Daughters of the Storm (28 page)

‘Ciel,'
remarked Helen on receiving the last, ‘I had no idea you were a feminist and a liberal.'

‘No, nor did I,' replied Sophie. ‘It was only when I began writing that I knew what I felt. But, truly, I am increasingly of the opinion that the subject of our sex's position in our society should be addressed.'

Helen gave her a shrewd glance. ‘So the young one is growing wings,' she said thoughtfully. ‘We must encourage you. I shall try to arrange an invitation to Mademoiselle de Gouges. Olympe would be delighted to discuss such matters with you. She's writing a pamphlet on very much the same subject. Now, and this is important, you must not tell anyone what you are doing. We don't want any well-meaning interference, do we?'

Sophie had agreed and had thought no more of it.

Why did she write? Taking pleasure in the sense of power that her writing gave her was one answer. Feeling her mind grow stronger and more supple was another. Writing brought her a sense of purpose and an opportunity to think about, and to grasp, affairs that were outside her immediate concern. Her subjects gave Sophie much to consider and it also comforted her enormously that in this area of her life, at least, there was no confusion.

She did, however, let Miss Edgeworth into the secret, and her governess approved the scheme.

‘I think it will do you a lot of good, my dear,' she said after a moment. ‘You need to come down to earth a little after all this gaiety. Some mature reflection and application will make a better woman of you.'

Miss Edgeworth, if the truth was known, was becoming a shade alarmed both by the political situation and by Sophie. She was beginning to think it was time she took charge and conveyed Sophie back to England. Or, indeed, that it was time Ned returned. The last, of course, was a concession made only out of loyalty to her employers, for Miss Edgeworth, herself a touch infatuated with William, considered that here, at last, was a man worthy of Miss Luttrell. But, then, Miss Edgeworth was, despite her black silk and corkscrew curls, something of a free spirit. But after a great deal of anxious thought, Miss Edgeworth decided she had no power to influence events and to hold her peace a little longer.

Neither of the women thought to ask what happened to Sophie's documents once Miss Williams had borne them away. It did not occur to them that she might be careless in whom she entrusted them to, or that the men who sweated over the back-street presses were unscrupulous and possibly loose-tongued. As it happened, they should have done. Sophie's reflections on the king and the constitution caught the eye of one such publisher, who sat up all night to set the text. By the next afternoon, it was being hawked along the river bank together with
La Vie Scandaleuse de Marie-Antoinette
and other such interesting documents, where it was bought and read with attention.

One such passer-by – a tall, blond, foreign-looking gentleman – stopped to buy and skimmed through it. What he read alarmed him. He re-read a paragraph. Surely it wasn't... he hoped it wasn't... but he feared that it was. It was the very same phrase, the very same turn of words. His eye went to the bottom of the page where the anonymous author was billed as a lady of quality and learning. Retracing his steps, he demanded of the seller how many copies had been sold. The vendor shrugged and told him he couldn't keep count but he did know that a gentleman prominent in the increasingly influential anti-monarchist Jacobin club had also bought a copy which he intended to show his colleagues.

William had cursed Sophie's imprudence and returned to his rooms to think.

Meanwhile, keeping an eye on the clock, Sophie wrote on in blissful ignorance. At eleven precisely, she sanded the paper and folded it. Then she rose and tugged at the bell to summon her maid, and applied herself to the more frivolous matters of her dress.

It had been decided to take a boat down the river to the July 14th celebrations. The party, consisting of the marquis and marquise, Héloïse, de Choissy, William and Sophie, planned to land near the field of the Champ de Mars and to progress gently towards the royal marquee. It had taken a great deal of persuasion to make the de Guinots attend the celebration – such an occasion was deeply repugnant to them and went directly contrary to their deepest beliefs. In the end, it was de Choissy who argued them around, pointing out that the king required their support and it was wise to run with the prevailing tide. Héloïse had agreed with him and, anyway, she had been ordered to attend the queen. For her part, Sophie wished to observe the anniversary at close quarters.

Seated opposite her in the boat, William watched Sophie unobtrusively and wondered what thoughts were going through that golden head. The sun played on the green and brown of the water and coloured up the ripples and eddies. The air had all the allure of summer. Birds dipped in and out of the spray sent up from their oars. Dressed in bright green, the fruit trees budded in the gardens that sloped down to the water's edge and the outlines of buildings were softened in the sunlight. To Sophie's right lay the Tuileries and its gardens. Beyond the bend in the river to the left, was the area known as the Champ de Mars. Here there were cows in the orchards, and vegetables growing in the market gardens and, over towards the Champs Élysées, a long oblong patch of grass.

The boats glided along with the current. Sophie sighed and closed her eyes.

The heat reminded William of Virginia. He wondered briefly how Elizabeth was faring and resolved once again to write her an honest letter.

How curious love is, he reflected, sneaking yet another look at Sophie. What were the pieces that made up the jigsaw? Was it lust and the feel of a body under yours? Was it the little flickers of perfect understanding that passed between two people? Was it the shape of a breast, or the curve of a neck or the sight of a pulse beating on satiny skin? How did you put the picture together, and was there no choice in the matter? Why was it that, day by day, another little detail of Sophie's face became imprinted on his heart, and the sound of her voice stirred in him an ever deepening desire to take care of her?

William did not know the answers. He knew only that his emotions were no longer under his control.

Sophie stirred in her seat.

‘Are you comfortable?' he asked.

William had broken into her reverie and her watched with enjoyment as the grey eyes widened and she snapped to attention.

‘Indeed I am, never more so.'

He detected a hint of mockery and smiled lazily at her. She dipped a hand into the water and let it trail.

William grew serious. It was time he warned Sophie of her possible danger and to ask what her plans were. Paris was becoming dangerous, or at the very least unpredictable. Certainly, it was simmering with discontent and subject to violent fluctuations in the mood of those who took to the streets. As a foreigner, one had to be doubly careful – William fingered the cuff on his coat where a sealed packet containing his latest report had been sewn into it – and if you were a woman as well, then it was folly to invite censure.

The situation had to be explained to her but William hesitated. First, because the right opportunity had not yet presented itself and, secondly, because William was loath to trespass on territory that was not his. It was Ned Luttrell who should take charge. Unless things had changed? Even so, Ned's shadow still hung over Sophie, a large, angry memory that was not going to be easily dismissed. Any success William might have with Sophie depended on William not having pressed her over his feelings. His restraint had given him an authority. He knew that she dreaded offending her parents, and he also knew that she loved High Mullions. It was a predicament that was not so far from his own with the long-suffering Elizabeth.

Sophie stirred and waved a gloved hand in the direction of the others.

‘We are nearly there,' she informed him.

Over on the left bank, the crowd had thickened and parties of boats were negotiating with each other to reach the landing stages. The boatman piloted his craft through the traffic and nudged the prow towards the landing stage. Safely landed, Sophie was waiting for the rest of the party to disembark when William whispered into her ear.

‘I must speak with you alone, soon.'

Her face was puzzled but she nodded, before moving forward to greet the de Guinots.

The marquise was in a frosty mood, as she so often was these days. Privately, Sophie considered that her manner concealed fear, and she did not blame her aunt, but she knew that Héloïse found her mother very difficult and she was distressed on that account for her cousin. The marquis was his usual courteous self, although obviously distracted and suffering from over-work. He was no longer a minister, the king having been obliged to dismiss him earlier in the year, but he still collaborated closely with his sovereign and the strain of it was beginning to take its toll.

William scanned the field in front of him and his brow furrowed. He mistrusted the atmosphere.

‘I know,' remarked a voice at his elbow. ‘The Champ de Mars does appear to have a remarkable resemblance to a military camp.'

De Choissy spoke softly, as was his custom.

‘Worried?' asked William in an undertone, not wishing the ladies to hear him.

‘No more than usual. But I shall trust you, my friend, to take Miss Luttrell and Madame la Comtesse away if there should be trouble. I shall attend to my dear parents-in-law.
Comprenez?'
De Choissy was commanding, not requesting.

‘Of course,' replied William, making a mental note of the topography. ‘Have you spoken to Monsieur le Marquis?'

‘I am about to do so,' replied de Choissy and moved languidly away.

The men handed the ladies through the crush towards the royal marquee, which was enclosed by a ring of smaller tents. Beside each of these fluttered a tricolour flag, its bold red, white and blue echoed in the thousands of cockades sported by the crowd. The servants, bearing food and wine, ducked from one to another, and sweated in the sun.

On the surface, Paris was
en fête,
alive with, what seemed to be, an innocent and carefree gaiety – a moving mass of colour, noise and movement. Old men gossiped under the trees and the younger men wandered around. The women organised the food and marshaled the children who darted and chattered like starlings.

William's sharp eye noted the large numbers from the poorer elements. For each well-brushed coat and pair of breeches there were the trousers and red
carmagnole
waistcoat of the artisan. For each silk gown worn by the well-to-do housewife, there was the plain stuff frock and shawl of the seamstress or the rags of the to-be-pitied street drab. Yes, they were there and William reckoned he could read a fierceness and determination in their demeanour that had not been there before.

Was he imagining things? The trouble with all this upheaval, he thought, was that no one knew where it would lead. No one had ever been in the situation before.

Sophie tugged at his arm.

‘Look over there,' she said. William followed the direction of her pointing finger to where a tree stood bedecked with objects. Almost blinded by the light, he could just make out a profusion of paper pictures of armorial bearings, crowns, cardinals' hats and St Peter's keys pinned on to it.

‘I see,' he said... he was noting the details for further reports. ‘Those pieces of paper represent the king, the pope and the aristocracy. I wonder what the authorities mean to do?'

Sophie's attention was now caught by a pair of sweethearts. Scarcely more than children, they were wandering through the crowd with arms around each other, so thin and pale that their entwined limbs seemed almost transparent. As she watched, the girl stopped to speak to her lover and Sophie glimpsed a pale face whose papery-dry, bluish skin seemed not to belong to the living. Sophie shivered and her grey eyes widened in sudden apprehension. She turned to William.

‘We must join the others,' she said. ‘The marquise will be waiting.'

Inside the royal tent, the courtiers stood to attention while the royal family moved down the line, almost certainly trying to ignore that the gaps in their once numerous court were becoming more and more obvious. The royal children were very much in evidence. Madame Royale stuck her chin into the air and the little dauphin hopped from foot to foot, impatient for the ceremony to begin. The king peered out on the world from under his wig, his slow, amiable face as usual expressive of nothing very much. He was dressed in a rich silk coat over a thick padded undergarment which the queen had insisted he wear as a precaution against an assassin's dagger. But his sword sat awkwardly at his hip and his white stockings were wrinkled. Even Héloïse, always quick to defend her sovereign, had to admit that, set against the tailored apparel of more fashionable gallants, he looked hopelessly old-fashioned.

Marie-Antoinette was by his side, stiff and haughty – and desperately anxious. She had lost weight and her sapphire-blue dress hung loosely on the once ample frame. Her magnificent hair was thinning and whitening, and the famous Habsburg underlip was bitten raw. Her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping and from hours of deciphering codes late into the night when she wrote frantic missives asking for help to courts all over Europe and – so it was whispered - letters to the man she loved, Count Axel Fersen. Marie-Antoinette's habit was to twist the diamond rings round and round on her fingers. Héloïse had reason to know that habit well. She was doing that now.

‘La pauvre reine,'
whispered Sophie to Héloïse.

Héloïse sighed. It was true, despite her straight back and proudly held head, the queen presented a sad spectacle. All of the royal family did. There was a beaten look about them; and an ominous feel hung over the proceedings. Privately, Héloïse was beginning to be afraid that the unthinkable could happen and France would put aside its king and queen. But she was not going to admit as much to Sophie, and certainly not in public. She frowned at her cousin. Sophie raised an eyebrow but she took the message.