Brenda Joyce - Surrender

The fact that her husband, the comte, was a relation of the queen had never been a secret. But the moment a hatmaker had realized the connection, their lives had suddenly and truly changed. Shopkeepers, bakers, prostitutes, sansculottes and even National Guardsmen had kept watch upon her and her family at their townhome. Every time her door was opened, sentinels could be seen standing outside. Every time she left the flat she had been followed. It had become too frightening to venture outside of the apartment. It was as if they were suspected of crimes against the state. And then LeClerc had been arrested.

“Your time will come.” A passerby had leered at her the day their neighbor was taken away in shackles.

And Evelyn had become afraid to go out. She had ceased doing so. From that moment, they had become actual prisoners of the people. She had begun to believe that they would not be allowed to leave the city, if they tried. And then a pair of French officers had called on Henri. Evelyn had been terrified that they were about to arrest him. Instead, they had warned him that he must not leave the city until given permission to do so and that Aimee must remain in Paris with them. And the fact that they had said so—that they even knew about Aimee—had triggered them as nothing else could. They had immediately begun planning their escape.

And it was Henri who had suggested they follow in the wake of the thousands of émigrés now fleeing France for Great Britain. Evelyn had been born and raised in Cornwall, and once she had realized that they were going home, she had been thrilled. She had missed the rocky beaches of Cornwall, the desolate moors, the winter storms, the blunt, outspoken women and the hardworking men. She missed taking tea at the nearby village inn, and the wild celebrations that ensued when a smuggler arrived with his precious cargo. Life in Cornwall could be difficult and harsh, but it had its softer moments. Of course, they would probably reside in London, but she also loved the city. She couldn’t imagine a better—safer—country in which to raise her daughter.

Aimee deserved so much more. And she did not deserve to become another innocent victim of this terrible revolution!

But first they had to get from Brest to the smuggler’s ship, and then they had to get across the Channel. And Henri had to survive.

She felt the surge of panic and she trembled. Henri needed a doctor, and she was tempted to delay their flight to attend him. She could not imagine what she would do if he died. But she also knew he wanted her and Aimee safely out of the country. In the end, she would put her daughter first.

“Has he shown any signs of reviving?” she cried, glancing over her shoulder.

“Non, Comtesse,” Adelaide whispered. “Le comte needs a physician soon!”

If they delayed, in order to attend Henri, they would remain in Brest for another day or perhaps even more. Within hours, or at least by this evening, their disappearance would be noticed. Would they be pursued? It was impossible to know, except that the officials had warned them not to leave the city and they had defied that edict. If there was pursuit, there were two obvious ports to search—Brest and Le Havre were the most frequently used ports of departure.

There was no choice to make. Evelyn clenched her fists, filled with determination. She was not accustomed to making decisions, and especially not important ones, but in another hour they would be safely at sea, and out of reach of their French pursuers, if they did not delay.

They had reached the outskirts of Brest, and were passing many small houses now. She and Laurent exchanged dark, determined looks.

A few moments later, salt tinged the air. Laurent drove the team into the graveled courtyard of an inn that was just three blocks from the docks. The night was now filled with scudding clouds, at times in darkness, at other times, brightened by the moon. As Evelyn handed her daughter down to Bette, her tension intensified. The inn seemed busy—loud voices could be heard coming from the public room. Perhaps that was better—it was so crowded, no one would pay attention to them now.

Or perhaps they would.

Evelyn waited with Aimee, asleep in her arms, while Laurent went inside to get help for her husband. She was clothed in one of Bette’s dresses and a dark, hooded mantle that had been worn by another servant. Henri was also dressed as a commoner.

And finally Laurent and the innkeeper appeared. Evelyn slipped up her hood as he approached—her looks were too remarkable to go unnoticed—and cast her eyes down. The two men lifted Henri from the carriage and carried him inside, using a side entrance. Holding Aimee Evelyn followed with Adelaide and Bette. They quickly went upstairs.

Evelyn closed the door behind her two women servants, daring to breathe with some relief, but not yet daring to remove her hood. She signaled Adelaide with her eyes, not wanting her to light more than one candle.

If their disappearance had been noted, the French authorities might have put out warrants for their arrests. Descriptions would accompany those warrants and their pursuers would be looking for a little girl of four with dark hair and blue eyes, a sickly and frail older nobleman of medium height with gray hair and a young woman of twenty-one, dark-haired, blue-eyed and fair-skinned, one remarkably beautiful in appearance.

Evelyn feared that she was too distinct in her appearance. She was too recognizable, and not just because she was so much younger than her husband. When she had first come to Paris, as a bride of sixteen, she had been acclaimed the city’s most beautiful woman. She hardly thought that, but she knew her looks were striking and hard to miss.

Henri had been made comfortable in one bed, and Aimee in another. Laurent and the innkeeper had stepped aside, and were speaking in hushed tones. Evelyn thought that they were both grim, but there was urgency in the situation. She smiled at Bette, who was tearful and so clearly frightened. Bette had been given the choice of going home to her family in Le Loire. She had chosen instead to come with them, fearing being hunted down and interrogated if she did not.

“It will be all right,” Evelyn said softly, hoping to reassure her. They were the same age, but suddenly Evelyn felt years older. “In a matter of moments, we will be on a ship, bound for England.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Bette whispered, sitting down beside Aimee.

Evelyn smiled again, then walked over to Henri. She took his hand and kissed his temple. He remained terrifyingly pale. She would not be able to bear it if he died. She could not imagine losing such a dear friend. And she knew just how dependent she was on him.

She was not certain that her aunt and uncle would welcome her back into their home, if need be. But that would be a last recourse, anyway.

The innkeeper left and Evelyn quickly hurried over to Laurent, who seemed stricken. “What has happened?” she asked, with another curdling sensation.

“Captain Holstatter has left Brest.”

“What?” she cried, aghast. “You must be mistaken. It is August the fifth. We are on time. It is almost dawn. In another hour, he is taking us to Falmouth—he has been paid half of his fee in advance!”

Laurent was starkly white. “He happened upon a very valuable cargo, and he left.”

She was in shock. They had no means of crossing the Channel! And they could not linger in Brest—it was too dangerous!

“There are three British smugglers in the harbor,” Laurent said, interrupting her thoughts.

There was a reason they had chosen a Belgian to take them to England. “British smugglers are usually French spies,” she cried.

“If we are going to leave immediately, the only choice is to seek out one of them, or wait here, until we can make other arrangements.”