Authors: Jeanne Savery
“They were careful not to sully her innocent ears too badly, Sir Frederick.”
“Yes. Even such as they recognize innocence when they see it. Whose idea was that imprudent visit? Or need I ask?” his eyes swept toward the partly open door behind which, he guessed, Françoise stood listening.
“Françoise wished to thank the women for their part in aiding her escape to London. As a proper chaperon it is my duty to encourage my charge in polite gestures,” said Harriet, perjuring her soul—not that she shouldn’t encourage
courtesy,
but it certainly wasn’t
proper
in this case.
“Oh Harriet,” they heard and detected laughter in the young voice.
Sir Frederick winked at Harriet, and she blushed. “You will inform your charge that a polite note would have been sufficient, that in future, she will remember that” This time there were giggles from behind the door. “And, Miss Cole, you will come to Lord Halford or myself if she ever again suggests something so improper.
You,
at least, knew it was against all the conventions of polite society.”
There was, again, reprimand in his tone, and Harriet bristled, ready to argue even though, secretly, she agreed with him. Before she could speak the door was jerked open. “You have no right to scold my dear friend.” Françoise scowled at Frederick. “Go away,” she ordered.
Sir Frederick bowed and Harriet curtsied, suddenly embarrassed by the intimacy of their argument and a realization of the impropriety of discussing anything at all while standing in the dimly lit hall. Neither spoke and Françoise, her nose in the air, waited only long enough for Harriet to sweep into the room before closing the door with a snap.
“How rude he is.” Frani bounced onto the bed, and assumed the very improper pose of the actress, her hand holding up her head. “Very rude. How can you like him, Harriet?”
So the rake had not, yet, made a positive impression on her charge. Harriet hid a sigh of profound relief and felt generous. “He has proved our friend, Frani. Thrice. More, if you count the escape plan which got us out of Calais and now this plot involving the acting troupe. Also, Françoise, he was correct. I should
not
have allowed you to visit those women. It was grossly improper.”
“How could you have stopped me?”
“Perhaps, as suggested, by telling tales to your new uncle?”
Frani, knowing Harriet would never do such a dishonorable thing, giggled. The young women hugged each other, Françoise yawning widely as they came apart. “I think I am going to like England. I didn’t think I would, but I have changed my mind.”
“I hope you like it very well, Françoise.” Thinking of her season, remembering the sort of young lady who was to be found in the midst of a court of adoring young men, Harriet added, “I believe, however you come to feel about England, England will like
you
very well indeed.”
A sleepy Françoise wanted to ask what her friend meant by such a strange prediction, but another yawn interfered. By the time she’d controlled it, she’d forgotten she’d had a question in mind.
It was probably just as well she’d forgotten, because Harriet couldn’t have explained her impulsive words—or wouldn’t have. Her intuition was based in a confusion of impressions, a pastiche of instances: Sir Frederick’s teasing the girl; Lord Halford’s obvious enjoyment of the chit; their obviously sincere assurance his lordship’s wife would love to have Françoise as a guest; her memories of bright young things dancing in candlelit ballrooms, flirting from carriages in the park, from horseback...
Yes, England was in for a treat. Françoise de Beaupre would sparkle and charm and, with any luck at all, fall deeply in love and make a proper match and, once married, be
safe
from the monster attempting to take her—and her fortune—for his own.
“Oh, you poor lady,” Elizabeth Merton, Lady Halford, exclaimed when Madame, leaning heavily on Robert’s arm, on one side and her cane on the other, entered her host’s London foyer. The butler stood to attention. The housekeeper bustled in from the back of the house and two footmen waited nearby to bring in the luggage. “You poor dear lady. Come, John,” Elizabeth motioned imperiously, “take our guest up to her room.” Rather highhandedly, she added, “Immediately, John!”
A third footman, his existence formerly obscured by the curve of the staircase, sidled forward. Françoise gasped and Harriet had some difficulty not staring. The man was a giant.
“This is John Biggs, known, so one might guess, as Big John.” Elizabeth smiled broadly, obviously pleased by their astonishment at John’s size. “John, these ladies have come for a visit.”
John smiled shyly, ducking his head in an awkward manner in response to the introduction. There was nothing awkward at all, however, in the gentle way he swung Madame up in his arms and started for the stairs.
“Young man, what do you think you are doing?” The only sign the ailing French aristocrat had difficulty maintaining her dignity while held against the huge chest was a slight thickening of accent.
“Taking you to your room, Madame,” the giant answered in a deep voice. He smiled down at her.
Françoise hid a giggle behind her hand, but could do nothing about the sparkle in her eyes. Elizabeth, meeting those eyes, lost the newly acquired dignity of her position as Halford’s Countess and hid a giggle of her own. Harriet, looking from one to the other, suspected the two together would be a handful. She motioned Madame’s maids ahead of her and started up behind the man carrying their mistress.
Madame’s bedroom was two flights up, a large, well-proportioned room furnished in the elegantly simple style known as Queen Anne. Still in the arms of the footman Madame gave one piercing look around, nodded and, more tired than she’d ever been, still managed a firm order that she be put on her feet. John obliged, carefully, as if the lady he carried were fragile and important—which she was.
“
Merci.
Thank you, I mean,” said Madame.
She got another of those sweet smiles and the man, using a long outdated custom found now only in the most remote of country regions, tugged at his forelock and, bashful once his job was finished, sidled out the door.
“Well!”
“It
is
well, is it not, Madame?” asked Harriet, looking around in turn.
Madame chuckled. “Yes. I believe it is.”
Elizabeth and Françoise arrived. “I have ordered a light meal, Madame, which will arrive directly. Would you prefer to go straight to bed or would you like to bathe first? My husband has fitted a room to the back of the house as a bathing room. I’ll have the tub filled for you if you’d like to soak out some of the aches and pains of travel?”
The housekeeper arrived with a tray, the chain and keys at her waist tinkling with her firm stride. She set out the meal on a table near the window and stood aside, her hands folded together, while Madame inspected the offering.
Almost, the comtesse could be heard to sigh. It was a barely delivered sound of satisfaction. She glanced at Harriet and noticed her blush. “Well, Miss?” she asked.
“Lord Halford inquired of me how you like things done, Madame,” she explained. “He sent off a messenger immediately.”
“It is well. Now I’d like to be alone, thank you.” Madame looked at her niece. “You, Françoise, will wish to become acquainted with our hostess.” Madame, despite the pain in her old body, bowed her straight back slightly. “I will beg the indulgence of a bath at a later time, my lady. Thank you for your care of us.” Elizabeth, nowhere near the society matron, the mannerisms of which she aped when it occurred to her to do so, blushed prettily. The old woman nodded her head as if something she’d believed had been confirmed: Young Lady Halford would be a proper friend to Françoise.
“Now,” said Elizabeth, a few minutes later as she seated herself behind a tea tray in the smaller and more intimate of the two salons one flight down, “I want to know
everything.
Oh, it is so exciting.”
Harriet accepted the thin cup and saucer handed her by a silent maid and looked around the tastefully decorated room. The walls, covered in a lovely rose damask, beautifully set off the elaborate fireplace with its caryatids holding up the mantel and lovely airy fret-backed chairs ranged beside each of the doors. How strange that the bright bird-like Lady Elizabeth had not immediately replaced it all with something more modern! “What is exciting, my lady?’ she asked, remembering her manners.
“Why, finding out who you are, why you’ve come to us, everything. I want to know it all. Isn’t it just like a man to inform one three guests will arrive, do this, do that, but tell one nothing at all about them?”
Harriet blinked, but Françoise smiled. “My lady,” said the French girl, “I do not understand you. From the welcome we received, I assumed you had been told our history. Is it not so, my lady?”
“
No!
Not so at all, my new friends. Not a single word.” Elizabeth paused and raised a hand, “And I won’t have it! I get so tired of my lady this and my lady that. I am Elizabeth and you are—Harriet?—and this is Françoise.” Elizabeth, if she hadn’t appeared so much the lady, might almost have been said to grin. “That, my new friends, is all I know.”
“But...” Harriet blinked.
“Oh, my dearly beloved husband sent quite explicit directions for your care and welcome. He said Madame was ill and needed quiet and rest. He said you, Françoise, were French.” A gentle shrug and Elizabeth handed a plate of thinly sliced cake, dense with fruit and nuts and well soaked in brandy, to the maid who passed it around. “But that is all he said. It is all very much a mystery. I am very angry with his lordship for not telling me the secret.
“Oh,
secrets
!” she went on before either could respond. “It is nothing but one great huge secret after another. You see,” she explained in a confiding tone, “one day a month or so ago a message came for his lordship. He exclaimed upon reading it and promptly disappeared for
hours,
leaving
me
—” Elizabeth pouted. “—in
confusion.
” The pout disappeared in a quick smile. “Ah well, we poor women are often left in confusion, are we not? Then, three days ago, he packed a portmanteau, kissed me, and,” she sighed, “told me he’d return soon.” She waved her cup, endangering the pale stripe in the satin covering the téte-a-téte on which she sat.
“Men,” she said, making no secret of her disgust. “They are so
secretive.
They tell one nothing. For instance, the next thing
I
knew, the messenger arrived warning me of your arrival. Oh, we
have
been busy. Very busy...”
Harriet looked from her hostess to the very bright eyes and suppressed excitement of her charge. She hid a sigh. It was quite obvious—in fact, had been almost from the moment of their introduction to the vivacious Elizabeth—that life would very likely become doubly difficult. How in the world, wondered Harriet, was she to keep a tight rein on the two girls while doing nothing which would dim what was equally obvious to become a close friendship between the two!
“I’m so excited by it all,” said Elizabeth, interrupting Harriet’s thoughts. She looked first at Harriet, then at Françoise, an encouraging light in her eyes. “Do tell,” she coaxed.
Six
“Me, I am only half French,” began Françoise, happy to oblige her spirited hostess.
“The plot thickens,” nodded Elizabeth encouragingly, her eyes sparkling.
Françoise pressed her lips together attempting to control a smile, but
her
eyes flashed with liking for this new acquaintance. Harriet shook her head when offered a macaroon from another plate and their hostess, guessing her guests might be inhibited by the presence of the maid, waved the girl away, telling her they’d wait on themselves now.
“There
is
a plot,” said Françoise dramatically once they were alone. “And a wicked comte as well.”
“Ooohhhh.” Elizabeth shuddered at the delicious revelation.
“Yes, he wishes to marry me, and I do not wish at all to marry him.”
“So your grandmother has brought you to England to escape his unwanted attentions.”
“Oh,
more.
To escape his firm intention to have me at any cost. Twice he has attempted to abduct me.”
“No!” Elizabeth’s eyes widened and a trifle of the excitement faded, giving her a more serious expression.
“
Mais oui.
We have a new English friend because of the dreadful comte. Sir Frederick—” Harriet noted their hostess stiffen at the name. “—saved me.
Twice.
”
“He did?” asked Elizabeth, her eyes wide.
Harriet chuckled, keeping embarrassment under strict control. She could not allow this delightful, but occasionally haughty young lady, to denigrate what the baronet had done for them—whatever her own feelings on the subject! “Sir Frederick warned us what the reaction would be if it were known he’d had aught to do with Françoise. Frani, you were warned more than once. How bad of you to mention his name.”
“Oh,
I
can believe him a hero,” asserted their hostess blithely, startling Harriet anew. “After all, he was instrumental in my marrying my beloved Robert. Sir Frederick is my friend.”
“He hasn’t, I believe, the reputation of being friends with women.”
“It is true.” Elizabeth nodded several times to emphasize the point. “But Robert says he has reason. His mother is such a one as no one could like and his grandmother, well! Her reputation is not what one would wish either. There is no bearing either of them, I believe. Then there was, I’ve heard it said, a young woman who hurt him badly in his salad days. Robert is his very good friend, too, you see. As well as me, I mean. And he
knows.
I believe a very young Sir Frederick vowed revenge on the female gender and yet,” Elizabeth tipped her head thoughtfully, “it was only a certain
type
of female he pursued. I have met a few. They are older now, the sort who will grow into selfish bitter old women, nasty women. And
all,
I believe, have a tendre for Sir Frederick even though he pursued them and then taunted them.”
“How do you know
that?”
asked Harriet, trying to remember more about the young woman who had been Frederick’s flirt eight years previously, trying to think if
she
had been the sort who would turn into a shrew. “How can you know such for fact?”
Elizabeth smiled slyly. “There are ways. One only needs to cozy up to the old tabbies, the gossips and the matriarchs. I made it my business to find out all about him.”
“
You
have a tendre for him?”
“Oh no.” Elizabeth shook her head. “I am the one woman he wished to wed, you see.” Harriet felt a band tighten around her heart, told herself not to be a fool. “Sir Fred went off to France when he learned I loved my Robert. I believe he truly loved me, but all I ever wanted was to be his friend. Now we are, I think. Friends, I mean. Of course, he has been gone for months and months. The last I saw him was at my aunt’s wedding.” She pouted slightly. “ ’Tis a bore that I do not know when he will return.”
“I believe you’ll find he
has
returned.” Harriet couldn’t help the dry note to her voice.
“What? When?”
“He escorted us to Paris and then to Calais,” said Françoise, taking up the story. “After he saved me the second time—that was in Calais—he came up with a plan to trick the comte. He got us all tickets on the packet, but let drop words to make that evil man believe Madame would wait for better sailing weather, that only he and Monsieur de Bartigues—”
“Who is Monsieur de Bartigues?” interrupted Elizabeth.
“Sir Frederick’s friend, Yves de Bartigues.” Frani continued as if she had not been interrupted: “—would cross that evening and we waited and waited until the very last instant and then, instead of going to a new hotel—Oh, did I say it was part of the plan to leave the hotel in which we were staying because we could not trust the innkeeper? He was a dreadful man. Anyway, we went straight to the quay and boarded the packet at the very last possible instant and—” Frani spread her hands in a typically French gesture, her shoulders shrugging slightly in the process, ”—
Voila.
We are here.”
“And the comte?”
Françoise sobered. “Sir Frederick believes there was a man following us, a spy for the comte, you would say. He and Lord Halford and Monsieur de Bartigues arranged for a group of thespians to pretend to be us and go off somewhere else. We hope they will draw the comte’s man off on a ... a—what does one say?—a wild goose chasing. You comprehend?”
“But he will discover his mistake and what then?”
“Then—” again the shrug, this time accompanied by a slight shudder, “—I suppose he will come to London where he will find us, and I will, again, be in terrible danger.”
Elizabeth straightened, raising one finger, “We should take you into the country. Immediately.”
Harriet shook her head. “I think not. Wouldn’t it be more difficult to protect Françoise where there is so much open space and fewer people? It would be much too dangerous.”
“But country people know
everybody
and would warn us if strangers appeared in the neighborhood. My husband could set guards as well as ask his people to watch for anyone unknown to them. If such were seen lurking around we would know, you see—although it would be a dreadful shame to miss the season...”
“Perhaps you should suggest it to him.” Harriet turned he conversation from Françoise’s problems and delved into Elizabeth’s history. She learned the girl had been married for only seven months and was ecstatic about the married state, telling her guests they simply had no idea how pleasant it could be. Harriet, thinking of Françoise’s naive ears, thanked the powers that be that Elizabeth was discreet as to what, exactly, she meant by
that.
“I was a terrible child when I first met Halford,” their hostess added as she chose another macaroon with care. She bit into the airy morsel, sipped her tea and nodded. “Oh, a veritable brat. Aunt Jo was ready to throw up her hands in disgust and go off and live in a cottage and grow roses. She said so often and often.”
“Aunt Jo?”
“Yes, Joanna, Duchess of Stornway. She remarried a month or two before I did. You’ll meet them soon enough. The duke is a very close friend of my Robert. At the moment they reside in the country. They spend an inordinate amount of time at one estate or another, or so it seems to me. But the season begins soon, and they will come for a month or so. I, of course, prefer London. Even when the
ton
is elsewhere it is much more interesting than the country.”
Yes, thought Harriet, you would prefer it. The hustle and bustle, the shops and theaters, and company every day of your life. Harriet looked at Françoise and noted that, although she was still excited and interested, she was beginning to droop. “My lady, I think we should retire for a rest before dinner. We are not in ill-health as is Madame, but it has been a long and exhausting journey.”
“Oh, where are my manners? I should not have kept you talking forever and ever. Come along. I’ll take you to your rooms. I hope,” she rose to her feet and was already on her way to the door, the skirts of her pale primrose muslin gown billowing behind, “they are to your liking.
I
like them. His lordship told me I could do as I pleased about redecorating, but there was very little
to
do here in our London residence. Oh, curtains which needed replacing and new hangings for some of the beds, that sort of thing, but his lordship’s family has collected only the very best for so many generations it leaves nothing for a new bride to do. I can’t tell you how disappointed I was even though I’d not change a thing. Truly.” She rambled on as they climbed the stairs and headed down a hall toward the back of the house. “You see? I have given you rooms across from one another so both may have a view over the garden. I put Madame in the most quiet guest room since she’s not well even though it is not the best room. Now,” Elizabeth glanced around first one room and then the other, checking that the trunks and portmanteaus had been unpacked and removed, “I believe you have everything you need, but if there is anything, anything at all, just ring and ask the maid—“Oh,” she interrupted herself, “would either of
you
wish a bath now? Let me show you the bathing room. It is quite an innovation, instead of those impossible hip baths in one’s room. The separate room is small and always has a fire for warmth and a
long
tub Robert designed himself. It is closer to the kitchens too, so the men needn’t haul the water so far and don’t mind hauling more as a consequence. Robert is designing a pump sort of thing and intends to put a cistern under the roof so the water need not be hauled at all, but it is not finished yet.” Elizabeth chatted on as she led the way down a half flight of stairs to a small room which Harriet thought might have been designed originally as a linen room or perhaps a still-room. She thought she might like to try it but wondered at having to leave one’s room in dishabille ad travel along the hall, perhaps running into another member of the household on the stairs and suffering all the embarrassment attendant on such an encounter.
Elizabeth giggled, sensing the reserve in Harriet’s compliments on the arrangement. “Hip baths are, of course, available for those who prefer them,” she soothed. “Now I will leave you or I will never let you rest. The dressing gong rings at six-thirty and we meet in the library before dinner for wine or sherry. A maid will show you the way.”
Françoise, alone in her room at last, swung around and around and fell onto the bed. Oh yes, she truly was going to like living in England. A thought gave pause to her excitement. “Will it be so good when my grandfather comes or will he take me away and bury me somewhere in the wilds?” she wondered aloud. “Sir Frederick said he rarely comes to London, and I think I will wish to stay here forever and ever.” But, with the optimism of youth, she put the thought aside and lay staring up dreamily at the painted design of cherubs and angels decorating the bed’s canopy. Her thoughts skittered and jumped hither and yon, and, gradually, without noticing, she slipped into a deep restful sleep.
Harriet, knowing her charge to be resting and discovering that Madame had no need of her, went to her own room. She removed her dress and hung it with the others already put away in a large wardrobe—and found herself more restless than ever. The discovery their hostess was the woman Sir Frederick had left behind in England, the one he said had changed his life, was upsetting in ways Harriet could not approve. Why should she feel pity for a rake! What if it would be awkward for him, to meet his lost love again? Why should she feel a deep empathic sadness for him—and, perhaps, just a trifle for herself as well, although she wouldn’t allow herself to wonder why.
It must, she thought, have been particularly painful for Sir Frederick to have lost the delightful Elizabeth to his closest friend. Her head tipped. Or was it that very friendship which had led Sir Frederick to give the chit up? Oh, it was so confusing!
She pushed Sir Frederick from her mind, her thoughts drifting in another direction. Joanna. It was an unusual name. Surely not the Joanna Wooten Harriet had met in Portugal. What fun if it were. How wonderful if she were to meet again the woman who had been the young bride of one of Wellington’s more intrepid scouts. Since Harriet’s father had coordinated various levels of espionage, the Wootens had been invited often to the informal parties her mother planned with such panache. The friendship between the young bride and even younger Harriet had made it easy for Lieutenant Wooten to make secret reports with no one the wiser.
Oh, if only her mother hadn’t become unwell just when the family began planning for Harriet’s season. If only she might have brought Harriet to England herself, how different those weeks would have been. Her mother would not have forced Harriet into the insipid mold thought proper for young misses facing their first season. Nor would she have forbidden Harriet to ride as her aunt, the impoverished widow of one of her father’s older cousins, had done.
It had been late in her London visit when Harriet realized her hastily acquired chaperon hated horses, feared them, and had placed the ban on Harriet’s riding so that she, the chaperon, need not worry herself sick when her charge was out. Perhaps, if she’d been seen in the park on horseback, where she excelled, her season might have been very different. Harriet sighed and put away thoughts of the past. It was done and over.