“There was never any question in my mind which path you would choose.” Matthew gave his son a fond, proud look. “You did your duty as a physician and helped others. That’s all you’ve ever done.”
Morning Chronicle, London
24 October 1793
page 2
The execution took place on Wednesday the 16th.
. . .
Nothing like sorrow or pity for the Queen’s fate was shewn by the people, who lined the streets, through which she had to pass. On her arrival at the Place de la Revolution, she was helped out of the carriage and ascended the scaffold with seeming composure. She was accompanied by a Priest, who discharged the office of Confessor. She was in a half-mourning dress, evidently not adjusted with much attention. Her hands being tied behind her, she looked around, without terror; her body being then bent forward by the machine, the axe was let down, and at once separated the head from the body. After the head was displayed by the Executioner, three young women were observed dipping their handkerchiefs in the streaming blood of the deceased Queen.
30
Duty
OCTOBER 1793–DECEMBER 1799
Marcus had lived in England for years and had gotten used to searching through newspapers for news from abroad. The first page was always dominated by playbills, advertisements for medical cures, real estate notices, and the sales of lottery tickets. News from America was usually on page three. Marat’s assassination back in July had warranted mention only on page two.
Still, he was surprised to find the story of the trial and execution of Queen Marie Antoinette relegated to the same spot that Marat had once occupied on the second page, the two of them becoming strange bedfellows in death.
“They executed the queen,” Marcus told Fanny quietly. It had become part of their morning routine to sit together and drink coffee and read the papers. “They called her a vampire.”
Fanny looked up from her copy of The Lady’s Magazine.
“Not in so many words,” Marcus hastened to add. “Marie Antoinette, widow of Louis Capet, has, since her abode in France, been the scourge and the blood-sucker of the French.”
“Widow Capet.” Fanny sighed. “How has France come to this?”
Every bit of news coming from France told a fresh horror story of death, terror, and betrayal. Philippe and Ysabeau had fled Paris months ago, taking refuge at the family château, Sept-Tours. They did so to avoid the mounting violence. The Jacobins pledged to give a guillotine mounted on a wagon to each regiment of the army so that they could execute aristocrats as they progressed across France.
“Do not worry. The family has weathered worse storms within these walls,” Ysabeau had written to him in one of the last letters he had received from his grandmother. “No doubt we will survive this, too.”
But it was not just his grandparents who were in danger. So, too, were Lafayette and his family. The marquis was a prisoner in Austria, his wife and children under house arrest in the countryside. Thomas Paine was back in Paris, and stood against Robespierre and the other radicals in the National Convention.
And there was Veronique, about whom Marcus could discover nothing.
“We should go back,” Marcus said to Fanny over the wide expanse of mahogany that dominated the dining room at Pickering Place.
“Far doesn’t want us back,” Fanny observed.
“I need to know Veronique is safe,” Marcus said. “It’s as though she has utterly disappeared.”
“That is how vampires survive, Marcus,” Fanny said. “We appear, we disappear, we transform ourselves into something else, and then we emerge, phoenixlike, from the ashes of our former lives.”
John Russell burst into the room. He was wearing an extraordinary buff leather coat he’d bought from a trader in Canada, decorated with brightly dyed porcupine quills and glass beads. It almost covered his long, gaitered linen trousers, which marked him as a man who had utterly abandoned decency and tradition.
“Did you hear? They’ve killed that Austrian girl after all. I knew they would, in the end,” John said, flourishing a newspaper of his own. He paused a moment and took in his surroundings. “Good morning, Fanny.”
“Do sit, John. Have some coffee.” Fanny gestured across the table’s gleaming surface. Since Marcus left Edinburgh and returned to London a proper doctor, she had become the de facto lady of the house on Pickering Place, hosting card parties and receiving visitors in the afternoon.
“Much obliged.” John dropped a familiar kiss on her cheek as he went past, and tugged gently on a flaxen strand that had escaped from the intricate pile on her head.
“Flirt,” Fanny said, returning to her reading.
“Hoyden,” John said fondly. He took one look at Marcus and knew something was wrong. “Still no word from Veronique.”
“None.” Every day Marcus expected a letter to come. When it didn’t, Marcus searched the newspaper for a notice of her death, and took solace that he didn’t find it—even though the fate of such a woman would not be newsworthy to anyone but him.
“Veronique has survived plague, famine, war, massacres, and the unwanted attention of men,” Fanny said. “She will survive Robespierre.”
Marcus had been enmeshed in revolution before, and knew the course of liberty could take sudden, disastrous turns. In France, the situation was made more complicated as vain and self-important men like Danton and Robespierre fought over the soul of the nation.
“I’m going out,” Marcus said. He drank the last of his coffee. “You coming, John?”
“Hunting or business?” Russell asked, hedging his bets.
“Bit of both,” Marcus replied.
* * *
—
MARCUS AND JOHN HEADED EAST from London’s fashionable residential neighborhoods, through the bordellos and theaters of Covent Garden, and into the twisting thoroughfares of the ancient City of London.
When they reached Ludgate, Marcus rapped on the carriage roof to remind the driver to pay the toll to the lame beggar who was there at all hours of the day and night. The ruler of this part of London insisted that all creatures entering the square mile of his territory pay tribute in order to have safe passage. Marcus had never clapped eyes on the man, who was known as Father Hubbard and seemed to occupy a place in the civic imagination that was roughly akin to that of Gog and Magog, the ancient giants who guarded London from her enemies.
Their tribute paid, Marcus and John got stuck in traffic (one of the chief hazards of London life) and proceeded on foot to Sweetings Alley. It was narrow and dank and smelled like a piss pot. They found Baldwin in New Jonathan’s, trading futures and cashing in his chits with the rest of the stockjobbers and bankers.
“Baldwin.” Marcus took off his hat. He had stopped bowing, but when faced with one of the elder de Clermonts, it was impossible for him not to make some sign of respect.
“There you are. What kept you?” his uncle replied.
Baldwin Montclair was the last surviving full-blooded son of Philippe de Clermont. He was ginger-headed, with a temper to match, and underneath his forest-green stockbroker’s suit he had the muscular, athletic body of a soldier. Whether marching across Europe or marching across bank accounts, Baldwin was a formidable opponent. Fanny had warned Marcus never to underestimate his uncle—and he had no intention of ignoring this piece of advice.
“Always a pleasure to see you, Baldwin,” John said, his voice dripping with insincerity.
Baldwin looked John over from the tip of his fur-trimmed cap to the heels of his boots and made no reply. He returned his attention to his table, which was covered with empty wine jugs, inkpots, account books, and scraps of paper.
“We’ve heard about the queen’s execution,” Marcus said in an effort to capture his uncle’s attention. “Do you have any more news from France?”
“No,” Baldwin said shortly. “You must focus on the work to be done here. The brotherhood’s estates in Hertfordshire are in need of attention. There are two probate cases to settle, and the surveys are years out of date. You will go at once, and see to them.”
“I don’t understand why Philippe bothered to send me to Edinburgh to study medicine,” Marcus grumbled. “All I do is write reports and draw up writs and affidavits.”