Surrender to a Stranger (54 page)

“Oui, Monsieur,”
replied Philippe hastily, surprised by the sudden change in Armand. Perhaps he was not quite as drunk as he appeared. He turned to fetch the butler.

An agonizing groan prevented him from reaching the door. He whirled around just in time to see Armand’s eyes roll up into his head as his massive frame collapsed heavily onto the floor.

Icy rain lashed against Jacqueline’s cheeks as she stood on the deck watching the misty gray coast of France loom mysteriously in the distance. Her beloved country looked dark and peaceful as it stretched languidly before her in the soft evening light, but Jacqueline knew better than to be deceived by its tranquil beauty. The France that lay ahead was violent and cruel, more cruel than she could ever have imagined. Once she had believed the madness would pass, that reason and justice would quickly return to the country that counted among its sons some of the finest artistic, scientific, and philosophical minds the world had ever known. But that time was not at hand. In this dark hour, brutal terror and oppression reigned supreme. She prayed to God that Antoine would not fall victim to it a second time.

She was certain he lived. From the moment François-Louis had spoken the words, the secret belief she had buried deep within the depths of her heart was set free, filling her with a fire of brilliant hope and ruthless determination. She would stop at nothing to get him out. She would find him, care for him until his strength was sufficiently restored, and then take him away from those who sought to destroy him. This time she would not fail him. She would get her brother safely out of France, or die in the attempt. There was nothing in between.

Suzanne and Séraphine would be overjoyed when they saw their brother again. She smiled at the thought, pushing the possibility of failure far from her mind. Suzanne had always adored her older brother, and it was possible that when he returned she would no longer feel jealous and threatened by Jacqueline’s relationship with Philippe. Maybe Séraphine would even begin to speak again.

And what would Armand think? He would be furious with her for returning to France, of that she was absolutely certain. And he would be angry that she had gone with François-Louis. He had obviously been enraged to find them locked in that embarrassing embrace. By what right had he reacted so? she wondered angrily. After all, he held no claim on her. He had allowed her to make an absolute fool of herself over him, and then he had rejected her. He made his choice. He chose to maintain a life of danger and intrigue over starting a new life with her. Not once in the weeks since they arrived in England had he visited her or made any attempt at contact. It was as if she had simply ceased to exist for him. Then he suddenly showed up and was furious becuase he found her listening to her betrothed’s declarations of love. What on earth did he expect of her? Did he think that after being with him she should shroud herself in black and enter a convent? Or did he think she should wait for him, however many years it took for the revolution to end or for him to slay the demons of his past so he could get on with his life? She was not sure. She sighed. Armand despised François-Louis, and the sight of her in the arms of the man who almost got him killed undoubtedly infuriated him. She was sorry for that. If he had only been willing to wait, she would have tried to explain that it wasn’t as it seemed.

She adjusted the bonnet of her dark cape over her head in an attempt to better protect herself from the rain. She knew she should go below, but for the moment she wanted to stand here and watch the country she had come to both love and hate slowly emerge through the veil of rain. There had been no time to dye her hair or affect a disguise of any sort, but Jacqueline hoped that her simple attire would keep her safe from suspicion. François-Louis had traded his customary fancy dress for a decidedly unfashionable outfit of rough brown wool, similar in style and cut to the drab brown clothes Nicolas was so fond of wearing. When he had gone below he was still wearing his fine wig, but he assured Jacqueline he did not intend to wear it when they disembarked from the ship.

Surprisingly, François-Louis had proven to be an invaluable asset thus far on their journey. His decision to go with her was decidedly uncharacteristic of him, and at first she had worried he would prove to be a great liability. But to her surprise he organized every facet of their trip down to the smallest detail with amazing competence. From arranging their transportation to the coast, to chartering a private vessel once they reached Dover, to the false traveling documents he somehow managed to procure for them to use once they set foot in France, Jacqueline was amazed by his unfamiliar show of concern and resourcefulness. She realized perhaps she had judged him unfairly.

The ship anchored some two kilometers from the shore. Jacqueline went below to warm herself briefly and fetch her bag before meeting François-Louis on deck and allowing him to help her into the small skiff that would unobtrusively take them across the water. He was most gallant as he assisted her, fussing over her comfort and safety, and painfully reminding her of the difference between him and Armand, who never treated her like a weak, fragile female. True to his word, he had removed his silvery-white wig. A length of smooth brown hair protruded from underneath his dark felt hat, and Jacqueline wondered why he chose to cover such a fine color. She was becoming accustomed to seeing men and women without wigs in England and was starting to find the custom of wearing them rather odd.

They landed north of the town of Calais, thereby avoiding the necessity of going through the checkpoint set up by the National Guard where all newcomers were required to submit their traveling papers and passports for examination. When they reached the shore they set out at once on foot toward the town. Once there they would hire a coach to take them southeast, to the small farm near the Austrian border where Antoine was hidden. François-Louis had managed to secure detailed directions from the messenger before they left for Dover. If all went well, they would reach the house within three or four hours. A heady mixture of excitement and fear began to stir within her. Soon she would be with Antoine.

The town of Calais was hundreds of miles from the great city of Paris, but its remoteness did not make it any less revolutionary. The rough-looking men who walked the streets were dressed in the simple garb of the sansculottes, wearing their soiled red caps pinned with tricolor cockades like a defiant badge of honor. Men and women alike glared at everyone around them with harsh distrust, their beady, hawkish eyes alert to everything, as if searching for an opportunity to pounce. Jacqueline suspected it did not require much more than a wayward look to have someone accuse you of being a traitor or a spy. She kept her eyes down and quickly moved along beside François-Louis, anxious to be off the treacherous, narrow streets and in the relative safety of a coach.

They came to a busy inn that had several coaches of various sizes waiting outside of it. Jacqueline pulled her hood low over her head as they entered the smoky place, which was thick with the stench of alcohol, unwashed bodies, and burned food. François-Louis guided her to a small, filthy table, sticky and red with spilled wine.

“Stay here,” he instructed as he looked about awkwardly. It was obvious he was not used to being in places like this any more than she. “Order some food if you like. I am going to make some inquiries about hiring a carriage.”

She watched with concern as he walked over to the counter. He began to speak with a thin, miserable-looking man who was busy setting up a tray with dirty wet glasses and a bottle of cheap red wine. The man appeared to ignore François-Louis, except he nodded every now and then, demonstrating that he was not deaf but simply unwilling to extend the courtesy of giving a patron his full attention. Such niceties were not necessary under the new Republic, and therefore could be considered suspect. She sighed and pulled her gaze away, looking to see if there was someone who might be willing to serve her some food. She was extremely hungry, and since she did not want to stop once they started out, it was best to eat something now.

“Welcome back, Jacqueline,” drawled a harsh, mocking voice.

Jacqueline froze. There was a painful roaring in her ears as the identity of that voice settled on her consciousness. A flash of heat and cold rendered her horribly nauseated. She swallowed, willing herself to turn, but somehow unable to make her body cooperate. It was as if her mind thought that as long as she did not acknowledge him, he might simply disappear, allowing her to get on with her mission.

“Come now, you can do better than that,” taunted Nicolas as he stepped around to face her. “Aren’t you going to at least say hello?”

Slowly she raised her eyes to him. He stared back at her, his dark expression a terrifying mixture of triumph and hatred. She noticed the dreadful scar she had inflicted upon him still looked bloodred against his ashen skin. She wanted to scream, but what use would that be? She swallowed, willing herself to stay calm.

“Your silence is most uncharacteristic,” observed Nicolas dryly as he pulled out a chair, dusted it lightly with his gloved hand, and seated himself before her. “I suppose you are somewhat surprised. Tell me, did you really believe I would permit you to get away, especially after our last encounter?” he demanded.

“I never wanted to see you again,” managed Jacqueline, her voice shaking.

Nicolas shook his head. “That was most unrealistic of you, Jacqueline,” he informed her. “Given our history, I would expect you to know that I am not a man who gives up easily. And since our last meeting, I have been ordered by the Committee of Public Safety to make it my sole mission to capture you and bring you in for execution. That is the only way I can salvage the considerable damage you and your friend have done to my otherwise spotless career. If you are not returned, I will be charged with treason.”

Jacqueline stared at him, still unable to believe that he was here. How could he have known she was coming? How could he have known she would be landing here, on this day, and coming to this inn to find transportation? She was loath to accept the only explanation she could find. She cast her eyes down, shrinking into the depths of her cloak as if she felt it could offer her some protection from the reality that surrounded her.

“Ah, here comes your noble marquis,” sneered Nicolas.

Jacqueline looked up to see François-Louis walking toward her, flanked on either side by two members of the National Guard. The patrons of the inn were staring at him. He was not being held in any way by the soldiers, and his expression was resigned and calm. Her heart sank.

“Why?” she managed brokenly when he reached her, wondering how he could possibly betray her so. “Why did you do this?”

He shifted his gaze uncomfortably from her to the floor and back to her. “I—I desperately needed the money,” he said simply, his blue eyes embarrassed and pleading, as if he thought she should understand.

She stared at him in utter disbelief.

“I have nothing, Jacqueline,” he continued defensively. “I thought you had the jewels, and that we would marry and get on rather comfortably. But when you broke our betrothal and told me you had nothing anyway, I knew I had no alternative but to go along with Bourdon’s offer.”

Her heart constricted with pain. Her betrothed, a man who had once sworn she was everything to him, who had promised to give her anything to make her happy, was trading her life for money. “And Antoine?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the curious hush that had descended on the room.

He looked at her, his face twisted with deep, genuine regret. “I am truly sorry, Jacqueline,” he answered softly.

The pain that washed over her in that moment was awesome, suffocating, unbearable. “You bastard!” she shrieked, leaping up from the table and clawing viciously at his face with all the rage and frustration and horror that suddenly exploded within her.

The two soldiers halfheartedly tried to restrain her, obviously not too concerned about the sight of one aristo attacking another. Jacqueline ignored them and remained focused on François-Louis, much to everyone’s entertainment. He raised his hands to protect his face and so she switched her attack to his head, tearing off his hat and wig in the process. She stopped and stared in confusion at the brown hair that dangled from her hand. The entire room roared with laughter. She looked up at François-Louis, whose shiny bald head was nearly as red as his outraged cheeks.

“Enough of this!” ordered Nicolas, although it was obvious that he was taking no small amount of pleasure in the sight of seeing François-Louis publicly humiliated. “Take them outside to the carriage.”

Jacqueline bit her lip and drew her cloak protectively around her, trying to regain some control. The two soldiers positioned themselves on either side of her and escorted her through the rough-looking crowd to the door. Nicolas and François-Louis followed behind.

“Send the traitorous bitch to the guillotine!” shouted a burly man who glared at Jacqueline as she walked by, his filthy, unshaven face contorted with malicious pleasure.

“To the guillotine! To the guillotine!” chanted the crowd enthusiastically as they lifted their glasses into the air in mock salute.

She held her head high as she walked past them, unwilling to let them see her fear. A scrawny-looking girl with dirty, matted hair reached out and grabbed at her cloak, tearing her hood down and exposing her to the crowd. One of the guards roughly shoved the girl out of the way, sending her sprawling onto the floor. The crowd cheered. Jacqueline breathed a small sigh of relief. Whatever was to happen to her, Nicolas had obviously ordered that she was not to be molested by the mob, and she was grateful for that.