Surrender to a Stranger (58 page)

“But we cannot leave them there,” protested Jacqueline, weeping openly.

Sidney clenched his jaw and looked away from her. “We have no choice.”

He gave the order for the men to resume their course toward the ship. The men were painfully silent as the skiff began to cut swiftly across the water.

Her heart shattered into a thousand pieces, her mind insane with grief, Jacqueline watched numbly as Philippe stood to face the revolutionary guards who surrounded the lifeless bodies of Armand and Nicolas.

“See that fat cloud over there? That one is a fine chariot which is going to swoop down from the sky and take me away to my first ball,” announced Suzanne dreamily in French to Séraphine. “And I shall wear a gown covered in diamonds, and my hair will be arranged into a thousand curls, all glittering with sapphires and rubies.”

Séraphine lay on the grass and studied the cloud, her expression somewhat skeptical.

“It’s true,” continued Suzanne defensively. “And my dancing slippers will be made of gold, and I will carry a fan of lace and pearls.”

Séraphine looked at her sister thoughtfully, as if she was trying to imagine her in such an outfit.

“And I will meet a handsome prince,” continued Suzanne, “all dressed in silver, and he will beg me to marry him the moment he sees me, and take me away to live in his silver castle where nothing bad ever happens.” She lay back against the warm grass and stared at the cloud. “That is what is going to happen when I am older.” She closed her eyes and tried to picture her gown. “Jacqueline, how old were you when you attended your first ball?”

Jacqueline pulled her gaze away from the distance, only vaguely aware that her sister had spoken to her. “Pardon?”

“Your first ball,” repeated Suzanne. “How old were you?”

“I don’t remember,” she replied vacantly.

“What about your first time to the theater?” Suzanne persisted.

Jacqueline looked off into the distance. “I forget.”

“You went to the theater when you were fourteen,” Suzanne reminded her, trying to jar her memory. “You were fourteen and Antoine was fifteen, and Papa took you to Paris to see a play at the Comédie-Française, and afterward you ate oysters and drank champagne.”

Jacqueline thought for a moment. “That’s right,” she finally agreed. It seemed a lifetime ago, and the memory did not interest her.

“It must have been wonderful,” sighed Suzanne.

“I don’t remember.”

“Of course you do,” Suzanne countered. “You used to tell me about it all the time.” She propped herself up onto her elbow and regarded her seriously. “Tell me about your gown.”

Jacqueline sighed. She knew her sister was trying to get her to talk, to draw her out of the dark, silent shell she had slipped into these past six weeks. But she did not want to talk. She did not want to think. She did not even want to be outside in the garden on this beautiful spring day, and wouldn’t be if Lady Harrington had not threatened to send someone in to carry her out if she did not leave her room of her own accord.

“It was all silver and gold,” prompted Suzanne, “and the stomacher was encrusted with sapphires and pearls.”

“That’s right,” agreed Jacqueline dully.

“And your hair was arranged so high you had to bend your head to get in and out of the carriage,” continued Suzanne.

“Yes.”

Suzanne paused and frowned. “Ladies don’t wear their hair like that anymore,” she mused. “It isn’t fashionable.”

Jacqueline looked over at her little sister. She was dressed in a loose green dress trimmed with cream lace, with a sash of cream satin ribbons tied high around her waist. Her sunny blond hair was curled into long ringlets and tied with pale green ribbons. She looked extremely pretty. Jacqueline wondered if the dress she wore was a new English fashion. It was obvious that fashion meant a great deal to Suzanne. There was a time, she reflected, when it meant a great deal to her.

“Lady Harrington says I am too young to go to the theater,” complained Suzanne. “What do you think?”

“I agree.”

“But I am almost eleven,” she pointed out. “That is only three years younger than you were, and I am already very grown up.”

“Not grown up enough.”

“It just isn’t fair,” declared Suzanne dramatically as she lay back against the grass. “Growing up takes far too much time.”

Jacqueline looked away. And far too much pain, she added silently.

Six weeks. That was how much time had passed since that agonizing night in Calais. It was not so long, really. That was why she still felt so much pain. She knew that with time it would pass, or at least dull a little. It had to, or she would go mad.

The crew of
The Angélique
tried to return to France right after delivering Jacqueline to safety. But the weather had been unfavorable, and the channel was far too violent to attempt a crossing. They were forced to wait two days. When they finally got there, men were sent ashore to casually question the villagers of Calais and find out whether the man known as Inspector Garnier was alive or dead. All the reports were the same. Inspector Garnier had died on the beach while the Black Prince and his league sailed away with another treacherous aristo. Nothing was known about the boy found next to his body. And so the crew returned, in a state of shock, and Sidney came to give the news to Jacqueline.

At first she refused to believe him. She told him his men were wrong. The villagers were mistaken. Armand was alive, she was certain of it. He had to be. She could feel it. He did not argue with her. He just shook his head and looked at her, his eyes filled with pity and suffering. His solemn conviction that Armand was dead eventually began to pierce through her hopefulness. She became so hysterical Lady Harrington was forced to send for a doctor to sedate her. She lay in bed for three days, heavily drugged. She dreamed about Armand, reliving that terrible scene on the beach over and over again, trapped in the nightmare by the sedatives, which would not allow her to wake up. Finally she refused to take any more. And then she found she could not sleep at all, and the image still tormented her.

She stayed in her room most of the time. She had no appetite. She had no desire to see anyone or talk to anyone. She knew she could not go on like this forever, that she had a responsibility to her sisters to come out of her depression and get on with her life. But she did not know how to. Her heart was totally, utterly broken, her grief so devastatingly intense there were moments when she did not think she could bear it.

Séraphine was also suffering. Although she still did not speak, it was obvious to Jacqueline that she missed Philippe terribly. Jacqueline told her he had gone away for a while. She wanted to assure her that he would be back, but decided against it. She had no desire to be held responsible for breaking another promise. She was relieved the crew had not heard anything about him being arrested or harmed. No one seemed to know anything about him, which told her somehow he had managed to get away. That was encouraging. She clung fiercely to the belief that eventually he would find a way to come home.

The Harringtons were being very patient and understanding. Lady Harrington and Sir Edward were truly shaken by the news of Armand’s death. Even Laura seemed upset, although Jacqueline suspected it was more because she had lost a prospective suitor than because she held any real feelings for Armand. And of course, Armand’s sister, Madeleine, was devastated. She came to see Jacqueline a week after receiving the news, and the two women held each other and cried until they were exhausted. It had helped to grieve with someone who loved Armand almost as much as she did.

“When I grow up, I shall go to the theater all the time,” declared Suzanne with certainty. “Why, I may even become an actress. I think that would be lovely, don’t you? To be on stage dressed in a beautiful gown, with hundreds and hundreds of people watching you and applauding.”

“I don’t know,” remarked Jacqueline indifferently. “I suppose so.”

Suzanne lay back against the grass next to Séraphine and resumed her study of the clouds. The garden was silent for a while, except for the sweet trilling of birds and the soft whisper of the breeze as it lazily blew across the lawns and through the flower beds. Jacqueline sat in her chair and stared vacantly at the beauty surrounding her, bitterly wondering if she would ever be able to feel joy over anything again. She doubted it. The pain she felt would dull, but the lonely void Armand had left would stay with her forever.

Suddenly Séraphine bolted upright and stared intently at the house.

“What is the matter, Séraphine?” asked Suzanne.

Séraphine ignored her sister and simply sat there, frozen, staring, as if she was waiting or watching for something to happen.

Jacqueline looked at her curiously. “Do you hear something?”

Of course neither of them expected her to answer with words. Séraphine had learned to communicate quite well with her eyes and her hands, and Jacqueline was anticipating a nod or a shake of the head. But Séraphine ignored her. Her body grew rigid and her face became white and tense with effort, as if every particle of her being was locked in concentration.

Jacqueline frowned. “Séraphine, are you ill?” she demanded.

Séraphine’s little gray eyes remained focused on the house. She showed no sign that she had heard the question.

“She probably just heard something strange,” remarked Suzanne. “Maybe there is a kitten crying somewhere. Her hearing is awfully good, you know.”

Jacqueline looked at Suzanne in surprise. “How do you know?”

“She knows people are coming before they actually get there,” explained Suzanne. “We will be playing in the nursery, and all of a sudden Séraphine will stop everything and look at the door, like someone is about to come in. And I will stop and listen as hard as I can, and I won’t hear a thing, but sure enough within a minute or two somebody always appears.” She gave Jacqueline a mysterious look. “It is almost as if she
senses
they are coming,” she told her in a hushed voice.

“Nonsense,” scoffed Jacqueline. “Her hearing is probably better than yours because she never speaks, but spends all of her time listening.”

Oblivious to their conversation, Séraphine remained utterly focused on the house. Her hands clenched the grass at her sides and her breathing slowed to a stop. Her body was completely frozen, as if she had turned into a marble statue. And then suddenly she was up and running across the grass toward the house, her pale blue dress flapping against her short legs and her white-blond hair sailing out behind her.

“Séraphine, where are you going?” called Jacqueline. The child ignored her and continued to run, like a beautiful little fairy floating over the lush green carpet of grass. “Suzanne, go after her and see that she is all right.”

Suzanne delicately rose and brushed off her dress before tearing off after her sister. Jacqueline watched the two of them racing through the garden and across the lawn that led up to the house. Séraphine got there first. She tore open a door and ran inside, leaving the door wide open for Suzanne to follow.

Jacqueline sighed. They were so young, the pair of them. She had to start emerging from her depression for their sake. But it was not that simple. The grief she felt was hideously black and suffocating. It clung to her every moment of the day, constantly threatening to crush her beneath its unbearable weight. She tried to assure herself she would get over it. After all, she was strong. She had suffered pain and loss before, and somehow managed to go on.

But this time was different. Armand had been her hope for a new life. He had plucked her from death and shown her that deep within her weary, battle-scarred soul she still had the capacity to care about something other than revenge and death. He had helped her to heal. He had revealed that there was still light in the world. He had made her laugh. He had made her love him. And no matter what, he always came back for her.

Except this time.

She closed her eyes, fighting the tears that were threatening to fall. She tried to focus on the chirping of the birds and the warmth of the sun on her face. She took deep breaths. She clutched at the folds of her gown. She ordered herself not to cry. But images of Armand filled her mind; smiling, scowling, or looking at her with bored indifference, effectively masking whatever emotions lay beneath his apparently calm exterior. And the images of him were so precious and wonderful, and yet so painful, she could not control herself. A hot tear slipped out from beneath her eyelid and began a slow passage down her cheek, followed by another, and another, until finally two unstoppable streams of pain were gliding down her face and into her lap.

“Jacqueline.”

Her name was said slowly, reverently, as if it was a glorious piece of music. Her heart slammed to a stop. Fearing she had gone mad, she slowly opened her eyes.

Armand was standing before her, huge and powerful, and very much alive. His eyes filled with tenderness, he smiled and held out his arms to her. With a sob of utter disbelief she flew into them, her eyes blinded by scalding tears. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him, desperate with the need to be close to him, to feel him and know that he was real. She raised her trembling lips to his, afraid that perhaps he was a dream, a fleeting trick of her imagination, which would disappear at any moment. He lowered his head and his lips swept over hers, warm and firm and demanding, while his arms crushed her to him, holding her so tight she could barely breathe.

She threaded her hand into the gold and copper length of his hair and held him close while she tasted and touched him, making small, joyful sobbing sounds in the back of her throat as she felt the sweet vitality of hope and life and love begin to sing through her veins.