A/N: Sorry this took so long, and I hope it'll be worth the wait. I've brought Lizzy back, if it wins me any points, lol. Review responses are all on my LiveJournal, so check that out if you left a review from the last chapter.
Chapter Three
In Which Elizabeth and Jane are Alone and Josephine Reappears
Early morning, July 14, 1799
Somewhere outside Marseille. France.
The gray light of false dawn blanketed the earth when Elizabeth finally returned to wakefulness. Her eyes burned vaguely, a silent testimony to the violent tears that, apparently, she had fallen asleep crying. She blinked, trying to lessen the stinging, but had to satisfy herself with cautiously raising herself enough to see around her when the burning sensation only dulled slightly.
Her surroundings were completely silent, brining to mind surrealism and rural roads with their respective phantoms. Frowning at her own frivolity--she was no longer a child, no matter how much she might wish to be--she slowly sat back on her heels. Jane was still in the depths of slumber, indicated more by the steady rise and fall of her chest than anything else; the blood from her wound on her right shoulder had dried overnight, but the injury itself was as caked in filth as it was in blood. Elizabeth swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat and stood to continue surveying their surroundings.
Her sisters were no where in sight, and her father was equally absent. Her mother-- She blinked back a sudden onslaught of tears. The Marquise de Bennét was dead. There was no way around it. Not just dead--murdered. Murdered by Marcellus Jerrard. Elizabeth clenched her fists and lifted her chin. I hope you are on friendly terms with God despite waging a war on the Church, Marcellus, she thought acidly, because only He can help you now.
Elizabeth turned towards the orchard, and her spine, which had stiffened at the thought of Marcellus, wilted: the orchard, which might have protected them from Marcellus and his men, was naught but two hundred yards from her, perhaps a little more. So close to where she stood! They had been so very close to freedom and relative safety…
She turned abruptly, attempting to force the thought from her mind. Now she could see the house they had lived in for so long. Before, it had been a decrepit but relatively livable manor; now it was a hollow shell. Marcellus had had it burnt to the ground, to all appearances--the house was still smoldering, and spots of flame that had yet to burn out dotted the ruins of the old manor. No hiding there.
It was then that she noted the series of white… things, that were lined neatly in rows just out of range of what, earlier, had been a blazing conflagration of no little magnitude. She narrowed her eyes at the white things, only to realize that they were tents.
Tents! They could only, Elizabeth knew, mean one thing: Marcellus was searching for them. She dropped back to her knees abruptly and scurried over to her twin, who was still asleep. Elizabeth reached out and gently shook Jane's unhurt shoulder.
"Jane," she hissed, afraid that the searchers she knew were out there would hear. "Jane!"
No response. Had Elizabeth not already known that her sister was alive, she would have panicked. However, she did know better, and so simply shook her sister a bit more forcefully. When Jane merely stirred a bit, Elizabeth made an aggravated noise and jumped once more to her feet, peering back in the direction of the camp. Everything seemed perfectly calm… deceptively calm. Marcellus and his men were there somewhere, she knew…
"Elizabeth?"
As abruptly as she'd stood, Elizabeth dropped to her knees once more and hunched over her twin. "We have to get out of here, Jane," she said urgently. "Father and our sisters have disappeared, and Mother was- was killed. Marcellus is searching for us as we speak. We must leave."
"Mother was what?" Jane demanded, grabbing onto her twin's arm and clutching it tightly. "She was-"
"Killed," Elizabeth confirmed, blinking tears again once again. "Marcellus shot her. Please, Jane, we can't stay here."
Jane nodded and began her struggle to sit up, wincing and biting her lip viciously when the wound pulled. Elizabeth grabbed up the packs they had carried with them during their flight the night before, slinging both over one shoulder and using her free side to help her sister.
"We have to run," Elizabeth cautioned as they clamored to their feet, each bracing up the other. "I don't know where any of the men are."
"Then run we shall," Jane replied grimly, her mouth set into a determined line.
Elizabeth had the time to nod in agreement before Jane, wounded though she was, launched into a dead sprint. Trailing along behind her, Elizabeth couldn't help but wonder where Jane found the energy for such speeds. Perhaps there was more to the ever quite and demure Jane than anyone had ever realized. When they reached the relative safety of the orchard, Jane stumbled to a halt and leaned heavily against a tree, gasping for breath, as Elizabeth surveyed their surroundings to ensure that they'd not been seen.
"We're safe enough for now, I believe," Elizabeth said after a moment, then turned and faced her twin, who was still leaning against the tree, her eyes squeezed shut. Elizabeth frowned in concern. "Are you all right?"
"I will be," Jane muttered. Pursing her lips, Elizabeth went over to her sister and surveyed the wound on her right shoulder.
"It isn't terrible, but it needs to be cleaned," she muttered. In her peripheral vision she saw Jane's blond head nod before she sank slowly to the ground, pressing a hand to her brow.
Elizabeth bit her lip fiercely as she looked down at her sister, who was slightly ashen. We need sustenance, she thought grimly, but everything we had has been burnt to the ground. Forcing the disheartening thought from her mind, Elizabeth knelt down beside her sister and pulled her into an embrace that was as much for her own benefit as for Jane's.
"We're alone," Jane whispered faintly. "We're completely alone."
Evening of July 15, 1799
Prison in Marseille. France.
It really was a beautiful evening. The sunset was lovely, and the first few stars glittered in the sky; it was almost enough to inspire poetics, though Josephine had never been one for poeticism. Of course, it was rather difficult to see this poetry-inspiring beauty when one was trapped serving slop to imprisoned "enemies of France."
The prison at Marseille was not nearly so renowned as the prisons in Paris, nor were the executions. However, the guillotine's work was celebrated with equal gusto--and the prison conditions were just as horrid--as in Paris. Hunched over in her guise of an old woman, Josephine dished out a bit of the slop (she wasn't entirely sure what it was, or if she wanted to know what it was) and, after selecting a specific spoon from her apron, she slid it through the flap in the door of the cell.
She repeated this at the next three cells, praying that some freak mistake had not caused her to deliver the special spoons, and the notes attached to them, to the wrong prisoners; she was not about to let Chauvelin get what he wanted in executing one of the few remaining families of high rank in France--the Bennéts would escape if it was the last thing she did.
It was not, of course, by any love of the aristocracy that she was determined to free the Marquis and his three children. In fact, she had rather fancied herself a republican at the beginning of the revolution. The time of the monarchy was past, and the oppression of the people long overdue for its finish. Of course, she was also safely ensconced in England when the revolution began, and, despite that she had grown up in France, she had since realized that calling herself republican while safe in England was a bit hypocritical.
Not only this, but her support of her the people fell dramatically when she realized that the bold and noble revolution had become a bloodbath in the name of liberty. She supported liberty, not murder, and in her blunt opinion, the French people had made themselves lower than the aristos they condemned with every fall of the guillotine.
The Bennéts--or who she hoped was the Bennéts, at least--were the last of her rounds. As she made her way towards the kitchens (if they could be called by such a name, unlike a true kitchen as the place was), Josephine mentally reviewed the note that she had left, carefully disguised, on the handle of the spoon: Thirty minutes after this is delivered to you, leave your cell. The door will be unlocked, and the guards will be gone. Go to your right down the corridor and up the first steps you see. A woman with straw-colored hair will be waiting for you on the first landing.
Therefore, in the next thirty minutes, she had to change her disguise, undetected; go to the east wing and create her distraction, also undetected; make her way back to the west wing of the prison, undetected; rid herself of her disguise and take up her post on the landing (she had unlocked the cells while delivering the slop, and therefore had saved herself the trouble of unlocking them under a time constraint), undetected; and, finally, somehow get her charges as well as herself out of the prison--out of Marseille altogether--undetected. Stealth and inconspicuousness were of the essence; Josephine was no fool. To be caught would be to earn herself a one-way trip to the guillotine, even if it was never realized that she had been attempting to abet in a prison breakout.
Paul Chauvelin, I fear, is not a man to take being slighted with good humor, she thought wryly as she shoved the cart into the kitchen, glaring about at everyone she crossed like an ill-tempered spinster with a severe rheumatism. Confounded mother of mine, if she had simply let me alone…
Having ascertained that she would not be missed in the slightest, Josephine carefully slipped away and began making her way towards the east wing. As she progressed, she picked up anything that might burn, building a small collection of flammables with which to create her diversion.
She would have to choose her location carefully, or she would succeed in little outside killing the innocent prisoners trapped in their cells. The irony of the phrase 'innocent prisoners' flitted across her mind, but an instantly later was dismissed for two reasons: One, because it was true--most of the inmates in French prisons were, indeed, innocent. Two, she had more important things to think of than odd turns of phrase, the rescue of the Bennét family not the least of them.
Just before she made to cross the center portion of the prison, Josephine slipped into a secluded corner and swiftly changed her disguise. Within the space of mere instants, she transformed herself from a crabby, misshapen old woman to a young woman--more a girl, really--named Nicolette with shapely hips and a faded bonnet rouge that she had, perhaps, taken from a male acquaintance who might have been particularly attached to her.
The irony of the name Josephine had chosen for this particular guise never failed amuse her--Nicolette the Young French Girl was flirtatious, even for a Frenchwoman, and was known throughout Marseille for her "attentions" to deserving revolutionaries. None of the rumors were true, of course, but none of the gossips knew that detail. Nicolette was popular amongst the young men of the revolution, as it was a well-known "fact" that, should Nicolette decide to show her face, one or more of them may find themselves in her favor. Nicolette was a right prostitute in the making.
"Nicolette" was also named for Josephine's mother.
Of course, achieving the shapely, pretty look that Nicolette possessed was hardly unproblematic. Josephine had always been slight, and while she did possess a passable figure, she was not by any means curvaceous--quite the opposite of the well-rounded Nicolette. Only meticulous padding in the right places allowed Josephine to maintain Nicolette's well-formed identity.
Her pretty, flirtatious smile close at hand, Josephine-Nicolette bundled up her things in a cloth, sufficiently hiding all that she carried, and then proceeded to sashay across the building into the eastern wing. There were more than a few calls to her as she made her way across--a man's hope is unceasing--and she responded to them all as Nicolette would, with many cries of "À bas les aristos!" as she made her way. Soon, however (though not soon enough to suit her wishes), Josephine found herself alone and in a corridor that eventually lead to a small side exit which in turn lead to a desolate courtyard floored with cobblestones and enclosed by high stone walls.
It was in the corner farthest from the building within this courtyard that Josephine unwrapped her bundle, producing several scraps of filthy (but dry) cloth; a bit of flint and steel; a few small, rather pathetic looking bits of wood that could hardly be called sticks; and a mediocre-sized "horn" (she could hardly remember what it was called; even in her new life as a French fugitive, she could hardly be bothered to remember such terminology) of gunpowder that she had pilfered from a citoyen a fortnight before in the hopes of finding a use for it. Now, it seemed, she would, and she was glad that the effort would not prove to have been for nothing.
Quickly she rid herself of her disguise, tearing off a long strip of the cloth she had used as a head covering in her old woman guise as she worked. As she flung her disguise in the corner of the courtyard, Josephine nervously glanced over her shoulder, terrified that she would be found. There was no doubt to her convictions--if found, she would fight to the death. She had come too far, and survived too long, to let herself be led to the guillotine, or stand before a firing squad, or whatever other means the French revolutionaries might think of to utilize in her execution.
After carefully arranging the tinder about the cloth that was her former disguise, she took the thin strip she had torn from the veil-like cloth and laid it on the cobblestones, one end touching the pile of cloth and tinder. Then she took the container of powder (Perhaps I truly ought to learn what one calls such a thing, she thought idly, tossing another glance over her shoulder) and, after opening it, sprinkled a small bit at the end of the strip of cloth. The horn itself she left open and placed in the center of the cloth and kindle.
She made the Sign of the Cross for the first time in months, more than a little concerned--if she somehow blew herself up, she would be of very little use to the Bennéts--then grabbed up the flint and steel and, before she could lose her nerve, struck them, letting the sparks fly onto the powder.
Ignition was instantaneous, thanks to that black powder, and only a quick reflex saved her from burning her hand. As it was, she had felt a slight sting, and she raised her poor, afflicted hand to her mouth, frowning at the burning strip of cloth. Then, of course, she managed to remember that she was not at her leisure to wait for an eminent explosion (or, at least, what she hoped would be an explosion, if not an overly large one), and so turned and fled for the corridor she had only moments ago quitted.
Making her way through that east wing was not difficult; the difficulty lied in getting past the main part of the prison. The men stationed there to receive prisoners had seen Nicolette pass, but they had not seen Josephine. Indeed, had any of them seen Josephine cross, they would have arrested her straight away and packed her off to Paris, where the Committee of Public Safety waited to sink their claws into her. Indeed, that they had yet to capture her over the course of the past eight months (give or take) was in itself an absolute miracle.
God, how to accomplish this? She was hardly a master in the ways of all things stealthy; she was simply a young woman with a desperate need to get to the other side of that prison! Josephine soon discovered that, not for the first time (certainly not the last, either), fate was on her side. Even as she began to despair of a quiet, inconspicuous trip to the other wing of the prison, the great doors were flung open, and a young man she recognized only vaguely strode in as if he were about to be announced the leader of France.
Though she didn't know it, the young man was none other than Marcellus Jerrard, come to gather reports on the search for the Bennét twins. However, all Josephine knew was that this man had proved a wonderful distraction--as soon as the men had moved forward to greet him, she slipped behind them and was soon safely hidden in the corridors of the west wing.
Her relief was short-lived--why had her diversion not taken place yet? Surely it could not take that long for a simple bit of cloth to burn! It occurred to her that perhaps it had somehow been extinguished, and she whirled about and stared down the corridor in the direction she had just come from.
Before she had resolutely avoided observing the corridors. Now, however, it was inescapable. The dark gray walls, with their worn and dirty stone charred from some long-ago fire, were forbidding enough; the dim lighting only worsened--or perhaps enhanced--the intimidating affect. The halls seemed to stretch on forever, and Josephine suddenly felt more insignificant than any self-respecting human being had the right to.
After an instant to collect herself, she then promptly proceeded to curse her own luck. She would not find yet another easy distraction in her return to that blasted courtyard and that blasted pile of tinder to relight it. No, she was on her own now. She began to stride purposefully back towards the east wing.
A timely explosion rumbled through the corridors of the prison and set Josephine running back towards the west.
She had to reach the landing--or any hiding place, for that matter--before the guards rushing to see what had happened espied her and tossed her into a cell of her own. Hearing thunderous footsteps coming towards her from the west, she cast a desperate gaze about her, struggling to find any sort of place in which to conceal her person- there!
Josephine flung herself into a convenient hidey hole in the form of an empty cell, the door to which she didn't dare completely close--what if she somehow locked herself in that wretched place by accident? No, it was not a chance to be taken. Even as she flung herself into the shadows, however, the footsteps doubled in their volume, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, struggling to quiet her breathing. Despite her struggles, it seemed, she still could not regulate her desperate breaths, and so she focused on inhaling the amount of air her body obviously required while doing so quietly.
Perhaps her efforts had been helpful, or perhaps they hadn't. Either way, it was a mere moment before the footsteps had rushed past and were fading into the distance. Josephine peeked out of her hiding place, looked about and, after determining that it was sufficiently safe, she slipped out and resumed her race down the corridor.
It seemed like ages before she finally reached the steps to the landing she had mentioned in her note, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she half-collapsed against the wall. It would not be long, she knew, before the Bennéts--or, at least, whom she hoped were the Bennéts--were with her on the landing, at which point they could make their escape. Marseille was not a safe place for any of them, particularly the Bennéts. They sooner they could leave…
She heard the sounds of footsteps, and it was clear to her trained ear that the person making said footsteps was doing his or her best to make them as silent as possible. Josephine tucked herself into the shadows, staring intently at the narrow stairwell. Soon enough, a man followed by three girls mounted the steps. All four looked utterly terrified.
Josephine gasped, hardly daring to believe it. "You are the Bennéts, yes?" she asked excitedly, stepping into the light. "I haven't ruined everything completely?"
"Yes," one of the girls--the youngest one, by the looks of her--said defiantly, stepping forward with a rebellious look to her.
Sagging with relief, Josephine gave them all a brilliant grin. "There is nothing you could have said that would make me happier at this moment. Unless, of course, you were to tell me that the Republic is dissolving as we speak." She waved for the (mildly confused-looking, to be sure) Bennéts to follow her, racing back down the stairs. After determining that the passages were free of those who might stop them (that is to say, entirely free of presences of the human persuasion), Josephine turned to her right and began to run, praying that the Bennéts wouldn't lag behind.
Most fortuitously, they were remarkably able to keep up as they sprinted down the stone corridors, careening around corners and half-stumbling on stairs. However, not long after learning that her worry on that score was baseless, she found a new concern--the run through the corridors, a path she had traveled many times in preparation for this very situation, was taking so very long… Surely they couldn't be lost…
Then, with a cry of triumph, she spotted the heavy wooden door that led the outside, and thus to freedom. Josephine had absolutely no idea what had induced the builders to install a door that led directly to the outside in a prison, but at that point she was not about to question it. That door, in fact, was the only thing standing between herself and the Bennéts and a rather crude death by decapitation. She flung herself at it, yanking the key to the door out of her bodice ) where she had smuggled it, and stuffed it in the lock.
She struggled with the lock for what felt like an hour, then very nearly fell through the door when she kicked it open in frustration after urging the Bennéts to follow her, she sprinted off into the night, praying to lose any pursuers as they ran through the city.
À bas les aristos! - Basically, "Down with the aristocrats!"
Special thanks to: percyismine, ArwenEvenstar83, darksidetwin2, austenfreak, Bhavana, embracing, cookie, and midnightdreams. I heart you all much!
