Jane Feather - Charade

by Unknown

  Monsieur Trimbel bowed low as his guest reached the foot of the stairs. His Lordship's reckoning had been paid and generous douceurs distributed amongst the staff. It wasindeed a pleasure to serve Milord Linton—even if he was on occasion somewhat unconventional. Mine Host covertly observed the small servant staggering in his master's wake. Cleaned of his dirt he looked positively respectable, but the memory of the kick and the virulent abuse still rankled and, with malevolent intent, the landlord stretched a foot casually in the boy's path as he reached the bottom stair.

  Concentrating as she was on her efforts and the tug on her straining muscles, Danielle was blind to all else. Her foot caught against the obstacle and she tripped, falling in an ungainly heap after the portmanteau on the hard stone-flagged floor of the passageway. She bounced to her feet as if the floor were a trampoline and turned her pent-up fury and frustration on the well-fed, complacent landlord in a torrent of animadversions on his parentage and on his virility, all the while kicking and clawing at the rotund belly, the short, fat legs in their leather britches, and the florid, well-wined face.

  Linton had reached the courtyard door as chaos broke out behind him and he turned swiftly with a muttered oath. Having no idea what had happened to throw his brat into this fury he did the only thing possible. One hand at the collar of the woolen jacket, the other at the seat of the corduroy britches, he pulled her off the enraged landlord cowering under the assault.

  "'E tripped me—'E did it a' purpose!" Danny shrieked, struggling in the invincible hold.

  "I don't give a damn what he did, you ragamuffin," the earl gritted in utter exasperation, still maintaining his grip. "Get that put into the carriage." He released his hold on the britches to jerk an imperious thumb toward both Monsieur Trimbel and the portmanteau and then propelled Danielle de St. Varennes by the scruff of the neck out of the inn, across the courtyard to the waiting coach. The hand again grasped the seat of her pants and she was lifted bodily off the ground to be tossed in an unceremonious heap upwards and into the vehicle. The portmanteau was stowed on top and the earl gave quick-fire instructions to both coachman and postillions before mounting the footstep, seating himself on the leather-squabbed seat and shutting the carriage door with a definitive slam.

  "What the devil did you think you were doing? You're conspicuous enough as it is, without asking for notice, you little alley cat!"

  Danielle, nursing both a bruised dignity and a bruised body, shifted on the seat opposite, contenting herself with a muttered stream of invective directed at landlords in general and one Monsieur Trimbel in particular. Linton's annoyance faded as his sense of humor got the better of him. How the devil had he allowed his exquisite, peaceful, well-ordered existence to crumble into ashes under the cataclysmic arrival of this outrageous wretch? What had happened to his usually utterly reliable sense of self-preservation when he'd decided on a whim to save a street urchin from what was probably well-deserved punishment? Not probably, indisputably, he decided caustically, as he regarded his urchin, still mumbling and muttering opposite.

  The coach bumped and swayed its way through the narrow cobbled streets. It was as well-sprung as one could expect of any hired traveling coach but nevertheless was unable to cushion its passengers from the jolting, jarring effects of their progress. Linton, resigned to discomfort, held a supporting strap and stretched his long legs as far as was feasible in the cramped space. His companion, however, seemed impervious to the discomfort. Compared with her usual mode of travel recently this was luxury, bearing only the most favorable comparison to the back of a hay wagon or the soles of her wooden shod feet.

  Paris passed under the intent scrutiny of a fascinated child peering through the small window in the door. Danielle's exposure to urban living had consisted only of a few days in Paris as a very small child on her way to England and her grandparents, and the last four days when she'd been scratching for a crust of bread in the back streets, earning the odd bowl of watery broth by sweeping out stores or running errands. Now, from the shelter of this private coach she could view the city with the holistic eye of an observer rather than through the myopic vision of a starved urchin.

  They left the crowded, fetid narrowness of the inner city behind and began to move through the environs—still urban, still poor, but the air smelled cleaner. They passed through the North Gate and were out in the countryside, their progress slowed by a farmer's wagon, lumbering slowly ahead as it returned emptied of its produce that had, as usual, fetched barely a subsistence price in the market that morning.

  The day wore on. Two hours outside the city they stopped at an inn to change the horses. It was now well past noon and Danielle's stomach was beginning to rebel against her impetuous, prideful decision to go breakfastless. She had had nothing but a sip of water since the previous evening and although her belly was no stranger to hunger, its satisfaction last night seemed quite unaccountably to have created expectations of regular satisfaction. As her hunger blossomed her stomach growled with annoyance and Danielle lost all pleasure in the scenery and the novelty of the journey in her embarrassment and irritation.

  Linton watched her through half-closed eyes for a while before deciding that she had paid adequate penalty for her earlier obstinacy. Bending, he drew a small hamper out from beneath the seat.

  "Here, child. This journey is quite tedious enough without the cacophonous demands of your empty belly."

  Danielle took the basket with a dignified thank-you, but her eager fingers betrayed her as she opened it. A chicken leg, a meat pasty, half of a baguette, a large chunk of ripe cheese, and a strawberry tart nestled in the checkered napkin beside a bottle of lemonade. She raised her eyes to meet His Lordship's amused regard.

  "Will you eat with me, milord?"

  "Thank you, no, infant. If you remember, I broke my fast earlier."

  Danielle abstained from comment although a pink tinge bloomed on the ivory skin. She returned her attention to the contents of the basket and with the ease and recovery of youth consumed every last scrap, washed down with the refreshingly bittersweet taste of the lemonade.

  In spite of her obvious hunger she ate with all the daintiness the earl had noticed the previous evening and—her repast ended—she wiped both face and fingers fastidiously before returning the napkin to the basket and the basket to the floor beneath her seat. Hot midafternoon sun filled the confined space and Linton drew the curtains across the windows. They kept out the blaze, but an airless stuffiness filled the coach and Danielle felt the sticky trickle of sweat between her breasts and under her arms. With a restless movement she tugged off the woolen jacket. Linton averted his eyes from the outline of those perfect breasts pressed against her shirt as she drew her shoulders back in her attempt to wriggle out of the tight garment. It was so much easier to forget this budding womanhood when his charge played the role of street waif. The next ten days or so were going to be a sore trial, he reflected gloomily, unless he could maintain a distance between them. He could do that only by treating her as a child. She would assuredly resent that, but any conflict that ensued would be a great deal easier to manage than this overpowering arousal that swept through him at the indications, albeit unconscious on her part, of her very obvious attractions.

  Without the heavy jacket, Danielle felt immeasurably more comfortable. The regular motion of the vehicle, the warmth of its interior and the fullness of her stomach all conspired to produce a wonderful feeling of lethargy creeping slowly through her body. She did not identify the main cause of this relaxation—that for the first time in an eternity, it seemed, she was safe and not obliged to keep her wits about her even in sleep as she planned her next move or reacted with instinctive wariness to whatever dangers her situation might hold from moment to moment. Since that February night of horror, she had lived on a knife-edge of fear and danger, and her constant watchfulness had become second nature as had the readiness to attack first and ask questions later. But now the presence of her large, lazy-eyed companion
stretched at his ease across from her strangely made such wariness unnecessary. Her head nodded as her long lashes fluttered. With an effort she jerked awake again, glancing guiltily at Linton, but his own eyes appeared to be closed. With a soft sigh of contentment Danielle gave herself up to sleep.

  The earl, despite appearances, was actually wide awake, watching the girl through half-closed eyes. The coach jolted violently over a pothole and he moved swiftly, catching the unconscious figure as it threatened to slip to the floor. With a reluctant smile he moved to the seat beside her, sliding a supporting arm around the slight figure. Danielle's head instantly found a resting place on a broad, velvet-covered shoulder. Reflecting ruefully on the speculation such a sight would give rise to, Milord resigned himself to a few cramped hours.

  It was late in the afternoon when the coach halted for a second change of horses. Linton, gently disengaging himself, alighted into the small yard in front of a pretty country inn. Having requested a tankard of ale he was stretching his muscle-locked limbs when Danielle climbed sleepily from the coach, looking around her purposefully.

  "What can I do for you, infant?" he asked with a smile. The coachman and postillions were refreshing themselves in the inn and no one was about to note this curious manner of addressing a servant lad.

  "Actually, milord, you can do nothing for me. This is something I must do for myself." Shooting him a cheeky grin Danielle made her way down the garden path at the side of the building in the direction of

  the small, noisome outhouse at the rear.

  The earl chuckled, wondering how Society would receive this most unusual candor. He found it immensely refreshing but suspected that his reaction would be shared by only a small minority. The girl was going to need a very firm hand guiding her path through the intricacies of life amongst the ton. In spite of her orphaned state she would not be dowerless—the Earl of March was a very wealthy man, well able to provide for his granddaughter, and his countess was one of the leaders of London society. The chjld's birth was impeccable and an excellent parti should be no problem to find—unless, of course, the story of her adventures became known to the gossips. Linton frowned, well aware that the most scandalous aspect of her escapades so far was his protection and their present mode of travel. She was hopelessly compromised by his companionship and its absolute necessity would be considered no excuse. There was but one acceptable solution and it was one he strongly suspected would be pressed most ardently by the Earl of March.

  They resumed their journey. Danielle, refreshed by her nap and relieved by their halt, seemed disposed to conversation. But hers was a far cry from the artless prattle of the young girls of Linton's acquaintance. He found himself in the presence of an exceptionally well-informed mind whose interests ranged far and wide across the gamut of philosophy, the arts, horse-breeding, and, most particularly, politics. Her knowledge and insight about what was happening in her country both amazed and informed him. In fact, Linton reflected, she would probably be of more use to William Pitt at this time than he. He had gleaned some information and impressions during his brief stay but Danielle was considerably better informed, and her wanderings amongst the populace had given her an invaluable opportunity to gauge the mood of the people—an opportunity that she appeared to have used to best advantage. If it could be arranged without revealing too much of her personal story and endangering her reputation, a meeting between Daniellede St. Varennes and William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, could prove most enlightening to the latter.

  When at long last they reached their day's destination some forty miles south of Calais they were both heartily sick of the carriage. Danny, in particular, was tired, hungry, irritable, and not disposed to accept with equanimity the earl's brisk instructions that she say nothing and do exactly as she was bid. Her self-appointed guardian, however, was equally irritable and not inclined to brook argument. A pithy description of the consequences of any disturbances similar to those at the Inn of the Rooster was sufficiently convincing to ensure a rather sullen compliance, and she followed Milord, in the manner of

  an obedient servant, across the courtyard and into the inn.

  Mine Host, with much bowing and scraping, assured milord of the best bedchamber, a private parlor, and a superb dinner. His offer to provide the lad with a bed in the attic with his own servants was politely refused.

  "The boy can be wild on occasion," the earl explained blandly. "I prefer to keep him under my eye—a

  cot in my chamber will suffice."

  The landlord shot Danny an interested look—the lad didn't look wild, just rather sulky and effeminate. However, appearances were frequently deceiving, and with a shrug, he dismissed the matter and went

  off to his cellar to bring up a bottle of the best burgundy for his discriminating guest.

  "Come," the earl directed over his shoulder and began to mount the stairs after the serving wench deputed to show him to his chamber.

  As there was no option, Danielle followed. The large airy room was pronounced satisfactory, the portmanteau bestowed under the window, and steaming jugs of water placed on the dresser. Left to themselves again, Linton put up his quizzing glass and surveyed his charge.

  "You do look the most complete urchin, Danny. I think— yes I really think we must contrive a change

  of clothes. If only one day's travel can reduce you to that state of disorder I dread to think what a week will do."

  Danielle flushed crossly. "It's hardly my fault."

  "I do not remember saying that it was," Linton clipped with a frown. "Do you think you could manage to stay out of trouble for an hour whilst I ponder the question and get out my own dirt."

  Danny glared at him in soundless fury, then turned on her heel and whisked out of the room, slamming the heavy door resoundingly. She had gone no more than three steps before it was flung open and Milord's suddenly very soft voice arrested her.

  "Come back here and shut this door properly." She bit her lip in frustration, but hesitated for only a second before turning to comply, linton had returned to the chamber insultingly sure of her obedience, leaving the door opened wide. She closed it gently and made her way downstairs and out into the cool remnants of daylight.

  Linton, furious with himself for having provoked her unnecessarily, stripped, washed, and changed his clothes. It was amazing what a clean shirt and a fresh cravat could do for a man's temper and, in a much improved frame of mind, he went in search first of his urchin and then of the burgundy. He ran his quarry to earth in the large stone-flagged kitchen addressing a bowl of milk and a huge chunk of cheese whilst regaling the motherly landlady with some distinctly ribald stories.

  The woman's fat cheeks shook with laughter as she stirred the aromatic contents of a pot on the vast range. "Oh, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, young man," she protested halfheartedly. "Such stories on the tongue of a babe!"

  "Now what have you been up to, brat?" Linton lounged in the kitchen doorway.

  Danny leapt instantly to her feet, her own temper much restored by the satisfaction of the inner self. "Oh, Milord, just imagine. Madame here was so sorry to hear of the loss of my cloakbag that she has offered me a suit of her youngest son's clothing. He's grown out of them, you see."

  "Well, that is indeed kind of madame," the earl murmured, his eyes glinting with amusement—trust this indomitable creature to solve her own problems. "Perhaps you would like to change, then. I shall require you to wait at table when I dine."

  "You'come on back to the kitchen afterwards, then, lad," madame said warmly, "and you can have your supper with our lads. We've a good rabbit stew waiting."

  Danielle did not care for rabbit stew at the best of times, and particularly not when compared with the delicate repast being prepared for his lordship's delectation. However, she need not have worried. Linton had no intention of allowing Danielle de St. Varennes to spend the evening in the company of stablehands and pot boys, whatever her experiences in recent weeks.

  "You are too ki
nd, madame," he broke in smoothly, "but the boy remains with me. He may dine at my table when I have finished. We must make an early start in the morning and I wish him to have a clear head."

  The landlady looked surprised but approving. Such concern for the health and morals of very youthful servants was unusual but gratifying.

  "I'll fetch those clothes for you then, m'dear, and you bring those you're wearing back down here and

  I'll have them good as new by the morning." She bustled off leaving the earl to reflect that his vagabond could clearly charm the birds off the trees if she put her mind to it. In fact, the charming of farmers'

  wives was one of Danielle's stocks in trade, learned as a lonely child roaming the vast estates, frequently from sunup to sundown. She'd shared many a peasant meal over the years, repayed with coin or kind, whatever happened to be available to her at the time.

  The landlady's son was clearly a lot fatter than Danielle and the britches showed an alarming reluctance

  to stay up over the slender hips. Frowning, she rummaged through the portmanteau—the Earl of Linton obviously did not have such problems; there was nothing remotely resembling a belt or cord. With a resigned shrug she broached the stack of snow-white cravats, twisted one into a strip with a rough brutality that would have made its owner wince, and tied it securely around the waist of the offending garment. Hardly elegant, but it would have to do.