Take, Burn or Destroy, page 25
Better that than spending months in a French gaol waiting to be exchanged, wondering all the while if the French had crossed the Channel to England. How infamous he would be if it ever came out that he had been the man who had failed to carry the warning to Britain.
That slim hope made his decision. Going into a French gaol was out of the question. If he were found out in the next few days he would claim he did not realise they thought him French—confusion caused by his excellent command of the language, no doubt. It was not without risk, but while he was still deemed very ill—and certainly he was too weak to effect an escape—he could feign ignorance. Once he was recovered, he would have to decide if there was any possibility of escape—in which case he would claim to be French until it was proven otherwise.
Broth and bread were carried to him by a servant. Hayden ate this with surprisingly little appetite and then forced himself up onto wobbling legs and shuffled to the window. The house was larger than he had expected, his window on the first floor looking over a garden. Beyond were fields, rolling off into the distance—hill beyond hill—all separated one from the other by hedgerows of trees and underwood that ran every which way utterly without pattern.
It was all very familiar to Charles Hayden, who had spent much of his youth not too distant from here—or so he assumed. His legs, however, would not bear him long and he tottered back to bed, dizzy, nauseated, and sweating.
“Merde,” he whispered.
“You should not say that, monsieur.”
Hayden turned his head and found the little girl who had watched over him earlier. “Excuse me. I thought I was alone.”
“You are never alone, monsieur. God is always listening.”
“Certainly he has better things to do?”
“No, monsieur, He has not. God hears every word, no matter how quietly you whisper.” She regarded Hayden a moment with the seriousness of a child. “I prayed for you,” she informed him.
“Thank you, mademoiselle, it was very kind of you.”
“It was excellent practise. I will be a sister one day.”
“No doubt that is why God granted your request and saved my miserable life.”
She gave a little nod, as though to say, “Perhaps.” “Who is Henry?” she asked. She said it in the French way—’Enree.
“I do not know. Who is Henry?”
She shrugged. “You kept saying it when you were fevered. Is he your brother?”
“I have no brothers—and no sisters, either. What else did I say?”
She shrugged. “It was all raving and made no sense. Mother said you must never put any store in what a person says when they are fevered.”
“In this I believe your mother is very wise.”
For a moment she looked surprisingly thoughtful, as though this idea were novel. “Did you see the gates of heaven? The doctor said you did. Were they really made of pearl?”
Hayden was of half a mind to tell her he had and make up some fantastic story, but there was something about the earnest way she listened for his answer that stopped him. “I did not see the gates of heaven, I am sorry to say.”
“Oh.” She looked terribly disappointed. “I thought he might be teasing. Grown-ups do.”
“They do, sometimes, but I am telling the truth.”
She nodded, not looking at him. “If you had seen them there would not be the least doubt, would there? That heaven existed, I mean.”
“Yes, and it would be comforting.”
“There is a man who lives in the village who tells everyone that he was pronounced dead and floated up to the gates of heaven. They opened to receive him, but then an angel sent him back to complete his life. He says that he has something great to accomplish, though he does not yet know what. It is strange—no one believes anything else he says, but that story no one doubts.” She looked up at Hayden. “Is that not odd? Why would he tell the truth about that one thing and nothing else?”
“Maybe one does not tell lies about heaven.”
“Yes, perhaps that is it. Though he said King Louis was still alive and travelling about France disguised as a tinker. Do you believe that?”
Hayden laughed softly. “Do you?”
She shook her head. “It would be very difficult to travel around the country without a head. Everyone would notice.”
“Exactly what I was going to say. The village you spoke of . . . what is it called?”
“You do not know?”
“I do not know where I am or how I got here.”
“The village of Quimper is not so far away. I have been there many times.”
“Ah, you look like a traveller.”
“Do you think so?”
“Very much.”
“One day I hope to travel to Domrémy-la-Pucelle, where Joan of Arc was born. Have you been there?”
“No, but I wish I had. I have not seen your father? Is he away?”
She looked around as though to be certain they were alone. “My father has fled, monsieur. They were coming for him.” Then she said quickly, “But you must say nothing.”
“You need not worry, I am very accomplished at keeping secrets.”
“So am I, monsieur. And so is Mama.” She looked suddenly worried that she had spoken of this. “My father would beat me if he knew I spoke of this to you.”
“He will never hear of it from me. You are safe.”
This appeared to reassure her. “I do not believe he will ever return, anyway. I hope not. He was always very cruel to me and to Mama.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
This curtailed the conversation for a moment. When Hayden was looking for something to say, surprised at how poorly his mind worked, the girl’s mother appeared.
“Charlotte, the captain is far from recovered. You must not bother him.”
“She is no bother, madame. She is very charming.”
“So everyone says. Capitaine, you will excuse me, I hope, but I do not know your name.”
It was a question Hayden had been dreading. If he gave a French name, he was setting his foot upon a terribly dangerous road.
“Does the Navy not know I am here?”
“There were so many, Capitaine, spread among the families in the village and all around. Some have now gone to the naval hospital in Brest, a few have gone to their own families. Many are too ill to travel.”
“And the Anglais? What of them?”
“I do not know, Capitaine. Perhaps they have been taken off to the prison in Quimper or to Portanzeau.” She tilted her head to one side and regarded him. She was a pretty woman, Hayden thought. A little careworn, perhaps, an air of disappointment in her manner and movement. Across the bridge of her nose a little spray of freckles gave a suggestion of youth, and then full lips that never seemed to smile. “Your name, Capitaine . . . ?”
“Mercier. Gil Mercier.”
“You were the captain of the ship that was wrecked? Les Droits de l’Homme?”
“No. I was merely returning to Brest with my friend Capitaine Lacrosse when we were chased by two British ships and driven ashore.”
She shook her head. “The English,” she said with a little shiver, “they are without mercy. So many lives . . .”
Hayden was about to explain that it was their own fault—they did not know their position—but decided this would be unwise. “They are mad dogs, madame,” he said gravely. “Mad dogs.”
Hayden was served both dinner and supper in his room that day, but on the next he shakily joined the family for dinner at table. It was a small household, reduced by the absence of Monsieur Adair and an older son who was away at the military academy—as safe a haven as one could find should the Jacobins come after his family. A Girondiste family lived in constant fear and danger—the distant sound of the guillotine, as Lacrosse had told him, could be heard both day and night. Madame did everything to keep up a pretence of normal life—for the sake of her daughter, Charlotte, Hayden was certain. He learned that a cousin—a girl of twelve—had lived with them for some years but had been sent away to live with other relatives, much to Charlotte’s distress; she did not understand why the girl had gone.
“Her auntie missed her so,” her mother explained, “and had no children left, as they had all grown up and moved away.”
“That is all very well, Mama, but Audrey had lived with us for so very long. She was like a sister to me, and I do not think it was fair that she should be sent off when she did not want to go herself.”
Madame Adair glanced at Hayden—all unsaid.
“Mayhap, I will send you to visit with auntie and Audrey awhile.”
“I should like it much better if they came to stay with us—as they used.”
“It is difficult for them to travel now; that happens when you get older. Would you not dearly love to see Audrey and your auntie, too?”
“I would. But I should miss you, Mother, and Madame Lucy too.”
Madame Lucy, Hayden had learned, was Charlotte’s doll.
“Madame Lucy could travel with you if you liked.”
“She is afraid to travel, Mama,” she replied softly. “The Jacobins . . .”
After dinner, Hayden walked out into the garden. Even mild exertion left him shaking and sweating, but he was determined to get his strength back as soon as he was able. Once he had named himself Capitaine Mercier he knew his time in France must be very short. He might be found out in only a few days. If he had known he would be weak this long, he would not have been so quick to claim himself French.
A servant appeared bearing a tray with a coffee service upon it. Two cups, Hayden noted, when it was deposited on the small table. A moment later Madame Adair appeared, arranging a shawl upon her shoulders.
“May I join you, Capitaine?”
“My pleasure.” Hayden rose, stiffly, and held a chair for her.
She poured coffee for both of them, holding back her shawl in a gesture that was both somehow elegant and charming.
The sun had travelled far into the west, drawing out the shadows of trees and fences, casting a soft, honeyed light over that little part of Brittany. Throughout the day a north-east wind had blown, but it had died away to a sighing breeze, and then to a calm. Neither spoke for a time and Hayden did not feel speech necessary—unlike many, Madame Adair was not made uncomfortable by silence.
She sipped her coffee, admired the view, and, Hayden sensed, rested from the labours of the day. An estate of such size required a great deal of looking after, and she had shouldered that burden as well as running the household and raising her daughter and now-absent son.
“The doctor told me you would be able to travel within a week,” she offered into the evening’s silence.
“Yes, and I shall be a burden to you no more.”
“You have not been a burden. It has been a pleasure. Charlotte could not be more delighted to have you here. She would pester you from morning until night if I allowed it.”
“Charlotte may ‘pester’ me all she likes. She is a treasure.”
“She has not had a father for some time . . .” She hesitated and then said, quietly, “A very long time.”
“She told me her father had fled the Jacobins.”
“I have ordered her never to say such a thing . . .” She looked at Hayden quickly, clearly alarmed.
“You need not be the least concerned. What goes on in Paris is the greatest crime in the history of our nation. All of my family are dead . . . and I do not sleep well, myself.”
“My condolences, monsieur,” she whispered, meeting his eye for a fleeting second.
“Will you send her away? Must you?”
“It would be better . . . Safer.”
“Surely even Robespierre would not hurt a child . . . ?”
She shrugged, pressing her lips together just a little. “I fear she might see her mother being taken away. No child should bear witness to that.”
The horror of the statement almost took his breath away, not least because it contained not a shred of melodrama. Mothers found themselves upon the guillotine every day, many of them for no greater crime than being insufficiently zealous revolutionaries. This reminded Hayden, cruelly, that he was not immune to the madness. Lacrosse had warned him that some believed him a Royalist sea officer in the British Navy. And now he was claiming to be a French captain. Whatever had possessed him, he did not know. Clearly, his mind had not been working properly or he would never have been so foolish.
“No,” he replied, “no child should.”
“Do you have children, Capitaine Mercier?”
“No, madame, I am not yet married.”
“I am very surprised to hear it. A man of good family, I should guess, and excellent manners and temperament. I expect many a mother harbours hopes that you might become her son-in-law someday.”
“If so, they hide their hopes well.”
“Come, do not be coy, Capitaine. Is there not a young woman whom you will soon make very happy?”
This brought up a subject that, even in his present circumstances, was not far from his thoughts, and he felt a little sag of despair. “I believed there was, but instead she made me unhappy—at least for a time.”
“Ah. Love is never an easy journey, Capitaine. Not for the faint of heart, that is certain. But there will be other young women . . . of greater understanding, I am quite certain. Do you know what my mother told me? Beauty quickly fades and charm wears very poorly, but a good house and an adequate income can last a lifetime.”
“She was a romantic, I see.”
“Indeed she was—that is why she gave me such advice. Being a romantic had brought her much heartache.” She gave a sad shrug, and thoughtfully pushed her lower lip into the upper. “But being practical can turn out much the same. In love there are so many ways to go wrong and only so very few, I think, to have it turn out well.”
They were silent a moment, the late-evening light casting their angular shadows across the grass and into the trees opposite. The evening insects took over from their brethren of the day. A cricket began to creak away, and then frogs in the nearby pond sent forth their throaty declarations.
“What is it like to have an aspiring saint for a daughter?” Hayden asked, changing the course of the conversation.
This did elicit a small laugh, many years evaporating from Madame Adair’s face in that instant. “It is difficult to live up to her expectations, Capitaine, I will admit. But I have told her that saints are very forgiving of others’ shortcomings.” Her smile disappeared.
“I’d better not tarry too long, then,” Hayden said, “I am certain to disappoint her.”
“Are you in the habit of disappointing the female sex, Capitaine Mercier?” she asked playfully.
“Never by intent, madame. Never by intent.”
Since he had woken in the home of Madame Adair—he did not think of it as the home of Charles Adair—he had fallen into bed each night so utterly drained that he wondered if his heart would continue beating. Even so, he would surface late in the night and lie awake, sometimes colder than a winter wind. Nightmares plagued him, of drowning in the wreck, sucked down into the hold by an irresistible current, or swimming endlessly through her darkened hull, among menacing flotsam, unable to escape. He dreamed also that the French landed in England and caught the nation unawares, driving the British armies before them.
He would then lie awake, his mouth dry, a dull headache and general malaise and weakness overwhelming him. After he had taken his coffee in the garden with Madame Adair, Hayden’s night followed this same general course of events, and he lay awake, feeling very low and anxious, wishing the nightingale would sing again.
Instead a dull pounding on the front door, and a hushed voice imploring that someone open up—in all haste!
Hayden lay very still, listening. A second voice could be heard inside—a servant, he believed, summoning Madame Adair. As quickly as he was able, he dressed and stumbled down the stairs, unsteady on his feet and light-headed. As Madame Adair, candle in hand, unbolted the door, a clearly frightened woman pressed in through the narrow opening, not waiting for the door to be properly opened. Immediately, a servant closed the door and threw the bolts.
“They have taken madame!” the woman muttered.
“Mon dieu!” Madame Adair exhaled, and appeared about to collapse. “Spare us!” she muttered. “Spare us . . . Do they come this way? Tell me!”
“I do not know . . . I-I do not believe they do.”
“But you are not certain?”
The woman—a servant by her dress—shook her head, looking down at the floor.
Madame Adair put a hand to her heart, hardly able to catch a breath. She saw Hayden at that moment.
“The Jacobins, Capitaine Mercier—they have taken my neighbour, Madame Genot. Her husband fled with Monsieur Adair.”
“You must fly!” Hayden said.
“Fly? Where? No one would dare hide us—nor could I ask them to. No, I am done for. If they come for me . . . I will die,” she said, and began to weep.
Servants were roused and all the windows were shuttered and locked, all the doors barred, to what purpose Hayden did not know. If the Jacobins came for her, this would only anger them and make it more likely that servants or other innocents would be taken as well—even recovering sea officers.
Snuffing out all the candles, the household huddled in the drawing room—all but Charlotte, who had not been wakened and remained in her bed watched over by her nursemaid. In the darkness they waited, a single window open so that they might hear the approaching Jacobins. A shaft of thin light from the waning moon crept slowly across the floor, and a small breeze wafted in, carrying the perfume of spring mixed with the faint odours from the distant farmyard. No one spoke. Some held hands, others sat alone, but no one dozed or appeared to be called by sleep, though they all looked haggard and exhausted. In the darkest corner, two women prayed, whispering their fears to God and Mary and their Son, begging deliverance.
