Almost - Almost A Bride Part 28

He handed the small coin over and she turned cajolingly to the others. "It doesn't come any fresher than this, citoyens."

"Oh, aye," one of them said with a leer, revealing a mouth empty of all but one front tooth. "Bet you're not such a fresh piece anymore, eh, citoyenne?"

"One loaf, one sou," she said, handing him a baguette.

Game over, the others bought from her basket, joined by some of their fellow gendarmes, and when only crumbs remained she said, "I've yesterday's here too. Any chance I could get rid of it yonder?" She gestured with her head towards the door to the prison behind them.

"There's some'll be glad of it," said the gendarme with the single tooth. He shrugged. "Don't see no 'arm in it. Just the women's jail, mind . . . and be careful they don't eat you alive." He cackled and blew his nose vigorously between finger and thumb.

"It'll cost you," the first man said, getting to his feet. "A kiss first, citoyenne."

His breath stank of stale wine, garlic, and tobacco, and his mouth was wet as he grabbed her b.u.t.tocks and pressed his lips to hers. She held her breath and endured. Finally he let her go. "This way." He jerked his head towards a door in the opposite wall, and she followed him across the crowded courtyard.

He spoke to the two gendarmes who stood leaning against the wall on either side of the door, one of them picking his teeth, the other reflectively scratching through his beard in search of lice. They nodded. One of them spat on the cobbles at his feet and unlocked the door with the great key that hung from his belt. He waved Arabella inside.

The door clanged shut behind her. She heard the grating of the key in the lock and thought she would pa.s.s out. How would she get out of this place? No one had said. What if they all left and she was abandoned in here? Why would they care? One more woman prisoner more or less left to rot would make no difference. Then she told herself that as far as the gendarmes were concerned she was one of them. A hardworking citoyenne who wasn't averse to a little ribaldry.

She stood still and took stock. It was gloomy, hot, and airless but slowly she began to make out shapes, huddled shapes against the walls, lying on the floor. A low murmur almost like the subdued buzzing from a beehive filled the air. The only light was thrown from two pitch torches on the far wall, and when she took a step forward the wooden soles of her clogs stuck to the unspeakable mire that was the floor. An infant wailed and a child cried.

Some of the shapes began to move towards her. Women. Ragged, thin, straggle-haired women, some with babies, all with haunted, hungry eyes.

"I have bread," she said. Hands were outstretched and the buzz became a clamor as women stumbled across the floor. She looked helplessly into her basket. There was barely enough to feed a small family let alone this throng of starved and desperate women and children.

She put the basket on the floor, unable to bear the idea of handing it out, of picking and choosing. Her eyes were now accustomed to the gloom and she could make out the features of the women as they fell upon the basket. She stepped back a little and looked around. Prisoners still lay on pallets on the floor or huddled against the walls, and she guessed they were too weak to make the effort even for bread. She set off around the walls, sidling rather than walking, pausing at each bundle of rags, bending down to ask the same soft question. "Charlotte?" She met only blank stares from white or fever-hectic faces.

She persevered along one wall, then turned to the wall beneath the sconces. She stopped; her breath stopped in her chest. A woman lay asleep on a pallet. A woman with a streak of silver-white running through her graying hair from a pointed widow's peak.

Arabella knelt beside the pallet and put her hand on the turned shoulder. The bone was sharp beneath her palm, heat emanating from the skin. Two red spots of fever burned on the woman's cheeks and her breathing was labored.

"Charlotte?" Arabella murmured, laying her hand now on the woman's cheek. "Charlotte, is it you?"

Paper-thin eyelids opened slowly to reveal deeply sunken eyes, but they were the same piercing gray as Jack's. Purple bruises filled the hollows beneath. "Who wants me?" she said, in a voice that had more strength to it than her appearance would imply. "Who are you?" Suspicion lurked in her eyes, an alert watchfulness as she looked up at the woman leaning over her.

"Jack's wife," Arabella whispered. "You are Charlotte?"

"Jack?" She struggled up and Arabella supported her shoulders. "Jack is here?"

"Outside. He thought you were dead."

The woman leaned back against Arabella's arm. "I was . . . to all intents and purposes. I should have died, but somehow I didn't." She closed her eyes in a moment of exhaustion.

"You must conserve your strength," Arabella said urgently. "Please . . . sit back against the wall."

Charlotte did so, then she looked at Arabella with a clear, penetrating gaze. "Jack's wife?"

Arabella sat down on the filthy floor and took the clawlike hand in both of hers. "My name is Arabella. Listen to me carefully, Charlotte."

Charlotte listened, not moving, not speaking, her eyes never leaving Arabella's face. When the other woman fell silent she let her head fall back against the wall and closed her eyes again. "I have strange dreams," she murmured. "This is not one of them."

"No. I'm truly here." She took the other's woman hand and held it up to her face. "Feel, Charlotte. I'm no figment, no chimera. I am Jack's wife and we are going to get you out of here very, very soon."

Charlotte stroked Arabella's cheek then let her hand drop to her lap. "I am ill," she said with a sigh. "What's left of my life is not worth putting anyone else's in danger."

"Can you imagine what your brother would say if he heard you say that?" Arabella demanded, taking the woman's hands again tightly in her own. "Charlotte, he's on the rack. He was told you had been murdered in La Force and he can't forgive himself for believing it."

"It would have been better if I had died there," Charlotte said.

"No," Arabella declared. "You have to be strong for just a little while longer. And when you're outside, in the fresh air, in the sunlight, with good food, and birdsong, and the scent of flowers, you will get well."

A flickering smile touched Charlotte's bloodless lips, before her eyes closed again. "I own I would give my last breath to feel the sun on my face."

"You shall feel it," Arabella said strongly. "Believe me . . . trust Jack."

"I would trust my brother with my life," Charlotte said softly. The smile flickered again as she looked at her visitor. "I always wondered what kind of woman would be strong enough for Jack. Do you love him?"

"With all my heart."

"And if he has given you his heart, it will be without stint," she said. "Sometimes I despaired that he would ever find the right woman. He is not an easy man."

"No," Arabella agreed readily, and laughed. Charlotte managed a half chuckle and then began to cough. Arabella watched in despair as the sc.r.a.p of cloth she held was rapidly filled with blood. She got up and fetched her now empty basket. She gave Charlotte the two napkins. It was all she could think of to do.

The spasm pa.s.sed eventually and Charlotte leaned back with an exhausted sigh, her eyelids fluttering, the blood-soaked cloths scrunched in her lap. "If it is to happen, it must happen soon," she said weakly.

"I know." Arabella leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I would like to know my sister-in-law." Charlotte lightly touched her cheek then her hand fell again into her lap.

"I understand the prisoners are known by number," Arabella said urgently, seeing Charlotte begin to drift away again. "Tell me yours, Charlotte."

For a long moment there was silence, Charlotte's breath rasping unevenly in little puffs between her lips. Arabella began to despair and then the woman's eyelids fluttered. "Prisoner 1568," she whispered.

Arabella got up, brushing the dirty straw and dust from her ragged skirt. She pushed the straggling hair away from her face with a sense of hopelessness. She could have brought a blanket with her, some nourishing soup, laudanum. She had some in her cloak bag. Then she shook her head to dispel the despairing sense of futility. She had done what she had been sent to do. Now it was for the others . . . for Jack . . . to win Charlotte's freedom. And she knew that they would.

With her empty basket she made her way back to the locked door in the far wall. A few hands reached out and plucked at her skirts but there was no threat there, only despair. She didn't look like someone who might have access to the kind of power that would secure the release of any one of these wretched prisoners, and for the most part they watched her progress across the jail with dull and indifferent eyes.

She hammered with her fist on the door, desperate now to get out into the sunshine, to leave the fetid, diseased air of this prison behind. She hammered again and again, panic rising in her throat. Then the key grated and the door swung open a few inches. She slipped outside and drew a deep breath.

"Hope it was worth it," the gendarme said. "It'd take the promise of more than a few sous to get me to go in there."

"I take what I can where I can find it," she responded, and hurried away, swinging her basket with all the insouciance of a woman utterly at home. She broke through the gateway almost at a run and saw Jack, still standing motionless where she had left him. He didn't move as she reached him but his eyes were filled with an agonized question.

"She is there," she said.

He had wanted it to be Charlotte. He had not wanted it to be Charlotte. If she wasn't there, if Flamand had been mistaken, then she had died in La Force and he hadn't abandoned her. But then, as the reality seeped through, and the agonizing wait was over, he felt only a surge of elation and deep and abiding joy. He became aware of Arabella again, standing close to him, her hand on his arm, her expression grave.

"Jack, she's ill. Consumption, I think."

And the blackness filled him anew.

"We don't have much time," she said, shaking his arm. "Every minute she stays in that charnel house-"

"You think I'm not aware of that?" he demanded, brushing her hand away. He spun on his heel and walked rapidly in the direction of the river.

She stood for a minute watching his receding back, then ran after him. It hadn't occurred to her to expect thanks, but some reaction other than biting her head off would have been appreciated. But she knew what he was going through and didn't hold it against him.

She caught up with him in the middle of the Pont Neuf and he slowed as she slid her hand into his arm. He reached his other hand across to close over hers. "Forgive me."

"Nothing to forgive," she said. "What do we do now?"

"Find an intermediary." He was walking fast again and she said no more, waiting until they had reached the house on Rue de Bievre. Jack led her through a side gate, across a patch of garden with chicken coops and a few bean stalks, and directly into the kitchen.

Not everyone from the previous evening was there, but Therese was stirring a pot on the range and several of the other women were scrubbing and peeling vegetables. The old man sat in his corner by the fire, turning a haunch of venison on the spit. These people lived well, Arabella reflected. In a city plagued by starvation, where did they get their supplies?

A young man she hadn't seen before banged into the kitchen from the hallway. He beamed and opened his arms to Jack. "Jack, mon ami."

"Michel." Jack embraced him. "We owe the venison to you, I a.s.sume."

"Yes, brought it in from the farm under a load of potatoes," the other said with a smug grin. "Stupid gendarmes couldn't even smell what was under their noses."

Jack turned to Arabella. "My dear, let me present an old friend, Michel de Chaumont. In a previous life, the viscomte de Chaumont. Now, merely Citoyen Chaumont. Michel, my wife."

The elegance of the newcomer's bow was at odds with his rough peasant jerkin, worsted britches, and mud-engrimed boots. In his previous existence he would have graced the Court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, but he didn't seem ill at ease in this lowly costume. Arabella wondered how many of the visitors to this house had private lands in the countryside . . . land that would provide last night's pig and tonight's roast venison.

"Enchante, Madame d.u.c.h.esse." He kissed her hand and she laughed at the absurdity of the gesture. Her nails were cracked, dirt rubbed artistically into every line of her palm and knuckles.

He laughed too, as if at a supremely amusing jest and strode to the table to bestow a hearty kiss on

Therese's thin cheek. "Wine, ma chere," he demanded. "We must drink to Jack and his wife.""We did that last night," Therese said. "But there's a barrel of good burgundy in the pantry." She wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n and looked a question at Arabella and then at Jack.

"It is Charlotte," Jack said briefly, swinging his leg over the bench at the table. "Her prisoner number is 1568," Arabella said. Therese sighed and raised her eyes as if giving a prayer of thanks, then turned to the dresser and brought down wine cups. "Maitre Foret will act for you. Jean Marc spoke to him this morning. He will do it for a consideration . . . a considerable one, of course. But he knows who to bribe in the prefecture.""Foret, the attorney?""The same." She pa.s.sed cups of wine across the table. "Shifty b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Jack said. He drummed his fingers on the table. "I've had dealings with him before.""What kind of dealings?" asked Therese. "Unpleasant ones. He tried a little blackmail on me some years ago."

"What kind of blackmail?" Arabella leaned closer, her eyes wide with curiosity. Jack pinched her nose and for the first time in many days a smile lit up his eyes. "Curiosity killed the cat, my dear."

"Tell me. Did it concern a woman? Had you ruined some innocent maiden?"

His smile broadened. "Yes to one and no to the other. And that's all I'm going to say on the matter. Except that I threw him out of the house and sent his hat after him.""Well, clearly you can't go and see him," Therese declared. "He'll do you no favors for a consideration or otherwise.""No," Jack agreed, his expression once more somber. He set down his cup. "Where is he to be found these days?"

"Rue St. Honore." Therese shrugged. "He's come up in the world has Maitre Foret. The revolution was good to him." Bitter irony edged her voice.

"So, how best to approach him?" Jack stared into his wine cup as if the answer might lie in its ruby depths.

"It's more a question of who best to approach him," Arabella said thoughtfully. "What about the countess of Dunston? It is, after all, my secondary t.i.tle and has no connections, at least for a Parisian attorney, with the house of St. Jules."

"Madame has the manner, the right address to appeal to the pig," Therese said. "Foret is easily flattered by aristocratic attention. An English n.o.blewoman in search of a lost friend would appeal to his sense of importance. Particularly a supplicant n.o.blewoman." She surveyed Arabella with narrowed eyes. "Of course, not in your present guise."

"Oh, I find I am a mistress of disguise," Arabella stated. "I have a portmanteau of disguises." She glanced at her husband, who had said nothing. "Jack?"

"Why?" he asked, taking her face between both his hands and looking deep into her eyes as if he would read her soul. "Why would you do this, Arabella?"

"For your sister," she said, keeping her eyes on his. "For you. Because it's the only sensible plan. Because it will work."And in expiation for her family's dishonor. But that was a tiny, tiny personal spur.

Slowly he let his hands fall from her face. When he spoke it was in his usual level tones. "What do you have to wear apart from that riding habit?"

"The cambric gown I wore on the boat. That and another. Both very simple, but suitable, I believe."

He nodded. "Therese, we'll need a carriage. She can't arrive on foot, not when she's carrying a king's ransom about her person."

"I'll spruce up the cart," Marcel said cheerfully. "Won't take much to make it clean enough to look respectable but not extravagant enough to draw attention. If madame rides on the bench, her gown'll not pick up any residue of potato dirt or venison blood."

"I'll drive," Jack said, getting up from the bench. "Come and change, Arabella."

"One thing," Jean Marc said from the fire. "If you get the comtesse out of Chatelet this evening, you won't be able to get her out of the city until the gates open at dawn."

"I'm not leaving her in that h.e.l.lhole if I can get her out now," Jack stated, his mouth tight.

"You'll be safe enough here overnight," Therese said swiftly. "She'll need to rest, gain some strength before embarking on such a journey." She gave Arabella a searching look and Arabella returned an infinitesimal nod that confirmed the other woman's worst expectations.

If Jack was aware of the wordless exchange he gave no sign. He gestured impatiently that Arabella should go ahead of him to the apple loft and she complied without a word. "I'll bring water," he said.

He followed her up the ladder within a few minutes with a jug of hot water and a basin. She had stripped to her chemise and was brushing her hair, trying to get out the tangles that had been so painstakingly arranged that morning.

"Foret is a slimy b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Jack said, pouring water into the basin. "I don't know what you had to do this morning to gain entrance to the prison, but whatever it was, do the opposite with Foret. Simper, flatter, play the English n.o.blewoman to the hilt. Tell as much of the truth as is necessary. You heard in London from an emigre that a good friend of yours is imprisoned in Le Chatelet. Give him the prisoner number and invent a name. The vicomtesse de Samur, for instance . . . herself is an English n.o.blewoman, a childhood friend of yours, and-"

"Jack, I know what to say," she interrupted. She turned to him, putting her arms around him. "I know this must be sheer h.e.l.l for you, love, having to let someone else play the game, but sometimes you have to use the tools at hand." She smiled up at him, running her thumb over his mouth. "You're the gambler, remember. The one who knows what strategy will work best, when to retire gracefully and when to go on the attack."

He grasped her wrists so tightly it was almost painful. "I have never let anyone else play my hand for me."

"I understand that. But this time you must."

And he knew that he must. He released her and turned his attention to the business at hand. In half an hour she was dressed in the cream and bronze gown, the lace fichu demurely at her neck, her hair demurely coiled around her head, a chip straw hat with bronze ribbons tied beneath her chin. White mittens and the kid slippers completed the ensemble. She had brought no jewelry and felt a little naked without any adornment for her ears or throat. Not a lack she would have noticed a year ago in her Kentish backwater.

Jack ran his eyes over her in a careful scrutiny before giving a short nod of approval and turning to the valise on the floor. He took out a leather pouch, opened it, and a flood of gold coins poured onto the straw mattress.

Arabella stared at the quant.i.ty of glinting livres, sovereigns, and guineas. How did one get hold of so much coin? Bank draughts were one thing, but the actual gold on which they were based was another altogether.

Jack sorted through the pile, selecting the livres first. "They'll be easier for Foret to use," he said, dropping them into the pouch. Then he added a handful of guineas and drew the drawstring tight at the neck.

"Where am I going to put it?" she asked. In the old days, she could have tucked it under a pannier or suspended it from a silver chain at her waist. The flimsy garments she wore now offered no concealment and no useful hooking places.

Jack considered. "It's a little graceless," he said finally, "but I think you'll have to carry it on your wrist as if it was an evening purse. You can tuck it under into your hand." He held out the pouch and she did as he suggested. The pouch was too big to be completely concealed in her palm but it would pa.s.s muster on a brief appraisal.

"Now this." He turned back to the valise and drew out a silk purse. He opened it and let two perfect sapphire drops fall into the palm of his hand. "Wear these." He tied the thin threads around her ears. "Use them if you judge you must. Foret is greedy but he might well be satisfied with the purse. He'll take his own commission and use the remainder for a bribe."

His mouth had an ugly twist to it and his eyes were once again opaque, but this time Arabella felt no taint. This was nothing to do with her. She nodded and waited.

After a minute, he continued, "If you sense he wants more, even if you're not sure, give him the drops. Make it seem-"

"Jack, love, I know how to play this. If I untie these . . ." She touched the blue fires nestling against her neck. "If I untie them, he'll believe I am giving him the last vestige of my fortune."