Corinna was quite at a loss to understand why she should find such a prospect slightly depressing. As both she and Lydia liked Frances Cheveley, surely there was nothing against a closer connection with her? Nothing against Miss Cheveley, no, she decided in a flash of self-perception; what she objected to was the notion of Richard’s being married. But that was absurd! Of course he would wish to marry at some time, and probably soon, as she had just pointed out to her friend. She must accustom herself — they all must — to the likelihood of this.
She sighed. It seemed a pity; matters were very comfortable as they stood at present, but that was a selfish attitude.
Her reverie was interrupted by the prompt appearance of both Sir Richard and Patrice Landier to claim the two young ladies as partners in the dance. There was a moment when it looked as if Sir Richard would ask her; but Landier spoke first, reminding her of her previous promise. All four took their places in the set. At first, Corinna tried to watch the other pair to see if there could be anything to suggest a growing attachment between them; but she soon abandoned this when her partner complained of her inattention.
“I am not, I realise, the most brilliant talker in the room, mademoiselle, but for form’s sake you must throw a word at me now and then, like a bone to a dog,” he reproached her, his eyes twinkling.
“I beg your pardon — did you say something to me which I didn’t answer?”
“Several things, but no matter! You are quite right to ignore them, for they were of a dullness incroyable,” he replied, laughing.
“Then let us both mend our ways,” she said, joining in his laughter. “You shall be your usual entertaining self and I promise to hang on your every word.”
This seemed to answer, for from that moment they became one of the most animated couples in the room.
When Sir Richard claimed Corinna for the succeeding dance, she was still in high spirits and soon coaxed him out of an initial tendency to gravity into his more usual raillery.
They had just joined hands in the final movement when he suddenly felt her grip tighten convulsively. He looked up into her face and saw that her head was turned away towards the door, her neck muscles taut. He followed her gaze.
A gentleman had just arrived belatedly and was being greeted by Lady Northcote. He was strikingly handsome, with thick chestnut hair, classical features and a slim, upright figure. His evening attire was faultless, the dark blue coat smooth across his broad shoulders, the cravat of snowy linen intricately tied. Sir Richard recognised him instantly.
It was Fabian Grenville.
Corinna uttered an exclamation of annoyance as there was a faint tearing sound, and she looked down to see that she had stepped on the hem of her gown and ripped it slightly.
“How odiously clumsy of me!” she said as she gathered up the folds in one hand to make her concluding curtsey. “Pray forgive me, Richard, if I rush away from you, but I must pin this up at once.”
“Of course — an unfortunate accident,” he replied.
She darted off, still clutching her skirts with one hand, in the direction of her hostess.
Corinna ruefully explained her predicament.
“How tiresome,” said Lady Northcote with spurious sympathy. “But my maid will soon repair the damage for you — she’s an excellent needlewoman. If you will go into the ladies’ retiring room, I’ll have her sent to you.”
She ushered Corinna into a small room across the hall and left her there. Corinna was not sorry to have a few moments alone in which to recover from the shock of seeing Mr Grenville. She had scarcely expected ever to meet him again, in spite of her romantic daydreams; but to see him here in Paris had not entered even those rosy imaginings.
The uncomfortable flutterings of her pulses had subsided by the time she heard a deferential knock upon the door. She called out permission to enter.
A young girl of about her sister Irene’s age came into the room. She was small and slender, with black hair demurely drawn back under a white lace edged cap, and large dark eyes. Her face took Corinna by surprise, for it was unlike that of the usual English abigail; it was fine featured, almost aristocratic, and wore a remote, withdrawn expression which suggested a nun-like serenity.
She dropped a curtsey. “I believe you need my help, milady.”
Corinna realised then that the girl was French. Her English, though good, was faintly accented.
“Oh, yes, if you please. But I’m not milady, only plain Miss Haydon. What is your name?”
“Madeleine, ma’am. It is your dress, yes?”
Corinna ruefully displayed the rent in her gown.
“The most tiresome thing, and quite my own fault. I can’t even blame a clumsy partner, I must confess! Can you do anything to make it last through the evening? I’ll be so much obliged to you.”
The girl knelt down to inspect the damage.
“Why, yes, I think I can manage to set a few stitches which will hold the material and not be noticed. Pray be seated, Miss Haydon.”
Corinna obeyed, arranging the torn hem to one side of her so that the maid could work on it. Having provided herself with the necessary materials from a workbox which stood in the room, Madeleine knelt down on the floor beside her and set about the task.
“You are French, are you not?” Corinna asked, curious about this girl who seemed somehow above her station in life.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you come from England with my lady Northcote?”
“No, ma’am. Milady did not bring her own maid, so she engaged me here.”
“I see. Is your home in Paris?”
Madeleine shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
“Oh, then in the country somewhere?” persisted Corinna. “And you came to seek employment in the town?”
“That is so, ma’am.”
“Do you miss the country? A large town such as Paris must be quite a change, I surmise.”
A tremor passed momentarily across that serene countenance, like a ripple on a quiet lake.
“Yes, ma’am. I do miss my home. But one must accustom oneself, and this is a good post. I am fortunate to have obtained it.”
Corinna was silent, reflecting that it must be a melancholy business for a female to be obliged to earn her own living. This girl seemed grateful for the employment she had found, but there was that about her which suggested that in reality she was above it, and had once known better days.
“There, I think that will do for the present,” said Madeleine, rising to her feet. “Will you be pleased to inspect it in the mirror, ma’am?”
Corinna moved to a long mirror against one wall, and twirled about, studying her hem with a critical eye.
“Why, that is splendid!” she said, smiling at the girl. “Thank you so much — you’ve worked wonders!”
Madeleine inclined her head in dignified acknowledgement of this tribute; but when Corinna produced some money from her reticule and would have pressed it into the maid’s hand, she drew back.
“Thank you, Miss Haydon, it is not necessary. I am happy to be of service,” she said quietly.
Almost Corinna stared. It was something new in her experience for servants to refuse vails, and it gave her a momentary pang of shame for having made the offer.
“Then thank you again,” she said, as she moved towards the door. “Good-bye, Madeleine.”
The maid curtseyed. “Au revoir, mademoiselle,” she replied.
The moment Corinna stepped once more into the ballroom all thought of the preceding interview vanished. She could think of nothing but Mr Grenville, and looked eagerly about her to locate him. This was difficult, as another dance was in progress; so after a few moments, she gave up the quest and made her way to some chairs at the side of the room where she saw Lady Cheveley and one or two other matrons seated.
“Oh, there you are, Miss Haydon,” Lady Cheveley greeted her. “Sir Richard Beresford said you had suffered some mishap to your gown and had retired to adjust matters.
I trust all is satisfactory now?”
Corinna replied suitably, and a desultory conversation followed while she continued to glance about the room. At last she espied Mr Grenville among the dancers. His partner was a brassy blonde female of some years older than himself, dressed in a very low-cut gown of pink silk which displayed fully her ample proportions. She smiled a great deal too much and from time to time made girlish, fluttering motions with her hands.
“Do you know, ma’am, who is that lady dancing with Mr Grenville — that’s to say, the gentleman with chestnut hair in the blue coat,” she added, realising that Grenville might well be a stranger to Lady Cheveley.
“Mr Grenville? Oh, so you are acquainted with him, are you?” replied her companion, giving her a quizzical look which Corinna did not altogether relish. “He’s complete to a shade, is he not, and quite turns all the females’ heads! But perhaps I should give you just the tiniest hint, since your Mama is not here with you, that he is not to be relied upon, my dear. In fact, not to mince matters, a gazetted fortune hunter. Sad, for he is quite an Adonis and has such charm! But so it often is, alas — the most attractive men are seldom the most eligible, as I’ve often warned Frances. It is rarely a girl has the good fortune to meet one such as Sir Richard Beresford, who is possessed of good looks and gentlemanly address in addition to his undoubted eligibility. Your family has been acquainted with him for many years, I collect?”
“We’ve known the Beresfords forever,” replied Corinna dismissively, for she did not wish to be drawn into the same conversation with the mother that she had recently had with the daughter. “And Sir Richard is everything you say. But tell me, ma’am, who is that lady? Do you know her?”
“Not to say know her, for she is not quite in my style,” said Lady Cheveley drily. “She has been in Paris for about a month and is, so I’m told, the widow of a wealthy London merchant. She is here with a married sister and the sister’s husband. Their name is Collard and the widow is a Mrs Peters. Mr Grenville has been much in their company.” She lowered her voice. “Lady Northcote is prodigiously free with her hospitality, and one never quite knows whom one will meet at her parties.”
Corinna continued to observe Mr Grenville and his vulgar — yes, there was no other word for the female — partner. What Lady Cheveley had said suggested that Mrs Peters was the present object of his attentions. As she was wealthy, that must be the attraction, for she was scarcely in his style. Corinna could not repress a feeling of disgust that he should sink so low in his search for an heiress. Miss Pemberton, the lady whom he had courted so assiduously in Tunbridge Wells, had at least been his social equal and he need not have been ashamed to introduce her to his friends. For the first time, she admitted a doubt as to his conduct; hitherto she had always tried to justify this to herself as unavoidable when a gentleman lacked means.
She saw he was not dancing at present, but standing at the side of the room with Mrs Peters and several other people who were obviously their friends. He was conversing most particularly to the widow, whose behaviour towards him continued to be as boldly flirtatious as when they had been dancing together.
She watched them covertly for some time, but at last resolutely withdrew her eyes, feeling dejected and yet close to anger; she was almost inclined to plead a headache and return to their hotel. But to do so would mean curtailing Lydia’s enjoyment, for she knew that her sister would never let her leave the ball unaccompanied; so she concealed her feelings as best she might, trying to show some interest in Lady Cheveley’s conversation.
Lydia was dancing with her husband when she first noticed Fabian Grenville in the room. She gave a start of dismay.
“Of all the unlucky things, John! That man is here — the very person whom I brought Corinna to France to forget! Was ever anything so wretched! And just when I thought she was in a fair way to turning her interest elsewhere!”
“So you’ve spotted him,” said John in a casual tone. “Knew he was here — Richard told me. No need to put yourself in a taking over that. Dare say his present company will open your sister’s eyes to the kind of fellow he is.”
It was only towards the end, when supper was over and some of Lady Northcote’s guests were departing, that Corinna and Grenville came face to face. He was moving towards the exit, Mrs Peters on his arm and the rest of their group following; and he passed close by Corinna, Lydia, and Sir Richard, who were standing together in that part of the room.
For a second he halted as if about to speak; then, obedient to the pressure on his arm exerted by his impatient companion, he smiled, bowed, and departed.
CHAPTER SIX
A few days later, Patrice Landier was strolling in leisurely fashion through the gardens of the Palais Royal, enjoying the sunshine of an unusually mild April day. As usual on a fine day, the gardens were thronged with people, most of whom were as leisurely as himself; which was why his attention was first caught by one amongst them who seemed to be in a hurry.
She was a young female whose attire suggested that she was employed as a maid, and she was carrying a bandbox. As she walked briskly past him, he caught a glimpse of her face and at once gave a start of recognition. He quickened his steps to catch up with her and touched her lightly on the arm.
She halted, turning a startled look upon him which immediately changed as she in her turn recognised him.
“Mademoiselle Fougeray!” he exclaimed in astonished tones. “Why, what brings you here?”
She coloured as she sketched a curtsey in response to his bow.
“Good day, Monsieur Landier,” she replied.
She was obviously somewhat shaken, though her voice was calm enough.
“But what are you doing in Paris, mademoiselle? I thought I had lost you, that we should never meet again! I went a month since to your uncle’s house in La Bouille and was told that the good curé, alas! was dead, God rest him. I am so very sorry, mademoiselle — you must mourn for him — believe me, if there is anything I can do—”
“You are very good, monsieur, but there is nothing.”
“You are here in Paris with some relatives, perhaps? When I inquired after you, no one knew where you had gone.”
“No, monsieur, I have no relatives in France. One of the nuns brought me here on my uncle’s instructions, to find suitable employment so that I can carry out his plan for my future.”
“What employment? What plan?”
“I am personal maid to an English milady. Her name is Lady Northcote,” she explained. “And as I am on an errand for her now, you will readily understand, monsieur, that I must not delay. Your pardon, but I should be on my way at once.”
She sketched another little curtsey and turned away as if to leave him. He placed a detaining hand on her arm.
“But no! Now that I have found you again I cannot let you go so easily! I will walk along with you to Lady Northcote’s house,” he said with a determined air.
“Monsieur, it is not convenable that you should walk with me,” she protested, her colour coming and going. “I am only an abigail, you realise, and such things are not done. If anyone should notice and tell milady—”
“Is not France a Republic?” he asked scornfully. “Are we not all equal citizens of our country? Moreover, mademoiselle, you and I are old acquaintances — for six months or more I have been visiting the curé and yourself whenever I could escape from my business duties. Can not one friend walk with another? But only tell me truly that you don’t desire it — for yourself, mind, not for milady Northcote — and I will go away at once!”
This she could not bring herself to do; so she allowed him to walk along beside her and even to carry the bandbox, though she protested a little at this.
“And now tell me what was your uncle’s plan for your future,” he said as they went on their way.
“He wished me to go to an aunt of mine who lives in Brighton,” she replied, stumbling a little over the foreign word. “That is a town on the coast in England, you know.”
He smiled at her anxiety to ensure his understanding of this point.
“Yes, I do know, for at one time I was a prisoner of war in England not so very many miles distant from Brighton. And so you are hoping to save enough money from your employment to pay for the journey to England?”
“I shall save what I can, naturally. But milady has promised to take me back with her when she leaves France, and it is on that I depend chiefly, for I think I can scarcely save enough, even with what was left me by my dear, dear uncle.”
Her voice shook on the last words.
“And so you will go,” he said in a despondent tone. “Most likely then I shall never see you again. Can I not persuade you to change your mind, to remain here in France, to permit me to see you frequently and perhaps—” He broke off, then resumed in a low, passionate voice: “Mademoiselle Madeleine, this is scarcely the time or the place for me to tell you all that is in my heart — you have suffered a great loss, moreover you are very young still, and unprotected — I would be a brute to force my attentions upon you at present—”
She put up her hands to cover her burning face.
“Monsieur — I implore you!” she stammered.
He controlled himself with an effort, for indeed he had said more than he intended, though certainly not as much as he wished.
“I have done — I will embarrass you no further,” he promised. “But I may see you again, mademoiselle, may I not, to talk over old times, to stand as your friend in case of need?”
“You are very good — and yes, it is comfortable to have someone whom I know from my past life, close at hand,” she admitted. “But, monsieur, I don’t see how I can arrange matters for us to meet. Whatever you say about being a family friend I cannot think it proper to be making assignations with you. Besides” — she put up her hand with a touchingly imperative little gesture when he would have interrupted her — “there is a practical difficulty. Situated as I am, you cannot call on me at milady’s house, and I never know when I shall be at liberty to walk abroad.”
The Intrepid Miss Haydon Page 5
