The English Heiress (26 page)

“No,” Roger agreed. “No, we can’t. But what is to be done, Leonie? You can’t cook and scrub.”

“If you can learn to be a gunsmith, I can learn to cook and scrub,” Leonie said.

“You are an angel,” Roger sighed, marveling at her sweetness and adaptability.

It was only a fit of temper, Leonie thought. He is not yet really tired of me. “You will not think me an angel when I have prepared a meal,” she assured Roger. “It is far more likely to taste like a devil’s brew than angel food. Tell me, do you know how this contraption works? I can see that it is to hang pots over the fire, but…”

“Yes, I can show you that,” Roger replied. “Our cook was a motherly body and didn’t mind if we ‘helped’ in the kitchen—so long as no big dinner was being prepared. I loved putting pots up and down the ratchet and turning the spit when I was a boy. But what to put in the pots—that’s another matter.”

Leonie allowed her eyes to wander from the fireplace to the packets of food and spices piled on the table. Madame Aunay naturally assumed that she had been trained by her mother to her duties as a wife. Had she a modicum of sense, she would have said her mother was a bad cook or had died young or some such tale when she explained the loss of her clothes. It would have been natural to confess all her troubles at once. She had missed a second opportunity when Roger announced they had taken the shop. Now it was too late. It would seem odd, Leonie feared, if she said she could not cook. Besides, bad cooking was one thing, total ignorance another.

“We will contrive,” Roger was comforting her. “I can get food at a cafetier.”

Leonie nodded, but in a dissatisfied way. It was ridiculous that a person who could read several languages and discourse on philosophical theories of government and science could not produce a simple stew.

“That would do for a few days,” she replied, “but it would be expensive. Besides, unless you go a long way, they will soon know you have a ‘wife’ and begin to wonder. It will be best if there is nothing special to remark on about us.” She frowned. “Roger, there are books on deportment, on how to build a house—on everything. Surely, there must be books on housewifery.”

He burst out laughing. “My dear girl, you have the kind of courage that leads a forlorn hope. By all means, let us go out to dinner this afternoon—that will be nothing to remark upon, when we have been so busy moving and are tired—and we will search the bookstalls for a treatise for your edification.”

“If you think I am brave,” Leonie giggled, “wait until you have to taste what I have prepared.”

Chapter Fourteen

The book on housewifery and a second on cooking were found. All in all, Leonie discovered that a mind strong enough to grasp political theory, science and languages could usually grasp instruction on cleaning and washing. Cookery was another matter. Sometimes her efforts were successful, sometimes all Roger’s courage and her own were insufficient to cope with the disaster she produced. On such occasions, the cafetier and Leonie’s sense of humor came to the rescue so that they did not starve.

The fact that the visits to the cafetier were relatively frequent soon did not matter from the point of expense. Citizen Lefranc had not forgotten his promise to his republican friend and recommended Roger’s shop to everyone he knew who owned a gun. Since Roger was a good and a most unusually honest workman, those he served also sang his praises. Soon he was as busy as any tradesman could desire and was making, to his stunned amazement, a great deal of money. If he had not found such great difficulty in obtaining parts, he believed he would soon have become rich.

Although this situation tickled his pride and his fancy, Roger would greatly have preferred if Citizen Lefranc had minded his own business and been less helpful. The money he made was useless to him now because there was still no way out of Paris. The feeling against émigrés was hotter than ever, and each person who left the city was closely scrutinized. Those caught escaping were as good as dead. What was worse, Roger’s popularity as a workman and Lefranc’s good offices had made him known to a great many people. He received compliments on his patriotism from men he had never seen before.

It was thus impossible for Roger to ask for a pass to leave. What excuse could be offered by a patriot for wanting to leave a booming business when he had only been in Paris for a few weeks? After some months or a year, a man might say he wished to make a visit to relatives left behind or see to some property in the hands of an agent. A dying relative could be used as an excuse, but the commissioners who issued passes had grown strict. They wanted to see the letter, know who had brought it or examine the news bearer if the information came by word of mouth.

Had Roger been desperate to leave, he might have searched harder for, and found the means. Actually, his personal life—aside from twinges of his conscience when he saw Leonie down on the floor scrubbing, or with soot-smudged face, wrestling with her recalcitrant cooking pots—was so delightful that he hated the thought of disrupting it. For the first time in his life he was truly and completely happy in a woman’s company. He had little fear of being rejected, not that Leonie did not sometimes refuse him, she did. But there was tenderness and regret in the refusal when she was too tired or had her flux. She was never cruel or contemptuous. Nor was there any chance that a particularly satisfactory lovemaking would be turned sordid and ugly by a coy demand for some financial reward.

Sometimes Roger wondered if Leonie would conceive. The thought brought him alternate flushes of joy and chills of horror. A child would bind them together irrevocably. There would be his perfect reason for marrying Leonie—and it would be a sheer joy to have a child with her. Her boundless warmth and generosity proved she would make a perfect mother. Still, the danger of childbearing was something Roger dreaded for his pearl without price, and an infant would be a dreadful additional burden and danger if their situation became worse. Nonetheless, hope outweighed fear, and it was more than sexual disappointment Roger felt when Leonie refused him because her monthly flux had come.

Naturally enough, Leonie did not press Roger to find a method of escape. Had anyone told her, before Marot had destroyed her world, that she could be happy scrubbing floors and sheets, polishing furniture and cooking, she would have thought that person demented. But she was happy. Not that she like the crude, hard work of housekeeping; she did not. Nonetheless, there was a sense of satisfaction in it, a challenge fairly met and conquered as Roger met and conquered the challenges of the gunsmith’s trade. In the small house Leonie could hear him at his work, humming sometime when a job went well, cursing and grunting with effort when his tools were inadequate or something did not fit as it should. Some things Leonie did enjoy, among them dealing with customers in the shop when Roger was out or busy.

Even if Leonie had hated what she was forced to do—and she did not hate it, merely felt there were other things she could do better—she would have been happy. Roger showed no further signs of tiring of her. He had opportunities enough now if he wanted to seek pleasure or variety elsewhere, but Leonie did not think he did. He never went out alone, except when it was a matter of business and he could not find a trustworthy messenger or his own presence was necessary. Leonie knew the district well now and could judge how long it would take to go somewhere. Roger was always back before she expected. It was obvious that he hurried back as fast as he could when he did go out without her.

Thus, both were happy, and although they sometimes talked of escape, neither really wanted to leave. Within the satisfaction of each was a shadow, but not so dark a shadow as had lain there previously. Roger was beginning to hope that he might win Leonie. Solange had done him great damage, but bitter as he was, he could not completely dismiss Leonie’s response as all gratitude. A few times he had been on the verge of asking her to marry him. He had checked the impulse sternly, knowing it to be completely unfair. There were two big roadblocks.

The age difference was large, but it was common enough for twenty years to separate marital partners without unhappiness. His stepmother was more than twenty years his father’s junior, and no one could doubt Lady Margaret’s satisfaction with her husband. Unfortunately, Roger could not lean too hard on that happy example. Lady Margaret had been a widow, a mature woman in her thirties, when his father had courted her. Leonie was an inexperienced girl, under twenty. He could not take advantage of her innocence. He must give her a chance to enjoy the courtship of the many gentlemen who would flock to her. She was also the heiress of Stour, fit by birth and wealth to a far more exalted social position than the youngest son of a baronet.

Every time Roger thought of that, he found a new excuse not to seek an escape from Paris. Leonie had a very similar feeling. She too, was beginning to hope she could keep Roger. It was true she did not expect to marry him. She believed that if he had wanted marriage, there was nothing to stop him from suggesting it. However, his efforts to please her in every way, his praise and caresses, clearly indicated that he was not bored or losing interest. Leonie had not yet needed to employ any of the devices she knew for stimulating a lover. Roger was eager enough without. In fact, his techniques had such an effect on her that it was only before and after they made love that she could think of exciting him further.

Actually, the only reason that the subject of escaping Paris came up was that the political climate seemed to be growing more and more extreme. After the panic and massacres inspired by the fall of Verdun, relative quiet settled on the city. Although the signs of the breakdown of authority were everywhere—gangs roamed the streets at night assaulting passersby and looting houses while the agents of the commune stood by and even joined them—no large-scale violence took place. In this period, Roger and Leonie made a quiet visit to Fouché so that Roger could leave letters to his father and son with him to be transmitted if and when it would be safe to do so. The letters said little—nothing that could cause any trouble to Fouché or his messenger if there were opened—only that Roger was well and safe and had Henry’s (he did not further identify de Conyers) daughter with him.

Fouché assured him that if he were able to get the letters to England he would and, if they went with a messenger from his firm, that the man would be instructed to take the letters personally and give Sir Joseph a reassuring account of Roger’s actual circumstances. As he was seeing Roger and Leonie to the door, a man entered. Fouché smiled a welcome, greeting the newcomer as “cousin”. His words drowned Leonie’s slight gasp and Roger’s good manners were sufficient to conceal a start of surprise, because the young man Fouché addressed as Joseph was an albino. On a later visit to Fouché, they learned that the cousin, also a Fouché, was the deputy from the town of Nantes to the National Convention, which was about to convene in a few days to replace the useless assembly, by now held in contempt by all.

“You can imagine,” Fouché said, “how very happy I was when he came here and claimed cousinship. Thank God I was able to ask him to live with us. He is clever—you would never guess it from his looks, but he is the most astute man with whom I have ever dealt. For the first time,” again Fouché lowered his voice and looked around to guard against eavesdroppers, “since everything went mad, I feel a sense of security. Joseph will warn me of trouble, I am sure.”

“I’m pleased that things are going better for you,” Roger said politely, not much interested although Joseph’s physical oddity had, of course, made him memorable.

“Perhaps to your benefit also,” Fouché said with a smile. “I told Joseph the story we agreed upon, except that I said we had done considerable business together and had become—through letters—friends. I have a feeling about that young man. He is no visionary. If he establishes influence for himself, he may be able to help you. We shall see.”

“Thank you very much,” Roger replied sincerely. Fouché was no fool, as Roger had known for years. If he said his cousin Joseph might be a good man to know in the future, he was very likely right.

“Meanwhile,” Fouché went on, “I have more immediate good news for you. Your letters went off three days ago. I suppose that is what you came about.”

“No, although I’m glad to hear it. My father would have begun to expect me to return ‘any day’. At his age I don’t like to have him worried. What I came for, however, is to return part of the money you gave me for those assignats—which I know were near worthless. I’m in a good way of trade now.” Roger laughed heartily. “In fact, if I must remain here much longer, I will end a rich man.”

Fouché did not wish to take the money. He did not need it and knew Roger and his family would be good for it. If he should need to flee to England himself… In the end, he said he would be Roger’s banker for it and return it at any time if Roger should find he needed money. Then he nodded.

“Actually, that will work out quite well,” he said. “There is no reason why I should not be your man of business. You would naturally come to me if we had done business before. It will be an excellent excuse for you to come here.”

Roger agreed heartily, and it was through Fouché that he and Leonie learned what was really happening. The first news was good. Charles François Dumouriez had been sent to take charge of the army that faced the Prussians. A republican himself, he understood the troops he led. They were a mixture of volunteers, National Guard, and old army regulars, and they could not be expected to obey blindly or respond to the same discipline as the armies of the past. He changed both tactics and the way orders were given and, on September twentieth, his army met the Prussians at Valmy and threw them back.

A vast sense of relief swept the city. As a happy coincidence, the newly convened Nation Convention began its operation at noon on September twenty-first publishing the news of this victory as its first duty. In a reaction to new hope and horror of what had been done, the Commune of Paris was abolished. However, the final efficacy of this move was very doubtful, Roger said to Leonie when they were at home and considering the news.

“Since all the worst radicals, even that diseased monster Marat, have been elected to the convention, I do not see that much has been accomplished in curbing the commune. It will merely operate from a new base.”

The truth of his words became apparent soon enough. By October sixteenth the question of the king’s fate had been raised and Bourbotte, a deputy from Auxerre, had called for the deaths of the whole royal family. Most of the deputies drew back, temporizing, but on November sixth Valazé made a report on papers found in a secret safe in the Tuileries and accused Louis XVI of treason. He called for a trial of the deposed monarch. There were a few who protested, but Valazé’s report had inflamed many and the Jacobins seized their chance. The Girondists, always split into violent factions, were still uncertain of which way they wanted to jump and played for time. They compromised on setting a date for debate on the matter.

On the fifteenth of November the subject was open for discussion. The aim of the Jacobins was to avoid any trial and pass a sentence of death without public discussion or pleading. However, they could not push the convention that far. Too many voices were raised in support of mercy. Thomas Paine, who had left the newly born nation of the United States because it was not sufficiently republican, offered an impassioned plea in favor of banishment rather than death, as did a number of others. Finally, the Jacobin faction was forced to accept a trial.

Leonie had been attending the bulletins concerning this discussion with close attention and was overjoyed when she heard this. She was surprised then hurt, when Roger did not respond in any way to her attempts to discuss the matter but continued to eat his dinner, one of Leonie’s successes, with his eyes fixed on his plate.

“Perhaps the subject is not very interesting to you because you are English,” she said rather sharply.

At first Roger seemed to pay no attention to this remark either. He was aware of how strongly Leonie felt and was reluctant to say what he must. In a way, he had hoped the Jacobins would succeed in their purpose. The end, he knew, would be the same, and if the Jacobins had their way, the agony would be short, no one would be deluded by false hopes or by the pretense of legality. Roger raised his eyes at last. The surface hurt Leonie felt at his seeming indifference had not extinguished the hopeful expectation underneath. He could not permit her to cling to that. Roger knew personally that, under certain circumstances, hope was the greatest of all evils rather than the single good that had been packed into Pandora’s box to be let loose on humankind.