Читать книгу Sophie's Rebellion - Beverley Boissery - Страница 7

He was a boy with many names.

On a Saturday morning in late October 1838, he stood at the base of Mount Donne in northern Vermont, staring at a ledge about three-quarters of the way up. He couldn’t see any way to reach it but, as he knew there had to be one, he began climbing.

At first it was easy. The underbrush helped and he made good time, but when he reached sheer rock about an hour later he said every bad word he knew. His fingers scraped and clawed for every inch, his fingernails tore, and he slowed almost to a stop.

When he fell for the second time, he thought about admitting defeat. Surely Marc, his brother, hadn’t intended him to risk his life on something impossible. Yet, Marc had set this job as a test. If he succeeded, there would be better, more important jobs. So, taking a deep breath, he carefully mapped out the route again in his mind. He could reach the ledge, he decided, but only if he could somehow get across a crevice about four feet wide. Ordinarily, jumping four feet wouldn’t be a problem. But his feet had slipped several times that morning on the frost-covered rock, so he knew he wouldn’t be able to run before jumping.

Although he knew it would be useless, he took some seconds to search around for a branch, for anything, really, that could help him cross the crevice, and only when he’d satisfied himself there was nothing did he begin to prepare for this, the most dangerous part of his climb. He untied his long scarf and wrapped it tightly around his waist so that when he jumped his coat wouldn’t fly open. He blew on his fingers to warm them so that they would give him a better grip on the rock.

He walked towards the cliff’s edge and stared at the chasm below. If he slipped, or missed, he’d have no chance. There would be nothing between him and bedrock, five hundred feet below. Once again, he calculated the distance to the ledge, and before he could talk sanity into himself, he jumped.

The landing on all fours was sheer agony. The rock tore pieces of flesh from his fingers and he wondered if he’d shattered his kneecap. Worse, he was out in the open, in plain view of anyone stupid enough to be on the mountain on that frigid morning. So, almost sobbing with pain, he dragged himself back against the cliff, then collapsed. As his breathing slowed and feeling returned to his toes in biting shards of agony, he began tending to his raw fingers, bandaging them as best he could, and gradually, very gradually, as the sun added a little warmth to the air, he began feeling better. He’d passed his brother’s test. The first part of it, anyway.

When he looked around, he could see for miles in almost every direction. Montpelier, the capital of Vermont, was south. The city of Burlington was southwest and he could see the shimmering water of Lake Champlain in the distance. Fifty miles or so to the north was Montreal, the biggest city in Lower Canada, and for a moment he imagined magically focussing the lens of his spyglass so that he’d see the twin spires of Nôtre Dame cathedral and his home a couple of streets from it.

Almost directly down from his vantage point was a crossroads where the highway running north-south from Montreal to Montpelier intersected with a local road going west to Malloryville. His job was to watch that intersection to see if a certain coach turned towards Malloryville’s mills. For that information he had risked his life. Of course, he hadn’t really risked his life for that. He’d jumped the chasm because Marc’s approval meant more than anything. Even life itself.

And so, he leaned back against the rock, dozing in the sun, waking after his stomach grumbled a little. Pulling his spyglass from his pocket, he studied the comings and goings on the roads below. After a while it became a guessing game, and he could predict fairly accurately which carts and carriages would stay on the highway and which would make that lazy turn towards the mills of Malloryville.

The waiting around, though, was pure hell. When Marc had first asked if he’d wanted a job, he’d imagined himself spying on people, listening to secret conversations, being somehow important. He’d never imagined sitting on a mountain watching a highway. In fact, he didn’t understand why he’d had to climb the mountain at all. No one knew him in Vermont. Surely, he could have stood at the crossroads and watched from there.

Sighing in frustration, he turned his concentration back to the road. The traffic was heavier now. Teams of horses hauled logs, a mail coach thundered past, and farmers’ wagons inched their way toward the markets in Burlington.

Just as he was ready to give up, a large coach, complete with an escort of outriders and postillions, came into sight. Normally, a coach of that magnificence should have business in Montpelier, but this coach slowed for the Malloryville turn.

The boy stared down in disbelief. He’d been wrong and Marc, as usual, had been right. He could not have stood at the crossroads as he’d thought earlier. He would have been recognized because he knew who owned that magnificent coach. The Ellices of Beauharnois, a seigneury south of Montreal. The Ellices of London, England. One of the richest and most powerful families in the world, and the boy couldn’t even begin to imagine what Mr. Ellice might be doing in Malloryville.

Long after the coach was a speck in the distance, he stayed put. He’d been skeptical about the importance of his job, refusing to believe that there could be a traitor in his brother’s group. Now he had no doubt. He’d seen the evidence with his own eyes. Just the thought of Edward Ellice coming to Malloryville at this particular time turned his blood cold and galvanized him into action.

His parents had christened him Philippe Jean-Luc Morriset. At Montreal’s Royal Grammar School he was called Luke Morris. As he scrambled down Mount Donne, he thought of himself as Paul Revere, because he raced to tell Marc that the British were coming.

From a lookout about a hundred yards higher and east of the cave, Sophie Mallory watched the boy rush down the mountainside.

He intrigued and confused her. She’d seen him around Malloryville several times but no one seemed to know who he was. She’d almost bumped into him once but he’d ignored her and hurried away. She couldn’t even work out if he was a servant, so the temptation to follow when she’d seen him sneak out of the stables earlier had been irresistible.

Now she had more questions than ever. Particularly about his sanity, because he’d climbed Mount Donne in the most idiotic way possible. Everyone else used the route she’d taken. At first, while watching him, she’d felt smug and superior. That was until he jumped the crevice. Then her heart almost stopped and she acknowledged that while he might be stupid, he was also incredibly brave.

As she ran down the path from the lookout, she still couldn’t work out why he’d climbed the mountain in the first place. In the end, it seemed he wanted to find out about the Ellice coach, and that made it a real puzzle. She’d known Mr. Ellice was coming for more than a week because he was bringing Lady Theodosia Thornleigh, her father’s fiancée, with him. It had all been arranged months ago, when Sophie and her papa had left London. It wasn’t a secret; it was a plan. Lady Theo would sail to Quebec in early October, spend a few days with her friends, the Ellices, and then Mr. Ellice would bring her to Malloryville. What’s more, any servant could have told the boy about Lady Theo’s visit. Mrs. Bates, the housekeeper, had had them cleaning the house for a week, and Cook had baked solidly for the last couple of days.

There had to be something more. But what, Sophie had no idea as she swung herself onto her patient horse. And, as she galloped towards the house, she also had no idea of the trouble waiting for her.