The English Heiress (29 page)

“Nosir, that it won’t—at least, if ‘e can find Monsoor Restoir it won’t. ‘E won’t care about t’ war. Anyways not so it would stop ‘im from ‘elping Master Roger.”

“Restoir? Why does that name sound familiar to me? Restoir…”

Shannon shifted his feet uneasily. He knew he was not supposed to speak about Pierre or his business. However, he could not believe that restriction included Sir Joseph or that it applied in a time of emergency. Still, the habit of silence was strong. However, Sir Joseph solved his dilemma.

“This Restoir is a smuggler,” Sir Joseph said, alerted by Shannon’s uneasiness. Then the name and the business clicked together in his mind taking him back twenty years. “My God, he must be the man who saved Roger’s life that time. How, after all these years—”

“Oh, it ain’t years. Oftentimes when Monsoor is over ‘e stops for a crack with Master Roger. I brings up word, and Master Roger rides out to a place they meet—now o’ course Monsoor comes up to the ‘ouse, since ‘er ladyship,” the man’s lips twisted in remembered hatred, “is dead.”

“All these years?” Sir Joseph murmured. Then he frowned, and before he could stop himself—because he did not really want to know—he asked, “Was Roger in the smuggling too?” If he was, it was the fault of the French bitch, but Sir Joseph wished his son had come to him if her needed money instead of engaging in such an enterprise.

But Shannon laughed. “Nosir. It were just friendly like—at least these years. When ‘e was younger—I didn’t know or I would’ve stopped it—’e used to go out with Monsoor in the boat for fun. When I found out, I told ‘im the shame ‘e could bring on you, and ‘e stopped. But they was friends—is still. Monsoor took ‘im over when ‘e went.”

“So!”

Doubtless that was how the letter had come, too. Roger addressed it to Restoir and he brought it over. Well, thank God for that. Roger did have a safe way out of the country—if he could get to Restoir. The next logical thought Sir Joseph had was to wonder whether Restoir could be of any other help. Sometimes a smuggling network ran far and deep and reached into high places. Information and money could travel those underground ways.

“How good a friend is Restoir?” Sir Joseph asked quickly. “Think hard before you answer, Shannon. Would you risk Roger’s life on the man’s goodwill?”

“On his goodwill—yessir. ‘E wouldn’t do nothin’ willin’ly to ‘urt Master Roger, nor Master Roger to ‘urt ‘im. They’m friends for long and Monsoor, ‘e—sometimes ‘e says things like Master Roger was still a little boy and needed care took of ‘im. The only thing…”

“Yes? This is important, Shannon. Say anything you know—anything.”

“Well sir, Monsoor—e’m wild like. ‘E’m clever too, but ‘e’ll take a chance. ‘E got a laugh like a wild bird, and a wild eye too—like—you’ll pardon me, sir—like Master Roger ‘imself when—before ‘er ladyship.”

“You think he might lead Roger into danger?”

“Yessir, ‘e would that, and Master Roger—these last few months before ‘e left, beggin’ pardon, sir, but ‘e was like—like bilin’ inside, bubblin’ sort of. I begged ‘im and begged ‘im to take me… Sir, I would’ve gone ‘gainst ‘is say, only ‘e told me I’d be a danger to ‘im, not ‘avin’ any frog language like.”

“He was perfectly right, Shannon. It would have been very dangerous for Roger to have an English-speaking servant. You mustn’t blame yourself, no matter what happens.”

“Nosir.” But the groom’s face was twisted with misery, and he burst out, “It ain’t no good to say it. I should’ve knocked ‘im on the ‘ead. I would’ve, too—only I knew it wouldn’t do no good. ‘E’d’ve only gone anyways—with a sore ‘ead and without Monsoor. At least Monsoor knows frog ways and could tell Master Roger things.”

Sir Joseph was touched. He knew the groom had been with Roger a long time, but he had not realized how attached the man was. “Don’t worry too much,” he soothed. “Roger has a good knowledge of French ways himself. You know he has been to France many times. I should have told you, but I didn’t know you were worried. Roger is quite all right. We’ve had letters. I was only worried because of the war, you know, that he might not have a way to get home.”

Shannon’s face lightened. “Oh no. If ‘e can find Monsoor, ‘e’ll take ‘im ‘ome.”

“Er—” Sir Joseph did not want to alarm Shannon again, but it was obvious to him that Roger’s problem was that he could not reach Restoir. Perhaps, however, if the bond between Roger and the smuggler were as close as Shannon thought, Restoir could reach Roger. Certainly it was worth a try. “It could be just as well—an insurance, as it were—to let Restoir know Roger is still in France,” Sir Joseph went on. “He might not know that. Is there any way to reach the man?”

“Yessir. I could take a note to the Soft Berth—that’s the alehouse where ‘e stops to—well, I’m not supposed to say, but it’s safe with you, sir, I’m sure—where ‘e does business. But with this war—I dunno. It wouldn’t be safe for ‘im to come to town. I ain’t sure, even, when ‘e’ll be back.”

“Nor am I, and I certainly wouldn’t want to put Roger’s friend in danger. However, it could do no harm to leave a letter for the man. He can read? Oh yes, you said Roger sends a note. Go down to the kitchen, Shannon, and get your supper. You can ride over to the alehouse tomorrow morning. Then, about once a week or so, ride up there and find out if he’s come. If he hasn’t, make sure they haven’t thrown the letter away. Grease them in the fist each time—I’ll give you some money—to be sure interest is kept up, and promise a golden boy if Restoir will leave a note behind to say he had my letter.”

Shannon nodded eagerly. He could do that, he told Sir Joseph. Roger’s horses needed exercise anyway, and it would give him something to look forward to. It might be many weeks, however, even months, before Pierre came again. He believed that, war or no war, the smuggler would come sooner or later. Sir Joseph nodded agreement. Prices of French wine would soar now that war was declared. Restoir would not miss out on that. If he could dodge the swift, sleek revenue cutters, he was not likely to be worried by a lumbering warship or two. Perhaps it was ridiculous to place any faith in that kind of person, but somehow the thought of the smuggler knowing Roger’s problem was very soothing. Sir Joseph pulled a sheet from his writing desk and began to detail the whole story in careful French.

Roger had to tell Leonie about the war, but he said nothing of his fears, and she seemed quite content to remain in Paris now that they were well away from the meeting hall of the convention. Their new location had one major drawback. It was very near the Temple, where the royal family were held prisoners. During the September massacres the mob had invaded this area also, to taunt and terrify the king and queen, but Roger considered the matter and dismissed it. The king was dead, and the likelihood of any further demonstrations around the Temple was much reduced. No matter where one was, he thought, there would be something.

This house was not as pleasant as that near St. Roche. The rooms were meaner and there was no garden, so that Leonie was forced to walk with Fifi or let her run alone in the street. However, the little bitch was clever at avoiding horses and wheels and well trained. She would not permit anyone to approach her whom she did not already know as a “friend”. This required a formal introduction with the specific use of that word. Fifi would run and hide even from customers who were often in the shop and whom she knew quite well.

Roger had hoped his move would reduce his business, since there was no helpful Lefranc to recommend him in this area and he believed his past customers would not bother to come so far. In this he was quite wrong. They soon found their way to him, berating him for moving without giving notice and making them go to the trouble of inquiring at the Section headquarters what had become of him. Worse, because it was a long walk they stopped in the local cafés to rest and drink, and often ended spreading the word of Roger’s skill. Soon the commissioners of the Temple, who guarded the royal family, became his clients. Roger cursed his luck and tried to give the impression of having an irascible and taciturn nature so that he could speak as little as possible to conceal his accent.

Nonetheless, trouble started very soon after he and Leonie were settled. One of the commissioners, François Toulon, a passionate revolutionary who had played a conspicuous part in the deposition of the king on August tenth, came in with a pistol that was jamming. The shop had been empty, and Leonie was playing with Fifi in the kitchen, talking to her volubly. Toulon cocked an eye at Roger.

“Your wife speaks a fine French,” he said.

“She was lady’s maid to Marie de Conyers,” Roger replied.

“She was fond of her mistress?”

Roger kept his eyes on the gun he was examining, pressing his hands down on the counter so that they would not be seen to tremble. “She was fond of eating,” he growled. Then he shouted, “Leonie, be still.”

The chatter stopped at once, but Fifi, alarmed by the sudden undercurrent of tension and the odd tone of Roger’s voice, dashed out into the shop to see what was wrong with her god that had upset her goddess. Toulon looked down at the dog and raised his brows. He was of good family himself, but from Gascony, where even the high nobility were poor as church mice. Nonetheless, he recognized the quality of the dog. Roger slid one hand under the counter where the loaded pistol lay ready.

“That is a noble little animal,” Toulon remarked neutrally.

“Not anymore,” Roger growled. “It is a common bitch like any other, now that it lives with us.”

Toulon laughed. “How right you are,” he said in an odd voice. “Well, can you fix my gun?”

“Yes. It is no great matter, but I need my glass.”

He was surprised when Toulon did not object. Most shops had a rear exit, and if Toulon intended to denounce him, he should not offer the chance to escape. Roger deduced that Toulon was not decided. He would take his chances, but Leonie must escape. He went into the kitchen and said softly to her, “Get you cloak, go out through the alley. Go to Fouché.”

Leonie’s eyes went wide, but she did not move. “No. Where ever you go, I go too.”

“Idiot,” Roger hissed, but he knew he would only make matters worse by delay, and he hurried back, carrying a magnifying lens through which he peered at the faulty mechanism, although he already knew quite well what was wrong with it.

A touch with the file, a tap with a tiny hammer, and the silver of metal that had caused the jamming was smoothed. Roger loaded the pistol with a half-charge and a wad and presented it to Toulon, pointing wordlessly at a blank wall scarred by its frequent use as a testing ground. Toulon fired, reloaded himself, fired again. Then he smiled at Roger.

“What is the charge?”

Roger shrugged. “Two sous. You saw what I did. It was nothing.”

Toulon stared fixedly at him. Roger stared back, scowling. It was not the expression of a man who wished to ingratiate himself either with a customer or with someone he feared, Toulon thought. Fifi was still standing near the door of kitchen. She sensed the tension, but she had learned that the anxiety of her deities did not necessarily imply the presence of an enemy, and she did not growl or bristle, only watched for a signal. Toulon smiled again.

“You are an honest man. Another would have kept the gun for a week and charged for a replacement of the whole firing mechanism.”

“Not me,” Roger said.

“So I have heard. By the way, my name is François Toulon. I wished to see for myself an honest man. After all, Diogenes searched for one all his life without finding one.”

With that he left. Roger sat for a moment with his head in his hands waiting for his heart to stop pounding. Then he went into the kitchen. Leonie was sitting at the table with a pillowslip she had been darning in front of her. Her eyes went past Roger toward the shop.

“He’s gone,” Roger said. “Why didn’t you go when I bid you?”

“What if he had asked to see me? He knew I was here and then if I was suddenly gone, what would he think? That would surely have given us away.”

And what if he had men waiting to arrest us?” Roger countered furiously.

“Unless he is an idiot, there would have been men at the back also.” Leonie lifted the pillowslip. Under it lay one of the pistols she always carried. “No one will arrest me,” she said quietly.

“You cannot—” Roger began hotly, and then cut that off. There was little point in arguing what had not happened. They needed most urgently to decide what next to do. “He may have gone to summon men. You should—”

Leonie shook her dead. “I think not.”

“This is no time for thinking,” Roger snarled. “In a few minutes, we may both be caught in a trap. Go to Fouché. Perhaps his cousin can help you. If we are both imprisoned, no one will even know what happened to us.”

At that, Leonie looked startled. “You are right! I will go, but not to Fouché—not yet. Roger, I could not see this Toulon’s face, but I could hear him well. I tell you, he is not thinking of denouncing us. It is something else he wants—money perhaps.”

“You may be right,” Roger said a little more calmly.” I had the same feeling, but with the guillotine rising and falling so freely these days, it is no time to count on feelings.”

“Yes and no time to give people any reason to think we have anything to hide. I will go out the front door with my basket—to shop. You will come to the doorway to watch me—a fond husband. If I am taken, do not be foolish. You go to Fouché. If I am not, I will come back to see what has happened. Then I can go out again.”