Surrender to a Stranger (22 page)

20 Frimaire, 1793

My beloved Jacqueline,

What torment it is to write you thus, secretly scratching away by the meager glow of the single candle I have been allowed to purchase to light my tiny cell. For, my dearest, shortly after your miraculous escape, I found myself arrested on charges of having conspired with you in that daring venture, which I trust has secured you a new life in a new land. Of course I am completely innocent of the charges against me, having no prior knowledge of your incredible rescue, which by now has become legend in the anguished corridors of the Conciergerie. It is widely speculated that the Black Prince himself came to your aid, for who else but he would have dared to orchestrate such an improbable flight?

Would that I were fortunate enough to have a guardian angel such as he, who could spring me from this iron cage and the evil nightmare I now must endure. But I do not write to seek your pity or your aid, only to inform you of my cruel fate, and to summon the last of my strength to bid you good-bye.

How bitter is this moment, to know that which should have been mine can never be! To hold only the tender memory of your beauty, your grace, your youthful sweetness, all of which was promised to me by your father, and which I looked forward to having as my most cherished possession forever. Sometimes, as I lie desolate in my cell, I imagine what our life together would have been like, how perfect. We, Jacqueline, are of the same world, and I would have cared for you and loved you with all the gentleness and devotion a rare and fragile flower like yourself deserves. You would have reigned as brilliantly as a queen in my château, slowly and carefully I would have introduced you to the delicate mysteries of love between a man and a woman—but there, I speak of what can never be, and my heart bleeds.

What remains, therefore, for me to do, but say good-bye? And yet this is the most vile, the most painful of acts I have ever known. I must admit my weakness and confess that tears flood my face as I leave you. Sweet Jacqueline, my dearest girl, my only heart, know that the love on which I planned my life and my future lies locked away within your breast. I am destroyed, not with the knowledge that I must face death, however premature, unjust, and cruel, but that I shall never again see your exquisite face, shall never lay my hand against the precious small of your back as we dance, shall never press another gentle kiss to your perfect lips, and shall never be able to look at you and feel my heart burst with joy at the knowledge that you are mine and only mine.

Farewell, my dearest love, farewell. You are the angel who has kept me from going mad during this insane ordeal, and I would gladly die a thousand deaths if I knew it would keep you safe from those who would harm you. How sad that we shall never be reunited, that the guardian angel who came to you has no plans to come for me. Each day I hope he will appear, I keep myself alert and ready to race away with him on a moment’s notice, but he does not come, and I resign myself to the fact that it is my duty to die, for you and for France, and I do so willingly.

Live well, Jacqueline, my dearest love, the woman who I dreamed would be my wife. Harbor no anger toward the executioners who are extinguishing the noblesse of France. I pray that soon our great country will be delivered from the murderers who have taken control, and only wish I could live to rejoice with you at my side on that glorious day.

Your ever devoted servant,
François-Louis
from the prison of the Palais de Luxembourg

“Jacklyn, dear, whatever is it?” demanded Lady Harrington with concern.

Pale and trembling, Jacqueline slowly lowered the letter. “It is my—betrothed,” she replied slowly. “The Marquis de Biret. He is—arrested.”

“Your betrothed!” gasped Laura. “Oh Jacklyn, how perfectly awful. Were you to be married soon?”

Jacqueline shook her head, her mind still reeling from the contents of the letter. François-Louis had been arrested, and would undoubtedly be executed, because she had escaped. He was innocent of the charges against him, but she knew that did not matter. The Republic was not interested in finding its suspects innocent. They had lost one aristo, and now they were determined to rectify that loss with the wrongful arrest of another. She was certain Nicolas had a hand in François-Louis’s arrest, for he had been outraged when her father turned down his marriage proposal in favor of a marquis. She was responsible for his arrest. François-Louis was a practical, careful man, who would never have said or done anything that might have cast a shadow of suspicion on him. That was why he had not come to her trial, or even written or visited her when she was imprisoned. The distance he had put between himself and her was not so awful. She had understood. He simply wanted to live. And now, because of his association with her, he would die. His blood was on her hands.

“We…stop our wedding date, when my father is arrested,” she explained slowly, struggling to piece together the English words and proper tenses. “After my father is executed, I am too concerned about my family to think about marriage. François-Louis understands, and he agrees to wait.”

“How utterly tragic,” sighed Laura sympathetically. “The two of you, young and in love, but kept apart forever because of this horrid revolution.”

Jacqueline looked at her in confusion. She had not said she was in love with François-Louis. The match had been arranged by her father, and Jacqueline had accepted it because it was a good match, and although she did not know François-Louis well, she did not have any reason to dislike him. After all, they shared the same life and background. They both came from the highest level of the nobility in France, the
noblesse d’épeé,
those families whose titles went back centuries, whose ancestors had fought in the Crusades. François-Louis had a lovely château not far from her home, so after she married she would have been able to see her family often. He was pleasant and well mannered. And he was young and fit, with good teeth, which was certainly a bonus when it came to arranged matches within the nobility. But other than a few meetings and several rather disappointing kisses, she did not know him very well. The passionate style of his letter was a little overwhelming, given the nature of their relationship, but François-Louis had always been dramatic in his speech, and flowery, impassioned letter writing was extremely popular between lovers in France. Also, although the Palais de Luxembourg was a far more comfortable prison than the Conciergerie, to have one’s freedom stripped away and to be forced to stay in a room and await one’s death was enough to make anyone reflect on that which might have been with a heightened level of emotion.

“Jacklyn, dear, I can see you are distraught,” remarked Lady Harrington. “Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down for a while?”

Jacqueline shook her head, barely listening. François-Louis was going to die, another successful denouncement for Nicolas. But if not for her escape, he might never have been arrested. His death was, at least in part, her responsibility. She could not bear the thought. Was she just to sit back and accept his execution? Or was there something she could do to help? The thought of Armand flashed into her mind. He had helped her. He had saved her from her executioners. Perhaps he could do the same for François-Louis. After all, saving endangered French aristocrats was his business. She had no idea what price he would put on such a mission, nor where she would get the money. But she had to at least ask him. Maybe she could convince him that it was necessary to take her with him. Perhaps she would make that a condition of their contract. The thought filled her with excitement. While he was saving François-Louis she would find Nicolas and plunge a knife deep into his chest.

“Will Monsieur St. James attend this ball?” she demanded suddenly.

“He is undoubtedly invited,” replied Laura. “But he almost never goes to balls or parties.” The frustration in her voice was obvious.

“He may attend this evening, however,” interjected Lady Harrington. “It is, after all, a Christmas celebration, and it is possible he will not want to be alone this evening.”

Jacqueline considered for a moment. If Armand did not attend the ball, then the whole evening would be a waste of her time, for she really did not want to go. However, if there was even the remotest possibility that he would be there, she had to take that chance. It was essential she speak to him right away. François-Louis could be brought before the Tribunal at any time, if he had not been called before them already. The letter was dated 20 Frimaire, which was the tenth of December. Today was the eighteenth. Already a week had been lost. She stood up quickly, filled with the need to take action.

“I believe, Lady Harrington, I go with you this evening,” she announced.

The ballroom was beautifully decorated to reflect the gaiety of the season, which was entirely at odds with Jacqueline’s mood. Miles of fragrant, thick garlands of pine and spruce were looped across the painted ceiling, with enormous bows of heavy, scarlet velvet tying them into place. Dozens of tall, full evergreens had been placed along the sides of the room and decorated with sparkling gold and silver baubles and massive quantities of shimmering ribbon. Each tree was topped with a magnificent jeweled star that captured and reflected light from thousands of candles softly flickering in the room. A small orchestra was playing lively waltzes from a gallery high above the spinning sea of graceful dancers, who were, as Lady Harrington had predicted, for the most part dressed in the deep jewel tones of the season. Once Jacqueline might have smiled with delight and appreciated the extraordinary amount of creativity and planning it had taken to transform the enormous hall into such a magical setting for a Christmas celebration. But tonight her mind was firmly focused on the plight of François-Louis and her need to return to France. For what seemed like the thousandth time she scanned the crush of dancers, searching for Armand among the hundreds of colorfully dressed men who were skillfully leading their partners around the dance floor.

“Jacklyn, dear, you simply cannot stand here all night. We must find someone for you to dance with,” commented Lady Harrington. She had already managed to send Laura off with an awkward young man, who was, she informed Jacqueline conspiratorially, the only son of the Earl of Melfort. Jacqueline supposed that meant he was going to inherit a fortune, but after watching him turn beet red as he asked Laura to dance, and then observing the look of sheer gratitude and relief when Laura agreed, she could not help but think that this was not the man who was going to capture Laura’s heart. She wondered if Lady Harrington was aware of Laura’s obvious attraction to Armand. Perhaps she was aware of it, but given Armand’s untitled status and the highly irregular way he earned his living, it was likely neither she nor Sir Edward would ever sanction such a match.

Lady Harrington gave up evaluating the room for a moment and turned to her husband. “Edward, dance with Jacklyn while I see if I can find some nice young man to introduce her to.”

Before Jacqueline could protest, Sir Edward had moved to stand in front of her and gave her a small bow. “My dear, if you don’t mind being seen with an old man who still remembers at thing or two about moving around a dance floor, I would be honored,” he said as he offered his arm to her.

Jacqueline wanted to say no, but to refuse her host’s invitation to dance would be extremely rude. She smiled politely and laid her hand on the sleeve of his sapphire frock coat. “I am pleased to dance with you, Sir Edward,” she replied graciously, the English words slow and heavily accented.

Sir Edward visibly puffed up with pride as he escorted Jacqueline onto the dance floor. Jacqueline found him to be a reasonably good dancer, and so she was able to relax in his arms as she gazed around at the other men on the dance floor, still searching for Armand. She noticed a few men and women discreetly turning their heads to look at her and then exchange a whisper. She supposed people had started to wonder about the escaped daughter of a duc who was now living with the Harringtons. She was glad she had decided to wear her black evening gown, despite Lady Harrington’s protests. The somber garment made it clear she was a woman in mourning, and had been an effective deterrent to any man who might have wanted to ask her to dance.

“Jacklyn, my dear, you are a marvelous dancer, but then I expected no less of a daughter of Charles-Alexander,” complimented Sir Edward enthusiastically. “In his younger days in London, your father certainly knew how to lead the ladies around the floor.”

The mention of her father distracted Jacqueline from her search. “My father insisted I begin…lessons of dance with Antoine when I am six and Antoine is seven,” she told him slowly, grateful for the concentration required to translate the words into English. Somehow the act of translation seemed to distance her from the subject, as if she was not talking about her life, but merely taking sentences and changing them into English. “Several years after my mother has died, my father begins to entertain again. I am now the…woman of the Château de Lambert. It is necessary I dance with guests,” she finished, wondering if she had selected all the correct tenses.

“She was a beautiful woman, your mother,” reflected Sir Edward, his voice gentle and sad.

“Yes,” agreed Jacqueline. An overwhelming feeling of loss was beginning to grip her. Her mother had been very beautiful. And she had been a loving wife and devoted mother, but who was left who could remember that about her? Séraphine had never known her, and Suzanne, who was four when she died, was now a young lady of ten, and her memories of her mother were based more on stories Jacqueline had told her than actual recollections. Once Jacqueline was dead, which would probably be soon, there would be no one to remember what a fine and loving woman the Duchesse de Lambert had been. Her heart ached at the thought.

“Excuse me, Sir Edward, but Lady Harrington assured me you would not mind if I cut in,” said a handsome young man with hair as blond as Jacqueline’s and blue eyes that seemed to sparkle with amusement.