herself out. And as soon as her swift footsteps faded into the distance, Ellie leaned back against the closed door and thought, I should never, ever, have allowed myself to be brought here. She hurried across to her cloak and, reaching deep into the inside pocket, drew out her pistol and the compass in its box.
She clasped them to her.
The man. The man, on the road... She could still remember how she’d felt, standing there with him so close, so powerful and dangerous. She would perhaps never forget the way her pulse had pounded when he smiled at her.
She had to forget him. As she hoped he would forget her. You will never see him again. You must erase him from your mind.
Drawing a deep breath, she laid the pistol and compass on the bed. Then she unfastened the silver chain round her neck, feeling for the small key that hung from it, and with that key she unlocked her valise. In it were several maps and charts, carefully folded, and below them were more objects, each in black velvet wrappings. She opened them one by one.
A surveyor’s prism. A miniature folding telescope. A magnifying lens, with an ebony handle. A tiny geologist’s hammer.
She wrapped them up again and put them back at the bottom of the valise. Put the pistol and compass in there, too, then the documents on top of them all.
She knew she ought to lock the valise again and hide it from sight, but instead she withdrew one of the folded documents and spread it out, carefully.
She translated the title into English, under her breath. A map of the valley of the Loire, showing its geology. Devised and drawn by A. Duchamp, Paris, in the year of Our Lord 1809...
She picked up the map with her father’s signature on it and held it close to her breast as the memories flooded back.
Ellie’s father, André Duchamp, was a geologist, surveyor and map-maker. He had lived with his wife and daughter in Paris, close to the church of St Denis in an apartment off the Rue Tivoli, which had a little balcony from where Ellie could look out on to the main street. She remembered being enthralled as a five-year-old child to one day see ranks of soldiers marching by, their tricolours held aloft, and two years later she’d seen Napoleon himself, the newly crowned Emperor of France, ride past at the head of his cavalry on a prancing white horse, acknowledging the cheers of the crowds who’d gathered to see him.
‘He is a great man,’ her father used to say. ‘He will bring peace and prosperity to France again.’
Their apartment was small, but even so, a whole room was given up to her father’s work, and he used to let Ellie watch him while he drew his maps. She was fascinated, too, by the telescopes and star charts he had in there, for he was a keen astronomer. ‘Why should I only map the ground beneath my feet?’ he would say. ‘When there are also the heavens above us to explore?’
Best of all, she loved to gaze at the array of geological samples he kept in a glass cabinet in that room. To Ellie they were as beautiful as any jewels, and her father would tell her about each one.
‘These pink crystals are feldspar, Ellie. Such a delicate colour, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, yes! And the green one, Papa?’
‘That’s olivine. And here’s a piece of hematite—such a dark, deep red that it’s almost black.’
Ellie nodded eagerly. ‘And that one must be gold!’
‘Fool’s gold, alas.’ Her father smiled at her excitement. ‘It’s called pyrites and it’s tricked many a fortune-
hunter.’
She’d gazed at him earnestly. ‘You know so much, Papa.’
He’d ruffled her hair. ‘Ah, but there’s always more to learn, little one.’
‘Is that why you go travelling?’
‘It’s my job, Ellie. I’m lucky to have a job that I love.’
She was always sad when her father was away. He went travelling for days—sometimes even weeks—at a time and only later in her childhood did she realise why he was so busy. It was because his expertise in both geology and map-making meant that he was invaluable in the planning and the physical creation of new roads that were intended to connect all of the cities and ports of France for travellers and traders.
When he was away, Ellie would gaze down the street from her window for his return, waiting for him and missing him. She was only vaguely aware of the wars the Emperor Napoleon was waging on France’s borders and beyond. But as the years went by, her father was away more and more often, for longer periods of time, and when he returned, his mood was often heavy, sombre, almost—though he always smiled to see his daughter.
When Ellie was seventeen, her mother died. She’d been ill for only a short while, and her father was brokenhearted. And that was truly the end of their old, familiar way of life, because one night, a few weeks after the funeral, Ellie found her father packing all his precious things into his leather valise. She saw how his face was etched with grief, how his hands trembled as he put them on her shoulders and said, ‘Ellie, my darling, we must flee Paris, you and I. This city is no longer safe for us.’
* * *
It made her almost smile to remember how in Brussels Lord Franklin had expressed his fear that the journey to England might exhaust her, because Ellie was used to the kind of journeys Lord Franklin probably couldn’t even imagine. She was used to travelling under a false name, and often by night; sometimes in mail coaches if they had the money, and in farm carts or on foot if they hadn’t.
They’d headed for Le Havre first, where her father had once had relatives—only to find that they’d long since disappeared, in the upheavals of revolution and war. After several cold and lonely weeks, her father came home one day with the heavy news that they were still being pursued—and so their travelling began again and they headed north.
If they felt they were safe—if they’d gone for a day without suspecting anyone was on their tail—they would treat themselves to a room in an inn for the night, even if the room was flea-ridden and furnished only with a couple of lumpy, straw-filled mattresses. More often they had to sleep in barns, or ruined cottages—places left derelict by years of war.
And Ellie had to be the strong one, because already her father’s health was failing. She had to do things she’d not have believed possible—become a liar, a thief, a fighter, even. Her father had taught her to use that small but lethal pistol, and though she’d never been forced to fire it, she’d made it plain to anyone who threatened their safety that she would—and could—shoot to kill.
She’d had to plan their route, make the decisions, and find—or steal—medicines for her ailing father, who was becoming weaker and weaker each day.
‘Soon we will be safe, Ellie,’ he would murmur each night, as he carefully unpacked his valise and checked his precious instruments. ‘Soon we will be able to stop running at last.’
For her papa, the running had indeed ended. He was dying of pneumonia in Brussels when Lord Franklin came to them—Lord Franklin Grayfield, a wealthy middle-aged English aristocrat
