the purple bruises on her body, which had faded, the memory did not.

Marie-Victoire placed a leather dressing case beside Héloïse and Sophie and climbed into the second coach. There were just the three of them. Ned Luttrell had chosen to ride by another route, declaring that he needed the fresh air. Miss Edgeworth was to remain at the Hôtel de Guinot, the marquise having informed her that the apartments in Versailles were too small to accommodate extra persons. Miss Edgeworth, it was clear, had no option but to incline her head in graceful submission, which, being Miss Edgeworth, she did.

The coach eased its way through the stone gateway and out into the street. Marie-Victoire settled back on the blue leather seat and stared out of the window, anxious to see as much as possible. The driver skirted the wall of the house and stopped to allow a cart that was slewed across the road to right itself. Suddenly Marie-Victoire pressed back into her seat and her hand flew to her mouth. Surely it could not be? She steeled herself to look again at a tall man talking to a woman in the street. There was something about the set of his thin shoulders that reminded her forcibly of the one person she did not wish to see...

The coach jerked forward. The man looked up from his conversation and Marie-Victoire gave a little hiss of relief. He was nothing like Jacques. Her imagination was playing tricks, but as the rhythmic clack of horses' hoofs steadied into a trot a refrain played through her mind.
I hate him. I
hate him
. Then, ashamed of herself, Marie-Victoire felt in the folds of her skirt for her rosary and sent up a silent prayer. But was she was praying for Jacques or herself? She looked out on the parade of street life unfolding from the carriage windows. Porters negotiated in the middle of the road. Rouged street gallants pushed their way through the crowds with outstretched canes. In several of the squares they passed the daily markets were in full swing and housewives prodded at fruit and vegetables. Marie-Victoire glimpsed bird-sellers hawking their pathetic wares, quacks offering every nostrum under the sun, jugglers, dentists, dog-gelders, and even a pickpocket sidleling through the scrum. There were wine booths on most corners, rows of lime trees, dingy hotels, stonemasons' yards, ruined churches and a range of prostitutes, beggars and children so ragged and thin that they did not appear human at all. Marie-Victoire saw it all and was humbled, and hoped that one day her failure of charity regarding Jacques would turn into forgiveness.

Settled into her side of the coach, Sophie could see much the same as Marie-Victoire, but did not pay the sights the same attention.
Her
thoughts returned time and time again to the night of Adèle's ball, but, like a tongue unable to leave off exploring an aching tooth, the memory brought no relief, only an unexplained desire to burst into tears. Bewildered by her mood, Sophie could offer no rational explanation for it and stared even harder out of the window as if to obtain enlightenment from outside. The coach slowed down at a crossroads and two little girls ran out to watch. They were so thin that the bones stuck out from their sore-encrusted bodies and matted hair straggled from oozing and balding scalps. Sophie jerked back into the present. Her heart twisted by pity and horror, she searched in her travelling case for a coin which she flung out of the window. The children dived for it, scrapping like animals, and Sophie looked away in real distress. Suddenly, she hated her fine muslin and fluttering ribbons.

Héloïse leant over and shut the window with a snap.

‘I hope they don't suffer for your kindness,' she said gently enough. ‘Someone bigger than they are might take it from them by force.'

Sophie's face registered such revulsion that Héloïse hastened to point out a particularly fine church in order to divert her. Sophie's kind heart was one of the many things she loved in her cousin. By comparison, her own often felt barren and empty. Perhaps it needed to be? Héloïse had not been encouraged to love many people in her life; and the future that faced her was very different from Sophie's. To feel too much as the wife of Monsieur le Comte de Choissy was to invite additional unhappiness. The luxury of softer emotions was something, Héloïse had decided, she must leave to others.

The coach rolled on, containing the three women deep in their private thoughts, and Paris was left behind. Once on the Versailles road there were no other vehicles to speak of and they made good progress. The coachman whipped up his horses.

Hoping to banish the spectre of Jacques, Marie-Victoire closed her eyes and opened them again abruptly when the coach swerved violently to the left throwing her on top of Sophie, who yelped as Marie-Victoire's elbow dug into her side. The coach swayed, appeared to skid and then swung to a halt, tilted at a precarious angle. Marie-Victoire managed to extricate herself from Sophie with some difficulty.

‘Are you hurt?' she asked.

Sophie shook her head and rubbed her side.

‘Are
you?'
she enquired of Héloïse.

Shaken, but in one piece, Héloïse confirmed that she was alive.

The coachman appeared at the window in a considerable state of agitation and managed to prise open the door. Héloïse gathered up the skirts of her blue travelling dress and descended gingerly.

‘Careful,' she warned.

They surveyed the scene. At this point, the roadside was heavily wooded and the overhead branches made a canopy which permitted only a little daylight to filter through. A huge branch lay across the road, and the coach's left-hand wheels lay entrenched in a deep rut by the side of the road as a result of trying to avoid it. It was obvious even to an untrained observer that it was going to take a great deal of skill and effort to right it. The coachman's mate was endeavouring to calm the horses, and failing. The coachman himself was almost incoherent and spluttering apologies. Héloïse hastened to reassure him that she did not consider it his fault, but could he apply himself to remedying the situation?

The coachman clapped his hat on his head and went to shout at his mate.

Héloïse shrugged her shoulders and sighed.

‘Alors,'
she said, and raised her eyes heavenwards.

Sophie grinned and went to stand by the horses' heads while Héloïse supervised the removal of the branch, which took a considerable time. In the end Marie-Victoire offered her assistance. Sophie talked quietly to the horses and tried to ignore the ache in her ribs.

‘Now for the coach,' Héloïse called out. ‘You had better stand back.'

Sophie and Marie-Victoire withdrew to a prudent distance. The coachman shouted an order, his mate leapt to the horses' heads and the horses strained in the shafts. The coach swayed, groaned and moved forward an inch or so.

‘Again,' ordered Héloïse.

The wheels juddered and spun, sending out little spurts of dirt and dust, but remained obstinately trapped. Deciding that there was nothing else for it, Sophie, thankful there was nobody to witness her hoydenish behaviour, hitched up her skirt as far as she dared and went to stand behind the coach.

‘You will have to help me, Marie-Victoire,' she called over her shoulder.

‘Attention,'
warned Héloïse. ‘It could be dangerous.'

Sophie spread her hands up against the bodywork and the two girls pushed until their breath failed.

‘It's no good,' Sophie panted at last. ‘We need help.'

The coachman subsided visibly and then made a gigantic effort to be positive.

‘If mademoiselle is prepared to wait,' he addressed Héloïse, ‘I will walk to the next village and get help.'

‘Mademoiselle has no other option,' said Héloïse, torn between laughter and exasperation. She was not exactly frightened at being left almost unguarded on the lone stretch of road, but the prospect was a little worrying. She looked around to see if there was any possible form of help in sight. As she did so, she caught her foot in the hem of her skirt, staggered and fell heavily.

‘Héloïse!'

Sophie ran to help her. Héloïse struggled into a sitting position and allowed Sophie to slip an arm around her shoulders. Her hair had tumbled loose and cascaded down her back and she was white with shock, but she managed a crooked smile.

‘This is becoming ridiculous,' she said when she had got her breath.

Sophie helped her to her feet and led her towards the bank where she sat her down on a large stone. Héloïse clung to her for a minute.

‘What a sight I must look,' she said shakily.

‘A damsel in distress,' said Sophie in an attempt at lightness, and searched in her pocket for a handkerchief with which she wiped Héloïse's face and hands. ‘You should fall more often, cousin, you look quite delightful.' She glanced down the road. ‘What is more,' she continued, ‘like all good damsels in the stories we are about to be rescued. There is someone coming.'

Héloïse straightened up and began frantically to arrange her hair.

‘Help me, Sophie,' she implored as a party of eight to ten riders trotted towards them.

‘Soldiers,' breathed Marie-Victoire, impressed by their red epaulettes and white coats.

The soldiers swung to a halt.

‘Can we be of assistance?' enquired a courteous voice.

One finger still twisted into her hair, Héloïse raised her eyes. Mounted on a huge chestnut stallion was a grenadier officer from the Versailles National Guard.

‘Indeed, if you would, monsieur,' she said gratefully. ‘I am Héloïse de Guinot...'

‘Mademoiselle de Guinot,' said the officer. ‘Of course, I should have recognised the arms on your coach. I am acquainted with some of your family... but are you all right?'

He swung down off his horse and came towards her, a tall, well-made man whose uniform set his figure off to advantage. He doffed his plumed hat and revealed a head of thick dark hair and a handsome, tanned face. He seemed completely in command of the situation.

‘My name is Louis d'Epinon. You must permit me to help you,' he said with a bow.

Sophie liked the look of him.

‘Thank you,' said Héloïse, vastly relieved.

Looking up, she encountered a pair of lapis-lazuli blue eyes, eyes which Héloïse knew in a flash could hold tenderness and humour.

‘I am sorry you have had this distressing experience,' said Louis, ‘but I am sure we can sort it out very quickly.'

‘It was nothing,' replied Héloïse, her spirits rising. ‘I knew it would not be long before we obtained assistance.'

‘Still, I would not like to have thought of you remaining alone for long, mademoiselle,' said Louis, who had noticed that the damsel in distress also happened to be beautiful. ‘It can be dangerous, and there are reports of rioting in some of the villages.'

‘Yes, indeed.' Héloïse was warm in her appreciation. ‘Miss Luttrell and I cannot thank you enough.'

Louis issued some orders. Six of his men dismounted and the lieutenant rode to the front of the coach to take charge, thus obliterating completely what remained of the coachman's professional pride. It took a couple of minutes to ease the coach back on to the road with the minimum of fuss and there was only a minute scratch on the bodywork to show for its mishap.

Louis made to offer his arm to Héloïse.

‘Monsieur le Capitaine,' she said. ‘Miss Luttrell and I are both so grateful. I know my father, Monsieur le Marquis, will wish to thank you in person. Perhaps you would be good enough to call on us at Versailles?'

Louis bowed.

It was an extraordinary thing but Héloïse felt a something powerful flow between them. By now, more than a little light-headed, she became intensely aware of the colour of Louis' uniform, the feel of fresh air on her face. Suddenly, too, the depression which had pulled her down was pushed aside and she a sensation that all things were possible replaced it.

Then common sense intervened.

How foolish I am, she thought. There were other things to face first, and she had been acquainted with Monsieur d'Epinon for less than twenty minutes. She gave herself a mental shake and accepted his arm. The moment passed. Louis handed her into the coach.

‘We were on reconnaissance,' he remarked conversationally, shooting a professional glance down the road, ‘and I had been warned of possible trouble in this area, so I decided with my men to take a look. I think you should continue your journey immediately, Mademoiselle de Guinot. My men will escort you – if you agree.'