to England.'
She looked at him carefully, as though inspecting a thoroughbred horse at a sale. 'A slight turning up at the corners of the mouth ... a brightness in at least one eye ... a jauntiness about the ears ... Or am I mistaken?'
'You're in love,' he said solemnly. 'I can produce plans as a cow gives milk, but they curdle as soon as you look at them.'
'What are the chances of rescuing Jean-Jacques?'
'You know the answer to that question.'
'Yes, I suppose I do. What are the chances of us escaping?'
He paused a minute or two. 'Better than they were, I think. It depends on how the French authorities regard the mutineers from the Murex. Yes, and what they intend to do with the officers and the seamen who did not join the mutiny and are still on board as prisoners of war.'
'Why is all that important?'
He shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know. That's the worst of plans. Most of the time they're just ideas. Occasionally, if you're lucky, you can throw an idea at a problem and it solves it. That's how swallows make those nests of mud in odd places.'
'And was doing that what made Captain Ramage famous in the Navy for his skill and daring?'
'Captain Ramage is famous at the Admiralty for disobeying orders!'
'They do say,' Sarah said, 'that being too modest is another way of bragging.'
'Well, skill and daring have landed Captain Ramage with a wife in a château a few miles from Brest while his ship is at Chatham, which is only a war away.'
'You make it sound as though you're sorry you married me.'
He took her in his arms. 'No, my dear, I'm blaming myself for not having married you sooner: then I'd be taking the Calypso out of the Medway and you'd be safe in London or St Kew, starting to write a passionate letter to me saying how you miss me.'
Sarah sat up and patted her hair as there was a gentle knock at the door. Ramage realized with a guilty feeling that he had nothing to say to Gilbert. Well, maybe he could think aloud, but that seemed like cheating a man who trusted you.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sarah put the triangular red scarf round her head and knotted the ends under her chin. Then coquettishly she spun round a couple of times so that her heavy black skirt swirled out and up, revealing knee-length and lace-edged white cotton drawers.
Ramage frowned and then said judiciously: 'Yes, there's a certain rustic charm, despite the revolutionary scarf. Your complexion is just right: you have the tan of a country wench who helps with the harvesting.'
'You are a beast! You know very well this is the remnants of a tropical tan!'
'I do, yes,' Ramage teased, 'but I was thinking of the gendarmes you might have to charm.'
'You don't think my accent is adequate?'
'Oh yes - thanks to Gilbert's coaching you are a true Norman from Falaise. Just remember, in case they question you, that William the Conqueror was born in the castle there, his wife was Matilda, and the Bayeux tapestry is very long!'
She walked round him. 'You don't look right, Nicholas. That hooked nose looks far too aristocratic for you to have survived the guillotine, although I admit your hair looks untidy enough for a gardener. Those trousers! I'm so used to seeing you in breeches. Isn't it curious how the revolutionaries associated breeches with the monarchists? Personally I should have thought trousers are much more comfortable than culottes. If I was a man I think my sympathies would be with the sans-culottes. I'd cry 'vive les pantalons! To the bonfires with the culottes'.''
She inspected his hands. 'You have worked enough earth into the skin, my dear, but they still don't look as if they've done a good day's hoeing or digging in their entire existence. And there's something missing ... Ah, I have it! Slouch, don't stand so upright! When you stand up stiffly peering out from under those fierce eyebrows, you look just like a naval officer dressed for a rustic fête. Ah, that's better.'
'Now surely I must look like the henpecked husband of a Norman shrew.'
'Yes,' she agreed, 'why don't you bear that in mind. Think of me as la mégère. With this red scarf round my head, I must say I feel the part!'
Gilbert slipped into the room after his usual discreet knock on the door. He excused himself and inspected Sarah closely. Finally he said: 'The shoes, milady ... they are most important.'
Sarah gestured to the pair of wooden clogs. 'And they are most uncomfortable!'
'Yes, milady, but you must wear them so that they seem natural. We are extremely lucky that Estelle had a pair which fitted you, even if those that Louis found for...'
'Even if Louis has enormous feet and I feel as though I'm wearing a couple of boats,' Ramage grumbled.
'Yes, sir, but the socks?'
'The extra socks do help,' he admitted. 'I had to put on three pairs, though.'
'But the coat and pantalons - perfect. You have adopted to perfection the, how do you say, the stance, of a man of the fields.'
Ramage glared at Sarah, defying her to make a facetious comment.
Gilbert himself was dressed in black. The material of the trousers was rough, a type of serge; the coat had the rusty sheen denoting age and too much attention from a smoothing iron. He looked perfect for the role he was to play, the employer of a young couple who was taking them to market.
He was carrying a flat canvas wallet, which he unbuttoned as he walked over to the table. 'Will you check through the documents with me, sir? From what Louis reports, we might have to show them half a dozen times before we get back here.'
With that he took out three sets of paper and put one down on the table as though dealing playing cards for a game of patience.
'The passeports,' he explained. 'Foreigners need one type, and every Frenchman visiting another town needs a different sort: he has to get it from the local Committee of Public Safety, and it is valid only for the journeys there and back. Now, milady, will you examine yours.'
Sarah picked it up. The paper was coarse and greyish, and at the top was printed the arms of the Republic. The rest comprised a printed form, the blank spaces filled in with a pen. She was now Janine Ribère, born Thénaud in Falaise, wife of Charles, no children, hair blonde, complexion jaunâtre. (Jaunâtre? She thought for a few moments, combing her French vocabulary. Ah, yes, sallow. Well, certainly Gilbert was not trying to flatter her!) Purpose of journey: multiple visits to Brest to make purchases of food from the market. She nodded and put the page down again.
Gilbert gave her another which had a seal on it and a flourish of ink which was an unreadable signature. It was smaller, had a coat of arms she did not recognize, but bore the name of the department beneath it.
'This, madame, is a certificate issued in Falaise, and saying, as you can see, that you were born there, with the date. And beneath the préfet's signature is a note that you removed to the province of Brittany on your marriage. And beneath that the signature of the préfet of Brittany.'
'All these signatures!' Sarah exclaimed. 'Supposing someone compares them with originals?'
Gilbert smiled and took the sheet of paper. 'If he does he will find they are genuine. Préfets sign these papers by the dozen and leave them to underlings to fill in the details.'
'But how did you get them?'
'That's none of our business,' Ramage said. 'Where did we get them from officially?'
'Madame had this issued to her by the mairie in Falaise and it was signed in Caen (the préfet gives the name). Then she had the addition made at the préfecture here. The passeport, too, comes from the préfecture in Brest. I shall point it out to you.'
He took a second set of papers. 'These are yours, milord. The same kind of documents but you see there is one extra - your discharge from the Navy of France. Dated, you will notice, one month before your wedding. The ship named here was damaged in a storm at Havre de Grâce and is still there. You were discharged and were making your way home when you met a young lady in Caen and you both fell in love...'
Gilbert tapped the paper which had the anchor symbol and the heading 'Ministry of the Marine and Colonies' and, like the others, was a printed form with the blanks filled in. 'You are of military age, so you will have to show this everywhere.'
'And you? Have you the correct documents?' Ramage asked. 'You aren't taking any extra risks by coming with us?'
Gilbert shook his head. 'No, because I have all the necessary papers to go shopping in Brest. I am well known at the barrières. You have told madame about the difference between foreigners and French people passing the barrières?'
'No. We've been busy making these clothes fit and I would prefer you to explain. My experience in Republican France is now several years old: I'm sure much has changed.'
Gilbert sighed. 'To leave the ancien régime and go to England ... then to return to Republican France. Now it is the guillotine, the tree of liberty, gendarmes every few miles, documents signed and countersigned ... no man can walk or ride to the next town to have a glass of wine with his brother without a passeport ... few men dare quarrel with a neighbour for fear of being denounced out of spite, for here the courts listen to the charge, not the defence -'
'The barrières,' Ramage reminded him.
'Ah yes, sir. Well, first there is the curfew from sunset to sunrise: everyone must be in his own home during the hours of darkness. To travel - well, one has the documents you have seen. You need plenty of change - at every barrière there's a toll. The amount varies, depending on the distance from the last barrière, because they are not at regular intervals.'
'A large toll?' Ramage asked.
'No, usually between two and twenty sous. It wouldn't matter if the money was spent on the repair of the roads - which is what it is supposed to be for - but no one empties even a bucket of earth into a pothole. But luckily we have our own gig because travelling by postchaise is very expensive. Before the Revolution a postchaise from here to Paris was about 250 livres; now it is 500. No highwaymen, though; that's one triumph of the Revolution!'
