Sail Away Page 8

  “Damn. Ah, well, my own fault—and that of a lady we could name. Come along, then, Sir Galahad, I’ll help you seek the fair damsel. But we turn back at one o’clock.”

  “Thanks, Phil!”

  “And next time, explain to the chit that she really must leave you a glass slipper.”

  ZOE HAD her hands full the following morning, and had just enough time to prepare the guest room. Her father’s colleague arrived very early, bringing with him a trunk filled not with his clothing, but with flour and other staples. Marie kissed the gentleman on both cheeks and promised him a magnificent dinner.

  After her father and his guest retired to the first-floor clinic, Zoe found herself drawn once more to the window. Christophe had said that he would be leaving today; perhaps she would have one last chance to see him. She hoped he would take care. Things had been difficult in the last week or two, and there were desperate men about who would not hesitate to rob a well-dressed foreigner, especially an aristo.

  She leaned against the window frame and closed her eyes, wondering how it was that Papa had not immediately seen the difference in her. So much was clear now that had never made sense. Even so simple a thing as kissing—a few boys had tried to steal kisses from her, and she had never understood why the clumsy act had been spoken of so romantically in songs and stories. Now she knew—it was not the kiss itself so much as the man who did the kissing. And the caressing, and the holding close…. Zoe could still feel the solid warmth of him against her body. She had not felt so warm or so safe in longer than she could remember, and the touch of his hands! Her own hesitant exploration of her own body had never produced such excitement and pleasure. Like the princess in the storybook, she had been kissed by her prince, and she had awakened.

  Perhaps it would have been better if she had slumbered on in ignorance. Yesterday when she stood here, she had despaired of ever learning what passed between a man and a woman. Now she knew—and despaired at the thought of never knowing it again. Of one thing she was certain: even if he had not taken her body completely, that beautiful, thoughtful Englishman now owned her heart.

  And she would probably never see him again.

  But no—was that not Christophe, down the street? It had to be—there could not be two men so tall as his cousin Philippe. They were proceeding along the avenue, talking to passersby, knocking on doors. They were probably safe enough, two of them together in the daytime, but what they were doing was not prudent. Zoe could barely make out her lover’s face at this distance, but he seemed to be in distress. His cousin shook his head at whatever the Frenchman was saying, then tapped Christophe’s shoulder and gestured down the street.

  Across the way, Zoe saw M. Monfort step out of his shop. He looked around him, then began to walk toward Christophe and his cousin. Farther down, Philippe saw Monfort and started toward him. Christophe continued speaking to someone, a man Zoe did not recognize, and as Philippe moved farther away, two or three other men began to gather around Christophe. They seemed to be talking to him, and they looked angry. Her heart beat faster as she struggled with the catch on the window. It did not take much to start a riot in these uncertain times, and Christophe’s cousin was too far away.

  The window slid up, and on the cold winter air, she heard the shouting, made out bits of sentences.

  “Damned aristos… our women! Get out… be damned!”

  Someone caught Christophe by the arm, and as he was pulled around, he swung his cane and knocked his attacker down, but another jumped on him from behind.

  Zoe screamed, “No!”

  Both Philippe and M. Monfort turned and saw what was happening, but the men out in the street had closed around Christophe before they could get back to him. Zoe stood frozen. She could not see him, his friends were making no progress through the mob—

  And then came the crack of a pistol shot, and everything went deadly still. Zoe stood staring down, seeing the puff of smoke too near where her lover had stood. A shiver swept through her, and in its wake, all fear had gone, leaving only a cold determination. No! She would not let him lie there and be trampled. If the mob killed her too, what of it? What had she to lose now?

  She slammed the window down and caught up the poker from the fireplace. “Marie? Marie! Go find my father, immédiatement!”

  CHRISTOPHER ST. JOHN, Baron Guilford, awoke in surroundings so far beneath his usual standards that he wondered whether he was truly awake or just having a nightmare brought on by a terrible hangover. A ragged piece of rough homespun, smelling strongly of horse, covered the lower half of his face; he was lying in what he took to be a stall. The deduction was assisted by the presence of a nanny goat and her kid, and the hay he lay upon had a decidedly unpleasant reek to it.

  He turned his face away from the smell, and the movement brought a wave of nauseating pain that emptied his stomach, adding to the noisome assortment of odors that surrounded him. A stabbing pain in his head flared with every breath, overwhelming the little strength he had. As consciousness fled, he was grateful for the respite.

  “CHRISTOPHER, IF you can hear me, please open your eyes.” A man’s voice, dry and unemotional. A British voice, with the accent of an educated man, but not the voice of anyone he knew.

  “Christophe? Awaken, s’il vous plait.” Feminine, and definitely more familiar. Someone he knew very well indeed, at least in the biblical sense. One of his new friends from the party—was it last night? Zoe. Zoe and Angelique. Had he found her, then? He tried to raise his eyelids, but just that tiny effort rammed a spike right through his head.

  “Christophe, you are safe for now, can you hear me?” A gentle hand wiped his forehead with a wet cloth that smelled faintly of eau de lavender, a decided improvement over eau de goat.

  “Mm.” Very, very carefully, he eased his eyes open. Black hair and beautiful dark gray eyes. Zoe? He thought it was Zoe. He swallowed, his throat scratchy. “How—?”

  “An English doctor was visiting my father. He has tended your wound, vous avez de la grande chance.”

  Very lucky? If this was luck, misfortune must be Hell. “What happened?” he whispered.

  “You do not remember?”

  “It is not uncommon in such cases, my dear,” the first voice said. Its owner, a smallish, plain-looking man with keen dark eyes leaned over Zoe’s shoulder. “But his speech is clear, thank Heaven. I believe the damage was minimal. Lord—ah, that is, Christopher. What is the last thing you remember?”

  Kit glanced around as best he could without moving anything but his eyes. He was in a small, cheerless room, with one grimy window and sloping walls. The last thing he remembered made no sense, but— “Goats.”

  “Goats?” the doctor echoed, looking perplexed.

  “We hid him in the stable, then Papa went to find you,” Zoe explained. “He must have awakened.”

  “Oh, excellent. I had thought he was unconscious the entire time. If you would allow me to examine your eyes, sir?” The doctor raised Kit’s eyelids and waved a finger before them. “Follow the finger with your eyes, if you would. Yes. Very good. I need to test something here, now. Please keep your eyes open if you possibly can.” He took a candle from the stand beside the bed and brought it near. Kit squinted, his eyes tearing at the brightness, and it was taken away. “Very good,” the doctor said again. “Normal contraction. I believe our surgery was a success.”

  Surgery? For a headache? “Thank you so much.” Kit swallowed, grimacing. “What surgery? Why?”

  “Drink this.” The doctor held a cup of water for him. “You sustained a terrible blow to the head that cracked your skull inward. The condition is called a depressed cranial fracture. Such an injury causes pressure on the brain. If the pressure is not relieved, coma and death result. You had such an injury, and I performed the operation with what appears to be complete success.”

  The words went past too quickly to make sense. “I—I can tell I was hit on the head.” It was nice to be certain of something, anyway. “Please,
what happened?”

  “You were shot,” the doctor said curtly. “A fool with a pistol. You must have turned your head away at the precise moment the ball struck. It tore through your scalp and left a visible crack in your frontalis—in English, your skull. And, by the way, the surgery increased your net worth—you now have a silver ten-centime piece flattened into a plate that is holding your brains in. You must keep as quiet as possible for the next three weeks, at least.”

  Kit felt as though it would be a lot longer than that before he could be anything but quiet. “My cousin—the man I was with—what of him? And M. Monfort?”

  “They ’ave escaped, Christophe,” Zoe said. “I was watching from the window. Your friend ran to you, but M’sieu Monfort pointed to your wound and pulled him away. They must have believed you were dead, and they would have died too, if they had stayed out in that mob.”

  “Yes. I saw a man with a gun, moving toward me, then nothing. Then goats.”

  The doctor nodded. “Loss of memory after a blow to the head is quite common. You were lucky, young man. The fool must have got hold of a weak batch of gunpowder, or we would not be having this conversation.”

  There was no memory. As he lay there, struggling to recollect, the doctor went on.

  “You must be very careful in future, my young friend. You have used up a lifetime’s supply of luck.”

  Kit shivered. “I—I cannot remember!”

  “Just as well, don’t you think?” The doctor’s look was not unsympathetic. “How old are you, my lord?”

  “Eighteen,” he said quickly, then, under the doctor’s penetrating stare, added, “Honestly, I am. As of last month.”

  “Old enough to face death in battle, I’m sure.” The doctor’s mouth tightened. “Well, the memory may return. I almost hope, for your sake, that the loss is permanent.”

  “How did I get here? Where are my friends?”

  “Gone. They ’ave returned to England,” Zoe said. “I believe they were aboard a barge that left for Le Havre just before the gendarmes arrived.”

  “Who brought me here, then?”

  “We did—the doctor, my father, and I. We thought you were dead too, at first. I asked the gendarmes if Papa might ’ave your body for scientific purposes—” Her hands fluttered in distress at his reaction; she patted the undamaged side of his face. “Oh, no, Christophe, not really, only so we might give you a decent burial without being brought under suspicion. It is so dangerous—”

  “And it was quick thinking, mademoiselle,” the doctor interjected, taking the story from her. “Dr. Colbert and I came, ostensibly to see if you were fit for dissection, and as soon as we realized you were still among the living, he raised a terrible row about their having left you in the street so long you were hardly fit to bother with. We took you inside Monfort’s shop and performed surgery immediately. As soon as you could be moved, he took you back to get acquainted with the goats whilst I contacted some associates and located a suitable body to bury in your place.”

  Kit had a feeling he’d have to hear this whole story again, later. “How?”

  “The mob, Christophe,” Zoe said. “The melee in the street ended in a riot, and they called in soldiers. There was no shortage of bodies, and when a man has been shot in the face, only a ghoul inspects him closely.”

  “And the ghouls are all down at the guillotine, aren’t they?” He closed his eyes and realized how wrong his head felt beneath the bandage—hot and puffy, throbbing with every beat of his heart. He could well believe his skull was cracked. And then his eyes flew open as a thought sent a shock through him. “Zoe, my God—you went out into a riot to collect my body?”

  “I did not see where you had been shot,” she said. “I thought perhaps you were only wounded, not dead.” Her little chin had a decidedly stubborn set to it. “And I was correct, was I not?” Heedless of the attending physician, she kissed him on the cheek.

  Kit groaned. “Oh, dear Lord….”

  “Mademoiselle,” the doctor remonstrated. “I beg you, do not excite my patient. He must rest.”

  “The spirit is willing,” Kit said, “but the flesh is quite incapable of excitement. I don’t know how to thank you—both of you.”

  “Avoid any more heroism until we can get you healed,” the doctor said brusquely. “I shall fix you a draught; you must drink it down and sleep. Our next step will be to get you out of France. And you might remember, next time you consider running amongst the jackals, that they have no respect for your title!”

  “I will, sir. Thank you.” Get out of France. Yes, as soon as ever he could. He should have gone with Philip, of course. But Philip was gone, and the ship as well, and he was stranded here, dependent on strangers. This doctor seemed a good sort, though. “Doctor—I don’t even know your name.”

  “That can wait until we get out of here. I’d as soon you didn’t use it. ‘Doctor’ will do. And I’ve not used your Christian name out of presumptuous familiarity, but to remind us all that it is dangerous to be anything but a commoner in France, in these times.”

  “I see. Thank you.” He realized he was, once more, wearing nothing but his shirt. “I had some money in my waistcoat—”

  “Gone,” Zoe said.

  “Look in the lining of my coat, then, and the waistband of my trousers. There should be something, somewhere. I left my grip at the hotel—shall I write a note to them?” He knew he was babbling, but he’d seen how people were living. They’d saved his life. He did not want to be a burden. “When I get back to England, I can repay—”

  “Don’t worry about money, young man. Rest now. You’ll need your strength for traveling. We may need to move you far sooner than I’d like.” The doctor took his leave and Zoe went with him, but she returned a few moments later with a horrible-smelling brew that Kit drank more from a sense of obligation than any conviction it was good for him. It made him sleepy, though, and released him from pain into oblivion once again.

  He woke briefly from time to time, and found either the English doctor, Zoe, or her father nearby. The two medical men helped him with the undignified personal necessities and put him through the ordeal of changing the dressings on his wound; the pain wasn’t as bad as listening to them discuss the technical details of the surgery and his progress. Other times, Zoe fed him and told him a little of what was happening in the outside world. None of the news was good. When she saw he was growing restless, she would change the topic and talk lightly of her friend Angelique and the amusing things the “theater people” had done in happier times. He asked her to speak in French, so he could become more fluent. He didn’t tell her that he usually lost track of what she was saying as he focused instead on the music of her voice.

  The days passed, but he was unable to keep track of them. The air grew colder, and once he saw snow falling outside the window. The wound in his scalp became infected; he was feverish for a while, time dissolving as he drifted in and out of consciousness, his indrawn breaths a cold contrast to the heat in his body.

  But at least he was seldom alone. Most of the time it was the doctor, pouring vile concoctions down his throat with reassurances that he was doing as well as could be expected. More often it was Zoe, easing the fever with a compress of snow wrapped in a cloth. Once he thought it was his mother, but as Zoe wiped his face yet again and called him back, he realized that was just a very old memory from his childhood, when he’d had the measles.

  Eventually the fever broke, and he was able to stay awake for longer periods of time, though he still felt frightfully weak. When he was beginning to mend, they let him know France had declared war on England, making it even more essential that he get out of the country. The doctor’s plans for escape were apparently progressing well, and Kit thanked God that Zoe and her father were going to come with them.

  But nobody chose to entrust him with the details. He didn’t blame them. He’d heard enough tales from emigrés to know that was how one played this game. The less the “passengers�
�� in an escape knew, the safer they all were. And Kit knew that, at least for now, he would be nothing more than a passenger. In case of capture and torture, what he did not know could not be wrested from him. He had no delusions of heroism. The shape he was in, he would crack like a brittle twig.

  He wondered about the doctor, who apparently had some useful skills in the shady side of politics, as well as papers that declared him to be an American citizen, one Dr. Pierce of Providence, Rhode Island. But men of science formed their own society, outside the bounds of political machinations—or above them—and the doctor seemed to have nothing but scorn for France’s ill-fated revolution. What he had actually been doing here in Paris, Kit had not presumed to inquire. He suspected that the doctor knew no more about Rhode Island than he did himself.

  The one thing he had insisted upon, as soon as he had strength to do it, was to let his mother know that he was alive. The doctor had promised to see it done discreetly, so no spies in London would learn that Kit was still in France. He was not wanted by the government for any reason, but the mob hatred of the aristocracy was such that if found he would likely be killed for what he was, not who he was.

  Kit hated being a helpless burden. He still felt resentment that Philip had apparently not even tried to recover his body. He knew that was unreasonable, of course—he certainly would not have wanted his cousin to risk death or capture if he had really been dead. And in fact, he probably would have died if they’d made any attempt to rescue him—it was only the doctor’s timely intervention and specialized skill that had given him a chance at survival. But to have been left in the gutter like so much rubbish….

  Well, no point in agonizing over that. The doctor seemed to have the matter well in hand. By the time Kit was sufficiently recovered to walk around the little attic room where they’d hidden him, his mysterious savior had arranged for passage on a small trading ship bound for Portugal. Their eventual destination was a conference in the neutral port of Lisbon. “Dr. Pierce” explained ironically that since the New Republic of France had been criticized by other nations for persecuting its scientists, it had decided to polish its reputation by allowing Dr. Colbert to travel with his American friend to the meeting of a scientific society, so long as he left his daughter behind in Paris.