Tender the Storm (3 page)

"You are Fleur Guery?"

Gray eyes, cold and indifferent, gazed dispassionately at Zoë. She nodded in affirmation.

"You're to come with me. Fetch your belongings."

The words froze Zoë's blood in her veins. She looked helplessly at Madame.

If Madame was frightened, she did not show it. Her manner was everything that was gracious, as she interposed her own considerable bulk between Zoë and the young deputy.

"There must be some mistake, surely," she began pleasantly. "I have known
Fleur's
family these many years past. I can vouch for the girl's identity."

"Her identity is not in question," said the deputy. Zoë found his voice as cold as his eyes. "Fetch your belongings," he instructed curtly, his gaze resting on Zoë's bowed head. His voice warmed slightly when he added, "Child, the Revolution does not make war on schoolgirls."

It was far from the truth as Zoë well knew, but somehow she found the words comforting. She
chanced a
quick look at the deputy and thought
she
detected
a
softening in him. Without the red cap, he might even appear human, she decided. The thought emboldened her to appeal to his better nature.

"Monsieur" she began, and got no farther.

The
deputy's hand slammed on the flat of Madame's desk. Zoë fell back. "There are no ladies and gentlemen in modern France," he yelled. "You will address
me
as
'citizen,'
do you understand,
citqyenne
?"

Zoë did. These new forms of address were adopted to promote equality among all France's citizens. In public, everyone paid lip service to this latest directive. In private, and among friends, people adhered to the old ways. She had made a blunder and quaked at her folly.

'Where are you taking her?" asked Madame, diverting the deputy's attention to herself.

"Commissioner Duhet wishes to question her," was the short answer.

At the mention of Duhet's name, Madame seemed to regain some of her composure. "I'll help you pack," she said, and without waiting for permission, swept Zoë from the room.

In point of fact, there was very little to pack, only a change of clothes and nothing of any value or anything which could betray Zoë's real identity. It took only a moment or two to place everything that Zoë owned in the world into a worn grip.

"Everything will be fine, you'll see," said Madame as she personally tied the strings of Zoë's bonnet under her chin. She patted Zoë consolingly on the shoulder. "I had hoped to have a few words with you in private to explain . . ."

The door opened, and Madame's voice faded as the young deputy entered the dormitory. He lounged against the door, saying nothing, but his very presence was intimidating. Zoë had not realized the man was so tall. She was conscious of his scrutiny, and her heartbeat accelerated in alarm.

"W-won't I be returning?" asked Zoë, appealing to Madame.

It was the deputy who answered. "That depends on the commissioner. It's more than likely"

"There, there, child.
Don't fret," said Madame. She darted Zoë a significant look. "I'll be sure to let
Citoyonne
Michelet know what has become of you." Michelet was the name by which Claire was passing herself off.

There was nothing more to say. Squaring her shoulders, and with a last glance around the drab interior where she had found refuge for the last number of weeks, Zoë allowed the deputy to conduct her from the premises.

Madame Lambert's School for Girls was situated close to Rouen's Vieux Marche. Zoë shivered involuntarily as the deputy directed her, with a touch on the elbow, towards the market district. It was here, in the fifteenth century, where Jeanne
D'Arc
had been burned at the stake. And it was here that the guillotine had been set up when Commissioner Duhet had arrived the month before with orders from the Convention to purge the city of anti-Revolutionary elements.

When they came into the square, Zoë averted her gaze from the bloody instrument of execution. For the moment, it lay idle. By the middle of the afternoon,
tumbrils
with their human cargo would arrive from the Palais de Justice, and the slaughter would begin. Zoë had never seen an execution nor ever wanted to. But she had heard the roll of drums which
preceded
the fall of each head. The sound carried for miles around, and a deathly stillness seemed to envelope the city while the executions were in progress.

In a curt undertone, the deputy admonished, "Do you wish to be thought unpatriotic? Lift your head, child. Do not call attention to yourself."

Zoë obeyed automatically. Under cover of drawing her short mantle more closely about her, she glanced sideways at her companion.

Unsmiling, the deputy urged her forward.

They made their way downhill through Rouen's busy, cobbled streets towards the docks. The inhabitants were going about their business with as much confidence as they could summon. Though arrest and summary execution were commonplace for the
most paltry
reasons, a man had to earn a living to provide for his family. Already, the bread queues were forming so that citizens could procure their
meagre
ration of black bread for the day.

When they came to the Hotel
Crosne
, where Commissioner Duhet had set up his headquarters, they halted.

"Stay close," said the deputy as he ushered Zoë into the foyer. She felt the sure touch of his hand at her back as he drew her closer to the broad shield of his body. Startled, she lifted her head to slant him a curious glance, but the deputy was looking straight ahead.

He led her past groups of raucous soldiers interspersed with cowering supplicants who had come to plead for relatives who had been arrested during the night. At the sight of the tall, stony-faced young deputy with his red cap, the throng parted to let him pass.

Up one flight of stairs, the deputy slowed his steps. He rapped brusquely on a door. A feminine voice bade him enter. He opened the door and pushed Zoë through before closing it soundlessly at her back.

Zoë stood transfixed, staring at the young woman who came to greet her. "M-Mademoiselle," she stammered, even in that moment of intense relief and emotion, remembering not to betray her sister by voicing her real name.

Inexplicably, Claire's cheeks went hot with color. Before Zoë could do more than register this interesting fact, she was swept up in a tearful embrace. It was to be some minutes before the sisters drew apart.

No one who did not know them would have taken the two girls for sisters. Claire's long flame-colored hair framed a perfectly oval face. Her eyes were blue, her skin translucently pale. Leon Devereux avowed that his beautiful, elder daughter was in the image of his maternal grandmother, and he had in his possession a miniature to prove it. Zoë, like the rest of the Devereux's, was of a darker cast. Her expressive brown eyes, huge, arresting, and fringed with long, sooty lashes were her best feature. Her abundance of thick hair, which fell to her waist in the manner of a young girl, was too straight for her taste. She was impatient with it, and had looked forward to the day when it might be swept up or sheared into one of the shorter, classical styles which were coming into vogue. Circumstances had de
creed, however, that she preserve the mode of a schoolgirl.

It was not only in looks that Claire and Zoë were opposites. Of the two, Claire was the more gregarious and impulsive. It was not precisely that Zoë was shy. But she was more reserved. Claire had a way with people. Zoë was uncomfortable with strangers, especially if those strangers happened to be gentlemen. Claire was never stuck for a subject of conversation. Zoë had no small talk. They were as different as night and day. But they were sisters and they were devoted to each other.

When she could find her voice, Zoë exclaimed, "Claire! Have we . . . are we under arrest?"

"No, dearest.
Far from it," answered Claire, smiling and laughing. With a swish of skirts, she propelled Zoë to a small table which had been set for two. "At long last, Papa's friends have found us. Oh, darling, just think, within the hour, you will be on the first lap of your journey to England! Now, come and eat, and I'll tell you all about it."

Speechless, Zoë set her grip aside and allowed her sister to remove her bonnet and cloak before accepting the chair which Claire indicated. Another odd note registered. While the rest of Rouen battled with starvation, Claire's table was lavishly set with mouth-watering savory pastries, delectably soft bread, and a selection of preserved fruits.

"Eat," instructed Claire softly, and took the seat opposite. She leaned her elbows on the table, and rested her chin on her folded hands. It was evident that she was not to share in the repast. Her pleasure was to be in watching her sister consume the sort of delicacies they had not enjoyed in years.

Zoë obediently selected a pastry and cut into it. The aroma of braised chicken tickled her nostrils. She
brought her fork to her mouth and nibbled delicately at the morsel she had speared, tasting nothing. Her reflections became more involved as she began to take stock of her surroundings. On another level, she absorbed her sister's words as Claire began to speak.

It was evident that Claire occupied a suite of rooms. The furnishings were not elegant, but far superior to the normal run of hotel furniture. A fire blazed in the grate, and two commodious armchairs had been placed close to the hearth for comfort. Zoë's eyes shifted to take in Claire.

Her sister was dressed in the mode she had adopted since they had arrived at Madame Lambert's. A girls' school was no place for the flimsy, high-
waisted
muslins which were becoming fashionable in Paris. Not that their mother had ever permitted them to adopt the current mode.

Claire's long-sleeved chemise gown was in gray taffeta and tied at the waist with a long sash. The full skirt brushed the floor. Though the neckline was low and laced in front, it was artfully filled in with a white lacy fichu. Claire's decorous aspect should have been reassuring. Zoë felt her alarm growing. Her sister had given her not one word of explanation for her changed circumstances.

"Did you hear what I said?" asked Claire when she came to the end of her recitation.

Carefully, Zoë set down her cutlery. "I heard you," she answered quietly. "I am to be conveyed to Coutances and from there I shall be taken to Jersey and thence on to England."

"The story is that you are to be questioned by Commissioner Duhet respecting the identity of Jean Guery, our father's cousin. He has been accused of treason."

"I understand," replied Zoë. Her memory was phenomenal. She rarely needed to be told something twice.
"And what about you and Leon?
Do we go together?"

Claire shook her head. "No. It's not possible for the moment. As soon as may be, Leon and I shall join you in England."

"Why is it impossible?"

Claire brushed back an errant strand of hair from her cheek. "There is only one passport. It's made out in the name of Fleur Guery. Philippe . . . that is, Papa's friend, says that these things take time. Just be patient, Zoë, and we'll all be together soon, I promise you."

Disregarding her sister's advice, Zoë demanded, "Why is the passport in my name? Leon is the youngest. If only one can go, it should be he."

"You know our brother. He wouldn't accept it," said Claire flatly.

Zoë considered Claire's words. Leon, as they both well knew, had never been susceptible to petticoat government. Though he was only fifteen, he considered himself a man. A mother's wishes must count for something. Sisters were a different matter. He accepted Claire's authority only because his father, before his arrest, had told him that he must.