Authors: Mary Nichols
Philip, at that moment, was cursing the rough weather that
had delayed his crossing. His ride to Hartlea and back had made him late into
the camp and the prisoners had already escaped. He had gone after them, but had
wasted time trying to discover the name of the vessel they had boarded; by the
time he had the information, it had already sailed.
He had
requisitioned a cutter in the name of the War Department and set off after
them. The last time he had been in France a month before, he had almost been
caught and he knew he was risking life and limb to return there, but that was
no consideration now. He had a legitimate reason for going; Lord Martindale had
asked him to find Clavier's British contact and, if his information was correct,
the man was on that boat. But that task dwindled into unimportance beside the
overwhelming need to find Juliette. Was she still with Pierre Veillard, or had
he handed her over to his bloodthirsty companions? His blood ran cold at the
thought. Would they stay in Calais long enough for him to catch up with them or
move on immediately? But where? Oh, where was his darling? That he loved her
had never been in question. Whether she loved him was more debatable, but he
would not rest until he found her.
He paced the
deck in a fever of frustrated impatience, his imagination painting lurid
pictures of the fate that might befall her. Instead, he forced himself to think
of the pleasure of their reunion, when he would, once again, hold her in his
arms, when he could tell her of his love. But before that could happen there
were other matters to resolve, not least the question of Le Merle and his
informant, because they were all bound up together.
It was no good sighing for what might have been, Juliette
scolded herself, as they journeyed through France, using several modes of
transport, all of them exceedingly uncomfortable and furtive and matched only
in unpleasantness by the inns and taverns in which they lodged.
And though she
cried herself to sleep each night in the privacy of her room, she faced each
new day with stoic determination to put the past behind her and make what she
could of her future. One day James would take her back to England as his wife
but, judging by the danger of travelling in enemy France, that might not be
until the war ended. She was surprised to discover he spoke very good French,
better than she did, and he had some official-looking papers that ensured their
safe conduct, but not their comfort. She was filthy, verminous and exhausted by
the time they arrived at Hautvigne in the last of a succession of hired
conveyances, a dilapidated one-horse carriage with no springs.
The chateau sat
on a hill just above the town, surrounded by what had once been a prosperous
vineyard. Now it was neglected and overgrown. The vines still producing fruit
had not been tended and the grapes were small and rotting. The building itself
was made of mellow stone and beautifully proportioned, with a tall round tower
at each of its four corners, though many of its hundreds of windows were broken
and the great oak door, at the top of a sweep of steps, was damaged as if it
had been attacked by a battering ram. It was nothing like the splendid picture
Pierre had painted. She turned and surveyed the grounds surrounding the house.
The gardens had once been well laid out, but were now a tangle of creepers,
overgrown shrubs and long grass, though she could see that one corner had been
cultivated recently for there were rows of cabbages and potatoes.
James ran up
the steps and hammered on the door. The sound reverberated through the house,
but no one came. Juliette joined him as he pushed open the door and together
they stepped inside. They were in a vestibule with a marble-tiled floor and a
vaulted roof. A magnificent wrought-iron staircase curved up to a first-floor
gallery. The walls were bare, but they could see by the darker patches that
they had once been hung with tapestries or pictures. Half a dozen rooms led from
the vestibule, some of which had lost their doors.
`Anyone here?'
James called. 'Is anyone at home?'
He moved
forward into a salon, followed by Juliette. It was an elegant room with a high
plaster ceiling intricately carved, and long casement windows that looked out
over the terraces of vines to the valley below, where nestled a group of
houses, two churches and the town hall. The road by which they had travelled
could be seen at intervals as it wound its way down to the valley floor and
then alongside the river, to disappear behind an outcrop of rock two or three
miles away. The chateau, Juliette realised, was very strategically placed to
command a view of the surrounding countryside. If there was anyone in or near
the building, they must have seen them arriving.
She turned back
to survey the room. There was a threadbare rug on the floor, a battered sofa, a
couple of chairs, a cabinet and a table, miserly furnishings for a room at
least fifty feet square. She went back to the hall and in at the next door. It
must have been the library for it was lined with shelves, but all were empty.
Other rooms were equally sparsely furnished
`So, this is my
inheritance,' she said with a wry smile, as they returned to the vestibule.
'Hardly worth the journey, was it? We would have done better to have turned
back at Calais.'
A noise made
them spin round. An old man had appeared from the gloom at the back of the
stairs and stood facing them with a musket of immense length. 'Who are you?
What do you want?'
`This,' said
James, indicating Juliette, 'is Countess Juliette de Caronne.'
`Never heard of
her.'
`Oh, I am sure
you have,' James went on pleasantly. `You are old enough to remember the comte
and comtesse who were guillotined in '94. This was their home, as you must
know. Their son died on the same day, but their daughter...' He paused. 'Their
daughter survived, and she has come home.'
The old man
stared at Juliette for a long time and then burst into a cackling laugh that
echoed round the empty hall. `Oh, that's a fine one, that is. The best yet. Do
you think I am a fool?'
`No, but it
would help to know who you are.'
`Me? I am Henri
Caronne, cousin to the late comte and I would surely know if this one was his
daughter.' He indicated Juliette with the barrel of the muzzle, making her step
back in alarm.
`Would you? How
close were you to the family? It is my guess, knowing how unpopular your kin
were with the regime, you kept your distance. It is how you survived.'
The old man
yelled over his shoulder, 'Jean! Anne-Marie! Come and see what the wind has
blown in.'
A man and a
woman appeared from behind him. They were in their forties and roughly dressed.
The man was almost bald and had a rough stubble on his chin, but the woman's
hair, beneath the grimy cap she wore, was pale gold, rather like Juliette's, or
would have been if it had been clean and brushed. And her eyes, beneath fine
winged brows, were clear blue. If Juliette had had any doubt about her identity
before, it vanished now.
The younger man
peered at the newcomers. 'Who are they?'
`The wench
claims to be Juliette Caronne, daughter of the late comte, no less, with her
head back on her shoulders and near twenty years older. As for him...' He
indicated James and shrugged his shoulders 'Perhaps he thinks he is Antoine.'
And he cackled with laughter again.
`No, he is
nothing like him,' the woman said. 'But the girl, there is something about
her...'
`Superficial,
that's all. You don't think I am going to take their word for it, do you? Why,
she cannot even speak French properly.'
`That is
because she was taken out of the country as an infant,' James put in quickly
before Juliette could answer, though she had no wish to. Over the last two
weeks, she had become almost numb to sensation, either of pleasure or pain,
fear or irritation. If thinking and feeling hurt, then it was better not to
think or feel. Like a puppet, she allowed James to dictate her movements, to
speak for her. `She was saved from the guillotine and brought up by foster
parents. She has only recently discovered who she is.'
He had been
carrying Juliette's bag and delved into it to produce the copy of the portrait
that he had had the foresight to buy from Pierre with a fistful of gold coins.
`Look at this. The artist was a French prisoner-of-war and recognised her.'
The older man
took it and peered at it short-sightedly. `It is the old lady, the comte's
mother. I have seen a portrait exactly like it.'
`Whoever
painted this could have copied it,' Jean said.
`If you were to
compare it with the original, you would notice the difference,' James said,
while Juliette stood looking from one to the other, wishing she had never come;
here was no welcome. Pierre had been wrong about that. 'The portrait you have
in your hand is not of the old comtesse, but of the young lady standing before
you now. It was painted this year in England, not Paris. See, it is signed and
dated.'
`So what does
that prove?' Jean demanded.
`She was - is -
one of the innocents, an orphan of the Terror.' He turned to Juliette. 'Show
them the ruby, my dear. Maybe that will convince them.'
Juliette
hesitated, but they were all looking at her, waiting expectantly, and so she
fetched out the jewel from the pocket round her waist, holding it on the palm
of her hand, where it winked wine-dark in the gloom of the hall.
`Where did you
get this?' the old man asked, reaching out for it.
Juliette closed
her hand over it. 'I have always had it.'
`The rest,' he
demanded. 'Where is the rest of it?'
`Shut up, old
man, and put the gun away,' Jean said.
James gave a
grin of triumph. 'I was right. You moved in and denuded the house, sold all the
good furniture, the paintings, the ornaments, everything you could find, but
you have not found the real treasure, have you?'
`Oh, so you
have been listening to gossip, have you? That story is a fabrication, a myth,
invented by the old servants. There is nothing here or we would have found it.
Go back where you came from before we hand you over to the authorities. You
have the look of an Englishman. Too much the aristocrat to be a citizen of
France.' He stepped forward and fingered James's coat. `And I have not seen
woollen cloth like that since the war began.'
James laughed.
'Not all Englishmen are enemies of France. I would hardly have travelled so far
into the country without being stopped and imprisoned, if that were the case.
We have been asked for papers at every town we passed through and nowhere were
we so much as delayed by a minute. The countess will tell you that. Here, look
for yourself.' He reached into his inner pocket, making the old man raise the
musket again, but James ignored him and drew out a sheaf of papers. Juliette
had seen them before. He had used them time and time again on their journey
through France.
Jean examined
them and laughed. 'So you have a letter signed by the Emperor himself. What
does that prove?'
`It proves that
I am not lying to you. The letter states quite plainly that I am to be given
every assistance. I have orders to take over this chateau in the name of the
young Comtesse de Caronne. His Majesty is desirous of seeing the lady
reinstated here and the chateau restored. You may stay only if you wish to
serve her.'
He was an
accomplished liar, Juliette realised, and a forger too, for there was no way he
could have obtained genuine papers. Her three relatives had already lost their
bombastic attitude and were cringing slightly.
`Now, if you do
not mind, we are both weary and need refreshment,' James said. 'Later we will
talk of it.'
`Yes,
monsieur,' Jean said, suddenly becoming affable. `Anne-Marie, make a room
ready.'
`Two rooms,'
Juliette put in quickly.
`The two large
rooms at the front,' Jean went on,
addressing his
wife. And then to Juliette, 'By the time you have washed and changed,
refreshments will be ready.'
Suddenly all
was bustle and eagerness as Jean yelled for someone called Gerard, Henri
returned to the kitchen and Anne-Marie disappeared up the stairs. Another old
man, even more bent and gnarled than Henri, plodded in at the front door, not
even bothering to wipe the mud from his boots.
`Gerard, we
have guests,' Jean shouted as the old fellow cupped a hand round his ear.
'Bring in the luggage and see to the horse and then wring the neck of one of
the hens.' All of this was reinforced by descriptive hand signals, for the
benefit of the deaf man.
The ruby and
the prospect of finding more jewels had ensured their welcome, but Juliette was
under no illusions; heaven help them when her relatives found out that she had
no more.
Not that James
seemed perturbed; he was exhibiting remarkable coolness, when all she wanted
was to turn tail and run. If it had been Pierre, they would have been relieved
of the gem and thrown out on their ears long before now. But how long could
they keep it up? How long did James intend to stay?
When they were
shown to their rooms, she took the opportunity to question him. He was
maddeningly unforthcoming but she did learn that he was calling himself James
Stewart because he was pretending to represent rebellious factions in Scotland
who were hoping to revive the French-Scots connection, though what that had to
do with the Caronnes and Hautvigne she did not know. He surely did not believe
there was treasure hidden about the château?