Betrayed Countess

By Diane Scott Lewis

Forced from France by her devious guardian on the eve of the French Revolution, Countess Bettina Jonquiere must deliver an important package to further the royalist cause. In England, she discovers the package is full of blank papers, the address false and she’s penniless. Stranded in a Cornish village, Bettina toils in a bawdy tavern and falls in love with a man who may have murdered his unfaithful wife. Tracked by ruthless revolutionaries, she must uncover the truth about her father’s murder—and her lover’s guilt—while her life is threatened.

Reviews:
This is a tremendously well-written and compelling story. The characterizations and settings were lovingly crafted and completely believable. As another reviewer stated, one can almost smell the smoky fire and spilled ale in the Cornish tavern, the musty air and mildew of the decaying manor, and the stench of the Thames. All the characters have distinct personalities, and seem utterly real.

“Diane Scott Lewis writes with a fresh, clear voice, keeping all the threads of betrayal, intrigue and lies from becoming tangled as she weaves them into her story”- The Muse

A love story steeped in secrets and set against the backdrop of the French Revolution, The False Light is woven with the right amount of fact as well as fiction, each balancing the other in a perfect harmony. Diane Scott Lewis has the power of descriptive writing that makes readers feel as though they are traveling alongside Bettina as she faces the unknown. Simply brilliant. Historical Novel Society

Previously published as The False Light

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Mar 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781771450409

Diane Scott Lewis

Diane grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. At nineteen, she joined the Navy. She has written and edited free-lance since high school. She married in Greece and raised two sons in Puerto Rico, California, Guam, and Virginia. She writes book reviews for the Historical Novels Review and works as an on-line historical editor. Diane served as president of the Riverside Writers, a chapter of the Virginia Writers Club, Inc, in 2007-2008. She has four published historical novels.She lives with her husband and dachshund in Clarion, PA. Check out her website at:

Book preview

Chapter One

Lisbette de Jonquiere clutched the small bundle to her chest and hurried across the main square of Boulogne’s Haute Ville. She glanced back at the townhouse—a place where she’d resented being sequestered this last week, yet it was preferable to the night’s shadows. Blinking drizzle from her eyelashes, she glared at the elderly man walking beside her. His lantern pushed a small pool of light before them. If I must sail, why can’t I travel as a passenger on a packet boat?

There is … no time to obtain a passport. Armand rasped this out, ending in a cough. He moved closer and hooked his arm with hers as if they led a nocturnal dance. When you arrive in Dover, catch the first coach to Bath.

They passed the cathedral and the pink-bricked town hall. Lisbette started when a figure emerged from an alley around the corner and blocked their path. Armand halted, his shoulders stiffening before the huge man who trudged into their lantern’s glow. Lisbette cringed at his filthy clothes. His face looked as if someone had tried to carve their initials into his cheeks. A stench rolled off him, like the slime washed up from beneath the sea.

So, this is the one? The giant tugged a frayed hat low on his forehead. Water dripped off the roof behind him, smacking the cobbles and stirring the mist around his bulky frame.

"Certainement. This is she, and please be gentle. Armand glanced at her, his eyes droopy above gaunt cheeks, sadder than she’d ever seen them. Is it quiet down there, at the harbor?"

Quiet enough for what we need. Only one from customs. I’ll be there. The man turned around, and the gloom swallowed him up once more.

Lisbette shivered and bunched together the edges of her cloak, already damp from the increasing rain. Who is that dirty man, Armand? I still don’t understand why you insist on sending me off at this hour and with no decent companion.

I’ve explained that it’s too late to engage anyone. But I promised your mother I’d keep you from harm. He averted his eyes when he mentioned her mother. Armand coughed into his hand. Let’s keep walking, my dear.

Maman will not approve of this. We should go back to the house. You’re ill, I feel the heat from your arm. Lisbette wondered if his fever had confused him. The shock of being dragged out of bed and having her sleep interrupted scrambled her own thoughts. But the cold air sharpened her fears like a needle. "Ma foi, why is my leaving so urgent?"

Please, do this for me. Armand paused and raised the lantern, his features skeletal in the glimmer of light. It is almost sunrise, we have to rush. As I said, I need that package delivered, too. The information is very important.

Lisbette brushed her chilled fingers over the rustle of papers in her bundle and lamented that she’d misplaced her gloves—or someone had stolen them in that crumbling abode where they’d concealed her. Why can’t I hide someplace else in the city? To wait for Maman?

You may thank me someday, but not now. Armand tugged her through a gate cut into the massive rampart wall. They took the sloping road to the left following the Liane River. Halfway down, she saw the harbor lamps flickering in the mist, and slowed to let the old man catch his breath.

"I’m all right, mignonne. He wheezed and swung the lantern forward, bouncing a circle of light over the buildings squatted below. We need to keep moving." Armand hurried her on, and yet he wobbled to keep pace beside her, his hand at her elbow.

This is insane. Lisbette huddled inside her cloak, a gust of wind flapping the hood about her face. She slipped in the mud and splashed through a puddle, her skirt hem and petticoat now stuck to her ankles. Armand made a feeble attempt to steady her.

When they entered the Basse Ville, the drab lower town shimmered in an outline of purple. To the east, the dawn light crept over the ancient battlements perched on the hillside behind them. Lisbette slowed again. What if someone stops us? This seems more dangerous than remaining at the townhouse. Tell me who that scarred man is?

Armand clasped her wrist, almost caressing it. That man is an acquaintance of Madame—my niece. Against her wishes, I … I’ve paid him to see the way is clear for you.

I thought I heard you arguing with that woman. Was it over me? Maman promised she would join me here, soon. I need to stay. Lisbette scrutinized her elderly guardian—or so he’d become over the last several days. Always thin, now he resembled wrinkled skin draped over bones. She trembled, his hand on her cuff a pale claw. What if I’m caught and sent back, what will happen then? I should never have left Château Jonquiere to come to Boulogne.

You will be fine. Trust me. Circumstances have changed of which you know nothing. He reached toward her face, hesitating, as if she were the one hot to the touch. Then he nudged her forward and she tripped over debris. He caught her elbow, but she pulled away. They hurried through more shadows towards the waterfront. When she smelled the fishy harbor, bile gurgled in her empty stomach.

But I want to know about it. Is Madame Hilaire really your niece? I don’t remember you ever mentioning having relatives in Boulogne. Lisbette hated for her trust in him to vacillate. Armand had been her family’s devoted mâitre d’hotel for much longer than her seventeen years. But since leaving her mother in Poissy and traveling out here, she’d been uncomfortable in that stern woman’s home, with the sneers and snide whispers. I told you that I saw one of her friends wearing the tricolore cockade.

Armand’s gaze flicked over to her before he flashed his indulgent smile, as if he’d just snatched it from his frock coat pocket. I had to warn my niece … I’m sure you were mistaken.

They approached the quay, and as they passed the Capuchins’, the rising water slapped the convent walls. The stone jetties of the harbor stretched into the haze and Armand directed her down the first one. Several crates were stacked like square sentinels near the end, and he told her to ease in behind them. He blew out the lantern and set it aside to follow after her.

Crouched down, Lisbette stared from between the crates at the trio of men loading cargo onto one anchored ship. The harbor lamps quivered in the wind, illuminating a face or movement, and then sweeping it back into the darkness. The men hoisted barrels up in netting on a wooden crane and swung them over the deck of the ship where they lowered them. One bored customs official stood nearby clapping his hands against his body for warmth, grimacing at the unseasonable cold that had thrashed in during the night.

The gusts off the Channel gnawed at Lisbette’s skin as well, prickling down her arms all the way to her soaked feet. Her delicate shoes felt paper-thin, gossamer on rubble. She longed to be back in bed, her own bed at her country château, snug in familiar quilts. Or deeper into the past, in that serener time before her father’s—

That ship sails to Dover with the tide, if this storm doesn’t stall them. It’s a small vessel, so crossing won’t be easy. Armand leaned over her shoulder as they peered through the gap. A pity they would have to load in this squall.

You feel pity for them? Lisbette pulled at the old man’s coat sleeve. Are you certain the rebels search this town? Maman’s last letter said everything is calmer. Wouldn’t she know, being closer to Paris? Her voice was shrill, and she strained to keep it low, though the vessel’s rigging creaking in the wind diluted the sound.

I can’t be responsible for what might happen … if you stay. Armand smelled of wet wool, his features now bereft of any warmth. He tugged his tricorn hat lower over his head before squeezing her shoulder. I wish I could go with you, but I’d never survive the journey. This is for your benefit. Guard the package.

What was your disagreement with your niece? It sounded as if she didn’t want me to sail. That confused her, too. Madame Hilaire had treated her with contempt from the moment they’d met. Perhaps if Lisbette screamed, alerting the customs man, she’d be prevented from sailing away from her embattled country. The cry rose in her throat like the previous bile. If you would only explain—

Hush! The tide is early, but perfect for our purpose—there are fewer people around. Armand turned away. As soon as the men are on this side, I’ll walk out and distract them. That large sailor will come down and take you to the ship. Please move fast and don’t say a word, just follow. I’ll … I’ll tell your mother where you’ve gone.

He waved his hand in a gesture for her to creep around the end crate until she faced the ship. Still loath to do his bidding, Lisbette scrutinized this man she’d known her entire life. He now seemed a stranger. Before today, he’d given her the courtesy of calling her ‘Countess’ whenever they were alone. Shaky with the instinct to run away from him, she pushed dripping hair away from her forehead and gathered her cloak around her.

Armand stumbled out from between the crates. He began to cough and doubled over as if in extreme pain. One of the men came forward to offer assistance, as the others stared. The customs official grimaced and checked his pocket watch.

Lisbette sucked in her breath, inched her way around as instructed, and half-hoped no one would be there. But the giant came out of the gloom and without a word caught her hand and dragged her up the gangplank. Her head ducked low against the wind, eyes squinted against the splatter of rain, she lurched behind him onto the deck of the ship.

Sit and climb down the ladder, all the way, he muttered as he surveyed the area. "Rapidement."

She glared at him, then at the square hole that gaped in the deck. He snatched her bundle and dropped it into the blackness. Please, monsieur, isn’t there an easier way? The man seized her arms in his enormous hands. His fingers dug into her flesh as he forced her to sit on the hatchway’s edge, her feet dangling. Suddenly, he lifted her over the side where she twisted like a hooked fish. Lisbette sputtered in terror until she felt a ladder rung with her toe. The hulk glowered over her and motioned her down with a jerk of his head. When he released her arms, she clung to the ladder, afraid to budge.

To the bottom, now. Move into the hold somewhere. Stay quiet.

Will you be at the other end? she asked in a squeak, but he had gone. She swallowed hard and descended into the shadows, wondering which ring of hell she’d fallen into.

* * * *

You’re aware, ma fille, people have condemned the lavish, self-indulgent lifestyle of the King and Queen. Of all of us, I suppose. While the majority were said to suffer. Her mother’s voice filled her head, distant yet clear. The government is corrupt, in such debt. People abhor the increased taxes. But the revolutionary changes demanded are frightening. Your father warned those riots last year showed a collapse of royal authority. I’m so confused, with him gone. I believe we’ll be safer out of the city.

Lisbette awoke with a start and reached out her arms. Only the black dank of the ship’s hold creaked around her. Amazed she’d fallen asleep, she rubbed her face to wipe off the dream. The rocking of the ship after it set sail had lulled her. Rats scratched nearby and she hugged her knees to her chest. The sailors’ activity continued to thump above. She shifted in the coil of rope where she’d huddled, trying to keep warm. Pulling at the damp clothes that chafed her skin, she wrinkled her nose at the stench of fish and mildew.

She clutched her bundle and thought of her mother’s words as in the dream, her father’s death, and their frantic escape from Paris after the attack on the Bastille Prison the previous year. Only seven days ago she’d been with her mother at their country château, until Armand convinced Countess Jonquiere that her daughter might be safer in Boulogne. Her mother would close up the house, her affairs, and follow as soon as possible.

She sniffed back tears picturing the black-haired beauty of her half-Spanish mother, a woman everyone said Lisbette resembled. The ship swayed, and in the oppressive gloom, more desolation crept over her. Then she tensed with frustration. She thought of Armand’s perplexing behavior in casting her out with six gold louis and a foreign name on a sheaf of papers she had to deliver to a man in England. Why he entrusted her with such an important mission, Armand refused to say.

If her mother had faith in her mâitre d’hotel to manage any crisis, Lisbette’s trust had crumbled that morning. She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms and knew Maman hadn’t meant for her to be alone in a cargo hold bound for a strange land.

Lisbette took a deep breath and massaged her fingers over the pulse in her throat. Her head snapped up when the footsteps overhead increased. Shouts rang out and the ship’s fabric groaned around her. The ship seemed to slow; they must have reached Dover. Her fingers tight on her shins, she shrank into her rope cocoon.

Her wooden dungeon settled. More shouts and footfalls clambered above, an echo of her thudding pulse. She struggled to stand and stretched the cramps from her limbs. Her stomach in spasms, she groped in darkness towards the hatch. Her hands brushed over splintered crates that were slimy against her skin. She prayed the hulking man who stashed her here would help her slip out undetected.

The hatch cover high above grunted open. Lisbette ducked behind a barrel. She squinted at the shaft of light that pierced in, desperate to feel the sun’s warmth.

Two men scrambled down the ladder; a lantern light snaked over the cargo. She listened to them talk and grumble. Her fingers gripped her bundle tight. Neither of the men sounded like the one she sought.

Unload these crates first. I’ll find the other lazy dogs and be right back. Weather’s botched it as usual. One man scuttled up the ladder like a bug on a wall.

Lisbette remained stooped behind the barrel. If that giant didn’t show himself soon, she’d have to persuade someone to let her go. She gulped in a breath, straightened up and bumped the keg. A sailor with a mangled ear glared at her from a few feet away.

"Merde. Who are you?" The disfigured sailor rushed forward, grabbed her arm and jerked her into the light.

Please, monsieur, you are hurting me. Lisbette stumbled and tried to pull free. His ragged garments reeked with perspiration. I only need to leave this ship, to get on the shore.

What are you doing here? This is no place for you! His words were snarled out from the space where his front teeth were supposed to be, his breath smelling like rancid cheese. Any more back there?

"Mais non, I am by myself. Lisbette yanked her arm from his grasp. If you would be so kind as to help me."

She looked up as more voices sounded. Three sailors gawked over the edge of the hatchway. With a mumble of curiosity, the men tumbled down the ladder. She realized not one of them stood large enough to be the man who placed her here hours before.

There’s a problem, we have a stowaway, the mangled-ear sailor announced in a spray of saliva. One of the men sniggered as the others scrutinized her in a way that made her cringe.

The shortest man came forward and snatched her wrist. Lisbette gasped. This pretty girl? She looks harmless enough. I’ll take her to the captain, let him decide what to do with her.

Prodded up the ladder, Lisbette hugged her bundle and blinked in the bright light of a midday sun. On deck, she staggered to keep her balance and inhaled the fresh salt air. Please, wait a moment. I cannot see. Yet she tried to peer over the rail toward the shore as her escort bounded up behind her. Do you not have a very big man with scarred cheeks working with you?

Where is the Captain? the small man asked the nearest seaman. Other sailors rushed to and fro along the vessel, or dangled in the rigging like spiders on webs.

"With the customs canaille, down there. He’s not in a good mood, the sailor replied, before spitting a dark wad onto the planks. He leered at Lisbette. But what have you here?"

A vicious criminal. The man laughed, then turned to her. Down to the dock with you, mademoiselle. He helped her over the railing to the gangplank and dragged her along it to the bottom and onto the wharf. Massive cliffs towered over them, a cool wall of chalk, intimidating in their stark beauty.

Stop this, you are holding me too tight. Lisbette jerked away from the sailor. She had no intention of facing an already disgruntled captain. Angry at having to leave France, she didn’t dare risk being questioned and sent back under these circumstances.

You have no reason to complain after a free passage here. He put his hands on the hips of his stained trousers and grinned. With that dress, you look like you could afford to pay.

Lisbette touched her silk skirt. This man didn’t seem as oafish as the first and retained the majority of his teeth. Please let me go, monsieur, I have done nothing wrong. If you would—?

We have orders to report stowaways. How do I know what kind of thief you are? He winked at her. Why make such a foolish journey by yourself?

Lisbette scrutinized her new surroundings—a long shingle beach where small boats were drawn up to a harbor bustling with activity. Around them teemed a mixture of scruffy seafarers, dockworkers and a few of the finer dressed. A drenching despair washed over her. This voyage … it was not my idea.

"Running away, non? His chuckle pricked up her spine. I think the captain would be interested in who you are and what you’re doing here. He looked down at her bag. The British authorities might put you in prison, to find out more about our troubles."

Lisbette stepped back, her hands tighter around her bundle. Prison? Her head swam. Ah … I must remove my damp cloak, if you do not mind? I am shivering. She inhaled the invigorating breeze, the sun so warm on her face. That fool Armand hadn’t forced her into England to face the same threat as in France.

You are a pretty girl, like I said. Sound educated enough. The man smirked and leaned closer. "Are you an aristo? What did you plan to do over here?"

I will tell you in a moment, please. My cloak is soaked, an awful mess. She shrugged from the garment, smoothed her hand over the moist material and wondered if she could outrun this sailor. She glanced once more at him and smiled, then slapped the cloak into his face.

He swore and tripped back over an uneven plank. Stumbling near the quay’s edge, he lost his balance and fell over the side, dragging her cloak with him. Arms and legs flapping, he splashed into the sea.

Good Lord! someone gushed out the words at her unladylike conduct, while others sputtered their amazement. Did you see what that wisp of a girl…?

Her bundle crammed under her elbow, Lisbette lifted her skirt and petticoat and raced along the harbor under the chalk cliffs. The shocked observers parted to let her by, before a man stepped out and blocked her path.

What happened down there? he demanded, his English sounding guttural to her ears. Did you just arrive on that vessel?

Swallowing a cry, she stared into his jowls and poked a finger on his chest to give herself a moment to think. "I came to rencontrer … to meet someone. Then that roué, he tries to … did you not see this? Lisbette adjusted the fichu at her throat as if to prove her affront, but more so to calm the trembling in her fingers. You should be careful who you allow on the quai." She hated her thick accent and in her fluster had lapsed into French.

Show me what you’re carrying in there. He loomed over her.

Fingers stiffening, she hesitated, then opened her bundle just enough to reveal her extra chemise and stockings.

Be off with ya then, wench, he said with an impatient wave of his hand. Don’t be plyin’ your trade here. You French whores keep to the taverns.

Lisbette strutted past him toward the town at the base of the cliffs, hoping the heat in her cheeks didn’t show. A whore? Once out of his sight, she dashed into a market square, weaving through a blur of stands, people and carts. She hurried along a narrow, winding lane crowded with overhanging buildings and cow pens reeking of manure. Her breath wheezed, the blood pounding in her ears at the fear of being pursued once they fished that sailor out of the water.

Chapter Two

Lisbette stopped near a cow pen and gasped for breath, then regretted inhaling the stink. Leaning on a fence rail, she gripped the splintered wood to steady herself. A ragged girl about her age led a calf down the lane in front of her. Please, Mademoiselle, where may I find a coach?

In the King’s Arms, the girl said, pointing behind her before ambling past.

Lisbette frowned at that saucy reply. What did the arms of their sovereign have to do with coaches? She must have misunderstood. Slumped against the fence, she crushed the canvas bundle to her chin. She’d studied English in her lessons, but it might prove a stranger language than she anticipated.

She walked on, taking deep breaths to calm herself. When she reached the other side of the shabby town, she found a road leading uphill. Perhaps she’d find the coach station there. Following the road’s steep incline, her calf muscles straining, she observed a castle spread out higher on the cliffs. The walled fortress loomed in vigilance over the town below. Lisbette turned at the road’s summit to stare across the Channel. Through sudden tears, she saw the coast of France shimmering on the horizon, oblivious to her exile.

Her mother once told her that at the age of fourteen, when she was sent to marry the Dauphin, Marie Antoinette was stripped of her Austrian clothes and handed naked to France. Lisbette ran a thumb over her bodice, the silk mottled with stains, and felt stripped bare in England.

She smoothed back loose tendrils of hair and shook out her blue skirt. Her privileged upbringing had ill-prepared her for this adventure. The music, riding, and language lessons seemed a very weak defense.

Her father had often praised her tenacity and intelligence, though advised her to behave less headstrong. That dunked sailor would have agreed with him.

She smiled at that, but her throat tightened at the mere idea of her father. Her mother had found him slumped over his desk—a heart attack. Lisbette had never realized he had a bad heart, or any frailty. She pushed away the grief that clung to her.

Shoulders stiff, she looked before her. The straight road that led away from Dover bustled with drays, carts, wagons, and men on horseback. She stepped around steaming horse manure and stood on the roadside, wondering what to do. Never in her life had she been totally alone, without family, a nurse or a servant. She’d honor her father by testing his praise.

A coach and six thundered down the road from behind her, kicking dust in her face as it rumbled by. Her muscles clenched, but she didn’t dare return to Dover to risk facing any British authorities. A town must be ahead and Bath might be near. Armand said Bath lay to the west, but perhaps she should have insisted on geography lessons instead of pianoforte.

Lisbette walked at a quick pace, staying on the side of the road where nettles brushed her skirt and snagged her stockings. Moving distracted her from her gloomy thoughts. Her delicate slippers swished through the grass and she savored the earthy smell instead of the rotting fish of the ship.

A stream burbled to the right. She knelt and quenched her thirst by sipping water from her cupped hands. If not the eau du roi from the Seine, the brackish water cooled down her throat. Removing her shoe to shake out a pebble, Lisbette winced at the blister forming on her right heel. She resisted the urge to kick off both shoes, white with chalk powder.

Instead she pulled the pins from her hair and let it fly loose. Armand’s supposed niece had put up her thick locks, with angry ministrations and glares at the old man, to make her look mature. But Lisbette had forgotten and left behind the old-fashioned cabochon cap they forced on her, having removed it to dry in the ship’s hold.

A flock of birds in the branches of a nearby birch tree squabbled at her presence, then launched into the air. They soared into a clouding sky that looked too bleak for July.

She rested her forehead on her knees.

The previous year loomed over her again. Would she ever stop smelling the smoke from the wealthy Parisian homes—so close to theirs—burned by tradesmen over wage-cuts? Bullets cracked as soldiers fired into the mob. She and her mother fearfully read the seditious pamphlets that accused the royal family and many aristocrats of starving those beneath them. Furious trades people flooded the streets, demanding weapons to ensure their rights.

The King had panicked and called in his foreign mercenaries to protect the monarchy, inciting more hostility. The working classes attacked and destroyed the Bastille prison, screaming that the government drove up bread prices for its own gain.

That’s when Lisbette and her mother had fled Paris for Château Jonquiere in Poissy.

Angry rebels who knew nothing about her had snatched away her orderly life.

Lisbette stood with a groan, whisking away grass and patting down her skirt. Madame Hilaire had argued with her about wearing coarser attire, and she wished she had listened. Especially now that her cloak floated in the Channel.

She resumed walking, her bundle pressed to her chest. She passed crude wattle and daub cottages capped in thatch and larger dwellings of pale stone. Rolling green meadows stretched behind stonewalls or hedgerows speckled in fragrant pink dog-roses. England appeared to be a pretty country, if cooler than France, and she studied the landscape to soften her turmoil.

A cart trundled by. A man under a round hat grinned at her with big brown teeth. Need a ride, sweeten?

Lisbette increased her stride, blister pinching. She bunched her fichu closer around her throat and tucked it into her low-cut bodice.

A gypsy jade, are you? All that black hair. Ole Joe has the ripe puddin’ for you. He slowed the cart. When she glared at him he pursed his lips together in a parody of a kiss. Dark eyes, too. Read me fortune, aye?

I am not a gypsy, monsieur, and you are too forward. She disliked being rude to underlings, but cringed at his lecherous grin. She missed the care of a servant, though Armand had wavered badly in Boulogne, to protect her from such insults. How far is the city of Bath, if you please?

Oh-ho, a Frenchie jade. He sniggered and winked. Don’t know nothin’ about no city called Bath. But if you hop in me cart I’ll show you something better.

Leave me alone. She turned and stumbled through the grass, away from him, her heart heavy with disappointment. Armand couldn’t have been mistaken about the city. The cart rattled off and she let out her breath.

A church steeple poked up above the trees ahead. She’d walk to the next town and decide what to do. She hoped he wasn’t wrong about the people she was supposed to contact. Armand swore they were decent, friends for years who would be honored to aid a nobleman’s daughter. Like his ‘niece’, her guardian had never claimed to have friends in England before. Her resentment toward him deepened each minute. She should have defied him and refused to leave France. But after what she’d suffered, few could blame her for bad judgment.

* * * *

The hook-nosed woman behind the desk at the inn in the next village—a clump of half-timbered buildings leaning into one another—narrowed her eyes. Where’s your menfolk? And how old are you?

Lisbette poked through her skirt slit into her inside pocket for the small leather purse that held her gold coins. She put one on the desk. Ah … my brothers will meet me here soon. They are delayed. She glanced around the dirty, low-beamed lobby, avoiding the woman’s scowl. May I have a bath, too, perhaps?

What kind of coin be that? Is it real gold? The clerk picked up the coin and bit it between her yellow teeth before flipping a book open on the counter. This ain’t no big city place. No baths here. Sign there, if you can write. You want your own room? It’s cheaper if you share.

No sharing, Madame. Lisbette wondered if the woman teased her. Dipping the quill in the ink bottle, she paused. Armand warned her to protect her identity. You never knew who in England might be sympathetic to the revolution in France. She wrote down ‘Bettina Laurant’. The last name was her cousin’s, who married a businessman with little connection to aristocracy. For a first name, she used her childhood nickname. An Italian nurse had addressed her as Signorina Bette, and her father rolled it together into Bettina. She poked the quill back in the ink and resigned herself that Countess Lisbette no longer existed. The radicals had abolished all titles of hereditary nobility. I want change from my coin, please.

The clerk shoved four silver coins at her. Bettina vowed to learn the deciphering of English money—she was certain she had just been cheated. The woman pulled a key from a hook and showed her up a narrow crooked stairway to a room in the back.

I’ll bring you some water to wash, she muttered, scratching her neck, glaring down at Bettina’s dress. Your brothers best get here quick. I run a decent place.

Of course, Madame, Bettina grimaced. She knew she looked like a bedraggled waif, a serving girl wearing her lady’s discards, but this tradeswoman needed a lesson in manners. She closed the door and leaned her forehead against the rough wood. At least her father hadn’t lived to see the stripping of his feudal rights as a member of the noblesse d’epee. Yet these very ‘rights’, the exorbitant taxes the commoners paid to support the nobles, sparked the anarchy. Bettina shook her head, lamenting where she might fit in this chaos.

She turned and looked around the tiny chamber, which was filled with only a washstand and narrow bed. The mattress crackled under her bottom when she sat, the straw scratching into her thin dress. She longed for her soft down-bed at home, but was there any home left? Perhaps in the morning she’d awake to hot chocolate on a silver tray before her bedroom fire and her mother’s sweet smile.

The air in the room stank of perspiration, so she slipped off her shoes, climbed onto the bed and pried open the window. The stench from the alley outside was worse. Cabbages, onions, and other scraps from the inn’s kitchen were apparently dumped to rot below her window. A black beetle scurried over the sill near her hand. She stifled a screech, almost falling off the bed. Other crawling occupants probably lurked in the corners, awaiting her drift into slumber.

The door opened and the woman held out a pitcher of water. Don’t be standin’ on the bed. Ain’t you got no manners? Looking out for your brothers, aye?

Merci, for the water, Madame. Bettina hopped down and took the chipped pitcher. She’d have to resign herself to no privacy as well. May I have a meal sent up?

I’ll bring you bread ’n cheese, if you pay for it.

After eating the bland cheese and dry bread, which sat like a lump in her stomach, Bettina realized that food had become as exciting as any finery had been in the past.

She removed her once fashionable blue polonaise gown. Normally hitched and poofed out over her petticoat, the gown now drooped without ribbons and drawstrings and the stout cotton cul postiche in the effort in Boulogne to make her appear ordinary. Denied the convenience of a maid to assist in her toilette, she was thankful for front-lacing stays. Untangling the stiff laces, she sighed in relief, retrieved a bar of soap from her bundle, and scrubbed her face and hands. Peeling off her stockings, stiff with filth, she washed her sore feet.

She studied the writing on the envelope she needed to deliver: Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Little, 65 Great Pulteney Street, Bath. This couple was anxious for the information she held—information to further the royalist cause that must reach them sealed. Or so Armand said. Again, she wondered why he gave this task to her, an unchaperoned, vulnerable girl. But he insisted that she needed to flee the country and this was the perfect opportunity.

Clad in her cotton chemise, Bettina snuggled under the thin bedclothes. She flexed her fingers and toes, then trembled, her eyes damp with tears. The unfamiliarity of being so alone weighed her down like a soaked rag, and she buried her face in the sour pillow.

People quarreled somewhere in the inn, bringing back that morning in France. The arguing in the next room before Armand had rapped on her door, begging her to get up. Half asleep, Bettina had thought it was a confused dream. Now the angry words filtered in: Madame Hilaire insisted that they send someone to Paris. Armand objected vehemently, saying she wouldn’t know anything, she couldn’t help them.

Bettina knew they spoke of her, but why, and who were ‘them’? Despite what Armand had said earlier, she knew revolutionary sympathizers had met in that townhouse. How could she, an aristocratic, fatherless daughter, have any value to such scourge? She foundered in unanswered questions she’d have to rely on the Littles to explain. Listening to her own breathing, she drifted into a dream where she rushed over wet cobblestones toward a misty harbor beside a man with no face.

* * * *

Bettina sat up, jerked from a restless sleep by a banging on the door. She gasped and blinked in the dark as the noise increased. It was her nightmare again. She gripped the pillow and tried to clear the fog from her mind. No aroma of chocolate awaited, only the dank smell of her own body.

Here now, open up afore I come in and get you, a gruff voice called through the door.

Wrapped in the blanket, Bettina crawled from the mattress. With her foot, she shoved her package beneath the bed. She squeaked the door open to reveal a plump, florid-faced man holding a candle.

What is the problem, monsieur?

The churlish desk clerk stood behind him in the passage, a cynical smile on her lips. That’s her, just like I told you, Constable.

The man barged his way in, belly first. Travelin’ with no menfolk, an’ no baggage, that do make me suspicious.

And you should’ve seen her dress. Of fine silk it was. Much too expensive for the likes of her, the desk clerk said. You know you can’t trust no frog-eaters, and I run a proper place here.

Bettina shrank back, clutching the blanket around her. But I have paid for the room, and the dress is mine. My men … brothers, they are only late.

This ain’t no brothel, miss. The constable waddled farther in and she backed to the wall. You’ll have to leave. You’d be wise to go home to your parents, not livin’ this sorta life. No decent woman travels by herself.

"Il me confond, what are you saying? You cannot put me out in the dark. Bettina’s throat thickened, but she refused to cry. I am certain we can—"

It’s almost daylight. She should leave afore any quality come. I wouldn’t have let her stay, but felt sorry for the chit. The desk clerk crossed