“If whatever occurred in the past will make trouble for Gabriella, I want to know what it is. Or I will take her back to England and keep her far from it. She’ll be safe in Oxfordshire, with my wife’s family.”
“There will be no trouble.” Auberge spoke firmly.
I’d observed the way in which Fernand and his brothers had quickly backed down from Auberge, though they’d clearly wished to thrash me for my impertinence. Auberge had protected Gabriella from danger in all the years she’d lived with him, keeping her alive and well. When she’d at last come to London and met me, she’d fallen into peril, which had not helped reconcile me with him and Carlotta.
“I will hold you to that, Major,” I said.
Auberge gave me a nod. “As you should.”
He rapped on the carriage roof as it approached the gate to his farm. He climbed down when the coach halted, sending me on toward Lyon with only a steady gaze as a farewell.
By the time the carriage reached the heart of the city, I was hungry, tired, and angry. I bade the coachman take me across to the Presqu’île and made my way once again to Beaumont’s tavern for refreshment.
I wasn’t certain I’d be welcome, but I refused to retreat to our villa and bar the door. If Beaumont did not want me there, he’d tell me, and I would simply find another shop in which to assuage my healthy appetite.
Brewster walked inside with me, ready to defend me if the elderly gentlemen within made ready to push me out. No one objected when I entered, however. The regulars only silently watched me take a seat at the table that had become my usual one.
Beaumont’s scowl, when he emerged from the back room, was as fierce as Fernand’s had been. I thought he’d tell me to remove myself, but then he trudged to me with his dusty carafe of strong red wine.
He fetched Brewster a pot of ale and brought us a loaf of bread and the beef stew he served most days. When I thanked him, Beaumont glowered at me, then he scraped a stool to the table and sat on it, planting his elbows on the board.
“He was an evil man,” Beaumont said without preliminary. “Evil. There are those who fear that uttering his name will return him to us. Which I say is nonsense.” He sent his glare to the rest of the room. “He must be dead by now.”
I assumed we were speaking of Lucien Potier, the man whose moniker had evoked such antagonism.
Brewster eyed Beaumont, who spoke no English, with some impatience, but he chewed his bread and held his peace.
“I am sorry to have upset everyone,” I said to Beaumont. “I truly know nothing of the man.”
“He came after the siege,” Beaumont went on. “When we were a conquered people. He made many arrests and conducted executions. Didn’t matter if a man were loyal to the king or to the republic.”
“I have heard something of that unfortunate history,” I said in sympathy.
“The one you asked about was the worst of the lot. Arresting, torturing, shooting in cold blood. Even his own men hated him. Most of us here lost someone to him—father, mother, sister, brother. It was more than twenty years ago, but we haven’t forgotten.”
“Nor should you,” I said. “I do apologize. I did not mean to stir up such troubling memories.”
“You didn’t know,” Beaumont said coldly. “I am telling you so you do not mention it again.”
“What became of the fellow?” I asked. “Did someone kill him? It sounds as though he’d deserve it.”
“That would have been too easy, wouldn’t it? No, one day, he was simply gone. Recalled, they say. He might have faced his own execution in Paris—they were turning on each other there by then. We never heard. Bonaparte came a few years after that, and we were Lyon again.”
The men in the shop had turned to listen, nodding along, some with tears gleaming in aging eyes. The atmosphere in the room was heavy, laden with past sorrow.
Fernand and his brothers would have been a young men at the time of the events Beaumont described, in their twenties. The Deveres’ father had been executed by the new regime, and I wondered if Potier had been directly responsible for the death. Perhaps the Deveres blamed Potier for it, regardless.
I let out a breath. “Thank you for telling me,” I said to Beaumont. “I will cease discussing him.”
“Bien.” Beaumont started to rise, then he thrust a hand into the threadbare coat he wore every day. “The colonel stopped in after you left this morning and asked me to give you this.”
He held out a neatly folded piece of cream-colored paper, which I took without question.
I thanked Beaumont, and he marched away into his kitchen. The other inhabitants turned from me, resuming their usual repasts.
I assumed Beaumont meant Colonel Moreau, and I saw that this was true when I skimmed the note, which was short and to the point.
“Moreau wants to meet,” I told Brewster.
