‘Not especially. I think most of the women I meet at home simply don’t know there’s something out there theycouldbe interested in. Maybe it’s hard to imagine there are things other than needlepoint and party planning if you’re never exposed to them. If you don’t understand what your options are, can you truly make a choice?’
Something about that didn’t strike her as quite right, but she couldn’t find the appropriate words to disagree with him. Did he think she and Camille weren’t really making real choices about their lives?
‘Look – when this is over, why don’t you come to England with Cam? I’ve heard they’re starting to train some nurses properly at the London schools – we don’t have convents to do the nursing like France does, you see, so the medical men have realised they’ll have to get something organised themselves. I can put in a word at St Bart’s, see if we can find you a place. If that would be something you wanted, of course.’
‘I – thank you.’
Ada tried and failed to keep the sour note out of her voice. Grudgingly, she thought she might understand what Camille saw in him. He did seem so terribly kind.
Which only made everything feel so much worse.
7
The Bedroom, Au Petit Suisse
18 Prairial Year II, two days until the deadline
Camille swallowed a mouthful of rancid river water and choked. In the dream, she knew she was supposed to do something, but all she could think about was the crush of cold against her lungs and the dragging weight of her sodden clothes.
Something snatched at her sleeve, fingers tangled in her hair. Someone was scrabbling at her, pulling her deeper into the river. She went under, nose filling with water. A base instinct took over and she bucked and writhed until the hands let go and she broke the surface, gulping air. She caught a flash of buildings rushing by and tall, stone archways shooting overhead.
The grey hands grabbed at her again, pulling on her shoulders and lifting the weight of their body onto her. Grey hands.
Olympe clung to her, pushing her under the water.
Camille twisted from her grip and moved round behind her, hooking her arms under Olympe’s armpits and treading water.
‘Stop it! Stop fighting me!’
Paris slid by in a hazy blur of water and sky and buildings, rain smattering her face.
She tried to angle them towards the bank, but they were sinking. She was so tired. No matter how much she kicked the bank never seemed to be any closer. Her legs felt like jelly and the water kept lapping against her jaw, into her mouth. It would almost be a relief to let go, sink beneath the waves. She saw Guil kneel at the bank, reaching for her. But he was so far away. For a moment, she could feel Ada’s hand in hers, warm and gentle.
Then her head slid beneath the water.
She woke, mouth dry and tongue thick and strange between her teeth.
A nightmare. That was all. Memories of her escape with Olympe from the prison, replaying in her tired mind.
Sitting up, she found Ada’s side of the bed cold and empty. Camille rubbed her hands over her face, trying to bring some life back to herself. Just a nightmare.
Then she remembered: the real hell was yet to come. They had two days left before the Revolutionaries expected her to hand Olympe over. The Royalists could make their move sooner. Time to sleep or worry about nightmares was not a luxury she could afford.
She dressed quickly in her usual Sans Culottes outfit of rough black trousers, a short red jacket and a sturdy pair of leather boots. Her hair she pinned up under her Phrygian cap, the tricolore cockade hanging limply from its folded brim. Rifling through her dresser drawers for her spare stash of shot for her pistol, her fingers closed on the chain of her mother’s locket instead. She paused, running her finger over the engraving. She dug a nail into the gap between the two halves and eased it open. Inside was a coil of brittle blonde hair. In one half was a cameo of her mother, whose hair the locket held. Her kind, clever, dead mother. In the other half was a cameo of her father. He looked as stern and cold as he had in life. It was the only picture of them she had. For a moment, she was struck by how different her parents’ revolution had been. They had thought they would be leaving her a better world. Instead they had only left her behind.
She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Olympe came in and shut the door behind her.
‘You’re taking me with you.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘To the abbey. You’re taking me.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Why not?’
Camille looked at her incredulously. ‘Any number of reasons, first and foremost being that we’re trying very hard to not get you caught by anyone again.’
