Sovay (30 page)

CHAPTER 3
4

I
t was hard to keep track of time. France was no longer ruled by the same calendar as everywhere else. All the months had been renamed after the weather, or crops. They were presently in Messidor, which meant
harvest
, or perhaps they were in Thermidor, which meant
hot
. Sovay could not be sure. She didn’t even know what day of the week it was, since the normal seven had been increased to ten. The weather was certainly living up to the new naming. Even with the windows open, there was hardly a breath of air. They were living in Year 2. The new calendar was calculated from the day the Republic had been declared, and there hadn’t really been a Year 1, because no one had thought of it then. It was as if time had been broken. As if the past had never existed and the future was there to be invented along with everything else. Who knew what to believe? Or how to behave? The rules were made up and changed from day to day. The arrogance bordered on madness. It is what sent the tumbrels rolling to the guillotine day after day.

Sovay had not seen any of the gruesome executions, and she didn’t want to, dreading to see her father riding among the condemned. Amélie Thery, the doctor’s daughter, reported that Sir John was gravely ill but his condition was far from hopeless. Either Hugh or Sovay went every day to get news of him, torn between hoping that he was better and knowing that any recovery speeded him towards the Tribunal and the guillotine. Hugh had taken quite a fancy to Mademoiselle Thery and often elected to go on his own to the Luxembourg, in the hope of accompanying her on her shopping rounds and then back to her home on Rue de Monsieur Le Prince. Sovay was often left alone in the Hôtel Fonteneau where she sat in her shift because of the heat and wrote letters that it was impossible to send.

In the evenings, she went out with Hugh and Virgil, among the expatriots who remained in the city. They met in clubs, private
salons
and hotels. Subdued parties of Americans mainly, and some Irishmen. Among them was Lord Henry Fitzwilliam, now plain Henry since he had given up his title, celebrated United Irishman, brother to Gerald, Hugh’s Oxford friend and tutor. He was very different from his kinsman, being very much taller and bigger altogether, with thick, curling auburn hair and large, expressive brown eyes. He had a deep voice and a rich laugh and, considering the state the country was in, he laughed a lot.

‘Always entertainment to be found,’ he declared. ‘Champagne and oysters to be had. I don’t see it very different, as long as one avoids the tumbrels, except the theatres are full of those confoundedly boring patriotic plays.’

The only time he was ever serious was when the talk turned to Irish politics. Then his handsome face grew sombre and he burned with a quiet anger at the fate of his fellow countrymen.

‘Revolution is our only hope,’ he declared, ‘if we are to free ourselves of the English yoke and become independent.’

He was here to solicit French support for an Irish rebellion. Virgil didn’t hold out much hope for his ambitions. The French were fighting on all sides. With every country in Europe against them, they had neither men nor money to squander on such an expedition, but Henry would have none of such talk.

‘On the contrary, my dear Barrett, it is very much on the cards. I am in negotiation with those in the very highest authority. They see it as a means to deflect English attention away from war with France.’

Sovay enjoyed the diversion such evenings afforded her. Henry Fitzwilliam and his friends were charming company and the women she met were interesting, being of an adventurous and independent frame of mind. But there was something brittle in the laughter, as though danger gave a frantic edge to the frivolity. Fear was always there, real but never spoken. They could all be arrested at any time. There was often a space at the table where someone had been taken, or else had left for Switzerland or some other place of safety. If a person was absent, their presence was missed, but never spoken of or questioned. One learnt not to ask.

Despite Henry Fitzwilliam’s brave words, it
was
different. Very different. Society of any kind was dwindling, even among the French. A year ago, she was told, the
salons
had been filled with politicians, journalists, men of learning and letters, soldiers on leave from the wars. Now they were in the grip of
La
Grande Terreur
, many such men had fled, or had been arrested and sent to the guillotine. There was a distinct lack of stimulating male company. One young captain was very much missed since his duties had taken him from Paris. His absence was especially regretted, particularly by the ladies. Sovay was oddly galled to find out that Léon was so popular and felt an unwelcome stab of jealousy to hear him spoken of in that way.

Although Sovay liked going out in society, the relentless pleasure-seeking left her giddy, and the single-minded focus on the trivial in the face of daily enormity was difficult to reconcile. She was glad when Virgil told her that he had arranged a meeting with Lefere. Going with him would give her something to do that had a real purpose.

‘It took longer than I thought, but he has uncovered a letter from Dysart. I’ve taken him the blank forms stamped with the seal of the Committee of Public Safety that Fernand procured,’ he told her. ‘He’s not happy about it, but will do anything for money. We have to collect them tomorrow night.’

It was a hot night and the attic above the printer’s shop was stifling, the atmosphere stale and thick with the onion stench of sweat and the sweetish reek of unwashed clothes.

Lefere was clearly having second thoughts. Sovay positioned herself behind him. At a nod from Virgil, she eased a small pistol from her pocket. Lefere turned at the click behind his ear, the beads rolling off his oily forehead and onto the paper on the table before him.

‘Careful!’ Virgil threw him a kerchief. ‘Mop your brow. We don’t want to soil the evidence. Now, I find a gun to the head a great persuader, so let’s get on with it shall we? And I want a fair copy, so keep your hand steady or that paper will be stained with more than sweat.’

His hand ceased to shake as soon as he applied pen to paper and he wrote to Virgil’s dictation with a forger’s careful precision. Finally, he copied the signatures, each one an exact imitation of the members of the Committee of Public Safety.

‘Good!’ Virgil looked down at his work. ‘Very good. Now for the annotations.’ Virgil picked up the letter that Lefere had procured which was written in Dysart’s hand. ‘I want you to add, here, here, and here.’ Virgil completed his dictation. ‘Let me see.’

Lefere shook sand over his work, blew away the residue and handed the paper to Virgil.

‘This will do very well.’ He passed it to Sovay. ‘What do you think?’

She read it through quickly. It was perfectly executed and worded in such a way as to implicate Dysart in a plot against his own Government. She smiled at the cleverness of it. There would be no gainsaying it. Given in evidence, it would be enough to get him hanged, or worse.

‘Thank you, Citizen Lefere.’ Virgil scooped up the other papers and put them in his pocket. ‘We should have plenty here. Your money.’ He took out a purse. Gold spilled across the table. ‘I’m sure you’ve betrayed people of much greater worth for far less than that. You can consider yourself well rewarded.’

With that, they left him, making their way quickly down the narrow turns of the crooked stairs. As soon as they were out in the street, the casement above them flew open.

‘Spies! English spies!’ Lefere bawled out. ‘Ring the tocsin. Rouse the
Section
! Spies in our midst!’

Faces appeared in doorways and at open windows. Men spilled onto the street.

‘Where?’ They looked up to Lefere for direction. ‘Where?’

‘There!’ He pointed at Sovay and Virgil. ‘Don’t let them get away!’

There was nowhere to hide. People were appearing on every side, armed with anything that they could find, and the street was well lit, with lanterns swinging from chains strung from one side to the other.

Virgil grabbed Sovay’s hand, making for the end of the street. Two men wearing liberty caps shouted a challenge and attempted to block their way with improvised pikes. Virgil dodged sideways, pushing one man into the other, their unwieldy weapons tangling together. One of the long poles skittled out of the man’s hand and bounced into the path of another band of pursuers, causing the front rank to trip and fall. Those following behind fell over their fellows in a confusion of arms and legs. Virgil and Sovay sped on, but all the while more people were pouring down side streets to join in the hue and cry.

It seemed that they would be caught in a matter of moments.

‘Amélie Thery lives up here.’

Sovay pulled Virgil after her, praying that the gate to her courtyard would be unlocked. It was their only hope. Up ahead, the narrow street curved away, sheer as a canyon. The house was first on the right. She pushed and the gate creaked open on to a little garden crowded with trees and shrubs. Virgil and Sovay hid among the foliage, trying to control their ragged breathing as many feet clattered past in the street outside.

‘Which door is hers?’ Virgil whispered.

‘The one at the end.’ Sovay crept forward and rapped lightly on the door. ‘Amélie. It’s me,’ she called quietly. ‘Sovay.’

The girl’s big brown eyes grew wide when she saw who was standing outside. ‘I heard the shouting,’ she said, pulling her shawl round her shoulders. ‘But did not want to go out. Too dangerous. I’m on my own here at the moment. My neighbours have all fled or moved out. Come this way. Quick! They may be back!’

She led them through to the back of her house. She put her ear to the panels of the door, then looked out cautiously.

‘There’s nobody about. Good luck.’

She gathered her shawl tight around her and prepared to answer the distant hammering that had started up on her front door.

The street Sovay and Virgil entered was quiet. The disturbance started by Lefere seemed local to the area around his house.

‘It is odd how one place can be in ferment,’ Virgil said, ‘and right next door there is no sign of anything.’ He looked around, relieved. ‘We should be able to proceed unmolested.’

They made their way through the streets of St Germain until they reached the river and then they crossed over the Pont Neuf to the relative safety of the other bank.

‘I dropped into White’s on my way to see Lefere,’ Virgil said as they walked up towards the Marais. ‘I met Henry Fitzwilliam there. Who do you think he’s expecting?’

Sovay had no idea.

‘His brother, Gerald Fitzwilliam.’

‘Hugh’s tutor?’

‘Due to arrive tomorrow.’

‘Why is he coming here?’

‘To see his brother. Undergone a late conversion to the cause, apparently, and become a United Irishman. Henry is overjoyed, of course, but I call it mighty strange.’

‘You suspect him?’

‘Don’t you? He will be up to no good, we can be sure of that. I suggest we pay him a visit tomorrow evening. Welcome him to Paris.’

CHAPTER
3
5

T
he house where Henry Fitzwilliam now resided had been divided into apartments. The concierge took his time answering the bell and when he did appear he was surly to the point of rudeness. He opened the door a crack and scowled out, his face folded in lines of ill temper and dissatisfaction. Virgil barely had time to state his business before he grunted, ‘Not in,’ and went to shut the door on them.

‘We’ll wait.’ Virgil put his foot inside the threshold.

‘Please yourself.’ The man let the door go and wandered off.

Henry’s rooms were at the top of the stairs. Virgil knocked, expecting to be answered by Henry’s manservant. Instead, he was confronted by a rusty-haired boy who spoke in English.

‘Sir Henry ain’t here.’

‘It’s not him we’ve come to see.’ Virgil walked past him into the apartment. ‘It’s his brother. And less of the “Sirs” if you value your life, or your master’s. I’m Virgil Barrett. This is Sophie Weston.’

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Rufus Brook. I work for Mr Gerald. He’s gone out for the evening with his brother,
Mr
Henry,’ the boy added with a wide grin.

‘In that case, we’ll wait for them.’ Virgil sat down.

‘No guaranteeing when they will return. Knowing my master, it may be late.’

‘Even so,’ Virgil smiled. ‘Perhaps you could offer us some refreshment?’

‘I would, sir. Certainly I would, but the decanter up here is empty, and blowed if I know where to find any more, or any vittles.’ His freckled forehead wrinkled in frustration. ‘We only just got here. His manservant’s ran off to join the army. I’m doing for both of ’em and I can’t speak the lingo.’

‘Henry probably sends out for food and wine. Did they not tell you that?’ Virgil rose. ‘Why don’t I come with you? I’m sure we’ll find something, somewhere.’

He shepherded the grateful boy out of the room, giving Sovay her cue to get to work.

She slipped out of the main salon and into the corridor, checking each room as she passed, and identifying Gerald’s by a number of open trunks. They had evidently disturbed Rufus at his unpacking. She looked around. Where to start? What would Toby do? Look in the most obvious places first.

The trunks were empty, their contents transferred to drawer and press, and contained no secret compartments, as far as Sovay could see. The chest of drawers held nothing but shirts, linen and stockings. The suits hanging up had empty pockets. She moved to the desk. The drawers were empty. The writing case on top contained nothing but blank sheets of paper, writing implements and a letter Gerald had started to his mother. The drawers in the bedside tables were empty. She looked around, sighing her frustration. An occasional table by the window held several bundles of books secured from slewing about by leather straps. Latin, Greek, desperately dull. She turned the next stack to her. Rousseau, Voltaire and Thomas Paine.
Rights of Man: being an Answer to Mr. Burke’s attack
on the French Revolution.
She undid the straps and opened the calf-bound book: printed for J.S. Jordan, No. 166, Fleet-Street. She turned the pages. The centre of the book had been neatly hollowed out to provide a secret compartment. Inside lay a wad of letters. All in the same neat, small, spiky hand that she had seen being forged just the day before. Three letters. Each addressed to Citizen Robespierre. Her heart beat hard as the paper crackled under her fingers.

‘Rufus! Where are you?’ A voice called out in the hall. ‘Where the devil is that boy?’

Sovay looked round. There was nowhere to hide.

‘Rufus . . .’ His voice tailed off in surprise. ‘What the blazes? What are you doing here?’

‘I was looking for some reading matter,’ Sovay showed him the book in her hand. ‘And I found it.’

‘Now, look here,’ Gerald Fitzwilliam came towards her. A vein beat in his temple and his face, already flushed from the wine that she could smell on his breath, reddened further. ‘You can’t –’

‘I just have.’ Sovay didn’t feel like bandying words with him, especially as she had her pistol about her. ‘The letters concealed in here prove you to be an enemy to me, my family, and others I hold dear.’

She had not had time to read the letters, but could tell by his face that she had guessed correctly.

‘You Middletons always were a traitorous bunch,’ he sneered. ‘You’ll get no more than you deserve. Give the book to me!’

He made a clumsy grab for it, but he was unsteady with drink. Sovay evaded him easily.

‘I would not hesitate to use this.’ She took the gun from under her jacket. ‘So do not come any closer, Mr Fitzwilliam, or try my patience further.’

The sight of the weapon checked his step.

‘You will not get away with this,’ he hissed. ‘One word from me will be enough to have you guillotined as an English spy!’

‘I think not.’

Fitzwilliam turned to find Virgil standing behind him.

‘Such accusations work both ways,’ he continued mildly. ‘We are none of us safe.’

‘I am Irish, not English!’ Fitzwilliam spat the words out. ‘We are welcome here!’

‘
Some
of you are, but I do not think that you are numbered among them. If you do not do exactly as we say, not only will you be reported to the local committee here – the concierge, I can tell you, is already suspicious – but every Irishman from here to New York will know that you are in the pay of Dysart and have betrayed their cause to the British Government and the Committee of Secrecy.’

Virgil was right about the Irish business. His own brother would kill him as soon as look at him. Fitzwilliam knew it. Fear flickered in his pale eyes. He lacked the temperament to be a spy. Cowardice fairly oozed from him, sheening his smooth face with a film of sweat.

‘Very well.’ He sat down heavily, no hint of fight left. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Simple.’ Virgil nodded to Rufus who had slipped into the room. ‘But first, I’m sure you could do with a brandy.’

Fitzwilliam raised the glass with a shaking hand.

‘Get your man here to pack your bags. A change of mind. A change of plan. You will be gone before your brother gets back.’ Virgil poured himself a drink and sat down in a chair. ‘I’ll stay here to make sure you are.’

Sovay left Virgil to guard Fitzwilliam. As she slipped from the building, a shadow detached itself from the doorway opposite and began to follow her.