Лорен Уиллиг - The Orchid Affair

Laura clapped her hands. “Gabrielle! Pierre-André! Won’t you come up with me?”

Jeannette bristled.

Laura gave her what she hoped was a meaningful look, but probably succeeded only in making herself vaguely cross-eyed.

“Your father is sleeping,” she called, “and I could use the company. If you like,” she added cunningly, “I’ll let you hold the reins.”

Pierre-André wiggled in Jeannette’s hold. With a look at Laura, Jeannette boosted him down off the wagon into Laura’s arms.

“How long?” he demanded.

“That depends on how good a driver you are.” Laura set him down on the ground, taking his hand in hers. The rain had lightened into mist, but his mittens were still damp.

Hot tea, Laura thought. Hot liquid of some kind. Once they were past the gates, she would send him into the wagon, where he would at least be dry, if not warm. The last thing they needed was the children getting an influenza.

Gabrielle wasn’t as easily won as her brother. It took a whispered instruction from Jeannette to make her move, and even then only with the greatest of reluctance. She stalked past Laura, book under her arm, nose in the air, refusing Laura’s offer of a hand to help her up onto the box of the wagon. So much for the hard-won entente of the past few weeks. That faux kiss in the coffee room seemed to have set them back to where they had been in the first week of January.

“This is for your father’s sake,” Laura murmured to Gabrielle as she settled herself down between the two children. “Just until we get him out of the city.”

Gabrielle gave her a withering look. “How would you know what’s good for my father?”

“Because I’m older than you,” Laura replied, slapping the reins. “And because I said so.”

Logic. It worked every time.

The wagons set off in painfully slow procession, mud churning beneath the wheels. It was a dreary sight, the bright paint dulled with wet, the sides of the wagons splattered with dirt. The drivers hunched down over the reins, intent on keeping the rain off their heads as much as possible. There was a reason most troupes traveled only in summer.

Laura checked beneath her shawl, making sure she still had the papers the Pink Carnation had forged for them. They crackled reassuringly in their greased paper wrappings, the seals thick and official-looking. Whatever forgers the Pink Carnation used, they were the very best of their kind. To Laura’s eye, their papers, hastily made though they were, had seemed quite convincingly official.

Hopefully, the guards at the gates would feel the same way.

The cavalcade slowed to a halt as the first wagon paused at the gates. A guard, his cloak pulled up high around his neck, his hat pulled down low, came out to inspect Pantaloon’s papers. Daubier sat beside him on the box, huddled into his coat, his mangled hand hidden within his sleeve.

For this, at least, Laura blessed the rain, which did more than any disguise to render men anonymous. There was nothing the least bit curious about a man pulling his hat down over his head or wrapping himself up in a cloak, not when the rain was dripping down and all honest men yearned for nothing more than to be inside and out of the wet.

The guard gave a perfunctory look at the papers and handed them back to Pantaloon. Thank God. She hadn’t prayed in years, but Laura found herself breathing out thanks as the first wagon passed beyond the gates, the first step to safety. There was still a long way to go, but to be out of Paris meant that they had the whole of the countryside in which to hide, a million anonymous fields and unknown back roads.

Harlequin’s wagon approached next, pausing for a moment as the actor exchanged quips with the guard. To Laura’s eyes, de Berry’s ruddy countenance was unmistakably Bourbon—but it had been more than eleven years since a Bourbon had been last seen in Paris. Likenesses on medals seldom approximated the reality.

De Berry was through, then Cécile, then Jeannette.

“Wardrobe mistress,” Laura heard Jeannette say as she waved her knitting at the guard. Only Jeannette could contrive to knit and handle two mules at the same time. The guard eyed the yarn askance but let her through.

Laura edged her mules gently up to the gate. She was holding Pierre-André too tightly. He wiggled impatiently, making her fuddle one of the reins.

“Papers?” the guard said in a bored way.

Laura fished them out from beneath her shawl, fumbling with the wax-paper wrappings. “Here,” she said, sounding more breathless than she would have liked. “For me and my family.”

The guard shuffled through, looking once at Gabrielle, once at Pierre-André, matching names with faces.

“The children are yours?”

Laura put an arm around Pierre-André on one side and Gabrielle on the other. The little girl’s shoulders were stiff beneath her arm. She prayed Gabrielle wouldn’t choose this moment to act up. “Yes. My stepchildren.”

Come on, come on, come on, thought Laura. The other wagons were well ahead, pulling away down the road. They had gone through one after the other, with scarcely a pause.

She held out her hand for the papers, but the guard didn’t seem in any hurry to hand them back over. He was frowning at the paper on the bottom.

“There are four passports here,” he said abruptly. “But only three of you. Where is the fourth?”

“Inside.” Laura looked away. “I’m afraid he’s—well, he celebrated our departure a bit vigorously last night. If you know what I mean.”

The soldier weighed her words. “Sleeping it off, is he?”

“I could wake him if you like.” Laura cast a nervous glance back at the wagon. “If you really need me to . . .”

Gabrielle wrenched away from her. “No!”

“No?” Laura echoed weakly. “Dearest, these are officers of the state. If they want . . .”

“No!” Gabrielle repeated in a fierce whisper. She glowered at Laura. “You know what he’s like when he’s been—when he’s—”

“You know he doesn’t mean it,” Laura said pleadingly. “It’s just that his head hurts so and you do make such noise.” She turned back to the soldier. “It is, as you see, a very small wagon, Monsieur, and on rainy days, when the children are cooped inside . . .”

“Heavy with his hands, is he?” The soldier looked at Gabrielle, his expression grim. Gabrielle huddled into her seat, looking sullen. Laura couldn’t tell whether it was part of her act or just reverting to form. “I have a little girl just about your age. What’s your name?”

“Arielle,” Gabrielle lied glibly.

Given that the name on her passport was still Gabrielle, the lie might not have been the most expedient tactic, but the guard didn’t seem to take it amiss.

“Unusual name,” commented the guard, winking at Laura.

Gabrielle straightened self-importantly. “Maman took it out of a play. It’s the name of a sprite who flits from flower to flower.”

“Never heard of that one. Here.” Digging in his pocket, the soldier fished out a coin. He held it out to Gabrielle. “Buy yourself a sweet.”

Gabrielle looked to Laura, who nodded her permission for her to take it.

“You are very kind, Monsieur,” Laura said, and meant it. It was nice to remember, from time to time, that the servants of the Republic weren’t all crazed maniacs on the order of Delaroche. Most of them were ordinary people, doing their jobs, trying to stay out of the rain, going home to their families at night.

“Do you have a little boy, too?” Pierre-André asked hopefully.

“Pierre! Really.” The tone of fond exasperation came out naturally, as if they were the family they pretended to be. Laura shook her head at him. “Your sister will share, won’t you, Arielle? Now, I want you both to thank the nice man.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” said Gabrielle in a singsong. “You are very kind.”

Laura poked Pierre-André. “And what do you have to say?”

“Thank you,” he muttered, hanging his head.

Gabrielle was acting; Pierre-André wasn’t. The boy was a natural at being himself.

The guard chuckled, reaching out a hand to tousle Pierre-André’s hair. It was the cowlick, Laura thought wildly. No one could resist that cowlick.

“Sorry to have disturbed you, Madame.” He jerked a finger towards the wagon. “I hope he isn’t too . . .”

Laura made a wry face, adult to adult. “So do I.” On an impulse, she said, “Monsieur? Forgive my impertinence, but why did you stop us? We’ve never had trouble at the gates before. If it’s that matter with the Comédie-Française . . . We didn’t mean to use one of their plots. They did agree in the end that it was an accident.”

The soldier grinned at her. “Stuffy bastards, aren’t they? No, no, it’s nothing to do with the theatre. There’s a dangerous man escaped from the Temple and another man with him.”

“Dangerous?” asked Laura, gathering her children closer to her. Gabrielle gave an exaggerated shiver, her eyes wide.

“Not that kind of dangerous,” the guard said kindly. “You don’t have anything to fear. But they’re having us search every carriage until we find them.”

“Even theatre troupes?” Laura grimaced comically.

“Even theatre troupes.” The soldier laughed with her at the absurdity of it. If Laura’s laughter was a little strained, he didn’t seem to notice. “Ah, well. Can’t be too careful.”

“It must be a bit tiresome,” said Laura sympathetically.

“That’s the word for it,” the soldier agreed. “The traffic on the road isn’t what it would be in summer, but it’s still enough to keep us hopping. You’d be amazed how many carts go through this gate every day.”