Chapter 19 Captive
CAPTIVE
EMMA
The French soldier herding us said, “Attendez ici,” and tapped his bayonet on a polished corner of Hartfield’s front parlor floor.
I moved there, tugging Mr. Knightley when he stopped stubbornly short.
He had been deadly quiet since John’s betrayal, his gaze flickering aggressively among the soldiers.
I did not want him to try something foolish, so I stood close, ready to take his arm at the first hint of bravado.
This was one of Hartfield’s larger rooms. There were two fireplaces, each with chairs and a comfortable sofa. Tea tables and decorative screens partitioned the rest. When we still had parties, our cleverer guests had used those to chart paths around the more tedious conversationalists.
Mr. Knightley jerked his jaw to indicate one of the Southern Confederate soldiers. “That is an Overseer, an officer in their army. His title is copied from the men who drive and punish slaves on plantations. In Brighton, the army Overseers are forcing slaves to build fortifications.”
“Where did they get slaves?” I whispered back. Slavery was illegal in England.
“They purchase kidnapped Africans from slave traders. And they have captured Black Englishmen—free Englishmen.”
Fear chilled me, but I tried to reason it away. They would not have sent soldiers to Highbury hunting for Black gentlemen.
The Confederate uniforms were familiar from the newspapers: gray coats with two rows of buttons and upturned collars, butternut trousers, and peculiar small caps with a front brim.
The Overseer’s coat was longer, stopping just above the knee and made of expensive charcoal-gray wool.
His lower sleeves had elaborately knotted patterns of gold braid, an insignia of rank.
He was solidly built with a bushy black beard and mustache, and when he left the parlor, his eyes studied me and Mr. Knightley.
Mr. and Mrs. Otway, a gentry couple in their mid-forties from east Highbury, were escorted in by a French soldier and positioned in the adjacent corner.
That was too far to speak with, but they watched us with terrified, questioning expressions.
I wondered where their daughter was. Then Mr. and Mrs. Weston were marched in, and my heart fell further.
They were very dear friends; I had rather cleverly encouraged their marriage.
Mr. Weston was an older husband who had been widowed, and he glowered at the soldiers through his graying whiskers.
Anne Weston was red-eyed and teary. She clutched their two-year-old daughter who, thankfully, seemed to be asleep.
Carefully, I nodded to Anne. She dipped her head feebly. She had been my governess, starting when I was five and ending when I turned twenty. By then, we were like sisters.
“Why are they collecting gentlemen and ladies?” I whispered to Mr. Knightley. Even if it was the most horrible explanation, seeking slaves, these were hardly the most able-bodied workers.
Mr. Knightley shook his head, unsure.
The French officer appeared in the doorway, assessing Mr. Knightley and me from a distance. The Overseer stood beside him, and John hovered behind.
The Overseer pointed at me. “Is that the Woodhouse?”
“That is French business,” the officer answered in superb, barely accented English, but with a scornful French curl to his lip. His gaze remained on me. Like all French officers, his uniform was magnificent. His coat and hat were layered with heavy gold braid and his sword hilt gilded.
“She is or she isn’t,” the Overseer persisted. “These others are useless.”
“They are la petite noblesse, the gentry,” the French officer replied stiffly. He did not seem to enjoy the conversation.
“Old and married. Useless. Are you French too stupid to understand orders?” He waved toward me. “If she’s not your Woodhouse, she’s what we want. Young. Fancy. Those are the ones who bind.” His gaze shifted from me to Mr. Knightley. “We’ll take him, too, while we’re at it.”
The chill of fear in my belly boiled into panic. “I should never have brought you here,” I whispered to Mr. Knightley.
“I was about to say the same to you,” he whispered back. “Do not worry. I have faced worse circumstances.”
I doubted it.
John squeezed past the Overseer to face the French officer. “How many times must I repeat that she is a Woodhouse. I expect your government to honor our agreement. I have invested substantial effort—”
The officer silenced him with a lift of his hand, then he crossed the room to us and bowed.
“I am Capitaine Louis Fournier. You are prisoners of the French army.” Mr. Knightley bristled.
The captain waited with professional detachment until he quieted, then he addressed me.
“Answer truthfully. Are you who that man says?”
“Of course,” I said. “I am Emma Woodhouse. You are standing in my home.”
“You see!” John cried out behind him. “Summon the perfumer. She will—”
The French officer turned on him. “You met la Demoiselle des Parfums once. Are you such a fool that you wish to meet her again?”
That punctured John’s confidence. He tugged at his collar, his ruddy cheeks draining of color. Sullenly, he said, “I wish to be paid and to have this matter resolved. It is unpleasant enough already. That is my wife’s sister, after all.”
The French officer looked appalled. One of the French soldiers muttered darkly, “L’anglais.”
On this subject, Mr. Knightley apparently agreed. He was watching John and clenching his hands rhythmically. I could hear his knuckles creaking.
“This is your house?” the officer asked me. “This… infernal place?”
That was insulting, but at the edges of my vision, fouled tendrils were slipping through the walls. What obscenity had they hidden at Hartfield?
“I have just returned,” I said. “It was stolen from me.”
The officer unfolded a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. “We know this is here. Tell us where, and you will save yourself.”
The page held a precise, almost scientific drawing of an amulet. The center was an oval labeled rouge brillant. The setting was elaborately carved jade, every whorl painstakingly rendered.
“What safety can you offer her?” Mr. Knightley said suddenly.
“On my honor, I will send you both on your way. You can run north. I have seen too many women taken already. And too many of les Noirs, men like you. This war they wage”—he jerked his head disdainfully toward the frowning Overseer—“it is not la guerre francaise.”
“I believe him,” Mr. Knightley said to me. “Tell him.”
“It is not here,” I said. Mr. Knightley gave me a sharp look, but I shrugged. “I have seen nothing like this in my entire life. I would know if it were at Hartfield. I sorted everything after Papa’s death.”
The French captain held the paper higher, waiting for me to study it more carefully. Or to reconsider. I shook my head. He bowed stiffly and left the room. The Overseer and John followed, bickering.
Boots began tromping through the hallways and stairs. Thumps and crashes sounded. They were searching the house, less gently than before.
“Is the amulet here?” Mr. Knightley whispered to me.
“No. I told the truth.”
What if I had known? Would I have kept it secret? I was not even sure the amulet mattered anymore. The dagger Gramr had woken Fènnù from her sleep, but the amulet was paired to Yuánchi, and Yuánchi had risen on his own.
Would the amulet let the French control Yuánchi? I wished I knew if Lizzy had returned. Her binding to Yuánchi was unimaginably strong. I could not imagine anyone overcoming that.
Mr. Knightley resumed whispering. “You must escape. Or we must bargain for your release. They do not know you are a great wyfe. If they discover that, they will take you south.”
“I do not think I matter that much.” I said it lightly, but I meant it.
My life at Hartfield was lost unless the French advance was turned back, and Lord Wellington’s comments at Pemberley were not optimistic.
And I had not the slightest idea where the amulet could be.
This entire trip seemed a dismal failure and extraordinarily dangerous, particularly to Mr. Knightley.
The search reached our parlor. A pair of French soldiers methodically dumped out every drawer. Treasured letters and keepsakes spilled across the floor. A porcelain inkstand smashed to wet, staining shards. A tiny crystal draca gifted to me by Papa shattered, one little leg skittering past my boot.
Anne’s crying shrank to silent fear, her arms tight around her child. I sent her hopeful looks and wondered if they would shoot me if I crossed the room to speak with her.
A sensation plucked my awareness.
The Westons had bound a broccworm when they married, quite a prestigious binding as it was Mr. Weston’s second marriage; remarried husbands often failed to bind at all. At least husbands could try, though. The Church did not even perform the binding ceremony for remarried wyves.
But Anne had no particular affinity, so like most draca, their bound broccworm roamed, often gone for days at a time.
However, a roseworm had just crept into the parlor to sit at Anne’s feet. That was what I had sensed, and it was very peculiar. Why would a bound draca sneak into Hartfield to visit a strange wyfe?
The soldiers ignored it. Being French, they had little experience with draca. They probably assumed the roseworm was bound to the Westons.
I concentrated, and the roseworm’s binding overlaid my vision, rose-red and stretching outside, well beyond Hartfield’s front gate. The draca was watching me now, which was unsurprising. Lizzy had said that great wyves shone gold in draca’s vision.
The sounds of the search ceased, and the French captain marched back in with the Overseer in tow. The pair of them came up to me with an unpleasantly decisive attitude.
Capitaine Fournier asked, “Have you remembered the amulet?”
Should I lie? I was frightened; my heart was pounding. That seemed to block inventing a story.
“You had better answer,” the Overseer warned. “Mr. Elton’ll be here soon.”
I blinked at him, so puzzled that I forgot my fear. I would much prefer to avoid Mr. Elton, but how could an American know that?
Mr. Knightley, understandably, was mystified as well. “Who is Mr. Elton?”
“Our vicar,” I said automatically. Which did not adequately convey the situation.
Mr. Knightley straightened with his own decisive air. “She knows nothing of the amulet,” he told the French captain. “Free her. Ask this Mr. Elton to escort her north.” To the Overseer, he said, “I will remain.”
“Absolutely not!” I exclaimed. “You cannot invent foolish plans without asking me first.”
“A clergyman can cross the line of battle,” he said doggedly. “He is the safest escort—”
That drew a ragged laugh from me. The Overseer guffawed at the same time. We eyed each other, as if wondering how we knew each other’s secrets.
The French captain, however, was nodding gravely, as if Mr. Knightley had been noble and sensible. What if he agreed?
“You cannot separate us,” I announced desperately, and then I knew what to do. I raced through my memories of meeting John: Mr. Knightley’s introduction, everything that followed, everything that was not said…
“We are married,” I announced. My cheeks instantly heated, but that was charming in a new bride.
I grabbed Mr. Knightley’s hand and threaded my gloved fingers through his, which required a bit of a shove.
Then for good measure, I stepped closer so our arms could touch.
A little too close—my hip rubbed his. My blush heightened.
“Married?” the Overseer said. The French captain looked skeptical as well. Mr. Knightley’s flabbergasted expression was certainly not helping.
But I had proof.
Across the room, the little roseworm was lying with her feet tucked under her body, dog-like. Her eyes, two gleaming ink drops, watched me. I met her gaze and threw my soul into a voiceless appeal: Please come to me.
The roseworm startled like she had heard a clap of thunder. Then she got up, stretched with maddening laziness, and trotted over.
“See who finally found us, darling,” I said happily to Mr. Knightley, and bent to pet the roseworm as she gamboled around my feet.