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Chapter 2 — Rapprochement

His Lordship the Earl of Carnforth —or rather, the Countess his spouse— had spared no expense to lay on an entertainment on a truly grand scale. Lady Blaymere’s social evenings, by comparison, had been little more than a supper party with cultural pretensions. Following young Roland de Céligny through room after room ablaze with light and costly hangings, where the quivering flame of hundreds of candles was cast back by mirrors and by crystal lustres overhead, and servants in livery moved deftly amidst the throng, Artus de Brencourt could almost have imagined himself transported to some princely court, or back in a dream of the France of his youth.

Only those days had vanished as thoroughly as the youth that had fled —barren and wasted, all of it— or the laughter of the little Queen at Versailles. Quite how empty that dream had become he knew better now than anyone here.( Read more... )

My speculations as to Roland's future, post-canon. And a trifle of actual plot. (The deleted passage from "The Remorse of Others" rewrite did get used!)

Ashes

“Where Roland’s sword had failed utterly, de Brencourt, despite everything, had brought them all off to safety as well as could be managed”: AU in which the rescue plans succeeded. Two years later, Roland has an unexpected encounter, and an inspiration.

Chapter 1 — Reunion

London, in this year of grace 1802 — with its foreign rooflines, its parks and garden squares, and the crowds of all nations that seemed to fill its teeming streets — was a trifle overwhelming to a young man who had never before set foot beyond his native shores. But England, weary of war, had at long last reconciled herself to the existence of the upstart French Republic under Napoleon Bonaparte, whose conscript armies had defeated half the crowned heads of Europe, and for the first time in ten years it had become possible for travellers to cross the Channel in both directions in perfect safety... and while the English, cut off for so long from the Continent, flocked abroad, no few of Roland de Céligny’s compatriots had likewise seized the opportunity. One could take ship openly for Dover without having recourse to the aid of smugglers or spies, and with one’s wife dressed in all the latest fashions —styles that were already, as Marthe observed with her usual high spirits, clearly inspiring imitation among the ladies of London society— even if, as in Roland’s case, one happened to be a young gentleman with a sufficiently intemperate Royalist past to make it inadvisable, as a rule, to attract the attention of the authorities.

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As she had suspected, Gaston would not hear of her humbling herself to the First Consul's wife. But sitting there in the narrow confines of his prison cell, every atom of her being focused on him, she became increasingly certain that he was evading her true concerns.

"If the plan for tomorrow should fail—" She brought the question back yet again, insistent. "Gaston, what is to happen? Will Bonaparte keep you imprisoned for years, perhaps?"

His hand tightened on hers in answer.

"The truth, Valentine, is that if I am not rescued, I shall undoubtedly be shot... as an— example."

It was hard, so hard to wait while she could do nothing and Gaston's life hung in the balance...

"Roland, if tomorrow night's scheme should fail... I have heard that Madame Bonaparte is greedy for jewels, they say, and of Royalist leanings. If I offered her the Mirabel rubies, the last of the treasure, would she use her influence with her husband, do you think?"

Roland looked startled. "Forgive me, but — would the Duc endorse such a step?"

"I should appeal as one wife to another... without touching his pride."

Only Gaston would not approve. She knew that too well.

Paris was in a positive ferment of Royalist conspiracy at present, and there had been a great deal of ill-feeling over the circumstances of the Duc de Trélan's capture. It should be possible to effect his escape, and indeed a promising scheme was afoot for the very next day. Precision would be required, and sufficient purloined uniforms to outfit an entire escort and commanding officer, who would present counterfeit orders for the prisoner's transfer to some other place of confinement.

Tomorrow evening, provided it all went exactly according to plan, Valentine and her husband would be making for the coast.

The Duc de Trélan had arrived in Vannes the day before; the whole town, as they drove in, was ringing with the news. But it had not been under safe-conduct, but under arrest, and he had not come to face a formal surrender, but a summary tribunal that duly passed a death sentence.

They had used the umbrella charge that the Duc was a rebel taken in arms — an émigré making war upon his own country, who had never intended to capitulate. Bonaparte, newly acclaimed First Consul, wished to make a salutary example. The prisoner had been taken to Paris.

It was eighty miles to La Vergne. Eighty miles to ride, day and night, and he was a sick man.

Mud-spattered from head to foot, he half-fell into the hall; gasped out his warning to its recipient, who surveyed him pitilessly.

"Treachery, de Brencourt? Your speciality, no doubt!"

The words struck like a blow. He found a chair; clung on.

"Your safe-conduct is wastepaper, I tell you. You are going to your death. In God's name, why else would I have come?"

"I cannot pretend to guess." Ice-cold. "Your motives may be obscure, monsieur, but your deceit has failed — again."

Once, in the old, idle, vicious days, she had longed for Gaston de Trélan to find a purpose in life. Now that he had come back to her a soldier and a hero, she had begun at last to realise the price that fulfilment might cost.

She had not understood before tonight just how badly the fight was going; how close to danger they stood. Only she must lie still, must not toss and turn, for he must ride tomorrow and was in need of sleep.

His breathing at her side was calm and steady. Valentine awaited the coming dawn.