by Jayne Davis
“I think I have a clean shirt left in my bag.” Alex tried hard to dismiss a mental image of her lifting her skirts to make a bandage. He stood—too quickly. When the room had stopped moving, he went over to where he’d left his bag on the far side of the bed.
The clothing inside was jumbled. Someone had searched through his things: Perrault, most likely. There was nothing worth stealing in there, and he was too tired to worry about it. He extracted the shirt and handed it over, wanting to simply lie down and sleep, but Miss Deane beckoned him back to sit in the chair.
She cut a strip off the bottom of the shirt tail, doubled it over and laid it along his wound, fastening it in place with strips of blue silk.
“Very fetching,” he said, approvingly.
Miss Deane emptied the bowl of bloody water out of the window, and poured in more clean water from the jug.
“I can manage the rest.” Alex took the bowl and another piece of blue silk from her. They had to spend the night in the same room; best not to have her bathing his face while he gawped at her bosom again.
Dabbing gingerly at his jaw and eyes with the now-cold water, he discovered a lump on one temple, but his eyes didn’t seem to be swelling. Hands and face clean, he decided to leave the rest.
“You have the bed,” he said. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“You should put your nightshirt on,” Miss Deane gestured towards the screen in the corner of the room. “Your clothes are wet. You’ll take a chill.”
That made sense. He pulled his nightshirt out and went behind the screen. Removing his shirt brought every sore muscle to his attention, but none were bad enough to impede his movement. When he emerged, Miss Deane had placed a blanket and pillow on the chair and turned down the remaining bed coverings. His coat and greatcoat hung on the hooks on the back of the door, and the pistol lay on a small table beside the bed.
“You lie on the bed until I’m ready,” she said.
Too tired to even think of arguing, Alex did as he was told. There was something else he should have dealt with, he was sure, but he couldn’t bring it to mind.
Something had woken him, but he didn’t know what. He lay still, listening. It was dark, only the glow from the dying fire giving faint illumination to the room.
Moving his eyes, he took in as much of the room as he could without lifting his head. A shaft of light penetrated the darkness; he heard a faint scraping. Someone was opening the door.
Alex rolled his head, aware of the aches in his muscles. As he looked, the door opened wider. A figure blocked the light for an instant before quietly edging through the gap and into the shadow behind the door.
Miss Deane?
No, it was a man. Faint sounds of breathing, and of cloth moving, came from beside the fire as well as behind the door. Miss Deane was also awake.
Alex disentangled his arms from the bedclothes and reached out to the table beside the bed, praying he didn’t knock anything off it before he found his pistol. Feeling cautiously, his fingers touched something cold—a glass. Then wood, metal. Curling his fingers around the butt of the pistol, he lifted it and brought it close to his body.
He pulled the hammer back, unable to muffle the sound as it clicked into the cocked position. The shadowy figure by the door moved swiftly, pulling the door to behind him as he left the room.
There was silence for a minute, broken only by a shifting log in the fire.
“He’s gone,” Miss Deane whispered. “Should I light a lamp?”
“Please.” Alex pushed himself to a sitting position.
Her shape blocked the light from the fire as she bent down, holding a candle to the embers. She used that to light the lamp, then moved to the door and checked it was latched.
He kept his voice low. “Did you unlock it?”
“No.” She crossed to the mantelpiece for the key he had given her earlier, and locked the door.
“Leave the key in the lock this time,” Alex said. “Turn it a little so it can’t be pushed out if he tries again. Someone obtained a spare key.”
She nodded, and returned to her chair.
“Could you see who it was?”
“No,” she replied, looking at the door. “Too tall for Perrault, though. Not Sarchet either. What do you think he wanted?”
“Merde!” He flung the bedcovers off and moved over to the door. Thrusting a hand into a pocket on his greatcoat, he felt around frantically, and swore again. How could he have been so stupid?
“What is wrong? Did he take something?”
“A packet.”
“Oh.” She fumbled in her skirts. “This fell out of your coat pocket when I stole your pistol.”
Alex took it and examined the seal; it was still unbroken, and his shoulders sagged with relief. He tried not to contemplate what would be said if he’d lost this.
“You were supposed to use the bed,” he said, putting the packet on the table. He must have fallen asleep very quickly.
“That’s kind of you, but I think your need is greater than mine.” She blew out the candle and turned the lamp down, then wrapped herself in the blanket and closed her eyes.
He knew he should argue, should give her the bed, but his eyes were already closing of their own accord.
Phoebe winced as pain shot through her neck. Turning her head slowly from side to side, she dug her fingers into her stiff muscles, then cautiously sat up to stretch her back. Eyes gritty from disturbed sleep, she took in the patch of grey where pre-dawn light filtered through the thin curtains. Sounds of activity from below stairs blended with the slow cadence of Leon’s breathing.
A confusion of images and feelings from the previous evening tumbled through her mind, as they had done at frequent intervals during the night. She would not go back to sleep now, not in this uncomfortable chair.
Moving quietly, she untangled herself from the blanket and folded it, then stood and tightened her stays, straightening her clothing as best she could. Her hair she could do little about, but a pale glimmer on the floor near the door turned out to be the cap she had lost yesterday in the parlour. She bundled her hair into it and checked that her pockets were still securely tied beneath her gown.
The key turned with a quiet snick, and she paused to check she had not disturbed Leon. Sleep would help him heal. There was enough light in the room to make out his unmoving shape beneath the blankets, one of his pistols on the table next to the bed, along with the little packet she’d returned to him.
It was important to him, that much had been clear last night when he thought it had been stolen. To forget about it when he returned to the room, and then to simply leave it on the table, showed how hurt and tired he must have been.
Because of me.
She couldn’t leave the room unlocked with his packet lying there, but she didn’t want to lock him in the room with it, either. Picking it up, she turned it over, seeing only that it was sealed with a wafer. The temptation to open it was strong, but she tucked it between her chemise and her stays. She scribbled a note on a page from her sketchbook, and let herself out of the room.
The parlour door stood open. She hesitated as she heard Perrault’s voice ordering coffee, and turned instead in the direction of the taproom. A woman wiping the tables went off to fetch coffee willingly enough when Phoebe asked. The room stank of spilled ale, pipe smoke, and unwashed bodies, so she took her drink out through the front door.
Deep breaths of the chill air cleared her head, even as the cold pierced her gown. She slipped slowly, warming her hands on the mug. Too chilled to stand still, she walked around the building into the stable yard at the back, and found a spot by the wall where she could catch the first rays of the rising sun.
The dark menace of the previous night had gone, and the yard was a bustle of activity. Men moved barrels and crates while ostlers forked piles of straw from the stables. The noise of clattering pots and pans from the kitchen told of breakfast being prepared. Phoebe stood for a short while, eyes closed aga
inst the sunlight, breathing the appetising smells of hot coffee and baking bread. She was beginning to feel more awake.
A crash and a volley of foul language roused her. One of the men had dropped the end of a crate, and sat on the damp cobbles holding his injured foot. She smiled as she recalled Leon’s language the night before, when she’d poured brandy into his wounded arm. He, too, had come out with some interesting…
She thought back more carefully—some interesting English curses.
She had no idea how well, if at all, Leon spoke English, but surely a Frenchman would use his own language under such circumstances. If he were English, that could explain why he had stopped to help them.
Brevare—was he English too? She had no way of knowing. What was the connection between the two men?
Chapter 9
Alex woke slowly, at first conscious only of the ache in his limbs and short stabs of pain when he turned over. The fight, yes. Other fragmented memories came back as the stitches pulled against his skin: red curls and that smile, the burn of alcohol against his torn flesh, the shadowed hollow beneath her fichu hinting at the hidden curves, the stab of the needle.
She’d manoeuvred him into taking the bed again. Most ungentlemanly of him to accede, but he was grateful for it. He turned his head far enough to see the chair she’d occupied the night before. Only a pillow and a folded blanket on it gave any indication there had been a second occupant of the room.
The packet?
He sat up abruptly, cursing. Why had he left it on the table by the bed instead of putting it under his pillow?
It was not there now, but there was a piece of paper, weighed down by the room key. I have it safe, the note said.
Had she taken it as a bargaining tool? No—he could easily take it from her by force if she tried to negotiate with him, and she was too intelligent to try with Perrault.
Lying back in the bed, reluctant to leave its comfort, he mentally catalogued the damage. His ribs were fine as long as he didn’t move too suddenly, but his injured arm ached. Peeling away one end of the bandage, he could see that the cut had sealed itself. The line of it was red and slightly swollen, but it didn’t seem to be infected. Time would tell.
He continued his inventory. His knuckles were raw in places, and his hands felt stiff when he flexed his fingers, but that would wear off soon.
Reluctantly, he pushed the bedclothes back and stretched before standing up, feeling more alert than he had in days. The visitor in the night had woken him, but he must have slept soundly afterwards, as Miss Deane hadn’t disturbed him when she left.
He shook his head. That was worrying in itself—he must be more careful.
The breeches and shirt he had been wearing the previous evening hung over a chair near the fireplace. The garments were dry, if filthy. He tried to brush the mud off, but soon gave up, bundled them both together, and stowed them in the bottom of his bag. He donned his spare breeches and the shirt Miss Deane had cut his dressing from, and carefully inserted his arms into his coat.
He winced at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. An ordinary face at the best of times, it would now be good for frightening ladies and young children. In addition to various cuts and grazes, the skin under one eye was turning black, even though the eye itself was not swollen. One thing was certain: he wasn’t going to attempt to shave this morning.
He reloaded the pistol that had been fired and put both weapons in his greatcoat pockets. Holding the coat over his shoulder, he stepped into the short corridor leading to the stairs. The sound of voices made him pause—female voices speaking in English.
The comtesse.
Treading quietly, he moved closer to their door.
“—hasn’t been back here all night.”
“It wasn’t her fault, Mama.”
“Nonsense, she didn’t try to get into the room.”
The daughter’s reply was a low murmur, even with his ear pressed to the door.
“She could have asked for a spare key,” the comtesse said. “If she hadn’t pretended to be a servant, none of this would have happened. Well, she won’t be having a season with you this year.”
His body tensed as he listened—that sounded horribly like triumph. Did the woman really think Miss Deane would not have gone back to their room if she had been able to?
Another low murmur from the daughter.
“Don’t argue with me Hélène, she’s obviously no better than she should be.”
“But Mama, if you dislike her so much, why does she live with us?” Hélène’s voice was louder now. “Georges likes her, and—”
“It was not my choice. Your father insisted.”
Alex winced at the venom in the comtesse’s tone. He banged on the door with his fist, finding some satisfaction in the answering shriek.
“Get dressed,” he shouted, in French. “If you’re not in the parlour in fifteen minutes, you’ll go without breakfast.” He lowered his voice. “And keep your voices down if you want to get to the coast.”
Shrill complaints followed him down the stairs. Sticking his head around the parlour door, he saw only Perrault and Brevare, breakfasting at separate tables. He told Perrault to let the women out of their room.
A serving woman carrying a tray caught his eye and jerked her head towards the rear door. Puzzled, Alex walked out to the scene of the fight, to see Miss Deane standing in a patch of sunshine against the inn wall.
Naturally, the entire population of the inn assumes I…
His anger subsided as he realised that people were just going about their business. No-one was looking askance at her, or making snide comments.
“—no, no, Hélène. The grey gown.”
That damned woman again—her voice carried through a window above them. He took in the droop of Miss Deane’s shoulders, the downward curve of her lips; she must have overheard her aunt’s earlier words.
“Are you all right?”
Phoebe jumped. She had been listening to her aunt to the exclusion of other sounds in the yard. Turning, she saw Leon’s gaze on her, and noted the cuts and bruises on his face with concern.
“My aunt. Her voice carries.” Her throat felt tight, and she swallowed. She knew her aunt didn’t like her, but it hurt to find out that the comtesse hadn’t wanted to take her in.
“Yes, I heard. I’m sorry.” He looked away, his lips compressed.
“It’s not your fault,” Phoebe said. “Do you want your packet?”
“You have it safe?”
She put her hand to the neck of her gown, hesitating as one corner of his mouth quirked upwards.
“If you don’t mind keeping it for me today, I think it’s safer there than sewn into my pocket. Have you eaten?”
She lifted the empty mug in her hand. “Only coffee. But Perrault is in the parlour.”
His eyes focused on her dress. “You must be cold. Your aunt will be breakfasting downstairs. Once they’re out of their room, I can have your breakfast sent up there, if you wish? Your trunk should still be in there.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He smiled and went back into the inn. She followed, taking refuge in the taproom until she heard her aunt’s voice coming from the parlour, then went to their bedchamber.
Phoebe locked the door of her aunt’s room after a maid brought breakfast and hot water. Although the fresh bread smelled wonderful, feeling clean would be even better, so she undressed. The chill in the room caused goose bumps on her skin, but after she’d washed and donned a clean chemise she felt refreshed. She laced up her stays and considered the orange gown. The skirts were stained with mud and blood, and she doubted that sponging it down would get the marks out.
Her spare gown was a pastel peach colour, no more flattering than the orange one, but it was clean. Phoebe combed her hair, pinning it all up beneath a fresh cap, then stood straight and smoothed her skirts. Whatever her aunt thought, she had done nothing wrong and she would not act as if she had.
She ate and drank with appreciation, then stuffed all her belongings into the trunk. She struggled down the stairs with it and out through the front door of the inn.
The coach was ready, the horses standing harnessed with an ostler at their heads. She caught a glimpse of Perrault’s profile inside, already claiming one of the forward-facing corners. Leon and Brevare stood nearby, Leon with his arms folded, looking impatient.
His expression lightened when he saw her. He came over and took the trunk from her hands, directing Brevare to get the remaining trunks brought down.
By the time the comtesse and Hélène appeared, Phoebe could hear Perrault muttering about ‘damned aristos’. The comtesse swept past them, only looking around to send a disgusted glare in Phoebe’s direction.
“Come, Hélène. You should not be associating with such a person.”
“But Mama, Phoebe—”
“Now, Hélène!”
Hélène cast what could have been an apologetic look in Phoebe’s direction, but followed her mother into the coach without further protest. Phoebe turned away, pressing her lips together, and came face to face with Brevare.
Brevare’s eyes narrowed as he looked after the comtesse, then he returned his gaze to Phoebe. “I’ll be driving. Would you like to ride on the box, Miss… er…?”
“Deane.” Phoebe gave the tiniest of curtsies, then stood with her chin up and shoulders back. The best counter to her aunt’s hostility was to not let it affect her.
“It will be cold,” Brevare added. “Lend her your greatcoat, West… Leon. You won’t need it inside the coach.”
“Thank you, citoyen.” Why did Brevare want her to ride with him? She glanced at Leon.
“Why not?” Leon said, after a momentary hesitation. Phoebe noticed a wince as he removed his greatcoat. He transferred something from one pocket to the day coat he had on beneath, then held the greatcoat so Phoebe could put her arms in. She took off her cloak and put the coat on. It was heavy, almost wrapping round her twice, and smelled strongly of horses. But it was warm.
