Deceit (17 page)

Although I know it may put her in danger yet, Jeanne must have the ring. Nicholas may yet pursue me, for he will not know I no longer keep my daughter by my side, but may he be kept at bay long enough for Jeanne to be full grown into the strong and resourceful young woman I know she will become under Martha’s care and example. Then, she may have a chance of evading Nicholas’s clutches. I cannot abide the thought of the harm that could come to her, but who knows which of Jeanne’s descendants might be the one who can open the casket and fulfill the prophecy?

I leave Martha a note. She can read and even write a little. I say that I will send word, if I can, through Annie and Luc that I am well. Then I gather up my few things and some food and drink for the journey. From the purse tucked for safe keeping under the mattress, I take half the money that Martha stole from Nicholas and I go out into the street. In the March of next year Christophe’s baby will be born. So I must hope to be in Montmorency for the 19th day of December, the anniversary of Christophe’s father’s death where, God willing, I will meet at last with Christophe’s family.

T
here was pandemonium the minute Claire and Micky appeared on deck of the barge. Jacalyn had started to climb over the rail of the river police boat. There had been a great roar of: “Don’t shoot!” and, “Stop that bloody stupid woman!” But they hadn’t managed to stop her, not even Dan was fast enough, and he was only just behind her.

All Jacalyn’s circus skills came into play and in one gravity-defying jump she was on the deck of the barge. “You are safe!
Et Micky aussi!
” Jacalyn flung her arms around Claire and hugged her and then she hugged Micky, who’d been hiding behind her sister, but was still too shocked to object. Much.

“Who are
you
?” hissed Micky. “How do you know who I am? You’re not some crazy foreign
friend of
hers
are you?” She was scowling at Lindsay, whose legs seemed to have given way. She had slumped down and her back was resting on the side of the barge. Her neck was marked with livid purple bruises and her face was smudged with exhaustion.

“
Non
. I am a friend of your sister.”

“And you have the same rings…”

Well
, Claire thought,
Micky’s death and rebirth hadn’t affected her powers of observation one little bit!
That was brilliant, but what would she remember later, when she was safe at home, and after a good night’s sleep?

“Is yours a key to that box as well?”

Jacalyn looked shocked, not because of what Micky had said, but because, out of Micky’s mouth, she could clearly see a little shimmer of blue dust glinting in the dawn light. Jacalyn’s head snapped round to look at Claire… “
Que Diable?
” Claire’s finger went up to her lips. “Later. I’ll explain everything later.”

In three days’ time it will be the 19th of December and the anniversary of the death of Christophe’s father’s, but there is no sign yet of Christophe’s family in Montmorency. I am told that their little troupe of rope-walkers, tumblers and jugglers has been coming to the town at this time for as long as anyone can remember. The landlady at the house where I am staying says that they are as much a part of the festivities that lead up to the great Christmas holiday as the singing of carols. And some even remember the death of Christophe’s father; how he fell from the rope in the market place. So all I can do is be patient, keep hopeful and wait, as I have been doing since I arrived here four months past.

I left Paris on foot by way of the Rue Saint Denis and the Porte du Temple. Montmorency is not far… a little over nine miles from the city and a day’s walk, though the road is deeply rutted, baked hard by the summer sun and difficult to traverse without fear of turning an ankle. Also there were many carriages and carts travelling out from Paris and, being anxious not to draw any
attention to myself, I slipped off the road into the fields and walked parallel to it, hugging the hedgerows.

It was my very good fortune that the weather was kind. There were clouds at first, but not the sort that presage rain and soon the sun came out and the sky turned the colour of lavender. Such was the heat then that my ankles began to swell and I had to stop and rest. It was only as I lay in the shade, my back propped against the great trunk of a horse chestnut tree, that I felt the full force of my misery at losing Christophe and leaving Jeanne and Martha. I feel it every moment of every day still, and know that though the pain will ease, it will never truly disappear, which is how it should be.

I reached Montmorency late in the afternoon and took lodgings. I felt some satisfaction in knowing it was Nicholas’s money that paid for my room! And I even found work in the kitchen of a large house just off the market square. It was hard work and long hours, but at least I was fed and warm and there were people I might gossip with. For I speak the language well now, and that has been a blessing.

Also, as I start work before first light and finish late, darkness keeps me safe from the prying eyes of others… such as Nicholas… who might pass through the town. But my sixth month belly is proving harder to hide, and because my baby keeps me awake half the night with its sharp little elbows and hard heels, I am always yawning and longing for sleep!

Now it is midday on the 18th day of December. I am scrubbing pots and pans at the water pump when the cook’s small son Guillaume comes tumbling and breathless into the yard. “They’re here. They’re here! The poles and rope are set up in the market place!”

As if the baby senses something momentous is about to happen, it starts turning inside me and kicking with such vigour I feel that my innards will fall out at any minute! I quickly untie my apron and take Guillaume’s hand, then we run helter-skelter towards the square.

There is a little crowd already gathered there, so we have to push and elbow our way to the front. A man with long dark hair and heavy-lidded eyes is juggling flaming torches. A troupe of three
young men are leaping and tumbling over each other. And a young fair-haired boy is walking and somersaulting on the rope. My heart flutters up into my throat. He is the very image of Christophe.

I let go of Guillaume’s hand to move closer in. A woman wearing a loose-fitting pleated dress, with a drape tied at one shoulder, approaches. Her hair is wrapped up in a scarf and she wears a single tiny gold earring in the form of an ankh. An Egyptian symbol, which, Nicholas told me, means life. She is holding out a bowl to me, shaking it to make the coins jingle. But now she is standing stock-still and staring and her mouth has fallen open and there are high spots of colour on her cheeks. She looks angry.

Her hand shoots out and grabs at Christophe’s ring hanging on its red braid around my neck and tries to pull it off. She must think I have stolen it and is so angry that at first she does not hear me when I say Christophe’s name. So I repeat it over and over until her hand falls from my neck and we look at each other for a moment and then she sees that I am with child… and have red hair. And I see how like Christophe she is and I know she must be his mother.

I am sitting with her inside her little covered wagon. She holds my hand, palm upwards in hers, and is tracing the lines on it with her finger. She looks sad and pulls me in close to her. A stove is lit and we are warm and comfortable and I feel a great sense of peace as I tell her my story: every single thing that has come to pass. And by the time I am finished, it is almost dark.

Whatever terrors the future may still hold for me, here at least, with Christophe’s family, the baby in my belly will be safe. And when she is old enough, she will wear Christophe’s ring. She will take her place as a guardian of the spells and pass on the ring to her daughter or son when it is time. Knowing this, it feels as if a great weight has at last been lifted from my shoulders.

You know, all the while I am out selling the silver I’m worried about leaving Margrat. Her mood is very black. Blacker even than when her baby boy was stillborn. I hurry as best I can, but not speaking above a few words of the French
language makes it difficult. I do get a good price for the silver in the end, so now I know that there will be enough money to get us all safely out of Paris, to the coast and across to England. After that… well, we will be in the Lord’s hands. And that is worrying me, because my knees are bruised from praying for help and forgiveness but getting none.

There, I’ve said it aloud. The last year has been a sore trial of my faith. I know I’m not the innocent young girl I once was. I’ve taken a man’s life. I am a thief and a liar now also. But what choice did I have in any of this? And lying to Ralf about working again for the Doctor; leaving him banging on the door to Darke House as I slipped away along the river! Sending no word to him as to where I had gone. Well it must have hurt Ralf badly.

But when Margrat told me he was heading for Amiens, my heart did soar. I had hope. He will come looking for me! Then I thought, be sensible Martha, he will not know where you are. No, he is in France for work. It isn’t the first time he’s been here after all. He even speaks a little of the language. And besides, my duty now is to
Margrat and Jeanne. I must look to their safety first.

Jeanne is starting to fret by the time we get back to the lodging and however much I jiggle her up and down she will not be quiet. I give her my finger to suck, but it does not stop her crying. Perhaps she knows something is wrong as I do, in my heart.

I take those stairs up to the garret so slowly I am almost standing still. I call out Margrat’s name as I push open the door, but there is no reply. The room is empty and there is only her ring left on the pillow and a note hastily written and smudged with tears: ‘
I will send word to Luc and Annie when I am safe and the baby is born. My everlasting gratitude to you and dearest love for Jeanne
.’ But I know in my heart, that though I might hope to hear from her, I will never see her again in this life.

I sit down heavily on the bed. Jeanne is inconsolable and making the most heart-breaking noise, her little face screwed up in misery. I want to run away. I do, honestly. The weight of responsibility placed on me feels as heavy as lead. How will I cope with a baby that is not yet
weaned? I go down on my knees again and pray for some help and perhaps my prayers are answered this time, because a little voice inside me says,
You are strong and you can bear it
.

From the first moment I clapped eyes on Margrat at Darke House, I knew it was my role in life to care for her. So I take a very deep breath and say out loud, trying to sound strong and purposeful, “Pull yourself together, Martha! Think! What must you do next?” The answer comes swiftly enough, and I head at once to the theatre.

Annie only has to look at my face to guess that something terrible has happened. She takes Jeanne out of my arms and puts her to suckle and the silence that follows is a little miracle. Then, once Jeanne is content and sleeping, Annie fetches me a glass of brandy, gesturing that it will calm me. Well, the way it burns my throat as it goes down certainly brings me to my senses, and with the help of a little mime, my few words of French and Annie’s greater knowledge of English, I am able to tell her what has happened.

Well, Luc finds someone willing to take his place at the theatre and he goes out to look for
Margrat. First to the graveyard where Christophe was buried, then to ask at the city gates if a
red-haired
woman had been seen passing through… on foot or by carriage. He is gone a long while, but finds no sign of her anywhere.

So there is only one thing I can think of to do. I must go to Amiens. Ralf had been on his way there when Margrat caught sight of him. I will have to pray that he is still there, and that if he is, he will help me. I have treated him worse than a mangy dog and now I want his help! What if he is not there or refuses me? I resolve that if this is so, I will travel on alone with Jeanne and hope to find a way across to England.

But first I must ask Annie if she will come with me to Amiens… perhaps as far as the coast. Nurse Jeanne for me alongside her own baby Tomas, until Jeanne is weaned. Annie and Luc look at each other and some unspoken communication passes between them, then Luc nods his head. Yes, they will help me.

And so, the very next day, there we are, about to board the post coach to Amiens. Well, to be truthful, Annie is already in the coach with Tomas
and I have just passed Jeanne to her and am about to climb up when, for some reason, I look back over my shoulder and I see
him
. Or rather I do not see the Doctor… but his coach. There is a flash of something at the window. A face… but I can’t be sure that it is his. And anyway how could he be out of his bed with so many broken bones? Perhaps that is a stupid question to ask when he has such great power over so many things.

Someone jumps down from the Doctor’s coach and is walking towards us. And I recognise him even at a distance. Monsieur Jean-Michel Berard. He has called at the Doctor’s house often and has something to do with the prison… the Bastille. He speaks almost perfect English and he thought it was very funny, the first time we met, to try and scare me out of my wits with his talk of how the Devil walked the streets of Paris and preyed on young women. Huh! I have lived in the Doctor’s shadow for a long time and it would take more than idle talk of the Devil to scare me!

But I am scared he might recognise me and might even have heard about the stolen silver! Supposing I am arrested and thrown into the Bastille? So I pull myself up into the coach…
then slip out again on the other side and make myself invisible in the crowd.

Monsieur Berard spends what seems like an age talking to the coachman. The horses are becoming jittery and I am too. But then he turns and heads back towards the Doctor’s coach and I am able to slip back in next to Annie who says, “He looks for Margrat!”

You can imagine how happy I am when the coach starts moving and we pass out of Paris by the Porte St Denis, on our way to Amiens at last.

When I first catch sight of the cathedral at Amiens it is still a long way in the distance. The coach rumbles on across a flat marshy plain, dotted with hamlets and crossed by rivers and streams. With every mile, the cathedral seems to grow in size, so that when we have just one mile further to travel, the cathedral looks truly enormous, bigger than anything I have ever seen in my life.

It towers over the town. The houses look huddled against it for protection, like a child hides in its mother’s skirts. It makes me feel a little afraid, but not in a bad way. Now I feel a tingling shiver of excitement down my back. I shake Annie
awake so that she can look at it. But she just yawns and falls back asleep. Well, she is feeding two hungry babies now, so how can I complain? But even she is amazed when we step down from the carriage and look up at the great cathedral walls that are so high they must touch the heavens!
I gesture that we should find somewhere quiet nearby where Annie can rest with the babies while I go looking for Ralf. Annie shakes her head, wags her finger and says, “
Non!
” She takes hold of my arm and will not let me out of her sight. So we walk around the outside of the cathedral until we come to a place where there are men working high up on wooden scaffolding.