Holiness will not approve of Bonaparte’s employing sorcerers, and even these days,
France is still very much a Christian country. But what I wish to know is, where is
the Princess?“
Sir John sighed, and seemed to age years in seconds.
„I only wish I knew,“ John Adams said.
„When we came out of the fog,“ Sir John continued, „at first we were not at all
certain of where we were. The navigator shot the sun, of course, but it was some
time before any of us could believe what the ship’s instruments told us. By then we
had been sighted by a French patrol, and the outcome of that was only a matter of
time. The Christina fought well – I will give Captain Rytter that – but she was
outgunned, three against one.“
„By the time she struck her colors and stood to for boarding, it was late
afternoon. The women had been belowdecks for hours, with a couple of Kongelige
Ihgank there to defend them – we sailed, with a full company: sixteen men.“
„The French must have thought we were a spy ship, or a particularly foolhardy
smuggler. They swarmed over us; there was some fighting hand-to-hand. It took the
French Captain nearly an hour to restore order. He seemed convinced that we were
leaving France, having taken on passengers; when we managed to make him
understand that we were a consular ship that had somehow found herself in French
waters I do not think he believed us, but he was so relieved that the Dauphin was not
aboard that – “
„The Dauphin!“ Wessex could not keep from exclaiming. „King Louis?
Ridiculous; the boy died years ago.“
„So I had always understood,“ Sir John said, waving his hand to dismiss the
matter, „but me Captain seemed obsessed with the notion that we had the Lost King
somewhere in our luggage. At any rate, by the time order was restored and I was free
to go and attempt to explain to the Princess what had happened… she was gone.“
Wessex waited, but there was no more.
„Gone?“ he said at last. „Gone where?“
„Vanished, my dear boy,“ Sir John said. „Vanished from plain sight and the midst
of her entourage. When the Captain and I went below to escort the Princess up on
deck, she was not there.“
Then where am I supposed to look for her? With a significant effort of
self-control, Wessex kept from speaking the words aloud. Every instinct told him
that Sir John Adams was speaking the truth – at least as Sir John knew it.
„And none of her entourage were able to tell you where she had gone?“ Wessex
finally asked.
„My dear young man,“ Sir John said, „I have exerted my wiles on kings, tsars,
tyrants, and princes – but it is quite beyond me to impose order on a dozen weeping
women all wailing in Danish and of the unshakable opinion that they are about to be
sold into the Grand Seraglio of the lustful Turk! I have spoken to several of the
women since, of course, and their story remains the same: they don’t know where
the Princess is, or where she could have gone.“
„They’re lying, of course,“ Wessex said.
„I imagine so. But there is one thing of which I am certain, and that is that the
French have no more idea of Princess Stephanie’s location than I do.“
„That is something at least. Very well, Sir John, I will leave you to an undisturbed
rest. I shall convey to the king news of your situation as soon as possible.“
„There is a letter I have written to Lady Adams, which I should be most obliged if
you would convey to her for me. Dear Abby! If she were only with me, I dare swear
we should have routed those Frogs.“
Or at least would now know where Princess Stephanie was, Wessex thought
dourly. He accepted the neat wax-sealed billet from Sir John and tucked it into his
coat beside the pistol.
„I shall convey your letter – and your regards – to your lady as soon as
possible,“ Wessex said. „But now I must bid you farewell, for it has been a long
night already and I have still to break out of this cursed city.“
Sir John chuckled at that. „Then be on your way, my nameless friend-i-and I hope
we shall meet again under more pleasant circumstances!“
Chapter 17
The Once and Future King!
The small bedchamber was tucked up beneath the eaves of the country house,
and from its open windows Lady Meriel could see the riotous abundance of the
Abbé de Condé’s garden and the beautiful grey stone of the small church beyond
drowsing in the golden evening light. The little village of Trois Vierges looked just as
it might have appeared a hundred years before, as if neither the Terror nor the new
Empire had been able to harm it.
The room smelled of lavender and fresh linen – Madame Carmaux had been all
that was kindly and efficient when Louis had come into the kitchen trailing Meriel like
some stray kitten. It was Madame Carmaux who had bundled Meriel off to the guest
room with a bowl of soup and a glass of sherry, and announced firmly that Louis
and Père Henri’s inquisition must wait until the little maiden had set herself to rights.
Now Meriel was clad in a borrowed dressing gown, the housekeeper having taken
away her clothing to make it as presentable as womanly possible after its adventures.
Meriel had gladly taken the opportunity to refresh herself; to wash her face and
comb out her long black hair before braiding and pinning it up once more. And the
thick nourishing soup had done much to restore both her equilibrium and her spirits.
She turned away from the window to regard herself in the green-turned,
fly-spotted mirror that graced the door of the enormous mahogany wardrobe. An
etherial fantôme returned her gaze.
Lady Meriel was aware of her own beauty – she had been raised to be constantly
aware of it, first as a spiritual obstacle to be overcome and then as a lure to entangle
young Prince James in her uncle’s web. Now, as she studied herself, Meriel
wondered if there were anything more to her than this accident of comeliness. For
the fresh beauty of youth would fade with time, and then -what would she have left?
Who would she be?
There was a knock upon the door, and Madame Carmaux entered, with a bundle
of clothing over one stout arm.
„Ah. A little soap and water soon puts things to rights, eh, mademoiselle?“ the
housekeeper said, laying out her burden on the bed.
„Yes, indeed,“ Meriel agreed warmly. She smiled at Madame Carmaux. „I am
very grateful for your hospitality.“
„It is of the most improbable that you are one of the Black Priest’s spies, being
English as you are,“ Madame Carmaux said. „If, of course, the blond English was
indeed your uncle, as he swore himself to be to the good father.“
Meriel sighed, knowing that she would have to explain herself sooner or later –
and servants were apt to be much more concerned with propriety than their masters.
„He did not lie,“ Meriel said with a sigh. „He is my uncle, but he is a very wicked
man. He will surely return to search for me again.“
„As to that, no doubt he will find what he deserves,“ Madame Carmaux said
placidly. „But there! I am an old fool to worry you so when a good dinner awaits
you. But I must tell you that your dress will not be ready for you until tomorrow –
and perhaps some of the stains will not come out at all,“ the housekeeper added
darkly. „I have brought you some of my daughter’s clothes, which will suit you for
tonight.“
Madame sorted through the bundle she had brought, laying aside a nightcap and
gown for later use, and flourishing a slightly old-fashioned dress of sprig muslin with
a wide deep neckline, a ruffled lawn fichu, and a warm woolen shawl.
„You are very kind,“ Meriel said again.
„It is a sad thing to be hunted like the hare in the spring,“ the older woman said. „I
shall send Jeanette to you to help you dress, then she will bring you to Père Henri’s
study.“
When Meriel knocked and entered, she did not see the Abbé de Condé at first.
Tall leaded-glass windows were open into the garden. A white cat drowsed on the
sill in the last rays of evening sun, and the enormous carven oak table that dominated
the room was covered with books and papers. Sudden tears prickled in Meriel’s
eyes. Somehow this room reminded her of her father and her home, and of how safe
she had once felt. Sternly she suppressed the traitorous emotion. Lady Meriel had
long since learned that she had no one to depend on save herself.
„Ah, there you are, my child. Come in, and let me look at you.“
The Abbé de Condé was a tall, slender, regal-looking man, with swept-back silver
hair that owed none of its color to wig or powder. It was impossible to judge his
age, but whatever his years, his piercing blue eyes were as keen and sharp as those
of a much younger man. The Abbé wore a black soutaine, its hem sweeping the
floor, and a large gold cross upon his chest The ring of his office circled the first
finger of his right hand; a violet stone glinted dully in the dim light.
„Are you a believer, child?“ the old priest said.
„I… yes, Father. I am a Catholic,“ Meriel said diffidently.
„And what brings you to my garden?“ he continued.
Meriel was attempting to bring the tangled threads of her story into some
semblance of order when there was a knock on the door.
„Ah,“ Père Henri said. „That will be Claude with the candles.“
But it was not Claude with the candles. It was Louis, the young man who had
found her in the shed, who entered. Louis carried a massive candelabrum in each
hand; he set them down on the table.
„Marie says you will go blind entirely, working here in the dark,“ Louis said. He lit
the candles with a spill kindled at the room’s one lamp, and once the candles were all
alight, setded himself upon the edge of the table with every air of intending to remain.
„Louis – “ the Abbé said warningly.
„I found her,“ the young man said stubbornly, „and – I should very much like to
hear what Mademoiselle has to say.“
„I don’t mind,“ Meriel said. „I have little to hide.“
* * *
But if she had little to conceal, the household was her opposite. For there was a
great secret here, Meriel realized later, when the small household was seated at
dinner. When he had heard her story, Père Henri had agreed that of course Meriel
must stay with them until such time as her aunt Maristella in Madrid could send for
her. Of the fate of her companion – Meriel had been reluctant to mention that Sarah
was the Duchess of Wessex, and neither Louis nor the Abbé de Conde had pressed
her upon any point – they had been unable to speculate, though the Abbé had
promised to make discreet inquiries as to Geoffrey Highclere’s destination. But it
was quite impossible, so the priest assured Meriel, that she should send a message
to England.
„We are at war with England,“ Père Henri had said mildly. „And we dare not
draw attention to ourselves here in Picardy. We are not so far from Paris as all that,
and the Emperor might at any time remember that he is only a friend of the Church
when she comes bearing gifts.“
Meriel had hung her head, unwilling to press the issue though determined that she
would find some way to aid her friend. But tomorrow would be soon enough to
think of that. For now she was willing to be diverted by the far more agreeable
mystery of young Louis.
Everything about him bespoke aristocratic blood – blood as blue as de Condé’s,
who had been a prince long before he had become a prince of the Church, as so
many younger sons were. Meriel knew that it was de Condé’s induction into holy
orders that had saved his life when so many of the rest of France’s Royal family had
died. Though many members of the Church had died in the bloodbaths that had
characterized the nineties – for the Jacobin mob had drawn little distinction between
princes of this world and the next – those with quiet country parishes far from
Court, such as de Condé’s, had weathered the storm of atheism until Napoleon had
found it politic, as First Consul, to court Mother Church once more.
But that did not resolve the puzzle of Louis.
Marking the strong resemblance between him and the old priest, she wondered if
he were in fact the Abbé’s natural son, but the words Louis had spoken to her in the
garden still teased at her mind.
„I have had no name in France these dozen years."
No. Not a by-blow. Something more magnificent, and far more dangerous.
Meriel was not willing to construct such a fabulous cloud-castle without more