Part 3 (1/2)
”The housekeeper died early on, but she was old and sickly already. I don't think anyone else is in mortal peril, but this winter's influenza makes a body weak as a kitten for days.” Madame Bertin sipped the hot broth appreciatively. ”I kept the fire from dying and managed to make this broth, but now I'm too tired for anything else.”
Seeing an opportunity, Ca.s.sie asked, ”Would you be willing to pay a bit for some help, madame? I could carry trays of bread and broth to the servants who are ill, and perhaps do some ch.o.r.es around the kitchen.”
”'Twould be a real blessing. Let's see, who lives in ...” The cook thought. ”There are six maids in the attics and two men in the stables. The stairs are just through that door, but it's five long flights of steps to the attic. Can you manage that much?”
”I'm spryer than I look. I'll be happy to help out. When people are ill, they need something warm.” She stirred the broth with the ladle. ”And I'll be glad to earn a few coins, too. Where do you keep the bread? Cheese would also be good. Strengthening.”
”The pantry is there.” Madame Bertin pointed. ”A good thing Citoyen Durand isn't here. He'd be raging and whipping people to do their jobs even if they're too ill to stand. But what is going to happen in a quiet place like this in the dead of winter? We can all rest a day or two until we're ready to work again.”
”Fortunate,” Ca.s.sie agreed. She filled mugs, cut bread and cheese, and carried a tray out to the stables, where she was gratefully received. After returning to the kitchen, she prepared more trays for the maids. With six of them, she needed to make two trips up the narrow stone stairs. No wonder Madame Bertin hadn't even tried.
As the cook said, no one seemed at death's door, but all the servants lay limp in their beds, weak, tired, and very glad for sustenance. Ca.s.sie made a silent prayer that the thieves' oil would protect her. Becoming that ill while traveling would be very bad.
She returned to the kitchen, where the cook was drowsing in her chair by the fire. Ca.s.sie tucked a knee robe around her. The time had come to learn if there really was a dungeon with prisoners. ”Is there anyone else I should take food to?”
Madame Bertin frowned. ”There are the guards and the prisoners in the dungeon. The head jailer, Gaspard, usually sends a man up for food, but one is ill, Gaspard is off somewhere, and the one there now wouldn't dare leave his post.”
”So the guard and the prisoners need feeding? How many prisoners are there?”
”Only two. With everyone ill, they're being neglected.” The cook crossed herself. ”One of the prisoners is a priest. 'Tis very wrong to lock up a priest, but Durand would be enraged at the impertinence if anyone told him so.”
”Shocking!” Ca.s.sie agreed. ”What is the other prisoner?”
”They say he's an English lord, though I've never seen him, so I can't say for sure.” She shook her head sadly. ”No doubt an Englishman deserves a dungeon, but surely not the priest. He is old and frail and needs hot food in this weather.”
”I'll take food down to all of them.” Ca.s.sie started to a.s.semble a tray. ”You say you've never seen the prisoners. They are never brought up for exercise in the yard?”
”Oh, no. Citoyen Durand is very strict about his prisoners. They are never released from their cells, and the guards never enter. Food is put through a slot.” Madame Bertin crossed herself again. ”The poor devils must be half mad by now.”
Ca.s.sie's lips tightened as she prepared the food. After ten years of uncertainty, Kirkland's search might be about to end. But his long-lost friend might be broken beyond any chance of mending.
Chapter 8.
Castle Durand, 1805 Grey regarded the sparrow that perched on his sill. ”Enter, Monsieur L'Oiseau. I've kept a bit of bread for you. I hope you appreciate what a sacrifice this is.” The bird c.o.c.ked its head, undecided, so Grey whistled his best imitation of sparrow song. Rea.s.sured, it glided from the sill to the floor and pecked at the bit of bread Grey had saved.
He enjoyed talking to the birds. They never contradicted, and he was amused by their saucy willingness to approach. ”Cupboard love,” he murmured, tossing another crumb. ”Not so very different from being an eligible prize in the marriage mart.”
He'd been old enough to experience some of that in London before his disastrous decision to visit Paris. Kirkland and Ashton, who paid more attention to politics, had both warned him to keep his trip short since peace wouldn't last, but he'd characteristically brushed them off. He was the golden boy, heir to Costain, to whom nothing evil could happen.
Two years later, here he was, slowly going mad with boredom and grateful for the fleeting companions.h.i.+p of a sparrow. But at least he was stronger and more fit than before, and his singing voice had improved.
He tossed another crumb. The sparrow seized it, then c.o.c.ked its head for a moment before flying up and out the window. Grey watched the bird leave with an envy so deep that it was pain. Oh, to be able to fly free! He'd wing his way over the channel and home to the beautiful hills and fields of Summerhill.
Since his company had left, he rose and began running in place, calling up images of his childhood home. Those had been happy days at Summerhill, which was blessed with a mild south coast climate. Fertile fields and plump, happy livestock. He'd loved riding the estate with his father, learning the ways of a farmer without even thinking about it. His father had been a good teacher, challenging his heir's mind and curiosity.
The earl had also talked government and the House of Lords and what would someday be expected of Grey when he became the Earl of Costain. But that had been unimaginably far in the future. His parents were young and vigorous, and Grey would have many years to sow wild oats before it would be time to settle down.
Which was the att.i.tude that had led him here. Tiring, Grey slowed his pace to a walk before settling on his rocky chair. He placed it so that the suns.h.i.+ne would fall on him. What subject would he contemplate today? Natural history, he decided. He would try to recall every bird he'd ever seen in Dorsets.h.i.+re.
His list had reached twenty-three when he heard sounds in the pa.s.sage. It was too early for dinner. He stared at the door, wondering if Durand was paying one of his brief visits. The minister no longer taunted his captive face-to-face, not since Grey had thrown his captor to the floor and almost inflicted lethal damage.
He'd have succeeded if Durand hadn't had a guard with him. Grey had been beaten savagely, but it had been worth it. Since then, Durand contented himself with sneering through the window in the door. The coward.
Grey prepared himself for whatever might come, but the steps stopped short of his cell. Snarling voices, a bang of the cell door next to his. Then retreating footsteps and a return to silence. Good G.o.d, could there really be another prisoner only a wall away? If only Grey could speak to him!
But the wall was too thick for sound to penetrate. Perhaps it was possible to stand at the door and shout, but the door was also thick and its two openings were covered from the outside. If Grey shouted, he would attract the evil attentions of Gaspard long before he could make himself understood by the new prisoner.
He paced the common wall restlessly, running his hands over the solid surface. If only there was some way to communicate! He wanted to howl with frustration.
He dropped to the floor, his back against the common wall, fighting the temptation to bang his head against the stone. And heard a voice, soft and low and regular. He froze, wondering if he really was losing his mind.
No! The sound came from the sewer hole in the corner of his cell. With rising excitement, he knelt beside it and listened. Yes! The words were clear now. Latin. A prayer? The cell next to him must have a similar hole that joined with his and allowed wastes to fall into some subterranean hole.
Frantic with hope, he called, ”Monsieur! Monsieur, can you hear me?”
The Latin stopped and a soft, cultured voice said in French, ”I can. You are another prisoner?”
”Yes! In the next cell!” Grey swallowed hard, fearing he might dissolve into tears. ”My name is Grey Sommers and I'm English. I've been here over two years. Who are you?”
”Laurent Saville. I'm called Pere Laurent.”
Father Lawrence? ”You're a priest?”
”I am.” A note of dryness entered the calm voice. ”My crime has been to love G.o.d more than the emperor. And you?”
”Durand ...” Grey hesitated, uncomfortable with admitting his sins to a priest. But priests were supposed to be forgiving, weren't they? ”Durand found me with his wife.”
”And you live?” Laurent said in amazement.
”He thought death too merciful.” Grey's words tumbled over each other. ”Tell me about yourself. Where are you from? Where have you studied, what subjects do you know? Please, talk, anything!” Fists clenched, he forced himself to stop. ”I'm sorry. It has been so long since I've had a normal conversation with another man.”
The low chuckle was deeply soothing. ”I was born and raised near here. We will have all the time we need, I'm sure. Tell me what life is like in Durand's dungeon.”
The priest was right. They had plenty of time to talk. Till one of them died.
Though Grey valued the occasional exchanges with the servants, having a regular companion made a huge difference. And he couldn't have done better than Pere Laurent, who was kind and wise and learned, and as willing to share his knowledge as Grey was to learn it. Sometimes they sang together.
The food improved, too. Grey guessed that someone up in the kitchen was a good Catholic who thought a priest deserved to eat decently, and Grey benefited by that.