Mademoiselle at Arms

by Elizabeth Bailey

  Chapter Ten

  ‘I am come on a mission of some delicacy, ma’am,’ Gerald said calmly to the old lady.

  ‘Oh, you may come to me on any mission you like,’ uttered Mrs Sindlesham roguishly. ‘It is seldom enough I am visited by anyone at all, let alone a personable young redcoat.’

  Gerald could not suppress a grin. ‘Is that why you allowed me in, ma’am?’

  A dimple appeared in the faded cheek. ‘I allow anyone in. I am quite indiscriminate, I assure you.’

  Mrs Prudence Sindlesham, a widow of several years’ standing, so she told Gerald, was a scarecrow of a female, long and lank of limb in a figure that had once been willowy. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald.

  ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. ‘I have an arthritic complaint, which is why you find me retired from fashionable life. I rarely set foot in London these days.’

  If she suffered from dragging pain in her joints, Gerald thought it explained why her features were prematurely lined. He noted an ebony cane laid close to hand, which suggested she was able to get about. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface.

  ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am.’

  Her features broke apart in a laugh. ‘Oh, I do love a flatterer. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy.’ The sharp eyes twinkled. ‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime.’

  She waved towards a handy table to one side which was piled high with so many volumes, it looked in imminent danger of crashing to the floor. Gerald raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘You are an avid reader, I take it.’

  ‘Voracious. And not a worthy tome in sight. My poor son despairs of me, for I have primed every member of the family to bring me the latest novels whenever they choose to visit.’

  Gerald laughed. ‘No doubt accompanied by the latest crim con tales.’

  Mrs Sindlesham’s lips twitched. ‘But of course. Do sit down, dear boy. I have no intention of allowing you to depart in a hurry.’

  Taking the chair she had indicated with a careless wave of one stiff-fingered hand, Gerald felt hope burgeoning. He had not thought to find a lady so ready of humour and willing to give him a hearing.

  ‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing.

  ‘Do you need an excuse?’

  ‘Oh, you know what doctors are. They will insist upon a catalogue of things one must not do, which does nothing but fill one with the greatest desire to do them.’

  Gerald laughed. ‘You are a born rebel, ma’am, and I can see now where she gets it from.’

  Mrs Sindlesham’s alert glance found his. ‘She?’

  ‘Damnation!’ He saw her frown, and added at once, ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. It slipped out—as did that “she”.’

  ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. Much too young for you.’

  ‘I don’t even know your granddaughter, ma’am.’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ agreed Mrs Sindlesham. ‘She’s little more than a schoolgirl, just out. But come, sir. You intrigue me.’

  To Gerald’s relief, the entrance of the butler interrupted them, relieving him of the necessity to explain himself. He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip.

  It was evident the lady’s servant knew his mistress, for he had come equipped with a tray upon which reposed a decanter and two glasses. The business of serving gave Gerald a few moment’s grace, for he was dubious about the effect on an elderly female, not in the best of health, of raking up old memories.

  She lived, he noted, very carelessly. The parlour was cluttered but cosy. Mrs Sindlesham occupied a large padded armchair to one side of a corner fireplace, which gave out a heat more than adequate for September to one of the major’s robust constitution. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Besides the table close by loaded with books, there was a central table with upright chairs around, covered in a multitude of papers, inks and quills, and assorted unrelated items such as playing cards. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets.

  Accepting his glass from the butler, Gerald glanced at Mrs Sindlesham and saw a dimple peep out. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms.’

  A trifle discomposed at being caught examining his surroundings, Gerald was provoked into retort. ‘Then I don’t advise you to visit Remenham House.’

  Too late he saw his error. A swift frown brought the still dark brows together for a moment.

  ‘So now we come to it.’

  Her gaze followed the butler, who was moving towards the door. She waited for him to leave the room, and turned back to Gerald. Abruptly the sterner look vanished and she twinkled.

  ‘Tell me, my boy. You are not with the Kent militia, are you?’

  ‘West Kent, yes.’

  ‘Dear me. And what took you to Remenham House?’

  ‘I shall come to that presently,’ said Gerald cautiously. ‘Am I right in supposing you to have been a sister to the late Mr Jarvis Remenham?’

  ‘Quite right.’

  She sipped at the liquid in her glass, but her eyes remained fixed, rather unnervingly, on Gerald. Following her lead, he fortified himself with a swallow of the excellent Madeira before responding.

  ‘I recall my father speaking of you as a Remenham.’

  ‘Perfectly correct, my boy. Prudence Remenham.’

  ‘Prudence,’ repeated Gerald unguardedly. ‘Why, that’s one of the names with which she tried to fob me off.’

  ‘She again?’ enquired his hostess, her delicate brows rising

  ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. I spoke a thought aloud. So you are Prudence Remenham.’

  ‘Was. Almost the last female to bear the name, too,’ muttered the old lady. ‘There are no Remenhams left.’

  ‘But there is still Remenham House.’

  ‘Oh, a ruin,’ exclaimed Mrs Sindlesham, throwing up a hand. ‘Not but what it was near that before Jarvis died. Half the rooms empty. Paintings sold off the walls. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts.’

  ‘Lord,’ Gerald murmured, awed more by the outspokenness of his hostess than by what she had said.

  The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. ‘Shocked you, have I? We weren’t mealy-mouthed in my day, my boy. You didn’t see me fall into a swoon when you cursed just now, did you?’

  ‘I’m beginning to doubt if anything less than a sledgehammer would send you into a swoon,’ Gerald retorted.

  She let out a delighted laugh. ‘When you’re my age, you’ll be just as hardheaded. I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for namby-pamby creatures.’ She gave him a straight look. ‘So now you may safely cease your roundaboutation, and tell me what took you to Remenham House.’

  ‘I was called in, ma’am, to catch a French spy—at least, that is what Pottiswick thought.’

  ‘That old fool? Why my brother kept him on I shall never know. Except he was the only idiot who would stay.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Went to the dogs, did Jarvis, after Mary died.’

  ‘His daughter, ma’am?’ Gerald asked.

  ‘That’s right. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. I tried. Sindlesham tried. My late husband, I mean.’ All at once Mrs Sindlesham looked across at him, a sharp question in her eyes. ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’

  Gerald hesitated. Was this the right moment? After what she
had said about Jarvis Remenham’s habits, he could do with more information before he revealed his purpose.

  ‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling. ‘I live in Kent. One is always familiar with the business of one’s neighbours.’

  She set down her glass with a snap. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. You don’t know about Mary because you live in Kent. It was years before your time.’

  Gerald capitulated. ‘You are too shrewd for me, ma’am. Very well, then. I have a special interest in Mary Remenham because I believe I have discovered her daughter.’

  For a moment or two there was dead silence in the parlour. Mrs Sindlesham’s wrinkled cheek had paled, and her eyes were fixed upon Gerald in a look that wrung his heart. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. He had thought it might have that effect.

  But then the features changed. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. Her hand grasped it firmly, and she pushed herself forward. Gerald at once rid himself of his own glass and leapt to her assistance.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. Then she slowly straightened, releasing him. ‘I can manage now.’

  Gerald stood back, and watched her cross the room to the closed French doors. She turned there and beckoned. He came to her and stood before her, waiting, the morning light dazzling his eyes.

  ‘Now,’ she said, in an imperious manner that so much reminded him of Melusine that he was obliged to suppress a grin, ‘I can see you properly. Tell me that again.’

  ‘I have found Mary Remenham’s daughter,’ he repeated.

  Slowly Prudence Sindlesham nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his face. ‘You’re speaking the truth.’

  ‘As far as I know it, ma’am. Unfortunately, I have little detail of the circumstances which surrounded the birth of the girl, and her subsequent removal to France.’

  ‘Ah, you know about that, then?’

  ‘That much, yes. As I understand it, Remenham House devolves upon Melusine, in default of her mother, the actual heir.’

  ‘Melusine, did you say?’ Mrs Sindlesham sighed. ‘That would have grieved Jarvis. He wanted her named Mary. Of course Nicholas was bound to give her a French name.’

  Gerald smiled. ‘I assure you it suits her as Mary would not. She is extremely lovely, but for her to have borne the name of the Blessed Virgin would have been nothing short of sacrilege.’

  For the first time since she had heard the news, Mrs Sindlesham’s features relaxed and a tiny smile appeared. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’

  ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. ‘But with more courage in her little finger than in many another female’s entire body. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says. She’s as stubborn as the proverbial mule, and—’ with a sigh that felt wrenched out of him ‘—utterly captivating.’

  Mrs Sindlesham shook with laughter. ‘What a catalogue.’ She gestured at his hand, on which Roding’s makeshift bandage had been replaced by a more efficient one. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’

  Gerald flushed. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault.’

  ‘Was it?’ Her lips twitched. ‘I take it that you like this great-niece of mine?’

  ‘One cannot help but do so.’ A reluctant laugh escaped him. ‘She gave me four separate identities for herself, you must know, including Prudence, before I managed to get at her real name.’

  ‘Ah, that explains your surprise. I may say she does not sound in the least like Mary,’ said Mrs Sindlesham bluntly. ‘Mary was indeed naïve, but there I should say the similarity ends. She was a merry creature, it is true, and quite beautiful. But a biddable girl.’ She drew a heavy breath. ‘Else she would not have married that ne’er-do-well only because Jarvis proposed him to her.’

  She sagged a little suddenly, as if the painful memories in her mind had exhausted her body. Gerald instantly took her arm and guided her back to her chair. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion.

  ‘Poor Mary had no idea about the elopement Nicholas had undertaken,’ she told Gerald. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter. Though, to be fair, he did not know of it until after the wedding. It would have been very well if she had been some common creature who might have been bought off. But this was a vicomte’s sister. How much Mary knew is a mystery. I suspect she knew something, for she came home to Remenham House when she was increasing, and report has it that she was very unhappy. Certainly, we—that is Jarvis and I—knew nothing of it until after Mary’s death.’ She stopped, her lips tightening.

  ‘What happened, ma’am?’ enquired Gerald gently.

  The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. ‘The wretch said nothing to anyone. He left Remenham House immediately after his wife died, giving birth to their daughter. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. He returned to attend the funeral. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. Immediately after it, he was off again, and that, let me tell you, was the last anyone saw of him.’

  ‘What?’ gasped Gerald, shocked. ‘But he must have—’

  ‘Nicholas Charvill never did anything he must do,’ Mrs Sindlesham said evenly. ‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. Later Lord Charvill told Jarvis that it had been precisely the same at the outset. Nicholas had not dared to tell his father about the Valade girl. So he obeyed Everett and married Mary, and kept the woman as his mistress.’

  ‘Did no one know, then?’

  ‘No, for the vicomte, we learned later, wrote to General Lord Charvill in pursuit of his sister. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage. Naturally it all came out then. The general did what he might to hush it up, and paid handsomely to manage it, I daresay. What he told the vicomte I was not privileged to learn.’

  ‘How was it then that Nicholas Charvill was known to have gone to France. And with his daughter?’

  ‘He wrote to Jarvis from an inn in France, saying that he had married Mademoiselle Valade, and that his baby naturally belonged with her father. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage.’ Mrs Sindlesham sighed deeply. ‘I think that was what began his downfall. Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. But he...simply lost all hope.’

  She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. But it was of vital importance to Melusine, and Gerald felt he must pursue it.

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Sindlesham, but do you tell me this inheritance that Melusine has fought so hard to recover is completely wasted?’

  The old lady gave him a sharp look. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’

  ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. ‘The poor girl was thrust into a convent to become a nun. How she learned of her heritage I do not know, but you need not imagine that it is greed that drives her.’

  ‘Well, don’t bite my head off,’ protested Mrs Sindlesham, clearly amused. ‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind. I know nothing about the girl, save what you have told me.’

  Gerald shrugged. ‘I know her, ma’am, but I know next to nothing of her story. She will not confide in me. But she has let fall enough for me to understand that she knows about her father’s misdeeds.’ He grinned. ‘Her purpose, if you will believe me, is to get herself a dowry so that she may marry an Englishman.’

  Mrs Sindlesham laughed lightly, but her eyes quizzed him. ‘Does she need a dowry for that?’

  ‘Melusine believes so, and that is what counts.’

  ‘Melusine,’ repeated the old lady. ‘It is pretty. But it does not sound as if the girl that wears the name resembles either of her parents.’

  Gerald frowned. ‘You don’t believe her?’

  ‘My dear Major Alderley, I do not know her,’ Mrs Sindlesham po
inted out. ‘Bring her to me and we shall see.’

  For a moment Gerald said nothing at all. His gaze remained steady on the old dame’s face, as he thought about it.

  ‘Is it worth it?’ he asked at last. ‘Assuming she can prove her identity, does Remenham House belong to her?’

  Mrs Sindlesham shifted her shoulders. ‘That is a matter for the lawyers. Jarvis did not leave a will.’

  ‘What?’ Appalled, Gerald could only gaze at her. In the circles into which he had been born, the passing on of land was of vital importance. To die intestate was unforgiveably irresponsible.

  ‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. ‘Unheard of, ain’t it? To tell the truth, I half expected him to leave everything to one of his doxies.’ She grimaced. ‘They lived with him, one after the other, for all the world as his wife. My son went down after his death. To settle things, you know. He said the place had gone to wrack. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Gerald put in with an irrepresssible chuckle. ‘Melusine was making herself mistress of them when we met.’

  Mrs Sindlesham’s mouth dropped open. ‘She’s wearing a lightskirt’s clothing?’

  ‘Nothing obviously so, I assure you. A riding-habit is all I have seen.’

  ‘Of course she could not have known to whom they belonged.’

  ‘Believe me, she wouldn’t have cared. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use.’

  He saw that Mrs Sindlesham, for all her vaunted freedom of speech, was honestly shocked by this revelation. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. She would stare if she knew the full sum of Melusine’s activities.

  ‘It was your son who left the place empty then?’ he asked.

  ‘What else was there to do? He paid off the servants and left old Pottiswick in charge, saying that the place would have to remain empty until the heir was found.’

  ‘What heir?’

  ‘Exactly. There was none. Only the next of kin. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter.’

  ‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’

  ‘Hardly. That would be an unkind twist of fate.’

  ‘Grossly unfair, too.’

  ‘Have no fear. Since Mary predeceased Jarvis, Nicholas could scarcely argue himself to be my brother’s next of kin. But his daughter might well have a claim.’

  ‘Why did you not claim it yourself?’ asked Gerald.

  ‘I had no need of the place, and there was no money, of course.’

  ‘Ah.’ Gerald sighed. ‘I feared as much. Still, I suppose Melusine can always sell the house.’

  A twinkle crept into Mrs Sindlesham’s eye. ‘That will be a matter for her future husband to decide.’

  Gerald started. He had not considered this aspect of the business. Until this instant, he discovered, he had thought of Melusine’s plan only in a nebulous fashion, a naïve girl’s dream. But what if she were to marry? He glanced towards the elderly dame and found her watching him, the dimple very much in evidence. What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat. There was more to be told, and this was as good a time as any.

  ‘Before she can think of marriage, Melusine must prove her identity. You see, the trouble is that the matter is in dispute.’

  ‘How can it be in dispute?’ frowned Mrs Sindlesham. ‘There is no question of a dispute.’

  ‘I am afraid that there is,’ Gerald told her evenly. ‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well.’

  The full story—or as much as Gerald knew—of Valade’s machinations shocked the old lady so much that she was obliged to recruit her strength with a refill from the Madeira decanter. She listened with growing apprehension to the tale that Gerald told, omitting any mention of pistols and daggers, and at the end delivered herself of various expletives highly unsuited to a lady of her advanced years.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ agreed Gerald with a grin. ‘The so-called Valade is an evil person, and should certainly be got rid of in the manner you describe. However, he has already presented himself to the Charvills, and passed inspection. It is only a matter of time before he presents himself to whoever has the deeds to Remenham House—a lawyer I presume—and claims that property for his wife’s.’

  ‘I shall stop him,’ declared the old lady furiously.

  ‘But can you? You don’t know Melusine for Mary Remenham’s daughter, any more than I do.’

  ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers.

  ‘I trust you are cursing Valade, and not Melusine.’

  ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her great-niece. ‘But you said she was looking for proof. What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ confessed Gerald. ‘She would not tell me. But it must have been something that could show her to be Mary’s daughter. Think, ma’am. What might it have been?’

  Mrs Sindlesham shook her head helplessly. ‘I have no idea. Unless it was a jewel or locket of some kind.’

  ‘No, for that would have had to be in Melusine’s possession to start with.’

  ‘Very true.’

  Gerald sat back in his chair, thinking hard. ‘I dare say the best plan will be for me to bring her to see you, after all. Hang it, there must be something about her that will give it away.’

  Mrs Sindlesham abruptly sat up straighter in her chair. ‘You said she was beautiful. What does she look like?’

  ‘Black hair. Very dark, like yours, ma’am. But she does not resemble you in any other way. She has blue eyes, and her figure is more full.’

  ‘It could hardly be less so,’ said Mrs Sindlesham tartly. She pointed. ‘See that writing table? Go and look in the drawer there.’

  Obediently, Gerald rose and walked to the other end of the parlour. He opened the drawer of the writing table. It was a mass of knick-knacks.

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘A miniature. Rummage, my boy, do. You will not find it else.’

  He did as she bid him, and was very soon rewarded by the discovery of an oval miniature, encased in gold. He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. Then he looked across at Mrs Sindlesham.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Is there a resemblance?’

  ‘This is Mary Remenham?’

  ‘That is my late niece, yes.’

  Triumph soared in Gerald’s chest. Returning to Mrs Sindlesham’s chair, he held up the miniature so the face depicted there was turned towards the old lady.

  ‘Your niece, ma’am. And your great-niece. It might as well be Melusine herself.’

  Martha sniffed dolefully, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with a large square of damp linen. She was sitting on the mean straw mattress that was placed on the iron bedstead in the makeshift cell, while Melusine stood with her back to the door, confronting her old nurse with the truth.

  She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. She had been obliged to wait all morning for the opportunity to talk to Martha, who chose always to retire to her cell for the period of recreation that preceded afternoon prayers. Last night there had been no time. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations.

  But today Melusine’s new-found knowledge put Martha at a disadvantage.

  ‘Hadn’t meant you to know,’ said the nun gruffly. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote.’

  ‘But Marthe, this is idiot. Certainly as soon as I have found m
y right place at Remenham House, I must find out everything.’

  ‘Who was to know if you would find your place?’ countered Martha. ‘Odds were against it. Why open my mouth if there might not be a need for it when all’s said?’

  Melusine acknowledged the logic of this. ‘Yes, that is reasonable. But still you have told me of my real mother when I thought it was Suzanne Valade.’

  Martha looked up, belligerence in her tone. ‘Would you have me face my maker with that on my conscience? If I’d died, there’d have been no one to tell you, for your father would not have done.’

  ‘Certainly that is true. And Suzanne, even that she has behaved to me not at all like a mother, would also not have said.’

  ‘She?’ scoffed Martha. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood.’

  Of which Melusine was only too well aware, for her stepmother had done nothing to save her from the convent.

  ‘What’s more,’ went on Martha, ‘I knew something Mr Charvill didn’t, or he wouldn’t so readily have left it behind him.’

  ‘You would speak of the house?’

  ‘Many’s the time little Miss Mary would say her papa meant for her to have it, she having no brothers and sisters at all—when we played together I mean, she and me and Joan Pottiswick.’

  Melusine could not regard this view with anything but scepticism. ‘You think my father would not have married Suzanne if he had known? Me, I do not agree. He did not even care for his own inheritance at this place in Wodeham Water.’

  She paused, holding her nurse’s eyes.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor.’

  ‘Only because you did not tell me entirely the story? That is silly. I would not think so of you, Marthe. You have been to me like a mother, not only a wet-nurse.’

  ‘Poor sort of a mother,’ Martha said with bitterness. ‘No, Melusine. You’re a lady. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad.’

  ‘But this is idiot. Have you not given your life to God? Do you not repent?’ Coming to the bed, Melusine sat beside her old nurse and took hold of one of her hands. ‘And I am very glad you did this bad thing, because if not, who would take care of me?’

  Martha shook her head, and Melusine spied wetness again in her eyes, although they met hers bravely. ‘You don’t know the whole, child. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe.’

  Tears sprang to Melusine’s own eyes, and she clasped the hand she held more tightly. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’

  ‘I blame myself. Oh, I grew fond of you as the years went by. But it’s love you should’ve had when you were tiny and I didn’t give it to you. Even though I knew you’d no one else to care. For that worthless father of yours—’

  Melusine let go the hand only so that she might throw her own hands in the air. ‘Do not speak of him. Me, I prefer to forget that I have such a father.’ A thought caught in her mind and she turned quickly to her old nurse. ‘But there is something still I do not understand. Why did he take me?’

  Martha’s damp eyes were puzzled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why take me to France? Why trouble himself with me, when so easily he could leave me to this Monsieur Remenham to keep?’

  To Melusine’s instant suspicion, Martha bit her lip, drew a breath, and avoided her charge’s gaze.

  ‘You were his daughter. He loved you.’

  ‘Pah! Am I a fool? Have you not this moment past said how he did not?’

  Agitation sent her to her feet. How she hated talking of the man who was responsible for her being brought into the world. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. But they would not be denied.

  ‘This is not love, Marthe. To love in such a way, it is excessively selfish.’

  Leonardo had taught her that. Leonardo had taught her pretty well everything she could have need to know, when they had talked long at his bedside. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. But his life, ruled by chance and the fight to survive had appealed strongly to Melusine’s rebellious spirit. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away?

  ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady.’ The questions that had long haunted her came out at last. ‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’

  Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed.

  ‘Dieu du ciel, but answer me!’

  Martha’s eyes were swimming again, and she reached out. Melusine felt the calloused hand grasp around hers. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. I don’t understand the workings of a gentleman’s mind.’ A grimace crossed her face. ‘But you know. You know, Melusine.’

  The familiar hollow opened up inside Melusine’s chest, and she could not prevent the husky note that entered her voice.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  She dropped to her knees before her old nurse and hugged the work-roughened hand with both her own, looking up into Martha’s face where slow tears were tracing down her cheek.

  ‘It is that he needed me for his lie, no?’ Melusine said, striving to control the quiver in her voice. ‘That he can say he was married only to Suzanne all the time. This way there will be not so much shame, and the vicomte will let them remain.’ The core of hurt rose up, tearing at her insides. ‘I am not a person, Marthe. I am a thing to be used. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away.’

  There was no denial in Martha’s face, though Melusine longed to hear her words contradicted. Her old nurse’s hands returned the pressure.

  ‘God loves you, even if your father didn’t.’

  Melusine fought down the raw emotion that threatened to overwhelm her and drew a steadying breath. She disengaged her hands and stood up.

  ‘You are wise, Marthe. A true nun. God must love me, for he has guided me here.’

  ‘In a somewhat roundabout fashion, if you ask me,’ came in a mutter from her old nurse, very much in her usual style. ‘What are you going to do now, child?’

  Melusine sighed away the last of her distress. ‘I must see the lady who is my great-aunt. You have spoken her name, I think, Marthe. Or perhaps my father once. For when this Joan said it, I had a memory.’

  Martha frowned. ‘All so long ago and my memory ain’t what it was. Wait, though. Prudence? Mr Remenham’s sister that was.’

  ‘Exactement. Prudence. It is she that I must see.’

  ‘You won’t go to the general then?’

  ‘There is no need.’ The one ray of light lifted Melusine’s gloom a little and she smiled. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother.’

  ‘Oh, yes I do,’ Martha said, getting up off the bed. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. Joan told me it was hung somewhere in the house, only I couldn’t remember where after all this time.’

  ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. ‘I have Joan to tell me how much I look like Mary. And also I have this Prudence.’

  ‘Yes, but how are you going to find her?’

  ‘I will ask—’

  She broke off. She must not tell Martha about Gerald. Better to remain silent. As silent as she had remained about who had broug
ht her home last night. She knew Martha would not ask anything that she did not wish to know. It had ever been her policy, much to Melusine’s relief, for she was apt to complain that it only made her mad and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Although she had said a great deal when she heard about the shooting that had left poor Jack so badly injured. Martha had grumbled at being obliged to report the matter to Mother Josephine, who had decreed that Melusine must confess to Father Saint-Simon.

  Melusine had confessed this morning, that she had borrowed his horse, that Jack had met with his accident through her fault. But to confess about Gerald—no, a thousand times.

  En tout cas, why had he not returned? She pondered the question as, later, she paced about her favourite retreat. Where was the expected message from this captain, who had promised to send her word at the instant Gerald returned to town. He had been gone entirely one day, for yesterday afternoon he had departed from Remenham House, and she had waited with patience like a saint, and now it was again the afternoon. The late afternoon, en effet. Where was the message? Where was Gerald? Until he came back, what was there for her to do? Eh bien, it made no sense to do anything. For if Gerald had indeed gone to see this Prudence, it was better to wait for his report.

  At least here she was safe. Without Jack, it was certain that she faced danger if she went outside Golden Square. Besides, the sun had gone in and it looked like rain. And who knew if the men that Gerald had posted there would follow her to protect her somewhere else? In truth, where were these soldiers? She could not see them, although she assiduously searched the mist-shrouded square from the vantage point of the bay window in the large first floor room which had become her headquarters.

  It was an odd room, used principally for the reception of guests and visiting dignitaries, packed from end to end with ill-assorted sofas and padded chairs. Every movable mirror had been placed here, to discourage vanity, and since no whitewash covered the brocaded purple wallpaper, its pervasive hue gave an added sense of heaviness to the crowded chamber. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it.

  But not today. Nothing could occupy her attention long today, unless it concerned her situation. Yet there was nothing for her to do. She had thought of the lawyer who conducted the Remenham business, but she knew not where to find him. Gerald perhaps would know how to find him.

  A new thought checked her steps and she froze. If Gerald knew, what should stop Gosse from finding out? Perhaps he was even now at the lawyer. He would take with him that traitress Yolande, and claim to the lawyer that this was Melusine Charvill.

  Pig and brute! Yet calling him hard names would not help her. Dieu du ciel, but where was Gerald? On the move again, she found herself standing before one of the mirrors, gazing into her own countenance without seeing it.

  Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. She touched it, and her gaze lifted.

  Critically, she stared at her own features. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Like the nuns, she hardly ever looked in a mirror. Vanity was a vice not just to be deprecated, but effectively strangled at birth. Only Leonardo, and then Jack, had shown her that she might be admired. Now, as she stared at the image of her own face, she recalled something Major Alderley had said. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. And he liked her. Her heartbeat quickened.

  In truth, she liked Gerald also. Too much, perhaps. For it was not a good thing to like one man too much when one was going to marry another. She could not say who, not yet. But there must be an Englishman who would like to marry her to get Remenham House. For she knew that men married to get something. So it was with Gosse, who had wanted to marry her. Leonardo would not have married her. He had said so. He was not in love with her en désespoir which, he said, was necessary if a man would marry without getting a dowry from his wife. And Gerald—

  Melusine swallowed on an unaccountable lump in her throat. Gerald would not marry her even with a dowry. Had he not said so? Not that she wished him to marry her. Not at all. Was she a fool to wish a person of a disposition altogether not pleasing to marry her? Was it not true that he made a game with her very often? Had he not been extremely interfering from the beginning? And had he not kissed her, just when—

  Her thoughts skidded to a stop. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her.

  As she started, rearing up her head, a hand stole about her mouth and closed down hard.

  ‘Silence,’ hissed a voice in French.