Chapter Two

“Are you certain, sir, that you want to pursue this matter? The streets are extremely dangerous in Paris right now.”

The young man’s pleasant countenance grew serious, causing Richard de Briers to turn a sharp eye at him. “What is it that you are saying, Jake? Are the streets barred? Bridges over the Seine destroyed, maybe?”

Jake Davies had been acting as Richard’s business man in Paris for the last four years. He began his life as a London street urchin, who tried to steal Robert de Briers’ handkerchief on a rainy night but got caught. Richard’s father, seeing the sorry state the starving boy was in, took him into his London household, and gave him a home, responsibilities, and seeing a potential, eventually an education. Jake started his career as a clerk to Mr. Donby, Robert de Briers’ secretary. His childhood in the London rookeries made him the perfect man to tackle post-revolutionary Paris. He had made possible many successful business transactions for Richard and his father before him. So, when Jake found it necessary to warn him, Richard listened and pondered.

“I am saying, sir, that we must go unnoticed, which implies we have to go after dark. The darkness will add a definite danger to our journey. There are two liabilities, as I see it. We could get held up by the troops of the Terror, and arrested if they have a mood to it. In that case, we are as good as dead, being foreigners, and English to boot. They will think us spies. On the other hand, we could be caught by cutthroats, and be robbed and murdered. No one would be surprised by one or two corpses floating in the Seine, these days.”

“Or, Jake, we could be clever and pick our way to the Rue Saint-Jacques cautiously. We could bring my relatives back to the inn in Auteuil and from there set off to the coast. Once we reach Boulogne, we could hire a boat to bring us back to England.

Jake bowed his head at the resolute tone of his master’s voice. “Yes, sir, we could do all that. Well, no better time like tonight, then.”

“My good man!” Richard grinned. “Let us prepare ourselves!”

The riots were still raging through Paris’ streets, therefore Manon and Jéhan had sensibly stayed indoors. They had, however, finished their last bits of food, the night before, so Manon realised she could not stay at the house for much longer. Jéhan was frightened, with reason, and she had done all she could to keep him quiet and comfort him as best as she was able to. After four days of hiding, Manon told her brother that their father might have been arrested. She kept silent about the real situation. Jéhan was too young to understand. Better to let him think their father was in prison, and therefore unreachable. No one was allowed to visit prisoners these days, and Jéhan, young though he was, knew that. She would explain what transpired when the time was right.

For now, she would make up a plan to escape from Paris. Her mind was diligently considering her options, while she was picking up eggs in the back garden. By some miracle, the plunderers had overlooked a single chicken, hidden under a pile of straw.

A large hand covered her mouth and a steely arm sneaked around her body, effectively pinning her arms in a tight hold. Manon struggled, fought, kicked her heels against her assailant’s shins but it was like kicking a brick wall. A warm whiff of breath caressed her ear, and a deep baritone voice whispered, “Do not fight me. Are you Manon Favier, daughter of Lily de Briers and Thibaut Favier?”

The tall, incredibly strong man had spoken in heavily accented French, and Manon had to strain her ears, just to be able to understand what he said. She nodded as well as she could do, given the fact that his hand was still on her mouth.

“I am your uncle Richard de Briers,” the man said. “I will release you now, and you must not make a sound. I have come to take you and your brother to England with me.”

Manon heaved a deep sigh and turned to look at her uncle, as soon as he set her back on her feet. It was early dusk and she could see him clearly in the light of the setting sun.

Richard de Briers was tall and broad-shouldered, with a figure that seemed to be hewn out of granite. Although he was dressed in the drab, coarsely woven clothes of a commoner, his stance and the expression on his face immediately gave him away as an aristocrat. A face as handsome as the devil’s, Manon registered, clean-cut, with wide-set eyes the colour of a winter sky, a long blade of a nose and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. A full head of pitch-black hair completed the image of a devil, yet what troubled Manon the most, was the cold, steely gaze in those grey eyes.

She shivered but straightened to her full height, which only allowed her to bring the top of her head halfway to his chest. Mon Dieu, but the man was a giant!

“How do I know that you are who you say you are, monsieur?” She challenged him, tossing back the red mane of her hair that had come undone from its pins. Her green eyes blazed at him with unmitigated defiance, as she lifted her face to look him straight in the eyes.

Richard de Briers stared at her in disbelief, unable, for a moment, to find the words that would convince her. Was this slip of a girl his doubting his word? If he was to act as her guardian, he had better make it clear to her from the beginning that he was the one giving the orders.

“Quit your whims, girl, and follow me. Do not fuss or there will be consequences. I have no qualms binding and gagging you.”

He gripped her arm and towed her along into the kitchen, where another man – slighter and shorter than de Briers – was waiting with her little brother, perched on his shoulder. Jéhan did not seem to be afraid of the strangers, and had his wooden horse tucked under his arm.

“We are travelling to England, Manon! Is that not wonderful?” The boy was smiling broadly.

“Keep quiet, little master,” Jake admonished in perfect Parisian French. “We do not want the guards to hear us.”

“Sorry,” Jéhan apologized. “I can be quiet as a mouse, monsieur, I promise!”

“Who are you, monsieur?” Manon challenged Jake. “Put my brother down, now!”

“His name is Jake Davies and he is my business man. You have nothing to fear from him,” Richard de Briers’ voice rumbled above her head. “Now, listen, mademoiselle. We will go to the river, where I have a small boat ready to take us to my rooms in Auteuil. That way, we will avoid the Barrière de Grenelle, and inspection by the guards at the barrier checkpoint. The surveillance is very thorough, these days.”

Manon humphed, which made the man raise an annoyed eyebrow.

“I know all too well how thorough the surveillance is, monsieur! I live here, remember?”

De Briers cut her short with a glare that could have set the place on fire, then continued, “From Auteuil, where I have horses ready, we ride to Boulogne, from where we sail to England. Can you ride?”

“No,” she sneered, “why would I have learned to ride a horse? There was no need to ride in Paris!”

“Great!” De Briers growled under his breath, but aloud he said, “It is of no consequence. Jake and I can take you behind us in the saddle in turn.”

Manon decided to give in, at least for now. This was as good a way as any other to escape Paris. Her ‘uncle’ seemed to have made his plan rather thoroughly. The toll barriers and the wall, called Murs des Fermiers Généraux’, were in place since 1788, a year before the storming of the Bastille.

The people had not approved of the tolls on all incoming goods, being levied to pay for the aristocrats’ extravagances. Since 1790, the barriers were checkpoints to control not only goods, but also the comings and goings of people, so avoiding them was paramount. Once they were in the countryside, Manon would find an opportunity to run away. Surely, in the Bois de Boulogne, an opportunity would present itself.

Manon did not trust this ‘uncle’ unconditionally. Father had told her about her so-called English family often enough, and what she learned about these people had not inclined her to feel generous towards them, but these were desperate times.

Manon’s mother had been a child of her grandfather’s first marriage. After the death of his wife in child birth, her grandfather had not taken much notion of his baby daughter, so Maman had been raised by her nanny and later, by her governess. At fifteen, Maman had eloped with her father’s French valet, Thibaut Favier. To escape her father’s wrath, they had fled to Paris, where Papa had worked in his father’s apothecary shop and learned the trade. Manon was born and the couple stayed in Paris. Jéhan was born when Manon was fifteen, but this late pregnancy was too much for Maman’s frail body. She died after three days of horrible agony, even though Manon, who also learned the apothecary trade, and her father had tried everything that was humanly possible to heal her.

There had never been a word from England, as far as Manon knew. And now, this ‘uncle’ had shown up. Her grandfather must have remarried at some point.

“Have you gathered the necessities for your journey?”

De Briers slightly shook her arm, as if he had noticed her daydreaming.

“We have only the clothes on our backs, Jéhan and I. Our house was plundered a few days ago.”

He nodded. “I will provide you with clothes and toiletries, when we reach Auteuil. It might be useful if you had a cloak, however. The river can be damp at night.”

“I have no cloak,” Manon replied. “Nor does Jéhan.”

“We have to go, Master,” Jake urged. In another ten minutes, the night watch will be upon us.”

“Come on, then,” De Briers said, and took Jéhan from Jake, to settle the boy on his hip, before striding to the door.

Chapter One

At Bearsham Manor, Hampshire, England, Sir Robert de Briers, baronet, lay dying.

His ragged breathing was shallow and fast, indicating that the end was near. This last apoplexy proved too much of a strain on Sir Robert’s heavyset, gout-infected body, even though his mind was as sharp as ever. With considerable effort, he opened his pale blue, bloodshot eyes and searched for the tall figure of his son and heir, Richard. Sir Robert had one last, yet most urgent request for him.

“Come, my son, come closer …”

Richard de Briers obeyed readily and bent down on one knee beside his father’s bed. Guessing that the old man wanted only him and no one else present to hear, he bowed his head toward his father. “I am listening, sir,” he whispered in his father’s ear. “What is it that you want from me?”

Wheezing and fighting for air, Sir Robert explained.

“You must go to Paris … and find the family of your late sister Lily. Her husband has … an apothecary’s workshop … in the Rue Saint-Jacques. There have been many riots lately, with the revolutionaries taking over power. Thibaut Favier, Lily’s husband … has not written to me on his usual date of the second Sunday of the month. I fear … something bad might have befallen him. If so, I want you … to bring the children … to the estate and … be their legal guardian. I have discussed this … with Mr Brownslow, my solicitor in Portsmouth. Go to him and ask him. Richard …”

The old man’s pudgy hand grabbed his son’s in urgent need.

“Do not say a word of this matter to your mother. She never approved of my concerns for Lily.”

Sir Robert squeezed Richard’s hand rather hard.

“Swear to me, Richard, … that you will do as I ask!”

“I give you my word, father, that I will see that Lily’s children are safe.”

Richard had no inkling as to how he was to achieve such a difficult task, what with all the frightful news that seeped through from France and his poor, besieged business man in Paris. Now he promised his dying father so he would do his uttermost best for his niece and nephew.

“Richard, my son,” Sir Robert’s fading voice once more claimed his attention.

“Yes, father?”

“You must be the best of guardians to them, care for them as if they were your own … Richard, you must learn to love them, promise me …”

“I promise, father.”

What was the meaning of all this, he wondered. Why was his father so adamant?

“Listen … come closer … there is a letter for you … you must read it … act upon its contents … it is hidden behind … behind …”

Sir Robert gasped for breath but the grip on Richard’s fingers never slackened.

“Where, father?” Richard encouraged.

“Behind … the veil …”

A faint, barely audible gush of breath escaped Sir Robert’s parched lips. It was his last one. Sir Robert de Briers was gone.

Richard laid the limp hand upon his father’s chest and closed his staring yet unseeing eyes. He rose from his knees and opened the door to the landing.

“Mrs Briskley,” Richard addressed Bearsham Manor’s housekeeper, “would you do me the kindness of seeing to it that my father is decently laid out?”

The plump, motherly woman bobbed. “Yes, sir, right away, sir,”she said as her tears quietly slipped from her eyes.

“Mr Thornton, will you notify Beacon & Sons that I will have need of their services for my father’s funeral, please.”

The elderly, thin butler bowed his head. “Of course, sir. Will you be needing anything else, sir?”

“I will say so when I think of it, Mr Thornton, thank you. For now, I would like to be on my own for a while, in my father’s library.”

“Yes, sir. Sir … on behalf of the staff, I would like to convey our deepest sympathy on the passing of Sir Robert.”

“Thank you.”

Weary to the bone, Richard descended the long, winding staircase and turned to the library door,  when the deep, sultry voice of his mother stopped him.

“How is he, Richard?”

Without turning to her, he replied, in the same disinterested tone his mother, Mildred de Briers had used. “My father is dead, Madam. You can pay your respects after he is been laid out.”

Not wishing to speak to her for the moment, he entered the library and closed the door behind him with a definitive click.

Lady Mildred de Briers stared at the closed door for a few moments, then gathered her lavender silk skirts and slowly mounted the stairs. Her still beautiful face was set in a grim expression.

It was June 1793 and Paris was once again in turmoil.

The people were rioting against the Terror regime, that crushed their hopes of a good life so viciously, but instead made them suffer even more cruelly than under the Ancient Régime. The execution of the royal family, presented to the people as the ultimate victory over the aristocracy, had the opposite effect, as people began to pity the unfortunate king Louis XVI, his queen Marie-Antoinette, beheaded in January 1793, and their surviving daughter Marie-Thérèse, barely fifteen and still imprisoned at the Tour du Temple.

People were murdered, women violated, children left to die of starvation on the streets. Shops were ransacked, houses burned, churches destroyed. It was chaos, the end of a world and of an era.

For Manon Favier, fate had something particular in store.

Up until now, the Faviers had managed to keep their heads above water well enough. Thibaut Favier had taken over his father’s apothecary shop in the Rue Saint-Jacques, near the Sorbonne university, after he fled England. He was well known and loved in the neighbourhood. He provided the much tried inhabitants with potions, pills and ointments for their many ailments, often without asking for payment. So the people had protected their apothecary and his family. However, recently Paris had been caught in a different kind of frenzy, where all the values of before were scattered and obliterated. Thibaut Favier’s shop was ransacked and the owner killed. Manon and her little five year old brother Jéhan were left orphans without a penny to live on.

However, on the day her father was killed, Manon had been out to meet her brother at the Couvent des Dames de Marie, where he attended school. She was on her usual round of patients in her care so she had been carrying her apothecary satchel, filled with the necessities of her trade, and a load of various items of food, given to her by her grateful patients. Manon had waited until the rioters were gone, and inwardly sent up a prayer of thanks because they hadn’t set fire to the house.

She and Jéhan had gone inside, barred the door and were planning to make up a bed for the night amidst the torn curtains and clothes, the plunderers had discarded, when Manon noticed the rusting iron odour of blood.  She spotted her father’s slaughtered corps on the kitchen floor. Quickly, she had ushered Jéhan into the shop, preventing him from seeing the horror.

“Here, my darling, let us sit down and eat something, shall we?”

Jéhan obeyed but asked, “Where is Papa? It is filthy in here, Manon. I want to go eat in the kitchen.”

“We cannot, my darling.”

Manon debated what she should do while she handed a lump of bread and a piece of cheese to her brother. Jéhan had to be told about their father but it was not necessary for him to see his bloodied corpse. Her stomach churning and her heart grieving, she applied herself to feed her brother and put him to sleep on a pile of rags in one corner of the shop. She waited until he was fast asleep before she ventured back into the kitchen again.

They had stabbed Papa with multiple wounds and he had bled copiously until one blade pierced his heart. His face – surprisingly – was intact and serene, as if he had not suffered a great deal. Maybe, he had not, Manon mused, but she knew she was fooling herself. A large lump had formed in her throat, now threatening to burst. She closed her eyes, heaved a deep sigh and then, started to think.

Jéhan and she could not stay in Paris, that was obvious. The riots became harsher by the day and half the city was on the run for the countryside. The populace that would stay, was a rabble of miscreants and murderers, not to mention the Terror’s troops. Any time now, she and her brother could be arrested and put on trial, which would certainly lead to being beheaded. The fact that Jéhan was only five years old, would not stop the monsters. Her own fate was even worse than death.

Manon shivered, swallowed and made her decision. She would bury her father in the small back garden, used to grow their herbs, and then wait until the rebellion against the Terror slowed down enough for her to leave Paris. Where she would be going, she did not know yet. But she was going, no doubt about that.

Eighteen – Solutions

The following morning, Stephen and Beth set off to Manchester in the Brixton Abbey travelling coach, a comfortable and spacious carriage that could easily accommodate eight people, if necessary. Each of them was lost in their own thoughts as they progressed through the lush, green fields and hills of Leicestershire.

Beth pondered over the account Stephen gave her of his conversation with Oliver. Because he had been raised as the heir to a title and an estate, Stephen behaved exactly as his father once had. He was firm and strict in dealing with his equals and stern and arrogant towards those who depended on him, his tenants and servants. In public, he rarely showed affection to those who were dear to him and even in private, Stephen seldom dropped the last of his defences, as Beth knew all too well. The previous night, they had made love, as they had every night since Stephen recovered from the chickenpox but for the first time, neither of them had reached fulfilment. Both had lain awake for long hours, each of them ignoring the insomnia of the other and their backs turned to each other. Now Stephen sat staring through the carriage window, brooding over the whole wretched situation but unable to resolve it. Beth herself still felt too hurt over her husband’s harsh treatment of his son to sympathize much. She was very much aware that she would have an impossible task to make Stephen listen to his children’s aspirations and wishes. He was too much the lord of the mansion to do so.

Suddenly, Beth realised they were riding through the outskirts of Manchester as she recognized the sign of The Queen’s Head inn.

“Stephen, we should not go further! We might easily scare Oliver away when he sees the carriage!”

“You are right,” Stephen acknowledged and he swiftly rapped on the vehicle’s roof.

“Hodgkins! Pull up into the inn’s yard, if you please!”

“Very well, my lord!” came the reply and then the coachman turned the carriage sharp left.

Wat Burton, the innkeeper, came rushing out of the taproom, wiping his hands on a rag.

“My Lord Brixton! What a pleasure to meet you again, sir! Come in, if you please.”

Burton bowed deeply and when he straightened, let his eyes grow wide open at the sight of Beth, being handed down from the carriage by Stephen.

“Miss Williams! How delightful …”

Mr Burton, allow me to introduce you to Lady Brixton,” Stephen said, grinning broadly at seeing the innkeeper’s surprise. The man stammered a hasty apology and bowed even deeper. His wife Isobel, who joined him when she saw there was a lady present, curtsied reverently.

“My Lady, welcome in our humble establishment. Do you wish for a private room?”

“Yes, Mrs Burton, that would be most agreeable,” Beth answered and followed her inside.

~~~~

Stephen waited until his wife had gone before he went in search of Wat Burton. He and Beth agreed not to go to Mrs Oakham’s house together. Oliver might not trust his father and flee but he would not resent Beth, whom he loved and trusted. Therefore, Beth would go on her own and try to reason with the boy. Although he knew they were doing the right thing, Stephen was not entirely convinced that Oliver would listen to reason. He also was fairly sure the boy would not be at Mrs Oakham’s now because it was broad daylight and people were at work. If he knew his son’s character just a tiny bit, Stephen thought it possible that Oliver was also at work, presumably in some cotton mill. So, when he found Burton in his cellar, taking stock of his beer casks, Stephen confronted him rather sharply.

“You know everything that goes on around here, Mr Burton. I will ask you straight away, then. Where is Oliver Bradley?”

Burton stiffened and looked the baron in the eyes in a defiant manner.

“Why are you asking, my lord? What is it to you?”

“He is my son. I want to take him back with me.”

The masterful tone the baron employed seemed to irritate the innkeeper, who straightened visibly but kept his voice level.

“I do not know where the boy has gone to other than to Mrs Oakham’s house, my lord. Why not look there for him?”

Stephen, annoyed with the man’s defiance, shot him a suspicious look.

“Oh, come on, Mr Burton. Do not insult my intelligence or your own! Which cotton mill has him enlisted on their payroll?”

When the innkeeper blanched visibly, Stephen knew he had hit the bull’s eye.

~~~~

“Beth!” Mrs Oakham’s voice rang with pleasure as she beheld the young woman on the threshold with eyes sparkling with fondness. “Come in, child! How are you? Is it true that you have married that scoundrel Fenton? I could not believe the rumours that came to me from Woolworth.”

Beth felt herself blushing like a schoolgirl under Mrs Oakham’s blunt words. A tug of longing ran through her as they reminded her of Granny Bradley, Mrs Oakham’s sister and she was again struck by the resemblance between the two sisters, in manner as well as in countenance.

“Yes, Mrs Oakham, I am Lady Brixton now but my husband is no longer a scoundrel.”

She paused searching for the right words to describe the changes in Stephen’s behaviour over the last weeks. Her mouth curved into a smile as she saw the beloved face of her husband in her mind’s eye.

“Stephen is a good man, Mrs Oakham, but his huge responsibilities often prevent him from taking the time to listen to people. Instead, he rushes on and barges in and mostly, the regrets come when the damage is done. I am endeavouring to try and change that in him but it is a difficult task as I am fighting years of unchallenged solitary control over a regal estate like Brixton Abbey.”

Mrs Oakham took Beth’s face between her small, slender hands, hands that were streaked with hundreds of tiny wrinkles from hard, honest work.

“Let me see how you fare,” she whispered earnestly and peered into Beth’s eyes like she would have done with a child that behaved badly.

Beth banned all thoughts from her mind. Only Stephen remained. He often was the only object of her affections, lately.

“There is a new, bright light in your gaze, child,” was the older woman’s statement. “You are happy, I can tell. Now what is it that brought you and your husband to Manchester?” And, when she saw Beth’s astonishment, she added: “Oh, never fear, Manchester is but a large village. Everybody knows everything about everyone else. In fact, …”

She was suddenly and brutally interrupted by a loud banging on the front door and a voice, which Beth recognized Isobel Burton’s, cried in panic:

“Mrs Oakham, is Lady Brixton with you? I have to talk to her! His Lordship has rushed off to Marlborough Mills, threatening to murder the proprietor for employing Oliver at the factory!”