Daughters of the Storm (29 page)

At first the singing was only a faint faraway murmur. Slowly, it grew louder and more insistent, picking up volume as other voices joined in.

‘What is it?' asked Sophie, tingling in every nerve.

‘A new song, my dear, for new times,' said de Choissy. ‘It has been adopted by the
fédérés
who, if I am not mistaken, are about to march on to the field.'

‘It has travelled fast,' said William in an aside to de Choissy.

‘Indeed,' he replied.

‘How do you know that?' asked Sophie, considerably mystified. ‘From where has it travelled?'

William avoided her look. ‘Intuition, Miss Luttrell,' he said lightly, thinking of one report his agents had sent him, informing him that a new revolutionary song had been composed in Brussels where it was sweeping the salons and echoing through the streets.

The
Marseillaise
reached a climax, and its final cadences were belted out to the rhythm of marching feet and pounding drums.

‘It does possess something special,' said Sophie, trying to commit the tune to her memory.

The royal party took their places at the marquee's entrance and stood waiting to review the processions. Crammed to bursting with spectators, the fields were gaudy with fluttering flags and dotted by chestnut trees. Every spare inch of space was taken, and the outlines of thousands of heads – blond, dark and grey – blurred like colours on an artist's palette. Marching briskly, many arm in arm, the
fédérés
shouted away, some in hoarse-sounding patois, and waved at the excited Parisians, who shouted back in excitement. Behind the
fédérés
came untidy groups of men carrying models of the Bastille and sheets of patriotic songs which they distributed among the crowd. Behind them marched the re-formed National Guard and the regiments of the line, and a more sober procession consisting of the National Assembly representatives.

Héloïse strained to see Louis. After a while, she was rewarded by the sight of his familiar figure, mounted on his chestnut horse, leading the detachment. De Choissy's hand closed none too gently around her own.

‘I think you should attend Her Majesty,' he told her.

Héloïse excused herself and took her place behind the queen.

He knows, she thought, and the goose-flesh rose on her arms.

The courtiers clustered round the figure of the king as if they to offer protection, however inadequate. At the given signal, Louis XVI moved slowly forward to initiate the second half of the proceedings. At the steps of a makeshift altar, erected near to the decorated tree, he stumbled, and Héloïse heard the queen's stifled scream. The king recovered himself, took the Oath of Loyalty, watched by thousands of pairs of eyes. A silence fell as he was led by the mayor of Paris towards the ‘Tree of Feudalism' and requested to set fire to it.

At this point, Sophie glanced at the queen. Marie-Antoinette's humiliation was reflected in every line of her body. Staring blindly ahead, the queen was defiant even if the tears which she made no effort to hide streamed down the royal cheeks.

‘Poor lady,' Sophie murmured to herself.

With an unexpected show of spirit, the King declined the mayor's invitation and, after exchanging a few cursory civilities, walked back to his family.

‘So it's over,' said Sophie to herself, rather surprised at the brevity of the ceremony.

‘Mais oui.
I rather think you are right.' De Choissy beside her spoke reflectively, and it was obvious from his tone that he meant more than the celebrations. ‘It's over for us all.'

His gaze followed the king as he was escorted off the Champ de Mars, accompanied by a sullen silence that was all the more marked by the contrast to the cheers that had greeted the
fédérés.

‘A puppet king?' queried William, who had joined them, holding a glass of wine.

‘No, my friend, what you are seeing is something infinitely more disturbing.'

‘What do you mean, monsieur?' asked Sophie.

‘I mean, dear ones, that our sovereign over there is about to become a martyr.'

Neither William nor Sophie found they could reply to that statement.

How eloquence silence can be, thought Sophie.

The queen and her children made their departure, followed by the court officials. It was obvious that, free from the constraints of a royal presence, the crowds were going to remain on the Champ de Mars until well into the night. Already there was the convivial crackle of campfires and a smell of roasting meat.

The de Guinots indicated their wish to depart. Nothing in their long years as high-ranking courtiers at Versailles had prepared them for what they had just witnessed. The king, at the beck and call of the mayor of Paris, and virtually forced to burn the symbols of his authority! The spectacle had exhausted them and Héloïse was thankful that she had possessed the forethought to insist that they return home from this outing in the carriages which had been ordered. Bidding subdued goodbyes to each other, they went their separate ways.

‘Thank God.' Héloïse sank back against the coach's upholstery, feeling so drained that she could hardly move. De Choissy sat opposite, a gloved hand resting lightly on his cane.

She could read nothing in his face, but she knew him well enough to know that he was thinking. The rocking of the carriage made Héloïse's stomach lurch and a now familiar taste of bile crept into her mouth. She forced herself to take a deep breath. Did it matter, she asked herself, what de Choissy thought? and acknowledged wearily that it did.

Since that night she had confronted him in the bedchamber, she knew, and he knew, that his power over her had diminished. This comforted her, but not much. De Choissy had welcomed the news of her pregnancy with studied politeness – and a series of questions as to when she anticipated being confined. Héloïse had lied. De Choissy appeared to accept her explanation that it would be born in the spring, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he pressed her further. It was going to take the most careful deception to pass off this baby as De Choissy's and the thought frightened her.

At the Hôtel de Choissy, Héloïse went upstairs to rest. De Choissy announced that he was paying calls and Miss Edgeworth was nowhere to be found. Sophie and William were left together in the drawing room. Sophie went straight to the point.

‘What is it you wish to talk to me about?'

William paused, took out an enamelled snuff box and inhaled a pinch.

‘Excellent,' he pronounced.

‘You sound exactly like Monsieur le Comte,' remarked Sophie.

William instantly became serious and snapped the box shut. ‘Miss Luttrell – Sophie – do you trust me?'

Sophie nodded, but there was a hint of reservation in her manner.

‘Of course, Mr Jones.'

‘Then, I must ask you a question and you must think before you reply, because it's important,' he said.

She looked at him enquiringly. ‘Go on.'

‘Am I talking to a lady of “quality and learning”?'

Her eyes flew to his. ‘No.'

‘Are you sure? You are very ready with that answer. Knowing you, I think you would like to claim to have learning which makes me feel that someone else lies behind your denial.'

Sophie's mouth tightened. ‘How dare you?'

He didn't like that look. ‘I dare... I dare... because...' he checked himself. ‘How do your sympathies lie, politically speaking?'

‘Why do you ask me? We have discussed our feelings on the subject very often.'

‘Because I suspect that you are involving yourself in a manner which may be dangerous.'

She was suddenly very still.

‘Sophie, answer me.'

‘I wasn't aware you possessed the right to cross-question me.'

William dug into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a piece of paper.

‘Do you know what this is?' he asked.

Sophie smoothed it out and he noted that her hands trembled slightly. It did not take her many seconds to see what the paper was.

She raised her eyes to his and William found himself murmuring like an idiot. ‘Foolish Sophie ... but admirable Sophie... but a Sophie who has put herself in danger.' He paused. ‘It is yours. Tell me. I need to know.'

Sophie looked anywhere but William but her chest rose and fell more rapidly than normal.

‘Yes, this is mine. I have been writing a little, a few thoughts, nothing so very momentous. I had no idea it had been printed.'

William captured her hands.

‘Sophie, who do you give them to?'

She hesitated. ‘Why, Miss Williams, of course.'

William dropped her hands.

‘That's what I was afraid of. Don't you realise, my sweet Sophie, that Miss Williams is the most indiscreet of women, with indiscreet friends.'

Sweet Sophie?

‘But what I write can only be right.'

He stared at her. ‘Oh, Sophie. Being right or wrong doesn't matter when there's trouble.The point is they know who you are. God knows what danger that may put you into.'

Caught on the raw, Sophie's composure was shaken. ‘How did you find out?' she managed to ask.

‘Your work is being hawked from every cheap booth and bookstall all over Paris. I saw it by chance and, unfortunately, I'm sure I will not be the only one who will discover who the author is.'

‘But I'm right,' she repeated. ‘That's what counts.'

‘Not if you're dead, Sophie.'

‘Even if you're dead, William.'

Without her noticing, they had fallen into the habit of calling each other by the Christian names. It gave an intimacy to their exchange that made her heart beat a little faster.

William walked over to the window and looked out. The garden was resplendent with summer flowers. Beyond it the roofs of neighbouring buildings jutted up as they had done for decades. When he spoke again, William struggled with feelings that threatened to overwhelm his assumed composure. Fear for Sophie. Fear for the future. And, over and above those, his wish to carry her off to safety, far beyond the turbulence of Paris.

‘Why did you do it, Sophie?'

‘I would have thought that you're the one person who would have understood and sympathised,' she replied. ‘I wished to make a contribution. Being a woman prevents me from speaking publicly and this way seemed to be an avenue. It was so simple to do.'

‘Don't, Sophie. Don't air your political views in public,' he said.

After a moment, she replied: ‘You really don't understand. I thought that you did. But I was mistaken.' She swallowed. ‘But this is none of your business

That hurt both of them. She to say it. He to listen.

‘If you say so, Miss Luttrell, then I stand reproved,' he said. ‘But I beg you for your own sake never to allow your work to leave your hands.'

No more ‘Sophie'. No more ‘William'.

William picked up his hat, more shaken than he could remember. ‘I shall bid you good-day.'

Sophie tried to pour herself a glass of Madeira from a tray on the console table, but her hand trembled so much that she could not lift the decanter. Instead, she pressed her hands against the table and waited for the door to close on him.

At the sight of Sophie in so much distress, William's anger faded. He threw his hat into a chair.

‘Sophie, forgive me.'

Before she could prevent herself, Sophie reached up to touch his cheek. She wanted so much to touch him, to reassure herself that he was there and to feel the living, warm William, even though she knew it to be unwise and wrong. William caught at her hand and pressed it to his chest where it lay imprisoned in the folds of his cravat.

‘Will you marry me, Sophie? Now. This day. This month?' he said, forgetting everything but his love for her.

The light drained out of her eyes. ‘How can I?' she said. ‘There is Ned.'

‘Surely Sir Brinsley and Lady Luttrell cannot force you?'

‘No,' she said slowly. ‘But they expect it of me. They have always expected it. How can I abandon my duty to them? And what of Ned? I cannot let him down so wantonly. Besides, I have... I have the greatest affection for him.'

William released her hand.

‘What of Ned?' he said. ‘You, of course, must decide, but I can offer you more than Ned. I can offer you a new life. I have a large house and sufficient means. I will inherit money. I will give you children and a country that is made for someone like you, Sophie, where you can write in peace. Think of it, we can leave this old world with its battles and bring up our family in the new one.' He drew her close. ‘We think alike, my heart. I know we do.'

Sophie felt his breath on her cheek and smelt the masculine scents of pomade, leather and Cologne, and her senses blurred with longing. She tried to conjure up Ned but failed. William stroked her hair.

‘You are so lovely,' he said.

She was tempted beyond endurance, and William pressed his advantage. He bent his head, and at the touch of his lips Sophie gave in.

At last, he released her and they stood gazing at each other until William bent once again, this time to kiss her white throat. His lips travelled downwards towards her breasts, found the swelling and lingered. He stopped.

‘I apologise,' he said. ‘I did not mean to take advantage.'

Her answer when it came surprised him.

‘I am glad you did,' she said simply, her face flushed with emotion.

William smiled at her in relief. ‘Ought not a gently brought up English girl such as yourself be angry?'

Sophie laughed. ‘Perhaps,' she said. ‘But this is Paris, and even virgins...' She held up her hand teasingly. ‘Don't blush, William, I am not ashamed of my condition. Even virgins aren't entirely ignorant.'

‘Then, you will marry me?'

Her laughter died, leaving in its place a stricken look. She turned and her skirts swished in a perfumed cloud. Sophie dropped her face into her hands.