Page 18 of Souvenir Heart

Andre shifted the lantern onto the bench, pulled out his chisel and began working on the lower right-hand panel of the coach. “I haven’t heard him talk about a woman since the American war. Much less look at one. At least not in a manner that might produce a child.”

When the last blue panel had been added to the pile, David removed a candle from the lantern and held it to the edge of the wood until it began to blacken and burn. Fueled by paint and varnish, it didn’t take long for flames to spread, and soon the men found themselves standing beside a small bonfire.

“Still, there was a time when Marcus was quite the romantic,” Andre said. “Went about spouting poetry and writing odes to m’lady’s eyes…”

“Odes?” David turned to look at him. “Tyns wrote poetry? Our Tyns?”

“The most awful stuff. But the ladies adored it. Or at least, adored him. There was one in particular… Was it Anna? Annabelle? Alice?” He frowned. “Can’t remember, but I seem to recall there was talk of a marriage upon his return.”

“So, what happened?”

“We were shipped back at different times after the battle of Saratoga and that ghastly march to Boston. He was gravely wounded. I’d even heard rumors he was dead. When I met up with him again in England, he was…changed. I put it down to the war. No mention of the lady or marriage. And then of course, he went racketing off to Paris.”

“Did the lady not wait? Did she die?”

“I don’t know. I asked. Once. He gave me that look and went chilly as the tomb.” Andre gave a mock shudder. “Then he picked up his sketchbook, buried his nose in it, and pretended I didn’t exist. For weeks.”

“An effective strategy. The man is entitled to his privacy.”

“The man’s damned lonely, if you ask me...”

“He hasn’t. Asked either of us. And it’s his choice.”

They stepped back to avoid the flying sparks. Behind them, the coach’s transformation was complete; the pea-green coach with the rust-colored trim looked very little like the baggage-laden blue one it had been only a few hours before.

As they turned to admire their handiwork, Andre said softly, “Tell me, if you saw a friend walking closer and closer to the edge of a cliff, would you let him walk on, even if you knew it was his choice?”

Twelve

Marguerite waited for hours in the court offices to find out why she was being arrested. She was still waiting when they led her down the hallway to the prison’s registration desk.

“Is this all you have?” the clerk asked, when she placed her shawl-wrapped bundle on the desk in front of him. His tone made it clear the question was more from rote than any real curiosity. He was a small, bald man with lips stitched in what appeared to be a permanent line of disapproval. He rifled through her things, setting the money aside for what he referred to as “room and board,” and raised a single sparse eyebrow at the pile of candles. “Those should make you popular among your cellmates.”

Cellmates.

She was standing on what she understood was the ‘in’ side, which included the desk with its open ledger, a line of waiting prisoners, visitors, and guards. The guards were a different set than the ones who’d left her there. The stubble-faced man had given her buttocks a final squeeze before departing.

The other side of the hall was clearly, horrifyingly, the ‘out’ side. Along its far wall was a row of cells housing the condemned waiting to be called to the tumbrils. In one, a man in his forties lay upon a filthy mattress, surrounded by half-eaten food and overturned bottles. In another, a woman in her twenties, dressed in white, hair shorn to just below her ears, sat motionless and staring as if already dead. Beside her, two women—the older one’s face a softer and slightly lined version of what the younger’s would now never look like, held each other and wept. And in a third cell, a group of men barely out of their teens played at cards; their shirt sleeves rolled up, their jokes sounding too loud, their laughter too brittle.

“Here,” the clerk handed her bundle back. She clutched it tightly against her chest, as if the paisley might somehow protect her.

“You can take her now,” he added, turning to her new set of guards.

Marguerite hadn’t registered their faces, only stained uniforms, broad-knuckled hands, and weapons.

“This way.” A guard with dark hair on the backs of his hands and a club tied at his waist caught her wrist and jerked her forward.

He led her down more hallways. The only light came from lanterns strung from the vaulted ceilings, and it made the former royal palace, with its winding stairs, barred and boarded up windows, and iron gates feel like a hellish maze.

They passed through gates, so many gates, with wickets cut into them. The guard pulled a key from the ring jangling at his waist to unlock the wickets, swinging them open with a screech of heavy hinges.

The wickets were smaller than normal doors, their frames set several inches above ground level. Each time she stepped through one, Marguerite ducked her head, even though it only felt necessary, and lifted her feet, which was, if she wanted to avoid tripping or barking her shins.

“I need to see my lawyer. The warder said I could see my lawyer,” a man’s voice demanded insistently as they walked past a row of cells. In the court offices she’d been offered a chance to contact a lawyer. She’d searched her mind. Do I know any? Any that aren’t Girondins? That would only make things worse. Perhaps she should contact a friend? But did she dare drag a friend into the muck of her troubles?

Could she even be sure they were her friends?

She thought of Victorine’s visit to her apartment. Had her desire for a neighborly chat actually been to see if she’d fled? To prevent her from leaving? Had she left the note? Or had she denounced her?