“I can’t see how I… where are my manners?” He moved back with a slight limp and pushed open the door. “Do come inside.”
They filed into the small parlor, simply furnished, with a welcome blaze in the fireplace. After Anthony helped Philippe to a chair, he turned to François. “Lord Beaumont, monsieur. Allow me to present my daughter, Lady Henrietta, and my brother-in-law, Baron St André. We are in desperate need, monsieur. We find ourselves without friends in France. We are trying to get to England.”
“You find a friend here, Lord Beaumont.” François straightened his shoulders. “You are most welcome to the modest comforts I can offer. The baron appears to be in a bad way. We must get him upstairs to bed. Then we shall talk.”
There were three small attic bedchambers. After Philippe was settled into bed. Verity placed a fresh dressing over his wound, and they returned to the parlor.
“It is wonderful to find you well, Uncle.” She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned forward and kissed his papery cheek. “Have you any news concerning my father?”
He shook his head. “Your father was too vocal in his opinions. It was bound to reach the ears of the authorities.”
“A professor has the right to speak out. The people need to hear from learned men.” Verity found him unsympathetic, but she considered it prudent not to continue to argue.
“I have read the works of Rousseau,” Henrietta said, not so inclined to hold her tongue. “Rousseau’s dream of France returning to the simple, golden age, without priests, nobles or kings to rule, threatens to become a nightmare.”
A red flush tinted Uncle François’ cheeks. “Can we blame Rousseau for his belief that we are all nature’s children? Or Voltaire for distrusting democracy? You are too young and uninformed to voice such opinions.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “You will need a meal. Verity, come and assist me. My maidservant only comes here twice a week.”
With a tiny shrug at Henrietta, Verity followed him into the kitchen.
He added wood to the stove. “I’m fortunate to have acquired some excellent coffee.”
Half an hour later, they sat around the table, enjoying hard boiled eggs, bread, and cheese, while Anthony brought François up to date.
François listened carefully and praised the women for their ingenuity. “The sans culottes in their red woolen caps are everywhere now,” he said. “In the village guards occupy the bridge, day and night and search everyone’s papers.”
“It’s going to be difficult to find a safe escape route,” Anthony said.
François scratched his beard. “A man named Jean Cottereau has gathered together a peasant force. They find homes for the homeless and move people to safety. They call themselves the Chouan. Their signal is the hoot of an owl.”
“Is there some way we might contact them?” Verity asked.
“I’ll make discreet inquiries,” François said. “In the meantime, you must rest and regain your strength.”
Henrietta and Verity returned the dishes to the kitchen., “Your uncle is fortunate,” Henrietta said. “He has a plentiful supply of flour and coffee. Was he a professor at the university like your father?”
“Oui. Some years ago.”
Henrietta began to scrape the plates. “He confuses me. He acts like a royalist, but then contradicts himself.”
“Whether he’s a republican, or a royalist doesn’t matter. I am his flesh and blood. He would do nothing to hurt me.”
“But what about the rest of us?”
“He couldn’t give you up without endangering me.” As she said it, Verity recalled the bitter arguments between him and her father.
Henrietta took a washed cup from her and began to dry it. “I hope you are right.”
Verity shrugged. “We have little choice.”
“I’m grateful to you all the same.” Henrietta hung the cup on a hook. “I want you to know that I haven’t told Papa about Danton. I suppose I should, but you’re right. Now is not the time. He has enough to contend with. I’ve decided to trust you, Verity. For the moment.”
“I said I would tell him myself. And I will.”
“Understand that if you don’t, I will.”
Her work done, Verity left Henrietta and went out into the garden, thinking of Anthony. She wanted him to trust her too. So much it hurt. The dog came up to her, tail wagging, and licked her hand. She stroked his smooth black head. As if in answer to her wish, Anthony appeared at the doorway. He came and sat down beside her on the bench beside a pink rose climbing a trellis. He’d removed his coat and there was blood on the torn sleeve of his linen shirt.
“You’ve been hurt!”
