Hostage to the Revolution

By Diane Scott Lewis

Sequel to Escape the Revolution. In 1796, ruined countess Bettina Jonquiere leaves England after the reported drowning of her lover, Everett. In New Orleans she struggles to establish a new life for her children. Soon a ruthless Frenchman demands the money stolen by her father at the start of the French Revolution. Bettina is forced on a dangerous mission to France to recover the funds. She unravels dark family secrets, but will she find the man she lost as well?

Editorial Reviews
...wonderfully researched and the reader is taken right into the drawing rooms, kitchens and taverns of the dark days of late eighteenth century England."
- Historical Novels Reviews blog

“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, ... 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

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Jul 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773622262

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

Hostage to the Revolution

The Revolution

By Diane Scott Lewis

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 9781773622262

Kindle 9781773622279

WEB 9781773622286

Print ISBN 9781773622309

Amazon Print ISBN 9781773622293

Copyright 2017 by Diane Scott Lewis

Cover art by Everpage Designs

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Dedication

Dedicated to Alleyne Dickens, writer friend and critique partner, who helped me through this novel in its early version. And author Ginger Simpson, who was kind enough to be my Beta Reader for the first version.

Chapter One

Bettina swiped aside salty hair tendrils and stared over the ship’s rail at the sea so long empty. A knob of land jutted up through the morning mist gathered over the choppy gray sea they sailed through. A bird squawked overhead and her spirits lifted. Firm earth awaited on the horizon.

Genevre wriggled in her arms. Bettina grinned at her daughter and squeezed her close. Have we made the right decision, ma petite? Will we like this America? Will we find what we need? The baby poked her finger onto Bettina’s lips. She kissed her sweet skin.

The June air blew warm and rustled her straw hat. The voyage had taken two endless months—so distant from Cornwall. Storms had tossed their vessel like a discarded leaf.

Sailors shouted from the rigging, their cursing and noise a common background to her now. The man in the green coat glared at her from near the mainmast. He’d also boarded in Plymouth, and Bettina’s flesh prickled each time he came close, his scrutiny unnerving. Had he followed her from England?

Frederick jostled up beside her with Christian in tow.

That’s Long Island Sound. Frederick pointed to another body of water as he leaned on the rail. We’ll be traveling up the East River to the New York Harbor…according to the mate I spoke to. His blondish-brown curls waved in the wind. Everett’s nephew had grown tall for fourteen and his sun-browned cheeks suited him.

I’m relieved to know there is land at this end of the world. Oleba walked up and took Genevre. The maid brushed the one-year-old’s silky blonde hair from her plump cheeks, her voice light and teasing. For awhile I had serious doubts, but we’ve made it.

Bettina glanced again at the scowling stranger and then forced a smile at the Negro woman —as if he didn’t matter. I could never have managed this journey without you.

Maman, Papa’s in America? Christian stared up with large brown eyes so like her own.

Bettina’s breath hitched. She reached out and clasped her son’s hand. No, no, I told you, we are here to search for your grand-mère. At almost four, the boy stood tall and lean like her lover. Everett. She clenched her other hand on the rail until her knuckles blanched white.

A turbulence of seagulls swept over them, their calls sharp and mournful. The city of New York and a busy harbor loomed closer.

All women passengers with children return below until we dock, an officer barked.

Bettina balanced on the heaving planks and guided her son down the steep ladder to their cabin. The smell of mildew wrinkled her nose. I am so relieved this voyage is over.

The added danger of the harassing French warships as they sailed away from England made for a jarring trip. The war had snatched so much from her, and it still raged on. The rebels couldn’t have sent Greencoat after her. She’d told them everything she knew.

No more seasickness, little one. Oleba tickled Genevre under the arm and raised a smile. The rough crossing and stink of bilge water had sent them all scurrying to vomit their stomach contents into buckets the first weeks.

And enough of that salted beef and oatmeal porridge. Frederick pretended to gag until Christian laughed. I’d like to eat some good roast beef.

Let us hope the Americans will welcome us. Bettina pulled out a small mirror from her belongings and checked her hair. Her black tresses were crisp with the salt she’d never washed out since a week away from Plymouth. Adjusting her hat, she tightened the blue ribbon beneath her chin. She straightened her children’s rumpled clothes, their garments crackling with salt, and waited.

An hour passed; the wooden hulk settled. When word was given, they gathered their few belongings and left the cabin to go above, shuffling in a line of people to disembark.

The docks swarmed with porters and carts. Numerous ships were being loaded and unloaded amidst a confused jumble of wooden sheds and crowded wharves that projected like splayed fingers in every direction. The moist air held the smell of smoke and fish.

It is warmer here than in England. The air is so heavy. Sweat dappled her brow as Bettina led her brood down the gangplank. Stay together everyone.

A man checked the passengers’ passports. When he hesitated on Bettina’s, she swallowed hard. Her passport was fake, forged in Cornwall for her, a stowaway into their country.

He waved her on and she clutched the document to her chest and sighed.

Frederick, help me look for our trunks. She kept a tight hand on Christian while Genevre squirmed and complained in Oleba’s arms. Greencoat seemed to have disappeared into the crowd. Perhaps she’d been mistaken about his interest.

Impatient merchants and travelers jostled them. Sailors yelled orders and bells clanged. Baggage and cargo were dropped in a pile on the quay. The activity reminded Bettina of London, the Thames waterfront near the Camborne shipping office. She stiffened and forced her mind to her mission in America, locating her mother.

At last on land that doesn’t move, Oleba said, rocking Genevre.

Bettina felt she still swayed as she looked around the area where rough wooden houses fronted a road littered with garbage. A few stone and brick buildings and church spires were visible beyond.

Frederick jumped aside as a hogshead almost smashed his toes. Maddie wouldn’t care for anyone’s manners around here.

Bettina shook off more sadness, recalling the two women who became like family. Maddie and her sister Kerra, dear friends they’d left behind in Cornwall. But she must put the past behind her. Standing on this foreign shore, she prayed she hadn’t made a huge mistake in leaving England.

A man in an apron rolled a hogshead smelling of molasses past them. More hogsheads were stacked on the pier, their surfaces marked for ‘molasses’ or ‘rum.’

Frantic moments were spent locating their belongings. Then Bettina, after a few rude brush-offs, was directed to the harbormaster. She bustled up to him, shoulders squared to hide her anxiety. She swore she’d glimpsed a flash of green off to her left. Monsieur, how do we travel to New Orleans in Louisiana, please?

Have to catch another ship, Ma’am, and hope the Spanish don’t close the port like they been threatening to do lately. The ruddy-faced man raised a brow at her and spit on the planks.

Bettina lifted her skirt and side-stepped the splatter of tobacco juice. She raised an annoyed gaze to him. Is it not possible to take a coach? Is it far from here? She dreaded another hectic sea voyage.

Pretty far, yes, Ma’am. The roads between here and the south aren’t good. Don’t even know if there is a road all the way through. Where’s your husband? Women oughtn’t to be traveling such distances alone, it’s dangerous.

She’s not alone. I’m with her. Frederick stepped up, head held high. He’d insisted on joining her on this journey and she was glad to have him, though he was still a child.

Bettina fingered her unblessed ring. Will you find us another ship, please, monsieur?

I’ll check on it for you. The man glared over at Oleba. I hope you aren’t harboring a runaway slave.

I’m a freed slave, sir. I have my papers. Oleba’s mellow voice belied her defiantly raised chin. Her slender form stood as straight as a willow switch.

Bettina put a hand on her arm. She hadn’t imagined this particular problem bringing Oleba back home to America. She was born of slaves, but she traveled to England with her owner and he has freed her. She works as nanny to my children now.

The man tipped his hat and walked off.

Mon Dieu. We women manage on our own, do we not? Bettina bristled. She’d heard similar warnings about lone women on the voyage from Plymouth and had suffered enough. Still, men such as Greencoat made her wish for an adult male in their entourage. No decent woman travels alone, she recalled from her first few weeks in England, fleeing the revolution in France, before she’d ridden to Cornwall, before she’d met Everett Camborne.

* * *

Bettina stared around the cramped, canvas-draped, makeshift cabin, the only accommodation left on the two-masted brigantine. Not even a porthole to spy out after they boarded to see if anyone followed. On this second day under sail, she regretted forcing her children to endure such hardships. Cornwall, however, held too many sorrows for her.

Genevre whined on the crude pallet where Oleba cuddled her and started to tell a story.

Bettina pushed aside the door flap, anxious for fresh air. Frederick and Christian stood in the far corner on the gloomy orlop deck, watching a sailor whittle a ship.

I’ll be on the topside, she told the boys before she climbed the ladder. She stepped out on deck. The wind soothed her cheeks and swept away the stink of body odor. Yet she worried over leaving her family unprotected below. She’d only stay a short while.

At the heaving rail, Bettina studied the land as they skirted the coastline going south. America was a drier looking country with widely separated wooden towns. Not like the cool, lush greenness of England, with her quaint stone cottages and ancient cathedrals. This was a primeval land—wilder and bolder. She leaned over the rail, watching the choppy waves slap the ship’s hull. Overhead, the flapping sails rippled against the wind. She took a deep breath, the air refreshing in her lungs.

A barefoot sailor jumped down from the rigging, doffed his hat to her and muttered something she didn’t catch. Her pulse trembled. She had to stop behaving so skittish. Though almost being murdered would make anyone tense.

A short, stocky woman joined her at the rail.

Ignore him. The woman gave the sailor a dismissive wave. They don’t need much encouragement, but wouldn’t dare harass a paying passenger. She turned to Bettina. Are you sailing to New Orleans or Charleston? She had an odd twang to her speech, with an underlying trace of French.

I’m travelling to New Orleans.

That’s where I’m bound to…finally. My name is Charlotte Beaumont.

Bettina’s new acquaintance didn’t look much older than her own twenty-four years. I am Bettina Camborne. She had to perpetuate the lie, using Everett’s last name, though they hadn’t been able to marry due to his ‘missing’ wife.

Do you live in New Orleans? Charlotte pushed back her auburn hair that framed a wide face, her pug nose sprinkled with freckles. She turned and propped her back against the rail. No, you look recently off the boat from Europe.

Yes, it is my first time. Bettina smoothed down her traveling dress, pondering what in her aspect betrayed her as a foreigner. Yet the woman’s tone wasn’t spiteful. My mother, she lives there. At least she hoped Madame Jonquiere still resided in New Orleans. Her cousin had told her in Portsmouth that her mother had escaped from France and traveled with other émigrés to Louisiana.

I live across the river from New Orleans. In Mahieu. It’s much smaller but nicer. My great-grandfather founded the town back when Louisiana belonged to France. Charlotte uttered the last with a wistful air. By the accent, you’re French, aren’t you? We are still predominantly French in Louisiana. The Spanish keep a few solders there, a few officials…but they’re extremely resented.

Bettina widened her eyes. She’d read some of the history of this strange colony she traveled to. Do these officials treat the French kindly?

They have no choice since we outnumber them.

A cabin boy ran by chasing a goat. He yelled for the creature to stop.

Louis XV gave the territory to Spain, over thirty years ago, did he not? Bettina steadied herself on the moving deck. A fishing boat bobbed past on the undulating water.

The lazy king abandoned his people, because France could no longer afford us, or protect us from England, whom they were at war with. Charlotte poked her elbows behind her on the rail, her mouth in a grimace. And are at war again, if you can believe it.

If there is still so much hostility, I may not want to settle there. Bettina lamented once more her insistence on undertaking this voyage.

No, we need to stay strong and resist the Spanish. My grandparents told me all the stories. One of my ancestors fought the transfer to Spain in the name of the French colonists, and was executed for it. My family has been in Louisiana for over seventy-five years. Her smile broadened her cheeks. How long has your mother lived there?

A very brief time. I have been in England these last few years. Bettina noticed two sailors whispered near the mainmast, casting looks in their direction. Her skin prickled.

Spain is tired of our little colony, Charlotte continued. They even offered us back to France last year, but the Directors in Paris said the price was too high.

The Directors are too busy with anarchy in their own country…my country. Bettina sighed. She had no country. An exile from France, she wasn’t an English citizen either.

Charlotte turned to face seaward and gave a slight nod toward the men. Our friends there are contemplating why two luscious belles such as you and I are traveling with no male escorts.

Bettina stifled a grin. She watched other passengers mill about, not one with the menacing countenance of Greencoat. She tried to relax her hunched shoulders. Are you traveling all alone?

I didn’t start out that way. Charlotte studied her. You’ve lived in England you said. Do you side with the British or French in this current conflict?

I don’t side with anyone. I loathe wars. Bettina flushed hot inside. She’d grown up nurtured on French soil, a countess in a land where titles were now outlawed. Her loyalties remained torn. France had attacked and sunk her lover’s merchant ship—Everett was presumed drowned—she should side with England. She stiffened her stomach muscles. Why are you unaccompanied?

My aunt fell ill on our New York visit, so my cousin stayed to take care of her. But I was anxious to get home to my husband and children. I see you have three children with you, but the older boy couldn’t be yours? Where is your husband? Charlotte’s manner was so easy, her inquisitiveness didn’t seem threatening. Still, a woman could be a revolutionary the same as a man.

I am a widow. Bettina hated to use the word. It fostered a bitter taste, tinged with the lie. But masquerading as a widow kept her more respectable on her journey. The older boy, he is my husband’s nephew, he lives with me now.

You’re so young to be a widow, my sympathies. Her eyes softened with kindness.

Bettina turned away for a moment. She clung to the hope that Everett wasn’t really gone, that somehow he’d survived. After a slow breath, she fixed a smile on her face. You say you have a husband and children, Madame Beaumont?

Charlotte, please. Yes, three children, two girls and a boy. My husband works for the Commissary of Police, or as the Spanish have to call it, the Alcalde de Barrio, and I own a pastry shop.

A policeman husband? And a pastry shop, oui? I too plan to run a business. In New Orleans, perhaps, after I find my mother. Bettina surveyed more people around them. No one acted interested in her. I have not seen her for a few years. Six years to be exact.

Oh, as long as that, a pity. What’s your mother’s name?

Her name…is Madame Laurant. Bettina used the alias she herself hid behind in England. Charlotte had approached her and asked a lot of questions. Bettina must remain circumspect, though using the Camborne name could direct someone undesirable toward her.

Unfamiliar, but I don’t keep up with many people in New Orleans. If I can ever do anything for you while you’re there, please come to visit. Charlotte then chatted about her family and the area. Of course, the Spanish are causing problems again, according to my husband’s last letter. There is a treaty giving the Americans the right to use the Mississippi port, yet with Spanish resistance I hope we can get into the harbor.

I don’t know if you are worse off controlled by Spain. The French rebels are evil people, destroying the old regime and now each other. Bettina’s words snapped out, but Charlotte’s expression showed only compassion.

Bettina scratched her fingernail along the rail, her life in constant turmoil for one reason or another. Her father’s death, the revolution, her guardian forcing her onto the ship to England under false pretences. She swayed as the vessel heaved. Another ship sailing toward a precarious future.

* * *

Swatches of land spread across the steamy water. Their vessel had rounded the tip of Florida, entered the Gulf of Mexico, and now sailed through a myriad of glistening islands.

Bettina plucked at her bodice. Her clothes clung to her in an air thick with moisture that wrung out her energy.

At last! Over there is Lake Borgne, and beyond that is Lake Pontchartrain. Charlotte pointed over in the distance where a shoreline came into view. I hope I never leave again.

We are close, grâce à Dieu! I hope I’ll want to stay. Bettina strained to feel like an explorer on an intriguing journey. A wilderness of jungle vegetation skimmed by them, with the sweet smell of decay. A colorful variety of birds flapped through the sky.

Frederick ran up to the rail. That looks more like a bay than a lake. He turned and bounced across the deck and back again, brandishing a pointed stick to where Oleba held Genevre a few feet away. Avast, Mateys. If I had a cutlass I would slay any pirates who attempted to raid our ship and kidnap the fair Genny to make her their pirate queen.

No! The little girl reached out and batted his upturned nose.

Frederick, why are you so fascinated with sharp objects? Bettina asked with a laugh. She walked over and kissed her daughter’s cheek. She caressed the top of her son’s head as he followed on her other side, his little face earnest at the sights.

The ship tacked to starboard and navigated the Mississippi River delta. Silt and sand clogged the area. Reed filled marshes sat in a miasma of sweltering heat. Several rivers seemed to spill out here, and they sailed up a wide tributary brown with mud. Shifting lumps of sand almost impeded their progress. The Spanish soldiers on the banks, rifles shouldered, watching their every move, disturbed Bettina.

Is Papa here? Christian asked, his expression hopeful.

No, mon fils. He is not here. Not yet. Bettina smiled at her boy, her throat tight. She refused to tell her children they might never see their father again. The last article she’d read in the Plymouth newspaper had admitted the Admiralty made mistakes in investigating attacked vessels. Then she’d deserted Everett’s homeland. She fought back tears. Her children’s welfare had to remain upmost in her concerns from now on.

Charlotte hurried up beside her. We have a few more days up the river. I hope you have your passport in order. Be careful, the officials here don’t like the English. Also, the Spanish are suspicious of the French since the revolution. They fear the same revolution in Louisiana.

Bettina squeezed her son’s hand, which was clammy with sweat. In these past weeks of travel, she’d come to trust Charlotte a little more. I think we will manage all right, merci.

Everywhere she went, she seemed to come under suspicion. In England, under the Alien Act, she’d more than once eluded arrest. The English too feared revolution spreading across the channel. What of the men who’d pursued her, insisting she possessed money her father stole from them to stop the anarchy? The catalyst for her papa’s murder.

Bile rose up, burning her throat. The rebels didn’t know she’d spent the money; they could still pursue her. She clutched her inside pocket, where her documents were hidden, and had to believe no one followed her to Louisiana.

Chapter Two

Bettina licked her cracked lips and stood on tiptoe against the rail. After four sultry days of river navigation they’d arrived at the city on the crescent.

New Orleans, voila. Charlotte swept up her hands as if she conducted an orchestra. You should have seen it before the fires. Now, unfortunately, it’s rebuilt in the Spanish style. Several years ago, a huge blaze destroyed most of what the French built. Two years past, hurricanes and another fire did more damage.

After so much destruction, it still does not look so terrible. Bettina scrutinized the unique frontier city. She’d expected a rudimentary outpost and wooden shacks. New Orleans simmered in the August heat, a bright collection of light-hued stucco and plaster buildings, roofed with curved red or flat green tiles.

A French architect designed it, so a little French colonial peeks through. A tragedy though, in the heart of town only the convent was left unscarred.

Look out for pirates. Frederick hoisted up Christian to lean over the rail. We’ll slay the buccaneers and Indians, won’t we, cousin?

At least it’s a large city. I thought we’d end up in a swamp, Oleba said, perspiration glistening on her dark forehead. Genevre pouted in her arms, her bright blue eyes staring.

The area is still a swamp. Charlotte laughed. The buildings can’t have cellars, or be built too high. They would sink right into the marsh. The Carondelet Canal, built two years ago, connects the back of the city along the river levee with Lake Pontchartrain. This has opened the city to more commerce, especially sugar. Cane’s a big crop now. See the levee there? She pointed over the rail. That keeps the river from flooding the city.

Once again on solid land, Charlotte gave them the name of an inexpensive lodging house and her address in Mahieu. Then she hurried off to catch a ferry across the river. Other ferries, barges and flatboats crowded the muddy water.

Like last time, I feel I’m still standing on the ship. The ground’s still wobbling. Frederick staggered for Christian and Genevre’s amusement. I can’t get rid of my sea legs.

This heat I did not expect. Bettina swallowed down her thirst and tugged at her damp bodice, chafing under her arms. The air felt so thick she could have scooped it with a spoon. She stared around at the hustling people; many were Negros like Oleba. The atmosphere did seem primitive and she hugged her children close.

An official checked everyone’s documents. The swarthy-faced man glared at Bettina, his dirty fingers rubbing the pages of her passport. You are English?

She stepped back, her breath sharp. I’m the…widow of an Englishman. I am from France originally. The admission slipped out, despite Charlotte’s warning. Bettina tried to snatch back her passport, irritated by his scrutiny.

French, English, bah, why do you come here? He waved the document in her face.

I come to work, monsieur. To settle here with my family. May I pass, please? She reached out her hand, forcing a smile to hide her jumping pulse.

We are respectable women, sir. With small children to care for. Oleba cast down her eyes as she nudged up beside Bettina with her documents.

Are you a free woman of color? He ruffled through Oleba’s papers, glared her up and down as she nodded. He shoved back their documents and waved them on.

Bettina slipped the passport back into her inside pocket, grasped the two boys’ shoulders and rushed them along. She released her pent up breath and pictured a nice long soak in a refreshing bath. If she never saw another ship or custom’s official, she would be relieved.

She instructed Frederick to hire porters to carry their trunks.

Their group walked through the bustling port. Sailors, slaves, and all sorts of men pulled carts, dragged ropes, loaded and unloaded boats. The heavy stink of the swamps and people’s perspiration filled the air. French voices, many in strange accents, flowed from the men they passed.

They followed the hired porters with their belongings into the vibrant looking city.

The inn, a modest yellow stucco building not far from the waterfront, was more a private guest house. No baths were available, but Bettina was given a pitcher of water and splashed herself and the children in their small room. When she removed Genevre’s dress, she saw the baby had a rash under her arms. I need Maddie’s herb creams now. I pray this is a heat wave, and it’s not so humid every day.

She and Oleba managed to settle the children down in a bed with clammy sheets. Frederick insisted on exploring the area, and promised to bring back food. Hoping for a breeze, Bettina threw open the windows. Shouting from the port, music from somewhere reached her ears. She stared down at the busy street and sighed. Tomorrow, I’ll search for my mother.

The sun set, though the air remained sultry, and Bettina sagged with exhaustion. She could barely eat the spicy sausage Frederick had brought back. All she wanted was to slide into bed