‘My name, sir, is Marguerite Grolier, and I am a weaver from Lyons. Which is where this coach is now going.’ She twinkled. ‘If you and your companion are bound for Paris, you will have no objection to our route, I take it?’
Chapter Three
The injured German was still lying unconscious on the bales of silk. From time to time, he moaned, but he had not yet opened his eyes. It was probably a mercy, for his pain must be intense.
‘I think we should stop soon, Mr Jacques,’ Marguerite said, breaking the silence that had held for nearly an hour. After those first few exchanges, when her companion’s rich voice had filled her senses, her attempts to converse with him had been politely but firmly rebuffed. He had been unwilling to talk about himself or his companion. It seemed that Mr Jacques’s attention was all still on escaping from the danger behind them, even though they had covered quite a distance. However, they had more pressing matters to deal with. The injured man needed a surgeon. ‘Marseilles is well behind us, sir, and you are both out of danger now. Those men cannot follow us.’ She was trying to sound reassuring.
Mr Jacques frowned in response. But after several moments, he shrugged his shoulders and relaxed just a little. ‘No, you are probably right.’
Thank goodness he was seeing reason, and talking to her at last, though his voice was somehow harsher than before. ‘Forgive me, but why were they chasing you in the first place? I am sure they were not what they said. Not constable’s men.’
He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Of course, you did not see them all on the quayside. I am pretty sure that they were accomplices of the two men who attacked you last night. I am afraid that you and I were more than gullible, ma’am, in taking the landlord’s word that your two attackers would be handed over to the authorities. I saw them both standing, free as air, outside the inn. No doubt they were in league with that scurvy landlord. And the other five were their accomplices, waiting for their share of the spoils.’
Marguerite exclaimed in disgust.
‘Quite so, ma’am. They all came out of the inn just in time to spot Benn and me, making our way to the diligence. Your assailants were too weak to pursue us themselves—I must say you did a good job there, for both their heads were still bandaged—but they pointed me out to their accomplices and set them on to attack us. And then one of them shot Benn.’
‘Oh, heavens! So it was all because of me that poor Herr Benn was shot? How dreadful.’ She clasped her hands together in an attempt to control her racing pulse. Suddenly, another thought struck her. ‘I suppose I should be grateful that the two injured men remained behind, for if they had recognised me, they would surely have suspected that I was hiding you.’
‘Aye. And they might have assaulted you again. You and I had the luck of it, this morning. Unfortunately, poor Benn—’ he glanced across at the motionless body on the floor ‘—has suffered grievously, even though he was snoring innocently throughout last night’s attack.’
‘He has paid for that now, poor man.’ Marguerite dropped quickly to her knees and put a gentle hand to Herr Benn’s brow. It was damp and hot. She looked back at Mr Jacques. ‘We must get a surgeon to him. He has the beginnings of a fever. If the ball is not removed…’ Her voice tailed off. They both knew that such a fever could be fatal.
‘You are right, ma’am. If it will not inconvenience you too much,’ he continued politely, as if he were conversing in some lady’s salon, ‘we could stop a moment when you change horses so that Benn and I could get down. The post-house landlord might be able to direct me to a surgeon.’
‘Let us hope so. It is a blessing that he remains insensible.’
‘Aye.’ He nodded.
‘I…I would be able to keep him so, if you think it wise. I have…I always carry some laudanum in my bag.’
‘Do you indeed, ma’am?You astonish me. First a candlestick, then a pistol, and now a phial of laudanum.You are full of surprises.’
Marguerite felt herself blushing. ‘I…I have an invalid mother. I know the value of laudanum. And also its dangers. But sometimes…well, sometimes, it is the only solution.’
‘Forgive me, ma’am, I did not mean to suggest—I am sure your phial may well be very useful if we have a need to keep him insensible. I certainly would not wish him to wake while the surgeon is ministering to him.’
‘No, of course not. Ah, look.’ She pointed out of the window to a bend in the road ahead of them. ‘There is Rognac. We should arrive in less than another quarter of an hour. I recall the posting house there was more than adequate when we were travelling south to Marseilles. Let us hope the landlord can direct you to a surgeon.’
‘Hmm. The place does look a mite small. But I trust you are right.’ He reached down to help her back on to the seat. ‘I am sure it would be best if you were not kneeling on the floor when we arrive at Rognac, ma’am, though I do thank you for your care of my companion. And I hope we have not delayed your journey too much. You have been a true Samaritan to us.’ He smiled at her then, with real generosity of spirit. It wiped the lines of care from his face and made him look years younger.
His voice might still be hard, but Marguerite felt her heart lift. And without his hand under her arm, she would have staggered as she resumed her seat, for she had suddenly begun to feel strangely dizzy.
Marguerite had refused to leave Rognac. How could she possibly travel on to Lyons before poor Herr Benn had seen a surgeon? He had groaned horribly as he was carried from the coach and into the posting house. Even now, when he was lying on clean sheets in the best bedchamber of the inn, he was still moaning.
Oh, when would Mr Jacques return with the surgeon? Herr Benn’s need was becoming ever more desperate. Marguerite soaked her cloth in the bowl of cool water once more. She was just about to lay it across the injured man’s forehead when he stirred and half-opened his eyes.
He said something incomprehensible. Not French. German, perhaps? She leant across him and bathed his brow again. His gaze was fixed on a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. She knew he was not seeing her.
He spoke again. ‘Mission.’ It was very low , but audible enough. Mission? Then, ‘ Wellington. Mission.’
Marguerite stopped dead, the cloth hanging limply from her fingers. Dear God, he was an Englishman and, by the sound of it, a spy! What. was she to do?
She forced herself to think. Mr Jacques was a Frenchman, and quite possibly a Bonapartist, as so many were. He had said he was conducting Herr Benn, a German, to Paris. But Herr Benn spoke English, and must surely be a spy. Did Mr Jacques know of it? It was impossible to say. They might be accomplices, of course, but equally, Herr Benn might be acting alone. If so, there was a real risk that Mr Jacques might betray this poor man. And there were certainly Bonapartists a-plenty who would take pleasure in executing an English spy, especially now that there were so many rumours, and so many hopes, for the promised return of their so-called emperor.
She could not take the chance. Mr Jacques’s voice and his touch might have made her senses reel, but her practical self knew better than to yield to such missish fancies. She might be wrong—she fervently hoped she was—but she had to work on the assumption that Mr Jacques and the pretend German were not fellow-conspirators. She must protect the wounded man.
She looked round wildly. Yes, her valise was here. Guillaume had deposited it in the bedchamber, all the while muttering about the dangers of taking strangers into their carriage. And he would still have been here, berating her, if he had not had to return to the yard to see to the safe disposal of the silk.
Marguerite grabbed her valise and scrabbled around in it until she lighted on the little bottle, wrapped in raw silk to keep it safe. She mixed a dose of laudanum in the glass from the night stand. Then she slid an arm under Herr Benn’s shoulders and lifted his head. ‘Forgive me, sir,’ she said softly, ‘but I must do this, for your own safety.’
She