Rendezvous (9781301288946) (2 page)

The sergeant stopped in midsentence,
clamping his lips together and looking uncomfortable. It was just
as she suspected, Belle told herself. The good Lefranc had already
exceeded his authority by traveling even this far from the town of
Elboeuf. After a few more weak protestations, he was content to
take his leave of her, pressing a kiss upon the back of her hand
before closing the coach door. The sergeant remounted his horse and
signaled to her coachman that he was free to continue.

Belle heard Feydeau spit out a final
oath before whipping up the horses. As the coach lumbered into
movement, a heavy silence settled over the interior, a silence that
remained unbroken until they saw the last of Sergeant Lefranc and
his farewell salute.

"Insolent dog," Phillipe muttered,
glaring out the window.

"He was but carrying out his mission,"
Belle said.

Madame Coterin released the death grip
she held upon Sophie long enough to cross herself. "Thank the Bon
Dieu."

"Not God, Maman," Phillipe said. "We
must thank Mademoiselle Isabelle." His eyes lit up with admiration.
"Never have I known any other woman possessing such sangfroid, such
courage."

I was simply carrying out my mission,"
Belle said. But that was not true, she thought. She was being paid
to spy upon the French army, to gauge the extent of military
preparations in France, not to rescue the Coterin family. She would
likely receive a blistering communication from Victor Merchant
regarding her deviation from duty. Ah, well. Belle shrugged. She
would consign it to the fire as she did with all the unpleasant
notices from her employer.

"In any case," she said aloud to
forestall further compliments from Phillipe, "we stood in no
danger. Luckily the sergeant was not looking for us."

"Lucky indeed!" Phillipe's face
clouded. "For all the protection I provided, sitting there like a
great lump. I should have—"

"You should have done exactly what you
did. Kept quiet and kept your head. You behaved most
sensibly."

The bitter set of Phillipe's mouth
showed that he was unconvinced by Belle's words. She thought it
best to let the matter drop, but Madame Coterin chimed in, scolding
her son.

"Oui. We want none of your heroics, I
beg of you, my Phillipe. It is bad enough to have lost your poor
papa to this accursed folly. I will not see the Revolution consume
my boy as well."

Phillipe flushed with
mortification.

"According to your Consul Bonaparte's
decrees, the Revolution is over," Belle said dryly.

"The Revolution will never be over."
Phillipe's hands clenched. "Not until the monarchy is restored, the
killing of King Louis avenged, not until his brother is seated upon
the throne—"

"
Tais-toi
, Phillipe!" his mother cried.
"You grow to sound more like your papa. I cannot bear it. I care
not who governs France. All I want is peace, to keep my children
safe."

It was a prayer many French mothers had
voiced during the endless years since the mobs of Paris had pulled
down the Bastille stone by stone, since Dr. Guillotin's grim
invention had been erected in the Place de Grave, since the streets
had flowed with so much blood even the horses pulling the tumbrils
of the condemned had reared back in fear.

Fresh tears coursed down Madame
Coterin's cheeks. Belle leaned across the seat to take the woman's
hand in a strong clasp.

"And so you shall keep them safe,
madame. I promise you. It is not much farther to the coast. By
nightfall we shall be crossing the channel to England, a new life
for all of you."

Madame Coterin stiffened. Belle sensed
the rebuff and withdrew her hand immediately. She understood only
too well, she thought with some bitterness. Madame might be
grateful to Belle for the rescue, but Belle was, after all, a spy,
scarcely an occupation any decent woman would pursue.

Madame Coterin sniffed, struggling to
compose her features. "I beg your pardon. It is not my custom to
carry on so. But I am so very tired."

"Of course," Belle said. "You should
try to rest. It will not be long before we reach the next posting
station."

Madame nodded. She sagged back against
the cushions, gathering her little girl up in her arms. A strange
child, the little Sophie, Belle thought. So quiet one often forgot
she was there, even her weeping muted as though she had learned at
a tender age, if one must cry, it was best done as silently as
possible.

Belle's gaze traveled to each of the
Coterins in turn, Sophie, her eyes overlarge in her wan face,
Madame Coterin, her dark hair prematurely streaked gray and
Phillipe, the squaring of his slight shoulders doing little to hide
the fact he felt just as frightened, just as lost as his mother and
sister.

Damn Laurent Coterin to hell, Belle
thought. Although she and the late chevalier had both worked for
the same network of royalist agents, Coterin had been an amateur, a
hopelessly incompetent spy. He had been arrested on suspicion of
intercepting Napoleon's dispatches, and easily convicted because
Laurent had put his notes in the old Julius Caesar code, a cipher
so simple a child could break it. The chevalier had crowned his
folly by getting himself shot in a botched escape attempt from
prison. But in Belle's eyes Coterin's most unpardonable sin had
been implicating his innocent family in his activities, while never
making any provision for their safety in the event of his being
discovered.

"Is the sun in your eyes,
mademoiselle?"

Belle was startled out of her
reflections by Phillipe's voice. "I beg your pardon?"

"You scowled so just a moment ago. I
thought the sun might be bothering you. I could draw the shades if
you wish."

"By all means. If you want to announce
to the world we have something to hide."

"Oh. Of course not." The young man gave
her a rueful smile. "How clever you are, mademoiselle, to think of
such small details."

It was one of the reasons she was still
alive, Belle thought. But she merely returned Phillipe's smile and
lapsed into silence. Despite the rough sway of the carriage, Madame
Coterin and her daughter managed to drift into a sleep borne of
exhaustion.

Their journey, which had begun when
Belle had met them with the coach in the Rouvray Forest outside of
Paris three days ago, had been an arduous one, though not as
eventful as Belle had anticipated. They had only been stopped once
and that by Sergeant Lefranc. But the apprehension of being
overtaken had been in itself nerve-racking, that and the additional
distress caused by one of the carriage poles snapping outside of
Rouen. But soon, Belle prayed, very soon she would bring this
mission to a successful conclusion.

Unable to relax, Belle stared out the
window at the gentle monotony of the Norman country-side, the flat
meadows dotted with cows, here and there the gray stone of a
farmhouse or an apple orchard, the trees laden with ripening fruit.
No grand, breathtaking vista, and yet the scene was somehow more
satisfying with its aura of peace, of normalcy. She watched the sun
setting behind a wheat field recently harvested. As the fiery orb
bathed the sky in a glow of rose and gold, a rare sense of
tranquility stole over Belle.

She would have liked to have clung to
the feeling, but was disturbed all too soon. The leather seat
creaked as Phillipe shifted and cleared his throat. Reluctantly she
dragged her gaze from the window and realized the young man was
staring at her, likely had been doing so for some time.

The last rays of the sun caught the
shine of his beardless face, the brightness of his eyes. Was he
regarding her perhaps a shade too tenderly? Belle had caught such
an expression on his face more than once, but she kept hoping that
she only imagined what it portended.

When she caught him staring, the boy
averted his eyes. He coughed again. "I was wondering,
mademoiselle-“

"Yes?" Belle's tone was not
encouraging.

"Well . . ." Phillipe swallowed. "I was
wondering. How did a lady like you became involved in this
dangerous work? Indeed, I envy you. Such an exciting life you must
lead."

"Too exciting sometimes," Belle said,
eager to evade any questions about her past.

"Your friend Baptiste in Paris says you
are the best royalist agent working in France today. He said that
during the Terror, you helped so many aristocrats hide and escape,
it is no longer safe for you to enter the city."

Belle made no comment, but she tensed.
She had indeed once come close to losing her life in Paris. If she
closed her eyes, she could easily conjure up chilling images of her
confinement in the Conciergerie, the walls of that dread prison
enfolding her like a tomb. But it was not fear of death or of being
arrested again that kept her from Paris so much as fear of her own
memories, some bittersweet, but most the stuff of nightmares. The
City of Light for her had become a city of darkness.

“Baptiste told me you helped smuggle
arms to aid the Catholic uprising in the Vendee," Phillipe
continued. "He said that men call you the Avenging
Angel."

"Baptiste talks too much." Belle
mentally cursed her fellow agent. How she hated that foolish
nickname. She had not gone to work for the royalist cause because
she cared a fig whether the deceased king's fat brother Louis XVIII
succeeded in reclaiming his throne or not. It was because the
royalists paid her well and she had despised the violence of the
revolutionaries who had overrun France. She was no one's avenger
and certainly no one's angel. Only the insouciant Baptiste,
presuming upon old friendship, had ever dared call her that to her
face.

"Have you been a royalist agent for a
long time?" Phillipe asked.

"Oh, a long, long, long time," Belle
said, hoping to remind him that she was nearly ten years older than
he.

Her hint appeared to go wide of its
mark, for Phillipe bent forward, his lips parting in a shy smile.
"I am so glad you are crossing the channel with us." He paused, and
then asked in a voice that cracked, "Dare I hope, mademoiselle,
that you will come and call upon me and Maman after we are settled
in Portsmouth?"

Belle suppressed an urge to tell him
she doubted his mother would welcome such a visit. An adventuress
in her home was the last thing the respectable woman would want in
other circumstances.

"We shall see," she said. She realized
that even this vague promise was a mistake. Phillipe's face lit up,
and she had the impression that if he had dared, he would have
reached for her hand to kiss it.

Calf love, Belle thought. She had seen
the symptoms of such infatuation far too often not to recognize it,
and in males older and wiser than Phillipe. It never failed to
astonish her—that she could inspire such devotion so quickly in
men. Her gaze turned to her reflection in the carriage
window.

Beautiful, she had oft heard herself
proclaimed. Was it only she that noticed the hint of hardness that
had developed about her mouth, the world-weary expression in her
eyes?

Such flaws had obviously escaped
Phillipe's notice, for when Belle turned back to face him, his gaze
appeared more openly adoring than before. This was a complication
she did not need. She liked the boy. To her, young Phillipe
represented all that had been best in the old regime of the French
aristocracy, the charming manners, the good breeding, the sense of
honor. She had no desire to be the first to break his
heart.

"Mademoiselle," he asked, "have
you—have you—"

"Have I what?" Belle prompted, although
she dreaded what might be coming next.

"Have you ever been in
love?"

"Oh, aye, many times." Belle laughed.
But the boy looked so wounded, she regretted her flippant reply.
She surprised herself by adding softly, "No, in truth, only once
and that was enough."

Phillipe gave her a speaking glance.
"Truly," he said, "once is enough."

Fearing what he might say or ask next,
Belle decided the only way to escape his questions and longing
looks was to feign sleep. She forced a yawn. Murmuring her
apologies, she nestled her head against the squabs. As she closed
her eyes, she heard Phillipe's deep sigh.

With difficulty, Belle forced herself
to relax and pretend to doze. She was far too vigilant to drift off
in actuality. In any case, Phillipe's recent words would not permit
her to do so. His innocent question echoed through her head. "Have
you ever been in love, mademoiselle?"

Only once.

Her reply carried her back to a time
when she had been as young as Phillipe, but far older in experience
even then. Yet for one sun-drenched day in spring, she had felt as
innocent, as trembling with hope as any maiden.

The path through the village of
Merevale had been strewn with May blossoms, crowded with the
peasant folk who had come for a glimpse of their young lord's
English bride. And the heat . . . as though it were yesterday,
Belle could feel the sun's rays beating through the white crepe of
her gown, the lace pinniers of her bonnet hanging limp against her
neck.