Chapter 29 #2
Moreau had pulled Madame Jourdain higher onto the bank, where she lay prone, hands outstretched in fists. Whether she still lived or not I’d have to worry about later.
No one rushed from above to help us. The storm had finally driven residents indoors, and the sheets of rain, steaming when they hit the cold river, would hide us from any still on the street.
Moreau left Madame Jourdain and splashed out toward the boat, whatever cuts he’d sustained not slowing him. He grabbed at the boat just as the gunwale jerked itself from my hands. Moreau caught the prow and hung on, and I was finally able to claw my way up onto the boat’s side.
I’d hoped for a coil of rope with which we could tow the craft to shore, but only a shred of whatever had tied it up in the first place remained. Madame Jourdain must have cut the rope and left it at the pier, in too much of a hurry to haul it in and stow it.
There was one oar and a small tiller. This boat was meant to take a person from one side of the river to the other on a calm day, not fight the overwrought current on a stormy one.
“Hold that,” I bellowed at Signora Ruggeri, pointing at the tiller.
She obeyed, climbing the short distance to the stern, her cheeks streaked with rain and tears.
I heaved myself the rest of the way into the craft and took up the oar. With that and Moreau pulling the prow, we managed to take ourselves a bit closer to shore.
Streaks of lightning threaded the sky, bathing us in bright white light. The crack of thunder that followed immediately was deafening.
Signora Ruggeri wailed in fear, but she never let go of the tiller. Inch by inch, we moved toward the bank. I prayed that we could get ourselves out and under shelter before we were all struck by lightning.
A sharp gust lifted the boat, nearly tearing the oar from my hands. At the same time Moreau slipped, and the prow struck him squarely in the face.
His arms when up, and he went down.
“Moreau!” I yelled.
The river swirled where he had been, white foam bubbling in the rain.
“Where is he?” Signora Ruggeri shrieked.
She tried to lean to find him, but I pushed her back down. “Steady it,” I commanded.
She wept, but obeyed. She gazed fearfully into the water, hands locked on the rocking tiller.
I reached over the gunwale as far as I dared, breaking the waves with my hands. I shouted, not for Moreau, but for anyone on the bank to help us.
My heart banged in relief when Moreau surfaced about ten feet from me. He tried to gain his footing but was losing the fight with the current.
I desperately rowed toward him. The river pushed us sideways. Signora Ruggeri resolutely held on to the tiller, gaining my respect for her resilience.
Moreau started to go down again. I thrust the oar at him, and he lunged for it, but his hands slid away.
I dropped the oar behind me, braced my feet on the bottom of the boat, and thrust my arms deep into the water. Rain pelted me, soaking my hair and running inside my coat.
I found the thick material of Moreau’s jacket, with a warm, living body inside it. I hoisted him upward with all my strength. Signora Ruggeri counterbalanced with her weight and the tiller, keeping us from going over.
Moreau broke the surface, water pouring from his mouth.
The face he turned up to me held not fear, but shock. He’d expected me to let him drown, perhaps assisting the river in taking him.
I hauled Moreau into the boat, he landing in a wet heap on top of me. He coughed and gasped, while I struggled out from under him and took up the oar.
“Don’t you die on me,” I snarled at him. “I will not live with the guilt of killing the man who once left me for dead. And I truly do not want to face Madame Paillard with the news.”
Moreau grunted a laugh, then coughed again, spilling foul river water onto the boards.
With our combined weight, the boat sagged lower in the water but was steadier. I rowed as hard as I could, nearly weeping in relief when the boat finally wedged in the shallows of the bank.
I reached for Signora Ruggeri and half lifted, half tossed her over the side, where she landed knee-deep in the river. She wasted no time struggling up onto the muddy shore, then waited as I got Moreau out of the boat.
I wrapped his arm around my shoulders, taking his weight as we climbed to safety. Moreau lost his footing more than once, but we managed to stumble up the bank.
Another bolt of lightning struck, dancing on the top of the bridge.
Signora Ruggeri scurried to us, looped her arm around Moreau’s other side, and helped us escape the pull of the river. At the top of the bank, she sagged, but I shouted at her not to stop.
“We need to get under something.”
Signora Ruggeri nodded, her eyes fixed in panic.
Above us, Madame Jourdain had managed to gain her feet. She staggered toward the road above, but I let her go. I’d save ourselves first, worry about Madame Jourdain later.
The three of us half hobbled, half ran toward the bridge, ducking into its shadow just as another bolt struck not far from where we’d come ashore. Signora Ruggeri yelped and flung herself to the damp earth.
“I want to go home,” she screeched, no longer bothering with French. “I never want to see this bloody country again!”
I barked a laugh as Moreau and I fell beside her, Moreau still coughing.
“I do not disagree,” I told her over the rampaging storm. “Where did you learn to handle a boat so well?”
Madame Ruggeri, who at the moment resembled nothing of the Paduan siren she pretended to be, gave me a shrug.
“Me dad ran boats from Manchester to Liverpool. I was on the tiller since I were a wee lass, weren’t I?”
“Thank God for that,” I said fervently.
Moreau coughed. “I owe you a debt, Madame.”
Signora Ruggeri—now plain Imogen Cooke—shrugged again, hugged her knees to her chest, and buried her face in her sodden skirts. She heaved with sobs, but I was too exhausted to comfort her, Moreau, or myself.
Another scream startled us. I crawled to the north edge of our hiding place and scanned the road above the bridge.
I saw Madame Jourdain, moving at a limping run. The coach Denis had hired closed in on her, and from it stepped Captain Vernet. His men came behind on foot, surrounding the woman, who began to fight.
Another coach halted near the first, Signora Ruggeri’s ruffian coachman leaping from its box. He caught Madame Jourdain and shook her until the woman ceased her failing.
I dropped back to the stones of the bridge’s base. “They’ve snared our bird. Did she murder Gallo? Or was it Madame Martin?”
Signora Ruggeri regarded me limply. “It was Jourdain, the old besom. She boasted that to me, today, when Madame Martin dragged me to her. Madame Jourdain turned on her own sister, can you credit it? And then she tried to do me over when I wouldn’t tell her where I’d hidden Vincenzo’s papers.”
“Where are they?” I asked her tiredly. “You won’t be able to use them now.”
“Safe.” Her lips tightened. “I’ll give them to you, don’t worry, if you promise to burn the lot of them.”
I exchanged a glance with Moreau. “We will,” I said.
Thunder rumbled once more, but more distantly, no longer over our heads. I climbed wearily to my feet.
“Well, mes amis,” I said. “Shall we retreat somewhere drier before we catch our deaths?”
I held out my hand to Signora Ruggeri, who let me lift and steady her. I extended the other to Moreau, who grasped it firmly as he rose.
He gave me a nod, and we limped back into the open. The rain slackened as abruptly as it had started as we emerged from under the bridge.
I saw, standing upright in the riverbed, its goose-head handle breaking the river’s waves, my walking stick, the one Donata had given me several years ago. I’d realized, shortly before then, that I loved her.
I burst into laughter and caught it up.
I leaned heavily on the walking stick—the old friend that had been my prop for years—and hobbled with my new friends up the remainder of the bank.
We reached the top and surrendered to the ministrations of the gendarmes who’d run to meet us.
The coachman dropped Madame Jourdain unceremoniously and turned to Signora Ruggeri, his craggy face softening in relief.
He had his own coat off and wrapped around Signora Ruggeri before Moreau and I reached the street.
Around them all came the unmistakable form of Brewster, who began cursing at me the moment he was in earshot.