The Orchid Affair (26 page)

“Laura? André?” Cécile’s head appeared between the curtains at the back of the wagon. “We’re ready to go. I assume you can drive a wagon.”

André shook himself like a duck shaking off water and turned towards Cécile. “It’s been a few years, but I think I can manage.”

“Wait.” Laura grabbed at his arm, her nails scraping against his sleeve. It was a terrible sound. Wincing, she drew her hand away. “Hadn’t you better, um, take a nap? After your very late night of saying farewell to all your friends in Paris?”

“My very—ah.” He drew back, comprehension settling over his face.

André looked, for a moment, as though he might have liked to demur. It couldn’t, Laura imagined, be very pleasant to be smuggled out of Paris like a vat of wine, passively hiding inside a wagon while someone else did the driving. But there was no denying the validity of her concern. He had spent many years at the Prefecture. It wasn’t beyond the realm of reason that he might be known to the guards at the gates.

“Yes,” he said at last, although there was no mistaking the reluctance of it. “You might be right. I could use the rest.”

“You know how to drive?” Cécile asked Laura.

“I can manage,” she said, echoing André’s own words.

She had driven a dog cart during her governess days, and the odd trap. The mules attached to their wagon didn’t seem like terribly spirited beasts. It couldn’t be that hard to point them down the center of the road and make them go. She had no aspirations of driving to an inch.

She looked from André to Cécile. “If Jeannette can spare them, it might be nice to have the children sit on the box with me. Just until we’re outside of the city.”

She didn’t have to explain what she meant. There was nothing like children to lend an air of innocence to a scene.

“Naturally,” said Cécile blandly. “You wouldn’t want to be separated from your children.” Her head disappeared again between the curtains.

“So that’s what I’ve been reduced to,” André said grimly. “Using my children as shields.”

Laura paused in the act of following Cécile out of the wagon. “Don’t you know they’re glad to?” she said. “They love you, you fool.”

Before he could answer, she bunched up her skirts and followed Cécile out through the curtains.

They might no longer be employer and employee, but it still felt like lèse-majesté, calling him a fool. Even when he was being one.

If she had a family … Well, she hadn’t. Just a pretend one. She shouldn’t let herself forget that.

Outside, the other wagons had been loaded, the mules hitched up. It wasn’t an entirely inspiring sight. En masse, the general shabbiness was even more pronounced than it had been when the vehicles were scattered around the inn yard. Pantaloon sat on the box of one wagon, Harlequin another. Cécile climbed onto the box of the wagon she was to share with Rose, ably claiming the ribbons.

Pierre-André was snuggled next to Jeannette on the bench of the fourth, Gabrielle hunched beside them, cradling a book as another girl might have cuddled a doll.

Laura clapped her hands. “Gabrielle! Pierre-André! Won’t you come up with me?”

Jeannette bristled.

Laura gave her what she hoped was a meaningful look, but probably succeeded only in making herself vaguely cross-eyed.

“Your father is sleeping,” she called, “and I could use the company. If you like,” she added cunningly, “I’ll let you hold the reins.”

Pierre-André wiggled in Jeannette’s hold. With a look at Laura, Jeannette boosted him down off the wagon into Laura’s arms.

“How long?” he demanded.

“That depends on how good a driver you are.” Laura set him down on the ground, taking his hand in hers. The rain had lightened into mist, but his mittens were still damp.

Hot tea, Laura thought. Hot liquid of some kind. Once they were past the gates, she would send him into the wagon, where he would at least be dry, if not warm. The last thing they needed was the children getting an influenza.

Gabrielle wasn’t as easily won as her brother. It took a whispered instruction from Jeannette to make her move, and even then only with the greatest of reluctance. She stalked past Laura, book under her arm, nose in the air, refusing Laura’s offer of a hand to help her up onto the box of the wagon. So much for the hard-won entente of the past few weeks. That faux kiss in the coffee room seemed to have set them back to where they had been in the first week of January.

“This is for your father’s sake,” Laura murmured to Gabrielle as she settled herself down between the two children. “Just until we get him out of the city.”

Gabrielle gave her a withering look. “How would you know what’s good for my father?”

“Because I’m older than you,” Laura replied, slapping the reins. “And because I said so.”

Logic. It worked every time.

The wagons set off in painfully slow procession, mud churning beneath the wheels. It was a dreary sight, the bright paint dulled with wet, the sides of the wagons splattered with dirt. The drivers hunched down over the reins, intent on keeping the rain off their heads as much as possible. There was a reason most troupes traveled only in summer.

Laura checked beneath her shawl, making sure she still had the papers the Pink Carnation had forged for them. They crackled reassuringly in their greased paper wrappings, the seals thick and official-looking. Whatever forgers the Pink Carnation used, they were the very best of their kind. To Laura’s eye, their papers, hastily made though they were, had seemed quite convincingly official.

Hopefully, the guards at the gates would feel the same way.

The cavalcade slowed to a halt as the first wagon paused at the gates. A guard, his cloak pulled up high around his neck, his hat pulled down low, came out to inspect Pantaloon’s papers. Daubier sat beside him on the box, huddled into his coat, his mangled hand hidden within his sleeve.

For this, at least, Laura blessed the rain, which did more than any disguise to render men anonymous. There was nothing the least bit curious about a man pulling his hat down over his head or wrapping himself up in a cloak, not when the rain was dripping down and all honest men yearned for nothing more than to be inside and out of the wet.

The guard gave a perfunctory look at the papers and handed them back to Pantaloon. Thank God. She hadn’t prayed in years, but Laura found herself breathing out thanks as the first wagon passed beyond the gates, the first step to safety. There was still a long way to go, but to be out of Paris meant that they had the whole of the countryside in which to hide, a million anonymous fields and unknown back roads.

Harlequin’s wagon approached next, pausing for a moment as the actor exchanged quips with the guard. To Laura’s eyes, de Berry’s ruddy countenance was unmistakably Bourbon—but it had been more than eleven years since a Bourbon had been last seen in Paris. Likenesses on medals seldom approximated the reality.

De Berry was through, then Cécile, then Jeannette.

“Wardrobe mistress,” Laura heard Jeannette say as she waved her knitting at the guard. Only Jeannette could contrive to knit and handle two mules at the same time. The guard eyed the yarn askance but let her through.

Laura edged her mules gently up to the gate. She was holding Pierre-André too tightly. He wiggled impatiently, making her fuddle one of the reins.

“Papers?” the guard said in a bored way.

Laura fished them out from beneath her shawl, fumbling with the wax-paper wrappings. “Here,” she said, sounding more breathless than she would have liked. “For me and my family.”

The guard shuffled through, looking once at Gabrielle, once at Pierre-André, matching names with faces.

“The children are yours?”

Laura put an arm around Pierre-André on one side and Gabrielle on the other. The little girl’s shoulders were stiff beneath her arm. She prayed Gabrielle wouldn’t choose this moment to act up. “Yes. My stepchildren.”

Come on, come on, come on
, thought Laura. The other wagons were well ahead, pulling away down the road. They had gone through one after the other, with scarcely a pause.

She held out her hand for the papers, but the guard didn’t seem in any hurry to hand them back over. He was frowning at the paper on the bottom.

“There are four passports here,” he said abruptly. “But only three of you. Where is the fourth?”

Chapter 25

“
I
nside.” Laura looked away. “I’m afraid he’s—well, he celebrated our departure a bit vigorously last night. If you know what I mean.”

The soldier weighed her words. “Sleeping it off, is he?”

“I could wake him if you like.” Laura cast a nervous glance back at the wagon. “If you really need me to …”

Gabrielle wrenched away from her. “No!”

“No?” Laura echoed weakly. “Dearest, these are officers of the state. If they want …”

“No!” Gabrielle repeated in a fierce whisper. She glowered at Laura. “You know what he’s like when he’s been—when he’s—”

“You know he doesn’t mean it,” Laura said pleadingly. “It’s just that his head hurts so and you do make such noise.” She turned back to the soldier. “It is, as you see, a very small wagon, Monsieur, and on rainy days, when the children are cooped inside …”

“Heavy with his hands, is he?” The soldier looked at Gabrielle, his expression grim. Gabrielle huddled into her seat, looking sullen. Laura couldn’t tell whether it was part of her act or just reverting to form. “I have a little girl just about your age. What’s your name?”

“Arielle,” Gabrielle lied glibly.

Given that the name on her passport was still Gabrielle, the lie might not have been the most expedient tactic, but the guard didn’t seem to take it amiss.

“Unusual name,” commented the guard, winking at Laura.

Gabrielle straightened self-importantly. “Maman took it out of a play. It’s the name of a sprite who flits from flower to flower.”

“Never heard of that one. Here.” Digging in his pocket, the soldier fished out a coin. He held it out to Gabrielle. “Buy yourself a sweet.”

Gabrielle looked to Laura, who nodded her permission for her to take it.

“You are very kind, Monsieur,” Laura said, and meant it. It was nice to remember, from time to time, that the servants of the Republic weren’t all crazed maniacs on the order of Delaroche. Most of them were ordinary people, doing their jobs, trying to stay out of the rain, going home to their families at night.

“Do you have a little boy, too?” Pierre-André asked hopefully.

“Pierre! Really.” The tone of fond exasperation came out naturally, as if they were the family they pretended to be. Laura shook her head at him. “Your sister will share, won’t you, Arielle? Now, I want you both to thank the nice man.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” said Gabrielle in a singsong. “You are very kind.”

Laura poked Pierre-André. “And what do you have to say?”

“Thank you,” he muttered, hanging his head.

Gabrielle was acting; Pierre-André wasn’t. The boy was a natural at being himself.

The guard chuckled, reaching out a hand to tousle Pierre-André’s hair. It was the cowlick, Laura thought wildly. No one could resist that cowlick.

“Sorry to have disturbed you, Madame.” He jerked a finger towards the wagon. “I hope he isn’t too …”

Laura made a wry face, adult to adult. “So do I.” On an impulse, she said, “Monsieur? Forgive my impertinence, but why did you stop us? We’ve never had trouble at the gates before. If it’s that matter with the Comédie-Française … We didn’t mean to use one of their plots. They did agree in the end that it was an accident.”

The soldier grinned at her. “Stuffy bastards, aren’t they? No, no, it’s nothing to do with the theatre. There’s a dangerous man escaped from the Temple and another man with him.”

“Dangerous?” asked Laura, gathering her children closer to her. Gabrielle gave an exaggerated shiver, her eyes wide.

“Not that kind of dangerous,” the guard said kindly. “You don’t have anything to fear. But they’re having us search every carriage until we find them.”

“Even theatre troupes?” Laura grimaced comically.

“Even theatre troupes.” The soldier laughed with her at the absurdity of it. If Laura’s laughter was a little strained, he didn’t seem to notice. “Ah, well. Can’t be too careful.”

“It must be a bit tiresome,” said Laura sympathetically.

“That’s the word for it,” the soldier agreed. “The traffic on the road isn’t what it would be in summer, but it’s still enough to keep us hopping. You’d be amazed how many carts go through this gate every day.”

“At this point,” said Laura honestly, “I doubt anything could amaze me.”

Turning to the children, the soldier wagged a finger at them. “You be good and don’t give your mother any trouble. Madame.”

He handed her back their papers and waved them through.

Laura slapped the reins, setting the mules back into motion. Very slow motion. Theirs were not beasts that believed in bestirring themselves. It was probably for the best. A precipitate departure might have caused suspicion. She thought about André, in the back, listening and stewing. There was no noise from the body of the wagon. Either André had really gone to sleep or he was exerting extreme self-discipline.

It would take a great deal of self-discipline to perpetrate a deception such as he had for as long as he had.

How long had it been? In the rush of arranging their departure, there had been little time to speculate. She wondered just when Jaouen had made the switch from Revolutionary functionary to Royalist agent and whether it had had anything to do with his decision to leave his children behind in Nantes for so long.

Once they were out of earshot of the town walls, Laura turned to Gabrielle and said quietly, “That was beautifully done. Thank you.”

Gabrielle scooted to the far side of the bench. Now that the immediate danger was done, their truce was over. “I wasn’t going to let them hurt Papa.”

Translation: Don’t think I did this for
you
.

Still, Laura believed in credit where it was due. “Not everyone would have that sort of ingenuity. You saved us a great deal of bother.”

And probably more than bother, but there was no point in scaring the girl by saying so. Gabrielle was a bright girl; she must have a fairly good idea by now of what they were up against.

Gabrielle eyed her suspiciously, searching for the catch.

Sighing, Laura twisted on the hard seat, looking down at Gabrielle. “I know you don’t like this. I don’t particularly like it either.”

Gabrielle mumbled something.

Laura carried resolutely on. “We’re saddled with each other, whether we like it or not. Your father needs both of us—”

That had been the wrong thing to say. Gabrielle’s eyebrows were doing their best storm-cloud impersonation.

“Your father needs both of us to work together,” Laura corrected herself hastily. “Your brother is too young to fully comprehend the dangers—”

“I’m not young! I’m four and three quarters!” piped up Pierre-André.

Laura raised her eyebrows at Gabrielle. “My point. But you’re not. You understand the danger we’re all in. It will take us a month to reach the coast. Once in England, you can be well rid of me. For that month, though, we need to pretend to be a family. A reasonably happy family.”

Gabrielle considered.

Laura pressed her advantage. “I’m not your governess anymore. Whatever we tell the others, we both know that I’m not really your mother or even your stepmother. I have no claims on either your obedience or your affection. All I can ask is for your assistance. Not for my sake. For your family’s.”

Gabrielle toyed with the pages of her book. It was a nervous habit, Laura had noticed, as other girls might play with their hair or fiddle with a ring. She looked challengingly at Laura. “Why are
you
helping us?”

“Because I adore traveling through the countryside in the rain.”

Gabrielle’s face closed in on itself again. She shrugged down into her own wrap, her face sullen.

Laura could have kicked herself.

The girl was right, that hadn’t been fair. If she expected Gabrielle to deal honestly with her, she had to deal honestly with Gabrielle. As honestly as she could, at any rate. She couldn’t very well tell the girl that she was accompanying them because she had been ordered to do so by an English spy named after a particularly frivolous sort of flower.

“I owe you a duty,” Laura said slowly. She could feel Gabrielle slowly looking at her, a bunched-up figure in the corner of the bench. Laura looked straight ahead, out over the road. “When I agreed to take on your education, I contracted an obligation to you. I don’t believe in leaving tasks undone.”

That much was true, at least.

“I thought you said you weren’t our governess anymore.” Gabrielle’s voice was defiant, but there was a tinge of hesitation in it.

“Not officially,” hedged Laura. Blast clever children. She decided to try another tactic. “To be honest, I mostly came for Monsieur Daubier. He was a friend of my parents’ when I was your age.”

Gabrielle cast her a quick, surprised glance.

“Yes, I did have parents once,” said Laura dryly, and the little girl flushed and dropped her head. “Monsieur Daubier was always kind to me. It seemed only right to do something kind for him.”

Not only was the sentiment mawkish, it was as riddled with potential inconsistencies as old cheese. Fortunately, Gabrielle’s attention was elsewhere.

“What happened to your parents?” she asked awkwardly. Laura didn’t miss the telling glance she sent over her shoulder, at the inside of the wagon.

“They went sailing in a storm,” said Laura matter-of-factly. “The boat capsized.”

“Oh,” said Gabrielle. Laura could see her processing the information. She looked at Laura, almost belligerently. “My mother died of a fever.”

“It doesn’t matter how it happens, does it?” said Laura. “It hurts either way.”

Gabrielle didn’t answer, but her chin moved just the tiniest fraction of an inch. Laura took that as a yes.

Behind them, the curtains blocking off the body of the wagon rustled. André Jaouen’s head appeared through the gaudy hangings. Beneath his spectacles, his eyes were the same bright blue-green as his daughter’s. There was something else there too, a self-containment that they both shared.

“Feeling better, darling?” Laura asked flippantly.

André gave her a wry look. “Aside from the hangover I presume I’m meant to be suffering.”

“That’s what you get for being a dangerous, drunken beast.”

“I take it we’re clear?”

“Thanks to Gabrielle,” said Laura, moving over to make room on the seat between herself and his daughter. “She very cunningly saved the day.”

André clambered over onto the box, dropping into place next to Gabrielle. He placed his hand to his daughter’s head in a fleeting gesture of affection. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”

He missed the look on Gabrielle’s face, but Laura didn’t. She was watching her father like a puppy left outside someone’s back door, hoping to be petted but afraid to ask.

Oblivious, André turned to Laura and held out his other hand. “Give me a crack at those reins, will you? Let’s see if I still remember how to drive.”

Taking the reins made André feel slightly less useless.

Slightly.

He had lain on the pallet in the back of the wagon, his hat tipped over his head, racked with the realization of his own incapacity. He wanted to be up there on the box, deflecting the guard, making everything right.

Instead, he was flat on his back, pretending to be in a drunken stupor while his nine-year-old daughter pulled his fat out of the fire. Oh, André knew it was the expedient course, but it rankled almost beyond bearing to know that the only way to ensure the safety of his family was to refrain from doing anything at all. Inaction was a great deal harder than action.

Some might say he had done enough already.

André looked at his son, half-asleep on the other side of his former governess. He was idly sucking his thumb, a habit André vaguely remembered from his babyhood. Julie had said it would spoil his mouth and put vinegar on his thumb.

On his other side, despite the jostling of the wagon, Gabrielle’s head was bent over the open pages of a book. Every time the cart hit a rut, she clutched with one hand at the side of the wagon, never looking up. André put an arm around her shoulders, anchoring her. She shifted, uncomfortable, and he took his arm away again.

The wagons attracted a fair amount of attention as they traveled through the countryside, but none of the sort André had feared. Adults catcalled, children pointed and sometimes ran after them for a bit. But there was no pounding of hooves behind them, no shouting gendarmes, no cavalcade of soldiers.

The rain slowed their pace. The mud sucked at the mules’ hooves and tugged at the wheels of the wagons. Jeannette drove hers with the same grim competence with which she plowed through her knitting. Pantaloon, deep in a daydream of his own devising, nearly ran his wagon into a ditch and had to be rescued by Harlequin, Leandro, and de Berry all tugging together. It was a sight for the history books, that one, a prince of the blood putting his back into extracting a battered theatre wagon from a ditch on an unnamed road.

On the box next to him, Laura didn’t fidget—she wasn’t the fidgeting kind—but he caught her craning her neck, staring down the road behind them.

“Waiting for the cavalry?” asked André quietly.