Beneath the fragrance of incense and wax, Becca inhaled the scent of ancient wood and stone. The soft hairs on her arms lifted as if her skin felt the echo of five hundred years of prayer.
She took Daniel’s arm, and they strolled through the Cathedral of Notre Dame on the day named in Dr. Franklin’s letter, Wednesday, July 6.
They were surrounded by masses of flickering candles. Above them, the impossibly high ceiling arches strained toward heaven. The church hummed with the hushed voices of the faithful.
“Are you more comfortable now?” Daniel asked.
She nodded. “The cathedral welcomes everyone. I never knew a place so grand existed.” Becca had never been to a Catholic church.
“Your nerves were understandable,” Daniel said.
Around them, women in drab tea-colored gowns lit candles. Men dressed in silk suits and those garbed in rags prayed. One child pushed another to the ground, and a priest in a long black cassock stopped their howling fight. The parade of Paris passed before them. And there was light, candlelight, everywhere.
“I hope that Hannah and Augusta have a chance to see the cathedral before they leave for home,” Becca said. The thought of their leave-taking was painful, and Becca changed the subject. “Have you found anyone who knows the letter writer?”
“The not-so-Honorable Charles de Weissenstein? No,” Daniel said.
They began their third circle round the inside of the cathedral.
“None of my contacts here know a man by that name,” Daniel said. “Gabriel will visit again in another day or so. He seems to know everyone. We shall ask him.”
“What type of name is ‘de Weissenstein’?” Becca asked.
“Flemish, I think. It’s a Belgian name. I’m coming to believe that the real letter writer merely borrowed it to keep his own identity secret.”
“The letter could be a jest.”
“We’ll know soon enough,” Daniel answered mildly. “There’s St. Christopher.”
They walked toward the statue. No one could miss it, Becca thought. It rose twenty-eight feet high near the west entrance to the cathedral. St. Christopher bent forward as if launching into motion, balancing a young child on his back. His expression spoke of pain and patience.
They strolled across the nave, passing a cleric in long robes, two ladies, one in pink stripes, the other in yellow damask, then a man with one leg and a cane.
“But when will he come, this man with the red rose?” Becca asked.
“If such a man exists, you mean. I have my doubts.”
“We have circled the church twice already.”
“We could pass the time speaking of wedding stockings,” Daniel teased.
“That is not amusing,” Becca said. “Hannah and Lady Augusta are taking such pleasure in our wedding. I am trying not to complain about the details.”
“We won’t need to circle a third time.” His arm tightened beneath her hand. “He’s there. Don’t turn.”
Becca forced herself not to look at the base of the saint’s statue, where she imagined the man with the red rose waited. One black tile. Two. Three. She counted them to control her impatience. They strolled slowly, looking left and right as if they were two tourists awed by the cathedral. Since awe was exactly what Becca felt, it took very little work on her part.
Her breathing quieted as if she were hunting in the woods where she’d spent her childhood. They circled behind a massive sculpture facing St. Christopher across the way.
They peered out from behind the statue. The man Daniel had spotted sauntered into view.
A bright rose was tucked into his tricorn hat. Its wide brim hid his face. Becca could only tell that his hair was powdered white and curled above his ears in the fashionable manner. He wore dove gray breeches and a matching coat with silver embroidery.
A wealthy man, Becca thought, if the silk taffeta suit was any indication.
When he reached St. Christopher, the stranger plucked the rose from the hat and twirled it between his thumb and index finger, holding his pose as if for a painting. Beneath the saintly sculpture, he appeared as small as a giant’s toy.
“How could anyone think Dr. Franklin would betray his country?” Becca whispered. She leaned forward, mirroring St. Christopher’s pose across the way.
“We are here to watch. Only to watch.” Daniel gently laid his hand on her arm.
Heels clattered at the cathedral’s entrance. Three men in matching navy coats with broad red cuffs and red vests marched through the west door.
“Soldiers?” Becca asked.
“The Paris police, just as Dr. Franklin promised,” he said. “The gendarmes.”
A few church visitors ducked into the shadows. Others stared at the unusual sight of police in the cathedral.
The man with the red rose lifted the flower above his head again, then swiveled toward the men in uniform, his hand still raised.
But no matter whether Becca stood on her toes to peer out or stooped, that hat still blocked his face.
“He doesn’t seem worried at all,” Daniel said with surprise.
“That is it exactly,” Becca murmured. “He wants the attention. Why invite one of the most famous men in the world for a secret meeting in the most public place in Paris?”
“To make sure he is seen,” Daniel whispered. He craned his neck toward the rows of seats that filled the center of Notre Dame Cathedral. “But are we his only audience, or is there someone else he knows is watching?”
Becca scanned the little of the church she could see from this vantage point.
She brought her attention back to the police. One spoke softly to the man with the rose. Another gripped his wrist and yanked him forward. The man with the red rose turned one last time back as if to memorize the lines of the church, its majestic power. A sweep of light poured through a high window, lighting his face.
“If I must be your guest, lead the way.” Jude Fenimore bowed to one policeman and then the other. His expression held amusement.
Anger left Becca breathless. How could this spy, this American traitor to independence, be the same person who’d charmed Lady Augusta and Hannah?
“Fenimore isn’t surprised to see the police,” Daniel said slowly. “It’s as if he knew they’d be here.”
“How brazen he is. He must have laughed when we invited him back to Passy,” she said.
“He must have meant to befriend you on board the ship. How did he know you’d be on that brigantine, or was it luck?” Daniel asked.
Becca didn’t have an answer. “He is a cruel, traitorous dog. A man willing to betray his country, curse him. A man who toys with women.” Her voice was raw. Stop, she told herself. Jude is not Philip. You know he’s not.
“Did Mr. Fenimore toy with you?” Daniel swung around to face Becca.
Becca shook her head. “Jude Fenimore looks like Philip. The resemblance upsets me, especially now.” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, because Jude looked even more like her dead husband through the haze of her tears.
She’d forgiven Philip for his treason and his affairs, but she couldn’t forgive Jude for his treason, at least not yet.
The police led the way to the cathedral’s massive front door.
Becca shot out from the shadows. Not to speak. Not to interfere. She needed Jude to see her. Jude needed to see the accusation in her eyes. Her quick footsteps echoed on the black and white tiles.
Jude and his captors whirled in surprise.
His face filled with dismay. He reached out his arm as if to hand her the rose or ask for forgiveness. Becca couldn’t tell. But a second later, he winced, slapping a hand over his ribs before standing tall again. The flower fell from his fingers, spilling blood-red petals on the marble tile.
She froze, confused by Jude’s reaction.
One of the policemen pulled him back. Another went still, studying Becca.
“Look, m’dear.” Daniel’s voice boomed. She hadn’t heard him follow her into the open. He pointed to the statue of St. Christopher and took her arm. “Have you ever seen anything so grand? Not where we are from.”
The gendarmes watched Daniel with identical closed expressions as he gestured to the ceiling, to the columns, and to the explosion of colors in the stained glass rose window.
“Are there other churches we should see before we leave for Brussels?” Becca hoped Daniel saw the gratitude in her eyes. She hoped the police didn’t hear the shiver in her voice.
“There’s one more church we should visit, m’dear. Saint-Chapelle.” Daniel used the English pronunciation of saint and chapel, instead of the musical French version, sân sha-pell.
The gendarmes turned from Becca and Daniel. One officer snorted his opinion of foreign tourists who couldn’t bother to learn the language. The two others laughed in response.
Which was when Jude tensed. The rest seemed to happen slowly, though it must have taken mere seconds. Jude’s dove gray jacket strained against his back.
The police didn’t seem to notice.
He lowered one shoulder and swerved. His shoulder served as a battering ram, and he shoved the policeman holding his arm off balance. The second officer reached for him a moment too late. Jude lurched for the door.
“Pardon,” he said as he backhanded a young man, who tripped and tumbled into the three officers.
Jude disappeared to the flapping sound of clamoring birds taking wing on the grand stone plaza outside the church.