Philippe was right. He wouldn’t last long in this cursed place. But it was unlikely that either of them would be spared. Anthony was surprised they hadn’t come for them. They were fed disgusting scraps a pig would reject. But he ate every bit, and he insisted Philippe eat too.
Anthony stretched out his legs, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes to wait for something to happen, even if it meant a trip to the Place de la Revolution. Surely there’d be a tribunal held before they sent an English lord to the scaffold?
The cell door opened and crashed back against the wall. A soldier stood there, pointing his gun at Anthony, his eyes blank and disinterested. “You are both to come.”
So, this was it. Anthony straightened his shoulders. “I demand to have my say at the Revolutionary Tribunal.”
“Silence!” The guard leaned over and prodded at Philippe with his bayonet. “On your feet!”
“Stop! I’ll assist him.” Anthony bent and heaved the barely conscious Philippe to his feet. He steadied himself and then lifted his brother-in-law up. He slowly mounted the stairs with the guard nudging them from behind.
* * *
Christian Hartley stood on the wharf at Calais. The traumatized family was now safe aboard a boat bound for Dover. They had little money, no lands or home, all were confiscated, but they were alive. Christian wished them well in their new country. They might be able to return to France in the future, but they would be wise not to count on it.
The trap had been driven away by a fellow collaborator. With a final wave to the baron and his wife, Christian climbed into a carriage hired to take him back to Paris. His fears for Henrietta settled on his shoulders like a mantle on an ox. He straightened the brown wig and the hat which formed part of his new disguise, the clothes of a lower member of the first estate. He was now a parish priest who had denounced his religion on his way to visit his mother in Paris. Christian had broken one of his cardinal rules by returning to Paris with no time to alert his contacts. He was on his own, and despite the added moustache, his face might be remembered.
The carriage took off down the road. Exhausted, he leaned against the squabs and pulled his hat down over his eyes. He’d had precious little sleep for days and expected that to continue. But he’d learned to snatch a few hours where he could, and despite the jolting of the carriage he drifted off, his chin resting on his chest.
* * *
Henrietta shivered and rubbed her arms. Mist swirled over the river and enveloped them like a shroud. The asylum loomed above them like an evil portent. “Do you think we’ve missed him?” she asked Verity.
They’d arrived by carriage half an hour ago and waited in the narrow street. Dressed in dark cloaks, they still drew curious glances.
Fortunately, because of the weather, the avenue was almost deserted. Footsteps sounded, echoing eerily in the cobbled street. Verity clutched Henrietta’s arm.
A man emerged out of the mist. Short and dark-haired, he walked briskly to the asylum entrance.
Verity ran forward. “Jean-Paul Aubrac?” He turned his face young and handsome in the flickering light from the street lantern.
He peered at them and took a step in their direction. “Who is it?”
“Jean-Paul, it is I, Verity Garnier.”
“Mademoiselle Garnier? What on earth…”
“Oui.” Verity stepped into the arc of light. “I must beg your help, Jean-Paul.”
“My help?” Bewildered, he turned and stared at Henrietta. “Who is this?”
“My cousin, Henrietta.” Verity grabbed his sleeve. “Jean-Paul,mon ami, it is good to see you, but under such terrible circumstances. Tell me, is the Englishman, Lord Beaumont, still held in this prison?”
“Beaumont?Oui. There was talk of moving he and the French nobleman with him, upstairs.”
“Are they in good health?” Henrietta thrust forward, earning a sharp glance from Verity.
“Wounded, both. The Frenchman is in a bad way. Not that it matters, only a matter of time until…”
“We must get them out before the tribunal,” Henrietta said, her voice low and urgent.
Jean-Paul’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Come now, Jean-Paul. Nothing is impossible.” Henrietta placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. “We would be most grateful.”
Jean-Paul’s gaze flickered over Henrietta’s face. His cheeks reddened. “You are an actress too, mademoiselle? I don’t believe I’ve come across you. Where have you performed?”
“I am new to the theatre, monsieur.”
