Chapter 16
St Peter Port, July
When Freddie told Zoé he wanted to wait the few weeks until their wedding to bed her, he had no idea he would be waiting more than a month to meet her at the church. It was all due to his brother Richard, who being invited to the wedding had accepted but wrote them, “We must ask for a delay until after Parliament recesses in July.” And then they’d needed time to return to West Sussex and prepare to sail to Guernsey.
While Zoé and her aunt planned the wedding, Freddie made several trips to Jersey to meet with d’Auvergne to arrange for the weapons and supplies needed by the Chouan army. He convinced the captain to have the materiel sent to Jersey where Freddie would assume control and see it arrived safely in Brittany.
Zoé had agreed to their new mission, allowing Erwan to lead the effort to rescue the French émigrés. “What better way to serve those who wear the sacred heart patch than to equip their army?” she had said.
The fourteenth of July came and went without fanfare in St Peter Port. In France, fireworks would have exploded into the night sky above the rivers in celebration of the revolution as they did each anniversary of the attack on the Bastille. Not so on Guernsey, where the day was viewed with disdain.
“The next time I expect to see fireworks,” he told Zoé, “will be the day the war is over. That is, unless you were planning fireworks for our wedding.”
She had laughed. “What? And have people believe we celebrate the Republic of France? Never.” Thus, the subject of fireworks had been dropped.
Zoé stood on the quay, admiring the sleek schooner with the dark gray hull silhouetted against the waters of St Peter Port. Under the watchful eye of their new captain, the crew busied themselves getting ready to set sail.
“What do you think of the ship’s name?” Freddie asked her.
Weeks ago, he had showed her the ship he intended to buy but that was before any name had been painted on the hull.
She walked to the stern and gazed at the transom, then returned to where Freddie waited, a smirk on his face. “The Pigeon?”
His smirk became a smile. “I have always known when the day came to name my own schooner, it would be named after you.”
“That nickname you persist in calling me?”
He slipped his arm around her shoulder and led her toward the gangplank. “Did you never wonder how I arrived at the name?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“The first time I saw you the day you came to my family’s estate, I thought your gray eyes were lovely, the color of a dove’s wing. Even though you were a precocious child, trying my patience, your eyes held me captive. A pigeon, after all, is a dove.”
“Well, I suppose I cannot be angry about that.” She had to admit, if only to herself, that he had always said the name in a charming sort of way.
“’Sides, since pigeon is spelled the same in English and French, the name will not alert the French Navy to a foreign vessel in their waters.”
“Clever,” she said. “And I assume she carries many flags?”
“Of course.”
She followed Freddie aboard the ship just as Émile Bequel, standing at the top of the gangplank, inclined his head, “Capitaine West, mademoiselle.”
“Give the orders to set sail, M’sieur Bequel,” said Freddie.
“M’sieur Bequel is your quartermaster?” she asked, incredulous.
“Only for this trip, Pigeon.” He led her to the wheel, as the ship got under way. “Bequel and Gabe asked to accompany us and your uncle thought that since it’s our first voyage, they might help assess the crew. Though I handpicked the men for the missions we’ll be running, I welcome the opinion of one who has sailed with Jean Donet for so many years. I suspect Gabe is along to help protect you.”
This would be their first delivery of ammunition and muskets to the Chouans and Zoé was anxious to be about the task. Her uncle had suggested they use the port of St Malo instead of Lorient since it was only a few hours’ sail south of Guernsey. More importantly, he had many friends in that port, privateers he called corsairs, who he had alerted to the schooner’s pending arrival. “Protection from friends is to be prized,” her uncle told her.
“How many corsairs have a schooner named the Pigeon, do you suppose?” asked Freddie with a twinkle in his eye. The wind whipped his auburn hair beneath his tricorne. In his captain’s coat, he was very striking.
“Only this one,” she said with certainty. “A privateer would hardly name his ship after a dove.”
“My thought exactly. I am hoping Cadoudal received the message I sent him and will have no trouble spotting us.”
Several hours later, Freddie ordered one of the crew to run up the corsair flag as they neared St Malo.
“’Tis a splendid flag,” she said gazing up at the banner unfurled against the cloudless blue sky.
The sight of the blue flag quartered by a white cross with the upper left quadrant red with a white ermine brought back her uncle’s words. “The corsairs are proud of their Catholic roots and many support the royalists. They also value their independence and fly their own flag, even during the revolution.”
Not long after, they sailed into the ancient harbor with its imposing medieval ramparts. Zoé’s spirits rose when she saw the harbor clogged with sailing vessels. Amid so many ships perhaps they could slip in, leaving the authorities unaware.
As soon as the Pigeon dropped anchor, M’sieur Bequel dispatched a skiff carrying gunpowder, shot and wadding packed in barrels like the ones used to transport cod. Zoé watched from the rail as a few members of the crew rowed Freddie and Gabe the short distance to shore. Before they had even pulled the boat over the sand, a group of four men met them, one very tall, whom she took to be Cadoudal. They did not dress as Chouans but as seamen wearing knit caps.
The barrels were hefted out of the boat and rolled to a waiting wagon over planks laid down as a pathway over the sand. Once that was accomplished, the skiff returned to the ship and Freddie climbed aboard. “Cadoudal sends his regards, Pigeon. Now we bring the muskets.”
The crew stepped lively at Gabe’s direction to lower two boxes of muskets to the skiff. As before, they rowed Freddie and Gabe ashore. “At this speed,” she said under her breath, “it will take all day.”
Just then, she noticed two republican soldiers had turned their attention to the men unloading the long boxes. The soldiers fixed their gazes on the activity at the shore’s edge and headed toward Freddie and Cadoudal overseeing the delivery.
Zoé began to bite her knuckles. “Not again,” she muttered.
M’sieur Bequel joined her at the rail. “Have no worries, little one. Capitaine Donet’s colleagues are dependable. See?” he said, pointing to a group of sailors striding toward Freddie and the Chouans, “The corsairs arrive just on time, n’est-ce pas?”
A group of swarthy seamen placed themselves in front of Freddie, his crew and the Chouans and turned to face the republican soldiers.
The soldiers stopped, shrugged and turned away.
Mystified, she turned to M’sieur Bequel. “They leave at the sight of the corsairs?”
“Oui, little one. The privateers have commanded this port for generations and defend the coast against England. From a very old arrangement they had with the king, which they still honor, they bring much money to the government and food to the tables of the people. Even Robespierre would not be so foolish as to defy them.”
When the final weapons were unloaded and carted away by the Chouans, Freddie returned to the ship and kissed her on the forehead. “’Tis a done thing, Pigeon.”
“Will the corsairs help us again, do you think?
“Oh oui. They rather enjoyed reminding the republican soldiers who is really in charge of the port.”
7 August
Finally, the day of their wedding dawned bright and clear. Freddie awakened early. While he dressed, he smiled to himself. The long wait was nearly at an end.
Warned not to see his bride before they met at the church, he sneaked downstairs while the women and the guests still slept. Before he was halfway down, the heavy scent of blossoms assaulted his nostrils. Glancing from side to side, he saw flowers everywhere. They were entwined in vines on the staircase, clustered with bows on the chandeliers and set in arrangements on tables. “My sister,” he mumbled beneath his breath.
In the dining room, he found Donet sitting at the table staring into his coffee.
Fighting a sneeze, Freddie said, “It seems the ladies have been decorating.”
“Since last night,” Donet replied in droll fashion.
At the sideboard, Freddie found a veritable feast of pastries, fruit and eggs, enough to stave off his hunger until the wedding breakfast, which would really be a noon meal. Piling food onto his plate, he took his seat across from Donet. “At last the day has arrived,” he said in a cheery voice.
Donet regarded his happy countenance. “You did not expect to be held at bay so long, mon ami, but your face tells me you do not doubt my niece is worth the wait.”
“No, I have never doubted that. ’Sides, what could we do when Richard accepted the invitation but begged for a delay? It was good of you to send Bequel with la Reine Noire to transport them to Guernsey.” In his letter, Richard expressed concern about meeting French warships on the Channel. “Your defeat of the Trajan impressed him.”
“And you have kept busy?”
“Indeed. The selection of the crew for my new schooner occupied much of my time and then there was the first delivery of the promised weapons and ammunition to Brittany.”
“I expect the Chouans are pleased.”
“They seemed to be, though Cadoudal voice some concern about whether there would be more.”
“He will come to trust you.”
After breakfast, Freddie returned to his room where he read a book until he was certain the ladies had left for the church. Retracing his steps to the first floor, he encountered Donet standing next to the front door, his pocket watch in hand.
“I have been wondering if the impatient groom intended to be late for his wedding.”
“Not at all. I merely allowed the ladies time to depart. My sister was clear about that.” Freddie thought of the list he’d been working from that morning. “Do you have the ring?”
Donet reached in the pocket of his ivory satin waistcoat and held the ring out, its lavender sapphire sparkling from the delicate gold band. “’Twas a good thing you let me know Zoé loves the color lavender, else I might have picked something she would have liked less well.”
“I’m glad I remembered we had some loose stones in the warehouse from the trip to Ceylon last year.”
Though Freddie had not been allowed to see Zoé’s gown, he’d asked his sister for the color. When Jo advised him it was becoming fashionable for the bride and groom to match, Freddie had the tailor in St Peter Port make him a waistcoat of lavender silk. But when it came to his frock coat and breeches, like Donet, he chose black. Both of them wore a French small sword at their waists. To leave his sword behind would make him feel undressed.
“We’d best be off,” Donet said, striding toward the door. “I grow old as we dally.”
The footman handed them their tricornes and opened the door.
Once in the carriage, Freddie sank against the tufted velvet and gazed out the window, remembering the carriage ride that had taken him away from the Conciergerie more than a month before. “You didn’t seem surprised when I asked for Zoé’s hand that day in Paris.”
A small smile played about Donet’s mouth. “I’ve watched the two of you for years. Every time my niece set out on some wild adventure, you argued against it and, when she could not be dissuaded, went along to see she came to no harm. But it was Joanna who first remarked to me it would be a good match. Not many men would tolerate Zoé’s independent spirit.”
Freddie braced himself as the carriage took a sharp turn. “I rather like her tendency toward adventure. I expect we will have many.”
“Doubtless,” replied Donet.
The conveyance stopped in front of the Parish Church located on St Peter Port’s seafront. The Gothic building was as old as the castle in Fougères and it would have fit well as a part of that town.
They stepped down and an anxious Émile Bequel, dressed like a gentleman of some import in fine apparel, approached. “Vite! We must make haste. I’m to lead ye through the side door to where ye will stand, Mr. West. Then I’ll take ye, Capitaine, to where yer niece is waiting.”
They nodded and followed.
When they arrived at the door, Bequel indicated Freddie should enter. As he reached for the handle, he heard Bequel say to Donet. “I should warn ye, Capitaine, Madame Donet is biting her knuckles.”
Freddie turned. “What about Zoé?” It wouldn’t do to anger his bride on their wedding day.
Bequel shrugged. “The mademoiselle just smiles at her bouquet.”
“I hope that’s a good sign,” Freddie muttered.
He entered the church filled with people sitting expectantly in the pews and took his place to the right of the black-robed minister. The ceremony would be Anglican, but like his sister’s wedding, a priest would conduct a second, more private service in a smaller chamber.
Moments later, his sister and Isabeau, wearing blue gowns, were escorted to the front of the church to stand opposite Freddie as Zoé’s attendants.
Jo gave him a warm smile. He returned her smile, but he needed no encouragement. He’d waited years for Zoé to grow up, hoping she would one day come to love him. She was always the bright spot in the midst of his many disappointments. That she might one day choose another man had always been a possibility. If she had done so, he would have relinquished his unspoken claim and wished her happiness, no matter his heart would be breaking. But a miracle had happened and she had chosen him. He vowed to spend the rest of his life proving she’d made the right choice.
From the back of the church, the beautiful music of a violin sent a hush over the guests.
Not many people knew Zoé’s uncle was a virtuoso with the violin, or that in his youth he’d considered becoming a concert violinist. A few weeks ago, she had asked if he might play for their guests just before he led her down the aisle. He’d agreed on the condition he could select the music. When the first strains of the piece came to her ears, she knew it was a reminder of the man she had chosen to wed.
The music was The Guardian Angel by the Austrian composer Heinrich Biber. An appropriate choice, she thought. Freddie had certainly been that, watching over her and protecting her from harm even at the cost of his own safety and, if need be, his own life.
Zoé listened to the ethereal music and peered around a pillar to see the enraptured looks on the faces of their guests. Gazing down at her bouquet of St Peter Port daisies, she was glad she had decided on the flowers that grew wild on Guernsey. A little like her, she acknowledged. That Freddie knew her wild tendencies and still wanted her warmed her heart. As much as it was within her power, she would fill their home with the children she knew he wanted and his life with love.
When the music stopped, all heads turned to the back of the church where Zoé entered on Donet’s arm. As they began slowly walking toward Freddie, his gaze alighted on her glowing face and the lavender silk of her gown shimmering in the light from the stained glass windows. She wore no veil, not even a hat, but instead, a wreath of daisies crowned her long dark hair. She was beautiful, his Venus.
A wide smile crossed his face as their eyes met. When she drew near, her focus shifted to his lavender waistcoat and she smiled. Did she think a spy could not ascertain the shade of her gown?
Once she arrived in front of Freddie, Donet released her and stepped back. She handed her bouquet to Joanna and, together, they turned toward the minister.
The vows came easily to Freddie, so long had he waited to speak them. Zoé, too, spoke hers without hesitation.
When Freddie placed the ring on her finger, her eyes glistened with delight.
The minister pronounced them man and wife and Freddie leaned down to kiss his bride. The kiss he bestowed on his new wife was no perfunctory touching of lips. By the time he lifted his mouth from hers, the clergyman was coughing into his hand.
For a long moment, their gazes held each other’s. Then they turned, hand in hand, to greet their family and guests as Mr. and Mrs. West.
Since the wedding breakfast was to be held at the Donets’ home, Freddie’s sister encouraged guests to meet them there, saying the bride and groom would follow. Émile Bequel assisted, ushering guests to the front of the church, save for those invited to witness the Catholic ceremony. Since the Vendéens and Chouans fought for the right to worship as Catholics, the ceremony conducted by the priest was especially meaningful. Freddie was an Anglican but his bride, like her uncle, was Catholic. Services in both faiths were held on the island, which was another reason for them to live on Guernsey.
Two carriages waited in front of the church to transport the eight of them to the Donets’ home. Jack and Pax piled in with the Donets, and Isabeau and Émile Bequel stood waiting to ride with Freddie and Zoé.
The first vehicle departed and Freddie, Zoé, Isabeau and Bequel turned toward theirs. Before they could climb in, Isabeau shouted, “Giles!”
Zoé watched Isabeau run to the man who knelt with his arms outstretched. The girl had missed her brother terribly. Since none of them knew if Giles still lived, and Freddie had forgotten to ask Cadoudal in St Malo, it was a relief to see him here. Somewhere, he had obtained a set of clothes that blended well with the folks populating the streets of Guernsey.
Freddie offered Giles his hand as the Chouan got to his feet. “Giles, meet my new wife. You will remember her as Mademoiselle Donet; Zoé is now Mrs. West. We were just married.
With his arm around Isabeau, Giles said, “That is why I came to the church. The butler at Monsieur Donet’s house told me where I could find you. My good wishes to you both.”
Zoé thanked him. “We are very glad to see you, but why have you come? Is there bad news from Brittany?”
“Non, pas du tout. Cadoudal sent me to help arrange the promised shipments of weapons and supplies. Since Isabeau is here on Guernsey, he thought I should be the one to come. But I bring important news from Paris you will want to hear.”
“As we are the last to leave for the wedding breakfast,” said Freddie, “why not ride with us and you can tell us your news on the way.”
Isabeau grasped her brother’s arm. “You will stay?”
Giles smiled down at her. “Oui, as long as M’sieur Cadoudal wants me here.”
They crowded into the carriage and, unable to wait any longer, Zoé said, “What news do you bring us, Giles?”
“At the end of July, Robespierre, his brother, Augustin, and twenty of his supporters were arrested and sent to the guillotine. They were given no trial as they had been declared outside the law by the Convention following a speech Robespierre gave calling for the arrest of traitors in the Committee of Public Safety.”
“An unwise move on his part,” said M’sieur Bequel.
Zoé’s only emotion was one of relief. Sitting beside Freddie, she squeezed his hand.
“’Tis ironic he would meet his end in the same manner he dictated for so many others,” said Freddie.
“Oui and Oncle Jean will be gratified to hear it,” she said. “’Tis good news, indeed.”
“Aye,” agreed Giles. “Dozens more of his allies were guillotined the next day and, since then, we hear those who were imprisoned for suspected disloyalty, have been released.”
Turning to face Freddie, Zoé asked, “Does this mean the Terror will end?”
“Doubtless things will change, Pigeon. There were many in the government who criticized Robespierre for the Terror he lauded as a virtue.” To Giles, he said, “They must be celebrating in Brittany.”
“Aye, they are, particularly because it is rumored General Rossignol will retire to his home in Orléans.”
Zoé thought about the man who had helped them gain access to the Conciergerie. The one who had left early at someone’s bidding. “Freddie, do you think François de Dordogne was one of those executed with Robespierre?”
“Very likely.”