The stray Relation 

Chapter 1

Lisabetta was feeding the chickens in the Abbey’s barnyard and idly wondering they would have sufficient fish for the evening meal—she should arrange for another delivery, perhaps, when she spoke to Antoine the fishmonger.  It was amusing, really, that she was tasked with feeding chickens and hostellers when cataclysmic events were unfolding, but such was life; there were those things one could control and those things one could only hope to control.

  At present, he was hiding out—as she’d done many times before—here at the Abbey Beaulieu, a place well-suited for hiding-out since it was located in the hills that surrounded the French town of Strasbourg, just across the Rhine River from Prussia. During and after the French Revolution, persecuted revolutionaries from both countries had often found refuge in these hills because the citizens of the border town tended to live and let live, and not look too closely at their neighbor’s allegiances. That, and the Abbey’s location on the Rhine meant that it was a place well-suited for the gathering and dispersing of information—something the Abbot of Beaulieu used to his great advantage.

Hard on this thought, the figure of Dom Julian himself appeared at the courtyard gate—tall and silent, and wearing ordinary black wool garments since he was prohibited from wearing his habit and cowl.

His attitude, as he waited for her to acknowledge him, was one of subtle contrition and so she rested the wooden bowl on a hip and teased, “So; you have decided that I have not been sufficiently rebuked, and you will come amongst the chickens to continue the task.”

With a small smile, he acknowledged, “I wanted to apologize; I was unduly harsh.”

“No matter,” she shrugged, as she began spreading the chicken feed again. “It was only a thought.”  She tilted her head and added, “I will think of another plan—I panicked a bit, I think.”

“Yes; and I do not wish to add to your distress, but I must tell you that you have a visitor.”

She lifted her brows in surprise—few knew that she was residing here. “And you believe it is someone I should see.”

In an even tone, he replied, “It is the Englishman, and so I dare not send him away.”

This was of interest—and not wholly unexpected—and so she turned the wooden bowl over, unceremoniously dumping the remainder of the chicken feed on the hard-packed earth.  “I will see him. Let me wash, first.”

She moved to pass through the gate that led to the Abbey’s garden, and he fell into step beside her. “Shall I insist that I be present? I can tell him I won’t allow you to be unchaperoned.”

She chuckled at this absurdity, since the Englishman knew better than most that she was no virtuous maiden.  “No need; I do not fear him.”

They continued through the garden and toward the small outbuilding that served as the women’s quarters—or which used to, back when the place was a functioning Abbey. In a grave tone, he urged, “Perhaps you should fear him, Lisabetta; everything has changed with the news of Josephine’s death.”

This was undisputedly true, and especially for Lisabetta. Even though Napoleon had been captured and exiled, his former Empress had continued to wield a great deal of power in Paris—especially amongst those who longed to see the Emperor return to his former glory. Indeed, she’d died—rather unexpectedly—even as she was entertaining a visit from the Tsar of Russia. And although the Abbey was isolated atop its steep hill, word of the Empress’ death had reached them almost immediately; the Abbot made certain that he was kept abreast, in these uncertain times.

“We shall see,” Lisabetta replied, with a show of unconcern. “I remain optimistic.”

Her companion added, “If you wish to disappear down the river, I can stall him for an hour.”

With some amusement, she glanced up at him. “He has eyes and ears everywhere, mon Abbé; it is far safer that I remain in this place, if he seeks to wrest me away. These walls have withstood many an attempted breach.”

“Perhaps.”

Because his tone implied that he did not necessarily agree with this idea, she added in a practical manner, “Besides, if I flee it will only serve to raise his alarm; far better to face him down and hear what he has to say.”

Dom Julian warned, “He is a dangerous man, Lisabetta.”

“Ah, but I am a dangerous woman,” she countered with a smile. “He well-knows this, and we respect each other. You must have no fears.”

Her companion bowed his head in acquiescence. “Very well. I will put him in the visitor’s parlor.”

“Yes—I will hurry along; he is one who does not like waiting.”

She parted from him at the door to the woman’s quarters; the Abbey Beaulieu was not technically an Abbey, anymore—when Napoleon had ruled France as Emperor, he’d seized all the monasteries so as to lessen the Roman Catholic Church’s power.  This particular Abbey, however, had been allowed to continue as a beggar’s hostel—so long as it was made clear it was no longer a place of worship, and—more importantly—made no further contributions to the Church’s coffers.

Napoleon would have been very much surprised to discover that the Abbott of Beaulieu continued on much as he’d done before—under his new guise as the hostel’s Director—and that many of the former monks were now—coincidentally—being housed here as beggars. No one had seen fit to challenge this sleight-of-hand, mainly because those that knew would keep the secret, and Dom Julian was careful never to attract any unwanted attention their way.

The need for secrecy had lessened, of course, now that Napoleon was in exile—but the Abbey continued in its guise as a hostel for the poor; it paid to be cautious after the turmoil of the past twenty years. After all, there were persistent rumors that Napoleon and his ministers were plotting his escape from the Island of Elba, and therefore it remained paramount that no rumor of these particular beggars—or of their activities—should ever be allowed to reach his ears.

The Abbey had assigned Lisabetta a Proctor during her stay—a former monk who was tasked with looking after her—and although this gentleman was always annoyingly underfoot, she always treated him with great courtesy.  At present, he was slicing vegetables for her luncheon, and she announced, “I am told I have a visitor in the visitor’s parlor, if you would be good enough to provide me escort.”  Vestiges of the Abbey’s protocols still remained, and an unmarried female had to be escorted when she ventured onto the premises of the Abbey proper.

The little man paused in his task to lift his brows in surprise. “Oh? Who would come here?”

“I will see; he looks to be an ordinary gentleman,” she replied, and smiled to herself at this massive understatement.

 After splashing water from the washbasin on her face, Lisabetta regarded herself thoughtfully in the small dressing-mirror, as she tucked-away a few wayward tendrils under the scarf she wore on her head.  Despite her light words, what Julian had said was true; everything had changed with the Empress Josephine’s death, and it would pay to be wary; she was now very much at risk.

It also meant that she could expect a variety of suitors to promptly show an interest—men who would be far more interested in her rumored dowry than her suitability as a wife—and who could blame them? Everyone could be forgiven for believing that she’d lead any poor husband on a merry dance, given her reputation, but—as was often the case—where there were riches to be had, such concerns were easily discounted.

Still and all, it looked to be an interesting month—if she managed to survive it—and finally, finally she held the opportunity to arrange matters more to her own liking, even though she knew she’d have to step carefully; he was a very shrewd player, and one who was well-familiar with her methods.

With this in mind, she kept her expression pleasant as she was escorted into the visitor’s parlor, and—upon sighting her visitor—dipped a demure curtsey. “Monsieur.”

Her visitor was a slender man who wore merchant’s clothing—a rather nondescript fellow, save for a pair of keen grey eyes that assessed her shrewdly. As she’d mentioned, he was rather ordinary-looking save for the fact that Lisabetta knew—from long experience—that he wasn’t ordinary; not in the least.

“We are old friends; no need to stay,” she informed her Proctor, who bowed his head and exited, closing the heavy oaken door behind him.

Lisabetta and the grey-eyed man regarded each other for a moment, before he bowed his head politely. “My condolences on the death of your father’s wife.”

With a wry smile, she gestured for him to come join her at the sturdy oaken table in the center of the room. “You may mock me as much as you wish; I am immune.”

He took off his gloves, and as he laid them on the table alongside his hat, he remarked, “You can’t help but wonder what they would have to say to each other in the afterlife—your father, and his wedded wife. Although I very much doubt they’ve landed in the same place.”

Lisabetta’s father had been the Empress Josephine’s first husband, the Vicomte de Beauharnais.  His marriage to Josephine had not been a happy one and he’d essentially lived a separate life, surrounded by a variety of mistresses. One of his favorites, Madame de Grère, had birthed Lisabetta and her older sister, Eugenie.  

In the same wry tone, Lisabetta answered, “I imagine Josephine would thank my father on bended knees for being conveniently guillotined so that she could catch the Emperor’s eye.”

He spread his hands in acknowledgment. “Your father’s death freed her—few would argue that she was fortunate in his execution.”  There was a slight pause. “She was also fortunate to escape the same fate as her husband; one wonders what she offered in exchange for her life, when she was held prisoner at Carmes.”

“One does wonder,” Lisabetta agreed, matching his mild tone.

He regarded her with a thoughtful eye. “I believe your own mother was likewise fortunate; around that same time, she managed to escape from Mainz just before the Prussian coalition destroyed what was left of the St. Albans Abbey.”

Lisabetta decided she may as well get to the point. “I do not know where the St. Alban’s treasure is,” she advised him. “To my deep regret.”

He watched her for a few moments, his grey eyes concealing his thoughts. “There are many who believe you do—de Gilles, amongst them.”

She smiled, slightly. “I regret to inform you that Seigneur de Gilles is mistaken.”

There was a small silence that was nonetheless heavy with meaning. Twenty years earlier, during France’s bloody revolution, Lisabetta had been a young girl when her mother had managed to escape the siege of Mainz with her two young daughters, and flee up the Rhine River.  Mainz had long been considered a strategic city for military purposes, with its origins going all the way back to the Romans; indeed, the venerable St. Albans Abbey had existed there for nearly one thousand years until it was—unfortunately—destroyed.  

Mainz had fallen to the Prussians during the siege, and almost immediately rumors arose that Lisabetta’s duplicitous father—a general in the French Revolutionary Army who was supposed to defend Mainz—had instead brokered a deal to allow the city to be surrendered to the Prussians in exchange for some or all of the fabled St. Albans treasure—Roman gold, and other priceless treasures which were believed to have been hidden beneath the ancient Abbey’s sanctuary floor.

No one knew if this rumor was true; only that ensuing events seem to verify it; the Vicomte de Beauharnais had weakly defended Mainz—surprising, for a man of his military acumen—and the foundations of St. Albans had been breached during the siege, at about the same time that the man’s favorite mistress had managed to disappear with her two little girls.

As a result of these rumors, when de Beauharnais returned to Paris he was promptly thrown into prison by Robespierre, who also arrested the man’s estranged wife, Josephine.  De Beauharnais was executed a mere five days before the end of the Revolution—some said because he’d refused to tell Robespierre of the treasure’s whereabouts.

In the meantime, Lisabetta’s mother—Madame de Grère, who also hailed from Josephine’s Island of Martinique—had apparently brokered her own deal so as to keep herself and her daughters alive. The exact parameters of the deal were unknown, but as a result of it, Josephine was released from Carmes Prison and Madame de Grère—along with her two young daughters—were allowed to live very comfortable lives, despite their dubious alliance with the disgraced de Beauharnais. 

Indeed, when Madame de Grère had died some years later, her two daughters then found themselves under the direct protection of Josephine herself—now the Empress of France. Josephine was known to be loyal to those who’d come to her aid, and the fact that the two sisters were her first husband’s illegitimate children didn’t test that loyalty in the slightest.

And so, those who’d followed this particular chain of events could be forgiven for believing that the rumors where true, and that de Beauharnais had indeed confiscated the treasure of St. Alban’s and had secreted it with his favorite mistress rather than handing it over to the notorious Committee of Public Safety.

But now, the death of Josephine—rather unexpected, as the former Empress was not known to be sickening—was no doubt what had brought this rather alarming visitor to Lisabetta’s door.  After eight long years of war, the treasuries of all the countries who’d fought against Napoleon were thoroughly depleted, and if—as was rumored—hostilities were to resume, each would be desperately looking for new funding of any sort. With Lisabetta’s powerful protectress dead, there would be a renewed interest in her connection to the fabled treasure.

Her visitor’s next words seemed to confirm this, as he bluntly advised, “With Josephine’s death, you will no longer be protected from your half-siblings, and—under the present circumstances—I imagine they are seeking any financial advantage they can.”

Lisabetta had two older half-siblings—Josephine had two children with de Beauharnais before they separated—and when they’d been Napoleon’s step-children, the Emperor had promoted them into positions of power. Now, however, it seemed unlikely that they would be able to keep these positions under the new alliances which were being forged; it would be most helpful to them if they could lay hands on a priceless treasure, and show a willingness to distribute it into the proper hands.

Lisabetta shrugged a shoulder. “I was but a little girl, Monsieur—and a stray-relation at best. Surely, Josephine’s own children would be more likely to know of the treasure’s whereabouts than I would? The Empress did wear the sapphire parure for all to see.”  Some of Josephine’s more famous gems were rumored to have originated from the St Alban’s treasure-trove.

But her companion did not seem persuaded, and persisted, “Would your sister have any knowledge? She is older than you, and may remember more.”

A bit tartly she replied, “I know not what Eugenie knows, nor what she doesn’t.”

He twisted his lips. “I believe there is no love lost, between you.”

“I do not clutter my mind with thoughts of Eugenie, Monsieur.”

Then I hope you will clutter it with thoughts of me, instead. I have come here, today, because I am willing to offer you my protection.”

Wary, Lisabetta drew her brows down. “Why does the British government seek to intervene in this matter?”

“No—you misunderstand. I am offering my hand in marriage.”