both hands to control his horse. I, like a fool, was shouting at him to surrender. He nodded, but at that moment his horse bucked and threw him forward. I could see that he was losing his seat. I let go of my reins and reached out with my left hand to steady him.’ Gaston’s voice dropped. ‘My one consolation in all this is that he realised at that moment that I was trying to help him. I remember the look of gratitude in his eyes – a word of thanks on his lips.’
Louise saw a glint on Gaston’s cheek and looked away.
‘We fell together. As we did so he dropped his sword; he had no loop or sword-knot to prevent it falling, and he fell on top of it. I remember the tearing sound as the blade went through him. You saw me pull a sword from his body? That wasn’t mine; it was his. I knelt beside him then and watched the life fade from his eyes.’ Gaston could hardly speak. ‘Louise, I could have been kneeling at my brother’s deathbed.’
A clock ticked laboriously in a corner of the room. The silence grew till it was more than Louise could bear; she had to do something. Without thinking, she turned and knelt in front of Gaston and rested her head and arms on his knees. He stroked her hair.
A hundred and forty years had done nothing to erode Louise’s love for Pieter, the Master’s apprentice, who hadheld her so tight in that dusty room above the Oosterport in her native Delft. But this was a different kind of love. Here, she was a guest of Gaston’s mind. It was as if their consciousnesses had merged. But the touch of his hand brought home to her just how much she had missed by her early death and for a moment the loss threatened to overwhelm her. She must grab at every moment: to feel, to touch, to hold and above all understand.
Gaston’s hand continued to stroke her hair but his thoughts had wandered to a countryside Louise had never seen before. The image focused and she found herself gazing at a gnarled old tree on a slope above a country road. A girl was sitting under the tree, her eyes fixed on the road below. Louise felt drawn to her, as Gaston obviously was. But here Louise checked. Was she going too far? Had she any right to invade Gaston’s private thoughts? Reluctantly she pulled her mind away and the image faded, leaving her with a mixture of longing and a deep sadness. It was some time before either of them spoke.
‘Louise,’ Gaston asked in a whisper, ‘am I really touching you?’
‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘it shouldn’t be possible, should it? Gaston, I’m so sorry … about the Pont de Chasse. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No, I’m glad you did. I feel happier now I have told someone. You see, I’m not a monster, am I, Louise?’
‘No, you’re not a monster, Gaston.’ She slid out from under his hand then, and walked across the room to her picture, the touch of his hand lingering like a memory on her hair.
From Brussels south to Paris the roads were better. Theywere making good time and Gaston was preoccupied with getting his troop into perfect order for a triumphant entry into Paris. News would, of course, have reached the capital, both of their coming and of their success in Amsterdam, but this was the official confirmation of the diplomatic coup, and the presentation of General Daendels’s reports. Louise kept to herself and her portrait remained in its case.
CHAPTER 8
Putting down Roots
Monsieur Morteau waited until Colette’s blistered feet had recovered from her long walk, and dark smudges of exhaustion no longer circled her eyes, before putting Jean Brouchard’s plan into action. Take her out with you into the vineyards, the miller had said, and teach her about your vines. What Colette needs is sun and air, and above all something to occupy her mind.
Colette’s eyes widened when M. Morteau presented her with a pair of sabots that were suitable for work in the fields.
‘Come, my dear,’ he said, ‘It’s time for me to introduce you to my class of ’92.
Louise saw a glint on Gaston’s cheek and looked away.
‘We fell together. As we did so he dropped his sword; he had no loop or sword-knot to prevent it falling, and he fell on top of it. I remember the tearing sound as the blade went through him. You saw me pull a sword from his body? That wasn’t mine; it was his. I knelt beside him then and watched the life fade from his eyes.’ Gaston could hardly speak. ‘Louise, I could have been kneeling at my brother’s deathbed.’
A clock ticked laboriously in a corner of the room. The silence grew till it was more than Louise could bear; she had to do something. Without thinking, she turned and knelt in front of Gaston and rested her head and arms on his knees. He stroked her hair.
A hundred and forty years had done nothing to erode Louise’s love for Pieter, the Master’s apprentice, who hadheld her so tight in that dusty room above the Oosterport in her native Delft. But this was a different kind of love. Here, she was a guest of Gaston’s mind. It was as if their consciousnesses had merged. But the touch of his hand brought home to her just how much she had missed by her early death and for a moment the loss threatened to overwhelm her. She must grab at every moment: to feel, to touch, to hold and above all understand.
Gaston’s hand continued to stroke her hair but his thoughts had wandered to a countryside Louise had never seen before. The image focused and she found herself gazing at a gnarled old tree on a slope above a country road. A girl was sitting under the tree, her eyes fixed on the road below. Louise felt drawn to her, as Gaston obviously was. But here Louise checked. Was she going too far? Had she any right to invade Gaston’s private thoughts? Reluctantly she pulled her mind away and the image faded, leaving her with a mixture of longing and a deep sadness. It was some time before either of them spoke.
‘Louise,’ Gaston asked in a whisper, ‘am I really touching you?’
‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘it shouldn’t be possible, should it? Gaston, I’m so sorry … about the Pont de Chasse. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No, I’m glad you did. I feel happier now I have told someone. You see, I’m not a monster, am I, Louise?’
‘No, you’re not a monster, Gaston.’ She slid out from under his hand then, and walked across the room to her picture, the touch of his hand lingering like a memory on her hair.
From Brussels south to Paris the roads were better. Theywere making good time and Gaston was preoccupied with getting his troop into perfect order for a triumphant entry into Paris. News would, of course, have reached the capital, both of their coming and of their success in Amsterdam, but this was the official confirmation of the diplomatic coup, and the presentation of General Daendels’s reports. Louise kept to herself and her portrait remained in its case.
CHAPTER 8
Putting down Roots
Monsieur Morteau waited until Colette’s blistered feet had recovered from her long walk, and dark smudges of exhaustion no longer circled her eyes, before putting Jean Brouchard’s plan into action. Take her out with you into the vineyards, the miller had said, and teach her about your vines. What Colette needs is sun and air, and above all something to occupy her mind.
Colette’s eyes widened when M. Morteau presented her with a pair of sabots that were suitable for work in the fields.
‘Come, my dear,’ he said, ‘It’s time for me to introduce you to my class of ’92.
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