The Cornish Heiress (44 page)

“Sorry,” she mumbled, “so sorry…”

“Hush, beloved. Sleep.”

Although he was not much better off than Megaera, Philip
drove himself on. It was about forty miles to Rouen from Mantes, and Philip
felt that the worst danger would be there. He was eager to enter the town early
in the morning when there would be a crush of people coming in to sell produce and
do business while an equally large number were going out, too. The numbers would
be less in winter than at other times, but traffic was still heavier in the morning
and evening. Within the town it probably would be safe to change horses for the
final thirty-five miles to Dieppe.

Finally he could drive himself no farther. When the arm that
held Meg became so numb that he nearly dropped her, Philip began to search the
sides of the road. Before disaster struck, he made out a darker shadow against
the slightly lustrous dark of the clouded sky. He shook Meg awake, hating to do
so but promising her she could sleep again as soon as they got to shelter. It was
necessary to dismount and lead the horses over a stone fence, but once again
their luck held good. The darkness was a barn with a decently filled hayloft.
Philip unsaddled the horses, shut them into the pen usually used for calves,
which were absent at this season, and somehow got up the ladder to the loft. He
never remembered lying down in the hay and pulling it over him.

It was the horrors of the previous day, plus Megaera’s guilt
over having failed, that saved them from oversleeping. For two hours she slept
heavily, but after that bad dreams pursued her, the men she had shot, dripping
blood, reaching to drag her from a horse that kept becoming insubstantial so
that she slipped down toward those clutching hands. At last she jerked awake, crying
out fearfully, to find that the barn was dimly visible around her. Now she
shook Philip awake and he started up, his gun in his hand, staring around
wildly.

“I think it’s dawn, Philip,” Meg said, pushing the barrel of
the pistol down gently.

He uncocked the gun and struggled to his feet without
answering, shoved the pistol back in his pocket, and made his way down the
ladder. It was fortunate, he thought as he relieved himself, that the manure
removed from a barn was seldom studied. The thought cheered him for some
obscure reason, and he found a pail, pumped water into it, swilled it clean,
pumped more water, and brought it in. If the sounds brought the farmer, he
didn’t care. Travelers had passed inns in the dark and taken shelter in barns
from time immemorial. If a coin did not soothe the man, there was always the
pistol.

No one came, however Philip had the idea that someone had
looked out the kitchen window when he was pumping water, come to just the
conclusion he had expected, and decided not to inquire lest the traveler would
want to be invited to breakfast. But they did not have that need since a good
part of the bread, cheese, and sausage remained.

Megaera had relieved herself also by the time Philip brought
the bucket in. He washed sketchily, she did not. It was the part of a servant
to look dirty. Considering the temperature in the barn, Megaera did not envy
Philip his cleanliness. She ate while he saddled the horses, and they were away
again. They made good time but at the gates of Rouen realized they were no
longer ahead of their pursuers. While they had slept in the barn, messengers
had preceded them. However, either they were not the quarry being hunted or
Fouché had no real information when he sent out to stop them. All carriages,
particularly rented vehicles, were being stopped and searched, but no one gave
more than a casual glance at the gentleman with a dirty servant in cast-off,
too-large clothes.

In the jakes of the large, busy posting house where they
stopped to eat and change horses for the third time, Philip destroyed François
Charon’s passes. He would not dare use them again, and they could be
incriminating if he were stopped and searched. The sealed message Charon had
been carrying, was sewn into the hem of Philip’s greatcoat—not the best hiding
place, perhaps, but he had not dared to open his boot or purchase glue to seal
it again.

Carriages were still being searched when they left Rouen,
but riders were scarcely scrutinized. Fouché was still unaware of Meg’s
exploits, Philip thought as they cleared the gate and spurred their horses
along the road to Dieppe, so he did not think her capable of riding a horse so
far and so fast. Then he grinned. Monsieur Fouché also seemed to be convinced
that English agents were gallant gentlemen who would not abandon their female
partners.

If Philip had known Fouché better, he would have been even
more flattered. Monsieur Fouché never generalized about people. He had no
preconceived notions about Englishmen, Frenchmen, or any man or woman of
whatever nationality. Each individual was studied and judged on his or her own.
It was because Philip was Roger’s son that Fouché was so sure he could not
leave his woman behind. Fouché knew the whole story of Leonie’s rescue from
Chaumette’s plot. Before he went to the guillotine, Chaumette had told the tale
to Fouché. Chaumette had been still furious with Roger, still puzzled as to how
Roger had found his wife, still convinced that if he had managed to get the
dauphin into his hands he would never have been sent to the guillotine.

In any case, once again incomplete knowledge had deceived
rather than enlightened. Fouché was correct that Philip would not under any
circumstances leave his accomplice behind, but he lacked two essential pieces
of information. Philip was not Roger; he did not have his father’s overanxious
sense of responsibility. Also, Philip’s attitude toward Megaera was very
different from Roger’s to Leonie. Double Leonie’s age when he met her and aware
of her mistreatment, Roger always acted as if it were a miracle that his sturdy
and courageous wife had sufficient strength to draw breath. Fouché had seen
Roger with Leonie, had been told that Philip was obviously very much in love
with his red-haired companion—and for once, jumped to the wrong conclusion.

Philip and Megaera were equal in age and, he believed,
considering the profession in which he found her employed, equal in daring.
Although Philip knew Meg’s physical strength less than his own, he never felt
that a harsh wind would knock her down or that she would dissolve in the rain.
Actually, it was necessary for him to remind himself from time to time that it
was wrong to lead a woman into the kind of scrape he enjoyed. He regarded Meg
as the perfect companion—and so she had proved herself to be.

Entering and leaving Rouen had been no trouble, but Philip
was worried about Dieppe. There, he knew the scrutiny of those coming in would
be more careful. Rouen was one town out of hundreds through which the fugitives
might pass, but Dieppe was a seaport and one on a narrow section of the
Channel. There were other seaports, of course, and many small villages and
coves along the coast where a vessel might put a boat ashore. Philip’s best
hope was that Fouché would expect him to be picked up secretly by an English
vessel so that the greatest attention would be paid to patrolling the coast.

This day there was a wan sun, and they stopped to rest the
horses where a wall caught what warmth there was from the south. Megaera was
asleep before Philip had lifted her down from her horse. He tethered the
animals, then sat down and took her in his arms to give her what warmth he
could. Gallantry suggested that he take off his own coat and put it around her,
but practicality warned him not to be an idiot. The compromise worked well
enough, although both were stiff and very cold when they woke. The sun was
gone, but they rode on, Philip intending to enter Dieppe as they had entered
Rouen, in the midst of the morning traffic.

Because they had started earlier and the distance was
shorter, they were able to stop only a few miles from the town before midnight.
Philip obtained this information at the inn where be stopped to buy food. He
thought briefly of a bed, but dismissed the idea at once. There was no way he
could take Meg into the room with him without drawing marked attention. One did
not take dirty servant boys to bed, and obviously Meg could not bed down in the
men’s servant quarters.

Philip now realized he had another problem. Once in Dieppe
they had to wait for Pierre if he was not there. In the country one could take
refuge in a barn, but not in a town. It was too cold and they were too tired to
walk the streets. An inn, as he had already realized, was impossible. He had
not solved the problem when they found a suitable barn, and slept too soundly
to be troubled, but he woke with it in the morning.

Because Philip did not want Meg to feel she was a danger and
a burden, he said nothing to her about the problem of where they could stay in
Dieppe, but it made him rather silent. Megaera, on the other hand, had left the
horror of her double murder behind, felt rested for the first time in two days,
and was in bubbling good spirits. Philip had told her to be still while they
were in the barn, with the excuse that someone might hear her speaking English,
but when they were on the road again that would not serve. Her chatter
receiving short answers, she finally asked whether they were in trouble.

“No more than before,” Philip replied.

“Then what’s wrong?” Megaera persisted.

“It will be dangerous for us to go to an inn,” Philip said
finally without specifying why.

As he had expected, Megaera accepted that as a general
statement rather than something specifically connected with herself. She
wrinkled her brow in thought for a while and then said, “I know, we must go to
a bawdy house. In a seaport there must be several, and I have heard that
Bonaparte is much against immorality and has been harsh with such people. They
will do their best, I suppose, to disoblige him and, unless they are forced,
will not give up a ‘criminal’ to the police. Do you think Fouché has explained
why you are wanted?”

Philip gaped at her. It was, in fact, a brilliant idea and
one that would work—although innocent Meg did not know why. He looked at the
sweet features under the dirt on her face and whooped with laughter. In a
seaport the vice he was thinking of was particularly prevalent.

Megaera raised her brows. “It isn’t such a silly idea at
that—” she began.

“No, no,” Philip assured her. “It is not a silly idea at all.
Not at all.”

“But I will have to change to my woman’s clothes,”’ she
said, frowning at the thought of undressing in some icy alley.

“Oh, no!” Philip exclaimed, beginning to laugh again.

“You monster!” Megaera snapped. “Do you think I’m going to
sit in the stable with the horses while you disport yourself—”

“No,” Philip choked. “No, I did not think that. I remembered
that you were not at all understanding about the harbor master’s daughter.”

“But you wouldn’t bring your servant into a bawdy house with
you. That’s ridiculous.”

“You know nothing about it at all,” Philip rejoined, his
eyes dancing, “and you are not to be my servant, just a boy picked up in the
streets.”

“Very well, but I don’t see that that can make any
difference. Why the devil should a man bring a boy into such a place?”

“I do not think I will tell you,” Philip replied. “It is
very shocking, and not at all the sort of thing a nice girl should know.”

That puzzled Megaera so much that she fell silent. From time
to time Philip glanced at her and burst out laughing again, but though she
teased him for an answer he would not give it. Then, as they drew closer to the
town and houses, horsemen, and cars became more frequent she stopped speaking
as she knew she must. About half a mile from the gate there was a lane that
Philip turned down. Not far along was a shed that screened them from the road.
They both dismounted and Philip unsaddled Megaera’s horse, tossed the saddle
into the shed, removed the bit from the bridle.

“I am sorry love, but you will have to walk the rest of the
way. You are taking the horse to town. If they ask you where, mouth something
indistinguishable and keep repeating it over and over and pointing. Do the same
if they ask where you are from. Do not worry, I will be right near. If I have
to shoot the gate guards, let go of the horse and run. Turn left—there is bound
to be a huddle of houses near the wall. Just run and hide. Then make your way
to the waterfront. You can ask for Pierre—just say his name as best you can and
mumble anything else you can think of. You have both guns—the little one and
the Lorenzoni?”

She nodded. “Can’t I—”

“No! For God’s sake, do not try to help. Remember I will be
on horseback so I can get away easily. I will find you down by the docks. Do
not worry about me.”

Philip sounded confident, but he hated to make her trudge
nearly a mile in the bitter cold. He could not imagine what any other woman
would have said to him had he suggested such a thing. Far from feeling
ill-used, Meg just asked what else she could do to help. He could only pray
that she would do as he asked and escape if there were any trouble. Now that
she was in Dieppe, she could get safely away with Pierre, even if he were
taken—so long as she did not try to save him. He dared say no more. The last
thing he wanted was for Meg to believe he expected trouble.

The plan went awry before they even reached the mouth of the
lane. From the road a grizzled farmer driving two sheep hailed them and asked
whether they were going to Dieppe. Since there was nowhere close enough that he
knew which he could claim as their destination, Philip had to agree. However,
since he felt it was important that he and Meg not be seen to be together, he
added that he had an errand in the other direction first and that he would
overtake them.

“Well, then,” the farmer said cheerfully, “I’ll company the
boy.”