The English Heiress (10 page)

Actually, it was not as difficult as it seemed it would be to get right behind Henry and Leonie because, for a little while, all forward movement in the crowd had stopped. The panic and desire for escape had worked in their usual fashion, turning the mob into a mindless mass that pushed and shoved, jamming itself even more firmly together, until so tight a plug of entangled people had formed that the doorway was completely blocked. Adding to the problem were those who had been caught behind the half-open doors and were pushing wildly at them in an effort to get to the opening.

Finally the pressure built up such a degree that those in the opening were catapulted forward. The men in the center were flung down the stairs, a woman on the extreme side had one arm torn from her body because her shoulder had been pressed against the frame of the door. Screaming horribly, she staggered a few steps and also fell down the stairs, causing those who were pushed through after her to stumble and fall atop her. Another ten or fifteen forced their way out, trampling the fallen and injured before the crush formed a second plug. This broke somewhat more quickly, there being fewer pressing forward and thus less entanglement. So by fits and starts, the mob that had broken into the Hôtel de Ville was breaking out of it.

Henry, Leonie and Roger were near the back of the group. They were thus in considerably less danger of being knocked down and trampled, but by the time they reached the street, the civil guard was running from its quarters firing indiscriminately into the crowd. It was quite apparent there would be no attempt to round up the mob, nor was the firing intended to disperse them—they were dispersing as fast as they could already. The orders of the men must have been to kill as many as they could, presumably as a lesson to any other group that wished to protest. Roger leapt forward, seizing Leonie by the arm and interposing his body between the advancing civil guard and the girl.

First she uttered a shriek and then launched a vicious blow at Roger, which he barely managed to duck.

Henry swung around, his fists raised.

“For God’s sake, de Conyers,” Roger bellowed in English, “run! Don’t fight me I’m trying to help.”

Whether Henry or Leonie really heard or understood what he said, Roger couldn’t guess. The danger from the civil guard was now so apparent that it was obvious unless they got away into one of the side streets they would be killed. Both men pushed Leonie and urged her to run, Roger managing to steer them toward the west rather than the south where most of the crowd was headed. Leonie hardly needed their encouragement. The explosions of the muskets and the screams of fear and pain lent wings to her feet.

Just short of a dark alley, Henry de Conyers paused and exclaimed. Roger turned toward him, but he was already moving forward on his daughter’s heels again. They traversed that alley and turned into another with the sounds of firing and anguish dimming behind them. Halfway down the second lane, however, Henry de Conyers faltered again, calling, “Leonie.” She stopped and turned, just in time to see Roger catch her father to prevent him from falling to the ground.

“Monster!” she shrieked, coming at Roger with hands curved into claws.

“No!” Henry gasped.

Simultaneously Roger said, “Miss de Conyers, I did your father no harm.”

“Go ahead, Leonie,” Henry cried. “Go ahead, my love. I am hit. I cannot keep up.”

“I will help you, Papa. I will not leave you.”

Roger would have liked to examine Henry and find out how badly he was hurt, but a new spate of shots and shrieks, sounding closer, warned that that might finish them all. Instead, he drew Henry’s arm over his shoulder. Leonie seized Henry’s other arm, and they ran forward again. For a while, Henry was able to keep to his feet with their support. However, by the time they reached the avenue leading to the western gate in the wall, he was nearly helpless. Roger took more and more of Henry’s weight, but he could not support him completely with the grip, he had. Soon Henry’s feet were dragging limply behind them and Leonie was staggering under the burden.

At least all sound of pursuit had died away. The mob instinctively headed for its accustomed hideouts in the thieves’ quarter in the south of the town. The moon was half full and the stars bright in their faint light Roger could just make out Leonie’s blanched face with its fear-dilated eyes. In the shelter of a shop doorway he stopped.

“My name is Roger St. Eyre, Miss de Conyers,” he said quickly. “I beg you to trust me. I do not have time to present my credentials, but I have come from England to this country only for the purpose of finding your father.”

“You had better help him now,” Leonie whispered, too frozen with terror to cry.

Roger let Henry down gently. His breath drew in sharply when he looked at him. In the moonlight the whole right side of Henry’s body was black and glistening with blood.

Chapter Six

Roger tore off his coat and then his shirt. Meanwhile, Leonie shook herself out of her paralysis of terror and began to pull off the rags that clothed her father. She uttered a low, choked cry as she saw the wound, still pulsing blood. Roger ripped a sleeve from his shirt and wadded it against the hole in Henry’s back.

“You will have to hold that,” he said to Leonie, “while I tear up the shirt.”

He hoped his firmness would encourage her to help him, but he feared she would fall over in a faint. She did utter a little choked wail and begin to sob, but her hand came out steadily to press the already blood-soaked pad against the wound. Henry did not stir. Roger suspected he was already deeply unconscious. He could not bear to look up and meet Leonie’s eyes. He knew Henry could not live. There was nothing Roger could do to stop the bleeding, and he was certain from the way the blood was flowing that some important organ had been damaged. Nonetheless, he bound strips of his shirt together and then wound them as tightly as he could around Henry. Even as he tied the knots, the strips were soaked through with blood.

Desperately, Roger racked his brains for a way to tell Leonie that her father was dying when, to his surprise, Henry’s eyes fluttered open.

“Go, Leonie.” It was only a thread of a whisper, but there was real authority and force in it. “I am dying. Do not let me die knowing I have killed you also. Go.”

“Monsieur St. Eyre will help you, Papa,” Leonie sobbed. “We will all get away.”

“St. Eyre?” Henry’s eyes moved to Roger.

“Yes. I have come from England.” Roger said nothing of the reason. Henry did not need the additional grief of hearing at this moment that his brothers were dead. “Do not worry about your daughter, sir. I swear I will get her safely home.”

Tears of relief swam in Henry’s eyes. No one outside his own family could possibly know the name of his father’s neighbor and closest friend. This was no trick and no trap. He managed almost to smile and made one single effort to utter his thanks—to Roger, to God, to anyone—but he had not the strength, and his eyes closed for the last time. Roger glanced at Leonie, expecting that her attention would be on her father and hoping to read in her face whether or not she realized that Henry could not possibly live. To his surprise she was looking at him, but the utter desolation of her expression answered Roger’s question. Leonie knew.

“I have a carriage waiting,” Roger said. “The gate is about a quarter of a mile down this avenue. I will carry your father. I—I do not think he will—will feel any pain.”

The wide eyes, black in the dim light, stared at him and then past him. Roger prayed that the girl would not faint or begin to scream. Tears began to trickle down her face, but she gave no other sign of weakness except that, gently, very gently, she patted her father’s face.

“He does not wish to live,” she whispered. “He always wanted to die, so he could be with Mama. He only tried to live because he felt it wrong to leave me unprotected.” Then she brought the focus of her eyes back to Roger. “How will we get out the gate? Is there something l can do to help?”

They made a plan, as soon as Roger discovered that Leonie was not afraid to hold and fire his pistol—but it was not necessary. As soon as Roger appeared, the guard nodded and turned his back. Roger darted back into the shadows and lifted Henry again. Although he had some experience with wounds, he had none with death. Still, something in the feel of the body told him that life was gone. This was not the time, however, to stop and make sure. Staggering slightly under his burden, with Leonie close on his heels, he made for the small door to the side of the larger entry. Just as they reached it, Leonie darted ahead and swung it open. As soon as Roger was through, she pulled it shut behind them.

Roger paused, gasping with effort. He had come in from the north of the town and did not know this area at all. The road was unmistakable, wider and more traveled than the way he had come. It was paler in the moonlight than the grass edging it—and it was empty. A combination of rage and helplessness flooded him. Even if Henry was dead, they could not leave him. Yet how could they escape burdened with a corpse? It would be impossible…

Before the thought could be completed, Leonie tugged at his arm “There are two carriages,” she whispered tensely.

Roger turned his head to follow Leonie’s apprehensive gaze. Alongside the town wall was a narrow lane. There, his carriage stood and some yards behind it, another, far more shiny and elegant.

“The first carriage is mine,” Roger said very low. “The man in it should be Maître Foucalt’s clerk—do you know him?”

“I have seen him.”

“Good.” He switched to English. “He may have a gun. Do not be afraid. Do you remember how I told you to cock and fire the pistol I gave you?”

“Yes.”

Leonie’s whisper was thinner, but it did not tremble. Roger could not see her because Henry’s body blocked his vision. He took a breath and again prayed the girl would hold steady.

“If anyone gets out of the second carriage, tell him to stop or you will fire. If he does not stop—shoot! Can you?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Walk a little behind me, just enough to the side so that you can see.”

Probably the precautions were not necessary. Roger realized that the complications of demanding ransom were almost certainly too great to make it worthwhile to the patron. The real danger would come later after Roger had handed over the money. It was possible that Louis or the patron would wish to buy favor by killing them all or by killing Roger and handing Leonie back. Roger wished mainly to discourage any such idea by exhibiting that he was ready for any surprise.

They reached the carnage without incident, and it was indeed Foucalt’s clerk who got down He uttered an exclamation of distress when he saw Henry, but was sensible enough to help Roger get the body into the carriage. As he helped lift it, Leonie stood with the pistol in both hands, leveled and ready. Just as he propped Henry’s body against the side, Roger heard her call, “Stop! I will shoot!”

He was out beside her in a moment, a second pistol in his hand. A man he did not know stood in the road, but the patron’s voice called from the carriage, “Where are my men, honest businessman?”

“I do not know,” Roger replied, knowing the patron cared nothing for the men and having not the slightest desire to explain what had happened. “But I have no intention of cheating you. I told you before, I am not a fool.”

“You are armed to repel an army,” the patron remarked, but the worst of the deadly softness was gone from his voice, replaced by an amused respect.

“Yes, and we will remain so armed. There are other muskets in the carriage, all loaded. You must have discovered that I am also a gunsmith. However, I mean no threat. I only wish to ensure my own safety.”

“You have ensured it. Now, let us go to this cache of yours.”

“Get in the carriage, Leonie,” Roger said, forgetting the formality of “Miss de Conyers” in the stress of the moment. She obeyed quickly. “Now your man, if you please, patron.”

There was a low chuckle, acknowledgment of another move stymied, but the patron gave the order and the man returned to the carriage. Roger thought feverishly. He had no cache and had planned to hand over the gold right here and then drive away. Now that scarcely seemed like a good idea. If the escape had already been discovered, searchers would surely rush to each gate. It was most unwise to be so close. Still, Roger had not the faintest idea of where to go. He jumped up into the driver’s seat. Leonie was in the back. It was very silent there. Did she know her father was dead?

“Where are you going, monsieur?” the clerk whispered from beside him, and then, even more softly, “Do you know Monsieur de Conyers is dead?”

Roger nodded to the second question. As he did, he realized he might have an answer to the first. “The farm,” he whispered in return, “can I leave you there?”

“That is very kind,” the clerk said, but with a nervous glance over his shoulder, “but…”

He did not want the patron to know the farm. Roger bit his lip “Is there a lane, a bit of wood, anywhere that we can stop for a little while? I cannot be rid of those who follow until I give them what was promised.”

“Ah yes. Give me the reins.”

Released from the need to drive, Roger turned back toward Leonie, but he could see nothing. Inside the carriage there was no light at all. However, the moon struck full on his face, showing the sorrow and anxiety he felt. After a moment, a tired, broken whisper came. “I know.”

“I am so sorry,” Roger said softly.

“I am only afraid,” Leonie replied. “I have no right to be sorry. It is what he wanted.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Roger comforted. “I will keep you safe. I promised your father, and I will.”

There was nothing more to say. Roger wished Leonie did not have to sit beside her father’s corpse, but there was nothing he could do about it. He racked his brains for new words of comfort without results. After another moment, Leonie said softly, “I am all right. Don’t worry so.”

It was the strangest thing, but even as she said the words, hoping only to ease the distress on the face of this stranger who had so miraculously appeared, Leonie realized she had spoken the truth. She was grieved about her father but knew her grief was selfish. He had not wished to live. The memories he carried were too bitter, the wounds in his soul too deep. He could never have found peace. Safety and comfort would have been a far more terrible punishment to him than imprisonment or death. He blamed himself for his wife’s and daughter’s despoilment, for his wife’s and son’s deaths. How could he have lived with such a burden?

For his sake, Leonie knew she should be glad. She had seen the joy of release in her father’s eyes when Monsieur St. Eyre promised to care for her. She should be glad that Papa had gone so quickly, with so little suffering. But it was dreadful to be alone, all alone in the whole world. A sob choked her, and then another.

“Don’t cry, Leonie. My poor child, don’t. Here, come change places with me,” Roger said urgently. “It isn’t right for you to have to sit—”

“I am not afraid of Papa,” Leonie managed to say. “I am afraid to be all alone…”

Before Roger could answer, the clerk pulled the horse sharply right into a dark, narrow lane. Roger gave a distracted glance into the dark and then said, “Stop as soon as you like,” but the clerk drove on for another five minutes.

After he stopped, it was only a moment’s work to pull up the floorboard and release the catch to the seemingly solid underside of the seat. Leonie had to move aside, but Roger was able to pull out the two small chests and close the panel again without disturbing Henry’s body. Then Roger got down and asked the clerk to hand down the chests. The second carriage had just pulled up behind them. Roger dragged the strongboxes forward and then retreated to the side of his own carriage, but he made no attempt to get in. Behind him the long nose of a musket pointed outward at the man who descended from the patron’s carriage. He came forward, his eyes flicking so nervously between the muzzle of the musket and the pistol in Roger’s hand that he tripped over the chests and nearly fell. From the closed carriage, the patron’s voice came.

“It is most unfortunate you are so suspicious.” The tone implied that great gain would accrue to Roger if he would come and have a private talk.

In spite of tension and distress, Roger could not help smiling. It must be nearly impossible for the patron to understand how to deal with someone who had what he wanted and wanted no more. The smile died as Roger remembered that Henry was dead. Well, there was nothing the patron could offer him that would cure that.

“You may think so,” Roger replied, “but I assure you that from your point of view as well as mine, it is not. I desire no trouble, only to leave here in peace and safety. Please count the money and go. I swear to you I have nothing more. You have left me with about five francs and my stock in trade.”

Whether Roger had at last convinced the man he was stripped clean or whether he realized Roger was not going to make a mistake, the patron said no more. The chests were lifted into the carriage, a light came on inside. After a little time the horse was induced to back slowly until a wider spot in the lane permitted the driver to turn the carriage. Slowly the sound of the horse’s hooves and the creak of the wheels died away. Roger allowed his pistol to drop and leaned back against the side of the carnage, breathing deeply. It seemed to him that it was the first time he had breathed since he had gone down the cellar steps in the Hôtel de Ville.

He turned to thank Foucalt’s clerk for backing him up so cleverly, and his eyes fell on Leonie’s strained face. The muzzle of the musket wavered. “My poor child,” he exclaimed, taking the gun from her hands, “where is—”

“Gone through the trees to the road to make sure they do not wait for us. He will wait until their carriage is out of sight,” she interrupted. “Monsieur St. Eyre, do you really think they will let us go?”

“I hope so,” Roger sighed. “I would have allowed him to search the carriage, but even that would not have convinced him, I fear. Greedy men cannot or will not believe there is no more.”

There was a pause. Roger strained his ears, but there was no sound except the ordinary noises of a late summer’s night in the woods. Leonie looked at his clear-cut features and wondered whether all Englishmen were so good-looking. Papa was—her thought checked and she corrected herself—had been handsomer than all the other men she knew. Papa was dead and she was alone. She had better keep her mind on essentials.