Season of Light (31 page)

‘Toulon? Why would he write to me if he knew he was going to be so far away?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t understand it. You say he gave no address.’ This time, when Asa held out the letters, Beatrice took them. In the old days her right hand had been touchingly stained with ink, on the third finger, like Asa’s own, the mark of a scholar. Now her hands were coarse and the nails had been cut brutally short. ‘I can’t understand it,’ Beatrice said again. ‘It is so out of character for him to do anything as reckless as this. And why would he give no address? Of course, I knew Didier had fallen in love with you that time you were in Paris, but I thought …’

‘You knew?’

‘Why, of course. Didier talked about nothing but you for months after you left. But then we all became caught up in the Revolution and I presumed he’d forgotten about you. You never mentioned him in the letters you wrote to me.’

‘You must think my behaviour was very wrong.’

‘
His
behaviour.
His
. What he did is far worse. I assumed that there was nothing but infatuation on both sides. Now I discover that you’ve waited for him all this time.’

‘We were going to marry …’

‘Marry? Surely not. No. He promised you that? When did this happen? You scarcely knew him.’

‘You mustn’t think we were trying to deceive you.’

‘But I was
there
at the salons and the theatre. I can’t understand how you managed private conversation, let alone talk of marriage. My brother told me everything at that time, or so I thought. We were very close.’ Her eyes had become wary and cold again. ‘You met in secret, didn’t you? Of course, your hotel was very close … He seduced you. Is that what happened? Oh dear God. I hope not.’

There was a confident knock on the door below followed by light footfall on the stairs, and the next moment the same young woman who had been with Beatrice in the square the previous day burst in. Collapsing into a seat, she tore off her bonnet and began using it as a fan. Her face was damp with perspiration. ‘You would not believe what’s going on out there. My God, Beatrice, you should come down to the Hôtel de Ville. History is being made before our very eyes.’

‘Charlotte, this is a family friend, Thomasina, who is paying me a brief visit. Thomasina, Charlotte Corday.’

‘Very pleased to meet you,’ exclaimed Charlotte, leaning forward to press Asa’s hand. ‘What an unusual name. How long are you staying?’

‘She’s just arrived in town and doesn’t appear to be very well,’ said Beatrice sharply. ‘You shouldn’t pester her, Charlotte.’

Asa was given a critical stare, as if Charlotte was amazed anyone could dream of being weak. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Seriously, though, Beatrice, come into town with me later. Another five deputies are staying in the Hôtel de l’Intendance now, all fled from Paris. The crowds are out, cheering them through the gates. How could such good men be considered a threat? But we are turning the tables on Paris. Have you heard? A committee has been convened.’ She waited a moment for Beatrice’s response, but none was forthcoming. ‘We are going to send a declaration to Paris, and we will make demands they cannot refuse.’

‘Hush,’ said Beatrice, nodding towards Asa. ‘Thomasina doesn’t want to hear about all this.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Asa. ‘I’m staying in Caen, after all, and I’ve listened to the speakers in the square.’

‘Good for you,’ said Charlotte, glancing triumphantly at Beatrice. ‘You’re one of us, I can see that. In any case, I don’t care what anyone thinks, I’m past caring. What can be wrong with demanding that our deputies should be restored to their places on the National Convention? What is wrong in asking that the Revolutionary Tribunal be abolished? I think you should try writing to that brother of yours one last time, Beatrice. Get him to speak up for us.’

‘Hush now, not so loud,’ said Beatrice quickly. ‘You’re forgetting where you are. For God’s sake, we don’t need any more trouble in this house. We’ll definitely be punished.’

‘Let them punish us. That’ll be proof once and for all that they care nothing for France, if they’re prepared to kill their fellow citizens.’

‘Look what’s already happened to Father,’ murmured Beatrice. ‘Don’t you think he’s suffered enough?’

The sunlight had shifted so that it was now burning directly on to Asa’s neck. Beatrice’s room seemed distressingly similar to the parlour at Ardleigh, full of purpose – books, pens, and newssheets everywhere, and these ardent young women perspiring in their simple cotton gowns. She stood up dizzily and said: ‘I should go.’

‘Where are you staying?’ asked Beatrice. ‘Do you know the way back?’

‘Just a guest house near the Church of St-Jean.’

‘Not the auberge on the corner?’ cried Charlotte. ‘You can’t stay there. It’s so grim. Beatrice, why do you let her? Listen, we’ll all go out. It’s quite wrong to be cooped up there when so much is going on in town.’

‘Please,’ said Asa, ‘I’d rather be on my own.’

Beatrice accompanied her downstairs and spoke in a low voice as they reached the door. ‘I’m sorry she barged in like that. We’ve known each other since we were children and she’s used to treating this house as if it were her own. The only good thing is she’s so full of her own ideas she won’t have paid much attention to you. I can scarcely take in what you’ve told me. I need to think about it – and I’ll speak to Father. But I’m sure it would be much better if you went back to England as soon as possible. That would be the best plan. Caen is a dangerous place. Charlotte is not the only one full of rage.’

‘I can’t go home until I’ve seen Didier,’ said Asa. ‘I have to know why he sent that note.’

‘Then I’ll visit you in a day or two.’

At least Beatrice took Asa’s hand and kissed her on either cheek before crossing the shady courtyard and admitting her to the hot street. So, she must survive a few more days alone before Beatrice would see her again. As she returned to the auberge, the streets of the town seemed to have narrowed, the walls of the castle grown higher, so that it was a threatening presence. People kept to the shade except those who couldn’t avoid the sun: officials on horseback, the military, wagon drivers, the occupant of a carriage spattered with dirt, his face grey and ill shaven, followed by a mob of youths who banged on the carriage door yelling: ‘
Vive la Liberté. Vivent les citoyens de Caen. Vivent les Carabots
.’

Asa slipped inside the church opposite the auberge, where the smiling Madonna was cool in her star-spangled cloak. This time Asa knelt as a Catholic would, as Madame had done.

Show me what to do.

From her pocket she withdrew Didier’s crumpled handkerchief, exactly the blue of the Madonna’s robe only perhaps a little more faded. Turquoise was the colour of Caen, then.

No word came from Beatrice. Each morning Asa met her landlady lurking in the gloomy lobby by the front door. ‘Where is your mistress? I’ve not seen her for days.’

‘She was called away from town. Sickness in the family.’

The landlady thrust out her long-nailed hand and took Asa’s money. ‘I must say I’ve never heard of such a thing, a mistress leaving her maid. The room costs the same, whether it’s occupied by one or two. And I don’t want you hanging around, drawing attention to yourself.’

In the streets Asa was always on the move, in case anyone was looking for a stray English woman thinly disguised as a French maid. But she could never escape the eyes watching: street children begging for a sou; men on horseback patrolling the streets with sheaves of paper tucked under their arms and muskets across their saddles; wild-eyed gangs of youths who raged from square to square searching for a fresh injustice or a new fugitive from Paris needing an escort to the Hôtel de Ville.

More and more deputies who had allied themselves with Brissot came galloping to Caen in fear of their lives. In a bread queue Asa learned that more guards had been set at the gates and grain from outlying farms was being packed into a disused Carmelite monastery lest food should be needed as a bargaining tool to bring hungry Paris to heel. Were it not for mismanagement in Paris, Caen would have plenty, muttered the women. There should be no shortage of grain in Normandy, the dearth was a product of Parisian greed. And there was a call to arms; the town assembly had decreed that a departmental force should be raised to join with troops from other parts of Normandy, march to Paris and wrest the National Convention from the grip of tyrants who were bleeding Normandy dry.

‘We must all be prepared to seize our weapons and march forth. This is not a counter-revolution,’ cried a fat little orator who seemed unlikely to have wielded a heavy implement in his life, ‘quite the opposite. This is about preserving the true spirit of the Revolution. Once the task is accomplished the troops will disband.’

The trouble was, no one volunteered. Day after day Asa walked through the Place de la Liberté to find a few stalwart Carabots marching up and down under the banner
L’execution de la loi, ou la mort
and exhorting childless men aged between seventeen and fifty to join them. ‘What an opportunity. To defend one’s city against oppression. Who can resist?’ yelled the orators. Most men could, apparently.

Asa ceased to listen to all this rhetoric; she was thinking not of politics but of the boy Didier, who must have known these complicated streets intimately. She remembered how in Paris she used to seek him out in every crowd. Yearning for him then had worked its magic: had he not appeared unexpectedly in the Tuileries? Perhaps Didier might appear suddenly in Caen.

And there was another figure hovering at the edge of her vision: Madame. Glancing up, Asa thought she saw a thin hand drawing back the edge of a curtain and dark eyes peering through the latticed window of one of the ancient houses where the lace merchants used to live before the Revolution. Madame tagged behind as Asa toiled up to the Abbaye des Hommes, where Didier had attended school, and trod the gravel paths between its neglected lawns. Then back through town, so exhausted that the cobbles seemed to ripple beneath her feet and the church bells clanging the half-hour went on and on ringing in her ears; oversized St-Etienne built hard up against the abbey, the eerily named Notre Dame de Froide Rue and finally St-Jean. And always the old conundrum: where was Madame now and why had she gone away?

Impossible to resist pushing open the door and taking one more look, in case Madame had returned. Here, in the very back pew as they listened to mass, Madame had muttered the occasional
Amen
, nothing more. No tripping up the aisle to communion, no peeking round the brim of her cap as the priest passed by. And then the darting behind the pillar, the raising of her tragic eyes to a mosaic of colours, the sudden gripping of Asa’s arm. There, before the statue of the Madonna, Madame had presumably come up with the simple truth that it was too dangerous for them both if Asa went with her to Paris. Wasn’t that explanation enough?

At night Asa lay on her bed, bones aching after so much walking on hot paving stones. Waving Madame’s fan back and forth, she listened through the silence between the last voice on the street and the first birds waking, punctuated only by the city clocks striking the quarter. If she imagined herself at home in England it was as if she were watching scenes from a play: her father riding up to the Downs, rumps – his and the horse’s – swaying in unison; Philippa and the children in the toast-scented nursery at Morton Hall with Caroline Lambert; Mrs Dacre, feet and hands bound, being transferred from rowing boat to ship then forced down to the hold, where she would lie day after day, gripping her swollen belly and gasping for air. And Shackleford? Did he remember her sometimes when he was in the book room at Compton Wyatt? Was he standing by the leather chair looking down towards the lake, imagining her snug and indifferent at Ardleigh?

As dawn broke, the colours of the fan emerged from the gloom; the blue flowers intertwined to form an intricate border, the minute brushstrokes feathering the wings of the painted birds, a glint of gold leaf like the spangles on the Madonna’s cloak. Perhaps Madame had left the fan for Asa thinking that it would be worth the price of a passage home, but who would buy such a trinket in these revolutionary days?

Asa sat up, her heart thundering. In memory the diligence again rumbled into Caen, again she alighted from the dim interior and toiled deeper into the quiet town, Madame at her heels, looking for a place to stay. They had lain awake, unspeaking, top to tail in the hard, narrow bed. And in the morning, those words: ‘I will go to mass.’

And now, as she retraced the crossing of the square with Madame, entering the church’s dusty interior, which smelt of sand and wax, the first glimpse of those lurching pillars pressed unevenly into Caen’s unstable soil by the weight of the lantern tower, the unfamiliar Latin prayers, the recoiling from the body on the crucifix, Asa understood what was wrong. From the back pew of the church where she and Madame had sat throughout mass there had been no sign of the Madonna and Child, pushed out of sight, presumably, to avoid the brigade of slashers and hackers intent on defiling any sign of pre-revolutionary piety. Yet Madame had stepped from the pew, crossed the church, walked unfalteringly round the pillar and cast herself at the foot of the statue, not as if she had fallen upon it by chance, but because she had known all along that it was going to be there.

By the fourth night Asa’s head throbbed so violently she could not keep it still on the pillow. Gasping with thirst, she willed herself to get up and fetch clean water but was too weak. The following morning, soon after the clock struck nine, there was a brisk knock on the door and Beatrice appeared in her trim grey gown. She stared at the dirty window, the tangled sheets and the creased petticoat flung on a chair, while Asa swung her feet over the edge of the bed and clutched the loose neck of her shift. ‘It’s late to be in bed. Are you still unwell?’ demanded Beatrice.

‘A little.’

‘Your eyes look peculiar. You can’t stay here. I’ve spoken to Father and we have decided that you should move into our house for the time being.’