Page 19 of Souvenir Heart

“Take my letter to the tribunal, citizens please. I beg you. It will prove my innocence,” another man cried, his voice joining the calls for a lawyer. A woman’s voice rose in hysterical laughter.

The guard in front of her halted so suddenly, Marguerite nearly ran into him. He pulled a key from the ring at his waist and began unlocking a cell door. How many doors? How many gates now lay between her and freedom?

She’d lost count.

She felt the burn of tears forming against her eyelids and blinked rapidly, refusing to let them fall, reaching for anger instead. She’d had no control, no choice about the family she’d been born into, the man she’d been made to marry. The canvas had been her only place to explore, to dream, to show the world as she saw it. To be her true self.

The guard swung the cell door open.

Pale faces turned to look at her from narrow trestle beds set end to end on either side of the cell; a long, cramped room with a half-arched ceiling, and a single-barred window high in the wall at the far end. The beds were separated by tall wooden head and footboards, which provided a modicum of privacy; the beds and their partitions were a luxury for which Marguerite had paid dearly.

Moldering straw littered the floor. She smelled the bucket that served as the communal toilet, before she spotted it beneath the window.

The guard grabbed her wrist, jerking her forward, then shoved her inside. Still clutching her bundle, she stumbled towards an empty bed. Her husband’s death and her father’s flight had made her believe that at last, she could spend her days painting whatever and whenever she wanted.

Now, she didn’t even have a sketchbook.

Thirteen

JUNE 10TH, 1793 (22 PRAIRIAL I)

The brigade chief in charge of the Rouen office of public safety was not having a good day. It was unseasonably hot, even for June. No, for Prairial, he mentally amended. The flies on the ceiling above his desk seemed to be multiplying at a pace almost as alarming as that of the pile of papers on his desk. And now this.

“Captain Bouchary and his company have disappeared,” said L’Helias.

The brigade chief waved away a fly and peered at his subordinate over the latest set of directives from Paris. “What do you mean disappeared?”

“He and five of his men were sent out yesterday to patrol the road to Barentin. They haven’t returned.” Sweat streaked the young man’s narrow face, and his cheeks were nearly as red as the rosette on the tricorne he clutched to his dust-coated chest.

“They were on foot? Yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So even with a day’s head start, they couldn’t have gone far. You’ve searched thoroughly?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The taverns?”

“Yes, sir.” L’Helias nodded, sweat spattering the white facing of his blue jacket.

The brigade chief sighed. The restructuring of the military two years ago had allowed for men to advance on their own merits rather than on their social standing and connections. But the democratic ideals this change had brought with it also created certain challenges to discipline.

“The brothels?”

“Yes, sir.” L’Helias nodded again, spattering more sweat.

“You’ve checked with any family members in the area?” There was always a chance they’d gone home for a good meal.

“No sign of them.”

He sighed again. He was already dealing with reports of smugglers, spies, and bandits in the area. Which was only to be expected, given they were the main route between Paris and the English Channel. Separating reality from rumor was challenging. Still, a man couldn’t be too careful in these troubled—no, liberating, times. Mistakes could cost a man his head.

“Send out mounted patrols along the roads to Barentin. Tell them to speak with the tradesmen who regularly travel the road and with the laborers working the fields alongside it. Ask if anyone saw the patrol. Saw anything unusual,” he added, glancing down at the pile of papers on his desk. He fanned them out, searching for a report he’d just remembered. Catching sight of it, he snatched it up and held it out to L’Helias. “Can you read?”

“No, sir.” L’Helias shook his head.

Of course not. No point in asking if any of his men did either. Reading was a rare skill. “We’ve had some reports of an Englishman with a scar and woman traveling northwest in a blue Berlin,” he explained. “It’s one of the reasons I wanted that road patrolled in the first place. Tell your men to ask about it as well.” Also pointless, he suspected. By now the coach and its occupants were probably long gone.