Daughters of the Storm (8 page)

‘No. It is not possible,' Héloïse replied. ‘My wishes do not carry any importance. It is my duty to do as they ask.'

Sophie dropped her gaze to her lap.

‘But do you not have a duty to yourself...?'

The cousins looked at each other and the exchanged came to a halt. Sophie did not yet know Héloïse well enough to continue such a dangerous subject.

Héloïse shrugged. ‘But what of you, Miss Luttrell?'

Sophie gave a little flutter of her eyelashes. ‘Well...,' she began.

The entrance of Ned bearing two glasses of wine put a stop to any further intimacies and Héloïse rose to greet him. Ned put the wine down and swept her a magnificent bow.

‘You are even more beautiful close to,' he said, and kissed her hand with a flourish.

Sophie subsided happily into her chair. She had been a little worried by this meeting, for the journey to France had not been without incident and Ned had occasionally been a trifle short-tempered. Héloïse was smiling up at Ned who was melting visibly under the impact of her dark eyes.

‘I hope you will stay with us for a while, Monsieur Luttrell,' she said. ‘We would take it unkindly if you did not. Madame,
ma mère,
has arranged that we shall enjoy ourselves,' she added to tempt him. ‘In fact, our engagements are such that we shall be quite worn out by the end of the season.'

‘Then, you can rely on me,' Ned said gallantly.

Héloïse inclined her head. ‘I would take it personally, Monsieur Luttrell, if I could not,' she said, enjoying the look of pure admiration that he sent her.

Sophie stood up and laid a hand on Ned's arm.

‘I have so much to learn, cousin, and I wish to consult you on all manner of things, beginning with wardrobe.'

‘Ah, but that is arranged,' Héloïse said mysteriously. ‘Wait and see.'

‘Mademoiselle de Guinot.' Ned was now serious. ‘I have heard that there has been trouble in the city.'

Héloïse nodded, not wishing to alarm her guests. ‘Yes. Some of the poorer elements marched on one of our prisons, the Bastille, and took it. It is a very old place and there were hardly any prisoners left, but the crowd took it into their head that it was worth “liberating”. The authorities have it well in hand.'

‘Why?' asked Sophie her curiosity aroused.

‘There has been much talk of change lately – in France, you know, we like to debate politics. There are some people, who do not have the right to do so, who wish to participate in the government of the country. This time, they went too far.'

‘And what is your opinion, Mademoiselle de Guinot?' asked Ned, forcing her to look at him.

‘It is simple,' Héloïse replied. ‘The king rules by divine consent and what he sees fit to do we must follow. There can be no debate about that.
C'est tout.'

She moved towards the door.

‘I must see to my guests, but I am so glad that you have come,' she said, and meant it. She left them together, Sophie still clasping Ned's arm. Ned's appreciative gaze followed her through the door.

At last, de Choissy came to make his farewells.

‘I look forward to visiting you frequently in Paris and at Versailles,' he informed his betrothed. He reached out his long thin fingers to kiss her hand and she knew he was goading her.

‘You cannot avoid me,' he said, ‘so you must learn to bear with me.'

She swallowed. ‘As God is my witness,' she said slowly. ‘I never wished for this, but I will do what is required of me.'

De Choissy stood quite still. ‘I believe I am growing quite fond of you already,' he said, and watched her eyes widen in disbelief. He raised his eye-glass. ‘There are many things you do not understand,
ma belle,
but I shall enjoy teaching you. Who knows? Perhaps you will be the saving of me. You possess both beauty and innocence, and they are rare commodities in my life.'

His eye-glass fell back on his breast and she stepped backwards, desperate to get away from his strange, almost satanic presence.

‘I shall not detain you any longer, mademoiselle. I can see you wish me to take my leave.'

Then he was gone, leaving the imprint of his lips burning on the blue-veined skin of her hand.

Chapter 5

William Jones cursed. Like everything he did, his swearing was fluent and efficient. The porter, who hastened to step forward at the sight of a well-to-do passenger, stopped in his tracks and listened with something like admiration. But since William was swearing in English the finer points, regretfully, were lost on him. Nevertheless, the porter conceded, here was a milord indeed worthy of his services, and he redoubled his efforts to engage William's attention.

William directed him to search through the pile of luggage that lay heaped in the middle of the square that was the diligence's final stop after the long journey from Calais.

‘A green portfolio, with a large lock wrought in silver,' he said. ‘It's missing. I had it in my hand a minute since, but I laid it down to search through my other bag and I fear someone has picked it up in error.'

His French was halting and unpractised, but grammatical enough. The porter squared his shoulders and proceeded to knock passengers and fellow porters flying as he waded into the fray. Minutes later, he emerged triumphant, holding the missing portfolio.

William took it gratefully and sat down on his trunk to check its contents, ignoring the reproachful looks directed at him by the unfortunates who had suffered at the porter's elbows. Thank God! The papers were intact. It would have been disastrous if they had fallen into the wrong hands.

William reread the letter bearing General Washington's signature which confirmed that he was seconded on a special mission for three years, and that his brief was to report back to the general on all that he considered politically or economically interesting in France. Then he slipped the letter back into the pocket concealed behind the lining where it joined a list of contacts, letter-drops and useful addresses that he was under orders to destroy if he considered it necessary. He had spent much of the sea voyage memorising the addresses and perfecting his grasp of the cipher in which he was to write his reports. He was almost ready to destroy the incriminating list but had decided that it was wiser to wait until he was more fully established in Paris.

William had never intended to be a spy – for that is what he had agreed to become – and was still getting used to the idea. He had not been surprised at the summons to Washington's home outside Williamsburg shortly after the great man's inauguration as president, because Mr Jones senior was married to Washington's second cousin and therefore entitled to petition his illustrious connection on behalf of his promising only son. But he had been surprised by the nature of the position offered. It did not take William long to make up his mind. This was a good opportunity which would lead to further advancement, and William was ambitious. If he had a flicker of squeamishness as to the morality of the role, William dismissed it as being necessary in the service of his country.

‘Not', the general had inflected sternly at the interview, ‘that we have any malign purpose in mind, Mr Jones. In fact, we look upon France with the warmest of feelings, but my agents inform me that a large pot is about to boil over there. I need not point out that the growth of any republican movement is of particular interest. You will write to me at regular intervals and account to me for your expenses, but to all intents and purposes you are a Mr William Jones from Williamsburg, Virginia, on a mission to sell land to possible settlers.'

William grimaced at his narrow escape and wondered how the general would rate him if he had seen him commit such a primary blunder as leaving his papers unguarded. It did not bear thinking of. He picked up his hat, settled it on his head and smoothed the sleeves of his new coat. Made by an English tailor only recently arrived in America, it was of light blue cloth, unlined except for the tails, and sported a turn-down collar, under which masterpiece he wore a double-breasted waistcoat of sprigged satin. Satisfied with his appearance - neat, ordered and yet the cut of his tailoring betraying a certain dash - he looked round for a fiacre, ordered his luggage to be taken up and climbed inside.

The day was cloudy, but even so the fluid Gothic lines of the numerous churches and the yellow and grey stone houses lining the thoroughfares made a deep impression on him, used as he was to square red-brick buildings and white-painted wood. Here was a city that had a long ancient history, and for a visitor from the New World such as William it was fascinating. He looked forward to sampling its pleasures. Now all he had to do was carry out his mission, and although he did not underestimate the skill he would need or the sacrifices that he might be called on to make, or, indeed, the dangers, William was confident in his own powers. There was just a trace of complacency on his features as he sat back on the squabs of the fiacre.

At the Hôtel de Richelieu the American envoy, Gouverneur Morris, was waiting to welcome him. Gregarious, clever, of easy address and possessed of only one leg, which made him the target of many a soft-hearted lady, he moved in the highest of circles, and he was more than happy to put his savoir faire at William's disposal. Without enquiring too deeply, Mr Morris indicated that he understood William's needs.

‘I have arranged for you to meet several of my acquaintances, among them Monsieur le Comte de Choissy, who seems particularly anxious to discuss business with you. If you play your cards right, you might be asked to stay at the Hôtel de Choissy – his hospitality is famous. You can, of course, remain here as long as you wish but I must point out that my apartments are limited in size.'

Mr Morris paused delicately.

‘I will not impose on you any longer than necessary,' William reassured him.

‘Meanwhile,' continued Mr Morris, ‘I believe you will have need of a room in which to conduct your business.' He handed William a key and added enigmatically, ‘I think this is suitable for your needs.'

*

This is the beginning of a double life, thought William as he alighted from a cab several days later. He was in the Marais quarter of Paris and it was growing dark. He had chosen the hour deliberately, but the gloom added to his problems of finding his way. The Marais was an area well suited to the clandestine: an unknown territory of narrow winding streets and swarming populace, of houses with secrets exits, of unexpected short cuts, dangerous-looking alleys and unalleviated darkness, for few, if any, lanterns were slung on ropes across the streets. It was here that his game of pretence and counter-pretence would be fought, using subterfuge, intrigue and his cool, reasoning intelligence.

William struck eastwards along the street. At the Place Royale he turned right and followed the delapidated stone arcade that ran around the square. Even in the bad light William could see that it had once been magnificent, but now there was an emptiness hovering over the decaying pavilions that struck a chill in him. Mr Morris had told him that once it had been the centre of fashionable Paris where the nobility had come to entertain and be entertained in hired rooms. Outside number 7 he stopped, pushed open the main door, which yielded with a creak, and let himself into the vestibule. He scrabbled in his pocket for a tinder, lit a taper and ascended the staircase. Halfway up, he halted and his heart beat erratically with fright. He thought he had heard the whisper of voices and the scuffle of feet and for a moment he imagined that the house was peopled with painted and bejewelled shades from long ago. Then he smiled at his own fancifulness. It was only the rats running for cover at the sound of his footsteps.

Nevertheless, his hand shook a little as he fitted his key into the lock of the room that opened off the first landing. He stood safeguarding his light until his eyes adjusted and the acrid odour of decay had receded, and discovered he was standing in a huge reception room whose windows overlooked the garden in the square's centre. Even after the summer the chill was intense. William saw at once that the room was far too large for his needs and he walked down it towards a pair of double doors at one end.

These gave off on to a much smaller room, which he noted with satisfaction held a fireplace. He inspected the room thoroughly, testing the walls with his hands, where he encountered patches of damp and peeling plaster. It would do, he decided. When he was settled in he would arrange for some furniture to be brought and order some cupboards to be made, into which he would build a secret compartment.

William smoothed back his hair with a nervous gesture. The Place Royale would be the place where he received his agents, kept his reports and worked on his documents – a world away from the other William Jones who had an entrée into the best French society and intended to make use of it. If he was careful and prudent, his secrets would be safe, and there was no reason at all why anyone should ever suspect the persona of Mr William Jones, land agent. William foresaw no problem at all.

Chapter 6

‘Ned, you are being ridiculous.' Sophie almost stamped her foot in frustration. ‘There can be no possible harm in it. Either you or Miss Edgeworth can chaperon me.'

‘I don't approve of it. Why don't you go on one of your infernal sight-seeing trips with Miss Edgeworth instead? The marquise has put the cabriolet at your disposal.'

Ned spoke from the depths of a chair where he was perusing a broadsheet. His tone was lazy, but Sophie knew that he meant what he said.

‘But it's so important that we take an interest.'

‘Is it? I can't think why.'

Sophie was trying to persuade Ned to take her to listen to the debates in the National Assembly at Versailles, and Ned would have none of it.

‘Ned, you don't understand.'