Ben spluttered a protest, but he was too late. Jack was already striding off past the Hôtel deVille in the direction of one of the harbour inns. Ben had no choice but to pick up both their bags and follow.
After twenty yards, Jack stopped, turned and waited for his friend. Ben was not used to acting the servant. Back home in England, as heir to his grandfather, Viscount Hoarwithy, he was used to being waited on hand and foot. That would not be possible here in France, for they had both left their servants invigorate. It was too dangerous to do otherwise. On the road to Genoa, they had relied on inn servants, but here in France, they might well have to shift for themselves. It would be only fair to break Ben in gently to the new routine.
Jack waited until Ben came level with him. He reached for his valise, but this time, Ben was too quick for him. He threw the valise at Jack, catching him on the shoulder. ‘Servant, indeed!’ Ben muttered. ‘You, sir, are riding for a fall.’
With a wry smile, Jack hefted his valise under his injured arm and used his free hand to rub his shoulder. ‘I can see that I shall have to be wary of you, my slow-witted friend. Come, then.’ He turned to stare up at the harbour inn. ‘What think you to this place? Good enough for one night?’
Marguerite Grolier stood in the middle of the floor while her groom and the hired servants stowed her remaining samples and the last of her purchases around the walls. She would barely have room to move, but these supplies were so valuable that she had to have them under her eye, for the future of the Grolier family weaving business depended on them. If any of this was lost or stolen, the whole family would suffer.
She smiled at Guillaume. He was groom, coachman and general factotum to her family, which he had served since before she was born. ‘Have the coach ready to leave at first light, please, Guillaume,’ she said. ‘We will need to pack all this and leave as soon as we can. We must make the most of the daylight.’
Even this far south, darkness fell early in the first days of March. She would not normally have travelled from Lyons at this time of year, but the family could not afford to miss the opportunity of securing an export agent for their silks and velvets. He had been most impressed by the quality of Marguerite’s wares and happy to take some to sell in Naples and Rome. Such sales might save their business, Marguerite knew, for the French market had become extremely difficult of late. Before the Revolution, Lyons had had thousands upon thousands of looms, and had provided silk to all the great houses of France, and beyond. But the continuing wars had taken almost all the men and, now that France had been defeated, the people who remained were more concerned about filling their bellies than putting fine clothes upon their backs.
The Grolier business could not afford to upset the few wealthy customers who remained in France. And one of the greatest of those—the Duchess of Courland—was waiting impatiently for the special silk for a court dress. Before this unexpected trip to Marseilles, Marguerite and her sister had been working day and night to finish it in time. As soon as she returned to Lyons, one of them would have to carry it to Paris for the Duchess’s approval. The journey would be a huge expense, and Marguerite was only half-convinced that it was sensible, but her sister, Suzanne, maintained that it would be the making of their little business. Once the Duchess of Courland had approved Grolier silk, all the royalist ladies congregating around the restored King Louis XVIII would want to place orders. Marguerite and Suzanne would be able to employ more weavers, and to increase the number of their looms. They would no longer need to worry about having enough money to pay for bread and the medicines for their poor demented mama. They would be able to plan for the future at last.
It was not what they had been brought up to expect—it could never be that—but it might be tolerable.
Marguerite was finding it difficult to sleep, as she always did when she was away from her own bed. She would be very glad to be on the way home to Lyons in the morning. It was the first time that Suzanne had been left to run the household for more than just a day or two, and Marguerite was not sure how well she would have coped. She would have their maid, Berthe, to help her, of course, but Berthe spent much of her time watching over their sick mother, so Suzanne would be responsible for running the weaving shop as well as the house. There was a boy to help with the heavy work while Guillaume was away, but still…
Suzanne was younger and slighter than Marguerite, and she was also used to looking to Marguerite for decisions, and to give instructions to the servants. Would Suzanne be able to overcome her shyness enough to assert her authority when it was needed? Perhaps it would not have been necessary, Marguerite told herself. Suzanne would be able to continue her work at the silk looms unless there were problems with customers, or money. Or with their mother’s increasingly unpredictable starts.
Marguerite worried constantly about their mother. She was barely forty-five years old and yet, since the accident, she behaved like an old woman. Sometimes she did not know who or where she was. Sometimes she did not even recognise her own daughters. And yet, at other times, she was almost as lucid and as loving as she had ever been. The problem was that her periods of lucidity were becoming shorter and the episodes of demented behaviour longer and more frequent. Soon, the family would need to watch over her night and day, but there was not enough money to pay another servant to help Berthe. Even with the export sales that might come through the new agent, there would be only just enough to keep the family. The Duchess of Courland’s approval was vital. Would Suzanne have been able to finish the Duchess’s silk during Marguerite’s absence? It was such a slow and laborious business, because of the gold cord that had to be threaded through at intervals and the fineness of the other threads. Even a whole day’s weaving seemed to produce only a few more inches of cloth.
Marguerite turned over in bed, trying to find a cool spot on the inn’s lumpy pillow. If she had been rich, she would have travelled with her own pillows, and her own linen, as aristocratic ladies had done before the Revolution. As her own mother had done, once, before the family’s fortunes had fallen so low . If only Papa—
The heavy silence of the night was broken by a tiny scrabbling sound. A mouse, perhaps? Marguerite pulled the blankets more closely around her shoulders and listened hard. There it was again! But it was not coming from floor level, surely? It seemed to be coming from somewhere near the door, and quite high up.
She concentrated all her senses on the door to her chamber, straining her eyes as if, by willpower alone, she could force them to see in the blackness. Yes, the noise was still there, and getting a little louder, too. Someone was trying to enter her chamber!
Oh, where was Guillaume?Why had she not insisted he remain on guard outside her door? Because he needs to be rested enough to drive the coach in the morning, her sensible self reminded her. Even on the edge of panic, with an intruder—perhaps even a rapist—at her door, her sensible inner voice would not allow itself to be overwhelmed.
If there is an intruder, he will almost certainly be a thief, come to steal the silks and velvets. Many people must have seen what we were carrying in the coach and how valuable it is. I should have expected this.
And I will deal with it!
Very quietly, Marguerite slipped out of bed and donned the wrapper she had left lying across the end of the bed. Now that she was fully awake, she could actually make out the shapes of the furniture in the room. She looked around for a weapon. Yes, there! She seized the tall brass candlestick from the dressing table. Its weight was comforting.
She crept across the floor to stand behind the door. If he forced his way in, she would fell him with the candlestick before he had gone even a yard.
The noise outside was getting louder and louder. Did the intruder assume, because Marguerite had not screamed, that she was cowering in the corner?
She gripped the candlestick even more tightly. She would not cower. If she had had a pistol, she would be ready to shoot him.
There was a loud click. Silence. Had he forced the lock? Marguerite dared to touch