The Intrepid Miss Haydon

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “There are no errands that occur at regular intervals?” he queried. “No free time allotted to you?”

  She hesitated. “Not so that I may depend upon it. But sometimes I walk a little by the banks of the Seine, in the early morning.”

  “Then I will meet you there,” he said quickly. “Whereabouts do you go?”

  “Close to the Pont Neuf. But, monsieur, you will not wish to rise so early. And truly, I do not think we should.”

  “At home, I am astir by seven o’clock. Do you rate me as one of these fashionable people with endless leisure? I am a businessman, mademoiselle, and have work to do in the world.”

  By now they had reached the road in which Lady Northcote’s house was situated, and she halted.

  “Do not, I beg you, accompany me to the door, monsieur. I may be observed.”

  “D’accord. It is arranged, then, and I will look for you by the Seine tomorrow.”

  “I cannot promise,” she said hesitantly.

  “But you will try — please? If you don’t appear, I shall understand that you could not come.”

  She nodded and gave a brief curtsey.

  “Thank you for carrying my bandbox,” she said, relieving him of this encumbrance. “Au revoir, monsieur.”

  He bowed. “A bientôt, mademoiselle,” he corrected her, smiling.

  He stood there watching until she had disappeared.

  During the ensuing week they met almost every day to stroll beside the sunlight-dappled waters of the Seine. They talked of the past — though not so very far back, a bare seven months ago — when Landier had first come quite by chance to Madeleine’s village. He had fallen into conversation there with the Curé Vernet, who had civilly invited the young man into his house for refreshment. Madeleine had brought them coffee and stayed to listen to their conversation. There were few people of education in that neighbourhood, and her uncle had welcomed the opportunity to talk with Landier. As for the young man himself, he had been captivated by the gentle, quiet-spoken girl who employed none of the usual feminine arts to make herself attractive to him, but had sat silently by, listening, an intent expression on her serene countenance.

  In response to the curé’s invitation to call again any time he was passing that way, he had returned only a few days later; and soon he was a frequent visitor.

  He spoke now of those comfortable hours which the three of them had passed together, recalling the lively discussions between the curé and himself.

  “We could not agree on everything, you may remember,” he said. “He held one view of what France ought to be, and I another. But he was always a generous opponent in our little arguments, bearing me no grudge for venturing to challenge his opinion.”

  It was evident that these reminiscences of her uncle brought Madeleine much solace in the sorrow which, until now, she had been forced to keep hidden. She encouraged Landier in them, and he was only too glad to indulge her so that he might the more easily avoid another, more compelling subject which he had resolved to postpone for a while. During those months when he had been visiting at the curé’s house, he had been in a fair way to falling in love with her. He was making up his mind to speak of his feelings to the curé when pressure of business unfortunately curtailed his visits for several weeks. During that time, the curé developed his terminal illness; and when Landier was at last free to return, it was to find that the curé was dead and buried and that Madeleine had left the village for good. No one would admit to knowing where she had gone, neither had she left any message for him.

  It seemed to him then that there was nothing else he could do but to try and forget her; but now that he had met her once again, he realised that his heart was irretrievably lost. There could be no forgetting.

  All this was in his mind as they strolled together in the spring sunshine beside the river, but he knew he must not risk speaking of it yet. She was as easily startled as some shy woodland creature, he told himself fondly, and he must approach her as softly. Moreover, as she was now without the protection of a guardian, he must behave towards her as circumspectly as the honour of a chivalrous man required. The time might come when he could speak of marriage, but that time was not yet. Even to have persuaded her to meet him in this way was perhaps not what he should have done, he acknowledged to himself ruefully; but how else, in their peculiar circumstances, could he possibly pursue the acquaintance?

  So far, their meetings had been safe from prying eyes, for none but humble folk intent on their own concerns were found beside the Seine at such an early hour of day. When Sunday came round, however, and Madeleine said she must forego their usual meeting in order to attend Mass, Landier’s impatience to see her overcame her more prudent objections, and she was persuaded to accept his escort back from church to her place of employment.

  This proved to be a mistake. They met no one who gave them a second glance until they reached the corner of the street in which Lady Northcote’s house stood, and where Madeleine had decreed they must part. As they lingered for a few moments to take leave of each other, a young lady and gentleman turned into the street, almost bumping into them.

  It was Corinna and Laurence Haydon.

  All four looked surprised, though in different degrees. Corinna at once recognised the French girl.

  “Why, it’s Madeleine, is it not?” she exclaimed impulsively. “I suppose you’ve been to church — and you, too, Monsieur Landier?”

  “Good morning, Miss Haydon,” replied Madeleine with a curtsey.

  Landier thereupon bowed and performed the necessary introduction between Laurence and Mademoiselle Fougeray with something less than his usual air of assurance. A few civilities as to the clement weather passed before Madeleine said quietly that she must be going, and took her leave.

  “And so must we,” said Corinna, while Landier stared after the slight grey figure. “We’re on our way to make a call on Lady Cheveley and her daughter. Do you care to join us, sir?”

  Landier declined somewhat hastily and they parted to go their separate ways.

  “Who was that female?” asked Laurence curiously. “Pretty little filly — don’t recall seeing her before. Landier seems to know her well, though — bit of a dark horse, our friend, what?”

  “Yes, he does,” agreed Corinna in a wondering tone. “It’s odd, because she’s Lady Northcote’s abigail. She mended my gown for me when we attended the ball there last week.”

  Laurence whistled. “An abigail, what! I tell you something, sister, I reckon he’s not just a dark horse, but a rank outsider! And to think he has the nerve to make up to you! Mind you, she don’t look like any abigail I ever saw. Would have said she was Quality.”

  “She certainly is a most superior young woman, and I tell you, Laurie, you’ve no right to be jumping to conclusions,” reprimanded Corinna. “I know their being together looks odd, but for all we know there may be some perfectly normal explanation.”

  “Ay, I dare say,” chuckled the irrepressible Laurence. “The usual explanation, I don’t doubt.”

  Corinna changed the subject quickly, for her own mind was not as easy as she would have liked her brother to believe. She had come to think almost as highly of Landier as the two Beresfords did, and it was something of a shock to discover him in what appeared to be an improper connection.

  As for Landier himself, the incident haunted him. He realised only too well what conclusions could be drawn from his association with Lady Northcote’s maid, and he longed to set matters right. More than that, he was now determined to make an attempt to do so. He would put his fate to the touch without further delay, win or lose all.

  On the following morning, therefore, he arrived at their rendezvous a full hour before he could expect Madeleine to be there, and spent the interval pacing up and down in perturbation of spirit.

  She came at last, her eyes troubled. “Mademoiselle,” he began impetuously, “our position is intolerable! I cannot any longer permit you to expose yourself to such misappreh
ensions as must have been in the minds of those friends of mine whom we most unfortunately encountered yesterday! That they should think—” he broke off, flushing like a boy. “You must believe me when I say that it will not do. Mademoiselle Madeleine,” he continued forcefully, “you must know how much I respect and admire you — I have loved you these many months past, and want you for my wife. I know that you think of me only as a friend, but could you not find a greater warmth for me in your heart? I would have waited to give you more time, but our present situation is intolerable, and I must speak now!”

  She had lowered her eyes, her cheeks suffused with blushes. She attempted to speak, but could not.

  He seized her hand and carried it to his lips. “Dearest Madeleine, you must answer me!” She withdrew the hand gently, raising her head again to look at him with eyes full of trouble.

  “Monsieur, I cannot,” she said after an effort. “I made a promise to my uncle before he died — a solemn promise which I cannot break — to go to my aunt in England and allow her to make a suitable marriage for me—”

  “But why is not my offer suitable? Why cannot we go together and seek this lady’s approval? I can’t see the difficulty, provided only that you can care enough for me to become my wife.”

  “That is because you don’t know my history. I see I must say what may cause you pain, but there is nothing else to be done. During those last hours, my uncle spoke of you. He said that though he considered you to be upright and honourable, I must not think of you as — as a husband. He guessed, you see, that such was in your thoughts.”

  “Well he might! But why, since you say he approved of my character? He knew, too, that I was a man of some substance and could offer you a comfortable establishment. What other objection could there be?”

  “He said I must marry one of my own rank. You see, I am the daughter of an aristocrat — my father was the Vicomte de Fougeray. He and my mother—”

  Her voice faltered.

  “The guillotine?” he asked gently.

  She nodded. “Ten years since, when I was only seven. My father’s brother, too — it is his wife who is now in Brighton. There is also a son, three years older than I. My aunt and cousin managed to escape to England in time. As for me, I was smuggled out of our château by a faithful servant, who took me to the curé of his native village. It was thought wise that I should pass as the Curé Vernet’s niece, so from that time he became my uncle — and thus I have thought of him from childhood, thus I shall always think of him! He has been all the family I had—”

  She broke off, sobbing quietly. He moved towards her as if to take her in his arms, but checked himself, his face set.

  “And you? You consider that this difference in rank matters? You consider me beneath you?”

  She stretched out a hand towards him, looking up into his stern face with tear-dimmed eyes.

  “Ah, no! I don’t know what to think, except that I must keep a promise made to a dying man whose every thought was for my welfare! Please understand — you must try to understand!”

  He made no reply for a moment, watching her grief with an unaccustomed hard look in his eyes.

  “Then there is nothing left but for us to part,” he said, at last, in clipped, unnatural tones. “I wish you well. Adieu, Mademoiselle de Fougeray. I am your very humble servant.”

  He bowed in exaggerated courtesy, then turned on his heel and left her standing there.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  No one was particularly surprised when Patrice Landier announced on the following day that he must end his vacation and return to Rouen. It had always been understood that he could remain only a short time in Paris.

  Before he took leave of his friends, Landier found an opportunity for a few private words with Corinna.

  “I think you and I, mademoiselle, have been good friends during my stay in Paris, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Indeed we have,” agreed Corinna warmly. “You will be a sad loss to our whole party, monsieur.”

  “Thank you. But because of our friendship, I would not like to leave you under the shadow of a misunderstanding. Pardon me” — as she looked puzzled, not immediately seeing what his meaning was — “I refer to Sunday, when you met Mademoiselle Fougeray in my company. You may have supposed — could scarcely have been blamed for supposing—”

  A slight blush coloured her cheeks. “Indeed, sir, you have no need of explaining anything to me. It is not my affair.”

  “Ah, but I must, with your permission, for the sake of Mademoiselle Fougeray’s reputation. You see, I was a friend of the curé, her uncle, and in the past often visited at their home in a village close to Rouen. Until recently I was not aware that her uncle had died and she had been forced, through lack of means, to seek employment in Paris. The situation was difficult — I could not call on her in the ordinary way, so I was foolish enough to persuade her to meet me clandestinely. My conduct was misguided, my only excuse that I wished to make her my wife.”

  Corinna opened her eyes wide at this, but could find nothing to say.

  “I fear I’ve shocked you, but what was to be done? I believe I need not tell you that our meetings were always as circumspect as that of Sunday — we met and walked together in public places.”

  “I assure you, monsieur, I was not shocked — only surprised,” said Corinna, finding her voice. “That poor girl! She has been most unfortunate. But now I suppose all is well, and I can wish you happy?”

  He shook his head dolefully. “No, I was not successful in my application, for reasons with which I need not trouble you. I leave Paris a disappointed man, mademoiselle, but I trust at least I haven’t forfeited the good opinion of my friends.”

  “You haven’t forfeited mine, I assure you, monsieur,” she replied warmly. “As for the others, except only Laurence, they knew nothing of the incident, for Laurence and I haven’t spoken of it. But I am so sorry for your disappointment — it is a melancholy thing indeed to be crossed in love! I can only hope that time will ameliorate your distress, as everyone says it must.”

  She said this with a softened expression, impulsively putting out her hand to him. He took it and carried it to his lips.

  At this inopportune moment, Sir Richard walked in upon them.

  He started to retreat at once; but Landier leapt up, protesting that he must go, as the carriage would be at the door. After he had left, Corinna sat pensively turning over in her mind what he had told her. Inevitably, it led to a consideration of her own disappointment in love. She had not seen Fabian Grenville at all since the evening of Lady Northcote’s ball, and time had a little softened her feelings of outrage on that occasion. She wondered if she would see him again and whether on the next occasion she would learn that he was actually betrothed to that vulgar female, Mrs Peters.

  “You appear in some danger of falling into melancholy,” remarked Sir Richard in a rallying tone.

  She started from her reverie. “Do I? Well, it is a little sad to part from such a lively member of our party, after all, don’t you agree?”

  “Of course, but I trust we can still contrive to amuse you. What do you say if we stroll over to Frascati’s and try one of their famed ices?”

  She jumped up at once. “Oh, yes, by all means let us be doing something.”

  During their walk he exerted himself to entertain her and succeeded so well that by the time they reached Frascati’s restaurant she was in her usual sunny mood. They seated themselves at one of the tables in a room decorated in the classical manner with pillars and friezes of plasterwork. Corinna looked curiously about her at the assembled company, very mixed as in most public places in Paris. They nodded to some English acquaintances nearby, but otherwise saw no one whom they knew until a loud laugh drew their attention to a group at one table against the wall.

  Corinna glanced in that direction, then stiffened. The laugh had come from a female in a showy purple silk bonnet adorned with three large curled feathers; one look was enough to identify her as
Mrs Peters. She was accompanied by a middle-aged couple whom Corinna thought she recognised as having been with Mrs Peters at Lady Northcote’s ball, and also by Mr Grenville. He looked as elegantly turned out as usual, and so much above his company that the effect might have been ludicrous, had Corinna felt in the least like laughing.

  She turned her head away quickly, but not before Grenville had intercepted her glance, and given a brief bow. Sir Richard, who was still watching, saw him hesitate, rise, and say something to his companions, then start to move towards the table at which Sir Richard and Corinna were sitting.

  “Deuced warm in here,” said Sir Richard, getting up from his chair. “I see you’ve finished your ice. Shall we go?”

  Nothing loath, she, too, rose. He tossed some money onto the table and, taking her shawl from the back of the chair, draped it about her shoulders. As he was performing this office, Grenville arrived before them. He bowed again, more deeply this time, a delighted smile on his handsome face.

  “Why, Miss Haydon, what an unexpected pleasure to see you in Paris. It’s an age since we last met. ’Servant, Beresford.”

  “Surely not, sir?” retorted Corinna, making a gallant effort to remain mistress of the situation, in spite of a fluttering pulse. “You saw me, I think, about a fortnight since, at Lady Northcote’s ball. But I dare say you’ve forgotten — one meets so many people here — I had almost forgotten it, myself.”

  Sir Richard contented himself with returning Grenville’s bow and murmuring “How d’ you do?”

  “Forgotten? Oh, no, indeed not — how could you suppose so? But at that time you were on the point of leaving with your party, so it seemed scarce opportune to hinder you.”