Taking Liberties (32 page)

Oh dear, scrambling nets.

But he had thought of everything. Tobias, Alphonse, Mathurin, even
La Petite Margot
's captain had to scramble; the Dowager was winched aboard with a bosun's chair and dignity.

A table set for two and lit by silver candelabra stood on the quarterdeck.

She was introduced to Pierre, to Raoul, Laurent, Félix . . . some faces could have adorned a wanted poster, others a church choir. ‘Bilo is our chef tonight. A bad cook, I fear, but a good gunner.'

‘Good evening, Bilo.' Pink scars on a black skin, startlingly white teeth.

‘Madame.'

‘Take the lady's cloak and hat, Alphonse.' To Diana he said: ‘But this is my
salle à manger
. It is a warm night, you do not wear a hat. I like your hair by moonlight.'

Her hat and cloak were taken below. Tobias went with them, to eat with the crew. Her chair was held for her by Mathurin, a white linen napkin flourished and set across her lap. Pale wine was poured into crystal glasses as fine as any she'd seen. ‘From my own vineyard. ' They might have been tête-à-tête in a dining room at Versailles, except that the ceiling was stars and the walls were cliffs and a twinkling village and infinite sea.

The first course was pickled beef in near-transparent slices with melon ‘grown by the good Ralph Gurney'. He explained the process of the beef's pickling but had trouble translating some of the terms.

‘You may speak French,' she told him. Her French was considerably better than his English, good though it was.

‘You know French?'

‘In my family one is considered uneducated if one does not.'

‘Ah, the English aristocracy.'

‘Yes.' And
because
she was an aristocrat, she said politely: ‘Have you been a smuggler long?' Which made him laugh.

‘No, I was a lawyer.' Which made
her
laugh. ‘And my sons are lawyers.' He had three children, two sons and a daughter; Geneviève was in a convent, finishing her education.

‘And does Madame de Vaubon approve of your present occupation? '

‘My wife is dead,' he said. ‘Thirteen years ago while I was in prison.' He shrugged at her expression. ‘But it is an honour for a lawyer to be imprisoned by King Louis—the Fifteenth, of course, not our present gracious monarch. Not nice, but an honour; it showed I fought on the side of the angels. You see, I had the privilege to defend those who attacked the corruption and abuses of tax collectors and who urged that the administration be accountable and open to public scrutiny.'

‘And you were put in prison for it?'

He shrugged. ‘I was good at it. Unwise of me. I could even have put up an excellent defence at my own trial, except that there was no trial. Instead, a
lettre de cachet
.' He drew his forefinger across his throat. ‘No trial, just imprisonment at the King's command.'

Their plates were taken away and a beautiful lidded salver put on the table. Another glass; this time the wine was golden.

‘Bilo is giving us bass,' de Vaubon said, ‘I asked him and he said he would. He is very temperamental.' He lifted the salver's lid and sniffed the steam. ‘Not bad. He has left it simple. Caught today and just a hint of herb. Do you cook? You should. I am a superb cook. When I retire I shall do nothing else.'

She looked around, trying to trap some normality from the night—and found none. Strange enough to be on an enchanted boat on an enchanted sea, without sharing an enchanted meal with a kaleidoscope.

It was necessary for her to place him in a class she could recognize but he kept eluding her. The quality of everything around her argued taste. In that, at least, she thought, he is a gentleman. The ‘de' of his name suggested a seigniory in his background, he had his own vineyard, yet he spoke with the thick accent of Normandy. He ate like a peasant, but most French nobility did. Since the middle classes of France had discovered table manners, its aristocracy had abandoned them as bourgeois.

Now a cook.

‘How did you get out of prison?'

‘My father, poor old man, he bought me out. He was very rich, my father.'

Ah
.

‘He was a butcher.'

Oh
.

‘He was a very good butcher. He began with a stall in a market, he bought some cattle with the profit, he bought some land for the cattle, more land, more cattle . . . he became very rich, a château or two, a house in Paris, horses.'

And all of it had gone in buying his son's release from the Bastille: ‘Which was procured on condition that I stayed on my lands in Normandy for the rest of my life. But there were no lands—Papa had sold them for my sake. And Papa was dying and my wife was dead.'

He said it almost casually but the Dowager decided that, given the choice, Louis XV would have wisely chosen the smallpox that killed him rather than fall into the hands of Guillaume de Vaubon.

The vegetables were served separately, French fashion. ‘Lightly cooked, you see. You English boil them until they surrender.'

‘So then you became a smuggler.'

‘Why not? I had my children to feed. And I am an excellent sailor.'

You appear to be an excellent everything, she thought. But, then, you probably are. He had . . . she found it difficult to pin down . . . a grown-upness—maturity was too smooth a quality for it—that was missing from Englishmen. He wasn't modest; he wasn't immodest. He wasn't trying to impress her, he was being factual. She could see the lawyer in him. It might be that the Bastille had stripped away any pretence or pretension, though she suspected he'd been born without either. She couldn't imagine him as a child.

‘I was a happy small boy,' he told her when she asked, and spoke of sailing the dinghy his father had given him when he was six along the white, sand-hilled coast of the Cotentin where his father had his favourite estate of Gruchy.

‘The château went in the sale to buy my release,' he said. ‘I have bought it back since. It is very nice, you know.' He jerked his head towards the village. ‘Jan and the lads will tell you. It is where they come to pick up the contraband.' He put an elbow on the table and cupped his chin in his hand. ‘Shall we go there?'

She felt a stir of panic. ‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘We are at war. I would be betraying my King and country.'

‘You cannot betray King and country,' he said. ‘They are institutions. You can only betray people.'

‘You are going to war for
your
King.'

‘Good God, no,' he said, sitting back, ‘I am not fighting Louis's war. I would not. I shall be fighting
with
him, not for him. Do you like the ragoût?
Viande-ragoût
, my own recipe.'

She hadn't noticed she was eating it. Stop it, she thought, stop feeling like this for a butcher's son who cooks. ‘Who
are
you fighting for, then?'

‘America.' He seemed surprised she should ask. ‘America must win. When she has won her revolution and thrown off her King, the French revolution begins and we throw off ours.' He leaned back to address Heaven, displaying a magnificent throat. ‘Thank you, thank you, the good God, for making Louis so magnificently, peerlessly stupid as to come in on America's side.' He allowed his chair to tip forward again and downed his wine. ‘Ridding America of her King gives us carte blanche to get rid of him. He has signed his own death warrant.'

She said coolly: ‘And that's a good thing, is it?'

‘How not? You killed one of your kings and were better for it.'

‘We replaced him with his son.'

He dismissed that. ‘Yes, but the English are mad.' He leaned on his elbow again, bringing their faces closer. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘Here? You invited me.'

‘There.' He jerked a thumb upwards. ‘In that eagle's nest. Spettigue says you are recently widowed. Are you a hermit, in grief for your husband?'

‘Of course. We were married over twenty years.'

His mouth went down in a caricature of disbelief and he rocked his head. ‘Tell me who you are. I want every detail, from birth.'

Such a colourless story compared to his, she thought. Beautiful, unconcerned, absent parents, a life in the charge of servants and governesses. A father who'd no more think of selling his all to get her out of prison, as had de Vaubon's, than falling on his sword. Indeed, had sold her into one.

A monochrome life, its only warmth provided by two sunlit summers in Torbay. So she told him about those, which led on to Lieutenant Forrest Grayle and the Millbay hospital though, for the honour of her country, she did not tell him how awful it was. ‘It's a political matter, I'm afraid,' she said, lightly. ‘There can be no exchange for rebels.'

‘You care for this boy?'

‘He is touching.'

He was watching her closely. ‘If you like,' he said, ‘we can go now and fetch him. Sail in, direct my guns on the prison, sail out.'

She smiled—until she saw he meant it. ‘Oh no,' she said, ‘we couldn't do that.'

He wagged a finger at her. ‘You care too much for patriotism, honour and such rubbish. You know why they breed it into you? To keep you bound, so that you will do what they say. Die for
La Patrie
, my good fellow. So off you go to die like a good fellow—but you find you are dead, not for country but for them. Shit to it. Fight for a good idea, fight for justice and equality, even fight for money, but not for them. Good, here are the kidneys. Gurney killed some sheep for me. Sometimes Bilo is mean with the wine for them but . . . no, not tonight. This one comes from the Languedoc.'

‘I don't want them, thank you,' she said.

‘Because I said patriotism was shit? Try them.'

He stuffed his mouth full and waved a fork at her. ‘And women suffer the most, you know. Honour, sacrifice, duty, all of it to keep you down. Keep us fed, keep us clean, keep us warm in bed, have our babies but have no say in your governance, not one word against us. We can beat you without punishment . . .'

She could have sworn she hadn't even blinked.

‘I am sorry,' he said, quietly.

‘You are spraying gravy,' she told him in English.

Mathurin was at his elbow. ‘
Pardon, chef. La mer est étale
.'

He tapped at his mouth with his napkin. ‘
D'accord
.' He turned to Diana. ‘I regret we do not wait for dessert. So sad.
Tarte aux pommes à la Normande
, the
pâte brisée
sugared and with egg yolks.'

‘Your own recipe?'

‘Of course.'

She had to thank the cook. Bilo came on deck with Tobias, both of them amiably breathing brandy fumes. She apologized for having no money on her with which to tip the crew but de Vaubon said: ‘No matter, we steal some from the English navy.'

Before she got into the bosun's chair, he said: ‘It is your last chance to come with me.'

She needed to carry something away from the night, so she found herself saying: ‘Why do you want me to?'

‘Because you are very brave. Because you are alabaster and still and sad, like Galatea before life was breathed into her.'

Serve her right for fishing. ‘And you are Pygmalion, I suppose.'

He lifted her into the chair. ‘I am a wonderful life-breather.'

She thought they would say good-bye then, but she had a little while longer with him. ‘A gentleman always takes the lady to her door.'

They sat together in the stern of the rowing boat as Alphonse and Mathurin pulled for T'Gallants's cliff. All the way he told of what she was missing. ‘My cooking. The revolution. We will give you the vote, you know. Women will be free as never before.'

The entrance slit to the shaft cavern was so well hidden that she didn't see it until he got up to lift it. Inside the cavern, he sent Tobias up first. While Alphonse and Mathurin were pulling the ropes, he said, quietly: ‘Did your husband buy Tobias?'

‘Yes.'

‘Now he is dead, should you not both be free?'

She didn't know what he was talking about.

‘The collar,' he said. ‘The man wears the slave collar.'

She was so angry she could barely speak. ‘Good night. I shall go up alone.'

But when the platform came down, he stepped onto it with her. ‘You will be sorry, you know, if I am killed in this war.'

‘No, I won't. You are unwarrantably rude.'

‘Yes, you will. My bloodied body will be brought to you and you will unfasten your hair and spread it over my face as you weep.'

‘Damned if I do,' she said.

The door to the Great Hall stood open. Tobias had made himself scarce.

He will kiss me, she thought.

And he did, a brief peck on both cheeks. ‘If I kiss you properly, I shall miss the tide.' He sighed, as if it were a chore. ‘I suppose I shall have to come back to do it.'

Then he shouted down the shaft to his men, and was lowered into the darkness.

She stood at the wreckers' window, watching the cove until
La Petite Margot
's sails unfurled, like a black rose coming immediately into bloom. Square-rig and fore-and-aft on both masts, she thought. Crew, forty; cannon, sixteen. Which he will fire on my countrymen. He is the enemy, a butcher's son. If he continues to eat like he does, he will be fat. I'm well rid of him.

She waited until the sails were lost in the darkness, then took herself off to bed, kicking the chair-door back into place as she went—but leaving it unbolted. In case he came back.