Chapter Sixteen
“Traitor!”
Verity didn’t answer. She took Henrietta’s arm and led her away down the street.
Outraged, Henrietta pulled away. She stood on the wet cobbled street the sound of her heartbeat thrashing in her ears and stared at the actress. Danton had sent Verity to London to meet her father. For what reason? To bring him to Paris? Was Verity’s interest in this affair merely to suit her own ends? Henrietta had placed her trust in this traitorous deceiver. A dreadful sinking feeling settled in her stomach. She was afraid she’d be sick.
Her fingers coiled into her palms. She wanted to slap Verity, but held back aware of the curious looks from those walking past. “You work for Danton,” she hissed as she backed away.
Verity drew her off the street as a carriage rattled past. “We will talk, Henrietta, but not here.”
Henrietta shrugged her off. “How can I believe anything you say?”
Verity blinked as rain began to fall. “You have no choice,” she said, in an edgy tone.
Henrietta put her hands on her hips. “Don’t I? I can go to the British authorities, or throw myself on the mercy of the National Assembly.”
“Try that and you’ll end up in prison. The British consul has withdrawn from Paris.” She shook her head. “I have an idea of how to rescue your father. Are you with me or not?”
Henrietta angrily swiped her eyes flooding with rain and tears. “I’ll stay, because you are my only hope of rescuing him. If that is truly your intention. But I will be watching your every move.”
“Why else would I be putting myself though all this?” Verity asked. “I might be enjoying a coffee with friends instead of standing here arguing with you in the rain. Come away, before we are completely soaked.”
Numb, Henrietta stumbled after her. Why did Verity care that her father was imprisoned in Paris? She could walk away having done what Danton asked of her. Why did Verity agree to it in the first place? Could Henrietta believe anything she said?
There was nothing to do but follow Verity’s lead. Once the plan to free him from this prison succeeded, not only would she never trust the Frenchwoman again, she would work against her.
Verity’s was searching for a fiacre. “I have little confidence the man will keep his word and treat them well.” Verity said. “We must come back tonight.”
Finally, an empty fiacre rattled down the avenue. Once settled inside, Verity turned to her. “I am not responsible for your father’s plight, but it’s true, Danton did send me to London. He has had my father thrown into prison but promised to release him if I obeyed his order.” She spoke with passionate urgency, but Henrietta didn’t feel inclined to believe her. She eyed the Frenchwoman as if she was confronted by a snake. “Oh? Where is your father?”
Verity’s face crumbled. She sucked in air. “In the Conciergerie dungeons, which is part of the Palais de Justice. Prisoners there await the guillotine. I am not allowed to see him, and I can’t find out if he still lives.”
The pain and sadness in Verity’s eyes had to be genuine, actress or not. Watching her, Henrietta suffered an unwelcome tug of compassion. “I’m sorry. Your plight seems as bad as mine. What is the plan?”
Verity sighed, closed her eyes for a moment. “My friend, Jean-Paul Aubrac might help us. But I intend to spend what’s left of the day inquiring after my father. You can wait at my home. I advise you to rest.”
“Rest? I’m not in my dotage,” Henrietta said. “I’ll come with you.”
“You needn’t.”
“But I want to.” She didn’t intend to let Mademoiselle Verity out of her sight.
Verity tapped the roof of the carriage. “First, we will eat luncheon. We must keep up our strength.”
They left the carriage and entered a gallery of shops. In a corner café with red check curtains, they ate bread and soup and drank coffee they could ill afford, while ignoring the provocative glances of the men at the bar and sitting at the tables.
“Are you in love with my father?”
Verity frowned. “That is a private thing between your father and me.”
Henrietta flushed and fell silent.
* * *
They had the cell to themselves now. Anthony worried about where they’d taken Josette and how she was treated. He knew Phillip did too, but he said nothing. It had begun to rain. Anthony leapt up and held onto the bars. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he stared out from the high window. Below them the brown waters of the River Seine swirled away through Paris. He struggled painfully to hold the small bowl out between the bars. Rainwater splashed onto his face and ran down his arm, soaking his filthy shirt. He hung there until his arm gave way then dropped back to the floor. After drinking from the bowl, he repeated the action.
Anthony knelt at Philippe’s side. Philippe drank a little water from the bowl then pushed it away. His eyes were half closed, and he shook his head. “You must drink it, Anthony. I’m not going to make it.” He was flushed and sweaty, his wound inflamed.
Philippe was right. He wouldn’t last long in this cursed place. But it was unlikely that either of them would be spared. Anthony was surprised they hadn’t come for them. They were fed disgusting scraps a pig would reject. But he ate every bit, and he insisted Philippe eat too.
Anthony stretched out his legs, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes to wait for something to happen, even if it meant a trip to the Place de la Revolution. Surely there’d be a tribunal held before they sent an English lord to the scaffold?
The cell door opened and crashed back against the wall. A soldier stood there, pointing his gun at Anthony, his eyes blank and disinterested. “You are both to come.”
So, this was it. Anthony straightened his shoulders. “I demand to have my say at the Revolutionary Tribunal.”
“Silence!” The guard leaned over and prodded at Philippe with his bayonet. “On your feet!”
“Stop! I’ll assist him.” Anthony bent and heaved the barely conscious Philippe to his feet. He steadied himself and then lifted his brother-in-law up. He slowly mounted the stairs with the guard nudging them from behind.
* * *
Christian Hartley stood on the wharf at Calais. The traumatized family was now safe aboard a boat bound for Dover. They had little money, no lands or home, all were confiscated, but they were alive. Christian wished them well in their new country. They might be able to return to France in the future, but they would be wise not to count on it.
The trap had been driven away by a fellow collaborator. With a final wave to the baron and his wife, Christian climbed into a carriage hired to take him back to Paris. His fears for Henrietta settled on his shoulders like a mantle on an ox. He straightened the brown wig and the hat which formed part of his new disguise, the clothes of a lower member of the first estate. He was now a parish priest who had denounced his religion on his way to visit his mother in Paris. Christian had broken one of his cardinal rules by returning to Paris with no time to alert his contacts. He was on his own, and despite the added moustache, his face might be remembered.
The carriage took off down the road. Exhausted, he leaned against the squabs and pulled his hat down over his eyes. He’d had precious little sleep for days and expected that to continue. But he’d learned to snatch a few hours where he could, and despite the jolting of the carriage he drifted off, his chin resting on his chest.
* * *
Henrietta shivered and rubbed her arms. Mist swirled over the river and enveloped them like a shroud. The asylum loomed above them like an evil portent. “Do you think we’ve missed him?” she asked Verity.
They’d arrived by carriage half an hour ago and waited in the narrow street. Dressed in dark cloaks, they still drew curious glances.
Fortunately, because of the weather, the avenue was almost deserted. Footsteps sounded, echoing eerily in the cobbled street. Verity clutched Henrietta’s arm.
A man emerged out of the mist. Short and dark-haired, he walked briskly to the asylum entrance.
Verity ran forward. “Jean-Paul Aubrac?” He turned his face young and handsome in the flickering light from the street lantern.
He peered at them and took a step in their direction. “Who is it?”
“Jean-Paul, it is I, Verity Garnier.”
“Mademoiselle Garnier? What on earth…”
“Oui.” Verity stepped into the arc of light. “I must beg your help, Jean-Paul.”
“My help?” Bewildered, he turned and stared at Henrietta. “Who is this?”
“My cousin, Henrietta.” Verity grabbed his sleeve. “Jean-Paul, mon ami, it is good to see you, but under such terrible circumstances. Tell me, is the Englishman, Lord Beaumont, still held in this prison?”
“Beaumont? Oui. There was talk of moving he and the French nobleman with him, upstairs.”
“Are they in good health?” Henrietta thrust forward, earning a sharp glance from Verity.
“Wounded, both. The Frenchman is in a bad way. Not that it matters, only a matter of time until…”
“We must get them out before the tribunal,” Henrietta said, her voice low and urgent.
Jean-Paul’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Come now, Jean-Paul. Nothing is impossible.” Henrietta placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. “We would be most grateful.”
Jean-Paul’s gaze flickered over Henrietta’s face. His cheeks reddened. “You are an actress too, mademoiselle? I don’t believe I’ve come across you. Where have you performed?”
“I am new to the theatre, monsieur.”
“What is your interest in Lord Beaumont?” he asked Verity.
“He is my patron,” Verity said. “He promised to take us both to England.”
Henrietta took a deep breath. “He takes care of my cousin, and in these troubled times...” She clutched the lapel of his coat, damp from the mist. “There must be a way. Has anyone ever escaped from this prison?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Once, a man broke out, back in the days when this was an asylum. Paid his jailer to hide him in a laundry basket.”
“Is there another way, Jean-Paul?” Verity asked.
“No! If I were to help you, I’d go to the guillotine too.”
“I remember you confessing you wished to leave France. I may be able to pay you,” Verity said.
He looked furtively around. “Please don’t repeat that to anyone.”
“We’ll make it worth your while,” Henrietta said.
“I doubt it. It would take a goodly amount. I must go. We can discuss it later.”
Verity shook her head. “Non. We must decide now.”
“Then I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I must begin my shift, or I’ll be penniless on the streets.” Jean-Paul pulled his sleeve away from Henrietta’s fingers and turned toward the steps.
“Wait!” Henrietta delved into the pocket in her skirts. She held up a handful of jewels, sparkling in the lantern light. “These will be yours should you help us. There’s enough here to get you far away from Paris. To a better life.”
Verity stared at them open-mouthed.
Jean-Paul put his hand out, but Henrietta moved back. She dangled her mother’s sapphire necklace from her fingers. “These are very fine. A king’s ransom, no?”
“One might say a lord’s ransom.” Jean-Paul stared at her hand. “You stole them?”
“What does that matter? They are genuine.”
His gaze rested on the jewels. Verity put a hand on his shoulder. “You agree, mon ami?”
“I will help you if you can you get hold of a boat. Return at eleven of the clock.”
“A boat? How can we find a boat at this late hour?” Verity asked.
“The river is the only possible way of escape,” he said. “There are guards on every floor. But steps lead down to the Seine at the rear of the building. When the shift changes, I have a few minutes to move them. If you’re there with a boat, I’ll bring them down. If you’re not, I will know that you’ve failed.”
“We’ll be there,” Henrietta said, as a small kernel of hope warmed her.
Jean-Paul nodded. A clock somewhere boomed the hour. He ran up the steps, opened the door, and disappeared inside.
Verity turned to observe her with lifted brows. “You failed to mention the jewels.”
“They were always to be used to free my father.” Henrietta raised her chin. “You didn’t tell me about the pistol.”
“Because I feared you’d shoot someone. You don’t trust me.” It was a bald statement of fact.
Henrietta wanted to, desperately. What other motive could Verity have for freeing her father? But she could not dismiss the reason she came to London. “Should I?”
Verity shrugged. She turned and dashed out onto the street, her arm raised.
Henrietta was afraid she might step in front of a carriage, she looked so determined. An empty carriage trundled around the corner a few minutes later. An old Berliner with a crest on the door panel. It would have once belonged to an aristocrat who had been parted from his property, and perhaps his head. The Berliner would be monstrously slow.
The jarvie was forced to pull the horses up or run Verity down. “Where to, mademoiselle?”
“Argenteuil, s’il vous plaît.”
“Argenteuil? That’s miles away.”
“I’m aware of it.”
The two women climbed inside. Verity stared out the window. “The mob will pull us limb from limb should they suspect we’re aristocrats.”
“But why are we going there?” Henrietta watched her, confused. “Do we have time?”
“My uncle owns a boat. I can think of nothing else.”
“Your uncle? Can you trust him? It doesn’t matter. It’s too far. We won’t get back in time.”
Verity placed her hands on her cheeks her eyes wild. “What else can we do?”
“We’ll have to steal one.”
“Steal a boat?” Verity’s eyes widened. “Are you mad?”
Henrietta grabbed Verity’s wrist and gave it a shake. “We are about to break the laws of the Republic. What matter if we stretch them a little further?”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Verity tapped the roof of the carriage. The panel slid back.
“We have changed our minds, monsieur.”
They’d gone about mile when Verity had him stop.
Henrietta wanted to scream at the time wasted as they climbed down onto the road. Verity had no plan. It would be impossible to find a boat. But apparently undaunted, or else driven by desperation, Verity picked up her skirts and hurried into a dark alley.
Henrietta ran after her.
Somewhere, a baby cried, and cats yowled. The unnerving sound of running feet came closer and louder. The hairs quivered on the back of Henrietta’s neck. The stench of an open sewer made her gag. She held a handkerchief to her nose and stayed close to Verity.
They were approaching the river. The mist cleared and allowed a glimpse of the swirling waters below them. Verity descended a steep stairway. Shadows moved beneath a bridge farther along the riverbank. People were settling there for the night. Henrietta held a hand against the hard ball formed by the jewels in her skirt pocket, which banged against her thigh. She must not lose them. They raced along the river path keeping their distance from the edge. Below, was a smelly black mass of putrid water. Henrietta shivered and drew her cloak closer, the mist touching her face like a dead hand.
At last, Verity stopped. Two wooden row-boats rocked on the water, stoutly secured to a post with thick ropes. A boy stretched out in one, asleep.
Henrietta hurried over to untie a boat.
“Shouldn’t we ask? We’ll be in terrible trouble if we’re caught, Henrietta,” Verity whispered.
“We’re in terrible trouble now.” Henrietta’s cold fingers worked at the rope knot belonging to the empty boat. “We’re just borrowing it.”
The boy opened his eyes, spying them, he picked up a length of wood. He climbed to his feet. “What might you be doing, Mesdemoiselles? These boats belong to my papa. He will be very angry if you take one.”
Henrietta smiled at the boy. Upright, he appeared older, bigger, and stronger, than she’d first thought. “We are in urgent need of a boat. We’ll pay. A short trip.”
He yawned and scratched his chest, then grinned as if he’d seen so much of life already, this was of no surprise to him. He dropped the piece of wood. “How much will you pay?”
Verity took money from her reticule and held it out to him. He counted it. “Very well. But I shall come too.”
“You will row the boat for us?” Verity sounded relieved. Horatia was too, she’d rowed on the river at home, but she was slow.
“You are not strong enough to row against the current,” the boy said. “We’d be gone the whole night.”
Verity nodded. “We must go upriver a little way, not far.”
He cocked his head. “Then why don’t you walk?”
“What is your name?” Henrietta asked him.
“Remi.”
“Remi, you ask too many questions. Help us aboard.”
Picking up their skirts they took Remi’s hand and stepped into the rowboat. It rocked dangerously and reeked of fish. A net was draped across one seat. “Sit down.” Remi frowned. “Don’t put a hole in that net with your shoes, or my papa will string me up in it.”
Remi untied the boat and took up the oars. He rowed strongly, out into the middle of the fast-flowing river. As they headed up stream something heavy bumped against the boat, freed itself and rushed away.
“What was that?” Verity asked.
Remi shrugged. “A branch of a tree, or a body perhaps.”
“A body!” Henrietta’s voice sounded hollow, an echo bouncing off the buildings each side of the river. She met Verity’s horrified glance and grimaced.
“Keep your voices low. Don’t act like women and scream, whatever you do. You’ll bring trouble down on our heads.”
“We are not fools,” Verity said. “Please concentrate on your rowing.”
“Do you wish to come back with me?”
“Oui. We will have two extra passengers,” Verity said.
Remi stopped rowing. He threw the oars down. “Two more? That wasn’t agreed on. There will be too much weight. It will sink us.”
“No, it won’t,” Henrietta pleaded. “Please keep rowing. We are drifting back again.”
Remi put an oar in the water and the boat turned about. “I cannot risk it. It will be more than my life is worth, if this boat goes to the bottom.”
“We will pay you more. Much more.” Henrietta drew a sapphire and diamond earring from her pocket and dangled it. Even in the misty light the gems gleamed like glow-worms on a dark night.
Remi’s brown eyes grew enormous in his narrow face. “How come you have that? The National Assembly demanded all jewelry be donated to pay for a new army. I know, because Madame Bois gave up her garnet necklace and declared herself a patriot.”
“You need never tell anyone you have it.” Henrietta held it closer. “Keep it for your future.”
“It’s enough to buy me a boat.” He watched as Henrietta shoved it back into her skirts.
“Then it’s yours. If you agree to take us, bring us all back safely, and say nothing about it to anyone. Not even your papa,” Verity said.
“Do hurry, please.” Henrietta bit her lip in frustration. During the negotiation, the boat had drifted back almost to where they’d started.
Remi picked up the oars again. “Where am I to find these two persons?”
“At the Asylum of St Germaine,” Verity said.
Remi raised his head to stare at them. “Don’t tell me. Better I don’t know.” He stroked strongly through the water and said nothing more.
Henrietta tensely listened to the swirl and whoosh of the river, the background noise of the city, and the scuttle of rats along the water’s edge. “How far now?”
“It’s hard to recognize any landmarks in this mist,” Verity said. “Do you know where we are, Remi?”
“It’s not far,” he said. “the mist works in our favor. We see no one and they don’t see us.”
“That’s true,” Henrietta said peering ahead. The mist played with them, drifting down to hide the buildings bordering the river. Remi’s thin voice emerged eerily out of the fog. “We are here.”
A block of deep shadow except for candlelight flickering in one of the windows. The boat scraped against the stone wall which rose above them into the mist.
“There!” Henrietta pointed to an archway where steps lead down to a walkway above the water, just as Jean-Paul had said.
“It must be close to eleven,” Verity murmured. “Can we tie the boat and wait?”
Remi grabbed the rope and nimbly jumped onto the walkway. He secured the boat to a metal ring.
They waited, not daring to speak. The damp seeped through Henrietta’s cloak and her thin gown. She shuddered uncontrollably with cold and apprehension.
Remi lay back with his hands on his chest, looking for all the world like a grandpa enjoying a Sunday nap after luncheon. Verity shuffled about on the hard seat close beside her as nervous and uncomfortable as Henrietta was. They waited.
They sat up at the clang of metal above them. The gate opened, and a man appeared on the steps. Jean-Paul was alone. He raised his hand, turned around and disappeared inside.
The gate closed again.