Chapter Twenty-Four #2
Phoebe swallowed the lump of anxiety in her throat.
They were so near now she could hardly contain herself.
“The inquiry agent reported that she lives in the court to the side of this shop. Is this true? If it is, do you think you could take us to her? If we go and knock on her door we may frighten her. But if you come too, you can allay her fears. We know she’s likely a refugee from the Terror, so she may understandably be cautious.
” She was thinking of how this Sidonie had fled from the duchess after she’d thrust her baby into her hands.
The actions of someone who was terrified.
And probably why she’d never come back to find her child.
Madame Brunet glanced around her shop, but as it was empty of anyone but Gabriel and Phoebe, she surely had no excuse not to leave it for a while. She obviously came to the same conclusion because she nodded, took off her apron and emerged from behind the counter. “This way, milady, milord.”
*
They had to go out through the front door, back onto the street, which brought Atkins’s anxious face to the carriage window. Gabriel saw Phoebe wave a dismissive hand at her and she retreated, albeit with reluctance.
Madame Brunet, under the curious gaze of both Lovat and Atkins, locked the door behind them and led them into the alley beside her shop.
Gabriel hardly noticed its comparative cleanliness compared with the streets and alleys of the rookery.
He was almost unaware of his feet touching the cobbles or Phoebe’s hand in his.
Nothing seemed to matter but where they were going and who they were about to see.
He was here. His real mother lived in one of the houses down this alley.
He was going to come face to face with her at last.
The alley opened up into a small yard with what looked like rickety store sheds along one side, their roofs much in need of repair, and a low building at the far end with three tatty front doors indicating it was three separate houses.
Madame Brunet approached the central door, which had the same peeling green paint as the others and a number 2 painted onto it, and rapped on it with her knuckles.
In the small window beside it, the curtain twitched, and Gabriel caught a glance of a pale face peering out at them. Then the curtain was back in place.
“C’est moi, Sidonie,” called Madame Brunet in a loud voice. “Il n’y a pas lieu de t’inquiéter. Ces gens ne vous veulent aucun mal.”
“What did you say?” Phoebe asked.
“I told Sidonie there’s nothing to worry about and you mean her no harm.”
The sound of a bolt being drawn back grated.
Gabriel could hardly breathe.
Phoebe glanced at him, her hand squeezing his. “It’ll be all right. I’m here.”
The door opened just wide enough for a thin face to peer out at them.
It was lined with age and suffering, the skin stretched so tight as to make it almost cadaverous.
But the woman peering at them still possessed the remnants of her auburn hair, amongst the snowy white, and nothing could have disguised those violet eyes.
They transformed her, even though she looked so old and worn, into a beautiful woman still.
Gabriel took a tentative step forward. “Sidonie Marechal?” His voice shook.
She regarded him with suspicion. “Yes?” Her accent was stronger than Madame Brunet’s. “Who is it that wants to know?”
Gabriel swallowed. She was right in front of him and he didn’t know what to say.
“Twenty-three years ago…” His voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. “Did you leave your baby with a woman in Soho Square? A rich woman with a carriage?”
The door opened wider to reveal Sidonie’s spare body, her woolen gown hanging on her scrawny frame as though she’d recently lost a lot of weight.
She stared, a mixture of emotions flashing across her face in quick succession: suspicion, surprise, shock, wonder, realization.
But not joy. Never joy. Surely a mother should know her own son and be pleased to see him?
Very slowly, she nodded. “That is so. I did. But it is a long time ago, now. In the past. History.”
She must know who he was. She must. He was the right age, after all. He was her child, returned to her, and yet she made no move, and her face, washed clean of emotion now, was blank, as though this meant nothing to her. He wanted her to hold out her arms and welcome him back, but she didn’t.
“I am that baby,” Gabriel said, his voice shaking with emotion. The horrible thought that she’d given him away that day because she didn’t want him arose, and that even now she might be horrified that he’d returned to haunt her.
Beside Phoebe, Madame Brunet gave a gasp, her hand going to her mouth. She was no doubt delighted to be in on this revelation about her employee.
“I think you must be my mother.” The word sounded wrong on his tongue, wrong and out of place. She didn’t look like a mother, like his mother. He had a fixed idea in his head of what a mother should look like, and it was not like this. He mustn’t show his disappointment.
Sidonie licked her lips. “Your hand, monsieur,” she said. “Show me your hand. Your left hand.”
Phoebe released her hold on his hand, and he held it out to Sidonie.
She took it and turned it over to expose his wrist. Pushing back his cuff, she gave a little gasp. “Mon Dieu. C’est là. Son baiser d’un ange.”
Phoebe peered at Gabriel’s exposed wrist on which could be seen a small brown birthmark in the shape of a heart.
“It is an angel’s kiss,” Madame Brunet said, awe struck, and also leaning in close to look. “He has an angel’s kiss and Sidonie recognizes it.” She raised her eyes to Gabriel’s face. “You must indeed be her true son, milord.”
Sidonie sighed and let his hand drop, shaking her head. “No, that is not true. I am very sorry to disappoint you, jeune homme, but I am not your mother.” She paused as if to allow that bleak statement to sink in.
Was she lying? He wanted to believe she was. He wanted her to be his mother. And, at the same time, he didn’t. He wanted a mother who loved him, and this woman clearly didn’t.
She licked her thin lips. “But I am the woman who gave away the baby that day, and it seems to me that you are that baby.” Another sigh. “But you were never mine.”
Gabriel staggered back a step and reached out to the house wall for support. “You’re not my mother?” The sinking feeling in his stomach threatened to make him collapse to the ground.
Sidonie nodded, her face full of sorrow. “I am truly sorry, monsieur. You are not my child.”
“But then why did you have him that day?” Phoebe asked, jumping in while he was still digesting this information. Easier for her to keep her wits. “Where were you taking him? Were you being chased? That’s the story Gabriel was told by his adoptive mother.”
“Gabriel?”
He nodded, glad of the rough stone under his fingers. “My mother, the woman you gave me to and who brought me up, named me that for my angel’s kiss.” He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. All this searching. And now all it had come to was a dead end.
But he’d forgotten about Phoebe.
“Do you know whose child he is?” she asked, her tone incisive, almost accusing. “If you had him in your care, you must know who his parents were…are. Do they still live? Or was he an orphan when you had charge of him?”
Sidonie’s eyes became guarded. She appeared to consider this question for some time before she spoke. “I might know.”
Madame Brunet had forgotten her shop and was caught up in the story.
“Then do not leave us all guessing. Tell us immediatement, you foolish woman. The young milord and his lady need to know whose child he is. That of another French émigrée? What? Tell us now or I will find myself another seamstress and you will be thrown out of this house tout de suite.”
Sidonie bit her bottom lip. “You had better all come inside,” she said. “For it is a long story.”