Daughters of the Storm (40 page)

‘Quite like old times, Sophie,' he remarked.

She removed the reins from his grasp.

‘Thank you, Ned, but I can manage. Yes, it is, isn't it?'

They clipped down the Rue de l'Université and the Rue Dominique, picked their way over the Champ de Mars and made for the
barrière
gate and the road which led south-west out of the city. The burning heat of summer had softened and there was a hint of autumn in the air. The leaves crunched underfoot and once outside the gate (a protracted negotiation which had taken all of Sophie's skill to conclude) there was an intoxicating feeling of freedom. The air was fresh and sweet and they urged their horses onward, galloping between farmhouses and vine fields and finally into a long, open meadow.

Shouting and laughing, their differences momentarily forgotten, they trotted over to a clump of trees and dismounted. Ned handed Sophie to the ground. She sat down on the rug that the groom had spread out and waited for Ned to open the hamper.

‘Hurry up,' she said. ‘I'm hungry.'

It was true, she felt hungrier than she had done for months. Ned watched her cut herself a piece of chicken and he drained a glass of wine. Paris lay before them and Sophie pausing between mouthfuls, was pulled back to reality, and wondered how anything so beautiful could house so much horror and sadness.

When she had finished, he spoke.

‘Sophie, I want no more of this nonsense.'

Sophie set down her glass of wine. She did not have to ask what he meant.

‘I have waited long enough,' he continued. ‘And I now have the correct papers. Miss Edgeworth and I are in agreement. It is time to leave.'

Sophie raised an eyebrow.

‘Miss Edgeworth? I wasn't aware she had discussed her views on the matter with you.'

‘Of course she has.' Ned spoke impatiently. ‘And don't get high and mighty with me. She is a sensible woman and she agrees that your adventure in France is over.'

‘Leave Miss Edgeworth out of this, if you please.' Sophie's anger surged over her. ‘I shall speak to her when we get back. Much as I admire and rely on her, this is not a matter for her.'

‘You forget,' said Ned, leaning back on the rug. ‘She is in Sir Brinsley's employ and must carry out his wishes.'

‘Ciel!'
said Sophie. ‘So it is Miss Edgeworth who decides my affairs.'

Ned sat up. ‘You're in danger of becoming impossible,' he said. ‘Not worthy, Sophie. Not when you think of what's going on.'

Sophie subsided, a little ashamed of her outburst.

Ned plucked at a blade of grass. ‘Sophie, you shall be made to see sense, if I have to beat it into you.'

‘Spare me your bullying, Ned. It does not become
you.'

‘Sophie. Do I have to spell it out to you? You are an unmarried woman. You don't have the right to set yourself up against your father's wishes. Nor, for that matter, mine. You must obey us.'

Sophie looked up at him and there was a great deal of pity in her eyes. Ned had spoken to her from another world, a world she suddenly understood with a new clarity she had left behind. She picked a daisy out of the grass and rolled it between her fingers. It was no longer enough to be a dutiful daughter and wife. There had to be something more in her life. Sophie wanted the liberty to choose her own destiny. A key had turned in a door and opened to reveal a truth which had been there all along.

It would not be easy, and Sophie was aghast at her own daring, and not a little afraid. But it was quite clear to her that she could never surrender herself to a man such as Ned. The pieces of the jigsaw that had eluded her during the past few months fell into place and she saw, at last, where all her worry and confusion had been leading.

‘I shall not marry you, Ned,' she said quietly.

Ned put down his chicken leg.

‘It's that man, isn't it?' He was furious and acid. ‘He's seduced you. I should never have allowed you to remain in Paris. I thought perhaps if I left you alone you would come to your right mind, but I should have taken you away the minute I suspected...'

Sophie raised her hand to stem the tirade.

‘Stop,' she said. ‘It does you no good. I have not yet decided whether I will marry Mr Jones or not, but I have decided that I cannot marry you. I am deeply sorry.'

Ned got to his feet.

‘If you marry him, Sophie, you will never see High Mullions again. I shall forbid you the place.'

Sophie leapt to her feet and seized Ned by the arm. Of course... of course Ned had aimed at the spot where it would hurt.

‘You forget, sir, that you are not master of High Mullions until my father dies.' This time she failed to stifle her ‘I will go back when I wish. My father will receive me, I know. If I'm still there when he dies, then well and good. But until that day you have no power to say such things.'

Ned had put on a little weight over the past year which made him look older. He was also more careworn. Observing this, Sophie's anger faded and she hated herself for hurting him. Ned grasped her by the shoulders. Sophie recoiled, but forced herself to look up into his face.

‘I think you're lying to me about Mr Jones,' he said, ‘and I'm astounded by your treachery.'

Sophie flinched.

‘Harsh words will not make me change my mind,' she replied. ‘But I own you have a perfect right to be angry.'

‘I want to shake you, Sophie.'

‘I am trying to make you understand what you are doing,' he said, modifying his tone. ‘You are throwing away your future and your reputation for a whim – a stupid notion that has fixed itself in your head.'

‘Ned, I am able to make my own decisions.'

‘But you don't have the right, Sophie,' he flung back at her.

‘You believe that,' she spoke thoughtfully. ‘And you wouldn't be alone. That's one of the reasons I can't marry you. You would own my life.'

He made no denial.

‘Do you know what this Mr Jones does?'

‘Of course I do.'

‘Well, you don't,' Ned said – and he was taking his time.

So, Ned knew something she didn't. He searched in his pocket and produced a packet.

‘This, my dear girl, is what your Mr Jones really does. He is nothing more or less than a common spy,' he said, holding out the packet.

A magpie flew out of the trees in front of her and Sophie watched it and the ground appeared to shift under her feet. She took the packet from him.

‘I don't believe you.'

‘Read it,' said Ned. ‘On second thoughts, you won't be able to, the papers are written in some kind of code. But I have. From what I can make out they are written to his government and appear to give details of naval fortifications and financial transactions in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Now, what have those to do with a land agent? Mr Jones, it would seem, has a secret life.'

‘How did you get hold of them?'

Sophie held it by her fingertips.

‘It doesn't matter,' said Ned impatiently.

Sophie threw the packet back at Ned.

‘Take it, Ned,' she said.

Her thoughts raced.

William a spy. A man with a double life. The thought was jolting, almost unbearabe for a spy was someone who lied and pretended. A spy was also not to be trusted and she valued trust and honesty.

The doubts slid into her mind. William was always so well informed. Who was that odd man at White's Hotel? How had he known about the
Marseillaise
being sung in Brussels?

‘It
isn't
true,' she whispered, willing herself not to believe it.

‘But it is,' said Ned, stooping to pick up the packet. ‘The proof is here.'

Sophie turned away. ‘I thought better of you. If you wanted me, it would have been better to convince me of your qualities, not the lack of William's.'

‘
Sophie...'

The sun continued to shine down into the meadow – but shadows, deep and impenetrable, stretched out between them.

‘Sophie. I have not...' Ned looked at his feet. ‘I've not always treated you well. I own to that. But that's in the past. I feel differently now. I cannot permit you to make this mistake. Come home with me and we can forget all this.'

She observed the man who had so often occupied her thoughts - at the strong body which she perceived with a tug of something which must be pity was already coarsening, and the wide mouth wearing a defensive smile – and realised that they no longer possessed any power to move her.

‘I can't pretend what you have told me about William is welcome,' she said. ‘But it does not in any way alter my decision not to marry you.'

Goaded beyond reason, Ned pulled her to him.

‘Indeed?' he said, and began to kiss her. His tongue filled her mouth and his body pressed hard against hers. Gasping she pushed him away roughly.

They glared at each other.

‘You're making a mistake,' he said. ‘Remember that I was willing to marry you, despite your idiotic pretensions and your flirtation.'

Sophie bent to pick up her crop. ‘That is almost the stupidest thing you have said, Ned,' she said in a shaking voice. ‘Though I thank you for the sentiment. When I am a careworn old maid – if I am – then I shall remind myself of it.'

‘Sophie.' Ned realised that his anger had allowed him to go too far. ‘Please think again.'

To her horror, she saw that there were tears in his eyes.

‘Please don't speak to me again,' she said, wanting only to have done with this encounter.

Ned was silent – and his hurt changed to malice. ‘Then, don't ever come back begging for forgiveness,' he said finally. ‘Because you won't get it. Furthermore, you will never set foot in High Mullions again.'

‘So be it...' She breathed in, hard and sharp. ‘So be it.'

Sophie, led the way across the meadow and to the waiting groom. Without addressing a word further to each other, they rode back into the city.

Two days later, Ned left Paris for the last time and took a protesting Miss Edgeworth with him. Sophie felt she had no choice but to let her governess go, and she bade her farewell with more than a few tears. To Ned she said nothing. Nevertheless, it was with a heavy heart and equivocal emotions that she watched the equipage draw out from the courtyard from behind a window, and raised her hand to them in an unnoticed farewell.

Chapter 16

Pierre lay looking up at the darkening sky, which was strange because it was not long after one o'clock. Around him the noise of battle went on and on – the thunder and whistle of bullets, the sudden silences and the sound of cannon hitting soft ground. And the screams that always came afterwards.

But it was no use wasting these minutes in useless emotion. He had to think. What was happening to the battle? He remembered a force of 82,000 Frenchmen facing 131,000 men of the royalist and imperial armies under the command of the Duke of Brunswick. He remembered how someone had called out ‘Long live the nation' and how the French had sung
Ça ira.
He remembered the French centre of operations had formed the apex of a right angle, just by the village of Valmy's windmill. It was there that Pierre had felt a strange displacement of air and a hot, rushing wind before the earth had swung up to meet him.

It was hot and dry. Above him the forms of his fellow soldiers wavered at him through a shimmering mist and the grass was stained red, rust and black. Pierre tried to move and failed. This was the second time he had tried. At first, he had put it down to the shock of being thrown to the earth after a cannon ball had scythed its way through the French ranks. This time he understood what was wrong, and he bit his lip in anger and despair.

One of his mates bent over him. ‘Keep going,
mon vieux,
we're chasing the buggers off the field.'

Pierre's fingers scrabbled at the front of his tunic.

‘Do something for me?'

His friend understood and reached inside Pierre's shirt and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

‘Send it,' Pierre whispered, his breath labouring. ‘My dying wish.'

The face above him nodded.

‘Of course. I must go. Good luck.'

Pierre was left with the sensation of lead casing his limbs and settling over his brain. He wanted Marie-Victoire, so he tried to summon her picture up in his mind – a pair of gold-flecked eyes, a rounded shoulder, long brown hair streaming down a white back – but it was no good. She was sinking further and further away, and he hadn't the energy to chase her.

A sob rose to his lips. Something wet was seeping down his back and welling along his leg. Was it so very wonderful, he asked himself, to die for an ideal? The haze in front of his eyes deepened. The heat sucked at him, and his limbs stiffened.

At last the sky grew black. Pierre sighed and lay still.

On January 21st, the king was woken at five o'clock. Already the drums were sounding in the cold dawn. He dressed, heard Mass and walked out to his carriage.

It was a long journey to the guillotine and it was not until half-past nine that the procession inched its way into the Place Louis XV, now renamed the Place de la Révolution.

The king descended from his carriage, allowed his captors to cut his hair and removed his brown greatcoat. Guards tied his hands behind his back, and Louis mounted the scaffold. He tried to address his people, but the drummers prevented his words from being heard. All too quickly, he was hustled to the plank of the guillotine and the great blade came down.

A hush appeared to grip the city, impressing those waiting to enter outside the closed
barrière
gates.For that regicidial moment, the life in Paris was suspendedl. Then in the Place de la Révolution the crowd rushed forward. They threw their hats into the air, screamed their joy and fought to dip their handkerchiefs into the blood.