Almost - Almost A Bride Part 29

"It's understood, then." He spoke briskly, turning away to the ladder. "Marcel should have the cart readied by now."

She followed him down, careful not to tread on the flounce of her gown. Simple though it was, it seemed incongruously fine in the rough-hewn kitchen. Therese gave her a smile as she took in her appearance. Jean Marc chuckled and declared, "Fine as a new minted livre."

Arabella curtsied. "Why, thank you, monsieur."

"Watch your tongue," Therese said sharply.

"Citoyen," Arabella corrected herself. "It was only in jest, Citoyenne Therese. I know when to speak."There was an edge to her voice. She didn't like the sense that she was somehow regarded as a tyro, someone who needed instruction, who needed watching if she was not to make a mistake. Had she not that morning been locked into the hideous gloom of the women's jail at Le Chatelet?

"Therese meant nothing, Arabella," Jack said.

"No, indeed not," the other woman agreed. "But we've learned to fear for our lives with an unconscious remark, madame. Forgive our caution."

Arabella shrugged easily. "I didn't take offense, Therese. I understand that you have habits of caution that I've not had to learn. But I won't betray any of you."

Therese's smile was relieved. "We all know that, madame. Our thoughts are with you." She turned to a closet at the back of the kitchen and unhooked a hooded woolen cloak. "Wear this. You'll draw attention to yourself in those clothes. Not to mention the eardrops."

Arabella took the cloak. It was indeed a wise precaution. The contrast between herself and Jack in his present guise was almost ludicrous. "Thank you." She swathed herself in the garment, drawing the hood over her head, careful not to disturb the set of the straw hat, but equally careful to hide the sapphires, and went out with Jack.

Marcel's cart, while not exactly a gentleman's carriage, was fairly clean and a blanket was spread across the driver's seat to keep the dirt off delicately clad backsides. There were no potatoes visible, and no haunches of game. The horse was a st.u.r.dy cart horse who stood placidly between the traces.

"I'll ride in the back," Marcel said, handing Jack the reins. "In case of trouble." He didn't wait for Jack's agreement, merely hopped into the body of the cart and tucked himself into a corner, partially hidden by a piece of sacking.

Jack handed Arabella up onto the driver's bench, where she arranged her skirts with a fastidious twitch that despite everything made his lips quirk, then he climbed up beside her and took the reins.

They drove through the busy streets, across the river, and past the palaces of the Louvre and the Tuileries. Both ma.s.sive buildings had an air of desolation and the gardens of the Tuileries were ill kept. Arabella remembered accounts of the ma.s.sacre of the Swiss Guards in that garden and she averted her eyes. She averted her eyes also from the guillotine that stood in the big square at the end of the gardens. The cart merged easily with the rest of the wheeled traffic and drew no more attention than its ruffianly driver. Arabella stared straight ahead, glad of the concealing cloak and overwhelmingly conscious of the weight of the purse in her lap.

They drove down the rue St. Honore and Jack drew up outside a handsome house, its double gates open onto the courtyard. A house that had once belonged to a n.o.bleman, now bought up by one of the new aristocrats of the new republic. Jack's lip curled in disdain. Foret would have known exactly whom to bribe, whom to do favors for, as he clawed his way up to these heights.

"I don't want to drive into the courtyard," he said. "You are expected, so the porter should admit you without too many questions."

Arabella shrugged off the cloak and climbed down from the cart. "You'll stay here?"

"Of course. If you're not out in half an hour, I'll come in after you."

She shook her head. "There'll be no need for that. Lady Dunston knows what she's doing." She smiled up at him, trying to rea.s.sure him. His anxiety and desperation were visible in every line of his face, in the depths of his eyes that were now as full of turmoil as a roiling winter sea. She had never seen him like this. He was a man who concealed his emotions under a debonair mask. Nothing could ruffle the even tenor of his personality. Even when he disappeared into that dark underworld of his own he was still calm, giving nothing away. But now he was as raw as an open sore.

"I won't be long," she said, and turned towards the gates.

Chapter 23.

Maitre Foret was pink and plump and pompous and very pleased with himself. He rose from an elegant Louis XV desk as Lady Dunston was announced.

"Milady Dunston . . . enchante." He came out from behind the desk and bowed before extending his hand. "I was told to expect a visitor . . . but I had never imagined such a charming one." His smile took in every inch of her and his little brown eyes glistened as they fixed upon the sapphire eardrops.

He wore the lawyer's traditional black but his coat and britches were of the finest velvet, his shirt ruffled with Mechlin lace, and his waistcoat was lavishly embroidered with gold clocks. The buckles on his shoes and the b.u.t.tons on his coat were of the best silver. His graying hair was elaborately curled and glistened with pomade and as he approached Arabella a cloud of musk and gardenia surrounded him.

She gave him her mittened hand but did not curtsy. Countesses did not curtsy to lawyers, however high they had risen in the ranks of the new regime. "Maitre Foret, so pleased . . ." she murmured.

"Pray, be seated, milady. A gla.s.s of sherry, perhaps? Or maybe tea?" He pushed forward a delicate gilt chair.

"Sherry, thank you," she said, taking the seat, arranging her skirts, settling the leather pouch into the folds of material at her side.

He rang a bell and stood rubbing his hands, examining his visitor with every expression of delight. "Such a lovely day," he observed. "But perhaps a trifle warm?"

"I don't find it so," she returned, smiling blandly. A footman entered, sherry was poured, and she took a sip, grateful for the dutch courage. For all his pleasant, almost fawning manner, she didn't trust this man. His eyes were too small and too close together. Shifty was the word, she thought.

Maitre Foret seated himself on an equally delicate chair across from his visitor. His plump thighs spilled over the edge of the seat. He crossed his legs and gave a complacent nod at his shiny shoe buckles, before saying, "How may I be of service, milady? Anything within my power, I a.s.sure you." He beamed at her.

Arabella didn't waste words. "A most unfortunate miscarriage of justice brings me to Paris, sir. A very old friend of mine is imprisoned by mistake in Le Chatelet. An Englishwoman, who was caught up in the troubles of the past." She smiled understandingly as if it was almost inevitable that such mistakes should be made when something as important as revolution took place.

"I see." He nodded gravely. "It is unfortunate that these mistakes occur, but alas, several instances have been brought to my attention. I a.s.sume you know the prisoner's number?"

"1568.".

He wrote the number carefully on a sheet of parchment and then nodded, steepling his fingers. "I must a.s.sume, milady, that we are talking of an aristo," he said. "That makes matters difficult."

"But not beyond your powers, Maitre Foret," she responded with another smile. Leaning forward, she placed a hand over his. "I do beg of you, sir, to do what you can to correct this error. My friend, formally the vicomtesse de Samur, is not of French birth, as I explained. Her husband, the vicomte, was of course executed." She managed to give the impression that such an execution was right and proper. "But his wife . . . his widow . . . is guilty of nothing." She sat back again, keeping her eyes steadily on his face, just a hint of supplication in their depths.

Maitre Foret stroked his smooth pink chin and his small eyes seemed almost to disappear in the plumpness of his countenance. "Well, of course it is most unfortunate when an innocent foreigner is caught up in troubles that are not her concern. But it is difficult, milady Dunston, to achieve the release of an aristocrat."

"Difficult, but not impossible, I believe," she said, lifting the purse onto her lap. The c.h.i.n.k of gold as the coins settled was as loud as a church bell in the sudden quiet of the room. "I understand that it will be expensive," she continued, regarding him with a frank and open smile.

"Very expensive, milady." He stroked his chin again. "I have a good friend in the prefecture who could perhaps be persuaded to sign an authorization that would release prisoner 1568 from Le Chatelet."

"You would have my undying grat.i.tude, monsieur." She lifted the pouch a little and let it fall back into her lap. The lawyer's eyes had not left it. Wordlessly he held out his hand and she placed the purse in his palm.

He hefted the pouch and it was clear he was calculating from the weight how much it contained. Then he rose and with a murmur of excuse left the room, taking the purse with him.

Arabella sat there, her heart racing. There was nothing to prevent him keeping the money and refusing the request. Except that if he did that, word would get around and he would lose any further business of this kind, and his reputation as an intermediary was obviously vital to his wealth and advancement. No, she decided, he hadn't reached such a position through theft and deceit, only through corruption. If one could draw a distinction, of course. She fingered the eardrops reflectively as she waited for his return.

He came back after ten minutes, no longer carrying the pouch. He had a parchment in his hand and a big smile on his face. "Well, milady, you came to the right man," he declared. "I have here an authorization for the release of prisoner 1568 from Le Chatelet, effective immediately."

Arabella stood up. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am . . . how grateful the citoyenne's entire family in England will be. Words cannot express our feelings."

His eyes flickered to the eardrops, and he laid the parchment on the desk, placing his hand over it. "Words are not necessary, milady."

She understood him without difficulty. "Perhaps I can express my grat.i.tude in a more personal fashion,"she said, touching the eardrops, setting them swinging against her neck so that blue fires in their depths flared. The lawyer's greedy gaze remained fixed upon them. "But perhaps I could see the authorization, Maitre Foret?" Smiling, she extended her hand. There was no pretence now that this was anything but a straightforward case of bribery.

"But of course, milady." He took his hand off the parchment and she leaned over and took it from the desk. She unfolded it. It seemed authentic and the seal at the bottom was stamped with the office of the securite. The signature was unreadable but the seal was all that was necessary.

"Thank you," she said, refolding the parchment and slipping it into her bosom. She reached up and untied the sapphire drops and held them out. "My personal thanks, Maitre Foret."

He received them in the palm of his hand and instantly his fingers closed over them as if they might take flight.

"I bid you good day, monsieur." Arabella nodded and walked to the door. He jumped to open it for her.

"A pleasure doing business with you, milady."

"Indeed," she said with a slight inclination of her head. And she walked back down the imposing sweep of stairs, across the shining marble floor, and out into the sunshine as a footman held the door for her. She crossed the courtyard and it seemed miles to walk to the open gates. Her mission had been accomplished so easily . . . too easily? Her ears strained to catch the sound of pursuit but there was nothing, only a dog sunning itself in a corner of the courtyard. The porter at the gatehouse merely glanced at her as she pa.s.sed onto the street.

Jack watched her approach. He saw that she no longer wore the eardrops and he let out a long slow breath. He jumped down from the cart and lifted her up onto the bench. "You have it?"

"Yes." She took the parchment from her bodice. "Odious little man. He took the eardrops."

"I expected as much." He unfolded the sheet and read it. Then he gave it back to her, cracked the whip, and the cart horse moved stolidly away. Arabella didn't ask where they were going. "Who's going to go into the prison?""I am," Jack said. "But they won't let you into the women's jail."

"I don't need to go in. They need to bring Charlotte out," he responded almost curtly. She offered no further argument. He'd sat on the sidelines for as long as he could endure and now it was his time.

Outside the gates of the prison, he jumped down and Marcel took his place on the bench, taking the

reins. "We'll wait for you here."Jack merely nodded and strode through the gates into the courtyard, the parchment in his hand. Arabella craned her neck to see as he walked across to the gatehouse. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap, her nails bit into her palms even through the mittens.

He spoke to the gendarme on guard at the gatehouse. He showed him the parchment. The man summoned others and a crowd quickly gathered around the paper. "Can they read it?" Arabella whispered, more to herself than to Marcel.

"Enough. They'll have seen such papers before," Marcel told her. "As long as the seal's authentic."She nodded, chewing at her lip, then the group broke up and one of the gendarmes walked towards the door that she had entered only that morning. The sun was low in the sky now. Jack followed him but stayed outside as the jailer went in.

Charlotte was kneeling on the floor beside a woman laboring in childbirth, when a streak of sunlight fell into the jail. She turned her head towards the source of light, a tiny spark of hope flickering through her exhaustion.

The gendarme stood just inside the door but made no attempt to come forward. "1568," he bellowed. For a moment no one moved, then he shouted out the number again. Charlotte looked down at the laboring woman who needed her help. She looked around at the other women in attendance. The gendarme shrugged and stepped back, preparing to close the door again.

"No, she's here," someone called out. Hands pulled Charlotte to her feet, propelled her forward. "She's here."

The man tapped his foot impatiently. "Well, hurry up, then, haven't got all day."

Charlotte was almost carried by her friends towards the shaft of sun. Behind her the laboring woman cried out. Out of habit she turned her head, and then was pushed forward so that she almost fell against the jailer. He barely felt her, she was so light and insubstantial. He grabbed her arm and stepped back, bringing her with him as he banged shut the door again.

She stood motionless, blinded by the light, feeling the sun's heat on her head, on her back. How long had it been since she'd seen the light, breathed fresh air?

And then Jack's arms were around her. He lifted her, tears pouring down his cheeks as he turned and ran with her out of the courtyard. Sobs wrenched him as he felt her frailty. It was like carrying a small child, a ghost even. He handed her up to Marcel then climbed into the back of the cart, settling himself against the side before reaching for his sister again, cradling her in his arms, protecting her from the jolting of the iron wheels on the cobbles.

Arabella swiveled around on the bench. She saw the tears still falling unrestrained down Jack's cheeks as he stroked his sister's thin face, Charlotte smiling effortfully up at him, and Arabella's heart turned over. She faced forward again, giving them privacy, and drew a deep quiet breath. Her part was done. Charlotte would not live long, Jack knew that, but they would have a little time together. She would stay in the background, offering what support she could, and Jack would need her again . . . more than ever . . . when it was over.

Marcel drew rein outside the house on rue de Bievre and Jack, still cradling his sister, climbed down. Therese opened the door at the first knock and gave a little exclamation of shock . . . of joy . . . Arabella couldn't tell. She followed them into the hallway and through to the kitchen, content to hang back while Charlotte was installed in a rocking chair beside the fire, swaddled in thick rugs.

"Beef tea," Therese said, bustling over a saucepan. She looked fl.u.s.tered, her hands shook as she lifted the ladle, and her distress was evident in the set lines of her face.

Arabella guessed that all these people had been involved in Jack's earlier attempt to get his sister out of France and were almost as devastated as he at the catastrophic misinformation that had led to this tragedy. She went over to the range and quietly took the ladle from Therese. The other woman looked surprised for a minute, then gave up the ladle and went back to Charlotte.

Arabella brought a bowl of beef tea to the rocking chair. She knelt beside Charlotte and dipped the spoon in the tea. "Let me," Jack said softly. Without a word Arabella shuffled backwards and gave Jack both bowl and spoon.

Charlotte made a valiant effort but managed only a few spoonfuls before she was seized with a violent coughing spasm. Arabella, knowing what to expect, put the napkin into Charlotte's hands and for an eternity the agony continued-until, spent, the sufferer leaned back against the chair, blood spotting her lips. Arabella wiped her mouth for her and took the napkin, going to the stone sink, where she rinsed out the blood before bringing the napkin back.

Charlotte took it with a weak smile of thanks, and for a minute held on to Arabella's hand. "I would like . . ." she began, then her voice faded.

"What, Charlotte?" Jack knelt close to her. "What would you like, love?"

Her eyes fluttered open. "A bath," she said simply.

The room was galvanized, everyone relieved to find something concrete to do, something that would offer real relief. Kettles were filled and hung from the lug pole. The fire was piled high with logs. A copper tub materialized, and a pile of towels. Arabella went up to the apple loft and came down with the cake of soap she had brought partly for herself but also because she had envisaged this need. She carried her own soft lawn nightshift over her arm.

Charlotte reached out a hand to her and Arabella went over to the chair. "Will you help me, Arabella . . . sister?"

Arabella felt herself glow with pleasure. She nodded and took the thin hand in hers. "Whatever I can do, just tell me."

Jack stood behind his sister, watching this exchange. And he felt love and a deep pride in his wife. And heart-wrenching grief that this burgeoning relationship would end almost before it began.

Once the tub was filled the kitchen emptied of all but the two women. Charlotte stood up, leaning heavily on the chair as the rugs fell away from her. "I am so filthy," she said, as Arabella moved to help her with her clothes. "They're louse-ridden, don't touch them."

"It matters nothing to me," Arabella stated. "Let me cut them away, it will be easier." She found scissors and cut the filthy rags from Charlotte's body, trying not to flinch with horror at the lice. She hurled the rags onto the fire as she pulled them away from Charlotte and the bugs sizzled and popped most satisfactorily in the flames.

"Filthy beasts," she muttered. Charlotte's thin frame was covered in red bites and they would be in her hair too. Arabella helped her into the copper tub and then knelt beside her with the soap and washcloth.

Charlotte took them from her and her voice sounded stronger. "I can do this for myself," she said. "If you would wash my hair. Therese will have some lye."

"I'll go and ask her." Lye was the only killing cure anyone knew for the all too common head lice and Therese with a grimace of sympathy produced a jar from the scullery, where she was sitting peeling potatoes until the kitchen would once again be free.

Arabella worked in silence, combing the lye through Charlotte's hair. Hair that hadn't been washed let alone cut in over a year. Charlotte had been taken without so much as a comb and the opportunity to use even that elementary grooming tool had come infrequently during her imprisonment.

"It would be better if I cut it," Arabella said finally, almost weeping herself at the difficulty of getting through the tangles.

"Then do it," Jack's sister instructed, lifting the wet ma.s.s from her neck. "Cut it all off, Arabella."

"I wish we had Monsieur Christophe here," Arabella said wistfully. "He would give you one of the fashionable crops. Even Becky would do it better than I can."

"Just cut it." It was an order and Arabella complied with a shrug of resignation. She snipped and the tangles fell to the floor. As they did so she scooped and threw them into the fire. She tried to shape the hair to Charlotte's neat head, snipping around the ears, but decided the finished product wasn't exactly an unqualified success.

Charlotte, however, was overjoyed. She ran her hands through the short crop and sighed with relief, moving her neck as if it had been released from an iron collar. "Oh, that feels so wonderful . . . so free. Thank you, Arabella. Jack would never have done that for me."

"No," Arabella agreed, wondering how Jack would react when he saw his sister's shorn appearance. "I don't think he'll approve my handiwork, though."

Charlotte laughed softly. "He may disapprove as he pleases. It's not his business, sister."

"Are you ready to get out?" Arabella asked.

"I'd better before I get dirty again in this filthy water. Give me your hand, will you?"

Arabella took Charlotte's hand and elbow and helped her to stand up. "There's more hot water . . . clean water. If you can stand for a minute I'll pour it over you." She stood on tiptoe and poured the jug of steaming water over her sister-in-law, who shuddered with pleasure. She seemed so much stronger suddenly. The reverse of Samson, Arabella thought as she helped Charlotte dry herself and then dropped the nightshift over her damp but clean head.