Daughters of the Storm (43 page)

It was simple enough. It was then Marie-Victorie began to comprehend the nature of power. The power to control other people's lives never vanished: it merely shifted and those who could seized it.

‘And if I don't come?'

‘Do I have to spell it out?'

She thought of Héloïse and Jeanne. Surely she did not owe them this sacrifice?

Marie-Victoire looked down at her hands, then up at Maillard. She recollected Héloïse's concern for her welfare and Jeanne's tired, kind face, and she knew she could never repay them in this manner. She could never be responsible for another's danger. It was no use finding her own way, if it was the price was to ruin someone else.

Before she could reply, a bell jangled. Madame Danton's room? There was a sound of running feet. A scream rang through the apartment.

Marie-Victoire started. ‘It's madame,' she said. ‘I must go. The baby is probably on the way.'

Maillard caught at her sleeve.'No, you don't,' he said. ‘I want an answer.'

She tried to pull herself free.

‘Yes or no, Marie-Victoire?'

‘Do I have any choice?' she asked desperately.

‘None.'

‘God in heaven,' she whispered.

Maillard tightened his grip and she was jammed up against him. His fingers bore into her flesh – brusing and sure of their power. With a cry, she ceased to resist and allowed him to place a hand under her elbow. With Madame Danton's moans in their ears, Maillard hustled her through the door and out of the house.

Chapter 2

‘My dear boy, it is not that much to ask,' remarked the Comte de Choissy as he descended the curving staircase at the Hôtel de Choissy. ‘After all, you have been my guest and will continue to be so when you accompany madame my wife and Miss Luttrell to Neuilly...'

‘Of course,' said William, ‘what you say is true, and in normal circumstances I would be the first to offer. But I cannot afford to risk anything just at the moment.'

De Choissy sighed.

‘And I had grown to count on you,' he said, with more than a hint of sharpness. ‘As a friend and as a businessman.'

His words stung William. Also, it pricked his pride knowing that he was failing to observe standards of honour and friendship. But it had to be. De Choissy was dangerous, both for what he was and for the clever business speculations that William suspected that the count and his friends were engaged in. It would be an act of foolhardiness to consent to de Choissy's request to smuggle money and bonds to London en route for America – even if William could arrange it. It was not that William disapproved of de Choissy's complicated financial transactions, or his desire to safeguard his wealth. If he had been rich, he would have done exactly the same.

De Choissy was not alone. Many of the rich and better off were either speculating and many, too, were secretly transferring what they could salvage of their fortunes into sympathetic banks in Germany and Switzerland. William suspected, in fact he knew, that de Choissy was using his money to fund counter-revolutionary activities in ways that the American government would be fascinated to read about when they received his report. Not that William actually named the count – that would be to take his duties too far.

Transmitting information across the Atlantic was becoming more and more dangerous. William's carefully chosen postal drops were proving to be vulnerable, and his spy network liable to penetration by informers and revolutionaries. Thus, he dared not put too much detail into his reports in case. In the wrong hands, they would be volatile ammunition and William was determined not to stack the odds against Sophie's safety. Or his own.

Chief among his worries was over the missing packet of documents he had vanished on the day Sophie fainted. The packet had contained secret information and a list of names, including that of the Chevalier Floyd whom William had not seen since their encounter at White's Hotel. But a snippet of gossip from an agent operating in the Ministry for War had reached him suggested to William that the chevalier had not forgotten the incident. The authorities in the commune would be delighted to net in such prize intelligence as William's report and, if the chevalier had also carried out his threat and bandied William's name about in the Hôtel de Ville, then William was doubly at risk. Over and over again, he reprised his movements on that day – cursing his ineptness - and prayed that it had fallen into the River Seine.

De Choissy ushered William of the door into the courtyard.

‘Monsieur le Comte,' he began, and then stopped, appalled by the coldness in de Choissy's eyes. ‘Monsieur le Comte, if the price of your hospitality is this, then I fear I must decline making further use of you...'

He never finished his sentence, for de Choissy took his arm and hustled him out of earshot of the waiting coachman.

‘Listen to me,
mon cher.
You will be so good as to do what I ask. Others are depending on you, and I need hardly say who they are.'

William stared at him, suddenly suspicious of how much the count knew.

‘If it is money that you want' – de Choissy spoke with all the arrogance of which he, the aristocrat, had at his command – ‘there's plenty. But I urge you to think clearly about the political situation and to ask yourself, American though you are, if France is on the right road, and to consider in the light of that whether your skin is so precious. There are reasons why I wish to do this, and I will not bore you with the details, but they are good ones, my friend. Once you have accomplished your task you need never think of it again.'

William pulled on his gloves. The count was persusavie and he did, in truth, owe him much. Yet, he owed Sophie more.

‘William, I beg you to do this for me.'

William glanced up. All trace of de Choissy's sarcasm had deserted him. In its place was something else. What? An urgency? A desire to do what was best? Despair at the knowledge that the game could be up? William hesitated, torn between prudence, professional considerations and his better nature. De Choissy sensed his advantage.

‘You will do it?'

William bowed.

‘Let us say, Hervé, that I will return to Paris as soon as I need to make arrangements. We will then discuss the matter further,' he replied, hoping that it would never come to that point.

‘Bien.'
There was no mistaking the relief in the count's voice. ‘I would as lief use you as anybody.'

De Choissy flipped open the lid of his snuff box and offered to William who shook his head. De Choissy took a pinch of snuff and inhaled.

‘Now for the ladies,' the count said at last, as if nothing had passed between them. He peered in through the coach door. ‘I trust you have everything, my dears,' he said.

Wrapped in a sable rug, Sophie and Héloïse nodded simultaneously. Sophie held out her hand.

‘Goodbye, Monsieur le Comte,' she said, and gave him her hand to kiss. De Choissy patted it. Sophie had been very quiet since the recent departure of Ned, and her high spirits had vanished.

‘You must rest at Neuilly,' he said with his smooth good manners, but his eyes veered past her to his wife. ‘Goodbye, madame,' he said. ‘We will meet again soon.'

Héloïse gave him her hand and he kissed it. It trembled a little in his grasp, but she permitted him to hold it for a little while longer.

‘Goodbye, monsieur,' she said lightly. ‘I trust that you will take care.'

‘But of course,' he said, and stood back.

The coach door banged shut and the coachman sprang into his seat. The horses' breath steamed into the chill air and they pawed at the stones, restless to be off. A sharp command, and the coach began to move forward, the horses slipping on the cold flags. De Choissy raised a hand in farewell, and then disappeared.

After an anxious journey, which had involved a long wait at the
barrière
gate, the coach crossed the bridge at Neuilly and turned west towards St Germain-en-Laye. Three miles later, after negotiating some ill-made roads, and negotiating an incline, it drew up outside an elegant-looking house built twenty-five years or so ago. The drive skirted the garden and curved around to the front of the building emerging through a carved stone arch. Here, the house blazed with light and a figure stood in the entrance.

With an impatient little sound, Héloïse threw back the fur rug and strained forward to see who it was. The coach halted, the door flung open and Louis reached in. He lifted Héloïse out, and with a joyous cry she flung her arms around his neck. Louis carried her into the house and placed her gently in a chair in front of the fire in the salon. He knelt to peel off her gloves and remove her cloak, and chafed the thin fingers that stretched out to the warmth.

‘You have come,
mignonne,'
he said.

‘But of course,' replied Héloïse. ‘Did I not say I would?'

‘We will enjoy these weeks, I promise,' said Louis softly. ‘No regrets. No fears. No tomorrow.'

‘No tomorrow,' she agreed, and pressed his head to her slight breasts.

Left outside, William and Sophie drank in the quiet with a profound sense of relief. With each yard, the oppression of Paris had lifted and the nightmare receded. A peace stole over them both.

‘How wonderful,' said Sophie, relaxing for the first time in a long while. ‘How remote it feels here and untouched.'

The coach clattering into the stable yard drowned William's reply. On an impulse, Sophie lifted her skirts above her ankles and ran towards the garden. Her feet crunched over frost-sharpened pebbles in the path and left black imprints on the frozen lawn. William went after her. A panting Sophie stopped at the sundial that stood on a square of grey stone. William slid his arms around her waist. Sophie tensed.

‘Don't,' she said, terrified that she would lose control.

William released her immediately.

‘What is wrong, Sophie?'

Sophie did not reply.

‘There is something. I can tell.'

Still Sophie said nothing.

‘I don't understand.'

She willed herself to push her doubts about William to the back of her mind. Above everything else, she wished to keep this stolen time free from recriminations. And yet... and yet in her heart, she admitted to not wanting to face the truth. However hard she tried, the secret that Ned had told her preyed on her mind. It was difficult to think that one knew the person one loved... and, yet, did not to know them. It was a kind of torture which was, given what was happening in France, the height of self absorption. All the same it hurt.

‘It's nothing,' she said quickly. ‘An angel passing over my grave.'

William shivered. He bent over to kiss the junction of her chin and neck, and buried his face in the ruffles of her high-necked travelling costume.

‘Don't talk of death,' he said.

Sophie allowed herself to be turned so that he could kiss her properly. If I knew the truth I could not allow him to do this, said a little voice in her head. I cannot bear the thought of losing him but I cannot accept... what he might be.

‘I should not be taking advantage of you,' said William, his voice muffled, ‘but, then, I am always saying that.'

Sophie remained silent, but her hands crept up his body to hold him tight as if to do would banish the demons of distrust. ‘We must go in,' she said, muzzy from his kisses. ‘They will be expecting us.'

The rising moon shone on her hair and turned it silver.

‘Wait,' said William. ‘I want to give this to you.'

He searched in the pocket of his tail-coat and produced a signet ring.

‘It belongs to my family,' he told her. ‘I wish you to have it.'

The gold was yellow and heavy on the outstretched hand. Sophie picked it up. The ring was of a curious design and very ornate.

‘How beautiful, and how unusual. It must be very old.'

‘It is.'

She dropped it back into his palm and pressed his fingers over it.

‘No,' she said. ‘I cannot accept it.'

‘Then, when will you?' His voice had grown cold.

‘Please,' said Sophie, ‘give me a little more time. I need to think and I need some peace. I shall have both here. I can't make my mind up about something so important unless I have time to think.'

‘If you feel for me as I feel for you, Sophie, then you don't need time.'

She bit her lip. William was right.

‘I take it you don't feel the same?'

‘No... no... William. It's... ‘

He cut her off. ‘Remember we may not have much time. Surely you must see that we have to take our chances'

Tears sprang into Sophie's eyes, and great weariness swept over her spirit. ‘I know.'

Replacing the ring in his pocket, he said: ‘Very well, Sophie, I shall do as you ask and not press the matter. I had thought since you had sent Ned away that I could hope...'

He didn't finish the sentence and his obvious anger and disappointment lay heavily on her heart. Her sadness was quickly followed by spurt of irritation directed at herself and her lack of honesty. Why did she not tackle the subject? Why not sort it out?

Because she dreaded the answers?

‘Have you done what I requested?' William changed the subject and retreated into a formal manner, ‘and destroyed all your political writings?'

‘Yes, I have.'

‘That was sensible.'

‘I've desisted from writing any more since you last talked to me.' Sophie hesitated. ‘I feel a little ashamed. I was dabbling in things that I knew nothing about.'

‘So you do trust me?'

Her eyes flew to his face. ‘Why yes.'

They were retracing their steps to the house.

‘I admire that in you,' he said, to her surprise. ‘I think we should hold views and we should express them. Only now, and in this country, it is unwise and dangerous. When... if... you come to America I predict you will start a new tradition of lady writers.'