Season of Light (48 page)

The carriage jolted forward and picked up speed. Asa was still shaking violently. She had nothing, not a sou, no clothes or papers. Ahead was the church of St-Jacques. She should get out, disappear into the crowd. Then what? They were on the Honoré. Perhaps she was going to Didier’s apartment; she shuddered at the thought of the hostile serving girl, the pristine white bed – but no, they had turned into a dark street behind Les Halles.

Hoof-beats. Another much larger carriage was bearing down on them. Oh God, let it be over quickly, if they are coming for me, let it be now. The cab had stopped. She closed her eyes and hunched down into the seat, her arm across her face. The door opened, there was a moment’s hush and a voice spoke her name. When she looked up she glimpsed a green coat, ivory silken breeches; him.

He held out his hand, seized her wrist, and half carried her from the cab into the waiting carriage. At once he hammered on the ceiling and they lurched forward so suddenly that she was thrust back. For a few seconds they sped onwards, then ground to a halt behind a cart bearing a dozen live pigs. Asa’s teeth were chattering; she was unable to comprehend that this was really him, leaning forward to lift a plaid blanket from a wicker hamper, sitting beside her, tucking it about her waist and feet. Next he removed a flask and, with stiffly decorous movements, placed his arm about her shoulders, held her chin steady and urged her to drink. Her teeth clattered on metal. Wine spilled. He returned to his own side of the carriage and peered from the window. They were moving again, but so slowly Asa thought they must be under water. She couldn’t speak, could only stare at him.

He was dressed with a reckless disregard for the fashions of revolutionary Paris; the waistcoat in particular was one of his most dazzling – an embroidered meadow of dainty flowers on bronze silk – and his fair hair was pulled back into a black ribbon, though the customary strand had broken loose and was hanging over his forehead and cheek. She caught the scent of citrus, and polished leather. His face, though, was much altered; his eyes bloodshot and a harder brown, his cheeks sunken.

They had reached Porte St-Denis. Shackleford leaned out and thrust a sheaf of papers at an official, who scrutinised them briefly, glanced into the carriage and waved them on. Now they were moving more freely, and sunlight streamed on to Asa’s hand as the overhanging buildings spread out into market garden and open fields. Her eyes never left his face.

‘You must sleep,’ he said at last, ‘you have nothing more to fear. Sleep if you can.’ Even his voice was a balm; she had forgotten its slight hesitancy, its exact depth.

After another few minutes he added: ‘Give it time. In time, you will find that the memories soften. It will be easier. Soon we’ll be in England. Caroline is to meet us. We’ll take you to your sisters.’

He put his head back against the cushions, and for a moment watched the fields, which were yellow with drought. ‘It had to be me,’ he said, ‘nobody else could come. I was the one with connections. But you mustn’t worry – it won’t be for more than a couple of days. You’ll soon be with Caroline.’

When she still said nothing he shook his head and sighed. ‘It
had
to be me. I was the best person. I had no ties. You mustn’t think that you are indebted to me in the least.’

At last she was able to speak.

‘I’ve been trying to work out how you did it.’

‘We did it between us. I was merely the messenger.’

‘You bribed the information from Warren with ease, I’m sure. But how on earth did you get Didier to speak up for me? I thought I was done for yesterday … he hardly seemed to care.’

‘He did well by you today.’

‘Were you there, Shackleford, at my trial?’

‘Until the verdict.’

‘But how did you know what was happening to me? How did you know I would need you? I wrote to my family from Caen and told them that I was all right. You knew I was going to Didier.’

‘If all had been well, I would not have imposed myself. But we thought it best I should come, when we asked questions about Madame de Rusigneux and found that nobody had a clear idea of who she was or where she’d come from.’

‘Tell me what you said to Didier. I need to know.’

‘I can see why you love him. I always knew you loved him. At a different time it would have been possible … marriage, a life with him. When you get home, you won’t forget him, but it will be easier or, rather, different. You will find yourself able to live and talk and work, despite the pain. Believe me.’

‘I don’t care for Didier any more – at least, I don’t love him. I’m ashamed to say that one of the things that bothered me most about dying was that he might think I died for him. It was a dream, Shackleford. It wasn’t real any more. So you need not worry about my feelings. Tell me what you did, to make him speak for me.’

He didn’t look at her but tapped the back of his hand against his mouth. He was so very much himself, but not himself, the brilliance of his clothes, the strain in his honey eyes.

‘The odd letter. From Clarkson. Linking Paulin with Brissot in the old days, when they were corresponding about abolition. I brought a whole sheaf of documents from England as insurance, in case of trouble. I pointed out to Paulin that he might not want to be associated with Brissot, who is now unfortunately also in the Conciergerie.’

‘That was very kind of Clarkson.’

‘He wrote nothing but the truth.’

‘And what if Didier hadn’t stood up for me?’ She shook so much that Shackleford again crossed the carriage, hooked her under his arm and helped her to drink. This time, when he tried to withdraw, she held on to his wrist. ‘What if Didier had refused to stand up for me? What then?’

‘It’s immaterial. He did.’

‘You would have spoken up for me yourself, wouldn’t you? But Harry, you’re English. You must have been involved in all kinds of bribery and blackmail to get yourself across the Channel. You own half the West Country. The tribunal would have hated you and had you arrested.’

France, beyond the carriage, was rushing by, strange and dangerous. She saw only Shackleford’s face.

What could be lovelier than Compton Wyatt, mid-afternoon, early September?

‘Just like a painting,’ said Mrs Shackleford’s visitors as they bowled up the drive in their carriages. And indeed the lake, reflecting the blue sky, the ambers and greens and honey shades of the woods, was mirror-still, so that when the family of swans drifted by, two adults, one cygnet, they left in their wake long ripples which smoothed away until minutes later there was the merest splash of water on pebble at the shore. The reeds were brown and brittle, their tips hanging at acute angles. The adult swans and the little temple on the knoll were brilliant white in the sunshine, the bathhouse in the form of a cottage snug in the spillage of light.

Mrs Shackleford was holding court in the drawing room, fanning herself with Madame de Rusigneux’s gift; perhaps rather to show it off than out of necessity, because the room was rather cool. She wore black since she was still in mourning for her husband and elder son. Occasionally, amid the wafer-thin bread and butter and the wedges of moist Dundee cake, she shed a tear. Her callers were patient and polite, full of commiseration as they muttered agreement that her youngest boy, Harry, was indeed behaving with extraordinary ingratitude, some would say fecklessness. Their eyes, however, missed nothing. That ormolu vase, if Mrs Shackleford happened to put it in the auction, would be perfect for the mantelshelf of the blue drawing room in Queen’s Square. And perhaps the Caravaggio in the gallery, being so lurid and unfashionable, would go for a song.

‘But console yourself, Mrs Shackleford,’ they murmured, ‘we’re sure you’ll be comfortable in the new crescent in Clifton. After all, you’ll be inundated with callers. We shan’t leave you alone.’

Susan Shackleford was playing the piano; a minuet by Lully. Since the music-room windows were open, visitors who wandered out on to the terrace – ostensibly to admire the view, actually to wonder whether the new owner, whoever it might be, would prove rather more generous in inviting them to balls and dinners – were treated to sprightly trills and crescendos. Though Susan took no notice of the callers, her playing was a little distracted as she thought of the packing case, recently arrived and stored in an empty stable, in which her piano would be transported from Compton Wyatt to the new-bought house in Chelsea. Her head these days was full of plans. Where, precisely, had this idea for a school come from? It was unimaginable that the Hon. Mrs Shackleford should be reduced to teaching in a school. But a high-class instructor of the piano; that might do, if accompanied by opportunities to perform to parties of appreciative adults.

Between them, she had been assured by Miss Lambert, they would manage admirably. Susan would teach piano and Miss Lambert everything else. And in the evenings, Susan would play and Miss Lambert, a worthy audience, would listen. Or maybe they would venture out together to London parties and discover what was going on, because it seemed, given the events of the past three months, that rather a lot might be.

Upstairs in the Chinese guest bedroom, having pleaded Philippa’s delicate state to excuse themselves from tea in the drawing room, the two older Ardleigh sisters were in the midst of an argument. Philippa lay on the bed, hand on stomach, though in truth she was feeling much more robust these days, being past the third month of pregnancy, while Georgina was applying a frill to the neck of a chemise. ‘Fifteen hundred a year,’ she moaned. ‘I’d like to see you and John Morton manage on so little.’

‘Under the circumstances Mr Shackleford has been more than generous. I can’t imagine how much money he has already paid out to extricate you from your debts.’

‘It’s short sighted of him to give us such a small allowance. If we had more, Warren could invest in something worthwhile. If only he had been with me here at Compton Wyatt to argue our case, but he claims that Mr Shackleford doesn’t like him, despite the fact that my Warren risked his neck for Asa.’

‘What about Sierra Leone? I thought Shackleford suggested you try your luck there.’

‘It wouldn’t suit us. Africa’s too hot. Nobody to talk to. And somebody has to be in England for your next confinement.’

‘You hate babies, Georgina. Don’t stay here on my account. I’ll manage, though I must admit with Asa gone and Caroline Lambert in London I do feel a little bereft.’

Georgina, most uncharacteristically, threw down her sewing and hugged her sister so violently that Philippa was at risk of suffocation. ‘You mustn’t be afraid. I’ll be there, I promise.’

‘Of course I’m not afraid,’ said Philippa. Georgina returned to her work but from time to time she glanced at the curve of her sister’s stomach and her swollen ankles, perhaps remembering the day, nearly a quarter of a century ago, when they had been told to go outside and work on the little vegetable plots they’d planted with their mama. Hours later Mrs Dean had come for them as they huddled together, hand in hand in the now chilly garden, and led them inside to where their father sat at the end of the dining table, deep in a bottle of port. Upstairs, beside the still figure on the bed, they were shown a hot little scrawl of flesh, their new sister Thomasina, howling in her cradle.

In the book room, behind a locked door, the latest Mrs Shackleford was rereading a letter.

Dear Thomasina
,

I was relieved to hear of your successful return to England and must congratulate you on your recent marriage. The precipitate method with which you conduct your affairs leaves me breathless. Rest assured that the money you sent us, with such generous interest, has been safely returned. The additional gift, for Father, was unnecessary but welcome
.

I have little news except that in Caen we are suffering the effects of yet another poor harvest. The two deputies from Paris have been released and our other visitors, who brought so much trouble upon our heads as they fled Paris, moved on to Rennes. But this dearth of news, though it makes for a dull letter, is in fact all we ask. Here, on the far edge of France, we hope to have escaped retribution for our sad little rebellion, but we cannot be sure. My worst fear is that if Father were to be freed – and I expect it at any moment – he would be made an official of our new council. He has been on the side of right, you see, in being so staunchly opposed to the insurrection, but I think he is too frail to withstand such responsibility. And in any case, who knows which way the wind will blow in the future?

My brother, should you retain an interest in his welfare, has been sent to the north. On reflection I’m glad he has not come home after all. As I’ve said, the last thing we want is attention
.

You asked if I’d heard anything of Estelle. The truth is I have now lost not only J.B. and C.C. but also Estelle, the last friend of my childhood. I happened to meet the priest, Ballard, now incumbent at Mantheuil, when I was visiting Father. He told me that he’d heard Estelle had been arrested, and is currently in a prison called La Saltpetrière. He is not a man given to hyperbole, but he used the words shackled, and insane. I wrote to her, but have received no reply. Ballard says that Estelle was found early one morning, in the garden of the prison known as Les Carmes. You will be aware of its significance. She was lying face down under a tree, her fists full of soil. When ordered to get up, she refused. The priest said, with more wit than I had previously credited him with, that grief is not yet a capital offence, and that therefore the authorities had no choice but to lock her up and declare her mad. He added that perhaps this would surely put an end, once and for all, to Estelle Beyle’s most unwomanly and counter-revolutionary tendency to take matters into her own hands
.

You will perhaps infer from this letter that my heart is heavy. I am writing in our garden, where I sit in the shade and remember how it was when we were young
.