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‘As for the rest of us,’ Harry went on, ‘I have obtained a tumbril and a skinny old pony and our disguises are ready in the corner there. We will plan to be at La Force at half past four and, give or take a few minutes, here soon after five. Horses will be waiting for us here with fresh clothes and we will only be minutes behind the coach. Timing is everything if we are to be convincing.’
‘Then I had better go back to the Embassy and tell Lisette to be ready.’ Jay rose to go.
‘Do not quarrel with her,’ Harry called after him. ‘We want her compliant.’
Jay strode down the street, ignoring the cold wind which threatened to lift his hat off his head. Above him the sky was dark with impending rain which might be a godsend later that evening. Darkness and bad weather could hide so many things. He was feeling more optimistic. The plan was intricate and daring. The tumbril would arrive at La Force to take the prisoner to the Conciergerie for his trial, but it would disappear on the way. That would be the most risky part, spiriting it down an alley and changing it into a common farm cart full of cabbages under which the prisoner would be hidden. They would not risk taking it through the barrier like that; the guards were wise to such tricks and always searched such loads. Remembering how they had fooled the guards at Honfleur, it was Jay himself who suggested that they should dress in the uniform of maréchaussée and pretend to be in hot pursuit of the carriage. The change of clothes, which had been purchased by Nat from a corrupt army quartermaster at great expense, would be made at the Cross Keys. After they had left, Madame Barnard would destroy all evidence they had been there and would have the added bonus of a cartload of cabbages with which to make soup.
If they could pull it off, all might yet be well. So much depended on Lisette. His earlier anger had evaporated; he could not stay angry with her for long and he admitted to himself he had been rather dictatorial, not telling her everything. His vow never to trust another woman seemed vain and pointless in the face of her courage. The way she had tended his sore feet, the way she had returned his kisses, her tears and her concern for his safety even when they were arguing, had all seemed genuine, not the act of a woman out to deceive. He desperately wanted it to be genuine. He wanted to trust her. You could not love without trust.
Lisette let herself in the Embassy and hurried up to her bedchamber, fetched out the masculine clothes she had bought earlier and stood breathing deeply to calm herself. Then she stripped off her own clothes, put on the shirt, breeches and stockings and her new blue-silk gown over them, lacing the bodice tightly over the shirt. She had planned to put the coat over that, but it was much too tight and she abandoned it; Michel would be wearing a coat and she could use that. Taking the scissors to her hair, she cut it to the length Michel wore his and tied it back with a length of thin black ribbon.
That done, she sat down to write a letter to Jay. That was the most difficult part of the whole proceeding. It was damp with tears by the time it was done. Having signed it and dusted it, she tucked it into the top of her bodice. Then she pulled another sheet of paper towards her, sat a moment with her pen poised over it, wondering what to write. Smiling to herself, she folded it and inscribed the outside with Mr Wentworth’s name. Finally she slipped into her own shoes, stood up and looked in the mirror at a woman laced too tightly into a gown that appeared too small for her. A man’s shirt filled the square décolletage and its sleeves protruded from the sleeves of the gown. If it had been a game she was playing she might have laughed at the apparition, but this was in deadly earnest. Topping this strange ensemble with her burnous, she went downstairs to seek out Madame Gilbert.
‘If the gentleman who was here yesterday should call after we have left, will you give him this?’ she said, handing her the second of her missives. ‘Do not give it to him before that.’
‘Oui, madame. Am I also to shut up the house?’
‘Yes. We will not be needing it again.’ She retrieved a bundle of assignats from her purse and gave them to her. ‘We are grateful for the trouble you have taken to look after us.’ And with that she left the house for the last time. There was no time for regrets, no time for anything except to go back to the Palais de Justice and her rendezvous with her fate. Outside she stopped. Go in or turn away? It was the decision of a lifetime because whatever happened as a result of what she did now, it would colour the rest of her life, however long or short that might be. Regret or gladness, remorse or satisfaction that she had done what was right? Did she have a choice? Could she let them all die? She took a deep breath and made her way into the building.
