French Jade: A dazzling Regency love story

by Janet Louise Roberts

  “Only to pack my dresses, my few jewels, some precious possessions of my parents’, that is all. Then François drove me to Paris. He helped me to secure a flat — a tiny one —” she emphasized, with a wry smile — “so there I live now. I have a small allowance from my husband, I live on that. Of course — I may marry again.”

  She dropped that neatly into the silence. Minerva swallowed.

  “There are some fine men in London,” said Mrs Redmond thoughtfully, idly drawing a pattern on the lace tablecloth with her finger. “We must introduce you to some friends of ours, Gabrielle. You will remain for a time?”

  Gabrielle looked slightly surprised, then smiled warmly at her aunt. “Dear Tante, gladly! You are too generous! I am sick of my solitary living, fed up with my small company of acquaintances, weary of making do on my little income. If you will permit me to stay —” A shrug completed the answer.

  “As you may surmise, there is a reason behind all this,” Mrs Redmond went on, sounding so much like a hard-headed Frenchwoman that Monsieur Claudel gazed at her in surprise. “My daughter Minerva has got herself into a little scrape. Nothing serious, but very awkward, and could cause some scandal. I am anxious to end the matter,” she said sternly, glancing at Minerva.

  “Minna is in trouble? Minna?” And Gabrielle turned to gaze intently at Minerva. “I cannot believe it! She is a good girl!”

  It sounded like the most gross of insults to the sensitive Minna. “Well, I don’t think you should be so surprised!” she flared. “I am twenty years of age, I am not a schoolgirl —”

  “But, darling, you were always so quiet!” said Gabrielle, gently. Her black chiffon-and-lace gown floated as she leaned back in the chair, and studied Minna through half-closed green eyes. “No, you have not changed much. Your hair is better, I like it loose like that. We must do something about Minna.”

  She made it sound a desperate case. The worst of it was Minna could not fight her. She had never been able to fight Gabrielle. The girl was so clever, so sharp of tongue, so quick of mind.

  “But what could have happened to Minna?” asked Gabrielle, with a slight frown. “You must tell me everything!”

  “Later,” said Mrs Redmond. “You are weary from the journey. I will take you to your room, and see you settled. Tonight, we can talk. And I think we must enlist your aid, Monsieur Claudel! You can help us, I feel sure.” And she gave him a smile that would have melted stone.

  “I am at your service, madame!” he said promptly. “I confess myself curious. I did not think the English became reckless and got into trouble! Just think of the cool Wellington! Your soldiers at Waterloo! Ma foi, we did not have a chance!” he said graciously.

  Speaking of Waterloo reminded Minerva of Oliver, her lost, dear Oliver. What chance did she have now? And he was to have come at three, her battle would have been won — her revenge complete — the ending so sweet — All gone, gone, gone.

  “Come, Minna, do not look so sad!” proclaimed Gabrielle, smiling at her cousin. “Come, you must tell me everything tonight! Then we will straighten out your little troubles, eh?”

  Minna could not answer. She felt as she had so long ago. Gabrielle came, overwhelmed, conquered. She chatted, and everyone listened. She laughed, everyone smiled. She talked, one dared not interrupt.

  She felt flat. In Gabrielle’s presence, she had never shone. She had retreated, she had hidden under a blank face, she had been incapable of fighting back.

  Gabrielle could sound so sweet and thoughtful; only a look in her cool green eyes revealed the truth. She cared about nobody but herself, she lived for nobody but herself. If she helped you, it was for some purpose of her own. She always came out a winner.

  She overwhelmed one with ease. If Minna tried to answer, her words were turned against her like the curved sword of the fairy tales. She was made to feel a child, a silly infant. Silence was safer, and retreating into a corner. Minerva had always hated to look a fool, and Gabrielle did it to her so easily.

  Minna had hated to be laughed at. When Minna defied Gabrielle, her cousin had always managed to turn it about, and ended the incident with everyone laughing heartily at Minna. Minna had soon learned; she hid away from her cousin. She did not answer, she became the more quiet. And Gabrielle would tease her mercilessly about the times she hid in the bushes.

  It was childhood all over again, thought Minna, as the luncheon table echoed with laughter. They were not laughing now at Minna — but they would. When Betsy Redmond told the story, Gabrielle would laugh again at Minna, she could not help it. Imagine, Minna masquerading as her French cousin! Imagine, Minna wearing French-design clothes, and alluring a wealthy beau.

  Wealthy! The word echoed in Minna’s mind. Oliver was very wealthy. She had forgotten!

  Oliver Seymour had become to her the man she loved, the man she wanted to embrace her. The man she would marry, if possible!

  But Oliver Seymour was very wealthy. Wait till Gabrielle caught sight of his gilded carriage and the two matched blacks. Wait till she saw Oliver in his golden silk coat and the sapphire rings he wore. And his jade collection! And his townhouse with the huge drawing rooms! And the Persian rugs! And the talk of his country estates…

  And Gabrielle had her jade-green eyes fixed on marrying a wealthy beau, perhaps someone younger and nicer than her elderly, mean Gaspar. Who could help wanting Oliver Seymour? Not Gabrielle! She would snatch him with both beautiful hands!

  As the gay, sophisticated chatter went on, Gabrielle did not seem at all weary. Minna had sunk into silence; she felt tired and dispirited, as though the battle was already over, and she had lost once more to her beautiful cousin.

  CHAPTER 10

  Gabrielle came down to tea about four o’clock. Oh, low blow — most bitter of sights — she was attired in one of Minerva’s new gowns, the silvery-grey-and-green stripe. It was too tight in the bust and hips, Minerva was pleased to see. But Gabrielle wore it well.

  “I must call for Miss Clothilde to come and alter the gowns for you, Gabrielle,” said Betsy Redmond thoughtfully. “Just a bit tight — a little more room in the bust, I believe.”

  “It is so kind of you to give me these new dresses.” Gabrielle smiled dazzlingly. “I could scarce believe my eyes when you and the maid brought them all in. And new hats, and scarves —” She waved her hands appreciatively.

  Betsy Redmond had been firm with Minerva. “She must have every gown you have worn these weeks, Minna! You cannot appear in them again! And any gown that is low cut, that is not for you!”

  “But, Mama, I cannot go back to my pallid muslins, my grey dresses — oh, Mama, I cannot! How can you do this to me?”

  “You did it to yourself,” said her mother, ruthlessly. Her gaze softened as she looked down at her daughter, seated on the bed. “Come, darling, we will have more gowns made. Miss Clothilde works very fast. I have already sent her a note. She comes tomorrow to alter Gabrielle’s gowns, and she will bring lengths for you to choose.”

  “But, Mama, these dresses — all my gowns —” Minna almost choked as she fingered the yellow silk for the last time.

  “Too low cut! I was shocked at the time, but I held my tongue,” said her mother firmly. “Now, you must return to your modest look, Minna! Brighter colours, yes, do not show your bosom! And you must not flirt so!”

  “Gabrielle always did!” she snapped bitterly.

  “Gabrielle is — Gabrielle. You are Minerva Redmond! And you are an English lady!”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  When her mother spoke like that, with a bite in her tone, Minna retreated. The dresses were gathered up, the flirty hats, the scarves, all carried off to her cousin.

  And she wore them so well!

  “Yes, I was weary of black and grey, but I had little money to buy more! Of course, in Paris, black is always très chic,” said Gabrielle, smoothing the green silk complacently. She managed to convey the thought that she enjoyed the dresses, but French chic was after all something else,
something more to be desired than all the English gowns available.

  François Claudel admired her frankly, with his sad monkey eyes. “You look beautiful whatever you wear, chérie.”

  “Merci mille fois!” She sent an intimate, slow smile to him, and Minerva quivered. She sensed somehow that they were very close.

  François had come all the way from Paris with her; he had been at hand to rescue her after her husband’s death. What was their relationship? Somehow, Minna, made more sensitive by her love for Oliver, quivered at the feeling in the air between the two of them. There was something that tied them together. Could they — be lovers?

  She would watch and watch, she vowed. If Gabrielle set her sights on Oliver, and had been a mistress of François — well, Minna would have something to say about that! Only what?

  Gabrielle noted her staring at François, and reached out to pat her hand. Minna turned, and saw the cool look of the jade-green eyes, so like her own. Gabrielle was silently warning her, “He is mine! Do not look!” Possessive as ever, thought Minna, and smiled weakly back at her.

  “Now, you must tell me zis so-troubling story, dearest Minerva!” commanded Gabrielle. “I am dying of curiosity! What kind of trouble have you got yourself into, dear cousin?”

  Minna sighed. The time of truth — and being laughed at — had come. “I have been masquerading as you, Gabrielle,” she began bluntly.

  The eyebrows raised; the eyes were surprised. “Impossible!” said Gabrielle, looking her up and down.

  “Yes, I did,” said Minna bravely. “I — I had bright clothes made, low cut, and I talked like you, with an accent — and pretended I had just come over from France.”

  “Um. But what happened to you, yourself? Did people not question?”

  Betsy Redmond said, “We put it about that she was a-bed with a fever — chicken pox. Minna wished to pretend to be someone bright and gay and flirtatious, and attract a certain man of her acquaintance.”

  “Ah — a man!” Gabrielle nodded wisely. “Now it begins to make sense. Tell me about it!”

  Minna, embarrassed over and over, told the whole story, though not what she had come to feel for Oliver. Gabrielle laughed, of course, in her clear bell-tones, and mocked her, and wondered several times that people had been taken in. How could anyone really believe that Minna was Gabrielle?

  “They did not know you,” said Betsy Redmond. “Most of them had never met you.”

  Loyal Percy spoke up. “She was quite good with the French accent, you know, Gabrielle. And she does have a look of you! And when she is all dressed up, she is quite striking.”

  Gabrielle did not like that. Minna, sensitive to her every expression, noted the tightening of the mouth, the coldness of the jade eyes. There was only one Gabrielle Dubois, and she was an original of which there could be no true copy!

  “Well, I am here now. I presume, dearest Tante, you wish me to take over the part, while Minna emerges from her illness, and we show the world there is a true French cousin?”

  “Exactly, Gabrielle,” said Betsy Redmond. “I feared that Minna could not get out of this trick without scandal. If you will be so kind, you will take over the part — which is you anyway, of course! — and Minna will be herself again. And of course you must stay in London as long as you will, and enjoy yourself!”

  “You are most kind. Well, well, the part will be a challenge — to be Minna — and yet myself! How wide is your acquaintance?”

  Minna had the humiliation of talking then of her friends, naming them, explaining who everyone was. And of course she must talk of Oliver Seymour without betraying herself. Gabrielle caught all that she said of him, memorizing it, Minna felt sure.

  “A large townhouse, estates in Kent — why, he must have veree much money!” And the big jade eyes went from Minna to her mother.

  “He is rather wealthy,” said Mrs Redmond cautiously. “He inherited the estates in a rather dilapidated manner, and has built them up, at the cost of much of the money he was left. But he works hard, and has control of the estates in an admirable way. He is fond of the country —”

  “Um.” Gabrielle had a little smile at the corner of her mouth. François was watching her alertly, his eyes the more sad. He understood her, thought Minna. He must know her well! “Well, I shall play this part, dear cousin! Do not worry, I will do it well! You will coach me for a time, but I will learn quickly! Now, when will we meet this — Oliver Seymour?”

  “He invites us over for cards in three days,” said Betsy Redmond placidly. “Before then, you will meet some ladies for tea, we will drive out, Miss Clothilde will come and alter your gowns. By the time you meet Mr Seymour, you will be quite prepared. It is most kind of you, Gabrielle, to help us out this way!”

  The pretty fingers flirted with the air. Her ways were so exquisite and lovely, thought Minna, watching her. Every gesture a perfection. Every smile attractive. Every word studied. Only the wise eyes mocked. And she but twenty-three! She had lived a lifetime in her years. Minna felt a very child next to Gabrielle.

  Miss Clothilde came the next morning, with three of her girls. If they were amazed to find Madame Dubois needed her dresses altered in the bust and hips, to be let out so soon, they concealed their surprise. They were well paid to do so.

  Minna had to watch as all her elegant new gowns were altered to fit Gabrielle, and the Frenchwoman sauntered around in them, looking so much more elegant to envious eyes. How she moved, how she spoke, how she smiled, how her fingers flirted, how her eyes slanted —

  Minna had recovered from her illness, and must have some new gowns also. Miss Clothilde came to measure her, showing no surprise at the healthy colour and the size of her client. She read off the measurements in a calm tone, and one of her girls wrote them down.

  She had brought lengths of fabric. Minna fingered them with a tight mouth. A subdued pink silk. A pallid yellow. A pale blue, very demure.

  “Could I not have more bright colours, Mama?” she begged in a low tone. “Must an unmarried female always wear such pale colours? Denise Lavery sometimes wears bright colours!”

  Miss Clothilde proved an unexpected ally. “I believe the styles are changing, Mrs Redmond,” she offered. “Young ladies are turning to brighter colours, and more rich fabrics, even before marriage. I even made a velvet dress the other week for one unmarried female — of course, she is almost thirty.”

  Mrs Redmond hesitated, then agreed. “Very well, then — some silks rather than muslins. Minna has many muslins. And a little brighter colours — perhaps some green? And brighter blue? I don’t believe red, no, no — that is too daring.”

  “And with her hair, not right,” agreed Miss Clothilde. “She has a fine complexion, let us set it off. So young and pretty of skin — no wrinkles.”

  Minna was a bit set up by that; Gabrielle did have wrinkles! Perhaps from so much makeup. Minna eyed her face with more complacency in the long mirror at the dresser, and submitted to the fittings more happily.

  Miss Clothilde must have felt sorry for her, for she went back to her shop at noon, then returned in the afternoon with more offerings of fabrics. And these were so lovely that Minna felt better.

  A length of jade-green silk, to be made up demurely with rounded neck and a bit of Brussels lace at the throat to hide the bosom.

  A length of pretty rose silk that did not clash with Minna’s hair, to be made up as an evening gown, a bit lower in cut than her old dresses, though not so low as Gabrielle’s.

  A yellow silk that almost reconciled her to the loss of her other one, as a walking dress, with brown Spanish braid in a clever design at wrists and hem.

  Miss Clothilde’s girls had remained, and soon had the dresses altered for Gabrielle. She put on the yellow silk for tea that afternoon, as ladies were coming.

  None of Minna’s new gowns were ready, of course, and she must wear an old white muslin, with blue ribbons. But Minna rebelled at having her hair tied up tightly, and a muslin cap on her head.
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  “No more caps, not until I am an old lady!” she objected furiously, with some return of spirit. Jessie seemed to agree, for she brushed out Minna’s red-gold hair in a subdued version of the Madame Dubois style, in curls and ringlets, which were quite attractive, though not so wild as before.

  She went down to tea, and was congratulated by the ladies for her recovery from her long illness. She told them it was chicken pox; she seemed able to lie very well by now. She had had to remain closeted until the last pox had disappeared, she told them. But she felt very well, thank you, and able to take her place in society.

  Gabrielle appeared, and was greeted so warmly that she was surprised. She managed her part graciously, but was bored by “old ladies,” as she murmured later. She talked with them for a little while, but turned quickly to Percy and to François to carry on her flirtatious conversations, and tell veiled stories.

  By some coincidence — Minna suspected her mother’s contriving — their guests today were the same ladies who had been to tea on the day Minna had first appeared as Gabrielle. Mrs Smythe-Jones turned to Minna.

  “What a charming, intelligent cousin you have, Minerva!” she said kindly. “You must enjoy her company immensely.”

  “Actually, I have been ill, and seen little of her,” said Minna distinctly. “And she is older than I, of course.”

  Mrs Smythe-Jones looked rather shocked at the catty remark. “But surely only a few years.”

  “Yes — three years,” Minna admitted. “But she is a widow, of course, and older in experience!” She felt furious, and ready to strike out. Her mother intervened.

  “Minerva is still fretful from her illness. Do you wish to go up and lie down for a time in your room, darling?” Her look warned she would have no more of that.

  “No, thank you, Mother, I feel quite well,” she said, more meekly, and relaxed. She still felt betrayed. If Minna had had her way, she would be engaged to Oliver right this moment! Instead, she was expected to hand over her cousin to Oliver — indeed, deliver Oliver into those beautiful claws! She raged inside. Should she endure it, or could she fight and win, this time?