France, 5th February, 1793
“We will stop here,” the Comtesse de Calvac declared. She sat back against the velvet squabs, straightening her redingote and tucking her hands into her fur muff as the coach jolted round a corner.
Phoebe, sitting across from her aunt, twisted round to look out of the window. A fine drizzle misted the flat landscape and the bare trees. She could just make out an inn ahead, with houses lining the road either side of it.
Phoebe curled her fingers, nails digging into her palms. “It’s still daylight, Aunt,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “We could get beyond the next town before we need to stop. We only travelled thirty miles yesterday.” Now France had declared war on Britain, they needed to reach the coast as quickly as they could and find a boat to take them to England.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Phoebe,” Cousin Hélène said. “I’m hungry, and I’m tired of being bumped and jolted.”
“We are stopping,” the comtesse repeated. “See to it, Anson.”
The steward lolled at the other end of the rearward facing seat, his eyes closed, lines of strain on his face even in sleep. Phoebe leaned over and shook his shoulder.
“Anson!” The comtesse’s voice was shrill. The steward awoke with a start.
“I want a rest from this infernal jolting,” the comtesse said. “See to it.”
“But Aunt,” Phoebe tried again, “if we stop now, the journey to the coast will take even longer. It isn’t safe.” The innkeeper last night had taken too close an interest in their papers for her peace of mind. Only the sight of extra coins had distracted him from scrutinising their travel documents.
“Don’t argue with me, Phoebe. I’ve had enough of you and your opinions these last few days. Remember your place.”
“But Madame—” Anson began.
“We are stopping!”
The steward’s shoulders sagged. He took up the stick from the seat next to him and banged it on the roof of the coach. As he pulled the glass down to call to the driver, an icy blast of air made Phoebe shiver. By the time he had refastened the window, the vehicle was pulling into the inn yard.
Anson picked up the small strong-box resting near his feet and climbed out of the coach. Phoebe clutched her cloak around her and followed him into the building. As they entered the taproom, the innkeeper came out from behind the bar and Anson asked for rooms in his halting French.
“Combien de chambres?” the innkeeper asked impatiently.
Anson glanced at Phoebe and shrugged.
“A room for three,” Phoebe said in French. She didn’t want to share a room with her aunt and cousin, but it was the safest option. She asked for a separate room for Anson and a bed somewhere for her aunt’s maid. Masson and Dubois, the driver and guard, would sleep over the stables.
The innkeeper sniffed at Phoebe’s shabby gown and cloak before leading the way upstairs. The large double bed took up over half the floor in the room he showed them, leaving little space for the truckle bed that Phoebe would be forced to use.
“Is this the best room you have?” she asked.
The man shrugged. “Take it or leave it. The servants can sleep in the attic rooms.”
“We’ll take it,” she said, her heart sinking. Her aunt would not like it. It would be Phoebe’s fault, or Anson’s. It usually was.
They went back downstairs to find the comtesse inspecting the dingy hallway with downturned mouth. The maid, Jeanne, trailed in, her face pinched with cold from travelling outside. She carried the comtesse’s jewel box and Hélène’s book.
“Jeanne, see that those men take the trunks to the correct room,” the comtesse said, “and make sure there’s a fire.” She had, at least, remembered to speak French. The maid bobbed a curtsey and followed Anson up the stairs.
“Send chocolate to the parlour,” the comtesse ordered. The innkeeper nodded and retreated.
“Oh, yes, Mama, that will be lovely,” Hélène said. “I’m glad we stopped. The jolting in the coach was horrid.”
Despite the fire, the air in the parlour was chilly. The comtesse crossed the room, deposited her muff on a table, and held her hands out to the flames, shielding what warmth there was from everyone else. Phoebe frowned as she took in the four oak tables with chairs, and two benches by the fire. She had assumed this was a private room, but it looked as though it might be the main dining room. Her aunt would not be happy if the inn was too small to have another room downstairs.
“If we had outriders, they could have made sure everything was ready for us,” the comtesse complained. “It was much more comfortable when we came over from England last month. I am not used to travelling like this. Monsieur de Calvac will have something to say to Anson about this when we get to London.”
“Tante, it is not wise to draw attention to ourselves,” Phoebe said, as she had many times before. And with as little expectation of being heeded.
“Nonsense! Why do you always think you know best, Phoebe? It is not a pleasant characteristic. No wonder you are still unwed at twenty.”
Phoebe kept her expression blank. After four years of living with her aunt, it was getting a little easier to ignore the constant disparaging remarks. She took the comtesse’s cloak when it was held out to her, draping it over the back of a nearby chair.
Her aunt sat down at a table close to the fire, smoothing her skirts. “Sit here, Hélène. Make sure you are not sitting in a draught—you do not want to catch cold. A red nose is not attractive, and we don’t want anything to impede you making a splendid match this year.”
“Yes, Mama.” Hélène draped her cloak over the back of another chair. “I hope the dinner will be better tonight.” She wrinkled her nose. “It was not very nice yesterday.”
Phoebe had enjoyed the roasted capon the previous evening, but perhaps Hélène was bemoaning the lack of pastries and fruit. No doubt the absent outriders would have chosen a larger inn.
Half an hour later the room was pleasantly warm, the hot chocolate had arrived and been drunk, and the other two had gone upstairs to change. Phoebe moved closer to the fire, although the chill within her was due to apprehension.
Travelling alone, as her uncle had instructed, Anson would have retrieved the estate papers he’d been sent for and been safely back in England by now. Instead, while the comte was away from London on business, her aunt had insisted on accompanying the steward. Hélène had wanted to see her old home at Calvac again, and Phoebe had been brought along too—to help Anson translate, she suspected. Her aunt had said she wanted to retrieve some jewellery that had been left at Calvac when they all moved to England over a year ago, but Phoebe wasn’t sure she believed her. Her uncle would not be pleased to find all three of them absent when he returned to London.
Tension behind her eyes signalled an impending headache, and she massaged her temples. If she was lucky, it would take Jeanne at least an hour to help the comtesse change and re-powder her hair, and then assist Hélène. Phoebe couldn’t understand why her aunt thought it so important to put on an evening gown to dine in a roadside inn with no-one to see except her steward. Besides, it seemed particularly ill-advised to flaunt wealth in these revolutionary times.
Phoebe leaned her head against the rear of the chair and closed her eyes, but she could not relax. The knot of tension in her middle was still there, as it had been for the last fortnight.
The news of the king’s execution had reached them shortly after they’d crossed the Channel, when they were only two days into their journey to Calvac. Protests from both Phoebe and Anson against continuing the journey had fallen on deaf ears. The comtesse had insisted she was an English aristocrat by birth, and their travel papers were in order, so they would continue. Only when word reached Calvac that Britain and France were at war were they able to persuade the comtesse that they should return to England as soon as possible.
The coach was a worry, too, emphasising the wealth within. Her aunt had decided to use the coach kept at the château rather than hiring one. Phoebe had persuaded Anson to get the crest on the doors painted out, to much complaint from her aunt, but Anson’s apology and explanation that the paint could not be removed had finally silenced her.
The gentle crackling from the fire soothed Phoebe’s aching head, almost drowning out the muffled noise from the taproom beyond the closed door. Dozing, she started as something touched her ankle, then smiled at the sight of a black cat curling up by the fire.
Phoebe pulled her sketchbook out of the pockets she wore beneath her gown and made a quick drawing, using short strokes of her pencil to give it texture. Then, longing for the happiness and security of the home she’d had to leave four years ago, she tried to draw what she could remember of Beech House. She added her father setting off in his gig to see a patient, and her mother cutting flowers in the garden.
Her uncle had shown no sign of resenting the need to support his wife’s sixteen-year-old niece after Phoebe’s parents died, but he left her to her aunt’s supervision. The comtesse thought that her niece should be grateful to be living in luxury with her titled relatives. Phoebe would have traded it all for the chance to turn the clock back, to have her parents still alive.
Turning the pages, she paused at the watercolours of Caribbean islands she’d painted based on the descriptions in Joe’s letters, wondering if her images looked anything like the real places her brother mentioned. She wasn’t likely to get the chance to see for herself.
The next drawings were of Georges, Hélène’s young brother, gawping at spears and shrunken heads in the museum on a trip with his governess. Miss Bryant was a friend, and Phoebe enjoyed accompanying the two of them to see the sights in London.
She smiled at the caricature of her aunt on the packet boat crossing the Channel, her face tinted a pale green. The remaining sketches were scenes of the countryside near Calvac, done to distract herself from worries about their safety.
Putting the sketchbook away, she closed her eyes until she heard her aunt’s voice in the hallway—finding fault as usual. If she went upstairs to freshen up now, she might get another half hour of peace before dinner.
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