Jacques, as was his custom after breakfast, had been sitting reading in the parlor, but he rose now with his book in hand and looked from Mary to the man behind her.
Run, she would have told him if she’d had a voice. Instead he stood his ground and frowned and said, “Mr. MacPherson.” He was speaking English too, now. “I did wonder who was at the door. Has something happened?”
“Aye.” The tall man moved past Mary. “Get your things. There is no time to waste. You have to leave.”
Chapter 17
His sword is like a beam of light upon the warrior’s side. But dark is his brow; and tempests are in his soul.
—Macpherson, “Fingal,” Book Three
Paris
February 14, 1732
Her hands would not stop shaking.
It was left to Madame Roy to tie the tapes of Mary’s petticoat and fit the second gown over the one she wore already. They’d been told in no uncertain terms they could bring nothing with them but the little they could carry in their hands, or wear, and having been allotted but five minutes to prepare themselves they’d had to work at speed, a thing that Mary was incapable of doing in her current state.
“He killed a man,” she said again. She’d said it twice already but Madame Roy only nodded as she’d done before, with patience.
“Yes, I know, dear. Put your gloves on.”
“He” was in the chamber next to theirs, with Jacques. No, Mr. Thomson. Mary found the change of names confusing, and her brain was having difficulty holding to the details. Mr. Thomson. And the man in gray was Mac…MacSomething. He was Scottish, then. Her father had been Scottish, though this hard man’s voice was nothing like her memory of her father’s voice. Her father’s had been pleasant, even soothing, but this man’s was—
“Are ye finished?” He was standing in the doorway.
Madame Roy spoke back to him in English, only Mary was surprised to hear her accent and her intonations sounded much like his. “We’re nearly done, aye.”
“Where’s your book?” he asked, and Mary stared at him uncomprehending until he repeated with more emphasis, “Your book. The one ye write in.”
When she still could not reply he muttered something that she took to be a curse and crossing to the bed began to shift the bolster and the pillows. Frisque, who until now had been content to sit amidst the blankets and observe the bustle and confusion, rose to bark a protest. The Scotsman swung his gaze towards the little dog, and Mary found her voice.
“Do not harm him!”
Madame Roy had finished with the fastening of Mary’s cloak and let her hands drop lightly onto Mary’s shoulders as if she would hold her back from interfering, but the potent rush of terror and protectiveness would not let Mary hold her tongue. “The book is in the clothespress.”
It was underneath the linens but the Scotsman found it easily and slipped it with the penner into one of his coat pockets before turning once again towards the bed, where Frisque was barking still. “The dog,” he said to Mary, “cannot come.”
“I will not leave him.” She could feel her chin lift even though she was afraid, and for a moment they stood staring at each other.
He was not a handsome man. His face was formed of stubborn angles, none of which was even, and his mouth at one end slanted up and downward at the other, and his eyes held not a hint of warmth. They measured her impatiently. He said, “It will be trouble.”
She did not back down. “You said that we could bring what we could carry,” was her argument. “And I can carry him.”
With a frown the man reached down and scooped the barking dog into his one large hand with no apparent effort. Frisque, whether from prudence or his love of being held, wisely fell silent, though his feathered tail began to wag. The Scotsman exhaled tightly in what could not quite be called a sigh, and turning from the bed closed the small distance between him and Mary, thrusting Frisque into her hands. “But nothing else,” he said. “And we go now.”
He seemed to have a knowledge of the house and all its rooms that hinted this was not the first time he had been inside. She’d been afraid that he would lead them down through the entry where the dead man lay and where, beyond the door, the coach might yet be waiting in the street outside. But he did not. He took them by the back stairs Mary had used after breakfast, that went straight into the kitchen. Mary stumbled on the stairs, her limbs still numb and unresponsive and her movements made more cumbersome by being bundled in two gowns at once like a stuffed doll, but she’d regained her balance and was holding Frisque more tightly by the time the man glanced back.
Just standing in the kitchen made her stomach twist unpleasantly. She focused for a moment on the soiled coat, still lying where she’d left it on the table by the window, but it seemed quite far away from them and he had on another now, so really she supposed it didn’t matter.
“Come,” the Scotsman told them, sliding back the bolt he’d fastened earlier and easing the door open to allow them access to the courtyard. “Quietly.”
Mary, through the fog that had encased her brain, observed that from the tone in which he spoke there always seemed to be a silent threat appended to his words, so that one could, if one were moved to make a game of it, attach the words “or else I’ll kill you” to the things he said and have them fit as though he’d spoken them aloud.
They followed him along the back walls of the row of houses and so out into the street some way behind the waiting coach. She little noticed where he led them—through what streets or for how long—but in the end they found themselves within another sheltered courtyard tightly crowded by the high dark walls of other houses, and they climbed another narrow twisting stair into a set of cold and sparsely furnished rooms. The Scotsman was the last to enter. Bolting shut the door he turned and told them, “Find a seat.”
“Or else I’ll kill you,” Mary murmured to herself. He stood too far from her to hear her, Mary knew. His gaze swung briefly to her, studied her dispassionately for a moment, then moved on.
The fire within the room had been allowed to burn so low that it was little more than embers in the fireplace. Madame Roy crossed without asking for permission and took up the poker from the hearth to stir the fire to stronger life. The Scotsman took no notice. He was standing now at one of the room’s windows, looking out.
Madame Roy said to Mary, “Come and sit here by the fire, child.” She said it first in English, then when Mary did not move from where she stood, repeated it in French, and slowly Mary did as she was told and with Frisque in her arms she took a seat upon the stool Madame Roy had set near the hearth.
The Scotsman without turning round told Madame Roy in English, “Keep the fire low.”
“The lass has had a fright. She must be warmed or she’ll fall ill. Do you have brandy?”
“No.” His focus stayed upon whatever he was watching through the window. Mary noticed he was standing back just far enough that he would not be easily observed by someone looking in. And then she saw the little table to the one side of the window, and the pale clay pipe that rested on it, and she knew exactly where they were. For all the walking they had done, they’d ended up a stone’s throw from where they had started, in the house across the street, and in the room where he had stood for all those nights and watched them, as he now was keeping watch upon the street below.
A woman’s shrill scream tore the silence, followed by another and another in hysterical succession, growing louder as though suddenly a door had been flung open to eliminate a barrier between them and the frantic sound. And like a boulder tumbling downhill it started others tumbling, too—the scream was answered by the shouts and calls of neighbors and the nervous clopping shuffle of the hooves of horses, and the creak and thud of countless windows being opened.
Jacques—or rather, Mr. Thomson—said, “I take it that will be our Cook returning. Not the kindest welcome f
or her.”
Madame Roy glanced up sharply. “They will never think she did it?”
“No,” said Thomson. “The servants of course will be questioned, but none of them will need to fear the police.” His voice, too, Mary thought, was not properly English. It had a faint lilt to it, as of an accent he’d long learned to mask.
Madame Roy said, “You seem very certain.”
“I am. The police have been very well bribed since I came into France. I suspect they have known all along where I am, but they turn a blind eye for the twin joys of lining their pockets and thwarting the English.” He comfortably settled himself in the room’s only armchair, which oddly sat some distance off from the fire. “The English ambassador writes to the head of the Paris police, who replies that he’s confident I am not here, then turns round and surprises his wife with a new diamond bracelet. It’s all very civilized. No, the police will not bother the servants for finding a man lying dead in the house, unless…” He looked to the man by the window. “That man you dispatched was not from the police, I hope?”
“No.”
Mary saw the dead man’s face again and felt the knife’s blade at her throat. She fought the cold by gathering Frisque closer, and the dog whined.
“Keep him quiet,” said the Scotsman.
Mary murmured to herself, “Or else I’ll kill you.”
Thomson, hearing but the last two words and thinking she had spoken them to him, misunderstood and sought to reassure her. “No, my dear, he never would have killed me. I’m of little use to anybody dead. The English, though, would no doubt pay a rich reward to one who could deliver me into their hands. That would be why he brought the coach, to spirit me away, though I’ll be deuced if I can think how he discovered me.”
The Scotsman said, “Ye called out in a public street. In English. And your kitchen lad was there to hear ye do it.”
“But—”
“The lad sleeps in a room above the tavern near the Fair.”
“You keep yourself informed,” said Thomson.
“’Tis my business to.” He still had not turned round. “This morning when I saw the lad arrive for work he was too drunk to stand. I made inquiries and discovered that last night he had a tale to tell, and found an eager audience in one who bought him drink to hear yet more.”
“I’m sorry,” Thomson said. “It was most careless of me, to be sure, but I did not intend—”
“Among that tavern’s patrons is an English spy who gains his secrets by seducing foolish women. I had him pointed out to me some days ago, together with a woman he so used some years ago and made his wife.” He did turn slightly then. “This morning she was in your house. I did not see her enter, but I saw her leave. She wore the clothing of a housemaid.”
Thomson raised his eyebrows. “Christiane?”
“Aye, that’s her name. He sent her in, no doubt, to gather proof of who ye were. She must have found it. Did she speak to ye in English?”
Thomson paused and flushed a little and he did not answer with a lie, but neither did he tell the truth of how he had betrayed himself at breakfast. “No.”
Mary glanced at him and felt the Scotsman glance at her before he carried on, “Then she had likely matched your face to your description and was satisfied. She went off in a hurry, and I guessed she’d gone to fetch her husband.” With a shrug he turned again and finished with, “Now she’s his widow.”
In the street below them the commotion was expanding, growing louder, but it seemed a distant thing to Mary on her stool beside the fire. She felt so cold now she’d begun to tremble from it.
“So,” said Thomson with a sigh, “we must now travel south.” The silence he received as a reply seemed not to trouble him. He stretched his legs before him and in contemplation of the buckles of his shoes remarked, “I should have much preferred to wait until we were more certain of our welcome, but I see there’s nothing to be done but make the best of it. When would you have us leave?”
“Not yet.” The light had changed its angle very slightly at the window and the Scotsman shifted with it, staying just beyond its reach. “We’ll move at night.”
“Move where?” Thomson asked, but once again his only answer was the silence of the room. He smiled. “You’re not a trusting man, Mr. MacPherson.”
Madame Roy said more than that, but briefly, in a language Mary did not understand, but then in honesty the three of them were making little sense to her with all this talk of leaving.
Mary found her voice and told them all, “I cannot travel with you.” She could feel them turn to look at her, and to be plain she added, “I was told to come to Paris, only that, and when I’m no longer needed here, then I am to return to…” She came near to saying “Saint-Germain-en-Laye,” but she caught herself in time because in spite of her confusion she remembered there were some things she was charged with keeping secret. “…to my family.”
Thomson asked, “Who told you this?” His tone was friendly, even sympathetic, but she could no longer freely give her trust. However amiable he’d been as a companion these past days, he was a stranger to her, as were both the others. And it seemed they’d all been keeping secrets from her, too.
She answered without answering. “The person who did send me.”
“Well, that person did not tell you all,” said Thomson, “for there always was a larger plan in place to put to use if we should be discovered, as we have been. But I can assure you you’ll be safe with us. Mr. MacPherson is a most efficient guard. The very best, I’m told.” His tone altered subtly from calming to curious. “Who was it that sent you, may I ask? Sir Redmond Everard? It was Sir Redmond, was it not? Or was it General Dillon?”
Mary held her tongue, and Madame Roy reminded both the men, “The lass has had a trying day.”
The Scotsman had observed this whole exchange with an impassive face so empty of expression Mary could not guess at what he might be thinking. When he moved, it was to leave the room and pass into the one beyond, returning in a moment with a pewter cup, his fingers lightly holding it suspended by the rim.
He stopped in front of Mary, holding out the cup to her. Whatever was inside it had a scent so strong the vapors on their own were like to set her eyes to watering.
Madame Roy said something that to Mary sounded much like “Oushki-bah”—strange words indeed, but spoken with approval; and the older woman added, “That will heal the evil that does ail you.”
Mary could not look above the level of the cup.
The Scotsman’s hands were clean. It struck her odd that they should be so clean when he’d just killed a man, and yet they were. The hand that held the cup was strong and square with well-formed fingers. But beneath the broad cuff of his gray wool coat, along the ruffle of his sleeve, she saw the spattered stains of blood.
They held her gaze transfixed. She was aware of Thomson asking, “How the devil did you come by whisky in this place?”
The Scotsman, true to form, ignored him. Mary watched that clean hand and the bloodstained sleeve come closer still to offer her the cup, insistent.
“Take it,” he instructed her. “The day’s not over yet.”
* * *
They left in the dead hours of night, in the dark, slipping over the Seine by a bridge that allowed her a view of the towers of Notre Dame, looming above them and seeming alive with a thousand stone eyes she could never escape. Her own shadow changed form with the sway of the glass-enclosed candle lamps strung in a line down the larger streets, and at her back came the larger black shadow of Mr. MacPherson, who’d changed all his clothes but his hat and his boots and had traded his cloak for a brown horseman’s coat with its collar turned down like a cape at his shoulders and full pleats that made the coat swing when he walked. He looked none the less menacing, Mary decided—not even when weighted with most of their traveling gear, for he carried the straps of
their two leather portmanteaus over his shoulders together with a long cylindrical case that he’d slung in between them, and this with the already cumbersome burden of his two crossed sword belts that carried a regular sword in one scabbard and one in the other that looked like none Mary had seen, with a hilt woven much like a basket of silver that would have completely enveloped his hand.
Where the longer, lethal knife was Mary did not know, but she knew well that he did have it, for she’d watched him clean it; watched him wipe the crusting smudges from the blade and make the steel gleam sharp again with oil, until Madame Roy gently had distracted her attention. Mary did not wish to ever see that knife again.
She drew the softness of her cloak more tightly round herself and Frisque. The dog’s warmth in her arms was of great use now as she only wore one gown, the other being packed with all her extra things into one of the portmanteaus Mr. MacPherson had supplied. He’d seemed so well prepared for revision of their plans that Mary would not have been in the least surprised to find he had already hired a coach and driver for them.
Thomson had expected that as well, a fact made clear by his reaction to the news of where they now were headed. “But,” he’d told the Scotsman as they’d earlier prepared to leave the shelter of his rooms, “it would be safer for us, surely, were we in a private coach, perhaps with you as driver?”
“Aye, they’ll think the same. And they’ll be watching for us.”
Mary, with a frown, had said, “But you seemed sure that we had naught to fear from the police.”
“We don’t.” He had not said another word till now, as they came within sight of a marvelous building trapped tightly between narrow streets, a medieval château with a round stone-walled turret at one corner and great doors that stood open to give a view into the courtyard beyond.
In a low voice that could not be overheard by others but themselves, MacPherson said, “Wait there.” And then he was gone.