The English Heiress (6 page)

“That’s all true enough, but I daren’t try to get help from friends in town. If they’re not already prisoners, Jean-Paul’s men will look first in those places. I think we can get over the wall.”

“Over the wall!” Leonie looked with blank astonishment at her father. The walls of Saulieu were nearly ten meters high.

Henry grinned at his daughter, his face losing for the moment the haggard, defeated look it had worn for so long. “I’ve climbed cliffs three or four times as high, and smoother, but I don’t expect you to be a monkey, my sweet. In the poor quarter, there are houses built right up against the wall. If I can find a rope, I can draw you up from a roof and let you down on the other side.”

“But Papa,” Leonie protested, “there might be guards on the wall. And what about the people that live in the houses? What will they think and do if they see us climbing roofs and walls? Will they not cry out that we are thieves?”

“There won’t be guards on the wall. Why should there be? France may be at war in the north, but there’s no present danger of invasion here. As to the people in the houses—in that part of the town we’re more in danger of being stopped to share what we have stolen than of being reported to the authorities. If anyone questions us, we need only say we’re escaping criminals—and surely we look the part. They’ll likely help us.” A bitter laugh shook him “We’ll not even have to lie. It’s true. To those who rule now, we are criminals.”

Leonie was a good deal less sure of this wall-climbing notion than of her father’s previous idea. She had been hoping that her father would suggest a house in town where it would be safe to hide. Apparently he did not believe that would be possible. There had to be a better way than attempting to climb the wall.

“The offices of the civil guard are here in the Hôtel de Ville,” Leonie suggested. “Perhaps we could write passes for ourselves so that the guards would let us out the gates?”

“That’s a good idea,” Henry agreed, ‘‘but I don’t know the forms they use now or what excuse anyone except a messenger could have for leaving in the middle of the night. If we were decently dressed and had a horse and carriage… But for a man and woman afoot and in rags… No, Leonie, I don’t think it will work. However, if we have time, we could try to find something. Perhaps there will be passes we could copy or even steal. Henry’s eyes brightened. ”Perhaps there will be weapons we could steal.”

Henry was catching fire at the notion of action after such a long and bitter hopeless state. Leonie was delighted to see him “alive” again, but she did not wish to be swept away by his enthusiasm and hurled into a new trap. She could see that if they could obtain weapons, they could get through the gates by killing or threatening the guards. Well, that or over the wall. She would try anything, but to make their escape successful they would need money, and Leonie did not believe her father would steal. Louis had a few francs around, and she had every intention of taking those, but it was a very small sum. If Louis had more money, either it was not in his room or it was well hidden.

“If we cannot go to your friends,” Leonie said, shelving for the moment the problem of how to pass the walls and raising the new idea that had hit her, “the question arises of how to live and how to get far enough away that Jean-Paul cannot seize us again. We will need money, Papa.”

“Yes, and clothes and horses—but those can be bought with money. We have money, Leonie. There’s money at the château.”

Leonie caught her breath and looked aside. Did her father think the château would be as he left it? Did he think the peasants had not run amok over it as soon as he had been seized by Jean-Paul?

“No, my love,” Henry said gently, seeing what she feared in her face. “I’m not living in a dream world of the past.” His eyes shadowed. “Of course, if they have burned it to the ground… Well, let’s hope part is still standing. There was a secret strong room just behind the chimney in the library—that would be the last place to go even if the château was set afire. The wall slides out from behind the mantelpiece. Even if they have burned and sacked the house, I don’t believe they would have found that room.”

That was probably true. Leonie herself had not known there was such a room. Seeing her surprise, her father smiled.

“I didn’t tell you or François because your mother—” His voice wavered and the smile died, but he took a breath and continued steadily, “Your mother had this terrible fear that you might think it was a place to play and lock yourselves in, in some way. It didn’t seem important that you should know.”

It was not. Nothing in the past was important except the money, if it was there, and the danger involved in getting it. “The château is the worst place to go. They will be waiting for us there. Jean-Paul and his men will run to the château as soon as we are discovered missing.”

“Possibly, but there’s just as much chance they’ll realize we must expect them to look there for us and, therefore, that we would go in the opposite direction. I don’t dare hope they won’t send someone to the château, but there’s a good chance that they’ll send only a few men, not surround the place in force so that we can’t get in.”

“And if they come after we are in? Will we not be trapped there, Papa?”

“If we can get in, they’ll never find us. The château was built over a much older place. There are tunnels behind the cellars—oh yes, you never knew of those either. Even I would never have allowed that until you were older. Those tunnels are dangerous. You can be lost in them and they are old. Sometimes something falls from the roofs. In this case, however, there’s less danger in using them than avoiding them. Jean-Paul could search forever and not discover those passages. The only danger is that if they knew we were hidden there, they could starve us out.”

At that, Leonie laughed mirthlessly. “They will have a long wait before that happens.”

Her father smiled at her and nodded. “We know how to starve now, do we not, my love?”

Chapter Four

Despite Pierre’s warnings, Roger found no danger at all in his first days in France. With Pierre’s help, he was able to purchase a rather worn-looking carriage. The horse that was hitched to it looked little better, but that was a deception of the eyes. Under unkempt mane and uncurried coat was a strong body, and the gelding had a real turn for speed as well. Also through Pierre, Roger changed more of his English currency for a few assignats and low-denomination French coins, so that he would not draw attention to himself.

Altogether Roger’s trip from Saint-Valéry to Saulieu was uneventful. Sometimes he was recognized as an Englishman by his accent. Althoughrelations between England and the “central government” in Paris were growing more and more strained, the people in the towns through which he passed did not care about that. They were happy to accept his francs and sous and gave him accommodations in the inns, which were emptier than usual owing to the unrest in the country. He did not stop at any of the large towns, although he could not avoid going through Amiens. From there, however, he was able to travel south and west by lanes and byways, asking his way to Dijon.

That method had drawbacks as well as advantages. Roger lost himself quite thoroughly in the mountains and traveled nearly as far as Vesoul on a miserable rainy day, without even a light spot in the sky to show the sun’s position, before he realized he was going in exactly the wrong direction. All in all, the two days this cost him did not turn out to be a total loss. When he deplored his mistake in going east instead of west, a fellow guest at the inn told him of a road a few kilometers south of Langres that would take him due west as far as Châtillon. There he took the chance of inquiring for Saulieu and found to his relief that he could get there without even entering Dijon.

Up until this time Roger had had no need to use the cover he had devised. The guns and gun parts he had brought with him rested quietly in the boxes in which they had been packed. No one had seemed interested or curious about why he was traveling. Those who recognized him specifically as an Englishman dismissed him as another of the lunatics who seemed to rush all over Europe with no aim beyond the actual traveling. Those who just realized he was a foreigner, without guessing from where, assumed he was intent on getting back to his native land before the war grew more intense and closed the borders. In Saulieu, however, Roger needed a reason to stay, at least until he could discover what had happened to de Conyers.

Having taken up residence in a modest but decent inn frequented by middle- to lower-class artisans, Roger broached his purpose to the group assembled in the main room the evening after his arrival. He liked Saulieu, he stated, and he saw there was no gunsmith in town. Was there a place where he could set up a temporary shop to buy, sell and mend until the town’s needs were satisfied?

He was not really surprised at the surreptitious glances the other men in the room cast at each other. He had guessed that the town administration must be in a turmoil and tyrannical to boot if a member of the National Assembly had been arrested.

The silence in response to Roger’s question was growing noticeable, and he had begun to raise his expressive eyes in simulated surprise when the innkeeper cleared his throat uneasily and agreed that Saulieu was a good place to live. It was so near the mountains, he said, and yet sheltered so that the climate was excellent. There was good fishing and good hunting, now that the forest laws were repealed.

“Ah well,” Roger laughed, “if you go on, you will make me wish to settle here, but I do not seem to be able to stay long in one place, even when there is sufficient business. However, one thing at a time. I must find a place to work if I am to stay at all, for a man like me has little in reserve, only enough for a few days’ food and lodging until I can begin to ply my trade.”

There were uneasy glances again, but one of the men by the bar said, “You should see Maître Foucalt, numéro trois, rue Gambetta. He will know better than we.”

Again eyes met briefly or were lowered. Roger noticed here and there a brief angry frown, but he remained deliberately blind, as if he were too intent on his own business to care about anything else. “And is it necessary for me to get permission from the Hôtel de Ville to set up shop?” he asked, seeming to pursue his purpose single-mindedly.

“Maître Foucalt will know best about that. We are all residents here and would not be affected by such a rule,” was the reply given by one of those who had initially frowned at the naming of Maître Foucalt.

Roger let the subject drop, asking next about whether there would be a good market for guns in the town and listening to the responses with half an ear. He had no way of knowing whether he had been directed to a spy of the town rulers or to a man opposed to them, but he was not much concerned about that. He knew himself to be an acute judge of men and did not doubt that his story would deceive a spy while he would be able toobtain some notion of what to do next.

Accordingly, bright and early he took himself to the address and requested a few moments of Maître Foucalt’s time. He was received promptly, almost with relief, as if a once-busy man now had not quite enough to do. After Roger had stated his problem, there were a few moments of cautious fencing. Then, suddenly, Maître Foucalt asked whether Roger was an Englishman. Roger was a little surprised. In this relatively small town buried in a mountainous region, it was unlikely that the people would have much contact with English travelers. However, Roger allowed that he had been born in England and asked blandly how Maître Foucalt had guessed his origin. The elderly man looked at him for a few seconds in silence.

“It is the way you say certain words,” he replied slowly at last, his eyes fixed intently on Roger’s face. Then his lips tightened, as If he had decided to take a chance on something. “It is the way Monsieur de Conyers spoke.”

The mention of de Conyers’ name was obviously an invitation. If Roger was what he claimed to be, he would show no more interest than a polite remark on the fact that there was another Englishman in the district. On the other hand if he had come to look for de Conyers—and that would not be so farfetched an idea to someone who knew Henry, knew he was the son of a nobleman, and knew that Henry could not have communicated with his family for nearly five month—that was a deliberate opening for questions.

It was an opening that required an instant response. To hesitate was as revealing as to display outright an interest in de Conyers. Roger was almost certain that Maître Foucalt was no agent of the town tyrant. The eager way the young clerk had welcomed “business” implied a recent diminishment Also, even before Roger’s accent was recognized, Foucalt had implied that Saulieu was not a healthy place to set up in business. He had not said anything that could be taken as a criticism of the governing body of the town, but he had suggested subtly that there might be problems for an honest businessman. Still, after ten years of practicing law, Roger was innately cautious.

“Ah,” he said at once, “you have an English resident in the town. Englishmen are often interested in guns. Perhaps I could do a little business even if, as you suggest, this would not be a profitable place to stay.”

That gave Roger his answer. There was such a look of disappointment, of a last hope lost on the suddenly lined and sorrowful face of the advocate, that Roger could no longer doubt him.

“No,” Maître Foucalt sighed, “he is no longer resident. Ah well, I am sorry—”

“Is Henry de Conyers still alive?” Roger asked, interrupting what was obviously going to be a polite farewell.

Maître Foucalt’s face grew sharp. “Henry de Conyers,” he breathed.

Foucalt had not given the first name. Then this man, whoever he was, must have come to look for de Conyers. There was no question that he was a stranger to the town and even to the district. Thus, almost certainly, he was not a henchman of Jean-Paul Marot. Besides, Maître Foucalt thought bitterly, since he himself was the only one who could be implicated by this conversation, it did not matter. His life was over anyway.

“I do not know whether he is still alive,” Maître Foucalt said quickly, his voice lowered. “The last time anyone saw him was early in July.” He related quickly the events that had taken place. The take-over of the town by Marot, the imprisonment of de Conyers and his family—although Foucalt was unaware of the horrors that had accompanied the imprisonment—and the periodic display of Henry. “But,” he concluded, “no one has seen him for about six weeks. It may be…”

“No,” Roger replied briskly, “there is no sense in killing him secretly after all this time, if that is what you fear. It is possible that some or all of them are dead,” he added more slowly. “Perhaps they fell ill. Prisoners tend to lose heart and are victims to disease.”

“There is only one physician,” Maître Foucalt remarked. “Do you not think…”

“Perhaps the physician was told to keep the matter quiet,” Roger began. He saw from the fleeting expression on the advocate’s face that if the physician had been summoned to attend de Conyers, he would have mentioned it, whatever he had been told. “It is also possible,” he continued, “that the conditions under which Monsieur de Conyers is kept do not accord with the appearance given when he was displayed. From what you told me, it seems as if the man Marot had some personal grudge against—”

“That is so,” Foucalt interrupted, “but at first he had such power—we were all so…so… If he wanted monsieur dead, why did he not have him executed? No one could have opposed him then.”

“Then!” Roger picked that up. “And now it is different?” Maître Foucalt’s face closed and suspicion flashed in his eyes. Roger shook his head and raised a hand defensively. “No, I am not asking you to tell me anything that could harm anyone or betray any plan. I do not wish to know anything beyond what any man in the street would know. Remember, I am a stranger in the town. I know nothing at all.”

Such information Maître Foucalt was willing to give. He described the disagreements within the ranks of Marot’s followers with considerable relish. Roger noticed the man said nothing of the attitude of the upper bourgeoisie, but he did not ask about it. It was clear without being told that they would be opposed to the rule of such creatures as Marot’s followers Roger also guessed that they might be organizing a counter take-over from Foucalt’s expression when the doctor was mentioned, but a moment’s thought made him realize that such an action would be of no use to him.

The trouble with actions planned by responsible members of society was that they planned, and planned, and planned. It was all too likely that no action would ever be taken or that, through so much discussion, news of what they intended would come to the ears of their enemies. Even if they managed to keep their secret and actually brought themselves to act, the coup might fail. Then, Roger thought, he would be far worse off. Doubtless a torrent of blood would flow in revenge, and Henry’s—if he were still alive—would be among the first to be spilled.

The best hope, Roger decided as he listened to Maître Foucalt, was to find a weak link in Marot’s own chain of command. Perhaps a jailer could be bribed… Roger interrupted the flow of Foucalt’s narrative to ask where the prison was and whether the jailers were as venal as the usual run of such men. If so, Roger added, he might have the means to bribe one of them.

“De Conyers is not in jail. He is in the Hôtel de Ville,” Foucalt replied. “I am not sure whether Marot did that to depress criticism—you must understand that Monsieur de Conyers was greatly loved and respected by many—or whether he did it for greater security. All we have discovered is that there are special guards, men who are, we believe, particularly devoted to Marot. You understand it is very dangerous to seem to be interested in Monsieur de Conyers, but I will try to find out which men guard him.”

“That would be a great help,” Roger agreed, but he felt dissatisfied.

It was not that he doubted Maître Foucalt’s sincerity, he simply felt the need to be doing something himself rather than sit in a mock gunsmith’s shop and wait for information. For years Roger had done just that—sit in his chambers reading about the actions of other people. He had worked hard, driven on through boredom and fatigue by the knowledge that each fee he received would prevent one argument with Solange. Now the Old Man of the Mountain was off his back, he felt light as a feather, as eager for action as a boy. With an effort Roger kept his face sober. It would not do to make Maître Foucalt think he was a lunatic by suddenly laughing for no reason. Still, Roger felt like laughing. Pierre was right after all, Roger admitted to himself. He did wish to “raise the devil” instead of only hearing about others doing it.

“This hatred Marot has for de Conyers,” Roger said, having been struck by an idea, “does this carry over to all Englishmen?”

“Not at all,” Foucalt replied readily. “In fact, it is just the opposite.”

He then mentioned Marot’s devotion to the ideas of Jean-Paul Marat and said that Marot often molded his actions and policies on the arguments in the L’Ami du Peuple. Roger whistled softly. He had seen some copies of that incendiary paper recently, and the passionate diatribes against the representatives of the National Assembly and against the landed aristocracy of France boded no good for Henry and his family. However, Marat had been an admirer of the English form of constitutional monarchy, and he had been treated with courtesy both times he fled to England to escape imprisonment. Marat was all for friendship with the English and was—one of his sensible attitudes—opposed to war altogether. The local tyrant, Foucalt said, followed faithfully his Parisian mentor’s ideas on those subjects.