A Royal Likeness (4 page)

He’s still determined to go to the shed.

But Marguerite was stopped before she could take even a first step forward to join her husband.

As their search revealed no secret treasure, money, or correspondence, the men’s discontent took a vicious left turn once again toward Nicholas. A group of four of them angrily approached him.

“Why isn’t there anything here?”

“What’ve you done with the contraband?”

“Mr. Emmett said this was a French hideout.”

Marguerite could practically hear their jaws snapping at Nicholas. She began to edge her way quietly toward him, unsure how she was going to break through their collective bulk to join her husband, much less how they were going to escape through the back door of the shop.

But her husband was not yet finished with the rabble. He pulled up his tall frame and stood as straight as he could, saying in as loud and clear a voice as his injuries would allow, “I’ve already said repeatedly that we carry on no dishonest business here. You have plundered a respectable shop in a very fashionable neighborhood, and you can be certain that the papers will carry news of it right away.”

While he spoke, Marguerite continued inching her way back to her husband, lifting her skirt lightly with both hands to ensure she did not stumble and draw attention to herself.

“The only thing that’s going to be carried right away is you.”

Drat that Reggie, she thought. Was it just liquor that made him so cantankerous?

“Sir”—Nicholas’s breathing was becoming ragged through his nose—”I am telling you for the last time—”

“You’re telling
us?
Why, you’re nothing but a French doxy whore lover. We’ll be doing the telling here.”

Reggie had inserted himself as the leader of the pack, his thin chest puffed forward in self-importance. Mr. Emmett was now just another rabid dog. Reggie reveled in his new position.

“And what I’m telling you is that me and these boys are here to serve England by rooting out undesirables.”

“You’ve nearly destroyed this shop and found nothing in the process. You found nothing because there is nothing to find. What more do you want?”

“Satisfaction is what we want. And we haven’t had it yet.”

Nicholas raised a hand in a peaceful gesture, but it was interpreted as aggression by Reggie, who sought the slightest provocation in order to escalate his power.

Whatever Nicholas said next was drowned out by Reggie’s belligerent roar. In the span of seconds, Reggie had grabbed a pitchfork
from another man’s hands and thrust it up to Nicholas’s face, still shouting. It was impossible for Marguerite to hear anything Nicholas was saying over Reggie’s yelling and the rush of blood in her own ears, but her husband was standing his ground with the trespasser. She watched as Nicholas brought up both hands this time to shove the pitchfork away from him.

Reggie’s fury was now beyond redemption.

Grabbing the pitchfork with both hands for leverage, he thrust it viciously into Nicholas’s stomach. Marguerite felt a bitter nausea that overrode the heat, the smoke, and the noise as she witnessed at least three of the prongs entering his torso.

This is not real. This is not happening. This is madness. Wake up, I must wake up!

She shut her eyes for the briefest moment and reopened them. The scene remained the same, except that Nicholas had fallen to the ground on his side, the weapon still lodged in him. Reggie rolled Nicholas onto his back with one foot and used the same foot to steady himself against his victim as he pulled the pitchfork out of his body. He wiped the tines against his pants leg and casually handed it back to the pitchfork’s owner.

The shop went completely silent except for the crackling of the torches.

“Blast, Reggie,” said the man with the pitchfork. “Did you ever kill a man before?”

“No, this was my first. Wasn’t that hard, really.”

Marguerite swallowed the fear rising in her throat, which threatened to disgorge the contents of her stomach, a supper shared with Nicholas just an hour previously.

She tamped down the fear, and quickly replaced it with white-hot rage at the sight of her husband lying motionless on the floor. How dare they attack her husband, her innocent husband, and this defenseless shop, for no reason other than to vent against some imagined adversary. What insanity had befallen the kingdom that marauding bands of drunkards could willfully attack its loyal subjects?

Nicholas, I must get to Nicholas. He needs help. I have to find a doctor for him.

Without thinking, she picked up a Chinese vase from the counter, a gift from a grateful customer. With a force that can only come from that unhappy blend of grief and wrath, she hurled the vase over the men’s heads at the only remaining unbroken window of the shop. Both window and vase exploded into countless delicate shards from the impact.

At least a dozen heads snapped up in one motion, all eyes on Marguerite.

“Damn you, get out! All of you. You’re nothing but a bunch of mangy curs and you will get out this
instant.
I hope you rot in hell. No, wait, I don’t want you to rot. I want you to feel pain without end. I hope Satan himself stabs all of you over and over every day for eternity. And that your nose is broken once a week, always, and that you forever taste your own blood from your wounds.” As she screamed her curses at the men, she picked up and threw anything her hands blindly grabbed from the counter. Scissors, inkwells, and fashion-plate books all went plunging through the air seeking random targets.

Would no one on the street come to their aid?

But even Reggie was sufficiently subdued by Marguerite’s wild madness. The men all eyed one another nervously, and as a single mind decided that between the proprietor’s stabbing and his wife’s raving, they had seen enough action for one inebriated evening. Without waiting for direction from either Reggie or Mr. Emmett, the men scurried for the door and freedom while Marguerite spent herself on heaving every last projectile she could find.

A new silence engulfed the shop as she realized they were gone and she was hurling epithets at the empty space. Breathing heavily from her effort, she grasped the edge of the counter.

Did I say all of those things? I must have been possessed. Oh dear God, Nicholas.

She ran to where Nicholas lay on the floor, his torso engulfed in blood. She dropped to her knees next to him and threw herself on his chest.

“Oh no, Nicholas, no, sweetheart, can you hear me, please say something, I love you so much, darling, please say something, are you breathing, Nicholas?”

She lay atop him utterly still for a moment, and was rewarded with the sound of raspy breathing. She sat up and looked at him.

“My love, are you awake? Can you hear me?”

His eyes fluttered open and focused on her with difficulty.

“Quite a … show … you were very brave, my love.” He coughed, screwing up his eyes from the pain.

“I was just senseless for a moment. Nicholas, I’m going to find a doctor for you now, to come and tend to your wounds. You’ll be fine in no time at all.”

“You must continue to be brave … not going to be fine … love you, Marguerite … sorry we do not have a child to carry on … shop … you’re my fiery little rebel.” He tugged at a pin in her hair and released her tresses.

“Nicholas, stop. Stop it this instant. Your wounds can be mended. You just need a doctor’s attention. I’ll run out now—”

With a surge of his hidden strength she knew so intimately, he grabbed her arm. “Don’t leave … won’t do any good … stay with me. Stay here with me. Here.” He tugged at her arm.

She yielded to his pull and lay at his right side, his good arm wrapped around her and her right arm over his oozing chest.

He turned enough to kiss her forehead. His lips were dry and coarse. He murmured “I love you” once more before falling into a labored sleep, his breaths sharp and uneven.

Much as she wanted to run out to seek a doctor or do something—anything—to help, she lay still next to her husband. His tight grip on her probably would not prevent her leaving anyway. As his breaths became shallower, she splayed her hand across his chest to ensure she could feel every motion of his upper body. Her hand became sticky with her husband’s blood. She glanced downward and saw that her own clothing was as stained as his.

How can it be that last night I made love to my husband, and tonight I am lying next to his dying body?

His breaths were now not only shallow but irregular, and he emitted a faint rattle. Marguerite nearly stopped breathing herself, fearful of making any movement that would disturb her husband. The metallic odor of his profuse bleeding caused her forgotten
nausea to make an inconvenient reappearance, but she swallowed hard and mentally forced it away.

And then with a great
whoosh
Nicholas’s breaths stopped altogether and he released his firm grasp of her. Was he …?

She labored up onto one elbow. Nicholas’s eyes remained shut, but now he appeared to be resting peacefully. She pressed her hand—the blood on it now dry—gently against his chest.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

A long and piercing wail escaped her chest and yet again she had to suppress an overwhelming desire to retch. She lay back down next to her husband, exhausted, but determined to stay with him until she was certain his soul had departed for good.

Hevington, April 1803.
“Lady Greycliffe, would you like to wear your lavender silk or your gold-threaded ivory gown to supper with Lord and Lady Balding?” Claudette’s maid asked from the doorway of the library.

Claudette Greycliffe looked up from where she was arranging flowers in a vase while her husband sat reading a book on the classification of clouds in his favorite chair, a copper-colored leather cover over an old Jacobean frame that had faded and cracked exactly along the lines of William’s sitting position. It was the only piece of furniture in Hevington that looked as though it belonged in the charity box, but William refused to part with his comfortable reading spot. Upon their marriage eleven years ago, Claudette was given free rein to redecorate as she saw fit, as long as she did not touch what she thought of as the King James Monstrosity.

“I think the lavender one, Jolie. Be sure to see to the gloves I wear with it. I believe there was a seam coming undone last time I wore them.”

“Of course, madame. My lord, I picked up the post in the front hall on my way here.” She offered the latest edition of
The London Gazette
to William before departing.

He lay down the science volume and opened the four-page newspaper, scanning it for anything of note. He loved to summarize the day’s events for his wife.

“Hmm, looks like the news just made it here that Cardinal de Rohan died back in February. He was living in Baden. It says he spent his last few years and the remainder of his wealth in providing for the poor clergy of his diocese who were obligated to leave France during the Revolution. Good penance for that man, considering what he did to bring down his queen with that damnable necklace affair.”

William continued folding and scanning the pages. He sat up with a start and muttered an oath under his breath. “The Treaty of Amiens is collapsing. No surprise there. That pompous rooster Bonaparte won’t rest until he’s invaded England and made us all his obedient little hens. He needs to be taught proper manners.”

“William, I don’t mean to be flippant, but Bonaparte’s war with us is the least of my concerns, at least as compared to Marguerite. I don’t know how to reach her.” Claudette continued assembling flowers from Hevington’s gardens.

William put the paper down in his lap. “This has certainly been worse than when we lost Béatrice, hasn’t it? Of course, then she had Nicholas to comfort her. Now …” He let his words trail off.

Claudette blew pollen off the sideboard that held the arrangement and surveyed her handiwork on the cluster of newly bloomed orchids she had just gathered.

“There’s no comforting her now. When Marguerite thought she might be pregnant, I thought I saw a small flicker of happiness in her. But when that hope wasn’t realized, she just sort of slipped out of reality.”

Almost as if in response to hearing her name mentioned, Marguerite appeared in the doorway that Jolie had just vacated.

“Aunt Claudette, I’m going to the North Bridge.”

Several small bridges spanned streams across the Hevington property. The North Bridge was the longest of these bridges and the farthest from the house. Since her arrival at Hevington two months ago, Marguerite had taken to spending hours walking back and forth over the bridge, talking to herself. Some of Hevington’s servants began gossiping that the mistress’s guest was a bit touched, but William sternly informed the household that such talk would not be tolerated. The gossip subsided, but Claudette
still saw knowing looks passing between servants whenever Marguerite was around.

“Of course, dear. Enjoy yourself. You’ll return for supper, won’t you?”

“Mmmm, what? Oh, I’m not hungry. Please don’t wait for me.”

“You may not be hungry now, but you will be in several hours. You
must
take some nourishment.”

“All right, then, I’ll come back. Send someone for me, will you?” As Marguerite turned to go, Claudette saw that there was a hastily mended tear in the young woman’s dress, a gown that should have joined William’s chair in the charity box long ago. Her hair was sloppily pulled together in the back, and did not look as though it had been washed or brushed in weeks.

As the door clicked shut, Claudette told her husband, “There must be something we can do to lift her out of her melancholia. I just wish I knew what it was.”

“If you can figure out something, all the resources of Hevington and the Greycliffe family will be at your disposal. As long as it doesn’t include any trips to France.” He snapped his paper back open but looked at her teasingly over the top edge of it.

“I don’t think we need to worry about any future journeys to my homeland.”

Claudette had nearly been guillotined in Paris during the Terror. Her salvation had come in the form of William Greycliffe, and the pair married soon after.