‘But how?’ Jane no longer appeared as a sophisticated and elegant beauty, but rather resembled the timid and innocent girl she had been just a year before.
‘How?’ The Lady Spindacre, seeing the threat to the source of Jane’s money, which was also the only source of the Lady Spindacre’s present wealth, was ready for battle. ‘We use those connections, of course. What else is society for? What was the name of the Prince Regent’s aide de camp? The one who was so solicitous of your husband?’
‘Lord Rossendale,’ Jane said, ‘Lord John Rossendale.’ So far she had been too scared to try and profit from that tenuous connection; it seemed too ambitious and too remote, but now an emergency had happened, and Jane well understood that Carlton House, where the Prince’s court resided, far outranked the drab offices of the Judge Advocate General. ‘But I only met Lord Rossendale once,’ she said timidly.
‘Was he rude to you?’
‘Far from it. He was most kind.’
‘Then write to him. You will have to send him some small trifle, of course.’
‘What could I possibly send such a man?’
‘A snuff-box is usual,’ Lady Spindacre said casually. ‘For a respectable favour, he’d expect one costing at least a hundred pounds. Would you like me to buy one, dearest? I am not feeling so poorly that I cannot reach Bond Street.’
A jewelled snuff-box was duly bought and, that same evening, Jane wrote her letter. She wrote it a dozen times until she was satisfied with her words then, as carefully as a child under the stern eye of a tutor, she copied those words on to a sheet of her new perfumed writing-paper.
Next morning a servant delivered the letter and the precious snuff-box to Carlton House.
And Jane waited.
The curé of Arcachon was hearing confessions when the ugly foreign soldier came into his church. The soldier came silently out of the night and, though he carried no weapons, other than the sword which any gentleman might wear, his eye-patch and scarred face caused a shiver of horror to go through the parishioners who waited their turn for the confessional. One of the parishioners, an elderly spinster, whispered the news to Father Marin through the muslin which served as a screen in the confessional box. ‘He has only one eye, Father, and a horrid face.’
‘Is he armed?’
‘He has a sword.’
‘What is he doing?’
‘Sitting at the back of the church, Father, near the statue of St Genevieve.’
‘Then he’s doing no harm, and you are not to worry yourself.’
It was another hour before Father Marin had finished his task, by which time two other parishioners had come to the church to tell him that the foreign soldier was not alone, but had two comrades who were drinking in the tavern by the saddler’s shop. Father Marin had learned that the strangers wore very old and faded green uniforms. One woman was certain they were Germans, while another was equally sure they were British.
Father Marin eased himself out of the confessional and, by the light of St Genevieve’s votive candles, saw the ugly stranger still sitting patiently at the back of the now empty church. ‘Good evening, my son. Did you come for confession?’
‘I doubt God has the patience to hear all my sins.’ Frederickson spoke in his idiomatic French. ‘Besides, Father, I’m a Protestant heretic rather than a Catholic one.’
Father Marin genuflected to the altar, crossed himself, then lifted his stained stole over his grey head. ‘Are you a German heretic or an English one? My parishioners suspect you of being both.’
‘They’re right in both respects, Father, for I have the blood of both peoples. But my uniform is that of a British Captain.’
‘What’s left of your uniform,’ Father Marin said with amusement. ‘Are you anything to do with the Englishmen who are exploring the Teste de Buch fort?’ The old priest saw that he had astonished the stranger.
‘Exploring?’ Frederickson asked suspiciously.
‘English sailors have been occupying the fort for ten days. They’ve pulled down what’s left of the internal walls, and now they’re digging in the surrounding sand like rabbits. The rumour is that they’re searching for gold.’
Frederickson laughed. ‘The rumour’s true, Father, but there’s no gold there.’
‘It’s further rumoured that the gold was buried by the Englishmen who captured the fort in January. Were you one of those men, my son?’
‘I was, Father.’
‘And now you are here, in my humble church, while your companions are drinking wine in the town’s worst tavern.’ Father Marin rather enjoyed seeing Frederickson’s discomfiture at the efficiency of Arcachon’s gossips. ‘How did you come here?’
‘We walked from Bordeaux. It took three days.’
Father Marin lifted his cloak from a peg behind the Virgin’s statue and draped it about his thin shoulders. ‘You had no trouble on the road? We hear constantly of brigands.’
‘We met one band.’
‘Just the three of you?’
Frederickson shrugged, but said nothing.
Father Marin held a hand towards the door. ‘Clearly you are a capable man, Captain. Will you walk home with me? I can offer you some soup, and rather better wine than that which your companions are presently enjoying.’
It took three hours of conversation and two lost games of chess before Frederickson persuaded the old priest to reveal Henri Lassan’s address. Father Marin proved very careful of his old friend, Lassan, but after the two chess games the old priest was satisfied that this one-eyed Captain Frederickson was also a good man. ‘You mean him no harm?’ Marin sought the reassurance.
‘I promise you that, Father.’
‘I shall write to him,’ Father Marin warned, ‘and tell him you are coming.’
‘I should be grateful if you did that,’ Frederickson said.
‘I do miss Henri.’ Father Marin went to an ancient table that served as his desk and began sifting through the detritus of books and papers. ‘In truth he was a most unsuitable soldier, though his men liked him very much. He was very lenient with them, I remember. He was also most distressed that you defeated him.’
‘I shall apologise to him for that.’
‘He won’t bear a grudge, I’m sure. I can’t swear he’ll be at his home, of course, for he was intent on joining the priesthood. I constantly tried to dissuade him, but …’ Father Marin shrugged, then returned to his slow search among the curled and yellowing papers on the table.
‘Why did you try to dissuade him?’
‘Henri’s altogether too saintly to be a priest. He’ll believe every hard luck story that’s fed to him, and consequently he’ll kill himself with compassion, but, if that’s what he wishes, then so be it.’ Father Marin found the piece of paper he sought. ‘If you do him harm, Captain, I shall curse you.’
‘I mean him no harm.’
Father Marin smiled. ‘Then you have a very long walk, Captain.’ The address was in Normandy. The Château Lassan, Father Marin explained, was not far from the city of Caen, but it was very far from the town of Arcachon. ‘When will you leave?’ the priest asked.
‘Tonight,