The Silver Blade (10 page)
‘Yes,’ Tetu said. His face remained motionless. What could he tell Yann? That he lived in dread of Kalliovski’s resurrection and the power that would come with it?
‘Didier was sure we were followed from Paris by a wolf,’ said Yann. ‘I saw its shadow. I felt it belonged to the darkness.’
‘Why?’
‘There were no threads of light, and it made me wonder: if the devil went walking, and took Kalliovski, what would have happened to Balthazar?’
‘A good question. One I need to think about.’ Tetu moved towards the door. He clicked his fingers, and Iago flew and landed once more on his shoulder.
‘One other thing,’ said Yann. ‘I heard Anis’s voice. I’m sure she was warning me.’
Tetu said nothing. He wanted this conversation to be over. It brought back memories of Anis. Her loss was a hole in his heart that time had forgotten to mend.
He said, more briskly than he meant, ‘You need your talisman. Good night.’
Yann watched him leave and then turned to the mirror, where he saw propped against it a letter from Sido.
He broke the seal and read:
Those simple words “I love you” are the most precious gems I have ever been given.I have not dared to believe that you could care for me or that your feelings could match mine. I felt it would be my secret, that I would never have the courage to tell you that I loved you with all my being.When I arrived in London all those months ago I had never experienced a loss quite like that of being parted from you. Only in your shell did I find comfort. I would lay it on the palm of my hand and see it almost shimmer as I asked it if you were safe. It has a voice, soft, like a gentle wave lapping at the seashore; it always sings the same song: ‘He must love you so much to have given away such a talisman, he must love you so much … . A lullaby to soothe my troubled heart.What would I have done without your letters? Don’t think I don’t know what danger they put you in, but I have counted the days between them, been frustrated beyond belief when there wasn’t anything from you and even my dear postman would look sad. Poor Mr Trippen, I think if he could have conjured a letter from thin air he would have done so.There is no one else. Goodness knows what you have heard. It is true that my uncle and aunt have introduced me into society. I can tell you this: all I ever meet is empty-headed or vain young men. I feel like an automaton dressed up and wheeled out. My fault, I fear, for once again I have retreated into silence. There are no words I want to share with anyone but you.Here my soul is imprisoned. Only you can set it free.You have been with me in everything. And you will always be with me. You are my beginning, you will be my end; in the middle lies our future. I am with you in spirit, as I feel your spirit is with me. I will wait, Yann. You and only you have the key to my soul.Je t’aime.
Sido
Chapter Eight
W
hen Sido arrived eighteen months earlier, she found London a noisy old lady wheezing monstrous in all her smoke and fumes. With her mantle of twisting narrow streets oozing into the countryside, uncontained by city walls, she was so different from Paris that to begin with Sido felt bewildered.
hen Sido arrived eighteen months earlier, she found London a noisy old lady wheezing monstrous in all her smoke and fumes. With her mantle of twisting narrow streets oozing into the countryside, uncontained by city walls, she was so different from Paris that to begin with Sido felt bewildered.
She was further bewildered by her aunt and uncle’s genuine love of her. Juliette had tears in her eyes when Sido first entered the drawing room in Queen Square for, as she told her, she looked almost identical to the beloved sister she had lost.
That was their only similarity, as Juliette soon discovered, for here was a young woman who possessed not only beauty but understanding that exceeded her years. In her aunt’s eyes, Sido’s gentleness made the cruelty of what she had suffered even more repugnant. The Laxtons felt very protective towards her. There was a vulnerability about Sido that Juliette thought came from neglect. Henry knew it had more to do with the atrocities she had witnessed in the Abbaye prison and the ordeal she had suffered at the hands of Kalliovski. He shuddered to think of the obscene marriage contract and what would have happened if Yann hadn’t rescued her.
It had been Mr Trippen, Yann’s old tutor, who, sensing Sido’s feelings towards his former pupil, had encouraged her to write to him. That first letter had taken ages and when it was finally finished she felt it was stiff, awkward and childish. Her only hope was that Yann might see all the invisible words written between the lines, words her quill was too shy to shape. She had left it on the silver plate in the hall with all the other letters to be posted.
That afternoon Juliette and Sido sat in the drawing room, Juliette at her needlework, Sido reading, as the fire crackled in the grate and the clocks ticked gently.
Outside horses clip-clopped by and Sido, half dreaming, did not at first hear her aunt when she said, ‘My dear, I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of removing the letter from the hall table.’
Sido was wide awake now.
‘Here it is,’ said Juliette, handing it back to her. ‘Please don’t think me rude, but it is really not safe to write to Yann.’
‘I wanted to thank him,’ said Sido, feeling her cheeks flame.
‘My goodness,’ said Juliette, ‘it is a very good thing you didn’t. If he were to receive a letter from an emigre, it could be used in evidence as proof that he was a counter-revolutionary or a spy. Isn’t that dreadful?’ She paused. ‘Anyway, your uncle tells me that his role as Harlequin attracts quite enough letters from ardent young ladies.’
The very idea that she would be just one of Yann’s many doting admirers appalled Sido. Mortified, she said, ‘It is only that I have known him for some time.’
Juliette smiled. ‘Of course,
ma cherie
. He must seem like a hero to you. But believe me when I say he would understand. I’m sure there are many young women in Paris bewitched by those dark eyes of his, don’t you think?’
ma cherie
. He must seem like a hero to you. But believe me when I say he would understand. I’m sure there are many young women in Paris bewitched by those dark eyes of his, don’t you think?’
Sido wished the floor would open and swallow her whole. Was she another silly little girl, infatuated by a young man who had taken the liberty of stealing her heart and kissing her for it? She put the letter in the fire, watching it burn.
‘It is for the best,’ said her aunt.
S
ido’s spirits over that first long, dull winter in London had been very low indeed. She did all that was required of her, but with little enthusiasm. She felt dead inside, a terrible melancholy hung over her like a London fog that nothing could lift. She was haunted by nightmares of Kalliovski, of his beetle-black carriage.
ido’s spirits over that first long, dull winter in London had been very low indeed. She did all that was required of her, but with little enthusiasm. She felt dead inside, a terrible melancholy hung over her like a London fog that nothing could lift. She was haunted by nightmares of Kalliovski, of his beetle-black carriage.
In these dreams she knows she is to be the Count’s bride. She is in a huge domed chamber in which stands a macabre altar made from the dismembered bodies of the victims of the Abbaye massacre, their limbs protruding, their hands moving, their fingers twitching, blood dripping on to the floor. In front of the altar stand seven women, screaming through sewn-up lips:
‘Calico and corpses.
‘Damask and death.’
Kalliovski turns his waxen face to Sido, his red lips a wound. ‘Don’t let the blood stain your white, white dress, my dear.’
Every time she would wake, terrified, shaking, and light all the candles in the room.
Often she wouldn’t sleep for fear of the nightmare. On those nights she would sit looking into the fire, her knees pulled up under her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs and think, what if she never saw Yann again? What then was the point to living? So much had happened since the time she had first woken to see him standing by her bed. The only consistent thing in her life, which had never failed her, was Yann. No one in London understood her. She was treated like a china doll, to be worshipped like a goddess, as one handsome dandy told her.
Concerned for her health, Juliette and Henry sought advice from the best doctors in London. All agreed that news of what was happening in France was to be kept to a minimum. Henry believed this to be balderdash. Sido possessed far too lively a mind to be unaware of events in Paris and it would be near impossible to spare her from such conversations as they had an open house for emigres three times a week. At these gatherings Sido’s spirits would perceptibly rise, especially when the Silver Blade was mentioned, as if instinctively she knew who they were talking about. Henry’s diagnosis was altogether more astute. The real reason for Sido’s unhappiness was her longing for Yann, but on that subject it was impossible to speak. It had been Yann’s decision that Juliette should not be told the truth about what he did. Juliette had been devoted to him, and if she thought that he hadn’t run away to be an actor, but was dancing with death, playing a dangerous role in the Revolution, she would have driven herself to distraction with worry. Henry agreed it was far better that she was allowed to think Yann was an ungrateful young man who had given up a golden opportunity to go to Cambridge.
Not for the first time, he was considering the wisdom of his decision. It was as clear as day, whether they liked it or not, his earnest and very beautiful young niece was in love with Yann.
It was in the New Year, at one of their English lessons, that Mr Trippen handed Sido a letter. Her surprise at seeing her name written on it nearly took her breath away.
‘Do you know who it’s from, my dear young lady?’ asked Mr Trippen.
Sido felt her heart beat faster, felt her words freeze on her tongue.
‘I believe the handwriting, if my eyes don’t deceive me, is that of a young Hamlet,’ said Mr Trippen.
‘By Hamlet, you mean Yann?’
‘I do indeed. Mr Margoza wrote to me to ask if I would make sure this was personally delivered to you here. He feels Mr and Mrs Laxton might not think it proper or wise for you to correspond with him. He also wrote that if you agree with them, then he won’t write again.’
The expression that crossed Sido’s face told Mr Trippen all he needed to know. Sido was in love with Yann, and he with her. Just as he had suspected.
‘If you’re worried about the safety of sending such a letter, all I need tell you is that Mr Margoza has arranged the whole thing. My task is by far the more pleasurable: to make sure it gets into your fair hand.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sido, and she smiled. ‘I have never written a letter before. I tried and it sounded so stiff. Anyway, it ended in the fire.’
‘Now, as for the writing of letters, one has to make a start. To that end, there is always the “Dear So-and-So” to rely on, but once that is said, an acre of white paper can be most off-putting.’
‘That is where I was having trouble.’
‘Be brave, as the great bard would say. Nothing can come of nothing. No good worrying too much about politeness and etiquette. My advice is to speak what’s in your heart. Be yourself.’
So started the secret exchange of letters that made London bearable for Sido, made cloudy skies sunny, and gave her the greatest happiness she had ever known.
They wrote of everything and nothing; with each letter they ventured deeper, like two people wading out to sea, hoping when the time came they would know how to swim. After more than twelve months of correspondence Yann had finally written to tell her he loved her.
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