Tender the Storm (4 page)

"He's being rebellious?"
mused
Zoë absently. It was more of a statement than a question.

"Need you ask?"

A look of amused comprehension passed between them.

"Shall I see him before I go?"

"It's not possible," answered Claire. Her attention was taken with the preserved fruits which were artfully arranged in a pedestal dish on the center of the table.' Selecting a plum, which she scrutinized carefully, she went on,
'You
must leave within the hour. Leon could not leave the school without occasioning comment."

Zoë swallowed the lump which had become lodged in
her throat. She felt that she was living through a nightmare. She wished she could waken from it and find herself in her own chamber, in the house in St. Germain, and with her family restored to her.

When she could find her voice, she asked, "What news of Mama and Papa?"

"They are well," answered Claire quickly.
Too quickly.

"And?" prompted Zoë.

Claire shrugged helplessly. "They've been moved from the
Abbaye
." At Zoë's stricken look she added quickly, "Don't look like that, darling! It's not the Conciergerie. They're in the prison of Les
Carmes
."

"Oh God!
What does it mean?"

"Nothing," interposed Claire.
"Nothing at all.
I shouldn't have told you. You're not to worry about it, do you understand? We have friends who are working on their behalf. Things are not quite hopeless yet, Zoë."

"You're right, of course," said Zoë, trying to wipe the despair from her voice.

"That's better, darling. Now eat, if you please. There's not much time, and you have a long journey ahead of you."

Zoë did not return Claire's smile. The unasked questions which teemed inside her head were being answered in ways she could not like. For two months, they had kicked their heels in Rouen. If their father had friends who were supposed to help them, they would never have known it. No one approached them. They were coming to accept that they would have to remain as they were until the storm in France had passed. Now, suddenly, there seemed to be no end to the help they could call on. Why?

Scraping back her chair, Zoë burst out, "Why are you here, Claire? Where did this food come from? Is it true what they are saying?"

"Dearest! Don't upset yourself like this! What should I be doing here? Papa has powerful friends. Didn't he tell us so? I'm here as a guest of those friends, nothing more."

For a moment, it seemed as if Zoë would pursue that subject. But there was something in her sister's stare which made her own eyes fall away. In a more subdued tone, she said, "This Philippe of whom you speak. Is he Philippe Duhet?"

"He is," admitted Claire. "What of it?"

Zoë's eyes flew to Claire's. "He's one of Robespierre's commissioners. Surely he can never be a friend to us?"

"He's been bribed," answered Claire. "That's all you need to know."

"And you trust him?"

"I trust him for the simple reason that he has yet to be paid in full. Now eat while I tell you what you may expect."

Zoë toyed with her food. She felt miserable. "I'm not a child, Claire," she said, interrupting her sister's flow of conversation. "I am seventeen years old. I have a right to know exactly what is going on."

For a moment, Claire hesitated. Her expression became grave. Her eyes touched on Zoë and slid away. Suddenly, she laughed. "I've told you as much as I dare in the circumstances," she said lightly. "The less you know, the less you can betray to the authorities if you are ever questioned. And as for you not being a child, what makes you say so?" Her eyes were alight with cajolery as they swept over Zoë's slight form.

Zoë shifted uncomfortably. She could not deny that she looked the part of a schoolgirl. Under the short, frilled frock with its high neckline, her small breasts were flattened with a binder. Black
stockinged
calves and ankles peeped from beneath the frilled hem of her gown. Her long hair was swept back with a ribbon. No one looking at her would take her for more than the child she purported to be.

Her gaze shifted to Claire. Her sister's
beauty, her femininity, were
indisputable. Even if they were to change roles and clothes, every man's eyes would still be drawn to Claire.

Their mother had been highly sensitive of this unpalatable fact. It was for that reason she had chosen to hide her daughters in a girls' school under the watchful eye of Madame Lambert. And still the ruse had not succeeded.

Philippe Duhet, Robespierre's commissioner, had offered Claire
carte blanche.
And it had been accepted. In her heart of hearts, Zoë knew the rumor was no idle tale. And the price of her sister's sexual favors was not jewels or fine clothes for herself, but refuge for the people she loved best in the world.

Blinking back tears, Zoë managed a tremulous smile. Matching Claire's light tone, she
essayed,"I
may not be as beautiful as you, Claire, but thank God I don't have your red hair."

Zoë could almost hear the hiss of Claire's relief as she slowly exhaled. The awkward moment passed. Both girls chuckled at this long-standing family joke.

"I'm ready to listen," said Zoë, picking up her knife and fork. "Tell me what I may expect as I eat." The food almost choked her as she forced it down. She ate for only one reason—to gratify Claire. It seemed a small recompense for everything her sister had lost.

As he pushed through the doors of the Hotel
Crosne
, Rolfe deliberately schooled his features into a cold, dispassionate mask, as befitted one of the commissioner's deputies. Outside, on the quay, a detachment of citizen soldiers, undisciplined, newly pressed into service, stood around awkwardly, waiting for his order to mount up. They were a motley crew and, for that very reason, suited his purposes admirably. His own man, the one he had been assigned to conduct to a safe house in Coutances, would melt into their ranks without occasioning suspicion. Fleetingly, he allowed his eyes to touch on the gentleman in question.

Housard was in his mid-thirties, stocky of build, and he held the reins of the caleche, which had been seized from some absentee aristocrat's coachhouse, as if he were born to it. Rolfe had been given to understand that the man had once followed the profession of law. It was fortunate, Rolfe was thinking, that he seemed to have some experience with horses. On this jaunt, he would have need of it. Because of the girl, it would take
them
three days instead of the anticipated two to reach the coast.

Impatiently, his gaze searched the interior of the closed carriage. "Where's the girl?" he asked abruptly,
addressing his question to one.
of
the young conscripts.

The boy shrugged his shoulders in a telling gesture.

Annoyance rippled through Rolfe. He uttered a low expletive. This was one assignment he had tried to beg off. He had no wish to play nursemaid to a whimpering child. But his contact, Tinteniac, had persuaded him to accept it when he had pointed out that the child would very likely become a victim of the guillotine if she remained in France. Rolfe could not hold out against that argument. Nevertheless, he was not pleased with this turn in events.

He had almost made up his mind to go and search for the dilatory wretch when she descended the front steps. She was alone, which surprised him. Rolfe had half-expected Duhet's mistress to take a tearful farewell of the girl. There must be some connection between them. Duhet, himself, had set the child's escape in motion. It was Duhet who had arranged for the girl to meet with his mistress for this final
leavetaking
. And it was Duhet who had provided the letters of authority which would take them all the way to Coutances.

The child halted only a step away from him. The top of her head was level with his chin. One quick upward glance from beneath the brim of her bonnet was
all that
she chanced before staring submissively at the toes of her wooden clogs. Something stirred deep inside Rolfe. With her huge, expressive eyes, the child had the look of a wild thing cornered by hunters.

"Mount up," bellowed Rolfe, before he betrayed himself by some rash act. A show of compassion from one of the commissioner's deputies would only invite comment. "You, inside," he barked out, gesturing
to the girl.

At the rough tone, her eyes widened fractionally before she hastened to obey him. He followed her into the carriage and settled himself on the opposite banquette. A moment later, the coach rolled into motion.

The child was terrified of him. That much was obvious from the way her eyes stared resolutely at the gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap. The small leather grip, which had seen better days, was set to one side of her, whether consciously or unconsciously, as an obstacle to anyone who thought to sit next to her.

God, he hated the role he must play. He wanted to reassure the child that the red cap on his head was as hateful to him as it was to all right thinking people. He wore it as a badge of intimidation, nothing more. He maintained a reluctant silence. Between Rouen and Coutances there were many check points. It was essential, that the girl keep to an attitude of distrust until detection was no longer a possibility.

His eyes lingered on her bent head. Damn! He could not simply let her sit there in abject misery. Moderating his tone, he said, "Were you told that I am to escort you to Coutances?"

Her head bobbed an affirmative.

"Were you told why?" he asked patiently.

Her eyes lifted and became fixed on his cravat. "Yes."

Rolfe was aware that the child did not know whether he was friend or foe. He decided that, private as they were, there could be no harm in testing her powers of deception. "Why are we going to Coutances?" he asked.

Finally, she gave him a direct look. "I am to identify a man who is in custody, my father's cousin, Jean Guery. He is an enemy of the Revolution."

She had given the official reason, the one which was inscribed in his letters of authority. Rolfe nodded his approval.
"Quite so.
And once you have done this, you will be returned to Rouen." Her small white teeth bit down on her bottom lip. "Child, you have nothing to fear," he said in
a calm
, reassuring tone.

"I'm not afraid," she countered, but her eyes darted away from him, affecting an interest in the passing scenery.

With an audible sigh, Rolfe closed his eyes. What more could he say to relieve her of her fears? He knew what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her that he was an English gentleman —an aristocrat, for God's sake —who had been raised from the cradle to treat the gentler sex with the utmost respect. He wanted to tell her that he liked children, as his own nieces in England could vouchsafe. He spoiled them outrageously. If it was in his power, he would spoil this child too. He was fond of children. He'd been told more times than he cared to hear that he would make a wonderful father. But that was his mother speaking, the dowager Marchioness of Rivard.

Rolfe's eyes swept over the girl in a comprehensive glance. He was almost old enough to be her father, he decided. He was nine and twenty, after all, and his first sexual experience had occurred when he was sixteen. A sudden, vivid impression of the
curvacious
Cyprian who had relieved him of his tiresome virginity filled his mind. She had been an older, experienced woman with the patience of Job. She'd had need of it, for his ignorance had been abysmal. He hadn't thought of Fifi —or was it Mimi? —in years, and wondered what had jogged his memory.