Judith Ivory (26 page)

Samuel Rolfeman was a calm man. Gentle, quiet, and absolutely loyal to Adrien down to the last syllable of any instructions. He liked Adrien unusually well, respected his intellect with something like awe, and saw nobility of character where others saw characterless nobility.

He annoyed Christina immensely. He agreed with Adrien on virtually everything. Which meant that Christina, on principle, disagreed with anything he said. As a result, Sam had come to be rather silent with the young woman; he was not one for altercations. And, try as she might to be sensibly quiet herself, Christina usually baited the man at any opportunity.

Regularly, Sam separated himself from her. He went outside in the snow for instance, rather than stay in the same room and have to answer what were seldom more than rhetorical questions. However, on the seat of an open wagon, there was not much room for separation.

They had gotten through the most worrisome details of leaving Paris and had presented their visaed pass
ports at the city limits half an hour ago. It had been an uncertain, anxious affair. They had both been checked and rechecked, searched, even Christina’s belly examined for its authenticity. Christina was only now breathing easy enough to start giving her companion annoyed, sidelong looks.

The wagon moved slowly, jouncing unexpectedly, off and on, over rocks hidden in the snow. The two in the wagon were sitting huddled together out of necessity, neither one pleased with the arrangement, but neither one willing to be several degrees colder away from the other’s body heat.

“All right,” Christina asked. “You said that once we were out of Paris, I could have my answers. So where are we going and why were they so interested in me?”

Sam glanced at her, seemingly reluctant to begin. “The French are looking for an Englishman. They know he went by the name of La Chasse.”

“That much I had reasoned for myself. They know he has a woman, don’t they?”

“They have a decent enough description of you.”

“So why did they let us through?”

He shrugged. “Their information has some amazing blank spots, along with its accuracies. For instance, the description of Adrien is remarkably complete. His physical description—the small scar on his upper lip, educational background—right down to what he read at university, personal habits…. We were all flabbergasted when we saw the broadsheet released this morning.”

“My God. It has to be someone close.”

“Except there are some important omissions. You, for instance. The description of you, while relatively good, misses one rather large fact.” He glanced at her midsection. “They’re looking for a slight, very slender Englishwoman.”

“They don’t know I’m pregnant?”

“That variation doesn’t seem to have occurred to them.”

“But I’m English. That will surely fix me.”

“Not now, we hope. Your passport says you’re a Breton. You’d speak a patois, bad French, funny accent.” She made a face at that. “And there are a hundred different dialects in Brittany. Judging by our exit from Paris, you’ve passed.”

“So where are we going? And why? And who? Who are the best candidates for traitor? It has to be someone who knows him.”

Samuel didn’t speak for a time, but looked straight ahead. “Someone suggested you.”

“Adrien,” she stated flatly.

“No.”

“But he didn’t defend me either, did he?”

“In a way. He said it didn’t matter if you would betray him or not. I had the impression he half believed you did somehow get word to the authorities. Did you?”

Christina’s heart sank. “No.” Never had she felt so alone, so misunderstood. “And I wouldn’t,” she added.

The wagon lurched left, then right. As Christina clutched Samuel’s arm, he said, “Some people wanted to leave you behind.” He let that sink in. “Adrien wouldn’t hear of it. He said something about love giving license. Would you understand that?” She shook her head. “He didn’t say it meanly. Only a little sadly. And imperiously; as if no one better challenge your right to slaughter him if that’s what you choose to do. It seemed quite daft to me. But he seemed to think it made sense.”

“He thinks a great many things make sense that totally elude me. When did all this start?”

“This morning. At the café where Adrien usually eats breakfast—”

“He doesn’t eat breakfast.”

Sam looked at her. She could tell that his aversion to contradicting her was in conflict with his passion for truth. “He eats breakfast while we talk every morning. We meet him at the café.”

“He doesn’t like eggs.”

“Oh,” Sam nodded. Perhaps this let him out. “No. Bread and cheese, I think. Sometimes ham. Or fruit. The proprietor saves what she knows he likes.”

“I should have known.”

“What?”

“She.”

Samuel said nothing, though Christina could feel his unease. Then he added, “She’s a friend. She undoubtedly saved him from being taken this morning. At no small expense or risk to herself.”

“I’m sure she’s had her compensations.”

He blurted, “It was your cooking.” Sam shook the reins, made a sharp click with his tongue in his cheek. “It was not the woman. He never made it out to be more than a personal preference. You cook English; he has a French tongue.”

“And don’t so many of us know it. So he takes his French tongue over to this woman every morning—”

In frustration: “Madam, he merely wanted to avoid hurting your feelings unnecessarily. He is—”

“A liar and an actor. He has it down to a virtual science. Why else do you think he can do what he does here so successfully? He pretends to be whatever is needed; like a bloody chameleon. Sam, how long have you known him?”

“Twenty years perhaps.”

“Certainly long enough to know his weaker points.”

“And how long have you known him?” It was an accusation.

Christina heaved a sigh and put her hand to her middle. “Long enough. But a truce, Sam. All right? I have known him differently than you.”

“A difference some might say would make you take his part more often.”

Again the wagon jolted; it kept her from having to defend herself against this. After a time, she asked, “Where is His Lordship anyway? And where is he sending us?”

“His
Lordship,
“Samuel said emphatically, “has sent all but a handful of men home to England. You and I are going to a secret retreat in Normandy he had secured for just such a purpose. He has arranged for the departure of thirty-five men, including the thirteen “Cabrels.” And, to insure the others are not bothered in their leaving,
he
is leading the National Guard, the
gendarmerie,
and half a dozen mercenary agents a merry, very visible chase through the streets of Paris.”

“He’s what?” She turned to look at him.

“He’s alone. He’s intentionally letting them chase him—close enough so he doesn’t lose them and close enough so they might anticipate having him, if only they can get enough streets secured—but far enough, one hopes, that he can slip through once the ship sails.”

The wagon jerked, made a series of creaks as it righted itself on the pitted road. Though it had snowed the night before, the sky was clear now. The promise of sun.

“Are the others in danger?” she asked.

“The French have an incomplete list. But not one man has been arrested. They followed us around all morning, hoping we would lead them to Adrien. It appears they want him above everyone else. No doubt the only reason they want you or his grandfather is to attract him.”

“Oh, Sam, how did all this get started? Yesterday it was coming to such a nice, quiet end. Who? Who would have done this?”

“We’ve only had the most hectic moments to speculate. Nothing fits completely.”

“What does Adrien think?”

“He suggested a spy from a while ago. Back in May or June, a Frenchwoman pretended to have relatives in need of help. She found out a great deal before she disappeared.”

“Ah, yes. I remember vividly.”

He cleared his throat. “Oh, yes. At any rate, there is the possibility she has resurfaced. But that doesn’t explain how they know about you.”

“What do you think, Sam?”

He hesitated. “Adrien’s a little angry with me for the suggestion. But there are others who share my opinion.”

“Which is?”

Silence.

“Come now—”

“Thomas Lillings.”

Shocked, “Thomas!” Christina laughed. “Adrien’s right. It’s ludicrous. It makes the spy notion sound almost plausible. Do you know how long Adrien and Thomas have been friends? Since boy—”

“Yes.”

“Why, we haven’t even seen Thomas in—”

“You haven’t seen him. Adrien sees him regularly. He turns refugees over to him at the borders and at sea. Thomas heads that end of the operation. Adrien gets them out and pointed in the right direction. Thomas sets them down. But the two of them have had words. Thomas wants the operation to work like it did before. Adrien insists it’s too big to work like it did. This way saves them both from being in the vicinity of the Madman at the same time: When the prisoners are rescued, Thomas is highly visible in London or somewhere else. When the outcasts turn up in their new location, Adrien is carousing with a good dozen wit
nesses. It is a practical plan. Thomas has difficulty arguing it is not. And when he says someone else could do his end, Adrien praises him into silence. But there’s no mistaking the feelings in the air.”

“Sam, this is so silly—”

“But so true. Adrien says Lillings would not carry their differences so far as to arrange for his decapitation. And, he says, Lillings certainly would not include you in turning him in, if he did. M. Lillings is most protective of you. He inquires after you every trip.”

This left another gap in the conversation. Christina filled it lamely, “Thomas and I are friends.”

“Better friends than you think perhaps.”

“I don’t understand.”

Again Sam hesitated, then leaped his reservation. “M. Lillings gave his hand away about three months ago. By chance, Thomas learned you were pregnant. Apparently, Adrien hadn’t told him. One understands why: When the father of your child came aboard an hour late, Lillings fisted him in the face. No warning. No explanation. Just a solid punch in the mouth that sent him flat on his back. Topped off with some florid language on Lillings’s opinion of the situation. Lillings was in a villainously foul mood. I didn’t know he could be so ugly. And Adrien, I think, still hasn’t reconciled himself to the attack, on his person or character.”

“He never said anything—”

“But came home with a nasty mouth, I’d bet.”

“Yes. That.” She sighed. “He said the boom had hit him.”

Sam sniffed. “It was a boom, all right.” There were several seconds of uncomfortable silence. Then Sam said, “But as I said, Adrien argues in favor of his friend’s honor. Actor, liar, overlord that he is.”

“Don’t.”

“He’s no fool though. Lillings has been ordered back to England to stay and hold tight. Much to his
displeasure.” He clicked to the horse again. “There are blankets in the back,” he told her, “and it’s a long way. Why don’t you go in the back of the wagon and sleep? There are some apples back there, too. Colette sent them.”

“Colette?”

“The café owner.”

“Hmm. That was very kind of her.”

Though small in size, “cottage” did not precisely describe the Madman’s retreat. Its plain Norman exterior, its isolation in the remote countryside were at odds with its rather elegant interior. Christina was not in the house thirty seconds when she saw unmistakable signs of the English earl’s personal touch.

One entered the house through a narrow antechamber, nothing more than a long corridor of empty brass hooks. At present, the first two were occupied by Sam’s hat, greatcoat, and woolen scarf, the third by Christina’s heavy cloak and shawl. Off this entrance way, in one direction there were bedrooms; in the other direction, a large, comfortable parlor, then kitchen. The parlor was a particularly attractive room, with its large fireplace, its old-fashioned iron implements for stirring the fire, and its enormous woven trug for carrying wood. The fireplace seemed central to the room. Everything faced it. And two lovely, tall rockers—dark, carved mahogany—sat at its very edge, inviting patience and calm.

The room particularly pleased Christina. Near the
fire, a dense, dark rug, obviously country-made, lay over the room’s larger Persian carpet to protect it. Marks showed where sparks and ashes had declared the little rug’s usefulness. A cabinet held colorful china. Plates and teacups. Meticulously hand-painted, peopled scenes; the russet colors preferred by old Dutch masters. Several little tables were scattered about. One could have tea by the window or by the fire or in a dark little nook beneath a pass-through to the kitchen. The room didn’t look lived in; it lacked Adrien’s newspapers, his stray sheets of paper with doodles in French verse, her own books and bits of sewing. Yet it lacked nothing else. It was very livable. The size of the room, the furnishings, the very walls themselves seemed to create, not only the feeling of convenience, but a sense of comfort—to the eye and soul.

At least, this was how it struck Christina. She liked the house in the same way she liked a certain part of Adrien; a part that knew how to live well, a part he carried with him even into the most unlikely circumstances.

She missed him.

She needed surroundings that didn’t seem to have his fingerprints on everything from floor to ceiling.

At present, Christina sat in the far dark-wood rocker by the fire. She had settled there several hours before. It faced the front window and had seemed a good place to take up her vigil. She had taken her dinner there, in her lap. She rocked there now, waiting.

The movement soothed. Yet, it was less soothing than it had been the hour before. Or the hour before that. Adrien was late. Sam hadn’t said so. And, of course, Adrien hadn’t told her a specific time. But less than one hour remained to the day in which he said he would see her.

She and Sam had gone quiet. Silence had become the most comfortable arrangement between them. The
room was warm. It gave off a belying cheerful glow. Only the front window remained honest. It was a dark, uneasy square in the midst of the pleasant, printed wallpaper. Periodically, snow flung itself against the glass of the window. These flurries had become little jokes in poor taste: Each movement of snow outside the glass seemed to be the possibility of Adrien’s return—when, in fact, it only heralded yet another complication to his safe arrival. Heavy snow. Even knowing this, Christina’s heart had leaped at least a dozen times in the last hour, thinking she’d seen him—a flicker of movement in the glass—and then the image would blow away or lie finally in little crescents against the mullions.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” Sam had come out of one of the bedrooms. “I’m sure he’ll wake you when he comes.”

“He should have been here.”

“Not necessarily—” Sam came over to the fire, threw on another log. “I’ve put your things in the front bed-chamber. It’s small, but he will want, I think, to have a view of the front and side.” He paused, as if trying to think of more words; as if words might somehow bridge the limbo in which they found themselves. “I’m only second-guessing, of course. He’ll think nothing of shifting everyone around to suit himself.” He laughed at this. “You know, he never made any claim on any of the rooms. He was very careful in picking the house. Location. Suitability. All that. And then very careful in its appointments, its maintenance. But he never made a move as if he’d ever live in it.”

Christina knew Sam himself could use reassurance at this point. Yet she couldn’t muster any. None, but the typical English response to crisis:

“Tea?” She heaved herself out of the chair. “I’ll put some on.”

The kitchen, already a marvel for just existing in such a small house, boasted several innovations. It had been adapted for eating as well as cooking, allowing people to cook and serve themselves with minimum energy. It had running water which flowed directly into a sink for laundry. The room even boasted the novel idea of a cookstove.

On the modern stove stood a very unmodern iron teakettle. One of Adrien’s absurd combinations. The kettle longed for a hook over a fire, the stove for a kettle with a perfect, flat bottom, nothing so black as the old hammered kettle.

Christina went about the ritual with the kettle and teapot and cups. There was sugar, even milk in the window box.

From the parlor, Sam called her. “Someone’s coming, I think.”

She came into the doorway, the tray of hot tea in her hands. The cups rattled.

“Just act normally,” Sam cautioned. “With the light, remember people can see inside easier than we can see out.”

She set the tea down on a table by her rocker, then went to look over Sam’s shoulder. It had stopped snowing.

The house was set in a shallow valley. From any angle of approach, there were miles of gentle slope. Space in all directions. And sound. It carried well.

If one looked closely one could see a gray silhouette in the distance; a wagon, on straining wheels. It carried perhaps half a dozen men, half a dozen voices.

“Go find something to do,” Sam told her. He turned. He was right up against her. He touched her arm for a moment, a kind of affection. “Something ordinary. It could be anyone.”

“Adrien—”

“No.”

She glanced at him; at the certainty in which he’d uttered this.

“Unless he’s bound hand and foot on the floor of the wagon: It’s the sort of cart they use for prisoners.”

A chill ran down her back.

Christina tried to busy herself, but had trouble concentrating. She and Sam had worked out a husband-wife charade in the event of passing strangers, a game similar to the one they had played that morning. But she could think of nothing save looking past Sam through the window.

The wagon came closer; close enough to hear that the voices argued.

Within the room, “It’s not he,” Sam said again.

Christina threw him an angry glare. “You’re so certain—”

“He won’t come by wagon. Couldn’t get by the checks on the roads. Couldn’t risk the occasional traffic. And certainly couldn’t come over this snow without the benefit of a roadbed.”

“How
will
he come?”

“I don’t know. A horse would be nice. If they allow him the opportunity of one. Otherwise, on foot.”

“On foot!” She turned around. “Across country through a snowstorm? Oh, that’s jolly smart! No wonder we haven’t seen him. He’s probably out there under three feet of snow. Does he think he’s immortal?”

She bolted from the window into the entranceway, yanking cloak and scarves as she went, throwing them over herself. “I’ll see who’s in the wagon, then, if he’s not among them, I’m going after him.”

Sam was beside her on the front porch, silent, but with a grip on her elbow. They could see better outside. It was a clear night; their eyes were better adjusted. The wagon that approached looked little better than a vegetable cart. It was open at the back. Its pas
sengers held firm to its sideboards as it negotiated the bumps in the road. The wagon still had a long way to come, and the going was rough. Snow all but obliterated the roadbed. The wheels churned soft wings of snow.

Sam murmured to her. “Come inside. I couldn’t let you go, anyway. My responsibility is to get you safely to England.” His fingers tightened on her elbow.

She resisted. Her eyes narrowed at him. “When?”

“Pardon?”

“How long did he tell you to wait? When are you to take me, if he doesn’t come?”

“Tomorrow.”

She expelled a sharp breath and jerked her arm away. “Tomorrow? Not much bloody leeway, is there?”

“No, there’s not.” He said it calmly, patiently; as if she’d at last understood.

The voices from the wagon were becoming more distinct. Words could not be distinguished, but tones could. Anger. A great deal of French. Though none of it his. It was not Adrien who came.

Behind her, she heard the front door close. Sam had gone in.

Across the snow, French syllables began to stand out—cut off crisply at their ends—like stars coming out on a clear night. Christina couldn’t make out the people, but she could hear these bright little pinpoints of sound with an unnatural vividness. They danced across the snowy expanse. And they gave a kind of illumination: It became evident whom the wagon brought. Cursing, declamatory bursts. Followed by an antiphony of murmured reassurance. Adrien’s confreres tried to sooth Adrien’s grandfather as they carried him along.

“Mon Dieu! Ca sens mon petit-fils! Qu’il est énervant! Qu’il aille se faire fiche!”
And more. Adrien’s grandfather promised, rather colorfully, to knock the teeth
from his head if this was another of his grandson’s pranks.

It was not reassuring, not cute, not clever. Christina turned abruptly. She shoved the front door so hard it swung on its hinge to bash the wall. She aimed at the hooks with her cloak, but then another hard blow: She was brought up short. She smelled cigar smoke. A specific variety she hadn’t smelled in several months….

Her things fell to the floor. She followed the smell. In the doorway to the parlor, she stood searching the room. Sam turned. The group outside clattered up to the front of the house. They began to unload. Feet scraped on the front stoop. But, in the room, no one. Only Sam. Holding a cigar.

She stared at the tobacco, at Sam; as if he had committed murder. Her throat tightened to where she couldn’t swallow, or even draw air. A great floodtide seemed to suddenly overrun her mind. Memory mixed uneasily with apprehension. Remembered angry words, love words, misunderstood phrases, clear and unpleasant sentences, emotions, trivial details, monumental decisions; no distinction. As if something, a great dam, had let loose. So much chattered into her mind, she couldn’t separate it to make any sense.

Sam came toward her. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head,
no.
Then reached out. “The cigar—”

“Does it offend you?” He didn’t understand. With a gesture, the stick of tobacco made a sweet-acrid trail through the air, a kind of incense. He could see her eyes fixed on it. “There is a surplus of these. He asked me to help him get rid of them. He says they bother his stomach. I can take it outside—Are you all right?”

Her eyes were hot. They were suddenly dry, prickly. Her legs wouldn’t move. Sounds blurred in her ears. Her eyes wouldn’t focus. The smoke filled her senses. “It smells like his skin,” she murmured.

It smelled like his hair, his sheets, his clothes. His mouth had tasted of it. There was such an ache in her chest, like a steel axe had buried itself in her.

Sam guided her to the rocker. She felt ghostlike; outside of herself. Part of her watched the poor woman sit in the chair. “I feel so—”

“I think you better sit down.”

The front door opened. Loud confusion, cold came in through the entranceway. Voices called. “Sam! Sam! Where the hell are you?” But Sam didn’t move. He stood over Christina, frowning down at her.

“Are you going to be sick?” he asked. “What’s wrong with you?” He made a slight laugh. “Listen, he’s going to be here, I’m sure.” More laughter, though a bit forced, “And he’s going to bloody-well murder me if anything happens to…you know…you or the baby. Are you—Is it?”

“Yes.” She shook her head. “No.” She closed her eyes, trying to grasp hold of something. Then something absolute materialized: “Yes. I am going to be sick.”

Half a dozen men had entered. Everyone talked at once. It doubled the cacophony in her head. A small old man was yelling in heavily accented English. He brandished a cane. Sam raised his hand, a threat to take the cane away. As he made the gesture, his coat rose. Christina saw he had a pistol. Her blood ran cold. The noisy anxieties in her head seemed to crystallize around the sight, the hilt above his belt. The room moved. Everything else stood still, mute against the loud mental alarm of the gun. The old Frenchman grated the air with his voice. “Where is he? I demand to settle this now! Who’s that?”

A long bony finger had swung on her. “Never mind,” the old man continued, “I can tell by the look of her my grandson is around. My God”—a sigh of vicious disgust—“when I said ‘He who bulls the cow
feeds the calf,’ I meant it as an admonishment to more responsible behavior, not license to start his own herd. Where is he!”

Christina felt the tea tray in her lap, the best Sam could do on such short notice. She couldn’t imagine what had become of the teacups and spoons, the pitcher of milk, the sugar. But it was a relief they weren’t there. The tray was lacquered papier-mâché, hand-painted.

Though later she discovered she was absolutely wrong—it was actually flowers or some such—at the time, the tray seemed painted after a picture she’d seen by Hogarth. Dark edges, a bright focus. Two about-to-be lovers in the woods. The man had hold of the woman’s fingers, his leg planted firmly in her skirts, between her legs. The woman was resisting, but one knew that she wouldn’t for long—for one thing, there was Hogarth’s second picture of the same two people, sitting on the ground, the woman with her skirts above her knees, the man with his breeches open, the two of them looking disheveled and distraught. But it was more something in the woman’s face in the first picture, the sly look with which she watched the man even as she denied him….