A Fierce Wind (Donet Trilogy Book 3)
A Fierce Wind
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
A FIERCE WIND
Copyright © 2018 Regan Walker
All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9976567-4-9
Kindle Edition
Praise For Regan Walker’s Work
“Ms. Walker has the rare ability to make you forget you are reading a book. The characters become real, the modern world fades away, and all that is left is the intrigue, drama, and romance.”
—Straight from the Library
“The writing is excellent, the research impeccable, and the love story is epic. You can’t ask for more than that.”
—The Book Review
“Regan Walker is a master of her craft. Her novels instantly draw you in, keep you reading and leave you with a smile on your face.”
—Good Friends, Good Books
“An example of ‘how to’ in good story building… a multilayered novel adding depth and yearning.”
—InD’Tale Magazine
“Spellbinding and Expertly Crafted… The path to true love is never easy, yet Regan Walker leads the reader to an entertaining, realistic and worthy HEA. Walker’s characters are complex and well-rounded and, in her hands, real historical figures merge seamlessly with those from her imagination.”
—A Reader’s Review
“Walker stuns with her gift for storytelling, magically entwining historic fact and fiction to create a thought-provoking, sensual romance, one that will stay with you.”
—Chicks, Rogues & Scandals
“Walker’s detailed historical research enhances the time and place of the story without losing sight of what is essential to a romance: chemistry between the leads and hope for the future.”
—Publisher’s Weekly
“An enthralling story.”
—RT Book Reviews
Acknowledgements
This story, like Echo in the Wind, is sprinkled with French and, for its accuracy, I must thank Liette Bougie, my beta reader in Québec whose French, I understand, would be much like that spoken in France at the time of my story. Liette also makes many other valuable suggestions.
I am also indebted to my friend Chari Wessel, a doctor of veterinary medicine who, for many years, was the gunner on the schooner Californian, a reproduction ship of the period berthed in San Diego. Chari is an amateur historian, well versed in Georgian era ships and sailing. She makes sure my ship terminology and scenes are correct. Her judgments are always helpful.
Dedication
In memory of the Chouans and the Vendéens who fought for their king and their faith and for the men, women and children among them who were hounded, killed, guillotined and massacred by the Republic of France. May they never be forgotten.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Regan Walker’s work
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Characters of Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Author’s Bio
Author’s Books
Characters of Note
(Both real and fictional)
Zoé Ariane Donet, niece to Jean Donet
Frederick West, brother of the Earl of Torrington
On the Isle of Guernsey:
Jean Donet, comte de Saintonge, captain of la Reine Noire
Joanna, comtesse de Saintonge, Jean Donet’s wife and sister to the Earl of Torrington
Madame de Montconseil, princesse d’Hénin
Éloise, maidservant to Madame de Montconseil
Pierre Bouchet, physician
On la Reine Noire:
Émile Bequel, quartermaster
Gabriel Chastain, seaman, formerly Donet’s cabin boy
On Jersey:
Captain Philippe d’Auvergne, Senior Officer of Gunboats and British Spymaster
In the Channel and the Atlantic:
Villaret de Joyeuse, French captain of the Trajan and, later, Rear Admiral and Commander of the Brest Fleet
Admiral Lord Howe, British Commander of the Channel Fleet
At The Harrows in West Sussex:
Richard, Earl of Torrington, brother to Freddie and Joanna
Anne, Countess of Torrington
William Pitt the Younger, the Prime Minister
Zack and Polly Barlow, friends of Joanna and Freddie
In Normandy, Brittany and Maine:
Erwan, Vendéen fighter
Georges Cadoudal, Chouan chief
Isabeau le Gallou, Breton girl and her brother, Giles
Aimé Picquet, chevalier du Boisguy, general of the Chouans in Fougères
Jean Cottereau, known as Jean Chouan, leader of the Chouans in Maine
Victorine du Rocher du Quengo, a Chouan known as Captain Victor
General Antoine Rossignol, Commander in Chief, the Army of the Coast of Brest
In Paris:
Robespierre, architect of the Terror and leader of the Committee of Public Safety
Flèche, Donet’s butler and former gunner aboard la Reine Noire
Gaspar, former carpenter aboard la Reine Noire
Pascal (“Pax”), boy in the Conciergerie
François de Dordogne, a lawyer
It was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.
—Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
Prologue
Champ de Mars outside Paris, 14 July 1790
A light rain fell on the unfolding spectacle, the heavens mocking the gaiety of the occasion that mingled the revolution’s victors with the vanquished.
Frederick West shifted his gaze from the thronging crowds to the girl standing beside him, suddenly seized with a desire to protect her from the storm about to unleash its fury on France. She stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the long rows of soldiers in blue and white uniforms standing at attention in the center of the arena.
It seemed like only yesterday he was seventeen and giving the precocious ten-year-old French girl a tour of his family’s estate in West Sussex. She had insisted on riding their most spirited mare, her reckless streak manifesting itself even then.
At the time, the little minx had fascinated him. Eventually, fascination had turned into attraction. Now, at sixteen, Zoé Ariane Donet promised great beauty, the flower of French womanhood about to bloom.
Long hair the color of dark mahogany framed her delicate features. Her ivory skin reminded
him of a painting of Venus he had once seen in Paris. Dove gray eyes spoke of her youthful innocence. Soon, her slim body, today attired in the tricolors of revolutionary France, would possess a woman’s curves.
“Freddie, look at all the banners! Aren’t you glad we came? C’est magnifique, non?” She spoke from beneath her plumed hat never turning her attention from the pageantry before her.
“Glad we came? I cannot say that, Pigeon, but I grant you, ’tis certainly a grand display.”
She huffed in frustration. “Somewhere on the field with all those soldiers is my dear Louis-Pierre, but I cannot see him.”
Ah yes, the French soldier she was so taken with. The latest of her girlish infatuations. Freddie took comfort in the knowledge that there would be others, none more significant than the last. He need not worry about her innocence, not yet anyway. Not many men would dally with the niece of the infamous Jean Donet, not even the naïve Louis-Pierre.
Donet, a man trusted by both commoners and king, had once been a pirate, then a privateer and, when Freddie first met him, a smuggler. He was ruthless when he needed to be and good with a blade. Six years ago, with the murder of her father and grandfather, Zoé had become his ward.
From where Freddie stood in the grandstands with the Donets, he had an excellent view of the other end of the field and the altar raised several stories into the air. Thousands had flocked to the Champ de Mars, their murmurs echoing in waves around the great arena as excitement rose for the celebration about to begin.
Some of the men sported le bonnet rouge, the red cap signifying liberty to the revolutionaries. Given the brutal way France’s revolution had begun the year before with the storming of the Bastille, Freddie thought the caps might as well signify blood. It was no surprise to him a revolution led by lawyers would have a cruel beginning.
Today’s grand show struck him as a ruse. All of Europe was holding its breath, for behind the ruse lurked a seething mass of discontent.
“To what end do you suppose we gather here, Pigeon?”
“Don’t be silly, Freddie,” said Zoé, shooting him a disapproving look. The stubborn set of her jaw spoke of the defiance he knew lay just below the surface. “You know very well the reason for this fête. France will no longer be governed by the whims of the king but by a written constitution.” Raising her chin, she added, “Comme l’Amérique.”
Freddie bit back the retort forming on his lips. He would allow Zoé the joy of the celebration. She would face reality soon enough. As for him, he did not consider France’s new constitution, forced on the French king and already the subject of controversy, to be at all like America’s. Two days before, the new Assemblée nationale had approved a Civil Constitution of the Clergy, condemned by the Pope for requiring priests to swear allegiance to the state in the strongest of terms.
Today’s celebration had little substance beneath the pomp. And Freddie was certain there would be much pomp. First the ceremonies, then oaths and speeches and finally, a grand feast where bread would be plentiful and fireworks would fill the night sky.
The French had a penchant for the spectacular.
“Oh, there he is!” exclaimed Zoé, waving to a soldier who doubtless could not see her in the grandstand. “Isn’t he handsome?” A sigh escaped her perfect rosebud lips. “So brave, so gallant…”
Freddie would never have described Louis-Pierre as gallant but perhaps to a girl of sixteen, the sparkling new uniform of the Blues, the name given to the republican soldiers, bestowed upon Louis-Pierre a certain sang-froid.
Wishing to hear no more of Zoé’s current love interest, Freddie turned his attention to her uncle. Jean Donet, comte de Saintonge, watched the pageantry with worried eyes, occasionally darting glances at the king and his brother, the comte de Provence, whose strained expressions belied their seeming acceptance of the new order of things.
On the other side of Donet stood Freddie’s eldest sister, Joanna, who had married the comte six years ago. Freddie had accompanied the Donets to their château set amidst the cognac-producing vineyards in Saintonge and to their homes in Lorient and Paris. But it was the spymasters in London who decided he should work alongside Donet in his merchant shipping business. In the wake of the revolution, Donet moved his family and his business to the Isle of Guernsey, an English Crown dependency just off the coast of Normandy.
Donet didn’t trust the lawyers either.
At twenty-three, Freddie had gone from an English earl’s younger brother to a man of merchant ships and the sea.
And a spy for the British Crown.
At the urging of the French king, Donet had traveled to Paris for this Fête de la Fédération. The celebration was the brainchild of Talleyrand, Bishop of Autun. The least reputable of France’s bishops and no friend of the clergy, he had supported the measure that nationalized the Church.
Freddie agreed with Zoé on one point, that the event was supposed to draw all levels of French society together—the clergy, the nobility and everyone else—to swear allegiance to the new constitution and to celebrate, in appearance at least, national unity. But, to Freddie’s mind, the veneer of unity was a bit thin, like brawling children forced to be friends. Only these were not children and they would never be friends.
The attack on the Bastille had only begun the rip in France’s society. A month ago, the Assemblée had abolished all titles, liveries and orders of knighthood, destroying the symbols of the Ancien Régime, a gesture most nobles received with disdain. Even the address of “Monsieur” was no longer permitted. Not that it bothered Donet, who had never expected to have a title and didn’t much want one. But, like Freddie, the former pirate was not unmindful of the effect of such sweeping changes.
A fierce wind had swept France to the end of an era, but did this celebration mark the beginning of something better?
As though answering his unspoken question, cannons at the other end of the field boomed, sending smoke billowing into the air.
Exuberant cheers rose from the crowd.
The rain stopped as if on cue.
Talleyrand, surrounded by hundreds of priests, doubtless ones who had accepted their new roles, mounted the podium above the cannons to say mass.
The liturgy was mercifully short. As it ended, into the arena, on a splendid white horse, rode Lafayette, chief of the new National Guard, hero of the American Revolution and confidant of the king.
The crowd thundered its approval. At Freddie’s side, caught up in the fervor, Zoé clasped her hands to her bosom.
Lafayette dismounted and climbed the steps to bow before the king. Then he turned to address the massive crowd. In a loud voice, he proclaimed, “We swear to always remain faithful to the nation, to the law and to the king, to uphold by all our power the constitution decreed by l’Assemblée nationale…”
The people erupted in loud applause.
Watching Lafayette’s face, Freddie was inclined to think the marquis believed his own words. Freddie exchanged a glance with Donet that spoke loudly of their shared doubt as to where such oaths would lead.
When the cheers died down, King Louis rose from his chair in the royal box not far from where Freddie stood. “I, King of the French, swear to maintain the constitution decreed by l’Assemblée nationale and accepted by me.”
An awkward silence hung in the air, followed by a few random displays of clapping.
The hairs on the back of Freddie’s neck prickled. The veneer of unity had cracked.
Zoé pressed her fingers to her mouth and looked from the king to the silent crowd.
Marie Antoinette suddenly lifted her son, the dauphin, in her arms. “Look, my son, they’re united, just like me, with the same sentiments!”
The people rose to their feet and applauded enthusiastically.
Zoé beamed her pleasure and joined in.
Freddie fought the urge to dampen her enthusiasm, but refrained. It would do no good. For the moment, she had become a supporter of the revolution. Instead, he leaned towa
rd Donet. “King Louis may have pledged his oath to the new constitution and the queen may have joined him, but after the humiliation they have suffered and their virtual imprisonment in the Tuileries Palace, I doubt they are as agreeable as they appear.”
Donet’s ebony brows drew together above his intense black eyes. “The king’s own brother, the comte d’Artois, left France days after the Bastille fell, like a rat quitting a sinking ship. I cannot help but think Louis should have gone with him. Already the nobles clamor to book passage on my ships to carry them away from what they fear is coming.”
Freddie shifted his gaze to Zoé, comforted in the knowledge that when the storm broke, she would be safe on Guernsey.
Chapter 1
The port of La Rochelle on the west coast of France four years later, January 1794
One look at the messenger’s ashen face and Zoé’s heart sank. The news from the Vendée, the region between La Rochelle and Brittany, must be bad. She shrank away from the boy as he approached, not wanting to hear what he had to say.
He pressed toward her and the din of the tavern faded away as she fixed her eyes on his young face. Removing his hat, he said, “Monsieur Henri est mort, mademoiselle. Je suis désolé.”
Dead? She shook her head, her mind shouting Non! It could not be true, but the tragic look on the messenger’s face forced the words into her thoughts. Tears filled her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks as she thought of the golden warrior who was her whole world.
At twenty-one, Henri du Vergier, comte de la Rochejaquelein, had become the youngest general of the Vendéen royalist armies fighting against the revolutionary government in Paris. And now he was gone.
Zoé had never considered the possibility one so full of life, the bravest of men, could die. “How? Where?”
The boy’s forehead furrowed over his light blue eyes forming an angry frown. “Near Nuaillé, mademoiselle. Shot in the head by a republican pig who feigned surrender.”