Authors: Rob Griffith
I was twelve when Britain first declared war on the Revolutionaries in France. It had stumbled on for nearly a decade before I became actively, if reluctantly, involved and the mass conscript armies of revolutionary France had swept all opposition aside. They marched on a diet of garlic, wine and victory over most of the Italian states, Switzerland, the Low Countries and Egypt. Britain stood alone, as did I.
My father was Lord Marsden, a landowner of some note. You might assume then that my mother was Lady Marsden. Well, you’d be wrong. Many people have called me a bastard and I haven’t been able to argue the point with them. My mother was Georgina Blackthorne, only child of a Navy Lieutenant and a draper’s daughter. She was beautiful and my father fell for her at a fireworks extravaganza at Vauxhall Gardens. Their liaison, like the fireworks, was brief, colourful and explosive. They were both young and very much in love but my father didn’t have the courage to marry against his family’s expectations of a match involving either money or social station, preferably both. My mother had neither. When she became pregnant he set her up in a house and visited erratically and desperately, like an opium addict trying to give up. Eventually his family decided he should get an heir. When he said his last goodbye to my mother she was pregnant with my sister Lucy, and I was barely a year old. He did his duty and married a Duke’s daughter with both wealth and position. Of course, my mother was provided for financially but she was never truly happy again. She tried for Lucy and me, and did give us a happy childhood. We had sufficient, but the shadow of what might have been darkened her heart and, in time, ours too. She died from a fever when I was eighteen.
I was already known in some of the taverns and clubs of London and after my mother’s death I relished in squandering the annuity that my father still paid, dutiful as ever. In the end my creditors became anxious for their money and a beating behind a pub in Smithfield compelled me to go to my father for help. Believe me, I tried every other source of money I could first but I was only one step away from the Fleet prison. My father’s condition was simple. He would clear my debts as long as I joined either the Army or the Navy. I chose the Army. It wasn’t his fault, he thought he was doing me a good turn.
When I first heard the French drums peace was already being discussed. By the time I came back from Egypt negotiations were under way and all the blood that had soaked into the desert sands had been spilled for no reason that I could see. The thought of yet more years of war soured my stomach. I knew one thing for sure; I would be sitting this one out. The politicians could send men to die wherever they wished but I would not be going with them.
I didn’t blame Henri for not helping me more, he was a man of commerce after all, but now this café was my last hope of getting out of Paris. The city gates would all be guarded and despite living in Paris for nearly a year I couldn’t call anyone in the city a friend. I opened my watch again, then closed it with a snap and put it back in my pocket. The rain began to clear the streets and I became more obvious as the crowds thinned. Time to go. There was little enough to lose anyway.
I walked across the muddy street, dodging two barefoot boys chasing each other. One of them brushed past me and I checked my pockets just in case. My empty purse, watch and that damned packet of papers were all still present and correct. I hesitated with my hand on the brass doorknob of the café, took a deep breath and went in.
The café was busy, noisy and welcoming; the bitter smell of tobacco fighting with the coffee, fresh bread and the sweeter smells of chocolate and pastries. The décor was uncomplicated; powder blue walls, stained floorboards, simple wooden tables and the occasional vase or picture that had once been in a palace and whose owners had probably fallen on hard times. It was typical of the restaurants and cafés opened by the now redundant cooks of the aristocracy.
I sat at a table as far from the entrance as I could, near to the kitchens. Everyone else was deep in conversation, the few who were alone read pamphlets or papers, keeping their eyes down. Another man entered a minute or so after me and sat in the corner and glanced around a couple of times but he was soon more interested in his bread and cheese. He looked as though he spent a long time in cafés and enjoyed his food. The waitress was either tired or just rude and when I asked her for a mocha and a couple of brioche she rolled her eyes as though I had asked her for the moon then walked away muttering under her breath. As I waited I tried to look for the person that I was supposed to meet, La Rose. He, or possibly she, could have been anyone. No one looked back at me.
The waitress returned with my much needed victuals and after the mocha and one and a half brioche I had garnered the courage to go to the counter and ask for La Rose. The sullen girl who had served me pointed to a table near the fireplace. A young lady sat there, smartly dressed and a good deal prettier than the waitress. She was wearing a sapphire blue dress and reading a small book with a green leather cover but kept looking around the room, a little too casually. One finger coiled locks of her chestnut hair behind her ear.
She stood when she saw the waitress pointing in her direction and came over. She was taller than most men like their women; in her heeled boots her blue eyes were almost level with mine. Her complexion was natural, without the layers of creams and powders most women seem obsessed with, and her dark brown hair flowed over her shoulders. A wide mouth was turned up at the corners in an almost mocking smile and her bold eyebrows arched enquiringly.
“I see Henri has not improved the company he keeps,” she said. It was not a promising beginning. I could think of nothing witty to say and so I said nothing. She continued with only the briefest smiles and leant on the counter. “You are English I suppose?”
“Yes, and I need to get out of Paris. Out of France.” She was looking at me very intently and I met her stare. There was a slight coldness to her and the blue of her eyes now seemed like a clear winter’s morning, suitable for a bracing walk but not a gentle stroll.
“Why should I help you? Assuming that I can.”
“You owe Henri a favour,” I guessed.
She smiled again, the frost cracking for the merest moment. “Do I?”
“Yes. Everybody does.” Far too many evenings playing hazard had allowed me to perfect the art of appearing confident when the dice were against me. I leant on the counter as well and moved a little closer. “He wouldn’t have sent me here if you didn’t.”
“True. But I’m not sure that I owe him this big a favour. It will not be easy, especially with the police following you,” she said, her eyes flicking behind me.
“What do you mean?” I said. I hadn’t meant to raise my voice.
“The man who came in after you. He is an agent of a man named Lacrosse and one of Bonaparte’s many spies. He’s been loitering outside all day. He probably spotted you watching the café. I know I did.” She kept her face turned away from the fat man who had followed me into the café.
“What?” I said, turning. She reached forward, touched my hand briefly and shook her head.
“Be calm, do not look at him. In a moment I will leave. Pretend that you have been arguing about the bill.”
“Wh...” I could still feel her hand on mine.
“Be quiet and listen if you want my help. You shout at Brigitte here,” she motioned to the waitress, “and leave, perhaps insulting her on your way. Once you are out of the door go around to the alley, I will meet you there.”
“Wh...” Her touch had been cool and soft.
“Your friend will be distracted. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” There was nothing else I could say and I turned away and let her leave before commencing the performance.
I waived my bill saying something about the brioche being stale and the waitress being rude, which was at least true, put some coins on the counter and left muttering to myself. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man in the corner look down regretfully at his half finished plate of cheese, gulp down the last of his wine and start hunting quickly for his purse.
Outside the rain had worsened and I hurried around the corner. Back in the café I heard more shouting and the crash of a plate. The police agent must have been sufficiently distracted as no one else left the café before I ran down the alley. She was waiting for me, a dark cloak over her shoulders and an umbrella in her hand. She took my arm.
“Don’t run. If you look hunted then they will find you.”
I slowed down and walked beside her. She kept hold of my arm and leant towards me. I took the umbrella from her, as a gentleman suitor would, my hand briefly touching hers. My heart was racing and I hoped it was just from the running. We walked slowly through the narrow alleys and streets, emerging from the warren on to the Champs Elysée. The rain pattered on the umbrella and we said little to each other until I realised I hadn’t given her my name. She looked at me as I made a belated introduction. I wasn’t sure if she cared what my name was but she gave me hers after a little hesitation.
“I am Dominique Calvet,” she said.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked.
“It should not concern you why. It does not concern me why you want to leave Paris. You are a favour that I owe. That is all,” she said. “So stop making those eyes at me.”
As you can imagine the conversation died somewhat after that. I didn’t even look at her again. Well, only when she wasn’t looking. She was right though, it was hardly the time for flirtations. Every time I saw a soldier or a guard I would try and turn away but Dominique just took a firmer grip of my arm and kept us walking ahead, only sometimes guiding my hand to tilt the umbrella to hide our faces. I was not accustomed to being so under the control of a woman, especially one so dismissive of me. I would have felt unmanned by it all if I hadn’t had more important things on my mind.
“Where in damnation are we going?” I hissed after we had been walking for nearly twenty minutes through streets slick with muddy water.
“Somewhere safe.”
“I think the only place I would define as safe at present would be somewhere on the other side of the Channel.”
“You don’t need to know where you are going. You might still be captured and the less you know the better,” she said “I am just making sure that we are not being followed. Now be quiet and just smile. No, not like an idiot.”
I smiled a little less broadly and ground my teeth. The rain glistened on her skin like dew on a rose. God she was infuriating, and intoxicating.
We saw the patrol before they saw us and turned into another street. There were more guards ahead of us, only yards away. We stopped. One looked up and our eyes met. Like a fool I looked away. There was a shout and then we were running. Dominique dragged me into a shop, where a startled vintner dropped a bottle of wine as we ran through and into the back. I pulled a couple of cases of claret over, wincing slightly as I noticed the vintage, and then Dominique had the door open. She went through first and I was following as a musket exploded behind us. In the confines of the shop it sounded like a carronade. The yard at the back of the shop was crammed with empty barrels and I kicked and rolled a few into place to slow down our pursuers.
Dominique drew a small pocket pistol from beneath her cloak and fired back through the doorway. Another shot came back in reply.
It wasn’t until I saw the look of concern on Dominique’s face that I had an inkling that I had been hit. I put my hand to my side and looked at the blood.
“I’ve been shot,” I said. I always did have a talent for stating the obvious.
“You’ll live,” she reassured me. “Come on.” She put the spent pistol back in her cloak and drew another.
Grabbing me by the bloody hand and she led us through a maze of alleys and courtyards, the sounds of the pursuit continuing but eventually fading. Before we emerged into the streets again she swapped to my injured side and put her arm around me. The umbrella had been lost and we walked on to the street like lovers in the rain. I only staggered occasionally. The pain had come at last and I was feeling light-headed. She looked at me every now and then and frowned, telling me to stand straighter or to smile.
The rain had almost stopped by the time we reached our destination. I was weak and my vision was beginning to blur. We crossed the Place des Vosges, pink blossom carpeting the square and floating in the fountains. A house loomed above us, taller and grander than the others, like a grenadier in a line of artillerymen. I stumbled. A municipal guard was coming out of the door as we walked up to it but the rain made him look down as he pulled his collar up and settled his hat more firmly on his head so he didn’t see us as he hurried away. I was scared and confused. I pulled away again but Dominique tightened her grip and whispered to me as she dragged me up the steps.
“Be still. Did I forget to mention that my uncle works for the secret police?”
“You…” I began to speak and tried to get free but I just fell, cracking my head on the white Italian marble of the entrance hall. I stayed conscious just long enough to watch my blood begin to spread across the white stone like spilled wine, and to hear footsteps, lots of footsteps, coming towards me.
CHAPTER FOUR
I did not so much wake up as become gradually more aware of the pain in each part of my body. A quick mental list concluded that the majority of my extremities were injured to some extent or another. I opened my eyes very slowly, the flood of light making my headache all the worse. There was a sting in my arm and I looked down to see a doctor doing his best to drain what little blood I had left. I tried to get up but most of my limbs didn’t obey the command and I floundered about like a Militia regiment trying to form ranks. Two soft hands held me down as I struggled weakly.
“Be still. It is for your own good.” Dominique’s voice soothed me for a second until I remembered her treachery.