Chapter Fifteen
Verity and Henrietta arrived at the Porte Saint Cloud barricade. “Passes.” A sentry emerged from his box as crowds of Parisians screamed for the blood of a hapless aristocrat. The man was pulled from his carriage and beaten.
Distracted, the guard merely glanced at their papers and waved them on. The violence silenced Henrietta. She slapped the reins, and drove grimly on, departing the scene as quickly as the tired horse allowed. They both sat stiff and alert as they negotiated the cobbled Parisian streets crowded with vehicles.
“Stop here a moment,” Verity said. She alighted to purchase two cockade ribbons from a street vendor. She climbed back onto the seat and pinned the bunch of red, white, and blue ribbons to Henrietta’s hat, adding one to her own.
They traveled through fields of crops and tumbledown houses, along the lanes of La Butte Montmartre. The Rue des Martyrs rose up the steep hill to the pale, ancient walls of Saint-Pierre-de-Montmartre. The church looked down on them, its significance now in tatters, as its abbess and nuns had been arrested and awaited the guillotine. It had been the last straw for Verity’s father. He had lost all enthusiasm for the Revolution after learning of such appalling and senseless acts.
At the cottage where Verity rented rooms, the brawny proprietor, Monsieur Balzac, rushed out to welcome them.
“It is good to see you again, Monsieur Balzac. This is my friend, Henrietta.”
“Bon jour, mademoiselle.”
With the trunk on his powerful shoulders, he mounted the stairs.
Henrietta gasped as they followed him into the house. “I could not have driven another mile.”
Verity rushed away to pay an ostler at the stables nearby and arrange for the return of the horse and cart to Le Havre. Her money dwindled fast. It wouldn’t stretch to feed them or pay her rent beyond the end of the next week. She would have to find work or join the starving people in rags living on the streets. The thought filled her with horror, which she tried to hide from Henrietta.
First, she would make inquiries about her father–and the very thought of how he must be suffering made her throat constrict–then she would visit friends and acquaintances who might be able to discover if Beaumont was in Paris, and if… he still lived. It was all extremely worrying, and exhaustion laid her low, seeping into her very bones.
“I’m sorry my home is so humble,” she said when she returned to the house. “I moved here only recently. Monsieur Balzac is a good friend of my father’s.”
They had both lost their mothers when young. Verity felt a kinship toward the younger girl because of it, but she was also aware of the luxurious life of privilege Henrietta was used to.
After Verity’s father had lost his position at La Sorbonne, their comfortable life ended. She’d been forced to seek work. And work was hard to find. The only option was the risky world of the theatre.
“This is a charming little house.” Henrietta seemed determined to sound cheerful, although her green eyes looked brittle, and impatience and anxiety added an edge to her voice. She wandered through the small apartment from the parlor to the bedchamber.
“There’s nothing to eat,” Verity said from the kitchen alcove.
Henrietta sat on the sofa. “I could fall sleep right here and now,” she announced. She pulled off her hat and tossed it and her wig aside. “A part of my body will never recover from that cart. She rubbed her derriere. I’m sure I have splinters.”
Verity upended a jug where she kept her secret cache and counted the coins in her hand. She picked up her basket. “I’m off to the market. I warn you it will be simple fare. Food prices have risen to absurd heights in the last few years. I’ll buy eggs for an omelet, some cheese and perhaps asparagus. Tomorrow, I must seek out my friends.” She tied a shawl across her chest and round her waist to hide the bodice of the low-cut gown.
“Tomorrow, I intend to find my father…” Henrietta began, rising to her feet.
“Oui, but be patient, please Henrietta. You must wait here for me. You do not know La Butte Montmartre. It is not safe for you alone on the streets.”
Henrietta’s lips trembled. “They kill people every day in this God-forsaken city. We have very little time. He may even now—”
“I’m aware of that.” Verity came to squeeze the girl’s arm. “My contacts could save us a lot of time. Give me until noon tomorrow to see what I can do.”
Henrietta bit her lip and nodded. She sank back on the sofa, her shoulders hunched.
* * *
The cell door clanged shut behind Josette, Anthony, and Philippe. Exhausted, bruised and roughened up by their captors, they fell onto the reeking straw. An aged couple dressed in tattered silks and laces barely noticed them. There was a bucket in the corner. Anthony had to fight not to gag at the stink. Through a high window voluminous white clouds drifted across an azure sky like a painting by Fragonard. The elegant country his dear wife had loved was gone. Out of the best of intentions sometimes the worse things come.
He cursed under his breath. If only he hadn’t been so foolish as to risk getting shot. His arm had not yet healed, but it didn’t pain him so much now. Philippe’s wound had been made worse by the soldiers’ brutal treatment, and it looked to be bleeding again. Josette removed her fichu and bound his shoulder. She gazed at Anthony, chewing her lip, fear in her eyes.
Anthony patted her arm. “You’ve been very brave, Josette. You don’t deserve this.”
“All my fault,” Philippe whispered. He leaned back with his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “I should not have stayed so long in France. My estates don’t matter, but what of my loyal servants? It is impossible to find work. How will they live?”
The elderly woman opened her eyes and gave an unfocused glance in their direction. She closed them again with a shudder. Her husband took her hand and squeezed it, murmuring something in her ear.
