Daughters of the Storm (21 page)

‘I do not know you, sir.'

‘I know you.'

‘I am not free to answer that question.'

‘Nor I to ask it, but I am asking it all the same.'

‘Then, you have commitments.'

‘I do. I had, but they are not insuperable.'

‘This is too soon,' she said, knowing she was being illogical.

‘On the contrary, Miss Luttrell... Sophie, there is no time to lose. My instincts tell me that there will soon be trouble in France. Consider: the king was forced by his nobles to summon the Estates-General. The nobles have now been ousted by an Assembly mainly composed of lawyers and petty officials. Where next? A government by
enragés
? You and I will not be immune to events, and then anything might happen.'

His words speared through the chatter. Was he right? With a sinking heart, she realised he probably was.

‘But...,' she began.

At this point, Sir Edwin Robinson rose to his feet to give a paper he had prepared on the latest debate in the National Assembly. Sophie fixed her gaze on him and tried to think. Sir Edwin droned on. He had augmented his text with heavy classical references which she found hard to follow. I must attend, she thought. I want to understand what is happening. I am, after all, part of it. But her thoughts refused to obey her, and by the time Sir Edwin had finished she could remember nothing of what he had said. She applauded dutifully and hoped that nobody would question her as to the content of the lecture.

‘Too exciting, don't you think?' said Miss Williams, her bracelets tinkling on her plump arms as she swept Sophie off for coffee in the salon.

‘Is “exciting” the right word?' asked Sophie.

‘Indeed so, my dear. The eyes of the world are on Paris. We are forging a new age.' She tapped Sophie on the arm to emphasise her point.

‘Are you not worried by the restlessness in some areas of the city?' asked Sophie.

‘Paris is always restless, is it not, Mr Jones?'

Helen included William in the conversation with another tap of her fan.

‘Dear me, I was forgetting you are a relative newcomer. The price of bread is always rising and if our friends, the deputies from the Gironde, get their way in the Assembly, then it will be quickly put to rights.'

‘But they must not be too hasty,' interjected William. ‘Each measure must be considered properly.'

Helen shot him a quizzical look. ‘The people will know their interests are being taken care of,' she said with finality.

‘Will you excuse me?' said William. ‘There is someone I must see.'

Helen drew Sophie aside. ‘Goodness,' she said in a stage whisper, ‘he is in love with you. Have you the slightest
tendresse
for him?'

Sophie shook her head, not sure whether to be amused or not.

‘Aha,' said Helen. ‘You do.' She linked her arm through Sophie's. ‘I feel that we shall be friends, my dear, even if I do have an edge – a very slight edge – in years. Promise me that you will visit me.'

‘What are you doing here?' William was speaking in an undertone to the slight man in green who had appeared at his side. ‘We agreed never to be seen in public together.'

‘You haven't paid me.'

‘Last month's accounts were paid in full. May I remind you, Chevalier, that I require results before I open my purse again.'

William was very clipped, but the Chevalier Floyd was not so easily put off.

‘I have done what you asked, Mr Jones. I have made a contact at the British Embassy and I have given you the information you require from the port at Brest. Now I want more money.'

William thought rapidly. A slippery customer, the Chevalier Floyd was one of his mistakes and he had suspected more than once that he was acting as a double agent. The man was too greedy. He was also a liability, particularly if he was going to track him down in places like White's Hotel. William decided it was time to get rid of him.

‘We will not discuss it here. Come to the Place Royale,' he said.

‘But we
will
discuss it here, Mr Jones. That is why I have come. I want a thousand livres – in coin. Otherwise, I shall be embarrassing.'

‘Lower your voice, you fool.'

William pushed the chevalier further into a corner.

‘By coming here you have reneged on our agreement. I consider our contract is now void and our association ended.'

Fury swept across the chevalier's wily face.

‘You will be sorry for this, Mr Jones.'

William's hand shot out and gripped the chevalier's arm.

‘You will walk with me to the door,' he said, ‘and you will get out of here. Do you understand?'

The chevalier shook himself free. ‘Don't bother,' he said. ‘I am going. But you will regret this, Mr Jones. I have plenty of friends at the Hôtel de Ville who will be interested to know about you. I might write them a friendly letter.'

He stopped, warned by the expression on William's face, and with a little wave vanished out of the door. A furious William stared after him – but no so angry that he discounted the chevalier's threat and he made rapid mental calculations. The chevalier's credit had run out with the British, which was why William had taken him on. Therefore, it was possible that the chevalier would trade information with the French in an effort to drum up new business. By informing on William, however, the chevalier would be forced to reveal some of his own activities which would not go down well. All things considered, it was unlikely the chevalier would carry out his threat. But he couldn't be sure.

He must be careful, watchful – and at least three steps ahead.

Sophie had been watching him. ‘Who was that man?' she asked when he rejoined them.

‘Riff-raff, Miss Luttrell. I told him to go.'

Helen twinkled up at him.

‘How observant you are, Mr Jones,' she said archly. ‘He did not look at all the type we want here.'

William's gaze did not waver.

‘I like observing,' he said and took out his snuff-box. ‘It gives me food for my journal.'

‘So you do write, Mr Jones,' interposed Sophie.

‘Touché,
Miss Luttrell,' said William, and bowed.

*

Later, lying in bed, Sophie puzzled as to why William had not admitted to keeping a journal. There were a thousand reasons why he would not have confessed. Perhaps he considered it too private a matter. Sophie understood; she herself cherished, and was comforted by, her own secret attempts at writing.

She slept at last, and in her dream she went back to High Mullions. She was up in the loft searching for her mother's wedding dress which she wanted, one day, to make over for her own. In her dream she could smell the must, and a tang of the apples stored at one end of the attic. A shaft of sun slid through the open window and trapped a hundred thousand motes, and she paused to watch their changing patterns. She turned to the neatly labelled wooden chests and read off their contents. Fans, shoes, chemises. Dresses. She prized open the lid and pushed aside the silver paper. The materials shone up at her – green, blue, peach and white that had aged into yellow. Some of the garments were beautifully embroidered. Others were stiff with brocade. She searched on until she found what she had come for – a sprigged satin of the palest green. She held it up and shook out its folds, and a shower of lavender and rosemary fell around her, releasing a spicy odour. She laughed with the excitement of it, and felt the breeze blow in from the fields, carrying with it the smell of the wild country things that she loved.

She awoke desolate. Turning on to her side, she pressed her face into the pillow and cried.

Chapter 5

‘Why won't you make up your mind?'

‘I have to think,' replied Marie-Victoire.

‘No, you don't. You've had plenty of time to think.' Pierre drew her arm into his and gave her hand a playful squeeze. ‘Come on, Marie-Victoire, be honest.'

‘I will be leaving behind all that I know.'

‘But you haven't got much,' he said. ‘Think of what you will gain.'

‘Yes...,' said Marie-Victoire.

They crossed the Pont Royal in silence. Marie-Victoire had been looking forward to their outing in the Tuileries Gardens and Pierre had promised to buy her a meal afterwards in one of the eating houses along the river quai. Marie-Victoire had sat up until late to finish sewing a short red
caraco
jacket, and she was pleased with the result. It matched the tricolour cockade which she had fastened into her cap.

The Tuileries Gardens were crowded with Parisians enjoying the spring air and Marie-Victoire exclaimed with delight at the lights suspended in the trees. A crowd had gathered round some puppeteers, families were picnicking on the benches, there were dogs being taken for a walk, and on the terraces vendors hawked liquorice water and pancakes. Pierre bought one and presented it to Marie-Victoire with a flourish.

‘Is it that man who is stopping you?' he asked.

Marie-Victoire almost choked on her mouthful.

‘Attention!
I am eating my pancake. Jacques has something to do with it, yes. I know he won't give up. He always carries out his promises.'

‘You must forget him,' said Pierre decisively. ‘I will look after you. I promise.'

‘Have you got something I can wipe my hands on?'

He proffered his sleeve.

‘What happens if we can't get work? I don't want to end up in the streets.'

‘You are young and I am strong. We'll get work. You mustn't worry.'

They stopped by the flowerbeds.

‘You would stay with me?' she asked eventually.

‘Why do you think I am asking you to come? I am not going to promise you the world, Marie-Victoire, nor can I tell what is going to happen. I have never asked a woman to live with me before, and I don't think I will again.'

Pierre started to whistle a tune. He was becoming a little impatient.

‘Don't think me foolish, Pierre, but I do worry about Madame Héloïse. She needs me.'

‘Not as much as I do. The countess can find another maid.'

‘I suppose that's right,' said Marie-Victoire with a tiny sigh.

‘Do you know, you are the prettiest girl here,' Pierre announced, changing the subject.
‘Do
you love me?'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘Then, what is stopping you?'

‘Regard,
Pierre!' Marie-Victoire pointed.

A group of National Guardsmen stood on the terrace alongside the palace. One of them carried a pipe and the other a drum. The piper began playing and his companion took up the tune. Soon they attracted quite a crowd.

‘Let's go and see,' she cried, dragging Pierre after her. By the time they reached the terrace through the parterres, an impromptu dance had begun. Marie-Victoire stood on tiptoe.

‘Come on,' she begged.

Before Pierre could protest they had joined in the dance, a new revolutionary dance called the
carmagnole.

‘Liberté!'
cried Pierre, who got quickly into the mood.
‘Egalité!'
he said, swinging Marie-Victoire off her feet.

‘Fraternité!'
she shouted back at him.

They whirled on, caught up by the music and the joy of being alive.

‘I've just thought,' she said, gasping for breath. ‘I could keep a shop.'

‘What sort?'

‘Well, clothes. Stockings, shifts, materials. The things I know about and am good at making.'

‘Not a bad idea,' said Pierre. He came to a halt. ‘In fact, it is quite a good idea.'

‘I could alter dresses and mend clothes...'

‘Brilliant,' Pierre almost shouted. ‘You are quite brilliant,

Marie-Victoire. You see, I can get you everything you need.'

‘How?' She was almost too breathless to speak.

‘I've got friends all over Paris.'

Pierre grabbed her again and they danced on, flushed with their love, excited by their idea and intoxicated by the dance.

All too soon the piper ended his tune and the drummer packed away his sticks. The dancers were disappointed and begged them to continue, but the guardsmen shook their heads. They were supposed to be manning the bridge and they were late for duty. Marie-Victoire adjusted her jacket and pulled her cockade into a more prominent position.

‘Hurray,' she shouted to Pierre. ‘I feel wonderful.'

‘Have you given me your answer, Marie-Victoire?' he said.

Marie-Victoire took a deep breath.

‘Of course I will come, Pierre. The answer is yes.'

‘You don't have to shout, Marie-Victoire. The whole world will hear.'

‘See if I care.'

‘That man won't bother you?'

‘You're right, Pierre. Let's forget him.'

‘Come on, then, Marie-Victoire, let's go and see if we can spy on the fat king and his queen through the windows.'

Hand in hand, they walked up towards the palace terrace. Marie-Victoire was awash with excitement, knowing at last that her future lay with Pierre. And she knew she would be happy – however could she not be?

Chapter 6

The de Choissy coach eased through the gateway into the Cour des Tuileries and drew up outside the palace with a flourish.

Inside, Hervé de Choissy leant forward to kiss his wife's hand. Still aching from yet another nocturnal encounter, Héloïse said nothing. Only a few more minutes and she would be free of him. De Choissy had announced that he was going on a tour of inspection to his properties in Burgundy. He was sorry, but he did not feel it was quite the right moment for Héloïse to come with him. Héloïse had toyed with the idea of telling him that she had no intention of accompanying him but decided that the gesture would have been useless.

De Choissy retained her hand longer than was strictly necessary.