Jack Chiltern's Wife (1999) (14 page)

‘I don’t know. He has gone. He disappeared when Nanette told me who you really are. I had no idea you were Viscount Chiltern and the son of an Earl. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Would it have made any difference if I had?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ she said slowly. She would still have fallen in love with him.

‘Then, I beg of you, forget it. Titles are never mentioned in France unless they have
ci-devant
in front of them.’

‘One time,’ she translated. ‘No, there is nothing of the past about you.’

He laughed and took her hand to kiss it, sending shivers of desire coursing through her. To hide her confusion, she turned away from him just as the door opened and the Marquis joined them.

‘My boy, there you are. Tell me the latest news …’

Kitty became increasingly concerned for her brother over the next few weeks. According to Jack, he had been seen in one place, heard of in another, was reported to be riding south, then north, then west to the Vendée where there were other counter-revolutionaries. ‘Mind, it might not be James,’ he told Kitty one day when they were walking in the garden with no other company but each other.

Neither was prepared to speak of what was in their hearts. To do so would have set off an avalanche of emotions which would engulf them and leave them gasping, unable to continue the roles they had set themselves. Keeping their relationship on an impersonal level was the only way they could survive.

It was almost midsummer and the flowers in the untended garden were a riot of colour: red geraniums, mauve bougainvillea, bright yellow mimosa, heavily scented jasmine. The uncut grass was parched and brown, and the roses a tangle of thorns and spilled petals. Kitty could imagine it in its heyday before the gardeners had disappeared.

‘He is not using his own name,’ Jack went on. ‘And I have only a description which is vague to say the least.’

He did not add that there was a price on the Englishman’s head and the people were so poor that they would denounce anyone for a precious loaf of bread.

‘Does he know I am here?’ Kitty asked him. ‘Have you been able to send a message to him?’

‘I dare not. It is impossible to know whom to trust.’

‘But he is safe?’

‘I have heard nothing to the contrary.’ Which was an evasive answer, but the only one he was prepared to give.

‘He will come back to Nanette, I am sure. He loves her. Love is the greatest force of all, don’t you think?’

He smiled wryly, looking down into her upturned face and forcing himself not to succumb to the urge to kiss her again, to enjoy the taste of her lips, the feel of her clinging to him as she had done that first time. ‘And naturally, you know all about it.’

‘I …’ She stopped, unable to go on.

‘Love is a tyranny,’ he said. ‘It commands obedience, it stifles free will, it makes a man act irrationally.’

‘How cynical you are,’ she said, wondering why he was so vehement about it if he loved his wife so dearly. ‘But I do not think you mean it.’

‘Oh, I do, believe me, and I have more important things on my mind than love. If I cannot find James in the next two days, we must leave without him.’

‘Why? What has happened? Are we not safe here?’

‘For the moment, but the situation is changing all the time and we shall soon have outstayed our welcome. I cannot put my uncle at risk. He is not a man who enjoys risk, which is why he has obeyed all the edicts of the Revolutionary government in return for being allowed to keep his home but …’

‘That might change? Is it because of what James is doing?’

She was extraordinarily perspicacious, he decided. James was stirring up a hornet’s nest and the outcome, if the bees buzzed too noisily, would be civil war. He dreaded that.

‘No, not altogether. I have heard that General Dumouriez has been driven back from the Netherlands and instead of rallying his army for a counter-attack, he tried to persuade them to march on to Paris and restore the monarchy. Louis’s young son is still held in the Temple prison, you know; he is the rightful king. But the troops refused to follow him and Dumouriez has fled to the allies. His desertion has started a wave of anti-Royalist agitation.’

‘Is that not good?’

‘No. A Committee of Public Safety and a Revolutionary Tribunal have been set up in Paris to prevent any more dissension. I hear the guillotine is becoming increasingly busy.’

‘But that is Paris, not here.’

‘Like a plague, it will spread. Representatives have been despatched throughout the country to make sure its decrees are obeyed and enforce the conscription of all able-bodied men into the army. Soon they will be combing this district and our presence here will not remain a secret much longer. Any strong young man not in uniform will be suspect.

‘Already there is a brand new guillotine in Lyons ready to execute the so-called enemies of equality, hoarders, capitalists, members of the nobility and priests who refuse to conform.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Not to mention Englishmen and women.’

‘You are worried on my behalf?’

‘Naturally I am. Until I find your brother, you are my responsibility.’

‘How can that be? I forced myself on you. It was not your choice.’

‘What would you have me do?’ he asked, his mouth lifting in the ghost of a smile. She was the most provocative woman he had ever met. ‘Should I have left you to hang? Should I abandon you now?’

‘You could.’

‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of that,’ he said grimly. ‘But I must also consider my uncle and aunt.’

‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘Nanette told me the Marquis has already forfeited his title and his dues as a
seigneur
in order to appease the local government. She said they were safe as long as they did as they were told.’

‘Perhaps they are, but we are not helping by being here.’

‘You are suspect?’

He smiled grimly. ‘Jack Chiltern may be. Jacques Faucon is a true patriot.’

She giggled. ‘Are you still using that ridiculous name?’

‘Of course. It is what keeps us safe. For the moment.’

‘Does anyone know Jacques Faucon is staying here at the château?’

‘No, I do not think so. I live in a labourer’s cottage on the far side of the estate and make a living rearing pigs and growing cabbages.’

‘But then who am I? How did I arrive here?’

‘You are simply a visitor, a relative staying with the family. My uncle brought you back with him from Paris last year.’

‘I see. He brought a young lady back, not a man.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘I could say I came disguised as a boy—my brother and I are alike.’

He was forced to smile, though the situation was serious. ‘I sincerely hope you are not thinking of repeating your playacting performance at the Paris barriers, my dear.’

‘No, I have learned my lesson. But do you think we might be questioned?’

‘It is always possible.’ He reached for her hand, making her shiver with pleasure. His touch always affected her like that, but he seemed totally unaware of it. ‘While you are here, you are not citizeness Faucon, but Catherine Gilbert, a distant cousin of the Marquis, do you understand? It is why I keep your passport. If it was found in your possession …’ He stopped.

‘I understand. I know nothing of Jacques Faucon. I have never heard of him.’

‘Good. I am leaving now for a last look for James. I should be back in two days. Be ready to leave.’

There were visitors to the château the day after he had gone: six men in grubby pantaloons and red caps with tricolour cockades pinned to them. They had muskets in their hands and pistols in their belts. Kitty kept herself hidden while they spoke to the Marquis, the Marchioness and Nanette and, although they left soon afterwards, apparently satisfied with the answers they had received, they served to reinforce what Jack had said. There was danger everywhere.

She stood on the gallery above the vestibule as the Marquis and his wife watched them leave. ‘She can’t stay here,’ he said, turning to come back into the house. ‘She’ll have to go. We should never have let Jack persuade us to take her in. We have to think of our own skins …’

Kitty did not wait to hear any more. She ran to her room, changed into her old peasant skirt and packed everything else in her basket; Nanette would come looking for her soon and she must make haste. She scribbled a letter to her host and hostess, then went down the back way to the stables and hitched Samson to the old carriage, thankful that Jack had taught her how to do
it while they had been on the road and had even allowed her to drive along some of the better roads.

Carefully she drew out of the yard and started off down the steep, winding hill. This was the most dangerous time because in some places the road could be seen from the château and from the town and she was not sure how far the guards had gone. But she passed no one except the lazy roadmender who sat beside his heap of stones, smoking a clay pipe and surveying the scenery as if filling holes was the last thing on his mind.

Remembering the alternative road she had seen from above the château, she decided to take that. It was more wooded and less open to prying eyes and with luck she would join the main road in the valley without being seen. From then on, she would have to say she had come direct from Paris. Her destination was … Where could she possibly be going? Italy. If she could cross the border, she would be safe.

But what about James? And Jack Chiltern? Jack was resourceful enough to survive, especially when he did not have her to hinder him. He would be glad she was no longer his responsibility and he could go and search for his wife with a clear conscience.

She did not consider how and when she would eat, where she would sleep, what she would do for money. She had not used any of her own since Jack had taken charge of her; he had even returned the sovereign she had left with the Claviers, saying it was useless. But it was gold, wasn’t it? Someone must accept it. And she had a pearl necklace her grandfather had given her—that might fetch something.

The road she had taken was even worse than the other one, steep and twisting, and she sat on the driving seat, hanging on for all she was worth, allowing the old horse to pick his own way down. She shouldn’t be here, she should never have come, never allowed Jack Chiltern to bring her here. It was a wild
goose chase. He had no idea where her brother was and even less idea of how she felt.

She loved him. Hopelessly. She hated him, too, for making her love him. She hated France. She hated this dreadful flannel skirt which made her itch, hated the horrible red cap. She pulled it off and flung it into the trees. She hated the women who had killed Judith, a kind gentle soul who had never done anyone any harm. She hated her brother for disappearing, Edward Lampeter for kissing her.

It was that kiss that started it and another which had enslaved her. Jack had said love was a tyrant; well, he was right there. She felt so helpless and lonely and so angry, she was weeping. Tears cascaded down her face, as the old carriage rumbled on. She did nothing to wipe them away, was hardly aware of them.

Immersed in misery for which she could blame no one but herself, she plodded on until she suddenly became aware that the track had widened; lying by the side of the road was a pair of iron gates, pulled off their hinges and flung into the undergrowth. She scrubbed at her tear-streaked face with the edge of her skirt and urged Samson on, but then she caught sight of the name interwoven in the scrolling of the gate: Malincourt. Looking to her left, she saw a weed-encrusted drive at the end of which stood a château.

Curiosity quenched her anger. She turned and went in past the gates. Nanette had been right; the house was much bigger than the Saint-Gilbert château. Its turrets soared above the surrounding trees; it must have once been very grand. But now weeds and overgrown shrubs had encroached almost up to the building itself.

Every window was broken, the great front door missing and the walls smoke-blackened. She stopped and climbed down, hitching the horse to an overgrown lilac bush. Picking her way over broken glass, roof tiles and smashed furniture, she stepped into the hall. It was black with soot and littered with debris and
she could see the darkening sky through its roof. There wasn’t a whole piece of furniture, a picture or an ornament left. She supposed they had been looted.

No wonder Jack had been in such a miserable mood. It was enough to break anyone’s heart. She turned to go, to leave the place to its ghosts, but it was growing dark and she could not continue without the risk of toppling the horse and carriage into a pothole or turning it over the side of the road down the steep mountainside. She would find a corner to sleep in and go on in the morning.

The stable at the back still had its roof and it was big enough to hide the horse and the carriage. There was a little straw there, too, and a trough of water, but no hay. Sensibly she had thought of that; the inside of the coach, besides her basket, contained a few armfuls of hay and some carrots which she had taken from the Saint-Gilbert stables. The horse was fed, but she remained hungry. Stealing food for herself had not occurred to her.

She looked after the animal and was about to make herself comfortable in the straw when a sound disturbed her. She whirled round to find herself face to face with a man in the garb of a
sans-culottes
who blocked the doorway. He carried a musket which he was pointing at her. She froze.

‘S
he’s in here, citizen Santerre,’ he called to someone behind him. He stepped forward and walked round her as three more men entered.

‘Who … who are you?’ Kitty managed to ask, not daring to move, although her knees were shaking so much she was afraid they would let her down.

‘We ask the questions,’ a second man said. The cockade on his cap had a gold edging and she supposed that was a sign of authority. ‘You are under arrest.’

‘Pourquoi?’

‘That we will discover when you have been questioned. It is enough that you are suspect. Come with us.’ He grabbed her arm and dragged her out into the open where two more men waited on guard. It appeared they had arrived on foot; she supposed they were the men she had seen at the château. They must have looked back and seen her leave and followed her.

They harnessed the horse to the carriage again and bundled her inside. Two climbed in with her, two sat on the driver’s seat and two more walked either side of the horse’s head to guide it in the dark. And thus they arrived in Lyons just as dawn was breaking.

If Kitty had not been so immersed in her own seemingly insurmountable problems, she might have been able to admire the
view from the steep cliffs above the city of Lyons. They were breathtaking. Lyons lay below them at the confluence of two rivers, the Saône and the Rhône, a sprawl of old and new, low red roofs, a church spire here and there, open tree-lined squares.

It was France’s second city and, according to Jack, had always prided itself on its independence from the central government, but now all that was changing. Paris was dictating policy.

Jack. Had these men been looking for Jack when they found her? Jack Chiltern or Jacques Faucon? Did they think she would betray him? If so, they would be disappointed. She was alone now and, whatever she did, she must not implicate him or say anything to endanger the Saint-Gilberts. She must remember what Jack had told her. She was an innocent visitor. She had simply been out for a drive and was drawn to the deserted château out of curiosity.

She knew there were huge holes in her story that any good lawyer would probe, but she would have to trust to luck. She could protest her innocence, pretend to be younger than she was, perhaps a little simple. Would that do?

She did not need to force the tears that ran down her cheeks as the old carriage bumped down the mountain track, on to a lower road and into the old town, through its warren of narrow streets and alleys, to a small square lined with elegant old houses built for the town’s rich bankers and silk weavers.

Years ago Kitty remembered her mother speaking of Lyons silk and showing her a lovely puce-coloured gown. What had happened to the silk weavers since the Revolution? she wondered. Had they, like Jack’s uncle, embraced the new regime or had they aligned themselves with the counter-revolutionaries?

Her captors, who smelled of sweat and drink, offered no conversation at all and seemed relieved to hand her over to the warder of the town prison when they arrived at its doors a few minutes later.

Here she was taken to a cell and locked in to await interrogation. She did not struggle; it was better to seem bemused. Her trial was the place to act the innocent. She would have a trial, wouldn’t she?

Although the room was small, it was crowded. Men and women jostled for places to sit against the walls or stood to breathe what little air came from the tiny barred window. It was unbelievably hot and Kitty could feel the perspiration running between her shoulder blades, making her clothes stick to her.

One woman, dressed almost identically to everyone else in the cell in black skirt and red peasant blouse topped with a shawl in the ubiquitous colours of the Revolution, edged up to make room for her on a narrow bench. ‘Another one for Madame Guillotine,’ she said cheerfully. ‘What are you accused of?’

‘I don’t know.’ Kitty smiled wanly, trying not to retch from the stench which assailed her nostrils. ‘They said I was being arrested on suspicion of being a suspect, which doesn’t make sense, does it?’

The woman cackled. ‘To them it does. You don’t come from round here, I can tell by the way you speak. Up north, was it?’

‘Yes.’ No sense in saying she was English. In fact, the less she spoke the better. ‘What are you accused of?’

‘Hoarding flour. Two kilos I had in my cupboard. Two kilos and me with ten mouths to feed. And my husband conscripted into the army.’

‘Oh, that is terrible. Surely they will not condemn you for that?’

‘I sent my eldest to fetch the
curé
. He’ll speak up for me. I’ve done my share for the Revolution, they know that. I am hopeful.’

Kitty, who had no one to defend her, was not so sanguine of her own chances. She had had one taste of revolutionary justice already, she certainly did not want another. But this time she
was not being tried by rioting women but a court of law. Surely her accusers would realise their mistake and set her free?

A very small plate of food was brought to everyone later in the day, but Kitty had no idea what the time was, except that the light was fading. The food was cooked in oil which was rank and she could not swallow it. There was nothing to lie on, nowhere to be comfortable, and she spent the night sitting on the bench with her back against the wall. Sleep was impossible.

She tried to pass the time thinking of summer in England, of her childhood and her mother, but that made her sad. She tried to think of what she would do when she returned home and that led to wondering if she would ever go home and made her sadder still. She listened to the woman beside her chattering until the
curé
came and the prisoner was released. Others in the cell were crying, others singing loudly and raucously to cover their fear.

Dawn came and the prisoners began to stir and scratch, making Kitty itch too. Some thin gruel was served to them, but it was greasy and tasted foul. As with the meal the night before Kitty gave hers away.

One by one, the prisoners were led out to be tried. One by one they came back, crying, screaming or numbly silent. It was late afternoon and Kitty was just beginning to think that she would have to spend another night in uncertainty, when her turn came.

She was marched to a large hall where three men, dressed in unrelieved black, sat at a table on a dais. At a table below them was another man whom she supposed was the clerk to the court: he had pen, ink and papers on the table in front of him. There was a dock and a public gallery, but she soon discovered that was as far as the system went in following normally accepted legal procedure.

Her jailer pushed her into the dock. ‘Citizen Judge,’ he said, addressing the man who sat in the centre of the three on the dais. ‘This citizeness refuses to give her name and carries no passport. She was found looting at the Château Malincourt. Also she had stolen a horse and carriage, the carriage being that of the
ci-devant comte
de Malincourt, with the arms painted over. She was also carrying English gold coins.’

The judge peered down at her. She was weeping copious false tears and looking at her feet. ‘What do you say to that?’

Kitty did not know what to say. The horse and carriage were not hers and to say where she had come by them would implicate Jack. As for the money, that was perhaps the most damning evidence of all. This was not suspicion of being a suspect, this was real evidence and she had no answer that would satisfy them.

The crowd began to shout.
‘Trâitre! Trâitre! À la guillotine!’

The clerk to the court shouted for silence and, when order had been restored enough for him to be heard, the judge spoke to Kitty. ‘You are condemned by your own silence. Guilty! The sentence is death.’

That was too much. The tears were miraculously dried by anger. ‘Am I not to be allowed to say anything in my own defence?’

‘You were caught red-handed,’ the judge went on. ‘You have no defence. Take her away.’

The whole bizarre business had taken less than five minutes and she was dragged out and returned to her cell to await execution. It had happened so quickly, she thought it must be one of her nightmares, but after a few minutes back in the cell, the reality of her situation swept over her like a huge black cloud.

So this was the end. Was the guillotine quicker and more merciful than hanging? She was going to lose her life miles away from home, and no one would know what had become of her. Not her uncle, or James. Not even Jack. She had refused to
give her name. She was going to die unknown and unmourned. Jack would never know how much she had loved him, or why she had decided to leave the château when he had told her not to. But at least she had not implicated him. He was safe.

‘Damn it all,’ James said for the hundredth time. He was riding up the winding road towards the Château de Saint-Gilbert beside Jack. The two men were wearing nondescript black clothing and were riding scrawny mounts which plodded along, as much affected by the heat as the men who had been riding all night and most of the morning.

James continually removed his tricorne hat to wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He was a good-looking young man with short dark curls, brown eyes and a ready smile, features which young ladies found attractive and which he often used to charm his way out of trouble. And he seemed to invite trouble. How he had survived as long as he had was a mystery to Jack.

‘Are you sure it is Kitty?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘But I cannot imagine her running away. She’s always been a dutiful little thing, wouldn’t say boo to a goose …’

‘When did you see her last?’

‘Oh, it must have been three years ago, maybe more. I didn’t go home very often when I was at Cambridge. Didn’t like the old stepmama, don’t you know. Then I went off on the Grand Tour and stopped off in Paris on the way home. You know all that.’

‘I was only pointing out that she was a child when you last saw her, but she’s a woman now. And a woman with a mind of her own.’

‘Dangerous, that,’ James mused. ‘Women with minds of their own.’

‘Quite. Which is why she must be got home as soon as possible.’

‘You brought her. You take her home. In fact, I think you should. There’ll be an almighty scandal.’

Jack turned in the saddle to look at the young man. Was he really as callous as he sounded? ‘Don’t you care?’

‘Of course I care. She’s m’sister, after all. But to bring her all this way unchaperoned …’

‘I would not have done if you had stayed in Paris as we arranged.’

‘The place got too hot for me.’ He laughed. ‘Now, I’ve got rather fond of your little cousin and …’

He stopped speaking as they approached the front of the château and the door was flung open. He dismounted as Nanette came running down the steps and threw herself into his arms. Jack, still sitting his horse, watched with a wry smile, wondering why Kitty had not also come out of the house to greet them.

‘Oh, I am so pleased to see you safe, Jamie,’ she cried. ‘But now Kitty has disappeared.’

Jack was off his horse in an instant. ‘Disappeared? When? What happened?’

‘It was after the gendarmes came …’

‘What did they want?’

‘Something to do with capitation tax. They had heard we had a visitor. Papa told them what you said, that Mama’s cousin’s daughter, Catherine Gilbert, was staying with us for a week or two, but would soon be leaving.’

‘And—’ He could hardly contain his impatience. ‘Did they see Kitty?’

‘No. She stayed out of sight, but when they had gone I went to find her and she had disappeared. She left a note for Papa …’

Jack did not wait to hear more. He left the two young people to make their own way into the house and hurried to find his uncle.

‘What’s this about Kitty going off alone?’

The Marquis shrugged. ‘Gone. Taken the old horse and carriage. Left a letter thanking me for my hospitality. Signed it Catherine.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yes.’

Jack squashed his mounting exasperation in favour of action. Kitty must be found before she got herself and everyone else into more trouble. He turned went straight out of the house and remounted. There was only one road down the mountainside, discounting the track that went past Malincourt; she would not attempt that with the old top-heavy carriage.

Halfway down the hill he encountered the roadmender, shovelling stones into the potholes. ‘If you’re looking for the English
ma’amselle
,’ he said without bothering with a greeting, ‘she went down the old road.’

‘The old road?’ Jack drew up beside the man. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘God in heaven, she’d never make it. We’ll find her at the bottom of the ravine.’

‘No, she made it,’ the man said laconically. ‘With a little help.’

‘Help—what do you mean?’ His heart was thumping in his throat and he had to force himself not to go rushing off at half-cock.

‘The local National Guard found her and escorted her down.

Took her to Lyons gaol.’

‘They arrested her?’

‘Yes. Your cover’s blown, old man. It’s time to beat a hasty retreat.’

‘Not without Kitty.’

‘But they’ll know everything by now. Who you are, what you are, what you know.’

‘She knows nothing except my name.’

‘And that’s enough. Jack Chiltern was the man who engineered the escape of the Malincourts and that coach was last seen thundering along the road to Calais with the National Guard in hot pursuit. Now it’s back at Malincourt and even these dimwits can add two and two. Jack Chiltern is back in France …’ He left the end of the sentence unfinished.

‘I’ll lay odds she won’t talk.’

‘Then you’ve more faith in her than I have.’

‘I’m going into Lyons. I’ve got to get her out.’

‘You’ll be putting your own head in the jaws of Madame Guillotine.’

‘Then I die with Kitty. You can take the despatches back to England.’ He fetched a bundle of papers from the capacious pocket of his frock coat and handed them down to the roadmender.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know until I get there. If I succeed, I’ll meet you at your cottage and take those back.’ He nodded at the papers.