The Soldier's Dark Secret

The old woman’s eyes snapped open. ‘No. I do not like talking of those times, but it must be done. You have a right to know what blood flows in your veins, though you have no entitlement to claim it, or aught else. I sincerely hope your motive for coming here is not based on avarice. If it is you will be sorely disappointed.’

‘All I require from you, Madame, is the truth, nothing more,’ Celeste said firmly.

The old woman took another sip of brandy, visibly bracing herself. ‘Then you will have it. Your mother and my nephew were betrothed. Blythe Wilmslow was in France on the Quatorze Juillet, when the Revolution began. Her parents wished her to return to England, but...’ Madame Rosser shrugged. ‘We all thought at the time that the Revolution would come to nothing.

‘They were here with me in Paris when Georges’ arrest put an end to any hope of a marriage. I told Blythe that she should go back to England, but of course,’ Madame Rosser said sarcastically, ‘the little English miss was too much in love and too foolish to leave Paris without Georges.’ Madame took another sip of brandy. ‘And too much in love and far, far too foolish to refrain from surrendering to her grand passion. You, Mademoiselle Marmion, were conceived in the conciergerie where my nephew awaited trial.’

‘I think, if you don’t mind, I would welcome some of that cognac now,’ Celeste said faintly.

Jack jumped to his feet to pour her some, holding the glass while she drank, for her hands were shaking. ‘You might have employed a little more tact in imparting such shocking news,’ he said angrily.

Madame Rosser eyed him disdainfully. ‘I am not aware that it is any of your business, Mr Trestain. What exactly is your role in all this?’

Celeste raised her brows haughtily. ‘I am not aware that it is any of your business, Madame Rosser.’

Jack laughed. Madame pursed her lips. ‘You are the image of your mother, save for the eyes, which you have from our side of the family, and where also, I think, you get that...’ She shrugged. ‘Insouciance. All very well in a Rosser of Beynac, Mademoiselle, but not so acceptable in one conceived in a prison and born on the wrong side of the blanket.’

‘How dare...?’

Celeste grabbed Jack’s wrist, shaking her head. ‘I would be obliged if you would finish your story, Madame, in plain speaking, and I will remove my tainted blood from your presence. For good, before you ask.’

Madame Rosser nodded. ‘In plain speaking, then, Mademoiselle, your mother was trapped in Paris, for by then the borders were closed. I could not have her here in her condition, but I made sure she was safe, and I paid for the doctor to attend her lying-in. Of this, her parents knew nothing. Then out of the blue, an Englishman turned up looking for her.’

‘Arthur Derwent.’

‘Yes. That is him. How did you know?’

‘Maman had his signet ring.’

‘He was sent here covertly to take your mother and three other prominent Englishmen home. She stubbornly refused to go. She wept and wailed and batted those big eyes of hers at the poor man, and said she would be compromised if she returned with a child and no husband. He was young, and an honourable man too. But he was also one of those rash young men rather too fond of glory. He agreed to attempt to rescue my nephew from imprisonment. It had been done. It was not the impossible he attempted, but it was ill-fated. He was shot dead by one of the guards. A few days later, my unfortunate nephew was sent to the guillotine. Whether that was a result of the botched escape attempt we do not know. I expect Derwent gave your mother that ring for safekeeping. I would imagine it would have been awkward for the English if his identity were to be discovered. He never returned to reclaim it.’

Madame Rosser sighed wearily. ‘With Georges dead, your mother was something of an embarrassment, but I too have a sense of honour. Henri Marmion’s family have served the Rossers for centuries. It was fortunate that he was in Paris at the time. Your mother was like you, a very beautiful woman, and one who had that...’ She snapped her fingers, then looked pointedly at Jack. ‘As I suspect Mr Trestain can vouch. Bien, it took only the lure of being able to call such a beauty his wife and the promise of an annuity small enough to be insignificant to me, large enough to be very significant to Henri. Blythe took a little more persuading, but she had no other option in the end, save to do as I bid. She was not married to Georges, but she was English, and she had borne his child. There was a great chance she would be arrested. And so—that was it.’