Unable to relax, Belle stared out the window at the gentle monotony of the Norman country-side, the flat meadows dotted with cows, here and there the gray stone of a farmhouse or an apple orchard, the trees laden with ripening fruit. No grand, breathtaking vista, and yet the scene was somehow more satisfying with its aura of peace, of normalcy. She watched the sun setting behind a wheat field recently harvested. As the fiery orb bathed the sky in a glow of rose and gold, a rare sense of tranquility stole over Belle.
She would have liked to have clung to the feeling, but was disturbed all too soon. The leather seat creaked as Phillipe shifted and cleared his throat. Reluctantly she dragged her gaze from the window and realized the young man was staring at her, likely had been doing so for some time.
The last rays of the sun caught the shine of his beardless face, the brightness of his eyes. Was he regarding her perhaps a shade too tenderly? Belle had caught such an expression on his face more than once, but she kept hoping that she only imagined what it portended.
When she caught him staring, the boy averted his eyes. He coughed again. "I was wondering, mademoiselle-“
"Yes?" Belle's tone was not encouraging.
"Well . . ." Phillipe swallowed. "I was wondering. How did a lady like you became involved in this dangerous work? Indeed, I envy you. Such an exciting life you must lead."
"Too exciting sometimes," Belle said, eager to evade any questions about her past.
"Your friend Baptiste in Paris says you are the best royalist agent working in France today. He said that during the Terror, you helped so many aristocrats hide and escape, it is no longer safe for you to enter the city."
Belle made no comment, but she tensed. She had indeed once come close to losing her life in Paris. If she closed her eyes, she could easily conjure up chilling images of her confinement in the Conciergerie, the walls of that dread prison enfolding her like a tomb. But it was not fear of death or of being arrested again that kept her from Paris so much as fear of her own memories, some bittersweet, but most the stuff of nightmares. The City of Light for her had become a city of darkness.
“Baptiste told me you helped smuggle arms to aid the Catholic uprising in the Vendee," Phillipe continued. "He said that men call you the Avenging Angel."
"Baptiste talks too much." Belle mentally cursed her fellow agent. How she hated that foolish nickname. She had not gone to work for the royalist cause because she cared a fig whether the deceased king's fat brother Louis XVIII succeeded in reclaiming his throne or not. It was because the royalists paid her well and she had despised the violence of the revolutionaries who had overrun France. She was no one's avenger and certainly no one's angel. Only the insouciant Baptiste, presuming upon old friendship, had ever dared call her that to her face.
"Have you been a royalist agent for a long time?" Phillipe asked.
"Oh, a long, long, long time," Belle said, hoping to remind him that she was nearly ten years older than he.
Her hint appeared to go wide of its mark, for Phillipe bent forward, his lips parting in a shy smile. "I am so glad you are crossing the channel with us." He paused, and then asked in a voice that cracked, "Dare I hope, mademoiselle, that you will come and call upon me and Maman after we are settled in Portsmouth?"
Belle suppressed an urge to tell him she doubted his mother would welcome such a visit. An adventuress in her home was the last thing the respectable woman would want in other circumstances.
"We shall see," she said. She realized that even this vague promise was a mistake. Phillipe's face lit up, and she had the impression that if he had dared, he would have reached for her hand to kiss it.
Calf love, Belle thought. She had seen the symptoms of such infatuation far too often not to recognize it, and in males older and wiser than Phillipe. It never failed to astonish her—that she could inspire such devotion so quickly in men. Her gaze turned to her reflection in the carriage window.
Beautiful, she had oft heard herself proclaimed. Was it only she that noticed the hint of hardness that had developed about her mouth, the world-weary expression in her eyes?
Such flaws had obviously escaped Phillipe's notice, for when Belle turned back to face him, his gaze appeared more openly adoring than before. This was a complication she did not need. She liked the boy. To her, young Phillipe represented all that had been best in the old regime of the French aristocracy, the charming manners, the good breeding, the sense of honor. She had no desire to be the first to break his heart.
"Mademoiselle," he asked, "have you—have you—"
"Have I what?" Belle prompted, although she dreaded what might be coming next.
"Have you ever been in love?"
"Oh, aye, many times." Belle laughed. But the boy looked so wounded, she regretted her flippant reply. She surprised herself by adding softly, "No, in truth, only once and that was enough."
Phillipe gave her a speaking glance. "Truly," he said, "once is enough."
Fearing what he might say or ask next, Belle decided the only way to escape his questions and longing looks was to feign sleep. She forced a yawn. Murmuring her apologies, she nestled her head against the squabs. As she closed her eyes, she heard Phillipe's deep sigh.
With difficulty, Belle forced herself to relax and pretend to doze. She was far too vigilant to drift off in actuality. In any case, Phillipe's recent words would not permit her to do so. His innocent question echoed through her head. "Have you ever been in love, mademoiselle?"
Only once.
Her reply carried her back to a time when she had been as young as Phillipe, but far older in experience even then. Yet for one sun-drenched day in spring, she had felt as innocent, as trembling with hope as any maiden.
The path through the village of Merevale had been strewn with May blossoms, crowded with the peasant folk who had come for a glimpse of their young lord's English bride. And the heat . . . as though it were yesterday, Belle could feel the sun's rays beating through the white crepe of her gown, the lace pinniers of her bonnet hanging limp against her neck.
But it had been cool inside the nave of Saint-Saveur. With her eyes tightly closed, Belle could still envision the lofty rib vaulting of the roof above her head, the tall windows of the lantern tower, the stained glass spilling a quiltwork of colored light upon the altar.
There had stood the newly consecrated Pere Jerome, garbed in his vestments, his youthful face aglow with the excitement of performing the marriage sacrament for the first time, his voice quivering as he had put to her the question.
Would she, Isabelle Gordon, pledge to honor, obey, and cherish forever Jean-Claude de Varens?
Belle recalled how she had turned to gaze up into the face of the young man at her side. With painful clarity, she pictured Jean-Claude's solemn face, the waves of his light brown hair, his mist-gray eyes giving the impression of one always lost in a dream.
She had promised to cherish him forever, and he had echoed her vows, stooping to brush a chaste kiss upon—
Belle wrenched her eyes open, forcing the image back behind the closed doors of her mind. There were no forevers to be found in the France of 1789. The Revolution had destroyed things more sacred than her marriage vows. St. Saveur was no more. Rechristened the Temple of the Enlightenment, the colored glass had been shattered, the golden candlesticks looted, the stone before the altar stained with Father Jerome's blood.
And the last time she had seen Jean-Claude- Belle pressed her fingertips against her eyes.
"Mademoiselle?"
She did not at first notice the touch on her wrist, it was so butterfly soft.
"Mademoiselle. I think we are approaching the posting station." The tug at her arm became more insistent.
"What?" Belle lowered her hand to meet Phillipe’s concerned gaze. "Oh, yes. The posting station."
When she glanced out the window, she saw that the sun had set, the glass pane curtained with the purple haze of twilight. The occasional flicker of a lantern marked their approach to Lillef
leur, a hamlet of thatch-roofed cottages with the spire of a church set in their midst.
"You looked so distressed a moment ago when you first opened your eyes," Phillipe said. "Did you have a bad dream?"
"No. I never have dreams anymore."
Belle composed herself. By the time she turned back to face Phillipe, she had shaken off the memory of Jean-Claude. Gripping the back of her seat, she braced against the jolt as the carriage trundled along the rough lane leading through Lillefleur.
Madame Coterin and her daughter were startled awake. Sophie whimpered and Belle could hear the child's frightened breathing like a small creature cornered in the dark.
"There is nothing to fear," Belle said. "We are going to stop to change the horses. It will not take long, and then we will be on our way again."
Sophie ducked her head and burrowed deeper against her mother. On the outskirts of the village, the carriage halted in the yard before a row of long, low stables. Belle could hear the postboy scrambling from his perch on the box, the ancient Feydeau alighting at a slower pace. The coachman's gruff voice rang out, greeting the station's ostlers and giving them his commands.
Presently, he stuck his grizzled head inside the coach door. "The change, it take twenty—maybe thirty minutes," he said.
"So long," Madame Coterin faltered.
"My fault, it is not." Feydcau leveled a fierce look at Belle. "What more is to be expected when you do not send the outriders ahead to bespeak the horses."
The lack of outriders had been a source of contention between Belle and Feydeau at the outset of the journey, Belle insisting that outriders would only serve to call more attention to their carriage.
"Twenty minutes is fast enough," Belle told the old man. "Though you might see what you can do to hurry them on a bit."
"Merde!" Feydeau said, but went to do as she suggested.
Belle bit back a smile. Feydeau might be surly and his speech as vulgar as a Petit-Pont tripe vendor, but Belle had worked with the old man enough to know that he could be depended upon, capable of keeping a sharp wit in case of any unforeseen disasters.
Belle did not foresee anything going wrong, not on the fringes of this quiet village. The wait proved not so much nerve-racking as it was tedious. Phillipe fidgeted in his seat, and Sophie tugged at her mother's sleeve.
"I am so hungry, Maman."
"Hush, Sophie," Madame Coterin crooned.
The child subsided at once, but Belle could see her thin shoulders tremble. Sophie spoke so seldom, and Belle could not recall her ever having asked for anything. These past few days the child had borne fears and discomforts that would have set many adults to whining, and she had every right to complain of being hungry. The last of the provisions that had been brought with them had been consumed early that afternoon. When Baptiste had packed up the hamper for them, he had not expected it to take so many days to reach the coast. Never venturing farther from his beloved Paris than the fringes of the great Rouvray Forest, the little Frenchman was obviously unfamiliar with the conditions of the roads this far from the city. The French had been so busy these past years shrieking for liberty, equality, and brotherhood, no one had troubled about anything so mundane as filling in the ruts.
Belle lowered the window glass, the cool evening breeze fanning her cheeks. She poked her head out the window and looked for Feydeau. The old man was busy lighting the coach's lanterns. He would likely snap her nose off if she sent him to find food. Belle glanced back at Sophie's wan face. Surely it would not be such a great risk if she were to alight and purchase something for the little girl at the posting inn.
Belle gathered up her muff and announced her intention, but as she pushed open the coach door, Phillipe piped up, "I shall escort you, mademoiselle."
"Thank you, Phillipe. That will not be necessary."
"But I cannot allow you to venture alone into a vulgar place like an inn."
Belle stifled a sigh. If the boy only knew how many ‘vulgar’ places she had been obliged to enter alone in the course of her life.
"Please, Phillipe. I should feel much more comfortable if you remained safe— Er, that is, I think your mama and sister need your protection far more than I do."
"That is so, Phillipe." Madame Coterin clutched at her son's sleeve. "You listen to what Mademoiselle Varens tells you."
"But—"
Phillipe was still protesting as Belle leapt nimbly to the ground and closed the coach door. She strode away from the carriage, hoping that Madame could keep the boy's gallantry in check for the short time her errand would take.
Noting one of the ostlers ogling her, Belle lowered her veil. She buried her hands in the muff, comforted by the feel of her pistol secured by its leather strap. The evening air was brisk, the sky overhead beginning to sparkle with stars, the moonlight more than adequate to illuminate her way across the stableyard.
The posting inn stood just beyond the stables, its sign bearing the words Soleil d'Or creaking in the breeze. As Belle studied the half-timbered frame structure with its jutting second story, she doubted the Golden Sun had ever merited its name.
The wood showed signs of dry rot, the shutters hanging half off their hinges. The candles’ glow beyond the dirty panes appeared dim and uninviting, but Belle had frequented far worse establishments. She shoved open the heavy oak door and entered.
The atmosphere was hazy with smoke from the logs crackling in a stone fireplace that was not drawing properly. Most of the rush-seated chairs were empty except for a toothless old man who hunched over a table, swilling something from a mug. He appeared to be deep in conversation with a plump woman wearing a soiled apron. Seemingly, the only other person present was a lanky youth clearing the remains of a roast chicken off one of the rough-hewn tables. But Belle was startled by a burst of male laughter.
Muffled, the harsh sound came from somewhere above her. Her eyes followed the course of a rickety stair to the gallery on the second floor, the doors to the rooms beyond swallowed by darkness.
"Can I be of some help to you, madame?"
The woman's question snapped Belle's attention back to the main floor of the inn. She was scrutinized by three pairs of eyes, their expression not hostile so much as wary.
"Yes," Belle said. "I should like to purchase some food for myself and my traveling companions."
The chair scraped on the uneven brick floor as the woman heaved herself to her feet. Twisting her work-worn hands in her apron, she approached Belle.
"Don't got much left. Only some bread and cheese."
"That will do," Belle said. "And some of your good Norman cider if you have it."
The woman nodded and disappeared through a door at the back. More noise echoed from the floor above, the sound of shattering glass followed by raucous laughter.
The old man calmly refilled his cup. Although the boy shuddered, he kept on with his work. By the time the inn's hostess had returned bearing a straw basket, the laughter had increased in volume.
"You are having a rather convivial gathering here tonight," Belle said.
"Mmmpf," the woman mumbled. She cast a nervous glance toward the stairs and thrust the basket at Belle. Packed inside was a crusty loaf of bread, a creamy slab of Pont-l'Eveque cheese, and a brown jug.
Balancing her muff atop the basket, Belle began to count some coin into the woman's calloused palm, when one of the doors above them slammed open.
Belle's head jerked upward in time to see a girl burst onto the gallery. Raising the hem of her homespun cotton dress, she bolted sobbing for the stairs. Hard after her came a strapping soldier, his blue coat unbuttoned to the waist, revealing a hairy chest.
Although he swayed drunkenly, the soldier caught the peasant girl before she descended the first step. He hauled her roughly against him.
"What’s your hurry, ma petite? You can't be tired of our company so soon."
"Ah, please, monsieur. I beg you. Let me go."
The soldier knotted his hand in a length of the gi
rl's hair and began dragging her back toward the room. Cold fury surged through Belle. Her gaze flicked to her companions, but the boy had bolted for the kitchen. The old man affected not to hear, while the woman tensed and muttered, "I told 'Ree not to go flirting with the likes of them."
Belle took a half step toward the stairs, then stopped. It was none of her concern, she told herself. She had enough to do making sure the Coterins reached safety.
She heard the drunken soldier give vent to a loud oath. Glancing up, Belle saw that the girl had managed to wrench free. Gaining the stairs, the peasant maid fairly tumbled down them in her effort to get away. Still cursing, the soldier staggered after her.
"Isabelle, when will you learn to mind your own affairs?" Belle sighed to herself. Not tonight it seemed, she thought as she positioned herself at the bottom of the stairs. When the soldier charged past her, she thrust out her foot and tripped him.
The huge man crashed headlong, upending a table and sending a candlestick flying. The girl escaped out the back. Belle could hear the old man and the hostess draw in their breath as though fearful of what would happen next.
"So clumsy of me," she said, staring down at the soldier's sprawled form. "My apologies, sir."
She moved quickly toward the door, but the soldier was not as drunk as she had supposed. As she reached for the latch, she could hear him regain his feet. With a snort of rage, he hurled himself at her.
His weight knocked her against the door, jarring both basket and muff from her hand. Pinned by his bulk, she could scarce move, too tangled in her skirts for a well-placed kick.
Belle's heart thudded with apprehension as the soldier thrust his coarse, unshaven face but inches from her own. The reek of sour wine assailed her even through the layering of her veil.
“Perchance you need a lesson in not being so clumsy, hein?"
She had no chance to speak before his hand shot up, gripping the edge of her veil. He jerked hard, ripping the delicate silk and wrenching the bonnet nearly off her head.