Another Small Kingdom (28 page)

Chapter Sixty

I
n the monotonous weeks of their sea voyage, Macleod and Marie discussed repeatedly how they should represent themselves to the Cardinal once they had arrived in Rome. Macleod favoured a straightforward approach – they had come to enlist His Eminence's help to defeat a vile plot against the Government of America. Marie preferred a more subtle approach – they had come to pay their respects to the true King of England and Scotland.

The idea had formed in Marie's mind when, to pass the time in the first weeks out from Boston, Macleod had told her the stories he had heard at his father's knee of his Highland kinsmen. How they and his father had fought the British and the eventual fate they had shared with other Highland clans as Butcher Cumberland did his vile work. What more natural, she argued, that a son whose father had fought with the Bonnie Prince, whose uncles had died for that same Prince, whose family had suffered so much for the Stuart cause, should come and pay his respects to the man he saw as the rightful king of England and Scotland.

Macleod pointed out that it might indeed be a natural thing for such a man to do, if that man had any sort of reason for being in Rome.

Marie recognised that he was right. Without some suitable reason, her plan would not work, leaving only Macleod's direct approach available to them, an approach she felt sure would fail. They had no papers, no letters of introduction, no names which the Cardinal might recognise or accept, nothing which might support the otherwise naked claim of two total strangers.

The most obvious solution to their problem they both avoided, that they were man and wife, newly married, and making a honeymoon tour. But they had been man and wife once already and neither had happy memories of the experience. But that wasn't what made them reluctant to re-examine it under their new and altered circumstances. Their days of proximity on the ship, their talk and time together, and most of all their shared sense of safety and new purpose had combined to form a bond between them that neither was overly eager to examine too closely for fear that the feelings of one might not be the feelings of the other. But as the day of arrival drew closer and neither could think of any alternative it became obvious that one or other would have to speak.

In matters of delicacy women are more able than men, or at least more practical, so the day before the ship docked at Livorno it had been Marie who had finally suggested that, if Macleod came with a new wife, that might be their best solution, and shyly, with suitable reluctance, Macleod accepted Marie's proposal of marriage.

Having settled on being married Macleod readily agreed that they should make use of his Highland connection to find favour with the Cardinal. While in Rome on their marriage tour they had come to receive His Eminence's blessing on their recent union, as a Prince of the Church and as rightful King of England and Scotland.

So it was that, on disembarking at Livorno, Macleod bought a simple gold band and, before dinner, in a tavern where they had taken rooms, placed it on Marie's finger. For a moment there was a silence between them, then Marie, ever practical, turned away and the moment passed. In Livorno they provided themselves with all they needed. Under Marie's guidance they bought clothes and acquired suitable luggage. After a few days they could pass for what they almost were, a well-off American man of business and his pretty young wife. In their new roles they hired a comfortable carriage with driver and postillion and left the port city and began their journey to Rome.

They took a first-floor apartment on the Via Sistina in a district popular among modestly affluent foreign visitors. Their apartment was in a house beside an imposing twin-towered church at the top of a wide flight of white, marble steps and gave its name to them, the Scalinata della Trinità. These steps, Macleod counted one hundred and thirty-eight of them, led down into a fine piazza, the Piazza di Spagna. Once established in their apartment they took to walking down the steps into the Piazza and standing by the great fountain known locally by the quaint name of La Fontana della Barcaccia, The Fountain of the Old Boat, where they discussed how they would locate their Cardinal.

In many ways their situation was idyllic. The evening weather was cool, the surroundings magnificent and their apartment more than comfortable. But Macleod was worried.

He had noticed that, since being in Rome, Marie had grown strangely quiet. She was withdrawn and absorbed and had, on the morning after their arrival, slipped out early before breakfast. On her return, when asked, she said she had visited the nearby church to pray. Her manner concerned him but he put it down to the dangers she had faced continually since the murder of her husband, her subsequent flight, and the life she had been forced to endure. Now, with the interlude of their ocean voyage behind them, they were once again alone and possibly in danger. Macleod himself was feeling the strain of events, how much more, he felt, must their travails have affected a weak and vulnerable young woman like Marie? On the third evening in Rome, after dinner, he sought to offer her comfort as they sat together in the privacy of their rooms.

‘You must try to be strong, Marie. So much has happened. I understand if it has taken a terrible toll on your mind and body but I have brought you this far and I swear on my life and honour I will bring you soon to safety. All we have to do is find Cardinal Henry. Believe me I will find a way. You must believe that we will …'

Marie looked at him, her quietness all too evidently cast off.

‘What are you talking about, Jean? Of course we will find him. How hard can it be to find a Cardinal in Rome? We must be careful, that is all. And what is this about my mind and body? Do I seem weak or fearful to you? I assure you I am stronger now than I have ever been. For the first time in my life I know what it feels like to be a woman …' but here she stopped and seemed to slip once more into the strange manner that had caused him concern.

Macleod was somewhat taken aback by her sudden changes. He didn't understand them. He spoke tentatively.

‘But you seem, well, quiet and worried. I thought perhaps that …'

But he no longer knew what he thought.

‘Jean, you are a good man. But you said yourself you are a bad Catholic. That is nothing. It is natural for any man to be a bad Catholic, it is part of being a man. The Church understands such things. But a woman cannot be a bad Catholic, Jean. It is for the woman to keep the faith and pray for both. If the woman becomes a bad Catholic then both must fear the fire of eternal damnation.'

She paused and to his horror Macleod noticed tears in her eyes.

‘But I don't understand, Marie.'

She looked at him with great sorrow.

‘I know, Jean, that is what makes it all so terrible. We were children when we first met, naughty as children are naughty, but also innocent. But since then I have grown up and become a woman.'

Macleod was utterly at a loss.

‘I'm sorry, Marie …'

‘Oh don't be sorry, Jean, the fault is mine, the fault is always with the woman. The woman tempts the man, it must be so. It was so in the Garden of Eden and will always be so. Men have their appetites, appetites given by God. Women have their bodies, also given by God. The woman tempts the man with her body. She cannot help it any more than the man can help being tempted. It is always the woman's fault. It is my fault.'

And the tears came.

Macleod was utterly astounded. If he had understood her correctly she was talking about sin, that they had sinned and their sin had been sexual. But there had been no … No, he was sure, there had been nothing. Yet she was crying, distraught. She was blaming herself. For what?'

He knelt down by her and gently took her hand. She let him take it but did not raise her head.

‘Marie, please, explain to me. What is it that you think we have done? What is our sin?'

She raised her head and with her free hand wiped away her tears.

‘Oh, Jean, not our sin, my sin. Can you not see, my sin?'

But, try as he might, he could not. He had been married and fathered a child. He would have known.

‘But Marie, we have never …'

But somehow the words would not come. He didn't know what the right words were.

‘Not you, Jean, you are too good. Me, in my heart, in my heart I have …' And for her, as well, the right words would not come. But Macleod finally understood what it was she was saying. Shock and elation collided in his mind and his heart. He felt dizzy and slightly nauseous. He let go of her hand and stood up to steady himself. She looked up at him. ‘Forgive me, Jean, you are right, I am weak. I should have kept it to myself, the sin is mine. I have no right to burden you.'

‘Damn the burden and damn all sin. Are you saying that you love me?'

Marie lowered her eyes.

‘In my heart, Jean, we are already lovers.'

‘Then the least I think I deserve is a kiss. There's been precious little else in this love affair of ours as I remember.'

Marie looked up at him, shocked that he should make light of what she had said. But when she looked at his face she saw a confused and embarrassed man trying hard to deal with a situation which was almost beyond him. She stood up. Macleod took her in his arms and their lips joined. Marie had waited a lifetime for such a kiss and she put a lifetime of broken dreams and shattered hopes into it. Macleod felt the true touch of a woman's passion for the first time and, for a brief moment, the world dissolved for them both and they were alone in a place neither had ever been.

But the paradise of even the most passionate embrace is brief, and when their lips parted the gates of their private paradise, like those of Eden, slammed shut and they were once again a man and a woman playing husband and wife in rented rooms in a Rome tavern going about the prosaic business of trying to save the American Republic and at the same time stay alive themselves. Macleod stood back and Marie wiped the last trace of tears from her eyes and then smiled at him.

‘What shall we do, Jean?'

‘Do?'

‘We play at man and wife but we are not man and wife. Will the game continue or can it be changed?'

Macleod wasn't sure what the question meant. He thought he knew, he hoped he knew, but he wasn't sure.

‘Are you asking if we will get married?'

Marie laughed. She seemed wonderfully happy. Macleod didn't understand, tears, passion and laughter crowding into so little time left him confused. Marie, as usual, became practical.

‘Jean Marie Macleod, widower of Boston, will you marry Marie Christine de Valois, widow now of nowhere at all? Will you make an honest woman of me?'

No doubt remained, there it was. She was definitely asking him to marry her! He hesitated.

‘Of course, at any other time, well, as I say, of course. But at the moment …' and his words gave out.

Marie looked down.

‘I see.'

‘Dammit, woman, no you don't. I'd marry you tomorrow if I could. Today, now. God's teeth, I've loved you since we first met in New Orleans. How I've managed to be so close to you for so long and keep my sanity is beyond my power to understand.'

‘You
do
love me?'

‘Of course I damn well love you.'

‘But you won't marry me? Is it because …'

‘It's because we're married already.' Macleod saw that she didn't understand what he was trying to say. ‘How can we go out and get married when we have told people that we are on our marriage tour.'

‘I see.'

Macleod took her once again in his arms.

‘I hope you do, Marie. All I want is for us to marry and go back to Boston and become a normal, happy couple and live the most quiet existence on earth. But to do that we must finish what we came to Rome to do. And that means acting out our parts as a married couple.' Marie smiled and gave him a kiss. Macleod held her gently. ‘Marie, if we feel about each other as we do. If we love each other and must act the parts of man and wife, could we not …'

Her manner became firm and she pushed him away.

‘No, Jean, we could not. I have told you I have already sinned in my heart, I will not put our immortal souls at further at risk. We are not safe, we are still in danger. Think, Jean, what it would mean if we were to die with such a sin on our souls.'

Macleod did as he was bid, reluctantly coming to the conclusion that although he might be prepared to risk eternal flames, Marie, obviously, was not.

‘Of course.'

‘Tomorrow I will go and arrange to find a Father Confessor.'

‘Do you know where to go?'

‘Yes, I have made enquiries and there is a convent of White Nuns not far from here. They speak French there and are famous for their embroidery. They get many visitors. We can go there in the morning.'

‘We?'

‘You only as far as the door. Then you must wait for me.'

‘How long will that be?'

‘How can I tell?'

‘Very well, tomorrow we will go to the nuns and find you a Father Confessor.'

Marie clapped her hands.

‘Be happy for me, Jean, soon I will be free of my sin and now we know we love each other we should both be happy.'

Macleod forced a smile.

‘Of course I'm happy, how could I not be?'

How indeed?

Chapter Sixty-one

T
he following morning Macleod and Marie made their way down the steps, crossed the Piazza and made their way through the busy streets thronged with beggars, hucksters, the fashionable and furtive, and always the black garb of religion. They passed along the fine frontages of the Via dei Condotti and turned into the Bocca de Leone which took them, after a short time, to their destination which lay on the Via Vittoria.

The convent had a large crucifix in stone over a dark, heavy street door in the middle of which was a grille. The grille in the door shot open after Macleod had pulled the visitors' bell twice. Marie exchanged a few words with an invisible face, the door opened and Marie disappeared inside. The door closed and Macleod was alone on the steps. He stood for a moment, then walked slowly away.

He had not gone far when he saw a church. Opposite the church was what he took to be a coffee house or tavern of some sort. He walked towards its door and from inside heard the sound of conversation and laughter. He turned away and crossed to the church. He wanted silence, he wanted to think.

The inside of the church was dark and silent. The daylight from the upper windows, having been filtered through either dirt or the deep colours of the stained-glass, gave a modest illumination to the main aisle and the altar, but soon dissipated among the few dark side chapels. Macleod looked at the statue nearest to where he was standing. It was a bishop. He could tell that from the mitre, the crozier and the priestly robes, but there was no hint as to who this bishop-saint might be. Yet a dozen or so candles stood lit in the sand of the tray at his feet. Devotion, a mysterious emotion whether it was to God, a saint, or to a lover.

Macleod thought about what had passed between him and Marie on the previous day. Were they truly in love or had fate thrown them together in a way that somehow counterfeited that emotion? His body wanted her, he knew that.

He glanced up at the face of the bishop saint. Its blind eyes gazed down on him with a look of blank indifference. Macleod walked back to the door of the church and went out into the sunshine. The street was crowded but he decided that he would walk up and down until such time as the convent door was opened and Marie might once again be at his side.

Macleod had spent slightly more than one hour walking back and forth in deep thought and did not notice the convent door open and Marie emerge. She saw him, went to his side and fell into step beside him.

Macleod stopped.

‘Have I been so very long, Jean?'

‘I didn't notice, I was thinking.'

‘About us?'

‘Yes.'

She linked her arm through his.

‘Come, Jean, I have great news, wonderful news.'

‘You have found a Confessor?'

She gave a small laugh and they resumed walking.

‘That is not my news but, yes, I was introduced to an old Jesuit Father. He is Confessor to the nuns and we talked together. He will hear my confession tomorrow afternoon.'

Macleod was suddenly alarmed.

‘You didn't tell him why we were really here?'

‘But of course. If he is to hear my confession I could not begin by lying to him.'

‘My God, Marie, you don't know him. How could you give us so quickly into the hands of a total stranger? Why tell him anything about why we're here? If you had to tell him something why not use the story we agreed?'

‘But, Jean, he is a priest. He will be my Father Confessor. How could I lie to him?'

‘Because our lives may depend on it. What could one more small lie matter in a world of lies?'

‘But if I had lied to him today I would only have had to confess the lie tomorrow. You can see that can't you, Jean? If a confession is not a full confession it is no confession at all. You are a Catholic, you must understand.'

Macleod, reminded vividly of his childhood, was baffled by Marie's argument and her obvious certainty of having done the right thing. He could almost hear again the gentle rebuke in his mother's voice when he had questioned one of the many seemingly ludicrous Catholic beliefs she held and expected him to unquestioningly hold, “It is a mystery, Jean, we are not meant to understand. It is enough that God understands”.

That Marie should reveal their most intimate secret to someone she had met for the first time was indeed a mystery to Macleod, and one which he suspected not even God might understand.

But Marie had no such qualms about what she had done. She felt she had satisfactorily disposed of the matter so moved on.

‘Forget the old priest. Listen to my marvellous news.'

And as they walked up and down the street Marie told Macleod of her marvellous news.

The convent was French-speaking and many of the nuns were themselves of the nobility. It was indeed famous for its embroidery but it was even more famous as the refuge of choice for ladies of royal blood. Queen Clementina had taken shelter there during a tumultuous period in her marriage to James, the Old Pretender. The Countess of Albany, wife of The Young Pretender, Charles Stuart, had also fled there from her brutal and drunken husband. Two of King Louis XVI's aunts had stayed at the convent, having fled France and the Revolution.

Macleod listened as best he could to Marie's enthusiastic history lesson on the fate of royal ladies married and unmarried but, for the life of him, he couldn't see why or how it could be of use to them.

‘But, Marie, just because these great ladies fled to this particular convent to escape a brutal husband or worse how does that help our cause?'

‘Because I explained to the Mother Superior that before his death I was married to the youngest son of the Duc de Toulouse.'

‘I hope to God you didn't tell her how he died?'

‘No. I had to use a small lie. How could I tell the Mother Superior that he died in bed with a man at his side?'

‘Or that they both were shot.'

‘Oh that wouldn't have mattered, but to die in such a sin, to die in the arms of another man. I couldn't bring myself to tell her that. But it doesn't matter because I will confess the lie tomorrow and all will be well.' Macleod raised his eyes to heaven in disbelief but Marie, not noticing, went on. ‘I told her that I was newly married, I will confess that tomorrow as well, and that my husband and I were taking a tour before returning to Boston. I told her that your father had fought for Prince Charles and that your uncles had died in his service.'

‘What good did you think that would do?'

‘I am the widow of the son of a Duke, the Mother Superior is herself a lady. She sets store by such things. When I said we wished to ask the Prince's brother, Cardinal Henry, to give a blessing to us on our marriage she was delighted and will write a letter of introduction to the Cardinal which she will give me tomorrow. There, is that not truly wonderful news? Tomorrow we will have a letter of introduction, I will have made my confession and soon all our troubles will be over. Tell me you are pleased, Jean, tell me I have done well for us.'

Macleod's feelings were mixed, but he had to admit that, with a letter of introduction from the Mother Superior, their task had suddenly become much simpler.

‘You have done wonderfully, Marie, I don't know how we would have seen the Cardinal without such a letter. Where does he live?'

The smile on Marie's face disappeared.

‘Oh, Jean, I don't know. The Mother Superior didn't tell me and I never thought to ask.'

Macleod gave her arm a small squeeze.

‘No matter, you can ask tomorrow.'

And they continued their walk in the warm sunshine. All of a sudden Rome seemed a happy place, full of beauty and bright promise.

They did not look back at the convent door as they walked away. If they had done so, they might have seen an elderly figure in a long black soutane and a broad-brimmed black hat leave the convent and watch them for a moment before heading off in a hurry.