Chapter 3 #2
It was more of a breath than a word, and Helena started to hear such softness from the hulk of a man lying on her sofa. She leaned forward, but said nothing.
Pierre’s eyes were closed, but he was frowning as though slightly displeased with what he saw. “Mama, where are you going?”
His voice was not pleading, or whining, but concerned. The frown deepened.
“No, Mama, I told you not to go there, ‘tis dangereux,” he whispered, the frown tugging at his eyebrows and a crease appearing on his forehead.
“What do you mean, Papa is dead?”
Helena’s jaw dropped open, and she stared in horror at the man who seemed to be reliving some of the most desperate moments of his life. His jaw was tight, as though refusing to believe what the apparition before him was saying.
“Non, I do not believe it,” he whispered. “Papa escaped, did not we receive his letter? Why are you saying such things – c'est des mensonges, all lies!”
His hand was moving frantically in her direction, and she grasped at it, holding it tightly.
The frown disappeared, and a sad smile instead covered his cheeks. “Ah, Giselle. We are the only ones left. We must run, hide – there is nowhere in France they will not find it, tu comprends?”
Understanding was now beginning to dawn in Helena’s mind, but it was not happy knowledge.
She, like all others in Europe, had heard about the terrible events in France over the last few years, but they had always been something far off: something that was happening to other people, nothing for her to be concerned with.
And yet now, here before her lay a very real victim of la révolution. A man who apparently lost his parents; lost them to madame guillotine.
And what of this Giselle? Was she a sister, a friend, a lover? Clearly she was someone that Pierre cared about, someone he wanted to be safe.
Where was she now?
“Ah, Giselle, I do not know,” Pierre replied fretfully to an unasked question. “I cannot find their bodies, and so the burial must wait. Ah, I am so alone!”
Helena’s heart, perhaps icy due to the lack of food, thawed instantly to hear some bereaved tones. The horror of that time could not be taken in, but she had to know more.
“Pierre,” she whispered in a low voice. “Who is Giselle? Where is she?”
At the name, his eyes moved towards her, though still closed. “Giselle?”
Helena nodded, and then realising the stupidity of that action, whispered, “Yes.”
For a moment, he made no sound or movement. Then, “Giselle, we must run – we must flee France! But where to go; Italy is too far, and Spain its own disaster. Perhaps to England? Oui? Non?”
“Was she,” and here Helena had to swallow down the horror of the question, but she had to know. “Was she in the boat with you, Pierre?”
“A boat, a boat, mais oui, we shall require a boat,” muttered Pierre under his breath, and he turned in whatever kind of sleep he was in to face the back of the sofa. “And how much will you sell yours for, gentils messieurs?”
“Where are you from?” Helena asked urgently. “Where were you trying to get to – do you have friends in England?”
“No friends, just subjects,” Pierre replied with a little giggle. “I am from nowhere, and yet everywhere. No cage can hold me, c’est vrai, but I am a little tied up right now…”
His giggles dissolved into snores, and he fell into what sounded like a genuine restful sleep.
Helena leaned back in her chair, and shook her head. There was no use trying to get any sense out of him at this moment. She would have to be patient, and hope that the delirium would dissipate soon.
But then, she thought as she leaned back into the comforting embrace of the armchair, what if the fever had caught hold of him before he entered this house?
What if Giselle does not even exist? What if his mention of being a criminal – so shocking to hear late last night – were also a part of that delirium?
Helena rubbed her eyes, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in her stomach. As she crossed her legs under her nightgown, her feet touched something strange. Peering down, she saw Pierre’s brocade embroidered jacket that had been unceremoniously thrown down earlier.
She bit her lip. It was not wrong to look, after all. She was his guardian, and the more that she knew about him, surely, the better.
It took less than three seconds to lift the jacket up and start to rifle through the pockets. She did so silently, glancing at the unmoving figure on the sofa to check that he was still asleep. Her fingers brushed against something cold, and she drew it out.
Not for the first time that day, her jaw fell open. A long chain of pearls had dribbled out of the pocket, and tangled into one end, a diamond brooch.
She checked more carefully now, and found sovereigns, francs, another necklace, this time made of gold with a ruby pendant, and a good number of cravats made of the softest silk she had ever touched.
Helena pooled the treasure in her lap and stared at it. Well. No hint at an identity, but he was certainly rich.
The temptation to awaken him and ask more serious questions threatened to overwhelm her, but she pushed it away. Peering over him, Helena could clearly see that Pierre was, at last, relaxed and peaceful.
It would be wrong to satisfy her own curiosity in that way. She would have to be patient, and wait for the fever to break.
She sighed, and reached over to the little table where a letter she had received the day before was still resting. She had not time to read it yesterday, what with one thing and another, and now was the perfect opportunity to indulge in a little news from her sister.
Dearest Helena,
My pen has hardly known where to start, my dearest one, and yet I shall put it down to parchment at last to tell you the most incredible news – news that I have longed, one day, to write you with, but had never expected such an early occasion to be so merry.
My sister: I am to be married.
I know it will shock you, as you are unaware of my acquaintance in general here in London, and I have given you no cause for suspicion as no name has dropped into my letters frequently enough for you to suspect.
All has changed. My life is not what it is was, and I am now engaged to Alexander, the Duke of Caershire.
Helena could not help but gasp at this point, and drop the letter down into her lap as she gazed through the window.
Alexander, the Duke of Caershire. The Duke of Caershire! But that would mean – surely, there could be no other consequence than…
Yes. I am to be the Duchess of Caershire. It hardly seems real, I will admit, but Caershire informs me that I must better get accustomed to answering to such a ridiculous title, and of course, I am sure that I will.
It is difficult to remember, Helena, that but one week ago, I did not know him. Those who say that love only comes on in stages are liars, for I cannot tell you how rapidly he gained my affections.
He makes me so happy, Lenny. If he were but a pauper, I think we could be happy, but I write in haste – and will tell the complete story in a thicker and less frantic letter, near drowning in the Thames and all – in tell you that we will be doing absolutely anything in our power to help you.
Caershire is not currently aware of any vacant properties on the Loxwich estate, but as soon as one is found, you and Father will come and live in it.
You shall want for nothing, and Father will no longer have to sink his sore and aging hands into the ocean to feed you.
I must go – the wedding preparations are in earnest! I will write again soon with dates, and a carriage will be sent.
For I am, until then, your dearest sister,
Teresa
Helena read the letter twice more through, once in haste, and the third time with careful study.
So. She was to be the sister-in-law of a Duke! The weight that had forced her down was suddenly lifted, and it felt almost possible that she would rise off the chair and start to float to the ceiling!
Could anyone have predicted such a turn of events? That Teresa Metcalfe, poor middle child of a ruined gentleman, forced to go to London and act as the courtesan to the nobility, will now become one herself?
Helena’s smile faltered slightly. It was unseemly of her to admit, of course, the small yet sharp pang of jealousy that wrenched through her heart.
Teresa had borne much, to be sure, to keep their family afloat in different times, but had not she, Helena, also suffered?
Had she not been left alone with their father, forced to mend and cook and clean like a scullery maid, with little thanks and no praise?
She shook her head. This was nonsense talk: the success of one sister would bring prosperity to both, she had no fear of anything but that.
Placing the letter, jewels and jewellery into the small box underneath the sofa that she kept for her own personal treasures, it was only when Helena leaned back into the chair again that she saw Pierre d'épilucon’s eye staring at her.