looking up and down. He could smell the scent of the ocean, and the riper scent of
trash fish left to rot on the beach even through the veils of soft ram that gave the
landscape a misty, unreal quality. It made visibility difficult, and though he strained
his eyes, he saw no sign of light except the vigil lights in the church up the hill and
the lanterns hung at the front of the inn.
Tne coach was here. The horses were here.
The Duchess was not Lady Meriel awoke to violent rocking and the overpowering
smell of fish. She opened her eyes and then wished she hadn’t, for the action
brought on a headache that made her gasp in protest „Awake, are you?“ There was
the sound of a lamp chimney being removed, and then a sudden wash of light over
the rocking walls of what Meriel realized must be a ship bound for France.
But why? Uncle Richard was fanatic about the restoration of the True Faith to
England, but France had not been a Catholic country since the Revolution banned all
churches nearly twenty years ago. Uncle Richard would never ally himself with the
Emperor.
But Uncle Geoffrey would. Uncle Geoffrey would do anything that would cause
someone else pain.
Having little choice, Meriel rolled over on the narrow bunk and sat up. The flare
of pain on her welted back anchored her further in consciousness. She looked up.
Uncle Geoffrey was standing beside the hanging lantern he had just lit, looking like
a rose-gold Satan. Meriel flinched involuntarily at the sight of the riding crop in his
hand.
He laughed. „Oh, you’ve earned yourself a proper hiding, my dear, but at the
moment I'm minded to be pleased with you. I'd never have winkled Wessex’s
Duchess out of her burrow half so neatly, and, I'm forced to admit, she’s of a lot
more use to me at the moment than you are.“
„But you’re certain you will find a use for me later,“ Meriel said bitterly. „How
did you find us? We were not followed – I made sure of that.“
Geoffrey laughed again. „I hadn’t the least need to follow you, my poppet: I've
read every letter you’ve posted since your dear father died and Dickon hatched this
cloudwitted scheme to make you Queen of England. Knowledge is never wasted, so
I've found, and what an inventive little plotter you are! So once the carriage turned
up at Vauxhall empty, I just assumed you’d bolted for Auntie and set my course
accordingly. Your precious blockade runner doesn’t give a fig what cargo he carries,
you know, so long as the price is right And I've found over the years that gold is
always right.“
Meriel hung her head. It had all been for nothing, and the brief illusion of freedom
she’d cherished was only that But in the midst of her despair, a faint spark of
defiance kindled and swelled within her. More than she wanted her own freedom, she
wanted to deny her tormentors the prize they sought „So you want the Duchess,“
Meriel said, making certain she sounded cowed and bitter. „But why?“
„Because the Duchess has a Duke,“ Geoffrey said. „And at the moment, he’s a
most inconvenient one.“
It was nearly midnight when the three of them were rowed ashore on the French
coast Sarah still slept heavily, for Geoffrey had given her more laudanum a few
hours into the voyage, something Meriel had not been able to prevent Now Sarah lay
on the sandy shore bundled in her traveling cloak, while Geoffrey waited for a
response to the message he had sent from the ship. He still carried the hoodwink
lantern in his hand, as if he thought to have further use for it Meriel crouched beside
Sarah’s slumbering form. Geoffrey had not bothered to drug her – one unconscious
female was burden enough, he’d said. Meriel knew that he was certain she was
cowed into submission, and she meant for her uncle to go on thinking so.
She also meant to run at the first opportunity – although she knew any apparent
opportunity would only be the illusion of a chance. Geoffrey had only to run her
down to capture her once more.
Therefore she must run when he was not able to follow. And she still had money,
gold coins in the pocket in her petticoat Uncle Geoffrey had overlooked that.
To Meriel’s disquiet, their signal was answered by men in French uniform. The
French Captain did not seem at all surprised to see such strange and ill-assorted
arrivals on the beach at this hour, and spoke for some time to Geoffrey in a French
too low and rapid for Meriel to follow, though she knew the language well. The party
was then brought to what was probably a local inn; the landlord, yawning and
unshaven, provided hot soup for Meriel and whiskey for Geoffrey. Their respite was
brief, however; by the time Meriel had finished the cup of broth, a carriage had
arrived, and once more the little party was on the move.
The miles passed slowly. As the sky lightened toward dawn it began to rain. This
was unusual weather for July, but Meriel blessed it; rain would help to cover her
escape. As they traveled on, Meriel stared out the window, wondering where she
was. She was too young to have memories of France in happier times and so had no
hope of discovering their location, but that did not dissuade her from her plans in the
slightest.
The sun was well-risen when the coach jolted to a stop in front of an inn of the
sort that catered to travelers. The rain had recently stopped, and the dampened
countryside was shrouded in veils of steam. The country here was pretty and rolling,
and in the distance Meriel saw the spire of a church. There would be a village
nearby, then.
She did not try to feign sleep, for Uncle Geoffrey would see through that ruse and
it would make him suspicious. Instead, she concentrated on projecting an air of
abject fear and dejection – it was not hard, for she could not see much future for
herself along any course she pursued. Spain and the dubious support of her
mother’s family was very fer away, and there were many perils set in the path of a
young girl on her own.
Still, she would not let Uncle Geoffrey win.
The coach rolled to a stop. There was bustle and rocking as the team was
unhitched and led away; the mounted French soldiers who accompanied them took
the opportunity to reconnoiter the taproom with an eye to refreshment and comfort
Geoffrey stretched, and leaned over to inspect his sleeping prisoner. Sarah’s hands
were icy and her breathing was slow, but Meriel believed that the dose of laudanum
was not fatal.
Satisfying himself that Sarah would not move, Geoffrey pushed open the door of
the coach. „I’m off to breakfast. As for you, poppet, wait right here, or Uncle will
be very, very angry.“
Meriel hung her head and did not answer. But as soon as her uncle was gone, she
pushed open the door on the far side of the coach and slipped out. Her borrowed
traveling boots slipped and squished in the inn-yard mud, and she clutched at the
frame of the carriage for support She did not like to leave Sarah a helpless prisoner
in Geoffrey’s hands, for she well knew his implacable cruelty. But her uncle had
claimed that Sarah was necessary to some plot he was hatching against the Duke of
Wessex, which must mean that he would not harm the Duchess.
Meriel had to believe that.
Carefully she closed the door of the coach behind her. The main road was at her
back, and behind the inn she could see the hedgerow that flanked the country lane.
Throwing the hood back – she dared not look as if she were skulking, should
anyone notice her – Meriel began walking toward the hedge.
She was nearly there when she was seen, by a soldier who preferred to take his
beer and bread in the fresh air, even if the weather was damp.
„Where are you going?“ the soldier asked in French, but his tone was curious, not
sharp.
„I have a necessity,“ Meriel replied in that same language. When the soldier took
her meaning he looked away, begging her pardon as the color rose in his cheeks.
Meriel walked briskly past him, in the general direction of the privy.
If Uncle Geoffrey knew his niece so well, then equally Lady Meriel knew her
uncle. Unwilling to share his information, intent upon keeping others in tile dark as
much as possible, why should he tell them that he did not trust his niece, and that
she must on no account be allowed to escape?
She’d gambled and won. Now let her luck only hold for ten minutes more….
The angle of the building now concealed her from the curious soldier, and Meriel
picked up her skirts and began to run. She reached the hedge and scrambled through
it, blessing the ever-practical Sarah for insisting on the nigh-indestructible Cotton de
Mmes traveling dress that she wore, and the stout boots that were on her feet.
Swathing her cloak tightly around her and gathering a fistful of skirts, Meriel hurried
in the direction of the village.
She could not get far before she was discovered; but Meriel knew that Uncle
Geoffrey had urgent business elsewhere, and she thought she could manage to hide
until her uncle could no longer afford to search for her. She hurried through the
town, assessing every building she saw in light of her needs. She could rely upon no
one to help her escape, for anyone might betray her to Geoffrey.
At last, nearly despairing of finding a haven, Meriel reached the old church at the
edge of the village. For an instant she considered seeking Sanctuary at its altar, then
dismissed the foolish romantic notion. That custom was centuries dead, and even if
it were not, Geoffrey Highclere did not respect man, God, or devil.
But the church was attached by a wailed garden to the residence of its abbé, and
at this hour of the day the garden was deserted. Meriel opened the little gate and
stepped inside, glancing fearfully toward the house. But no one had seen her.
Flitting through the garden like a feral ghost, Meriel found sanctuary in a
gardener’s shed at the foot of the garden. Gingerly she pulled open the door, fearful
of spiders, but even spiders were not as terrifying as her uncle. She slipped inside
and closed the door behind her, then groped through the darkness until she found an
empty corner. There she crouched down and settled in to wait. And as the slow
minutes passed and nothing happened, Meriel fell asleep.
„You can come out now, you know. He’s gone.“
With a gasp, Meriel snapped awake, heart hammering. The little hut was stiflingly
hot now, but a cool breeze wafted in through the open door, and slanting golden
afternoon light filled the dusty shed. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, but
her dazzled eyes could not make him out. As she struggled to her feet she became
tangled in her cloak, and fought the cloth as if it were a living tiling.
„It’s all right,“ the stranger said, taking her arm and raising her to her feet. „He’s
gone. He was looking for you, wasn’t he – the ill-tempered Anglais with the golden
hair?“
Meriel could see him now. He was at young man, near her own age, dressed in the
plain simple clothing of the country burgher. His toffee-colored hair was pulled back
in a short queue, and his blue eyes regarded her inquiringly.
„He’s gone?“ she asked, wanting to be sure of the most important thing first. She
spoke in French, as he had addressed her in that language.
The stranger smiled. „He has gone hours ago, Mademoiselle. I waited for you to
emerge, and then I Began to think that you meant to spend the night in Jacques’s
shed, and that certainly could not be allowed.“
Meriel shook out her skirts and attempted vainly to brush some of the dust and
dried mud from her draggled cotton gown. Her mind was working frantically, trying
to decide whether this was salvation or yet another form of trap.
„If you knew I was there, why did you not tell him when he came looking for
me?“
The stranger laughed. „Because I did not like him, Mademoiselle! And Père Henri
– I suppose I should say the Abbé de Condé, but he has lived here for so long that
everyone in Trois Vierges calls him Père Henri – did not know you were here, so he
was not forced to perjure his soul with lying, which is a very good thing,“ the
stranger said piously. „But now the Anglais is gone and I may present you to Père
Henri, so that we may all decide what to do. This is a very bad man you are running
from, Mademoiselle, is it not?“
„He is a devil,“ Meriel said with feeling. „If he should find me again, he will kill
me.“
„Alas,“ the stranger said. „There are many devils in France these days – but Père
Henri is very good at making sure that they do not find those whom they seek. And
now I shall present him – poor man! – with someone else to hide. Only – who shall I