Angel Heart Read online

  ‘I cannot possibly attend the theatre,’ Marie-Ange objected.

  ‘Don’t worry, I am sure one single outing won’t tarnish your impeccable reputation as a war widow,’ Saintclair retorted coldly. He turned to his friend. ‘Yes, we will come. Could you procure us some tickets?’

  How dare he talk to her like that? She was too stunned to find a suitable reply.

  ‘So it’s settled.’ Martin stood up and clicked his heels together. ‘Madame, I shall look forward to seeing you later.’

  He turned to Saintclair and winked. ‘Don’t you dare keep this charming creature to yourself. I know what you’re like with ladies. After all, your record for the cuirassiers’ aptitude test remains unequalled to this day.’

  ‘Shut up, Martin.’ Saintclair sounded annoyed.

  Martin only laughed. ‘See you tonight,’ he reminded him as he left.

  ‘What aptitude test?’ Marie-Ange asked.

  ‘It’s an old story.’ Saintclair stood up and pulled on his coat. ‘Shall we go?’

  Before he hailed a carriage to drive them back to Le Faisan Doré, Marie-Ange placed a hand on his arm. She so wished to return to the spot she had seen the man who resembled Christopher – the man the concierge had called Joseph Nallay.

  ‘Could we please stop at the Luxembourg Gardens before we return to the hotel? It will look so pretty in the snow.’

  Saintclair agreed. Marie-Ange felt a rush of excitement as the carriage stopped near the garden’s black and gold gates. But the Luxembourg was closed. A notice pinned on the gates read that the snow made the lanes too hazardous.

  Chapter Three

  With dozens of torches burning high on the six columns of its classical façade, the Théâtre Italien lit up the night sky. Black cabs and private carriages lined the street. Men in dinner jackets and women adorned with sparkling jewellery and in rustling evening dresses climbed up the stone steps and made their way through the double doors. The air was full of talk about the evening’s performance, L’Amour Fugitif, with Angelica Catalini, one of Paris’ most acclaimed sopranos.

  Marie-Ange held on to Capitaine Saintclair’s arm as they entered the lobby. She blinked, intimidated by the scintillating lights and the even more scintillating crowd. Saintclair looked around for his friend.

  ‘He’s over there.’ He gestured towards the back of the hall.

  Capitaine Martin stood next to a tall, dark-haired woman. The light from the chandeliers shone on her raven black hair which was pinned in an elaborate chignon, with tight ringlets framing her face. A low-cut crimson silk gown emphasized her statuesque figure, a mink stole snaked around her creamy white shoulders. She was so beautiful, so elegant that Marie-Ange felt an unusual twinge of envy. For a few seconds, she wished she wore a fashionable gown too instead of her plain grey dress. Her fingers smoothed her hair which she wore in the simple style favoured by her mother—two tight braids twisted together and secured with embossed gold combs—the only style her mother claimed could tame their unruly, curly blond hair.

  Capitaine Saintclair looked at the woman and cursed under his breath.

  ‘Here you are at last,’ Martin said with a happy smile as they approached. ‘I managed to get us seats behind the orchestra.’

  He turned to his female companion. ‘I bumped into Caroline this afternoon and persuaded her to come tonight. Isn’t that grand?’

  Marie-Ange felt Saintclair’s arm stiffen under her hand.

  ‘This is a surprise,’ he told the woman coldly. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon after you left with de Mitre for Auxerre.’

  ‘I have just come back. Auxerre was boring and de Mitre is so…dull. How that man made Major instead of you, I really don’t understand.’ The woman’s voice was seductively husky and her smouldering gaze darted to Saintclair.

  ‘So this means I’m all yours. Again.’ She flicked open a large black and red silk fan decorated with ostrich feathers.

  Saintclair didn’t reply but turned to Marie-Ange. ‘Madame Norton, this is Caroline Dupin, a friend. Caroline, I am escorting Marie-Ange Norton to Lyon.’

  The two women nodded politely to each other.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ Saintclair asked, taking her arm again to lead the way into the hall.

  The opera was a new experience for Marie-Ange. Her only outings these past few years had been the Christmas dance at Wellcombe village hall or the spring fair on the green. There was also the occasional ball marking a betrothal or a wedding at a neighbouring manor house she was required to attend as the representative of the Norton family, but she rarely enjoyed such events. The magnificent Théâtre Italien concert hall made her catch her breath with its rows of seats covered with plush red velvet and the private boxes adorned with gold mouldings. Enormous glittering chandeliers hung from a blue and gold painted ceiling. A thick red curtain hid the stage. Musicians tuned their instruments in the orchestra pit. The galleries and private boxes were already filled with spectators and the buzz of conversations, laughter and music was exciting.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ she exclaimed, feeling a little guilty for enjoying the experience so much.

  Next to her, Saintclair smiled and pointed out a few people in the audience.

  ‘Général Maurice of the Fifth Hussars and over there Général George, from the Eighth Batallion of Infantry.’ He turned to the right. ‘Le Ministre Charette and his…ahem…lady friend, Mademoiselle Jardin, the actress. And over there, Le Duc de Richelieu, who has, I believe, just returned from Vienna.’

  Next to him, Caroline Dupin waved her fan. ‘Waiting for the performance is always so tedious,’ she said in a bored voice. She leant closer to him. ‘By the way, Hugo, I’m going back to Lyon next week. I hope you’ll come and visit.’

  ‘Maybe…’ He answered, his eyes still scanning the spectators.

  Loud taps resounded near the stage area. The audience hushed, the gas lights dimmed and the orchestra played the opening notes of a lively overture. When it was over, the heavy curtain slid open to reveal an elaborate set of painted Italian gardens with a castle in the background.

  ‘It’s like a fairytale,’ Marie-Ange whispered.

  As soon as the performance started, she lost herself in the music, and when Angelica Catalani lamented the loss of her lover, her beautiful voice stirred well-known emotions and tears streamed down her cheeks. She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule to dab her eyes.

  ‘Are you not feeling well?’ Saintclair looked concerned.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she muttered, embarrassed. ‘It’s the music. I’ve never heard such beautiful music before.’

  He arched his eyebrows but thankfully turned his attention back to the stage. At the entr’acte, people got out of their seats to make their way to the refreshment halls. Saintclair announced he was going for a cigar at the bar with Martin and asked Caroline to take Marie-Ange upstairs to the ladies’ parlour. The woman shrugged and complained that she would much rather have a cigar, too, but she led the way to a gallery on the first floor where waiters rushed around, offering drinks to ladies dressed in a rainbow of colours. Marie-Ange chose a glass of lemonade, Caroline a champagne flute. Looking over Marie-Ange’s shoulder, she then waved at someone and walked away, after promising to come back shortly.

  The lemonade was too syrupy and did nothing to quench her thirst, so Marie-Ange left her glass on a table and waited patiently for Caroline to return. She soon became aware of a woman staring at her from the other side of the room. Dressed in a dark purple silk gown, the woman’s brown hair was lightly streaked with grey and arranged in graceful loops above her ears in the fashion of the day. Perplexed, because she was sure she had never seen her before, Marie-Ange smiled. The woman became very pale and lifted her white-gloved hand to her throat as if she had seen a ghost before rushing across the room towards her.

  ‘I apologise for my bluntness, Madame,’ she said when she stood in front of her. ‘You bear an extraordinary resemblance to someone I used to know, a lon
g time ago, at the Salles Priory. May I ask if you are related to Catherine Beauregard?’

  Marie-Ange let out a cry of surprise. ‘Catherine Beauregard? Yes, she was my mother.’

  The woman leant closer.

  ‘Mon Dieu! How extraordinary. I had no idea Catherine married and had a daughter. To tell the truth, she disappeared from Salles in the most distressing circumstances. We were told she had died…’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘But I am forgetting my manners. My name is Louison George.’

  Slightly overwhelmed and her voice hoarse wtih emotion, Marie-Ange introduced herself just as a bell rang the end of the interval. The woman took hold of her hand.

  ‘I am afraid I cannot let you go already, my dear girl. There are so many things I want to ask you. Would you mind very much if we stayed here and talked?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Marie-Ange agreed readily. As much as she was enjoying the performance, talking to a friend of her late mother’s was an opportunity she could not pass on. ‘I would be delighted to talk to you, Madame George. The thing is, I don’t know much about my mother’s life as a girl in France. I was born in England. It’s where I lived all my life, and I have never met any of my mother’s French friends or relatives.’

  They made their way to the sitting area, quiet now that everybody had returned to the concert hall.

  ‘You said Catherine was your mother, am I to understand she passed away?’ Louison asked after they sat down.

  ‘Yes, she died of pneumonia when I was five. I was brought up by my father.’

  ‘Poor Catherine, she led such a tragic life.’ Louison sighed. ‘Tell me, how did she manage to escape to England?’

  Marie-Ange shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. I was far too young for her to confide in me. I only know she came to Plymouth where she married my father. I was born there in December 1791.’

  ‘December? But…’ Louison George frowned and toyed with her pearl necklace.

  ‘Please tell me how you met my mother,’ Marie-Ange urged, wondering why the woman looked so uneasy.

  Louison shook her head and smiled. ‘Of course. I met her at Salles where I was a boarder. Catherine arrived in October 1790. She was very sad, very lonely. Her father was jailed in Beaujeu and her mother appeared to have abandoned her. I was missing my family too, so we became friends. We used to walk in the cloister gardens after our lessons or sew in the evening.’ Her eyes clouded over. ‘Sometimes, Catherine sang for me. She had such a lovely voice. I remember a particularly poignant song her godfather had taught her—a song about a girl weeping for her dead lover in a dovecote.’

  Marie-Ange looked up sharply. She was certain this was the very song her mother sang to send her to sleep when she was little. What a shame she couldn’t remember the words.

  ‘We also enjoyed painting,’ Louison resumed. ‘Catherine was a good artist, much better than I was. She spent hours drawing in her sketch book. She wanted to give it to her father. Unfortunately the poor man was executed in Lyon in January 1791. Catherine was inconsolable when she heard the news.’ She sighed. ‘Then a couple of weeks later, her aunt, the Abbess, told her that her mother had married Edmond Malleval.’ She shuddered. ‘She was so angry. She couldn’t understand how her mother could marry that man, that monster, especially so soon after her father was killed.’ The woman sighed. ‘At the time, I too thought the wedding shocking, but as I grew older I understood these were desperate times. Catherine’s mother may not have been free in her choices, especially when Edmond Malleval was concerned.’

  Marie-Ange’s eyes welled up with tears. How her mother had suffered! It was no wonder she never talked about Beauregard and the people she had left behind.

  ‘One day at the end of March, Malleval’s soldiers came to Salles and took Catherine away,’ Louison carried on. ‘The poor girl hardly had time to gather some of her belongings and bid farewell to her aunt before she was bundled into a carriage. That was the last time I saw her. A couple of weeks later we were told she was dead.’

  ‘But that wasn’t true! Who told you that?’

  ‘Edmond Malleval himself. He came to the Priory with his men to search through the things Catherine had left behind. He ransacked her room, and the whole Priory, too. I do not know what he was after but he did not find it. He was so angry he had the Abbess arrested and the Priory closed on the spot.’

  ‘And that was in April?’ Marie-Ange asked.

  Louison George nodded briefly before looking away.

  The blood drained from Marie-Ange’s face. Now she understood why Louison George looked uneasy. The dates were wrong.

  ‘You look so much like her,’ Louison added in a kind voice. ‘You have the same smile, the same hair. You even have the same hairstyle. I didn’t hesitate when I saw you earlier. I knew you had to be related. So tell me, why are you in France? Are you married? Is your father here with you?’

  ‘Sadly my father died several years ago.’ It was hard to keep her voice calm as she answered. ‘I did marry but…’

  ‘I have been looking all over for you,’ Capitaine Saintclair’s booming voice interrupted her.

  He stood in front of her, arms crossed on his chest, an angry scowl on his face.

  ‘Why did you not go back to the hall?’

  ‘Is this gentleman your husband?’ Louison George gave Saintclair an appraising glance.

  ‘No, Capitaine Saintclair is my escort to Beauregard,’ Marie-Ange corrected. ‘My husband, Commander Christopher Norton, is…was lost at sea.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Capitaine.’ Louison extended her hand for Saintclair to kiss. ‘I am sorry to have kept Marie-Ange from the opera, and from you, but we were busy talking about the past. You see, we have just established that I was a friend of her mother’s.’

  The French officer looked stunned. ‘Really?’

  ‘Is that not astonishing? Catherine Beauregard and I attended the Priory school at Salles together for a few months.’ Louison turned to Marie-Ange in earnest. ‘You said you were on your way to Beauregard. There is someone you must see when you get there. Your great-aunt, Hermine Marzac, your grandfather’s sister. She came back from exile in Switzerland a few years ago.’ She lowered her voice. ‘She might be able to tell you more about your mother and what happened to her.’

  The two women looked at each other, a current of understanding passing between them. Marie-Ange nodded. Louison was right. Her aunt might shed some light on the events of that year.

  ‘There is something else,’ Louison added in a hushed voice, pressing Marie-Ange’s hand with hers. ‘Beware of Uxeloup Malleval. He has a fearsome reputation.’

  After taking leave of Louison, Capitaine Saintclair led the way back to the main hall for the end of the performance, but this time Marie-Ange was far too preoccupied to enjoy the music. There were things she needed to think about, alone. After the play, Martin and Caroline asked if she and the capitaine wished to join them for a late supper in a nearby brasserie. Saintclair declined. They would be leaving at dawn the following morning and needed a rest.

  ‘You never let an early start get in the way of a good evening in the past,’ Caroline sneered. ‘Perhaps you’re afraid Madame Norton will disapprove of the way we enjoy ourselves, here in Paris?’ She flicked her fan open, waved it around her face.

  ‘Of course not. I’m tired, that’s all,’ Saintclair replied before hailing a black cab.

  They were both silent on the way back to Le Faisan Doré.

  ‘Have you heard of the Salles Priory?’ Marie-Ange asked at last. ‘Apparently the Abbess there was a member of my family.’

  Saintclair nodded. ‘It was an exclusive boarding school for girls from the aristocracy. You may not realise this, Madame Norton, but before the revolution your mother’s family—the Beauregards—were the wealthiest landowners in the whole of the Beaujolais. Their estates and properties were so vast they covered most of the land between Lyon and Chalons.’ He let out a derisive laugh. ‘In those days, I wouldn’t have be
en allowed to ride in the same carriage as you. I would have been thrown out, beaten like a dog and left for dead in the gutter just for having the audacity to look at you.’ There was bitterness in his tone.

  ‘Things are different now, are they not?’ she remarked.

  ‘Not for much longer if our new king has his way,’ he replied, sombrely.

  They didn’t talk again until they arrived back at Le Faisan Doré. He held her hand to assist her from the carriage and they faced each other a few seconds.

  ‘Thank you for tonight,’ she said at last. ‘I didn’t think I would, but I enjoyed the opera.’ More importantly, she had found out things about her mother’s past she never suspected.

  He nodded and held the door open for her. ‘It was my pleasure.’

  ‘Well, good night.’ Marie-Ange brushed past him as they walked into the inn. A porter was on duty in the hall but otherwise the inn was quiet. The man locked the front door behind them.

  ‘You’re the last guests to come back,’ he said, pulling a bar over the door.

  ‘I want a drink,’ Saintclair decreed as he strode into the deserted drinking parlour.

  The man let out a sigh and followed him without a word. It was wise of him, Marie-Ange thought. One look at the Cuirassier’s face was enough to see that it would be pointless, dangerous even, to argue that the bar was closed.

  Once in her room, Marie-Ange lit the fire and sat down, pensive as her gaze followed the flames rising in the fireplace. The dates were wrong. She had always assumed her mother had gone to England immediately after Aline’s marriage to Edmond Malleval in mid-January of 1791, met her father and got married more or less straight away. Louison George revealed tonight that Catherine only escaped Edmond Malleval in April. It would have taken her several weeks to travel to England. Whoever helped her escape would have chosen roundabout routes to avoid being caught by Malleval’s men or other police and army personnel looking to apprehend fleeing aristocrats.

  Marie-Ange was born on the first of December that same year. So unless William Jones met her mother in France, he couldn’t be her father. He had said many times he had never set foot in France, which meant Catherine was already pregnant when she arrived in England. Who then was Marie-Ange’s father?