Verity shook her head.
Henrietta stared at her. “One day, you might tell me what happened on that boat.”
“One day, perhaps.” Verity swallowed. “But not now. Now, we must rest and prepare for what awaits us in Paris. I have friends who can find out where your father has been taken.”
“At first light,” Henrietta repeated. She sank back onto the chair.
Verity fought to sound confident, but she feared for Anthony. Should he and the baron survive a Parisian prison, the guillotine awaited them. And when Danton discovered her to be in Paris, she would be faced with the choice between saving her father’s life or Anthony’s. For a moment the thought plunged her into despair, but she pushed it away. She would face that when she came to it.
The next day, Verity’s doubts about Henrietta’s ability to handle the reins faded. She was envious of the girl’s cool-headed skill. They’d been traveling for hours. As dark fell, Henrietta drove the cart off the road into a field overgrown with cow parsley and nettles. She drew the horse up near a copse of oak and fir trees. Henrietta wisped the horse with a swatch of grass then led the animal to a stream. She tied the animal up in the meadow to graze. It was a pitch-black night and humid with an approaching storm. Fortunately, the rain held off, but fear, hunger and a disturbed woodpecker made them doze fitfully.
In the morning, they shared the remains of the cheese, apples, and some wild strawberries, which did little to assuage their hunger. As they rode on the storm hovered close by. A bolt of lightning struck a tree with a mighty crack. The horse bucked and neighed. Henrietta struggled with the reins. Her soothing tone settled him again, and they continued.
By afternoon, the rain increased, soaking them to the skin. Water lay about in deep puddles, and the road became a quagmire. The wheels of the cart sank in the mud as the tired horse labored to free them. Verity got off to push, up to her ankles in mud. For a panicked half hour, they pushed and pulled until the mud gave up its hold and the wheels rolled free. Verity settled on the seat again, but the horse was tiring. In the downpour they could barely see ahead. How long before they became permanently stuck in the middle of nowhere?
“We can’t keep this up.” Henrietta wiped the rain out of her eyes with her arm. “We’ll lose the horse.”
“We need an inn for the night,” Verity said. “We should find one soon.”
“Can we afford it? I don’t have much money left.” Henrietta grimaced. “I wish I could have brought more. I’m not used to paying for things.”
“We’ll manage.” Verity’s grave voice lifted. She pointed. “Look, a roof! Through those trees.”
They drove into the forecourt of the Le Cockerel Rouge and Henrietta pulled the horse up with a sigh of relief. An ostler ran over and drove the trap to the stables while they entered the inn, their clothes dripping on the flagstone floor.
The innkeeper’s wife bustled out. “What a night. Come to the fire or you’ll catch your death!”
They peeled off their sodden cloaks. When the innkeeper’s wife saw their garish gowns, she pursed her lips.
“We are actresses, Madame. We are on our way to perform in Paris.” Verity feared they’d be turned out into the night. The proprietress hesitated while Verity held her breath, her cold body tense.
Henrietta sneezed, looking very young and desperate.
The innkeeper’s wife clucked her tongue.
“I’ll fetch towels. Come into the coffee room. A hearty soup will warm you.”
The inn appeared to be empty, these were troubled times for France. Light-headed with hunger and shaking with cold, they took seats in the coffee room. It was cozy beneath the low oak beams with the heady smell of hops. A fire crackled and blazed in the cavernous fireplace. Verity savored every mouthful of the potato soup and chicken pie served to them. Exhausted, Henrietta fell silent.
They burrowed into blissfully snug beds and slept like the dead. In the morning, Henrietta threw back the curtains. The sun shone through the tiny casement window. “Blue sky! I could not have endured another day like yesterday.”
Verity pulled the bell. “Let’s wash away the mud and dress.”
The innkeeper’s wife had dried their gowns by the fire during the night, but they were still damp. After bathing, Verity chose another gown, striped blue, white and red, the colors of the tricolor. She dressed her wig with tall feathers.
“I love being a woman again.” Henrietta struck a pose in her apple green gown ornamented with black velvet buttons. She had added a saucy patch at the corner of her mouth.
Verity laughed and clapped her hands. “We are fine ladies of the theatre.” She held out her hand. “Give me your travel papers.” She took them to the table and dipping a quill into the inkwell, altered the name on it from Henri to Henrietta. “Voilà!” She handed it back.
***
Christian climbed the creaking stairs. He knocked three times, waited, then knocked twice more. A man of middle years opened the door. Dressed in soiled maroon velvet, his white wig askew on his head lent him a deranged air.
“Baron Dubois?”
Christian followed the baron into the attic room. Close examination revealed him to be younger, less than thirty.
“Madame.” Christian bowed to a woman in lavender silk who drooped on a wooden chair. She was pretty, despite the tracks of tears on her dirt-stained cheeks. Two small, flaxen-haired children slept in a tumble of limbs on a mattress on the floor.
