The Duke's Daughter (26 page)

As he stepped out from the bedroom and into the main living area of their suite, Avery saw Lucy standing and holding the arm of an elegantly dressed older woman.

He felt the ground shift under him when he saw the look on Lucy’s face. Their message had been well and truly received by the Rochet family. And here, in the flesh, was the reply.

‘Madame Rochet?’ He gave her a deep, respectful bow.

‘Mr Fox,’ came the tremulous response.

He quickly moved to take her arm, guiding her to a nearby armchair.

‘You mustn’t blame your wife for my sudden appearance at your door. I took a chance in coming to the hotel and it was pure luck that I saw her in the lobby. I knew she was English by the way she dressed and how she wore her hair. I can pick the cut of a London dressmaker’s gown from across the other side of a ballroom. From the way Lucy’s lovely fair hair is curled, I guessed who she was in an instant.’

Avery’s discomfort at the situation he had so suddenly found himself in increased when Lucy softly chuckled. He scowled. Now was not the time for levity.

‘Actually, my seamstress is French. I’m not so certain she would be happy to hear you say that, Madame Rochet,’ she replied.

Madame Rochet clicked her tongue and winked at Lucy.

‘Well, I shall never tell,’ she said.

Avery sucked in a deep breath.

This was not how he had envisaged this meeting happening. He had dreamed of this moment for many days, but in his dreams the room was always much darker. The meagre light had cast shadows on the wall. While he sat on one side of the darkened room, the assembled family of Pascal Rochet were gathered across from him. Behind them stood Pascal’s ghost, bearing silent witness to his untimely death.

Now Lucy stood in that very same spot.

It was all wrong.

‘Come, Mr Fox, sit,’ Madame Rochet commanded.

She pointed to the long couch opposite her. He raised an eyebrow in Lucy’s direction. She silently nodded.

As soon as he took his seat, he felt the hot tears begin to well up. He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward.

How could he face her? To her he was no doubt a thief, one who had murdered her son to take what he desired.

‘Thank you for coming today, Madame Rochet, I know this cannot be easy for you,’ he said, his voice breaking.

‘Avery? May I call you that?’ she replied.

He gave a small nod of acquiescence. He could refuse her nothing.

‘For you to journey all this way and seek me out must have taken some deep soul searching,’ she said.

His head shot up. He blinked hard, forcing the tears to fall. Then he saw her clearly. Not the small, broken widow he had imagined. Instead an immaculately dressed woman, barely into her old age, stared back at him.

Her grey eyes pierced deep into his very essence, searching for the slightest sign of insincerity. Challenging him to reveal himself to her.

‘Actually, Madame Rochet, it was the easiest decision I have made in a long time. Once my wife made me realise I needed to return the pocket watch to your family, I knew I had to come.’

He turned to Lucy.

‘Would you please bring me the watch?’

Lucy retrieved it from his coat pocket and handed it to him. Avery placed it on the small table which sat between him and Pascal’s mother.

Madame Rochet looked at the watch and gasped. She sat for what seemed an eternity, staring at the gold case. Finally she leaned forward and with a trembling hand picked up the pocket watch.

‘I had never thought to see this again,’ she whispered.

She turned the watch over in her fingers several times before finally pressing the small button and opening the case.

‘I’m sorry, but it is broken. I couldn’t decide whether to get it fixed or not,’ Avery said.

‘Pascal was the same. Always in two minds about taking it back to the watchmakers and getting them to fix the broken spring,’ she replied.

Avery watched as Madame Rochet sat tapping her fingertips on the glass of the watch face. So the watch had been broken before Pascal took it to Belgium. For two years he had laboured under the impression that it had been broken during their deadly struggle.

She closed the watch and placed it back on the table.

‘Why?’

Avery ran his fingers through his sable hair. He had rehearsed his response to this question a thousand times, but now when it came time to speak the words, he was at a loss.

He looked at the watch, knowing it would be the last time he would see it.

‘Because I lost my honour when I took it from your son.’

‘You stole it,’ Madame Rochet replied.

‘No!’ he cried and jumped to his feet.

His gaze searched wildly around the room, desperate to find something to focus upon. Finally he saw Lucy. Tears were streaming down her face. He should go to her, try to offer her comfort. Instead he remained rooted to the spot.

‘No,’ he murmured.

‘Please, Avery, sit down,’ Madame Rochet said.

He resumed his seat, eyes cast down.

‘I didn’t steal the watch,’ he said.

‘Then how did you come by it? You say you have come here to regain your honour; if so then you owe me the truth.’

She turned and looked at Lucy, who remained standing.

‘Has he ever told you what happened that day, my dear?’

‘Only a little,’ she replied.

Madame Rochet picked up the watch once more and brandished it at Avery.

‘I take back this watch, which rightly belongs to my family, but if you want me to give you back your honour then you must tell me the truth. Tell both of us the truth.’

Lucy walked over to the couch and took a seat next to Avery. He gave her a quick glance as she took hold of his hand and gave it a supportive squeeze.

‘You must both understand that as a gentleman I cannot tell you everything that happened that day. It would serve no purpose for you to know the real horror of war. Those of us who have lived through it suffer enough without having to relive it,’ Avery said.

‘Tell me what happened to my son,’ Madame Rochet demanded.

‘Very well. It was late in the afternoon; the battle was over. I was looking for some of my men on the battlefield. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something shining in the grass. As I drew near I saw it was a gold watch case. Without thinking I picked it up.’

Avery’s mind slipped back to that fateful day. His senses once more filled with the acrid smell of gun smoke and the stench of death.

He determined only to tell Madame Rochet and Lucy enough to satisfy their needs, nothing more.

When next he looked into his wife’s eyes, he didn’t want to see the haunted look of one who knew the reality of bloody battle. Lucy was the holder of the innocent peace he so desperately craved. He could not give back Madame Rochet her son, but he steadfastly refused to add further to her grief.

‘As I picked up the watch I heard a groan nearby. A foot or so away lay a wounded French soldier.’

‘Pascal,’ Madame Rochet said. She closed her eyes and he watched as her lips moved in silent prayer.

Beside Avery, Lucy sat gently weeping. He dared not look at her. Every fibre of his being was concentrated on maintaining his composure.

‘How badly wounded?’

He cast his mind back and immediately recalled the blood which had blackened Pascal’s coat and turned one whole side of his shirt bright red. Not that it truly mattered now, but he felt a sudden compulsion to convince Madame Rochet that Pascal was doomed long before Avery had stumbled upon him.

‘Madame, I am no physician, but I was a soldier for a long time. I have seen enough wounds to know that he would not have left the battlefield alive. I showed him the watch and asked if it was his, thinking to tuck it inside his pocket. I wanted him to know where it was when he died.’

‘You thought not to keep it?’ Madame Rochet replied.

Her grey eyes remained fixed on Avery, still seeking to find a falsehood in his story.

‘No.’

He rose once more from the couch and walked to the nearby window. He needed to think, to explain himself fully. If Madame Rochet thought him a liar, he couldn’t live with himself. He drew back the curtains and looked out the window at the faultlessly blue Parisian sky.

A small starling fluttered past the window and came to rest on the stone floor of the balcony. His attention was captured by the tiny black-plumed creature as it hopped around the small sunlit space.

‘Avery?’ Lucy murmured.

He stirred from his musing and risked a glance in her direction. Apart from the tears, she sat quietly with her hands calmly placed in her lap. Lucy was the strength he sorely needed. He knew she believed in him. Her calm demeanour revealed that she accepted he was telling the truth.

I must do this, I cannot fail.

He resumed his seat.

‘Madame, may I tell you a little of my past?’

She nodded.

‘The place I come from has a certain reputation for smuggling and thievery. While a lot of it is to do with avoiding government taxes . . .’

‘Which every good citizen should do,’ Madame Rochet interjected.

He nodded. In another life, he could imagine being good friends with the feisty French widow. She had the dry sense of humour he thought particular only to the north of England. She reminded him somewhat of Lady Alice Langham.

‘Unfortunately, my father and brother took to the business with more gusto than most people would think appropriate. To be honest I come from a family of unashamed liars and thieves,’ he said.

‘Oh, Avery,’ Lucy exclaimed.

‘As you can understand it’s not something I feel comfortable talking about in polite company,’ he replied.

A bead of sweat formed at the nape of his neck and slowly trickled down between his shoulder blades. He had dressed warmly, expecting to be out in the cool of a September morning. Now, sitting in his and Lucy’s warm, sunbathed hotel suite, he felt the discomfort of his shirt as it welded itself to his back.

‘But I digress. Madame, I spent my whole childhood ashamed of my family’s occupation. It and several other factors caused me to leave home at an early age and join the British army. The most important thing I learnt from my time in the army was that a man’s honour was often the only thing he had of value. I consider myself no exception. Which means that when the battle was finally over, the last thing I had on my mind was to rob a poor dying soul.’

He rested his sweaty palms on his knees. Not having finished preparing for the day, he had not donned his gloves. His damaged hand was on show for all to see. Madame Rochet let out a small gasp of surprise when she saw it. She crossed herself and silently mouthed a prayer.

Avery, gaining more confidence in his ability to express himself, pressed on.

‘Many of my fellow allied soldiers had no such qualms about stealing from the dying and the dead. One Prussian in particular I witnessed wrestling personal possessions from several felled combatants. Fortunately another British officer had also seen him do it and took punitive action.’

Even now, two years after the event, he still shuddered at the memory of Ian Barrett putting a bullet in the head of a man who had been fighting on their side only hours earlier. The major had brooked no dishonour to the fallen, Allied or French. The Prussian had been stealing from the dead and running his sword through those who gave him any form of resistance.

He sucked in a deep breath and continued.

‘As I bent down to put the watch in his pocket, Pascal must have thought I was going to rob him. He let out a roar and thrust a knife into my stomach. I remember us locked in a struggle for some time, and then darkness overcame me,’ he said.

He paused for a moment.

‘I don’t remember much of what actually happened after that moment. I have broken memories of waking up cold on the ground at night, still on the battlefield. The next coherent recollection I have is waking up at Rokewood Park in the Northamptonshire countryside several weeks later.’

‘Did you get those wounds at Waterloo?’ Madame Rochet asked, pointing to Avery’s damaged hand.

Avery met her gaze.

‘Yes. I believe your son gave those to me, along with the deep and lasting scar on my left side.’

‘I’m not the least surprised. This watch was Pascal’s most prized possession. He would not have given it up without a fight,’ she replied.

‘Then he did himself and your family proud,’ Avery replied.

He paused, silently praying Madame Rochet would take the watch and leave.

‘Mr Fox, thank you for the abridged version of events. But I want to know all that happened. Leave nothing out. I need to know exactly how my son died.’

Avery turned to Lucy, hoping to spare her and himself from the shared knowledge of what he had done that day. But true to form, she held her head up high and met his gaze.

‘I am staying,’ she said.

He rubbed the tip of his left thumb along the bottom of his chin, feeling the rough edge of his early-morning stubble. He had planned to have a shave before taking Lucy out for the morning. The sudden arrival of Madam Rochet had thrown their plans into disarray.

‘When I say I don’t remember much of what happened after that moment, I am not lying. You must bear in mind that I lost a lot of blood from my wounds. Coupled with a long period of unconsciousness, my brain did not retain all the information it had taken in.’

The room was silent. Madame Rochet was not going to give him an easy way out, and he couldn’t blame her. If he had been in the same situation, he would want to know every minute detail.

‘From what I have been able to piece together in my mind during the intervening years, I have come to the conclusion that in the ensuing struggle I killed your son.’

Lucy buried her face in her hands. Madame Rochet, for her part, sat dry-eyed, staring hard at Avery. He met her gaze once again and knew she wanted to know more.

‘I am certain the damage to my left hand happened as we wrestled over possession of his knife. I remember there being blinding pain and a lot of blood. That much is very clear in my mind. At some point I must have known it had turned into a fight to the death. My vision was beginning to blur and my head was spinning. He swore at me in English, which I recall shocked me.’