A song, long and languid as a river murmuring among stones. Rippling through the leaves, a susurration, as the breeze ebbed and flowed. Night, Hayden thought, and a nightingale. Warm, dry air drifted in the window bearing the fragrance of a garden. Land. He was ashore … Somewhere.
When next he woke it was to the sorrowful cooing of doves, echoing from the far reaches of the afternoon.
Well, I am alive, Hayden thought. But he could not bring himself to move, as though enervation had overwhelmed the part of his mind that commanded his limbs. He did breathe – in and slowly out. And he was warm! Luxuriously so! For a few moments he lay, basking like a cat in the sun, feeling the warmth in all of his limbs. He had thought that no matter what the outcome he would never feel warm again.
Finally, and with great effort, he raised his eyelids. He was in a small, plain chamber, furnished with an ancient armoire, battered trunk, a rush-bottom chair and chest of four drawers. Upon the chair perched a girl of perhaps seven years, her legs swinging back and forth, her gaze fixed upon him. When Hayden opened his eyes, the legs stopped swinging, she leaned forward, half in alarm, half surprise, and then she leapt down to the floor and went running out.
‘Mama!’ she called. ‘Mama. The gentleman has awakened! He is not dead!’
The sound of hurrying footsteps – heavier than the girl’s but not heavy – and then a woman of perhaps thirty appeared in the door frame, the girl clutching her skirts and peering out from behind.
‘It is a miracle,’ the woman muttered and then spun and hastened off. ‘Jean!’ she called. ‘Jean! You must bring the doctor.’
And then she swept back into the room, and crouched by Hayden’s bed in a rustling of skirts.
‘Monsieur? Monsieur? Can you hear me?’
‘Perfectly, madame, merci vous.’
‘I cannot believe he has lived,’ she muttered as if he were not there. ‘God must love you, monsieur.’ She stood up, and then leaned over, speaking to him as though she thought him half deaf. ‘I will bring you broth, monsieur. Broth …’
Hayden lay, listening to the bird sounds outside the open window, smelling newly mown grass. Cattle lowed off in the distance, and then he heard feet pounding on the ground – running as though someone’s life depended upon swiftness.
He felt no desire to move, and remained still, half upon his side, his chest turned down upon the mattress. Several times, he noted, his eyes blinked. Someone entered the room, but Hayden was slipping away – back into the all-enveloping darkness and the song of the nightingale.
A distant bell rang the hour but Hayden did not tally it. His eyes opened once again, only to find the same small girl, swinging her legs upon the chair and singing almost silently to herself.
‘Mademoiselle,’ Hayden croaked, his mouth so dry he could hardly prise it open.
The girl was off the chair and running from the room, calling as she went, ‘Mama! He spoke! Mama!’
Footsteps returned, grew louder, but instead of Mama, a gentleman strode in. He settled a pair of spectacles upon his nose, pulled the chair over near to the bed, seated himself heavily, and took up Hayden’s arm by the wrist. Fishing a watch from a pocket by its chain, he thumbed it open and very studiously took Hayden’s pulse.
‘Do I live?’ Hayden enquired in French.
‘So it seems, though I do not know how. You were ice water when you came ashore, and could barely draw a breath. Many thought you dead on the beach. You were lucky I was present, for I found you were alive and ordered you carried here, to the house of Charles Adair. For three days you have hovered in that dark place between death and life. In truth, you were so close to death I wonder if you saw the gates of heaven? Some do, you know.’
Hayden shook his head – the smallest motion but all he could manage. ‘I have been wandering in a dark wood, full of mist and shadow … following the call of a nightingale. I awoke here with a small girl watching over me. Perhaps she is an angel.’
‘So she would wish, but not yet.’
The doctor let go of his wrist and sat back, hands on his ample knees. ‘Your pulse is not yet strong but I believe you will live. Capitaine?’
But Hayden had slipped away, and wandered again among the shadowy trees, shafts of faint moonlight illuminating a low mist. The nightingale began to sing.
When Hayden woke again it was to warm sunlight playing over his face. He rolled onto his side and covered his eyes with a forearm. Where was he? Had there really been a doctor or had he dreamt that as well? There had been so many dreams, all run together into nonsense.
Hayden glanced towards the chair pushed up against the wall. His little guardian angel was not there. With effort he sat up but immediately became so dizzy that he slumped down again. He must have made some noise for a woman appeared at the door, paused, then came in.
‘Are you finally awake, Capitaine?’
‘Yes. How many survived the wreck, madame? Can you tell me?’
‘Very few, I am sorry to tell you. I have heard one hundred to one hundred and twenty, more or less. And a few Anglais – prisoners.’
‘Five hundred dead …’ Hayden said hoarsely. ‘May I have water?’
‘Yes, and some broth and bread at least. You have hardly eaten in more than three days, nor have you taken much drink.’
‘I ate?’ Hayden was surprised. ‘I do not remember.’
‘You have been wandering along the borders of the land of the dead, Capitaine.’ She smiled. ‘I think you have only now returned.’
Hayden noticed a French captain’s coat hanging on a hook.
‘I washed it, Capitaine,’ she said, noting where his gaze had gone. ‘It was filthy and needed mending. You will not have reason to criticize my work, you will see.’
Hayden tried not to show his reaction to this. ‘I am certain you are right, madame. Merci.’
She curtsied and slipped out.
They believe I am a French officer, Hayden thought. A captain!
In his present reduced state he could not decide if there were any advantage to this or if it were a terrible gamble – a danger to him. Certainly if he were delivered to the French navy he would be found out in a moment – and more than likely deemed a spy! But if he could have a few days to recover … He and Wickham and Hawthorne had stolen a boat and sailed from here before. It was not impossible. His exhausted brain took hold of this idea. Perhaps there was still a chance he could carry Benoît’s warning to the Admiralty. They were not far from Brest when Les Droits de l’Homme went ashore. The British frigates he had so desperately hoped to find must be there. A small boat would be all he required to reach them.
Better that than spending months in a French gaol waiting to be exchanged, wondering all the while if the French had crossed the Channel to England. How infamous he would be if it ever came out that he had been the man who had failed to carry the warning to Britain.
That slim hope made his decision. Going into a French gaol was out of the question. If he were found out in the next few days he would claim he did not realize they thought him French – confusion caused by his excellent command of the language, no doubt. It was not without risk but while he was still deemed very ill – and certainly he was too weak to effect an escape – he could feign ignorance. Once he was recovered he would have to decide if there was any possibility of escape – in which case he would claim to be French until it was proven otherwise.
Broth and bread were carried to him by a servant. Hayden ate this with surprisingly little appetite and then forced himself up onto wobbling legs and shuffled to the window. The house was larger than he had expected, his window on the first floor looking over a garden. Beyond were fields, rolling off into the distance – hill beyond hill – all separated one from the other by hedgerows of trees and underwood that ran every which way utterly without pattern.
It was all very familiar to Charles Hayden, who had spent much of his youth not too distant from here – or so he assumed. His legs, however, would not bear him long and he tottered back to bed, dizzy, nauseated and sweating.
‘Merde,’ he whispered.
‘You should not say that, monsieur.’
Hayden turned his head and found the little girl who had watched over him earlier. ‘Excuse me. I thought I was alone.’
‘You are never alone, monsieur. God is always listening.’
‘Certainly he has better things to do?’
‘No, monsieur, He has not. God hears every word, no matter how quietly you whisper.’ She regarded Hayden a moment, with the seriousness of a child. ‘I prayed for you,’ she informed him.
‘Thank you, mademoiselle, it was very kind of you.’
‘It was excellent practice. I will be a sister one day.’
‘No doubt that is why God granted your request and saved my miserable life.’
She gave a little nod as though to say, ‘Perhaps.’ ‘Who is Henry?’ she asked. She said it in the French way – ’Enree.
‘I do not know. Who is Henry?’
She shrugged. ‘You kept saying it when you were fevered. Is he your brother?’
‘I have no brothers – and no sisters either. What else did I say?’
She shrugged. ‘It was all raving and made no sense. Mother said you must never put any store in what a person says when they are fevered.’
‘In this I believe your mother is very wise.’
For a moment she looked surprisingly thoughtful as though this idea were novel. ‘Did you see the gates of heaven? The doctor said you did. Were they really made of pearl?’
Hayden was of half a mind to tell her he had and make up some fantastic story, but there was something about the earnest way she listened for his answer that stopped him. ‘I did not see the gates of heaven, I am sorry to say.’
‘Oh.’ She looked terribly disappointed. ‘I thought he might be teasing. Grown-ups do.’
‘They do, sometimes, but I am telling the truth.’
She nodded, not looking at him. ‘If you had seen them there would not be the least doubt would there? That heaven existed, I mean.’
‘Yes, and it would be comforting.’
‘There is a man who lives in the village who tells everyone that he was pronounced dead and floated up to the gates of heaven. They opened to receive him but then an angel sent him back to complete his life. He says that he has something great to accomplish, though he does not yet know what. It is strange – no one believes anything else he says but that story no one doubts.’ She looked up at Hayden. ‘Is that not odd? Why would he tell the truth about that one thing and nothing else?’
‘Maybe one does not tell lies about heaven.’
‘Yes, perhaps that is it. Though he said King Louis was still alive and travelling about France disguised as a tinker. Do you believe that?’
Hayden laughed softly. ‘Do you?’
She shook her head. ‘It would be very difficult to travel around the country without a head. Everyone would notice.’
‘Exactly what I was going to say. The village you spoke of … what is it called?’
‘You do not know?’
‘I do not know where I am or how I got here.’
‘The village of Quimper is not so far away. I have been there many times.’
‘Ah, you look like a traveller.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Very much.’
‘One day I hope to travel to Domrémy-la-Pucelle, where Joan of Arc was born. Have you been there?’
‘No, but I wish I had. I have not seen your father. Is he away?’
She looked around as though to be certain they were alone. ‘My father has fled, monsieur. They were coming for him.’ Then she said quickly. ‘But you must say nothing.’
‘You need not worry, I am very accomplished at keeping secrets.’
‘So am I, monsieur. And so is Mama.’ She looked suddenly worried that she had spoken of this. ‘My father would beat me if he knew I spoke of this to you.’
‘He will never hear of it from me. You are safe.’
This appeared to reassure her. ‘I do not believe he will ever return, anyway. I hope not. He was always very cruel to me and to Mama.’
‘I am sorry to hear it.’
This curtailed the conversation for a moment. When Hayden was looking for something to say, surprised at how poorly his mind worked, the girl’s mother appeared.
‘Charlotte, the captain is far from recovered. You must not bother him.’
‘She is no bother, madame. She is very charming.’
‘So everyone says. Capitaine, you will excuse me, I hope, but I do not know your name.’
It was a question Hayden had been dreading. If he gave a French name he was setting his foot upon a terribly dangerous road.
‘Does the navy not know I am here?’
‘There were so many, Capitaine, spread among the families in the village and all around. Some have now gone to the naval hospital in Brest, a few have gone to their own families. Many are too ill to travel.’
‘And the Anglais? What of them?’
‘I do not know, Capitaine. Perhaps they have been taken off to the prison in Quimper or to Portanzeau.’ She tilted her head to one side, and regarded him. She was a pretty woman, Hayden thought. A little careworn, perhaps, an air of disappointment in her manner and movement. Across the bridge of her nose a little spray of freckles gave a suggestion of youth, and then full lips that never seemed to smile. ‘Your name, Capitaine … ?’
‘Mercier. Gil Mercier.’
‘You were the captain of the ship that was wrecked? Les Droits de l’Homme?’
‘No. I was merely returning to Brest with my friend Capitaine Lacrosse when we were chased by two British ships and driven ashore.’
She shook her head. ‘The English,’ she said with a little shiver, ‘they are without mercy. So many lives …’
Hayden was about to explain that it was their own fault – they did not know their position – but decided this would be unwise. ‘They are mad dogs, madame,’ he said gravely. ‘Mad dogs.’
Hayden was served both dinner and supper in his room that day but on the next he shakily joined the family for dinner at table. It was a small household, reduced by the absence of Monsieur Adair and an older son who was away at the military academy – as safe a haven as one could find should the Jacobins come after his family. A Girondiste family lived in constant fear and danger – the distant sound of the guillotine, as Lacrosse had told him, could be heard both day and night. Madame did everything to keep up a pretence of normal life for the sake of her daughter, Charlotte, Hayden was certain. He learned that a cousin – a girl of twelve – had lived with them for some years but had been sent away to live with other relatives, much to Charlotte’s distress; she did not understand why the girl had gone.
‘Her auntie missed her so,’ her mother explained, ‘and had no children left as they had all grown up and moved away.’
‘That is all very well, Mama, but Audrey had lived with us for so very long. She was like a sister to me and I do not think it was fair that she should be sent off when she did not want to go herself.’
Madame Adair glanced at Hayden – all unsaid.
‘Mayhap, I will send you to visit with auntie and Audrey a while.’
‘I should like it much better if they came to stay with us – as they used.’
‘It is difficult for them to travel, now; that happens when you get older. Would you not dearly love to see Audrey and your auntie too?’
‘I would. But I should miss you, Mother, and Madame Lucy too.’
Madame Lucy, Hayden had learned, was Charlotte’s doll.
‘Madame Lucy could travel with you, if you liked.’
‘She is afraid to travel, Mama,’ she replied softly. ‘The Jacobins …’
After dinner Hayden walked out into the garden. Even mild exertion left him shaking and sweating, but he was determined to get his strength back as soon as he was able. Once he had named himself Capitaine Mercier he knew his time in France must be very short. He might be found out in only a few days. If he had known he would be weak this long he would not have been so quick to claim himself French.
A servant appeared bearing a tray with a coffee service upon it. Two cups, Hayden noted, when it was deposited on the small table. A moment later Madame Adair appeared, arranging a shawl upon her shoulders.
‘May I join you, Capitaine?’
‘My pleasure.’ Hayden rose, stiffly, and held a chair for her.
She poured coffee for both of them, holding back her shawl in a gesture that was both somehow elegant and charming.
The sun had travelled far into the west, drawing out the shadows of trees and fences, casting a soft, honeyed light over that little part of Brittany. Throughout the day a north-east wind had blown, but it had died away to a sighing breeze, and then to a calm. Neither spoke for a time and Hayden did not feel speech necessary – unlike many, Madame Adair was not made uncomfortable by silence.
She sipped her coffee, admired the view and, Hayden sensed, rested from the labours of the day. An estate of such size required a great deal of looking after, and she had shouldered that burden as well as running the household and raising her daughter and now-absent son.
‘The doctor told me you would be able to travel within a week,’ she offered into the evening’s silence.
‘Yes, and I shall be a burden to you no more.’
‘You have not been a burden. It has been a pleasure. Charlotte could not be more delighted to have you here. She would pester you from morning until night if I allowed it.’
‘Charlotte may “pester” me all she likes. She is a treasure.’
‘She has not had a father for some time …’ She hesitated and then said, quietly, ‘A very long time.’
‘She told me her father had fled the Jacobins.’
‘I have ordered her never to say such a thing …’ She looked at Hayden quickly, clearly alarmed.
‘You need not be the least concerned. What goes on in Paris is the greatest crime in the history of our nation. All of my family are dead … and I do not sleep well, myself.’
‘My condolences, monsieur,’ she whispered, meeting his eye for a fleeting second.
‘Will you send her away? Must you?’
‘It would be better … Safer.’
‘Surely even Robespierre would not hurt a child … ?’
She shrugged, pressing her lips together just a little. ‘I fear she might see her mother being taken away. No child should bear witness to that.’
The horror of the statement almost took his breath away, not least because it contained not a shred of melodrama. Mothers found themselves upon the guillotine every day, many of them for no greater crime than being insufficiently zealous revolutionaries. This reminded Hayden, cruelly, that he was not immune to the madness. Lacrosse had warned him that some believed him a Royalist sea officer in the British navy. And now he was claiming to be a French captain. Whatever had possessed him, he did not know. Clearly his mind had not been working properly or he would never have been so foolish.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘no child should.’
‘Do you have children, Capitaine Mercier?’
‘No, madame, I am not yet married.’
‘I am very surprised to hear it. A man of good family, I should guess, and excellent manners and temperament. I expect many a mother harbours hopes that you might become her son-in-law someday.’
‘If so, they hide their hopes well.’
‘Come, do not be coy, Capitaine. Is there not a young woman whom you will soon make very happy?’
This brought up a subject that, even in his present circumstances, was not far from his thoughts, and he felt a little sag of despair. ‘I believed there was but instead she made me unhappy – at least for a time.’
‘Ah. Love is never an easy journey, Capitaine. Not for the faint of heart, that is certain. But there will be other young women … of greater understanding, I am quite certain. Do you know what my mother told me? Beauty quickly fades and charm wears very poorly, but a good house and an adequate income can last a lifetime.’
‘She was a romantic, I see.’
‘Indeed she was – that is why she gave me such advice. Being a romantic had brought her much heartache.’ She gave a sad shrug, and thoughtfully pushed her lower lip into the upper. ‘But being practical can turn out much the same. In love there are so many ways to go wrong and only so very few, I think, to have it turn out well.’
They were silent a moment, the late-evening light casting their angular shadows across the grass and into the trees opposite. The evening insects took over from their brethren of the day. A cricket began to creak away, and then frogs in the nearby pond sent forth their throaty declarations.
‘What is it like to have an aspiring saint for a daughter?’ Hayden asked, changing the course of the conversation.
This did elicit a small laugh, many years evaporating from Madame Adair’s face in that instant. ‘It is difficult to live up to her expectations, Capitaine, I will admit. But I have told her that saints are very forgiving of others’ shortcomings.’ Her smile disappeared.
‘I’d better not tarry too long, then,’ Hayden said, ‘I am certain to disappoint her.’
‘Are you in the habit of disappointing the female sex, Capitaine Mercier?’ she asked playfully.
‘Never by intent, madame. Never by intent.’
Since he had woken in the home of Madame Adair – he did not think of it as the home of Charles Adair – he had fallen into bed each night so utterly drained that he wondered if his heart would continue beating. Even so, he would surface late in the night and lie awake, sometimes colder than a winter wind. Nightmares plagued him, of drowning in the wreck, sucked down into the hold by an irresistible current, or swimming endlessly through her darkened hull, among menacing flotsam, unable to escape. He dreamed also that the French landed in England and caught the nation unawares, driving the British armies before them.
He would then lie awake, his mouth dry, a dull headache and general malaise and weakness overwhelming him. After he had taken his coffee in the garden with Madame Adair, Hayden’s night followed this same general course of events, and he lay awake, feeling very low and anxious, wishing the nightingale would sing again.
Instead there was a dull pounding on the front door, and a hushed voice imploring that someone open up – in all haste!
Hayden lay very still, listening. A second voice could be heard inside – a servant he believed, summoning Madame Adair. As quickly as he was able, he dressed and stumbled down the stairs, unsteady on his feet and lightheaded. As Madame Adair, candle in hand, unbolted the door, a clearly frightened woman pressed in through the narrow opening, not waiting for the door to be properly opened. Immediately a servant closed the door and threw the bolts.
‘They have taken madame!’ the woman muttered.
‘Mon dieu!’ Madame Adair exhaled, and appeared about to collapse. ‘Spare us!’ she muttered. ‘Spare us … Do they come this way? Tell me!’
‘I do not know … I-I do not believe they do.’
‘But you are not certain?’
The woman – a servant by her dress – shook her head, looking down at the floor.
Madame Adair put a hand to her heart, hardly able to catch a breath. She saw Hayden at that moment.
‘The Jacobins, Capitaine Mercier – they have taken my neighbour, Madame Genot. Her husband fled with Monsieur Adair.’
‘You must fly!’ Hayden said.
‘Fly? Where? No one would dare hide us – nor could I ask them to. No, I am done for. If they come for me … I will die,’ she said, and began to weep.
Servants were roused and all the windows were shuttered and locked, all the doors barred, to what purpose Hayden did not know. If the Jacobins came for her this would only anger them and make it more likely that servants or other innocents would be taken as well – even recovering sea officers.
Snuffing out all the candles, the household huddled in the drawing room – all but Charlotte, who had not been wakened and remained in her bed watched over by her nursemaid. In the darkness they waited, a single window open so that they might hear the approaching Jacobins. A shaft of thin light from the waning moon crept slowly across the floor, and a small breeze wafted in, carrying the perfume of spring mixed with the faint odours from the distant farmyard. No one spoke. Some held hands, others sat alone, but no one dozed or appeared to be called by sleep, though they all looked haggard and exhausted. In the darkest corner, two women prayed, whispering their fears to God and Mary and their Son, begging deliverance.
‘I should have sent her away,’ Madame Adair whispered to herself, unaware that she spoke aloud.
The floor clock in the entrance hall measured the endless night – a strict, metronomic clicking that somehow brought to Hayden’s mind that other machine that measured human lives – and brought them to an end. So far apart were the chimes that cried each hour and each half that Hayden wondered if the mechanism had ceased to function.
Many days into the night, footsteps pulsed up the lane from the distant road, the pace frightening. The footsteps slid to a stop in the gravel and approached the door followed by a palm dully thudding on wood.
‘Madame,’ came a breathless whisper. ‘It is me – Prévost.’
Madame Adair rushed to the window. ‘Prévost,’ she said, ‘what is it?’
‘They have the doctor. And they come this way.’
‘Do they go to Brest, Prévost? Or do they come here?’
‘I cannot say, madame. Let us hope it is Brest. I must go. Good luck, madame. May God be with you.’
‘And you, Prévost.’
‘Merci, madame.’ And the footsteps stole away, hushed now, not madly running. Perhaps across the fields, Hayden thought, in the shadows of the hedgerows, as he had done once not so very far away nor so long ago.
Madame Adair stayed by the window, her hands upon the sill, leaning out, listening. Hayden crossed the room and stood vigil beside her, one hand upon the sill and one upon the frame. He could hear Madame Adair breathing – sharp little gasps as though her lungs were already full and she could take in nothing more.
A susurration through the willow leaves as the breeze sighed, and then, faintly, a hollow clatter – horses.
Madame Adair glanced at Hayden, such fear and appeal in her eyes that he felt a compulsion to take her in his arms, to protect her. But what could be done against the Jacobin madness?
At the foot of the lane voices could now be heard – arguing, Hayden thought, but he could not be sure. This went on a moment, and then the sound of horses making their way up the path of beaten earth. Again a voice raised in protest.
‘It is the doctor!’ one of the servants said. She had risen from her chair and stood a few paces behind Hayden. ‘Madame, it is the doctor!’
The horses stopped and another heated exchange occurred. Hayden could pick out the doctor’s voice now. ‘Everyone knows she hated him,’ the man declared. ‘Everything about him. To kill such a woman because of the beliefs of a man she despised …’
Several voices rose and a little breeze through the leaves obscured the words. Hayden and Madame Adair both leaned as far out as they dared, desperate to hear what was said. Ten minutes this lasted, Hayden was sure. The clock in the hall chimed, and this seemed to silence the men in the lane. The breeze, too, fell still.
‘It grows late,’ one complained. ‘Can we not decide? Either we take her now or we go home!’
What was said then was too quiet to be heard. And then the horses moved again.
‘God save us,’ Madame Adair said, unable to stay silent. ‘They are coming.’
‘Listen …’ Hayden hissed. ‘Are they not turning around?’
Every soul in the room held their breath. The hooves clattered dully on the ground; the breeze whispered among the branches. And then the little zephyr sighed and fell away. The sound of the hooves had grown fainter. They were upon the road, travelling towards the nearby village.
Madame Adair turned away and collapsed back against the window opening. A servant came forward just as Hayden reached out and took her arm. They guided her to a chair and she slumped down in it, muttering thanks to God and weeping almost silently.
‘Oh God,’ she choked out. ‘Oh dear God. They were coming for me … and then they went away.’
‘It was the doctor, madame,’ one of the servants said. ‘He convinced them to leave you … But he is lost.’
This caused many a sob and prayers for the poor doctor.
‘We are spared this night,’ Madame Adair declared at last, and rose to her feet, wiping away tears. ‘Let us go to bed. Sleep is the best defence against the trials of tomorrow.’
Everyone filed out and Hayden returned to his chamber. Instead of bed, though, he pulled up the chair and opened his window and shutters. Dawn was three hours distant. He knew that he must slip out of this house before any officials came again, but the chances of him making his way to the coast and stealing a fishing vessel in his present state – and alone – were very slim. It was unlikely he could walk as far as the village. There was no way to send word to England of what he had learned from Mr Stephens’s spy.
A Royalist family might hide him – but since the uprisings had been put down such families were keeping their loyalties utterly secret. Even if he thought Madame Adair might hide him he would not ask it of her – and there was no reason to believe she would. Her husband might have been a Girondist but that made them supporters of the Revolution – not opponents of it. Even so, she was now in as much trouble as he.
The latch on his door turned, a narrow crack appearing as the door pushed in. He thought it was the breeze, but then the crack widened a little more until whoever was outside could see him sitting in the spare moonlight. Before Hayden could speak Madame Adair let herself in, closing the door silently behind. Hayden rose from his chair and was about to speak, but she put a finger to her lips and crossed the room to where he stood.
‘Are you well, madame?’ he whispered.
She shook her head and even in the feeble light Hayden could see the glimmer of tears pooling in her eyes. ‘They will be back,’ she whispered. ‘Whoever sent them will be angry that they did not do as they were ordered and they will be sent again – or some others.’
‘You must get away. Is there no one you trust who will hide you?’
‘I would not ask that of anyone …’ She looked down at the floor, a hand to her forehead. Then she took the hand away and raised her face so that she looked up at Hayden. ‘There is one chance, Capitaine Mercier …’ but her voice or perhaps her nerve failed her.
‘What? What is it?’
She took a deep but ragged breath. ‘They will not put me upon the guillotine, monsieur …’ Another difficult breath, and then in a whisper so soft he barely heard, ‘… if I am with child.’
She could hold his gaze no longer and hung her head, a little sob escaping but she stifled it. Reaching up she put a small hand lightly upon his breast, and met his eyes again. ‘There is no one else who might help me. I can hardly ask … a servant. Discretion is imperative.’ She closed her eyes a second. ‘The Jacobins will come back for me. Tomorrow, most likely. There is no recourse. If they come for me I am doomed. I have only this one chance: to be with child. My life would be preserved … if only for a few months – but this madness, it cannot last for ever. Do you see? My only chance to live.’ Tears welled over. ‘I have a daughter …’ but she could say no more and began to weep almost silently, hiding her face with her hands.
‘Shh.’ Hayden took her hands away from her face, and gently led her towards his bed; it took him only that long to decide. It was not done out of desire, or for conquest, nor even affection – though he did feel gratitude and great fondness for her. Survival was their motive. The Jacobins would murder her – without cause – and he could not bear the thought of it.
For a second she paused to shed her gown, so that she wore only a light shift. Into the bed they crawled, awkward, embarrassed, both still frightened by what had happened earlier. The fear inhibited them at first, but they pressed close and clung to one another until their desire began to rise, and then she guided him atop her, pulling up her shift. In the waning moonlight, the fine lines of her face disappeared and she appeared less troubled and weary, as though the moon gave back her youth. They were gentle with one another, but she buried her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck and very softly moaned close to his ear, whispering endearments in French.
After, she laid on top of him, her hair tickling his face.
‘I can tarry but a moment,’ she whispered. ‘Do not let me sleep.’
But she did not rise immediately and Hayden sensed her reluctance. All of life was so uncertain, yet here was this small moment of contentment if not safety – each of them wanted to cling to it and draw it out even five minutes more. Who knew what the next day would bring?
A zephyr sighed in the open casement and then the nightingale began to sing, clear phrases offered up to the stars, far above human strife and suffering.