The Silver Blade (Bk. 2) Page 7

  Je t’aime.

  Sido

  Chapter Eight

  When Sido arrived eighteen months earlier, she found London a noisy old lady wheezing monstrous in all her smoke and fumes. With her mantle of twisting narrow streets oozing into the countryside, uncontained by city walls, she was so different from Paris that to begin with Sido felt bewildered.

  She was further bewildered by her aunt and uncle’s genuine love of her. Juliette had tears in her eyes when Sido first entered the drawing room in Queen Square for, as she told her, she looked almost identical to the beloved sister she had lost.

  That was their only similarity, as Juliette soon discovered, for here was a young woman who possessed not only beauty but understanding that exceeded her years. In her aunt’s eyes, Sido’s gentleness made the cruelty of what she had suffered even more repugnant. The Laxtons felt very protective towards her. There was a vulnerability about Sido that Juliette thought came from neglect. Henry knew it had more to do with the atrocities she had witnessed in the Abbaye prison and the ordeal she had suffered at the hands of Kalliovski. He shuddered to think of the obscene marriage contract and what would have happened if Yann hadn’t rescued her.

  It had been Mr Trippen, Yann’s old tutor, who, sensing Sido’s feelings towards his former pupil, had encouraged her to write to him. That first letter had taken ages and when it was finally finished she felt it was stiff, awkward and childish. Her only hope was that Yann might see all the invisible words written between the lines, words her quill was too shy to shape. She had left it on the silver plate in the hall with all the other letters to be posted.

  That afternoon Juliette and Sido sat in the drawing room, Juliette at her needlework, Sido reading, as the fire crackled in the grate and the clocks ticked gently.

  Outside horses clip-clopped by and Sido, half dreaming, did not at first hear her aunt when she said, ‘My dear, I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of removing the letter from the hall table.’

  Sido was wide awake now.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Juliette, handing it back to her. ‘Please don’t think me rude, but it is really not safe to write to Yann.’

  ‘I wanted to thank him,’ said Sido, feeling her cheeks flame.

  ‘My goodness,’ said Juliette, ‘it is a very good thing you didn’t. If he were to receive a letter from an émigré, it could be used in evidence as proof that he was a counter-revolutionary or a spy. Isn’t that dreadful?’ She paused. ‘Anyway, your uncle tells me that his role as Harlequin attracts quite enough letters from ardent young ladies.’

  The very idea that she would be just one of Yann’s many doting admirers appalled Sido. Mortified, she said, ‘It is only that I have known him for some time.’

  Juliette smiled. ‘Of course, ma cherie. He must seem like a hero to you. But believe me when I say he would understand. I’m sure there are many young women in Paris bewitched by those dark eyes of his, don’t you think?’

  Sido wished the floor would open and swallow her whole. Was she another silly little girl, infatuated by a young man who had taken the liberty of stealing her heart and kissing her for it? She put the letter in the fire, watching it burn.

  ‘It is for the best,’ said her aunt.

  Sido’s spirits over that first long, dull winter in London had been very low indeed. She did all that was required of her, but with little enthusiasm. She felt dead inside, a terrible melancholy hung over her like a London fog that nothing could lift. She was haunted by nightmares of Kalliovski, of his beetle-black carriage.

  In these dreams she knows she is to be the Count’s bride. She is in a huge domed chamber in which stands a macabre altar made from the dismembered bodies of the victims of the Abbaye massacre, their limbs protruding, their hands moving, their fingers twitching, blood dripping on to the floor. In front of the altar stand seven women, screaming through sewn-up lips:

  ‘Calico and corpses.

  ‘Damask and death.’

  Kalliovski turns his waxen face to Sido, his red lips a wound. ‘Don’t let the blood stain your white, white dress, my dear.’

  Every time she would wake, terrified, shaking, and light all the candles in the room.

  Often she wouldn’t sleep for fear of the nightmare. On those nights she would sit looking into the fire, her knees pulled up under her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs and think, what if she never saw Yann again? What then was the point to living? So much had happened since the time she had first woken to see him standing by her bed. The only consistent thing in her life, which had never failed her, was Yann. No one in London understood her. She was treated like a china doll, to be worshipped like a goddess, as one handsome dandy told her.

  Concerned for her health, Juliette and Henry sought advice from the best doctors in London. All agreed that news of what was happening in France was to be kept to a minimum. Henry believed this to be balderdash. Sido possessed far too lively a mind to be unaware of events in Paris and it would be near impossible to spare her from such conversations as they had an open house for émigrés three times a week. At these gatherings Sido’s spirits would perceptibly rise, especially when the Silver Blade was mentioned, as if instinctively she knew who they were talking about. Henry’s diagnosis was altogether more astute. The real reason for Sido’s unhappiness was her longing for Yann, but on that subject it was impossible to speak. It had been Yann’s decision that Juliette should not be told the truth about what he did. Juliette had been devoted to him, and if she thought that he hadn’t run away to be an actor, but was dancing with death, playing a dangerous role in the Revolution, she would have driven herself to distraction with worry. Henry agreed it was far better that she was allowed to think Yann was an ungrateful young man who had given up a golden opportunity to go to Cambridge.

  Not for the first time, he was considering the wisdom of his decision. It was as clear as day, whether they liked it or not, his earnest and very beautiful young niece was in love with Yann.

  It was in the New Year, at one of their English lessons, that Mr Trippen handed Sido a letter. Her surprise at seeing her name written on it nearly took her breath away.

  ‘Do you know who it’s from, my dear young lady?’ asked Mr Trippen.

  Sido felt her heart beat faster, felt her words freeze on her tongue.

  ‘I believe the handwriting, if my eyes don’t deceive me, is that of a young Hamlet,’ said Mr Trippen.

  ‘By Hamlet, you mean Yann?’

  ‘I do indeed. Mr Margoza wrote to me to ask if I would make sure this was personally delivered to you here. He feels Mr and Mrs Laxton might not think it proper or wise for you to correspond with him. He also wrote that if you agree with them, then he won’t write again.’

  The expression that crossed Sido’s face told Mr Trippen all he needed to know. Sido was in love with Yann, and he with her. Just as he had suspected.

  ‘If you’re worried about the safety of sending such a letter, all I need tell you is that Mr Margoza has arranged the whole thing. My task is by far the more pleasurable: to make sure it gets into your fair hand.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sido, and she smiled. ‘I have never written a letter before. I tried and it sounded so stiff. Anyway, it ended in the fire.’

  ‘Now, as for the writing of letters, one has to make a start. To that end, there is always the “Dear So-and-So” to rely on, but once that is said, an acre of white paper can be most off-putting.’

  ‘That is where I was having trouble.’

  ‘Be brave, as the great bard would say. Nothing can come of nothing. No good worrying too much about politeness and etiquette. My advice is to speak what’s in your heart. Be yourself.’

  So started the secret exchange of letters that made London bearable for Sido, made cloudy skies sunny, and gave her the greatest happiness she had ever known.

  They wrote of everything and nothing; with each letter they ventured deeper, like two people wading out to sea, hoping when the time came they wo
uld know how to swim. After more than twelve months of correspondence Yann had finally written to tell her he loved her.

  In April 1794, Sido first saw the strange man. It happened after she had been at the Trippens. She had arrived to find the whole household in nothing short of uproar and Mrs Trippen in a terrible state.

  ‘Mice is what’s done it,’ said Mrs Trippen, standing on a chair while her daughters were similarly arranged round the breakfast room, leaving the son and heir to try to catch the little thing.

  ‘My dear enchanting girl,’ she cried, ‘we are waiting for Mr Trippen to return with the cat who resides on Drury Lane, known for its expertise with mice. In the meantime I suggest that you climb on the table.’

  Sido, who had no fear of mice, went over to where the mouse in question was busily cleaning its whiskers, looking rather fat and unconcerned about humans on chairs. She remembered well the mice at the convent and one in particular she had become fond of. Bending down, she startled the creature by throwing her shawl over it and taking it outside.

  Mr Trippen came striding in. ‘I have Mr Tibbets!’ he cried with gusto. The cat, a ginger tom, looked a vicious flea-ridden thing. Nevertheless he had a commanding presence, enough to revive Mrs Trippen’s flagging spirits.

  ‘We are indeed at sixes and sevens,’ said Mr Trippen, taking Sido upstairs. ‘It is unpardonable, I know, but mice are a very common problem, alas.’

  Sido tried her best to keep a solemn face, but was quite defeated and burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Mr Trippen, it doesn’t matter. I believe they even had mice at Versailles!’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now I know I am on a par with royalty, I feel somewhat better.’

  After her lesson, Mr Trippen saw her, as always, to the door, where two footmen waited with a sedan chair to take her back to Queen Square. It was as she was leaving Maiden Lane that she first noticed him, a large man, his face hidden by a three-cornered hat. Although she couldn’t see his features, there was something familiar about him and she had the decided impression that he was following her. She had returned home to Queen Square wondering whether to say anything to her uncle.

  When she arrived, she heard her aunt calling for her and, going upstairs to the pretty first-floor drawing room, she found her sitting on a small sofa, surrounded by Yann’s letters.

  Sido’s heart sank.

  ‘May I ask,’ said her aunt, ‘what is the meaning of this? After you have been asked not to write to him?’

  ‘Those are private letters,’ said Sido, horrified to think her aunt might have read them. ‘They are addressed to me.’

  ‘That is by the by.’ Juliette sat stiff and upright. ‘He writes to you in such an informal way. Is that how you address him?’

  ‘Aunt, you have no right—’

  ‘I do,’ she interrupted. ‘I am your guardian. I love you and I want what’s best for you. This is folly. Yann is not an appropriate suitor for you. He has nothing, no title, no money. It would be an ill-advised and scandalous union. You have much to learn and are not acquainted with the ways of the world. This is merely a young girl’s infatuation. It will pass, Sido.’

  ‘No, aunt, it will not. I love him with all my being. I always have and I always will, no matter what. My love is steadfast. May I have my letters back?’ Sido said coldly.

  ‘You may not,’ said Juliette. ‘When Yann lived here we treated him as an equal, he was even offered a place at Cambridge. Did you know that? He could have amounted to someone. Instead he chose to squander the opportunites your uncle gave him and go back to Paris to become an actor.’

  ‘Aunt, that is not—’

  Juliette interrupted. ‘I take it that Mr Trippen is your collaborator? He should have known better.’

  Sido felt the injustice of this acutely.

  Her aunt’s voice softened. ‘There are many eligible young men in London, who are already in love with you. My dear one, please, this is a most inadvisable liaison and must stop.’

  Sido composed herself. ‘Aunt,’ she said, ‘I don’t want a marriage made in a bank vault, like my mother’s. I will marry for love or not at all. I refuse to live a lie like she did.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’

  ‘My mother was in love with Armand de Villeduval. I am their child. The Marquis arranged with Count Kalliovski to have us all killed the day they tried to elope to England. Only I survived.’

  Now it was Juliette’s turn to be outraged. ‘That is not true! That can’t be true! My sister would never have—’

  ‘I know it is the truth,’ Sido said quietly. ‘I have letters and documents to prove it. Yann found them and gave them to me. The letters my mother and Armand wrote to each other prove who my real father is. I also have the note from the Marquis asking the Count to arrange the accident. I will not be a puppet any more. What’s in a name? And what value now does that name have? The only person who has ever loved me for who I am is Yann. He risked everything to rescue me. I would be dead if it were not for his bravery.’

  Furious and unable to comprehend what she had just heard, Juliette ignored it. ‘Can you imagine the scandal? A marquis’s daughter marrying a gypsy boy, for that is what Yann is, a gypsy! Oh, didn’t he tell you? A fine education and all he wants to do is waste his life on the stage. I refuse to let you ruin your life too.’

  Sido fled from the room as Henry entered.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ he said.

  Juliette was sitting as stiff as a tree before the wind bows it. Doubling over, she burst into tears.

  ‘I demand to know the truth,’ she wept.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Was my sister murdered?’

  Henry, caught off guard, said calmly, ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Sidonie.’

  Henr y sighed. Of course, he thought. It was inevitable.

  Juliette looked up at him imploringly. ‘I have a right to know the truth.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, going over to her and taking her hand. ‘I’m afraid she was. I had my suspicions when I went to France all those years ago after the accident. At least Sido is still with us. Let the dead rest easy.’

  Juliette pulled her hand away and with a look of disgust on her face, said, ‘Why did you never tell me this? How could you keep such a thing to yourself?’

  ‘Because you were unwell and grief-stricken, and nothing was certain, not then. Not until the papers were discovered.’

  ‘So you have seen my sister’s letters?’

  ‘Yes. But what are these letters?’

  ‘They are love letters Yann has written to Sido,’ said Juliette.

  ‘Did Sido wish you to see them?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Juliette. ‘They are so ... forward. They say things that shouldn’t be said. Let me read you—’

  ‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘I will not hear them and you, madam, should not have read them.’

  Never before had Juliette heard her husband address her so sternly.

  ‘But Henry, this match—’

  ‘Madam, you will stop interfering in matters that don’t concern you.’

  ‘Sido does concern me; she’s my sister’s child,’ Juliette sobbed.

  Henry went to the window. Standing below in the square was a man, his face well hidden by a three-cornered hat.

  He took a deep breath to calm himself and turned back to his wife. ‘When Yann came to live with us you were in favour of taking him in as an equal, to be part of our family, remember?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did, and I meant it. He was, after all, a young boy. We did the right thing by him and he let us down; we stayed true to our word.’

  ‘As long as our word suited us,’ said Henry bluntly.

  ‘Mon cheri, surely you can see this is untenable? What kind of life would he and Sido have together? He is of inferior birth, of lowly rank. He is a gypsy. In France gypsies are thought of as vermin.’

  Hen
ry bristled with indignation at his wife’s petit-bourgeois attitude. ‘That to me,’ he said, ‘is the worst form of prejudice. Do you wish Sido to be like your sister, married to a man who doesn’t love her? To some ridiculous handsome fop with a good eye for a horse and the indolence of too many idle years as an émigré? Being buried alive might be preferable.’

  ‘Are you determined to be unpleasant?’

  ‘No, I’m not. But your argument can’t go unchecked. Yann could well have chosen to go to Cambridge, to have taken the numerous opportunities we were more than prepared to give him, and then you would have forgotten his origins. Instead he went back to Paris and saved Sido, risked his life to get her out.’