CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The trip from Martinique to France went wonderfully for the three passengers, in the main because the cabin Beth was occupying and the food she was served at mealtimes was far superior to that on the trip out, but also because the other two passengers were experiencing freedom for the first time in their lives, and really starting to grasp the idea that their opinion would be sought about things and that they were allowed to say no if they were asked to do something they didn’t want to do.
Having said that, at the moment they had no desire to refuse anything that was requested of them, because everything that was being asked was reasonable. The chores they’d been allocated were fair, and Raymond was thoroughly enjoying learning about the sea, while Rosalie was enjoying learning absolutely everything Beth could think of to teach her that might help her once she landed in France. This included further mastery of reading and writing, basic number work, and how to dye beautiful silver-blonde hair a hideous mud-brown colour.
Beth had intended to wait until they were a day or so from their destination before attempting to disguise her most outstanding feature, but an incident which occurred in the first couple of days of the voyage made her revise her plan.
Having been told by Elizabeth that she wore men’s clothing when at sea, Beth had had a pair of breeches, a shirt and waistcoat made in her size, thinking that it would be wonderful to roam around the deck without cumbersome skirts blowing around her legs. She had donned her new outfit with excitement and had emerged on deck into the morning sun, managing all of thirty seconds in public view before Paul had gripped her shoulder, turned her round and marched her back into the cabin.
“What on earth are you thinking?” he said, once the door was closed. “You cannot walk around deck dressed like that!” He made a gesture with his hand that took in her outfit of green cotton breeches, cream stockings, white linen shirt with full sleeves, currently rolled up to the elbow, and a plain fitted green waistcoat.
Beth’s face fell.
“Why not? Elizabeth wears men’s clothing at sea, she told me so!” she countered.
“That’s true, but there’s a difference,” Paul replied. “You must change, immediately.”
“I don’t see the difference,” Beth persisted. “Just because she’s your wife doesn’t mean that—”
“Yes, it does. Partly, at least,” Paul interrupted. He wiped his hand over his face. “Sit down,” he said in a tone of voice that made her obey without question. “Part of the reason that Elizabeth can wear breeches and shirts on deck is because she is my wife and therefore out of bounds to any man. They all know that anyone who makes even the slightest lewd suggestion will be castrated and fed to the sharks. Yes, I have told them that the same applies with regard to you and Rosalie as well. They believe Rosalie is twelve, and her father is on board which also gives her protection, but you are a different matter.”
“Why? My face looks the same whether I wear a dress or breeches. I had hoped that the scar would disfigure me, but unfortunately it’s healed really well,” Beth said ruefully, lifting her hand to the thin silver scar that ran from the corner of her eye into her hair.
To her astonishment Paul started laughing.
“I have never heard a woman express disappointment at not being ugly before,” he said.
“You don’t know how many problems it’s caused me in my life,” Beth replied, smiling in spite of herself at his amusement.
“Listen, I will be honest with you,” he said, once he’d recovered. “I love Elizabeth, but she is not beautiful, in either face or figure. She is very thin, and when dressed in male attire resembles a young boy. Whereas you, my dear Beth, resemble an extremely beautiful young woman with the body of Venus. The male clothes only emphasise how long your legs are, how small your waist and how perfect your breasts, and were I not a monogamous man I would be unable to keep my hands off you. And I am not being denied my conjugal rights for weeks, as my crew are. I cannot allow you to walk around in front of the men dressed like that. It is unfair to them and dangerous to you. I am sorry, but I have to keep discipline and order on my ship, and you are a walking mutiny, because if, or rather when, one of my crew molests you and I throw him overboard, the others will resent that, and you.”
Beth sighed. She had thought that wearing dresses would be a constant reminder that she was female, and that masculine attire would help her to blend in more. Clearly that was not the case.
“You put your point very well, Paul. I won’t wear them again while on board your ship.”
“I would highly recommend that you don’t wear them when you are not on board my ship, either,” Paul suggested.
The breeches and shirt were relegated to the bottom of Beth’s trunk, and two days later she asked Rosalie to help her to dye her hair. Although Rosalie had learned the method and obtained the ingredients, she was at first nervous about changing the colour of her former mistress’s hair, until Beth said she couldn’t care less what it looked like as long as it wasn’t silver-blonde any more. So, with regret, Rosalie covered Beth’s lovely tresses with a paste made of crushed black walnuts, and a few hours later she appeared on deck with hair of a mud-brown colour that enhanced the blue of her eyes, but did little for her complexion.
“I thought it might help your crewmen to keep their minds on their work, and I realised that I need to know how often I’ll have to dye it to keep it brown when I’m in Britain,” Beth said when Paul and Elizabeth asked her why she’d done it. She hadn’t told Raymond and Rosalie of her intention to travel to Britain yet, although she had decided to tell them once they landed in France.
“You do look very different,” Elizabeth observed, “and I must admit that when I saw you in Fort Royal, it was your hair that drew my attention and tellt me it was you. I’ve never seen hair of such a pure blonde before.”
Beth was very heartened by this. Hopefully it would help to keep her safe as she travelled around the country in search of Alex.
Apart from a short period when the ship was becalmed, which resulted in some rationing of food and water, the voyage went very well until they neared the French coast, some six weeks after setting out from Martinique.
It was late afternoon on a very dull and gloomy February day. The clouds overhead were black and had been threatening rain all day, but had not as yet fulfilled that threat. Raymond and Rosalie, both on deck hoping to see the first sight of their new country, were wearing every item of clothing they possessed, and were horrified when Beth told them that it wasn’t a particularly cold day for the time of year.
“I did warn you that you would struggle with the cold, not being accustomed to it,” Beth said sympathetically.
“We…we will become accustomed to it,” Raymond said through chattering teeth. He was shaking as though he had the ague. “It is better than being a slave. If we remember that, then everything else will be easy to deal with.”
Beth smiled. That was a very good way of thinking about things.
“When will we see France, Monsieur le Capitan?” Rosalie asked.
Paul, standing a few feet away from them, didn’t answer, being preoccupied with looking through his spyglass at the distant mist-drenched horizon.
“Merde,” he said softly.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked, coming to stand beside him.
“A British ship,” he said. “She is some way off, but she’s seen us.”
“Can we fight her?”
“No, my bloodthirsty bride, we cannot fight her,” he replied. “Well, we can, but there is nothing to gain by doing so, and much to lose, not least our lives.” He handed her the spyglass, and addressed Beth, Raymond and Rosalie, who had overheard the conversation and were looking very anxious.
“She is a frigate with thirty-two guns to our eighteen; and we don’t know if there are more ships with her that are not in sight yet. Don’t worry, my friends,” he said to his three passengers, “we are in little danger. As long as we stay leeward of them, we should be able to outrun them. And they may lose interest when they see we are a lone ship. They will be looking out for fleets of merchant ships trying to enter or leave France. A single brig will hopefully not be interesting enough to chase.”
He shouted a series of sharp orders across the deck, which resulted in a great flurry of activity from the crew. Raymond disappeared below decks, having been beckoned by a crew member. “But we will take precautions, just in case,” Paul added, winking at Rosalie, who looked absolutely petrified. “Do not fear, mademoiselle,” he said. “I will get us safely into port, but I think you should go below decks now. Not because anything terrible is about to happen,” he added quickly, on seeing her eyes widen even further, “but because it is about to rain very heavily.”
Sure enough within a few minutes the rain began, reducing visibility even further. Beth accompanied Rosalie to the cabin, but returned to the deck a couple of minutes later. The rain was sweeping across it in sheets.
“I’m accustomed to rain,” she said to Paul as she went to stand by him on the quarter deck. She pushed her dripping hair off her face. “I lived in Scotland for a time.”
He nodded, but continued to watch the approaching ship.
“Can we outrun her?” Beth asked.
“Yes,” Paul replied, “depending on the wind. Right now she is out of cannon range, and I intend to keep it that way. My concern is that she is unlikely to be alone, and if another frigate comes upon us from, say, that direction,” he pointed into the grey gloom, “then we would be in trouble. I had intended to take us to Calais, because I know that would be convenient for you to try to take a ship to England, but I think there is a strong likelihood that if I continue with that course, we will be intercepted. Would it inconvenience you terribly if I were to make for Rochefort instead?”
Beth had no idea where Rochefort was, but the extreme politeness of his request under what could rapidly become desperate straits, made her laugh.
“Captain Marsal,” she replied formally. “As long as I do not have to see a smirking redcoat or the inside of an English prison before I’ve had a chance to look for my husband, you can make for the moon if you wish.”
“I don’t think it will come to that, my dear. Rochefort it is. It is a good way south of Calais, but I will provide you with the means to travel north. Have you told Raymond and Rosalie of your intentions yet?”
“No,” Beth replied. “I thought I would wait until we land. I think they’ll want to come with me, but of course that is impossible. I expect to spend a little time in France helping them become acquainted with their new home though.”
“But you do not wish to,” he said.
She didn’t. Now she was so close to home, she didn’t want to waste another moment doing anything but searching for news of her husband. Every part of her wanted to find out, once and for all, if Alex was alive or dead. In my heart I want him to be alive so badly, I’m starting to convince myself that he is, she realised. She must not allow herself to believe that. If she did and he was dead, then she might never recover. And while she would have to take chances, she could not afford to be reckless in her haste. She had to be patient, a quality she had never really possessed.
“I am responsible for them,” she said, evading answering his question. “I will see them settled before I leave them.”
Paul smiled.
“Well, we will see. Let us make land before we plan further. Now, I suggest you go below. You can do nothing here, and I think you will have a surfeit of bad weather in the weeks to come. Enjoy the comfort of a dry cabin while you can.” He made one of his elaborate bows, and, recognising it as a dismissal, Beth took his advice and made her way back to the cabin.
By the time night fell they were a good way ahead of the British ship, but Paul mounted a double night watch, taking the first shift himself along with Raymond. When he came into the cabin shortly before midnight, drenched to the skin, he was surprised to find the three female occupants still awake, and lanterns lit. They were playing cards in an attempt to while away the time, and as he opened the door they all looked up at him as one.
He walked in dressed only in breeches, his hair trailing in sodden rats’ tails down his back.
“Ach, ye’re drookit, man!” Elizabeth said, abandoning the cards and going over to a chest. She took out a cloth and threw it to him and he started rubbing himself down briskly, in an attempt to both dry and warm himself.
“I apologise for my state of undress, ladies,” he said politely. “My other clothes are in the galley where it is warmer, although I doubt that they’ll dry before I have to go back on deck. I assume you’re all awaiting a weather and pursuit report?”
“We can tell the weather report by looking at you,” Beth replied drily, “but yes, what of the pursuit?”
“We were still well ahead of the frigate when I saw it last, but the rain means visibility is very poor. As long as no other ships converge on us, we will make land safely, sometime tomorrow, maybe the day after, God willing.”
“At Rochefort,” Beth said.
“Yes. It’s a good choice given our present circumstances, because Rochefort is a French naval base, and it is inland – we will have to travel six leagues along the river to get there, which means that there is no danger of the British firing on us in the harbour. They will not pursue us once we reach the river mouth. It will be too risky for them, and as we are only one small boat they will leave off chasing us. I am sure of it. My men will rouse me if there is need. So we can all sleep soundly tonight. Goodnight to you, ladies.”
He set a good example by putting his nightshirt on, stripping his breeches off underneath, getting into bed and falling asleep immediately.
“I assume he’s telling us the truth, then,” Beth remarked, amused.
“Aye, probably, although he slept like that when we were being chased by four Dutch ships too,” Elizabeth replied. “But, truth or no, we canna do anything by no’ sleeping, I’m thinking.” It was good advice, and they all followed it.
They sailed into the port of Rochefort two days later, having successfully shaken off the British ship and negotiated the serpentine loops of the Charente River. As they were unloading the cargo, the crew discovered that in the previous October there had been a second major naval battle at sea between the British and French, that the British had won a resounding victory and were now blockading France’s colonies, with the result that Martinique, among other French possessions, was unable to receive or send any provisions at all.
“It seems that we left Martinique at the perfect time,” Paul said. “I think God is looking kindly on us. And it means that we will get a very good price for our sugar. Raymond; myself and the crew have had a meeting, and decided that you have worked so hard during this voyage you deserve an equal share of the proceeds.”
Raymond, astounded, started to protest that he had worked much slower than the others, but Elizabeth interrupted him.
“Never say no to money, laddie,” she advised him. “They wouldna offer it if they didna think ye deserved it. Just say thank you.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” Raymond said, his eyes shining at the thought of actually earning money for working, a completely new concept to him.
Beth looked on, worried, and later approached Paul to express her concerns.
“Yes, I think they have a good deal to learn if they are not to be taken advantage of most cruelly,” Paul agreed. “But they are very fast learners. They have expressed their intention to travel to Paris, and Elizabeth and I have decided to travel with them and to make sure they are settled properly once there, so that you can set off on your quest as soon as you want. My wife wishes to see the city of my birth, and I very much desire to show it to her. I think a visit to Versailles will be a wonderful experience for her, and a chance for her to display her finery.”
Beth smiled.
“It will indeed,” she said. “She will love it there, I think. I have never seen anything like it, before or since.”
“I forgot, you have been there, several times. Will you then accompany us? Paris is after all, en route to Calais, in a manner of speaking.”
“I’ll gladly accompany you part of the way,” Beth replied. “But I cannot come to Paris itself, no. Even with my hair as it is there is a good chance I would be recognised and that it would be reported both to King Louis and the Elector that I am not in fact dead. Unfortunately part of Sir Anthony’s persona was to be at the very centre of every gathering, which meant we were extremely visible to the whole court.”
“Ah, that is a shame, for I would like very much to show you some of the beautiful places you certainly will not have seen. But c’est la vie! At least we will have the pleasure of your company for a few more days. I am sorry that I cannot help you to travel to England. But I dare not put my men in such danger – they would not agree if I suggested it in any case, and I have no contacts that I can call on who would be willing to attempt such a voyage.”
“I think I do have such a contact,” Beth replied, hoping that was true. “I will find a way.”
“Indeed, I believe you shall. You have the most remarkable will, although I urge you to be very careful. But first you must tell Rosalie and Raymond that you do not intend to stay in France.”
He was right. She had put it off because she was dreading it. She was sure they would want to come with her, and she had to dissuade them whilst giving them as little information as possible, for their own sakes as well as hers. But the time had come. Better to get it over with.
“But I thought that we were all going to stay together, maybe live in Paris!” Rosalie cried when Beth told her and her father that in a few days they would have to separate.
“Are you not then a friend of the king?” Raymond asked.
“No. Well, that is, I am acquainted with the king, although I wouldn’t call him a friend. Part of what I told Pierre was true, and part of the gossip also, which I know you overheard, Raymond,” Beth said. “My husband and I did visit Paris, and he did fight a duel and kill a servant of the king’s. But it was not because I was having an affair with him. Louis certainly showed an interest in me, but I would never have been unfaithful to Sir Anthony.”
“Because you loved him,” Rosalie said, sighing wistfully. Beth smiled. Soon she would be sighing over her own first love. Hopefully he would be deserving of her.
“Yes,” Beth confirmed. “I cannot come to Paris, because I would be recognised.”
“But you told Monsieur Pierre that you were travelling to Paris to find out whether your husband was alive or not,” Raymond said. “Do you not then intend to seek him out? And followers of your King James are in no danger in France, are they? So why do you not wish to be recognised?”
She had hoped he would not know that. But of course he did. How many years had he spent standing silent and unobserved in the background while the society of Martinique gossiped about the latest news from France? He probably knew almost as much about the Jacobite rising as she did.
She was silent for a moment, while she pondered how much she could tell them. Not Sir Anthony’s true identity; she would never tell anyone who didn’t already know that. But she could trust them with her own secrets.
“It is very important that I not be recognised. I did not tell Pierre the truth,” she said. “When I was with the marquis in Martinique, I asked him to add my name to the list of those who died on the voyage. The authorities in England believe that I’m dead. It’s crucial that I am not recognised by anyone who may pass on the information that I am very much alive.”
Raymond’s brow crinkled in a puzzled frown.
“I am not staying in France, Raymond,” Beth said. “It is unlikely that my husband will be in Paris, or that there will be any news of him there. I intend to travel to England, and once there I will be able to find out whether my husband is alive or not, because I will go to people who will know.”
“This is why you wished to change the colour of your hair,” Rosalie said. “It was not because of the sailors.”
“No, it was not, although I think it helped. My hair colour is the reason I was arrested – I was recognised by the…by an enemy. It will help me, I think, when I go back. And I will keep away from London, where I am also well known.”
Raymond smiled.
“Now I understand,” he said. “You cannot take us to England, because if you do we will draw attention, being black, and that will be dangerous for you.”
“Yes, and for you too. France and Britain are at war. I think you will be safer here, and happier too. You speak French, not English, and can make a good life here. Paul has told me that he intends to see you settled, which reassures me. I will miss you. But I have to do this.”
“And if your husband is dead? You also have no intention to make Monsieur Pierre the happiest of men?” Raymond asked.
Beth laughed.
“No, I have no intention of ever going back to Martinique. I would die first.”
“This is very good news to me, Beth, because Monsieur Pierre was not a good man, and not a man who would make you happy,” Raymond said.
“What will you then do, if the news is bad?” Rosalie asked.
“I will stay with the people who are dearest to me, and make the best life I can without my husband. But I cannot tell you where that will be.”
“But how will we know if you find him?” Rosalie cried. “I couldn’t bear not to know!”
“Hush, child,” Raymond said to his daughter. “You have borne many things worse than this. We will trust in fate. But I would ask you to make me one promise, please?” he added, turning back to Beth.
“If I can, I will, yes,” she said.
“I would ask you to wear the amulet that I gave you at all times, until you are safe,” he said earnestly. “I spoke true to you when I said that it gives very strong protection.”
She smiled, and reaching up to her neck, touched the leather thong that the charm was strung on.
“It has carried me this far safely,” she said. “I promise you, I will not take it off until I am safe. And I will treasure it for the rest of my life.”
“That makes me very happy. Now, let us enjoy the days we have left as we travel together, and we will not speak of this again.”
Later, in bed in the room in Rochefort they had taken for a few nights while the arrangements to sell the cargo were made, she held the amulet in her hand and looked at it by candlelight. It was a strange thing, ugly and beautiful at the same time. Could it really protect her?
People of her faith wore crosses or medallions of their favourite saints for protection. It was not something she had ever done, mainly because she had spent most of her life in a country where it was unwise to advertise her faith. She remembered her mother’s rosary, how precious it had been to her, doubly so after Alex had rescued it from the fire for her, for it had reminded her of two of the people she had loved most in the world. That was lost to her forever. But she had this strange little carving to remind her of Paul and Elizabeth, who had become true friends, and of Raymond and Rosalie, who loved her, and who she had come to care deeply for as well.
And I will need all the protection I can get in the next weeks, she told herself. It can do no harm to wear it. She smiled and tucked it back inside her nightdress. Then she lay down and went to sleep almost immediately, relishing the feeling of being out of danger.
It was an unfamiliar feeling, and one she would not enjoy for long.
* * *
Calais, France, February 1748
As Beth walked around the Courgain district of Calais, she realised she had a problem. Well, in fact she had a lot of problems, but only one that was immediate.
She couldn’t remember the full name of the tavern that Gabriel Foley stayed in when engaged in smuggling operations in France. This was because it had only been mentioned to her once, and that in passing, by Duncan, some four years ago. She had racked her brain all night after arriving in Calais and taking a room in a mid-range area of town, one where she was unlikely to encounter any wealthy travellers of her acquaintance from her time as Lady Elizabeth Peters, but equally one where she was unlikely to be robbed and murdered the second she walked out of the door.
The tavern she was looking for had the word ‘cat’ in it; that was all she remembered. She had asked the hotel concierge if he knew of such a tavern, and he had replied that he knew of several, and asked why she wanted to know.
She could hardly say that she wanted to meet a notorious leader of a gang of smugglers to enquire about passage to England, so she told him that she’d been advised it was an excellent place to eat, but she could not remember the colour of the cat in question.
The concierge had informed her that there were several inns with the word ‘cat’ in them, but none of the ones he knew of were particularly fine eating establishments, and the three that were in the fisherman’s quarter would not be safe for a young lady to frequent, no matter how fine the cuisine. He had helpfully recommended a number of excellent eating establishments in the direct vicinity of the hotel though, with the result that she was at least possessed of a full stomach as she entered the area he had told her was unsafe, the one she thought Gabriel most likely to be found in.
Three taverns.
She was dressed poorly, in a rough shapeless woollen dress and a shawl which she had wrapped round her head and shoulders against the cold, and to hide her face as much as possible. In her pocket she had a few sols, and in her shoe a couple of livres in case she needed to bribe a tavern keeper.
The first one she came upon was ‘Le Chat Bleu’, as proclaimed by a rusty sign hanging outside. She took a breath, braced herself and went through the door. Although it was only just twilight, the place was doing a good trade and was full of what, by the smell, were indeed fishermen, confirming that she was definitely in the right area, at least.
Not the right inn though, by the looks of it. There was a considerable lull in the conversation as she marched belligerently into the room, scanning it as though looking for a familiar face, which was exactly what she was doing.
“Can I help you?” the landlord asked.
“Yes. If that lazy drunken pig of a husband of mine is here, you can tell him if he isn’t home by the time the clock strikes the hour, he can find another place to sleep tonight.”
“You are not from these parts,” he said, recognising that she had an accent, but not that she was English. All the nights spent listening carefully to Raymond and Rosalie’s accents were hopefully about to pay off.
“No. We came in from Martinique a couple of months ago,” she said. “Thought he could be a great sugar planter, the fool. All he got was swamp fever. Jacques Fernier, about so high,” she raised her hand a few inches above her head, “thin, cross-eyed, ugly bastard. Black hair.” She peered into the corners of the room, frowning.
“I don’t know anyone of that description, Madame Fernier,” the man said, which was not really surprising, as Beth had made it up on the spot. “But if such a man comes in, I’ll tell him what you said.”
Back in the street, she heaved a sigh of relief. Neither the landlord nor any of the customers appeared to doubt either her story or her accent. It was a good start. Unfortunately none of the customers resembled either Gabriel Foley or any of the accomplices she remembered. One down. Of course he might not be in Calais at all. In fact he was more likely to be in England. She had not seen or heard of him in over two years. He might have acquired new associates, stopped smuggling, be in prison, or dead.
She would not think like that. She had all evening. Her story had been believed and could be used in every tavern in Calais, if necessary. If Foley was not to be found, then she would seek another way to cross the Channel. She continued walking around the narrow cobbled streets of the Courgain quarter. Periodically she would enter an inn that had nothing to do with cats, thinking that Foley might have changed his tavern of choice, and that at the least it would give her practice in being an aggrieved wife.
After visiting Le Chat Noir and Le Chat Rouge with no success, her spirits fell. But as she had nothing better to do with her evening than walk round freezing, refuse-littered streets looking for a fictional husband, she decided to make her way back to her room by another way.
She almost missed it. The only reason she didn’t was because as she was walking past the ramshackle building someone struck a light in an upstairs window, causing her to look up and in doing so see the rusty sign stuck to the wall. It was in the shape of a heraldic device, the centre containing a vaguely oval shape which had once been a seated cat. Beth knew that because the tail, curled round the bottom of the oval shape, was distinctly feline. Underneath was painted in faded yellow lettering ‘Le Chat D’Or’.
There was nothing even vaguely golden about either the building or the sign. But then she remembered the unremarkable building in Blackheath where she had last seen Gabriel Foley, and took heart. Lifting the latch of the wooden door, she pushed it open and walked in.
She was greeted by an L-shaped room. To her right was a long wooden table littered with glasses and bottles, flanked by benches, on one of which lay a man, fast asleep and snoring. The other bench held a seated man who seemed to be as comatose as his companion, his head pillowed on his arms on the table. The only illumination came from a couple of candles on the table, which had been pushed into the accumulated wax drippings of many other candles to keep them upright, along with one on the bar, which was on the other side of the table. Directly ahead at the end of the L shape was a wooden staircase, the first few steps of which were visible, the rest shrouded in darkness.
Near the steps were half a dozen men, who stopped whatever they’d been doing to stare at her. This was clearly not a place in which the fictional Jacques Fernier would drink. It was, however, the place in which a beak-nosed man was, the same man who had opened the door to Beth and Maggie in England over two years previously. Beth’s spirits soared, and she walked towards the group of men.
One of them, a youngish man who shared the cross-eyes of the fictitious Jacques, moved forward to intercept her.
“You’re not welcome here, madame,” he said in bad French.
Ignoring him, she addressed the beak-nosed man.
“I need to speak to your leader,” she said in French. “Is he here?” The man took a step forward, but then the cross-eyed man moved, blocking her view of the man she’d spoken to.
“I said, you’re not welcome here,” he repeated in a more threatening tone.
“Yes, I heard you,” Beth replied dismissively. “Please tell your leader that Mrs Abernathy wishes to see him, urgently.”
The beak-nosed man’s gaze drifted to the top of the stairs, and with that she knew that Gabriel Foley was indeed in the building.
“Show your face please, madame,” he asked politely.
Beth unwrapped the shawl from her head, the cross-eyed man gasped with admiration, and the beak-nosed man nodded slightly and took a step toward the stairs.
“What do you want with Mr Foley?” Cross-eyes asked. “Won’t I do, instead?” Beth made to move past him, but he put one hand on her shoulder to stop her, the other reaching down between her legs, grasping a fistful of skirt and cupping round her private parts.
“I ain’t had a woman this week,” he said, his fingers fumbling for better purchase through the thin woollen material. Then he froze as he felt the knife against his neck.
“How unfortunate for you,” Beth said icily in English. “And if you don’t remove both your hands from my person right now, you will never have another woman in your life, which promises to be extremely short. Please tell your leader—” She stopped as in her periphery vision she saw the man who had been leaning over the table moving towards her. Her free hand dipped in her pocket and then as fast as lightning, she threw. There came a squawk of pain and the figure moved out of her sight.
She calculated quickly. She could still hear the man on the bench snoring, and she would hear if anyone else came into the inn. So the only danger was from the man she had just wounded with her second knife. All the other occupants of the room were in sight apart from the beak-nosed man, who had disappeared whilst she was preoccupied with the cross-eyed man and who she assumed had gone upstairs. She palmed her third knife, ready to use it if she had to.
The cross-eyed man had acquiesced to her demand and was no longer touching her. He made to step away from the knife at his throat, but she pressed it up under his chin and he froze again.
“I don’t know how important this man is to you, but if you want him to stay alive, none of you will move,” she said.
“His importance depends on whether he has a good explanation for assaulting a young woman who has come asking to see me, without first finding out whether she was under my protection,” came a deep voice from the top of the stairs. A pair of strong legs encased in fine woollen breeches and cream stockings came into view, followed by the broad chest and thick arms of Gabriel Foley. “Put the knife away, please, Mrs Abernathy.”
Beth removed the blade from the chin of her assailant and replaced it in her pocket.
“Now,” Gabriel said, “do you have a good explanation, Michael?”
“She didn’t mention you by name, Mr Foley!” Michael said. “I didn’t know that she knew you! I just thought she was some whore looking for business!”
Gabriel nodded thoughtfully, and looked to Beth.
“I didn’t use your name, because I didn’t know if it would compromise you in any way to do so,” Beth explained. “I recognised the face of your man there,” she pointed to the beak-nosed man, who had come back down the stairs and resumed his position with the others, “and asked to see his leader, hoping that it would be you. If it hadn’t been, I had a plausible reason ready.”
“I see. So then, Michael, can you explain why, if you thought this lady to be a common whore, you saw fit to divulge my name to her for her to spread around the streets of Calais along with the pox. No disrespect intended, Mrs Abernathy.”
“None taken, sir,” Beth replied, highly amused.
Michael flushed red.
“I…er…I…” he stammered.
“Let me help you,” Gabriel said conversationally. “You seem to have two choices. One: you have no respect for women who ask to see me and may therefore be my friends, and by extension have no respect for me. Two: you think it reasonable to give my name to any random person who walks into the room, therefore risking the arrest and execution of all of us. Which is it?”
There was a ghastly silence, while Michael’s complexion changed from scarlet to white.
“You seem to have lost your tongue,” Gabriel said when the silence seemed set to go on forever. “No matter. I don’t really need an answer.”
Michael started to smile, his face showing utmost relief, and then Gabriel’s right arm moved forward and the smile froze. The young man’s eyes widened and then became glassy as he fell to the ground. Gabriel looked down at him briefly, then bent and wiped his bloody knife on the man’s shirt. He stood up and smiled at Beth, who, with a considerable and hopefully invisible effort of will, smiled back.
“Get rid of him,” he said to the room in general, then gestured to Beth to precede him up the stairs. She walked towards the steps, then turned back to look at the man who had moved behind her, who was holding a reddened cloth over his face.
“Are you badly injured?” she asked. “I’m sorry, but when I saw you move I couldn’t take the chance that you weren’t going to hit me.”
“No,” the man said hurriedly, his voice muffled by the cloth. “It’s only a flesh wound. I’ll be fine.”
She turned back and went up the steps, noticing that Gabriel had paused to exchange a few words with the beak-nosed man before following her.
“Second door on the right,” he said quietly. She opened the door and went in, noting with pleasure that, unlike the main room downstairs, which had been as cold as the street, this room was warmly lit by a brazier burning in one corner. There was a table with two chairs under the window and a mattress with some blankets in another corner. She heard the door close behind her and turned to see Gabriel standing with his back to it, the pistol in his hand pointed at her heart.
“I mean no offence, Mrs Abernathy, but having just heard of your ability with knives, I’d be obliged if you would take yours out of your pocket very slowly and hand it to me,” he said.
Understandable. She obeyed him, and he took it from her. The pistol didn’t move.
“Do you have any more about your person?” he asked. On seeing her hesitate, he spoke again. “I will say now that I mean you no harm, and although I have no idea why you have come to see me, or in fact how you knew I could be found here, I will endeavour to assist you in whatever business you have, within reason. If you are honest with me, I will be with you.”
In a moment, he had accepted two more knives from her, then he invited her to sit down and poured two glasses of brandy, handing one to her before sitting in the vacant chair.
“Before we discuss your reason for being here, may I ask if you intended to kill the man, or merely wound him as you did when you threw the knife?” he asked.
“I intended to warn him not to come any closer by throwing the knife past his nose. But I only saw him from the corner of my eye and had to keep my gaze on Michael, so my aim was inaccurate,” Beth said.
Gabriel whistled softly and admiringly between his teeth.
“Is he badly hurt?” she asked.
“No. You have taken a small slice off his nose, that’s all. Remarkable. You are clearly not a lady to be trifled with, Mrs Abernathy.”
“No more are you, Mr Foley.”
He smiled and raised his glass to hers.
“Now, I assume that you have dyed your hair to that hideous colour because you wish your identity to remain a secret. Firstly, I must ask you the question which concerns me most closely, however, being of a somewhat selfish character. How did you know where to find me?”
“I didn’t, really. A long time ago one of my husband’s friends was trying to contact you. When he came back, unsuccessful, he told me that it was because you were in Calais, and mentioned the name of the tavern you frequented. I was the only person he mentioned it to,” she added. “I thought it of no importance at the time, and when it became of importance I could only remember that the tavern bore the name of some sort of cat. I have spent the evening going to every possible colour of cat inn, hoping to see someone I recognised. I had no idea whether you were even in the country. I just hoped you might be.”
Gabriel nodded.
“So, you are in luck. I am here. What is it you’d like me to assist you with?”
“Before I tell you, can I ask if you have seen Mr Abernathy recently?” she asked. She tried to keep the eagerness from her voice, but his change of expression told her that she hadn’t completely succeeded in doing so.
“I regret to say that the last meeting I had with anyone of your acquaintance was when you yourself came with your cook to warn me. The payment for the arms was made, and since then I have had no dealings with your husband at all.”
“Would you tell me if you had?” she asked.
Gabriel laughed, a rich, deep, infectious laugh.
“If I had, Mrs Abernathy, I would have asked you why you wished to know, but as I haven’t, I can tell you the truth immediately.”
“Then I do wish to ask you for help, sir. I need to travel to England, secretly. I can pay you for your assistance,” she said.
He waved his hand in dismissal, but she didn’t know of what.
“I assume then that you intend to look for your husband. Does he want you to look for him?”
“If he is alive, I’m sure he does,” she said. “I mean to find out if he is alive or dead.”
“And you came to France because you thought him to be here?”
“No.” She hesitated for a minute, thinking of how to tell him enough to make him help her, but not enough to allow him to identify her, and through that, Alex. If you are honest with me, I will be with you.
“I cannot tell you how I come to be in France, only because it might endanger my husband to do so. Let me only say that I am here involuntarily, and that if I can get back to England, I will never contact you in any way again, under any circumstances. And I must tell you before you decide whether or not to help me, that I cannot return openly to England and there is danger to you if I am discovered in your company.”
“That’s more honesty than I expected,” Gabriel said. “It seems not to be in my interest to assist you! However, danger isn’t something that unduly worries me. If it did, I would not be in the line of business I am.”
Beth smiled.
“But the risks you take are calculated,” she said. “So it’s only fair to tell you that there is risk to being discovered helping me, so that you can decide if you wish to.”
“And if I say no, what would you do? Would you abandon your attempt to cross to England?”
“No,” she replied. “I will do whatever I have to to return. I would row across the Channel if I was capable. If you cannot help me, then I will seek another way.”
“Even though it would be very dangerous for you to do so?”
“Danger is not something that unduly worries me, Mr Foley,” she said.
He laughed again.
“In approximately four days,” he said, “weather permitting, a sloop will be going to England. It will contain four hundred casks of very fine French brandy. Or, if you wish, four hundred casks of very fine French brandy, and one cask of Mrs Abernathy. It won’t be very comfortable for you, but I can make sure there is sufficient air for you to breathe, food and drink, and blankets to cushion you from any injury. You will be my personal cask of brandy.
I will be accompanying the sloop, so will make sure that you arrive safely, failing shipwreck or being boarded by the navy, in which case it will be every man or woman for themselves. And as I cannot trust every member of the crew, this being a joint venture as it were, concealing you in a barrel will mean only a very few people will need to know you are aboard at all, which will be safer for you. Do you have accommodation in Calais?”
“Yes,” she said, surprised by the question.
“Good. One of my trusted men will escort you home. Take a couple of days to think about it, if you wish.”
“I have already made my decision,” Beth said. “I will come with you. If I can afford it. What is your price?”
“Do you remember the last time we met?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Well, because of your courage and consideration in riding to warn me, both myself and several of my men are sitting here free, instead of swinging from a noose at Tyburn. You have paid for your voyage in advance, Mrs Abernathy. I only wish it could be more comfortable for you. But it will be better than swimming, at least, especially at this time of year. Keep whatever funds you have to help you in your search for your husband. I truly hope you find him. He is as remarkable a man as you are a woman.”
“I could say the same for you, too, Mr Foley. Thank you,” Beth said.
“You are most welcome. And now that you have an interest in keeping me alive, you may have your knives back. May I trouble you for a demonstration of your throwing skills?”
Beth was only too happy to oblige, with the result that twenty minutes later, while she was being escorted back to her room by the beak-nosed man, Gabriel Foley was standing before a very indifferent oil painting of a bowl of fruit, which now had a slit through the stem of the apple, the very centre of the orange, and the thin blue stripe decorating the earthenware bowl the fruit was in. He shook his head in admiration.
“A shame you’re so devoted to your husband, Mrs Abernathy,” he said softly to himself. “You would make a wonderful Mrs Foley, otherwise.”
Back in her room Beth went to bed, happier than she had been in a long time. She felt a little sorry for Michael, but only a very little, managing to dismiss him from her mind with ease. She lay for a time, planning. Once she landed in England, she would make her way north as quickly as possible, taking the cheapest form of wheeled transport possible, and staying in indifferent inns. The chances of her meeting anyone who knew her were infinitesimal, and as she was believed to be dead there would be no descriptions of her in circulation.
She turned her mind to Paris, wondering how Paul, Elizabeth, Raymond and Rosalie were. Their final farewell had been heartrending, all the more so because they all knew that the likelihood of them ever meeting again was very remote. Beth had given Rosalie the beautiful turquoise dress which she had tried on in Martinique, and which matched the ribbons that had resulted in the scars she carried on her back.
“When you are settled in Paris, I would like you to wear this dress and go to the opera one night, or to a play if you prefer, and think of me, as I will think of you,” Beth had said.
Rosalie had promised faithfully that she would do that, and that she would treasure the dress forever, and one day would tell her children about the wonderful lady who had given her and her father their freedom.
Beth fingered the amulet that she still wore around her neck, and that she would continue to wear, as she had promised Raymond. It had served her well so far. She had not really expected to find Gabriel Foley in Calais; she had only attempted to do so because she had thought the slight chance that he would be there worth the effort of searching.
She had thought that when she left her friends the unbearable loneliness would descend on her again. But even though she had been alone since the coach carrying her had turned the corner on the outskirts of Paris, taking her new friends away from her forever, she was not lonely.
She had a purpose, and while she could actively follow it she would not be lonely. She refused to contemplate how she would feel were she to find out Alex was indeed dead.
Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
Wise words, and ones she intended to follow. She turned over in the narrow bed, and still grasping the amulet in her hand, went to sleep.