MV02 Death Wears a Crown (5 page)

“Three,” called Pasclos, and nodded to one of the townspeople. “I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” called Sackett-Hartley.

“Then four cheeses,” said Cholet. “Possibly five.”

“I’ll see to getting wine,” Pasclos volunteered, and noticed out of the corner of his eye that four old men sitting around a table near the well were listening intently.

“Make it hearty,” Sackett-Hartley ordered.

“Naturally,” said Pasclos.

“I think of our ... c-companions,” said Brezolles. “I wish I knew th-they were making good prog-gress.”

“They will do as they must,” said Sackett-Hartley, more curtly than he liked.

“But still—” said Brezolles, and broke off as if embarrassed.

“We’ll find out about their success when we see them again,” Sackett-Hartley assured the young man, and frowned as he thought of the other twelve members of their mission who were—or ought to be—on the coast road, bound for Paris.

“Let’s get our chores done,” said La Clouette, for once not adding a complaint to his suggestion.

They set about refilling the water-bladders. Constable made sure the old Percheron pulling the cart was given water and a large handful of grain. There was nothing unusual about them, or so they all hoped. “Do you think the others will—” began d’Estissac, only to have Sackett-Hartley cut him off.

“We have the contract, and the innkeeper will honor it, no matter what other farmers bring him.” His eyes shot warnings at the Frenchman. “Besides, our calves are the best. He would not have given us the order for them if he thought otherwise.”

“That’s so,” said d’Estissac, chastened.

“And do not forget it,” said Sackett-Hartley.

Cholet and Pasclos brought their purchases—Les Aix had gone for the bread, still as tongue-tied as he had ever been—but did not hurry to resume their travels.

Brezolles, who at twenty-five was increasingly haunted by memories of his escape from Paris at the height of the Terror, turned to Sackett-Hartley. “I w-would like a little t-time to pray while we’re here. The ch-church is just there.”

Sackett-Hartley did his best not to sigh, for Brezolles had been stopping in churches since they landed in France. “Don’t be long about it, if you feel you must,” he said, trying to be pragmatic and kind at once.

“I won’t.” He managed a twitch of a smile. “I k-keep thinking of your unc-cle.”

“So do I,” Sackett-Hartley assured him. “He set a splendid example. I regard him as my mentor.”

“He did so much for my family.” He looked around, suddenly uneasy as he realized that they might be overheard.

“As you did for him, I’m certain,” said Sackett-Hartley smoothly.

Brezolles walked away, hurrying toward the church.

Sackett-Hartley watched him and frowned. Brezolles was getting jumpy, reacting with anger and suspicion when anyone questioned him. He hoped that there would not be any incidents here, for villagers remembered incidents with strangers. He turned away as he heard d’Estissac call out to him. “What is it?”

“Do you have the name of the man we are to contact upon our arrival?” It was an innocent enough question, but nonetheless Sackett-Hartley stiffened.

“Most certainly,” he said, trying to appear relaxed. “You worry too much, cousin.”

“Well, there is much at stake here.” He nodded toward the cart. “Especially for the calves.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Sackett-Hartley, trying to behave as his uncle might have in just such a situation. “In these times there is always something to worry about.” Then in a lower voice he added, “But our friend has said he will watch for any problems and assist us in eliminating them.” They all had been told that a high government official would do his best to assure they were not interfered with. He spoke more loudly, “But our concern now has to be selling the calves in the most profitable manner.”

“And we’d best worry about them,” said d’Estissac. La Clouette was devouring a large hunk of bread, chewing with determination.

Sackett-Hartley glanced at Lieutenant Constable, noticing that he was fretful. “Do not worry, we can afford more cheese.”

“Good,” said Lieutenant Constable.

Sackett-Hartley took the food Cholet offered him, and then helped himself to a deep pull on the bottle of wine that was passing among them. “The thing is,” he said when he was through and had handed the bottle to Constable, “we have to keep moving. For the landlord as well as the calves. Time is important.”

Les Aix watched the square narrowly, “It is troublesome, having to depend so much on a man we don’t know.” He glanced at Sackett-Hartley. “Or is it?”

Sackett-Hartley had occasional doubts himself, but he was not about to reveal them to this company. “We have nothing to fear.”

“Either he will buy the calves, or we will sell them to someone else,” said Cholet, making a covert warning of this to the rest.

“Very true,” said d’Estissac, his words muffled by cheese.

“Should have been a priest, Brezolles should,” grumbled La Clouette, but no one listened to him. “He’s got no business coming on a mission like this.”

Sackett-Hartley frowned as he watched for Brezolles, and wondered again if La Clouette was right: had it been wise to bring him on this mission? He had been asking himself what his uncle would do in his position, and so far he had not been able to figure it out.

* * *

Vernet handed the four sealed dispatches to his wife, and shook his head regretfully. “I wish we didn’t have to separate, Victoire. And I wish it weren’t necessary for you to take the risk of carrying these.”

“But it
is
necessary,” she reminded him as she struggled with the buttons on her capped traveling cloak. It was very early and the dawn light did not reach the rooms on this side of the inn.

“I hope that it is. I hope that it’ll prove valuable.” His expression darkened. “I don’t like it when we are apart. I almost look forward to the days when it will be my rotation to man the desk in Paris. We’ve spent too much time apart.”

“There we are in agreement,” she said emphatically. Her eyes brightened. “But it is the work you have chosen to do, and you are now one of the five most important men in the Gendarmes, so we must accustom ourselves to it.” She smiled without too much effort.

Vernet shook his head. “Much as I treasure your excellent sense, there are times, dear wife, I wish you had a little less of it.”

“To be candid, so do I,” she admitted, and leaned forward to kiss him. “Still, it is my nature to be as I am, and I thank God that you do not require I become a simpering echo, as so many husbands do.”

“That would be an Herculean task,” he said, chuckling at the thought.

“Well, so I think, too, but you’ve seen how many women become nothing more than dolls for their husbands: pretty, petty, and pampered.” She pursed her mouth in distaste. “Or they become all but harlots, the coins in which their husbands trade for advantage.”

“Neither is acceptable to me,” said Vernet at once.

“It’s to your credit.” She placed her hands in his. “I wish you Godspeed, Lucien, and I hope you’ll be in Paris again before the month is out.”

His kiss was as swift as it was passionate. “There. Now you must hurry or the diligence will be gone.”

She stepped back at once. “You’re an irritatingly sensible man yourself,” she chided him gently. “Take all my love with you.”

“And mine with you,” he said as he watched her place the dispatches in her reticule as she started toward the door. It struck him afresh that he missed her whenever she was gone.

* * *

At Boulogne-sur-Mer the next morning a garrulous widow took a seat in the diligence as it left the inn at first light, and regaled the passengers throughout the morning with recitations of the virtues of her grandchildren in such meticulous detail that Victoire wondered if the children could actually exist. While the widow held forth, Victoire’s mood sank, and though she rallied herself inwardly, she could not rid herself of the disappointment and distress she felt whenever she allowed herself to dwell on the child she had lost. Vernet had not chided her for it as many another husband might have done, but she sensed his sorrow in his silence. As the proud grandmother rattled on, Victoire did her best to listen attentively without being seized by regrets. She kept the dispatches she carried in her reticule, and that she held in her lap with both hands.

“They are surely the finest children in Quend,” their grandmother affirmed. “All three boys are upstanding lads, bright in their studies and devoted to their parents. The two girls are biddable and so very pretty that even the priest says they were born to break hearts.” She looked at the man opposite her, a reedy fellow in unfashionable clothes and the demeanor of a clerk. “What do you think? Am I not blessed?”

“I would suppose that they were beaten every day if they are so pleasant. The children you beat always offer you the best face, that’s what I’ve found,” said the man harshly. “After twelve years as a schoolmaster, I have never seen it to fail. So your son must exercise his arm on them often, to have such children.”

The widow looked affronted, sputtered that these children were not wild animals needing the taste of a whip to tame them, but perfect and angelic creatures.

“Not in my experience,” said the schoolmaster. To the relief of all the passengers inside the diligence, the widow at last fell silent, and remained that way until she was set down at Vron, where all the passengers had a glimpse of her son and one of her perfect grandsons waiting for her in a dog-cart pulled by a stocky spotted pony.

“Father has a temper, that’s clear,” stated the schoolmaster with authority.

Victoire, looking at the old woman and her family, thought that it was more likely that the widow had filled her empty hours with idealizing her family. She recalled how her father had conveniently forgotten her mother’s faults after she died, and eventually had persuaded himself that they did not exist at all.

At Rue the diligence was joined by an escort of Guard—just two tired corporals on horseback—who examined the possessions of the passengers while they had a fast luncheon at the local posting inn. In theory the escort was to provide protection against the robbers who preyed on the coaching routes, but in reality it was to prevent spies from getting to Paris.

These were dragoons, likely sent from some depot nearby. They wore tight cream-colored coats of a style similar to those of the infantry. These differed from the foot soldiers’ uniforms in the bright red of their tunics and gray riding breeches tucked into standard black riding boots. Both of the corporals’ uniforms were visibly patched and their mounts were second rate. Their high brass helmets vaguely reminded Victoire of those she had seen portrayed as being worn by Grecian soldiers in frescoes on the walls of a Roman villa they had stayed at in the Cisalpine Republic. Along with his sword, each of the two cavalrymen carried a short musket known as a carbine.

When the taller of the two corporals asked to search Victoire’s reticule, she hesitated to hand it over.

“Come, Madame,” said the shorter, who was enjoying giving orders.

Victoire opened the reticule, saying as she did, “I believe it would be best if you merely looked inside.”

“What’s the trouble? You have jewels you don’t want the others to know about?” asked the shorter as he took the reticule and upended it, letting the contents fall onto the table in the taproom.

“That,” she said dryly as the dispatches scattered on the table, “is the reason.”

The taller corporal had read one of the addresses and turned pale. “These are not official, are they?”

“They are. I am Madame Vernet. My husband is Inspector-General Vernet.” She stood a little straighter.

“On a common diligence,” scoffed the shorter corporal.

In spite of herself, Victoire blushed. “It is more fitting for me to travel this way and arrive safely than to demand an escort and make my travels known,” she said bluntly. “And it would have been a successful effort if you had not required me to hand over my reticule,” she added directly to the shorter corporal, “and if you had respected what I said.” She indicated the others watching.

The shorter corporal made the mistake of trying to bluster his way out of the error. “And who’s to say that these are genuine dispatches? You say you are the wife of Inspector-General Vernet, but why should we believe you?”

Controlling her temper, Victoire answered, “If you will do yourself the favor of inspecting the seals on the dispatches, you will recognize them.”

“Unless the seal is stolen,” said the shorter corporal.

Here the taller intervened. He had been inspecting one of the dispatches and now his manner was decidedly more polite. “They are authentic seals, and we’ve no report of stolen ones,” he said as he gathered up the dispatches and placed them—along with a vial of hartshorn, a dozen coins, and a bottle of scent—in Victoire’s reticule once again. “Sorry to have done this, Madame Vernet. I guess it was a mistake.”

“It certainly was,” she said with asperity. “And you may be sure that I’ll mention it when I deliver the dispatches.” She took her reticule from the corporal. “I want your names and the name of your commanding officer.”

The shorter once again blundered. “I don’t see any call for that.”

The taller said, “I am Corporal Jean-Marie Feuille. He is Corporal Benoit Cruche. Our lieutenant is Yves Durand.” He saluted, and glanced at Corporal Cruche to be sure he had done the same.

Grudgingly Corporal Cruche said, “At your service, Madame.”

Victoire regarded them evenly, concealing the quiver of apprehension that had taken hold of her. “Belated though it is.”

“We have our duty to do,” said Corporal Feuille apologetically.

“And I have mine, though you may well have compromised it by this display.” She started back toward the diligence. “I trust your mistakes won’t be compounded.”

“Of course not,” said Corporal Feuille. “We will take care to see you are protected, and the dispatches you carry.”

“How wise,” she said.

When the diligence was under way once again, the schoolmaster gave Victoire a long, critical look. “What an unexpected pleasure it is, Madame, to have a woman of your position in our company.”