“Indeed,” I reminded him, “you could not. You are branded now as a traitor to the Queen. You would not be allowed to remain.”
“You are right,” he said. “Every time I go … as you see, it is as a conspirator who becomes a fugitive.”
“It is a pity,” I said. “Why must you be involved in such matters? Life is good under Anne.”
“Feminine logic,” he mocked. “Never mind the righteous cause if we’re comfortable. No. That won’t do for me, Carlotta. And don’t forget you are one of us.”
“Only because you have forced me to it.”
“Spoken like a good Jacobite,” he mocked. But I could see clearly that he was right. Whether I liked it or not I should be considered one of them.
I told him I did not care a pennyworth of candy for his Jacobite cause.
“No, but you care for me,” he said. “And I shall have to trust you with many a secret which I shall do without fear because I know that your love for me is as strong as any belief in a cause. We belong together, Carlotta. And so shall it be until death divides us.”
In those rare moments when he was serious—and he was then—he could move me deeply. I loved him. Yes, I did. His daring, his strength, his essential male qualities struck a chord within me. He was a leader; I could see now that in comparison Beau would have failed to hold me. I had been dazzled by Beau; but I was caught and held firmly by Hessenfield.
If only we had met differently … if only I could have gone to him as his wife in very truth … if only I could wipe out the past … not Beau, that did not matter. It was Benjie who haunted me and threw the shadow of deep remorse over my happiness, and it was only in rare moments that I could forget him.
Paris excited me. As soon as we arrived in that fascinating city we went at once to the hôtel in the quarter of the Marais which I learned later was one of the most fashionable areas of the city. The King of France had been hospitable to the English nobility who were the enemies of England’s reigning sovereign; and with good reason, for he was at this time at war with that country.
At Eversleigh we had always been brought up to regard loyalty to the crown as one of our chief duties but I reminded myself that my grandfather Carleton had been involved in the Monmouth Rebellion. James would have called him disloyal just as Anne would Hessenfield. It was not as much a matter of lack of loyalty as it was adherence to a principle. I was becoming more and more of a Jacobite every day.
It was a fine house and there were several servants. Hessenfield introduced me formally as Lady Hessenfield and I held a wide-eyed Clarissa by the hand and he added: “This is our daughter.”
There was no question from anyone in France. Hessenfield had returned to England on a Jacobite mission and had brought his wife and child back with him. It was reasonable enough. I slipped easily into the new role. So did Clarissa.
I felt like a young bride in those early days. Hessenfield delighted in showing us a little of Paris. And how excited we were—Clarissa and I—to walk through those streets with him beside us. For, he said, that was the best way to see it.
We strolled through the discreet streets of the Marais—that part of the city which had once been the home of the Valois kings. Hessenfield explained to Clarissa that the rue Beautreillis was where the vineyards once were, the rue de la Cerisaie where the orchards were and the rue des Lions was the site of the royal menagerie.
We were excited by the quaint houses which overhung the river; the water lapped at their walls, and Clarissa wanted to know whether it ever came in through the windows. She kept shrieking with excitement and sometimes was so overawed that she forgot to ask why.
Hessenfield was anxious to show us the centre of the city. We crossed the Pont Marie and reached the He de la Cité, where we looked up at the great towers of Notre Dame and he bought magnificent blooms for us on the Quai des Fleurs. Clarissa wanted to go down among the little streets near the cloisters of Notre Dame but Hessenfield would not allow us more than a peep. These were the homes of the poor and the streets were narrow lanes with houses built close together and almost meeting over the narrow streets so that they completely shut out the sunlight. I saw a gutter running down the middle of the street. It was full of slimy rubbish.
“Come away,” said Hessenfield. “You must never venture down streets like that. They abound in Paris and you can come across them quite suddenly. You must never wander out alone.”
I said: “It is the same in any big city. There are always slums.”
“What are slums?” asked Clarissa.
“These are,” said Hessenfield.
She was overcome with curiosity and tried to wriggle free but I held her hand firmly and Hessenfield picked her up and said: “You are tired, little one. Shall I be your carriage for a while?”
I was moved to see the way she smiled and put her arms about his neck. She had not forgotten Benjie and Gregory but she did mention them less than she had at first.
Not far from the hôtel in the rue Saint Antoine we passed an apothecary’s shop. Sweet scents emerged from it and I was reminded briefly of Beau, who had dabbled in the making of perfumes and was himself always redolent of that strange musklike scent. It was what had attracted me to Matt. He had used a similar scent.
Hessenfield saw my glance and said: “Ah, there are not so many apothecaries in Paris as there once were. Years ago they abounded and there were quacks selling medicines and elixirs, potions and draughts in every carrefour in the city. Then it changed. That must have been some forty years ago but they still talk of it. There was a notorious poisoner called La Voison and another, Madame de Brinvilliers. They suffered hideous deaths but their names will never be forgotten and all apothecaries have had to tread very warily ever since. They are still suspect.”
“You mean people buy poisons from the apothecaries?”
“They did. It is more difficult now, but I reckon it is done for a price. They were mostly Italians. The Italians have the reputation for being adept at poisoning. They can produce poisons which are tasteless, colourless, and without smell, and even work through the clothing—they can kill gradually or instantly. This Brinvilliers woman wanted to poison her husband and used to try out her poisons on people in hospitals, where she became known as a very pious lady who cared deeply about the sick.”
“She sounds like a fiend.”
“She was. Imagine her taking some delicacy impregnated with a new experiment and going along to visit the victim later to see how it had worked.”
“I am glad Clarissa is asleep. We should be plagued by whys, whens and hows if she were not. What an exciting city this is! I never saw so much mud nor heard so much noise.”
“Be careful not to get splashed. It’s pernicious mud and would burn a hole in your clothes if it touches them. The Romans called it La Lutetia when they came here, which means the City of Mud. It’s improved since then of course, but still take care. As for the noise—this is a vociferous nation. We are quiet in comparison.”
How I enjoyed those days—discovering Paris, discovering Hessenfield and loving both of them more each day.
Before I had been a week in Paris, Hessenfield said that I must go to the Court of King James to be presented.
St. Germain-en-Laye was some thirteen miles from Paris, and we rode there in a carriage for I must be suitably dressed for the presentation. Hessenfield had sent for one of the Paris dressmakers the day after we arrived, for I was without any garments other than those I had been wearing when I had been, as I put it, “snatched from the shrubbery,” but as Hessenfield said, “So willingly left England to follow my own true love.”