Christina Hollis (2 page)

He did not look at her, but kept one finger to the edge of the curtain beside him. From time to time he lifted the dark drape slightly and looked out.

Fired by more cognac, Madeleine started to feel aggrieved. ‘If I’m your prisoner, then I’ve a right to know where you’re taking me...’

‘Ah, forgive me, mademoiselle!’ He turned to her with a smile on his lips that did not reach as far as his eyes. ‘You are no prisoner, despite my churlish treatment of you. For me to have been so ill-mannered—even in these desperate circumstances—is unforgivable. My coachman thought he saw a lady on foot take shelter in the lanes. I knew that any lady abroad tonight would be in urgent need of assistance. My name is Philip Adamson, and I have lately been staying here in Paris. Although not for much longer, I fear!’

He had paused to look out of the window, his dark head turned away from her as the carriage slowed. With an exclamation between wonderment and horror, he then leaned across Madeleine to look out of the window beside her. She looked too, and gasped.

Paris was burning. The cathedral of Notre-Dame was nothing but a sturdy silhouette against a skyline shredded with flame.

‘Never fear, mademoiselle. As long as the ruffians keep their mischief-making between the Palais-Royal and the Hotel de Ville, we will be safe. My villa is on the Rue du Faubourg-St-Honoré, well away from any trouble.’

Madeleine had heard of the place, but her laundry work took her no further afield than Ste Genevieve.

There was only one reason why gentlemen from his side of town visited her own.

Madeleine shrank down into her corner, well away from Adamson.

Sensing her suspicion, he turned to face her directly.

‘However unusual our first meeting, mademoiselle, I assure you I am a gentleman before all things. And an English gentleman, at that.’

Madeleine didn’t know quite how to take his words, so she kept quiet. He gave the same unconvincing smile as before and started to explain. ‘We were returning from an evening drive when we spotted flames and smoke in Rue St-Antoine. Thinking it to be only a domestic fire, I came to offer assistance.’

Madeleine was immediately curious. ‘You would have helped, sir?’

‘Indeed, for my sins! Even we English can sometimes be of use, mademoiselle!’

He was laughing as he spoke, although his expressive grey eyes still hinted at some inner sadness.

‘It seems strange that an Englishman should choose to come to Paris these days,’ Madeleine said warily. She was intrigued by Adamson, but not sure that she was so interested in what he had in mind for her. ‘What brings you here, sir?’

‘A deep and abiding hatred of home!’ He did not look at her, but turned to stare out of the window. ‘And what about you, mademoiselle? It was fortunate that I happened to see you in the candlelight. You chose a wretched time to visit your dressmaker.’

Madeleine thought fast. Everyone knew what the English were like—how gullible they were. If Adamson could be persuaded to take pity on her rather than consider her as nothing but a street girl, there might be food in it for her.

One thing was for certain. If she tried to walk home dressed like this she’d be lynched for an aristo, no questions asked.

‘I’m quite alone in the world now, sir. Since Mother and Father were taken by the winter sickness I’ve had no one to advise me...’

‘A tragedy.’

Adamson’s voice was flat and without emotion. While she was grateful he still kept his distance, it was not the effect Madeleine had been hoping for at all. Conversation ground to a halt, and only the carriage rattled on.

Perhaps he’s shy, Madeleine thought. He was certainly young to be doing this sort of thing. She had seen plenty of gentlemen touring the Grève before, but it was usually only the old ones who were rich enough to fish from carriages.

Madeleine began to feel a wicked longing creep over her. This Philip Adamson was young, handsome and clearly very rich, to judge by his belongings. She had heard tell from the girls down at the Rue Mouffetard that, in the end, ‘their’ gentlemen were often too crucified by guilt to get up to anything...well, too shameful.

She wondered what it might be like to kiss Philip Adamson, and had to stifle a giggle. Turning it into a tiny cough, Madeleine apologised profusely.

‘The evening air, sir. Always gives one a terrible thirst, don’t you find?’

He looked at her blankly, then understood. Withdrawing his flask, he offered her another draught of cognac.

Draining the little silver cup, Madeleine smiled encouragingly, then held it out to him. ‘Perhaps you’d better have a little yourself, sir. To keep out the cold.’

It was the middle of July, and damp with heat. Adamson did not laugh at her joke, but he did reach out to retrieve the silver cup. Pouring himself a measure of cognac, he sipped it without looking at her.

With a shrug Madeleine sat back, but did not have time to say anything more. The coach had slewed to an unsteady halt. Ripping back the curtains, Adamson took a look outside. With a quiet oath he opened the door and called up to his coachman for information.

When he sat back down again his face was tinged with a faint excitement.

‘The brave citizens of Paris have thrown up a roadblock across their Pont Neuf. There’s nothing for it but to keep over on this side of the river until we reach the Louis bridge—’

‘What about crossing at the Pont Royal?’

‘And cut through the Tuileries? Too dangerous tonight, even for me.’ He smiled at her, but once more it was a half-hearted affair. ‘No, we’ll have to go two sides of a square. Longer, but safer—I hope.’

Faubourg St Germain was relatively quiet. Adamson’s carriage rocked on, accompanied by the chants of distant revellers and the fainter crackling sounds of destruction and riot.

As they clattered across the Place Louis, Madeleine risked a look out of the window on her side of the coach.

The Tuileries were full of shooting stars. Lights streaked away in the direction of the corn market as citizens rallied to cries of ‘Free grain for a free people!’

‘Pure greed should keep them busy for a while,’ Adamson murmured drily as the carriage slowed for a sharp left turn into the Rue du Faubourg-St-Honoré.

‘Starvation has kept them idle long enough.’

The words popped out before Madeleine had a chance to stifle them. Adamson shot her a quick glance, and this time his amusement was more genuine.

‘So, mademoiselle, beneath all this finery of the beau monde beats the heart of a true lover of the people?’

Madeleine did not understand, and it silenced her. Only when the carriage drew to a halt once more did she manage to think of a reply.

‘Lucky people should be grateful that they will never have to suffer hardship and know real desperation.’

Adamson had been about to open the door to let her alight, but now he turned to her with a look she could not begin to fathom.

Suddenly the moment was broken. The light of many lanterns burst over the pavement outside. With much racket the coachman jumped down from his seat and wrenched the carriage door open, so the welcoming party could be seen.

The young Englishman started abruptly. ‘Mother! There was no need—’

‘There was every need, Philip! How could I have retired for the night with you still out among the rabble...? Oh!’

Madeleine blinked like an owl as a flaming torch was held up at the carriage door.

‘Mademoiselle! If my errant son has succeeded in rescuing only one poor, beleaguered woman from the mobs, then he is forgiven everything!’

Philip Adamson said nothing, even as his mother extended a hand to Madeleine. For her part Madeleine was now completely convinced of the dim-wittedness of the English. Madame Adamson might have saved her from a fate worse than death, but to have mistaken her for an aristo...! The old woman could never have seen the genuine article.

An impish gesture made Madeleine wink at Philip Adamson as she rose to leave the carriage. If he was half as silly as his mother, they both deserved to be led a dance.

‘Dear Master Philip arrived just in the nick of time,’ Madeleine stuck her nose in the air and put on what they called a ‘ten-franc’ voice down at the Place de Grève. ‘Fie, but I escaped with little more than a shift to cover my shame!’

Cramped and crippled by her unfamiliar shoes, Madeleine narrowly missed going head over heels down the carriage steps. Only Mrs Adamson’s surprising strength supported her and saved her from falling.

‘Why, thank you, madame.’

Madeleine treated the older woman to the dazzling smile that had been so lost on Adamson.

‘You must be exhausted, my dear. Come inside out of the night air and I shall arrange matters.’

Mrs Adamson spoke a strange, archaic sort of French that Madeleine found highly amusing. Biting her tongue to stop from laughing, she managed to keep up the deception.

Allowing herself to be propelled across a pavement still dusted with the sand of newness, Madeleine was taken up a flight of pale stone steps. At the top, a large front door stood open. It led into a cavernous hallway beyond.

Once more Madeleine’s nerve almost failed her. Her feet certainly did, and she let fly a phrase that Mrs Adamson would never have learnt from any tutor.

‘New shoes,’ the French girl said with an apologetic shrug, hobbling on bravely.

‘How we women must suffer for our fashions!’ Mrs Adamson fluttered, laughing. ‘Oh! But my son is a dindle-head! We have not been introduced. Lady...?’

Madeleine thought on her painful feet and didn’t have time to wonder how good Mrs Adamson’s French was.

‘Madeleine Allobroge.’

Lady Rascal! It was as good a name as any. She had certainly been a rascal all her life.

To Madeleine’s relieved surprise her hostess had not found anything unusual in the name, and they passed into the cool, dark house. Madeleine suddenly remembered she was wearing odd gloves. She pulled the borrowed robe tightly about her shoulders and hid one hand in the folds as Philip Adamson entered the hallway and lit a taper set in the wall for light.

Mrs Adamson dismissed her son down a long passageway with a few words of English. Then she turned to Madeleine.

‘You shall come with me, my dear. No—there’s nothing to be afraid of here! You shall have the prettiest guest room and my maid will attend upon you immediately. I expect you would prefer to take supper in your room tonight?’

Madeleine could only nod mutely. Her feet hurt, while she felt faint and watery at the very thought of food. Worst of all, Adamson was giving her some very old-fashioned looks as he rejoined his mother at the foot of the stairs.

He must be as mad as a rat to think his evening’s entertainment has been ruined, Madeleine thought. While she was secretly relieved at her narrow escape, she did manage a shade of sympathy for him. Poor man— fancy being caught out by his mother, at his age!

Madeleine looked up to give him an apologetic smile, but Adamson seemed to have lost any interest in her that he might have had. He was more concerned with correcting his mother’s scanty French.

Perhaps his reason for picking her up was genuine, and not an excuse to cover his embarrassment at needing a street girl. Perhaps he really didn’t suspect her of being a rascal.

She looked at him carefully in the soft candlelight of the hall. Handsome, neatly dressed and stiff with English reserve, he really was like all the rest. Afraid to say boo to a goose unless their precious principles were at stake.

Madeleine realised that he and his mother might swallow anything she chose to tell them - if she was careful.

Given a choice between starving on the streets with fellow citizens, or the chance of a full stomach and soft bed, Madeleine knew which she preferred.

She was going to act the aristo for all it was worth.

Madeleine’s deception proved a good one, at least to begin with. She was given a room ten times the size of her little garret at home and, even better, a tub of hot water.
        To the English maid’s astonishment Madeleine had no hesitation in immediately stripping off and jumping in, wearing only the fine ‘borrowed’ stockings. These had to be soaked away from the mess of blisters on her toes and heels.

As she sank back in the foaming waters, Madeleine considered this little discomfort was worthwhile.

The maid did not speak her language, but offered pots of salve at the appropriate moments. At first Madeleine was at a loss. Then, with much shouting and gesticulating in English, the maid showed her how to use the salve to clean herself, like a better-class version of soap.

Madeleine would have liked to linger until the water was cold, but the maid pointedly held up a large towel. For once in her life Madeleine did as she was bidden and got out to be rubbed dry.

That was when the enjoyment stopped.

Swathed in the towel, Madeleine was shown to a chair. As soon as she sat down the maid began to wrestle the tousle of her hair into some sort of order.

Despite Madeleine’s forceful curses the maid persevered until every elf-lock, braid and ribbon was removed.

That wasn’t the end of the ordeal. It was back to the tub. Kneeling while the maid poured jug after jug of tepid water over her hair, Madeleine began to wonder if being an aristo was all it was cracked up to be.

The torture continued, the maid scrubbing away at Madeleine’s hair until it squeaked. She was on the point of confessing everything—and more.

Only when the rituals were over did Madeleine begin to appreciate the benefits. She tingled from head to toe— right to the tips of her unruly brown hair. While it might be a nice feeling, Madeleine wasn’t at all sure she could endure it every day.

Mrs Adamson had kindly sent in a nightdress for her. Very virginal in white cotton and lace, it gave Madeleine a feeling of great grandeur as the maid dressed her in it.

Her hair had been combed out in a thick curtain and spread over her shoulders to dry. Although the night was sultry a fire had been built up, and as soon as the maid left Madeleine went to the window and threw back the shutters.

She was looking out over the Rue du Faubourg-St-Honoré. The window was difficult to open but she forced it up. A rush of stale night air carried sounds of squabbling and laughter from the direction of the National Assembly, but the Adamsons’ villa did not give a view far enough east to see the fun and games in the Tuileries.