by M. C. Beaton
He had been a gentle, courteous man whose bravery in rescuing so many French aristocrats from the guillotine had largely gone unsung. The child, Delphine de Fleuris, had been his last rescue mission.
From being a calm and courteous guardian, he had become a calm and courteous husband, and although the intimacies of marriage had aroused no great searing passions in Delphine, she had loved her husband dearly, had mourned him sincerely, and had never once thought of the possibility of marrying again.
She was relatively content with her isolated life. The local county might shun her, but she was adored by her tenant farmers and estate workers. Sometimes she found the work almost too hard, particularly when she was called in to settle petty disputes. Sir George had always been able to handle tricky matters like that with great ease. She spent long days in the saddle and long evenings poring over books on the latest farm machinery and methods of rearing livestock.
But on her return from the fair, after Mrs. Bencastle and the servants had gone to bed, Delphine pushed open the french windows in the drawing room and went down the shallow, mossy steps into the garden.
It was a clear, cold night with stars burning in the heavens and a light breeze sending the first autumn leaves drifting onto the lawns.
A sundial glimmered whitely at the end of the walk, and the plop of a rising fish in the goldfish pond sounded startlingly loud in the night silence.
Delphine took a deep breath. The fair with its noise and color still seemed to dance before her eyes. With a little pang, she realized she had never been to a ball or a party. Sir George and Delphine had led a quiet, almost middle-aged sort of life. He had hired tutors for her. She had been taught to dance and to play the pianoforte and to paint tolerable watercolors. She had had an education Sir George considered suitable for a young lady. But she had had no stage in life on which to exhibit these talents.
Marsham Manor and the health of its lands and tenants had totally absorbed Sir George, and Delphine had made his interest her own.
It was a disloyal thought, but she could not help feeling for the first time that she had never been young.
The wind rustled through the ivy on the wall behind her, and she shivered in the cold air.
Tomorrow she would again be anesthetized by her daily labors: looking after cultivation and stock, attending market fairs, settling disputes, prescribing medicine from the stillroom for the infirm, and going into the neighboring town to attend a coal and clothing club where she kept the books and set down the savings of the poor.
She played a little with a dream where she would appoint a steward and go to London, attend all the plays and operas, and see the museums and the sights.
She had traveled to the fair in London without a thought, without thinking that she was taking a monumental step.
Delphine shivered again and made her way indoors, snuffing out the candles in the drawing room and climbing the stairs to bed. The pink rose seemed to shine in a small vase beside her bed. She had despised that performer, but perhaps he knew better how to live than she did.
There was no real reason to martyr herself to the cares of the land for three hundred sixty-five days. Other estate owners took three months away from the country to “do” the Season, returning refreshed to the cares of crops and harvests.
But to take such a step, to make such a decision, would mean, Delphine thought wryly, that she was looking for a husband.
And why on earth would she want to sacrifice her freedom and property to some man?
But, almost unbidden, came a guilty memory of her behavior on the night before her wedding. She remembered crying in a desolate way for the loss of that romantic dream love; for the loss of that young, strong lover she had secretly hoped she might find some day.
That memory had been savagely thrust far down in her mind. She had told herself she was the luckiest girl in the world to be marrying her gentle and good Sir George. She had been happy and content with him. She sincerely missed him. But there had been something about the fair. Something about the frivolous gaiety of it all.
Delphine gave an extremely Gallic shrug. She must be tired. These were silly dreams, bad memories, and immature longings. Tomorrow the routine would begin again. Tomorrow she would forget her youth and her French heritage.
The days came and went, and the countryside sank into its long winter sleep. Mrs. Bencastle, reassured now that no suitor had appeared on the horizon, had reverted to her normal grumbling after a brief spell of trying to be pleasant, and Delphine had reverted to her former tolerant behavior and paid her no heed.
Gradually the fair faded to a pale memory, as faded and withered as the rose now pressed between the pages of The Pig Breeders’ Almanac.
The winter was exceptionally severe, blinding blizzards followed by bone-hard frosts. Then, just when it seemed as if the whole of England had been moved to the North Pole, spring came sweeping across the countryside, sending the rivers tumbling and rushing through the brown earth of the fields. Day after sunny day brought out the new leaves, and the new corn covered the fields in a green mist.
The dripping hedgerows were alive with birdsong. Spring brought new life to the countryside and discontent into Delphine’s heart.
The pleasant rooms of Marsham Manor were flooded with pale yellow sunlight. Fires still had to be lit, but the sunlight bleached the flames to pale ghosts of their winter’s welcoming glare.
Delphine spent long days in the saddle but returned home in the evening still restless and—at last she had to admit it—bored to death.
Two of her tenant farmers, Mr. Yardley and Mr. Stone, paid her one of their frequent visits. They were always squabbling about boundary lines and refused to talk to each other, using Delphine as an interpreter. “Tell Yardley he’s encroaching on my land,” Farmer Stone would say, to which Farmer Yardley would reply, “My lady, tell Farmer Stone he is talking fustian.”
Normally, Delphine found these strange interchanges exhausting and irritating, but that day, she found herself actually welcoming the diversion.
She was busily engaged in passing insults from one farmer to the other in the cluttered estates’ office at the back of the house, when her butler, Bradley, came shuffling in. Like most of the servants, he was quite old and very set in his ways. Like all of the servants, he had transferred his crusty devotion for the late Sir George to his young widow.
“There are persons to see your ladyship,” he said, addressing a bust of Plato on top of the bookcase. “Foreign persons, my lady.”
“Her ladyship don’t have no truck with furreners,” said Farmer Yardley truculently.
“It’s not Farmer Yardley’s place to say who her ladyship should or should not see,” responded Farmer Stone smugly.
“Who are these persons, Bradley?” asked Delphine. “Did they not present cards?”
“They did, my lady,” said Bradley lugubriously, producing a small tray from behind his back on which reposed two visiting cards, each one with the corner neatly turned down to signify that the owner had called in person.
Delphine scanned the cards. One said “Le Marquis de Graux” and the other “M. Charles Renaud.”
“Oh, but I must see them, Bradley,” exclaimed Delphine, rising quickly. “Mr. Yardley and Mr. Stone will excuse me. Perhaps these are two of the gentlemen whose lives Sir George saved.”
“Very well, my lady,” Bradley said sourly as he left the office. He shared Mrs. Bencastle’s views.
The two farmers rose quickly. They had no desire to be left alone together without their “interpreter.”
When they had left, Delphine rang the bell. “Where have you put the gentlemen, Bradley?” she asked.
“In the hall, my lady.”
“Show them into the drawing room immediately, Bradley,” said Delphine severely. “You must not treat high-ranking French gentlemen like servants.”
Bradley went out, muttering under his breath. Everyone around here seems to grumble the whole time, thought
Delphine with sudden impatience.
Sometimes in the past when Delphine was still a child, a few French aristocrats had called to see Sir George. He had never allowed her to be present. Sir George had said it was better that Delphine should be reared entirely as an English miss. He had allowed her to be taught French, since that was part of any young lady’s education. But he really feared that the sight of her compatriots would remind Delphine of the terrors she had endured. Sir George had never talked to her of her parents’ death or of how he had come to rescue her.
When she was older, she had tried to tell him that not knowing was worse than any horror he could tell her, but he had only shaken his head and said in his gentle voice that he would tell her one day. But he had died, and she still did not know.
She herself could remember nothing. Her earliest memories were of Marsham Manor.
She walked into the drawing room and looked at the two gentlemen who had risen to meet her. They were very old. Their dress was shabby and antiquated. Both wore old blue coats, marseillaise waistcoats and knee breeches with clumsy buckled shoes.
They introduced themselves in strongly accented English. The Marquis de Graux was small and spry with a cloud of snow white hair tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon. Monsieur Renaud was small and fat and wheezed as he bowed. His eyes were pale blue and innocent like the eyes of a child.
“Delphine de Fleuris,” said the marquis. “I can hardly believe my eyes. You are the image of your mother.”
“You knew my mother?” asked Delphine, sitting down and motioning them to do the same.
“Yes, we were close friends of your family in the old days before the Terror,” said the marquis. “We thought you had died with your parents or we would have come to you sooner. Then someone saw you at a fair in Cavendish Square last September. It was held to benefit our people. This lady, a Madame Beauchair, who had known your mother, swore that she had seen you, that you must be alive.
“It took us many long months to trace you. Hélas! It appears we are too late. You are the Lady Charteris. You are married!”
“My husband is dead,” said Delphine, noticing with surprise the sudden relief on the two old faces opposite. “How did my parents die?” she asked quickly. “Sir George would never tell me.”
The marquis looked at her for a long moment, his small black eyes shrewd and assessing. “It is not a pretty story, milady. In brief, you know you are from Fleuris, in the Loire region?”
Delphine nodded. “That much I do know, Monsieur le Marquis, but nothing else.”
“Eh bien. Your parents tried to escape from the château before the mob reached them, but they were too late. They were driven back with pitchforks into the château. Your father was holding you in his arms. The doors of the château were barricaded, and the mob surrounded the building.
“They set it on fire.
“At one point, your mother appeared at the window. She begged the crowd to spare your life. They jeered at her.
“At another, a man was seen running over the roof. The crowd threw stones at him. He tied a rope to one of the gargoyles and swung over and crashed through an upstairs window.
“He was dismissed as a madman, some crazy servant who wished to die with his masters. We now believe it was Sir George Charteris.”
Delphine put her hands over her eyes. For one brief moment, she thought she felt the scorching heat and heard the dreadful, dreadful screaming that never seemed to stop.
“I am sorry,” said the marquis wearily. He seemed to have seen and lived through many horrors. “Perhaps I should have spared you. We of the French émigrés are become morbid. Often we talk of such terrible things over and over again until they have no real meaning for us anymore.”
“Nous sommes vieux,” said Monsieur Renaud with a deprecating smile.
“Yes, we are old,” agreed the marquis sadly. “But we did not come to tell you of such tristes affairs.” He produced a bundle of papers yellow with age.
“We are come to carry out your dear parents’ last wishes.”
“You have a letter? Something they wrote to me before they died?” said Delphine eagerly.
“No. Legal documents. Your parents’ lawyer escaped their fate and brought all his papers with him. He died in London and left them in the care of Madame Beauchair.”
“And what is the content of these papers, Monsieur le Marquis?”
The marquis crackled open the parchment. “In short …” he began.
The door of the drawing room opened, and Mrs. Bencastle marched in. As usual she was dressed from head to foot in black.
The Frenchmen rose at her entrance and were introduced by Delphine.
Mrs. Bencastle sniffed and sat down next to Delphine on a straw-colored sofa and glared at the visitors.
“These gentlemen have legal documents from my parents,” said Delphine. “Monsieur le Marquis was just about to tell me their import when you arrived.”
“How do you know they’re genuine?” muttered Mrs. Bencastle.
“Oh, Maria!” exclaimed Delphine impatiently. “I should explain first, milady,” said the marquis,
“that it was quite usual for couples to be betrothed in France—and still is—when they were very young.”
Delphine and Mrs. Bencastle sat very still, staring at him.
“En effet, what I am trying to say is that your parents betrothed you to the Comte Saint-Pierre exactly one year before they died. The Comte Saint-Pierre was some ten years older than you, milady, at the time. His father’s estates marched on those of your father. It was to be a mariage de convenance, vous voyez.”
“Speak English,” barked Mrs. Bencastle.
Delphine put out a restraining hand. “The Marquis de Graux is saying that it was to be a marriage of convenience, Maria. Go on, Monsieur le Marquis. We have such marriages in England as well. But usually when the couple is older, of course. And this poor Comte Saint-Pierre. I assume he died in the Terror as well?”
“On the contrary, milady,” said Monsieur Renaud. “He is living in London. He has learned of your existence, and he is waiting to marry you.”
Chapter 2
There was complete and absolute silence.
Then a log shifted in the grate, and an old clock gave a gentle whirring sound preparatory to striking the hour.
Mrs. Bencastle was the first to find her voice.
“Stuff,” she said roundly. “Lady Charteris is English and was married to my sainted brother, God rest his soul. I suppose this Comte Saint-Peer has no money?”
“No,” said Monsieur Renaud innocently. “Like very many of us, he has practically nothing.”
“Well, there you are!” burst out Mrs. Bencastle. “A trick if ever I heard one. Plaguey bunch of mountebanks barging into decent English homes and …”
“Maria! Leave us,” said Delphine quietly.
“That I shall not. Leave an innocent lamb like you to …”
“To see that my guests are treated with the courtesy they deserve,” said Delphine firmly. “I am perfectly well able to handle my own affairs, Maria. Go. And do not breathe a word of this to anyone.” “As if I would …”
“As you might in the way that you have gossiped before about my Frenchness and my unmaidenly behavior in running the estates myself. People talk behind your back as well, Maria. I am kept quite au fait with all your criticisms.”
Mrs. Bencastle opened her mouth, shut it again, and stumped from the room.
“Now …” Delphine turned to her visitors. “Please let me see the documents.”
They were silently handed over, and Delphine studied them carefully. At last, she put them down with a sigh.
“Yes, they are authentic,” she said. “I sense they are. But what can I do? I run these estates very profitably. If I marry, all will go to my husband. What if he should be a wastrel? I have not only my own life to consider but the lives of my servants and tenants. What does the Comte Saint-Pierre do for his livelihood?”
A slightly embarrassed glance was exchanged between the two old gentlemen, and then Monsieur Renaud said gently, “He teaches fencing and … and … quite a number of other things.
“He is of sterling character. Had he turned bad, we would not have approached you. We do not ask for money for ourselves. But think, milady, we feel honor bound to tell you of your parents’ wishes. Perhaps, of course, France is no longer your country. Perhaps you feel no loyalty to the pitiful remnants of the French aristocracy. But to us, these family arrangements are as binding as they were to your parents. Had they been alive, then you and the Comte Saint-Pierre would most certainly have been married.”
Delphine rose and walked over to the window and stood for a moment, looking out. So many things to assimilate at once. Her parents’ death—burned alive, dear God. And now marriage! It was unthinkable. Marsham Manor was all about her, its quiet, elegant rooms with the portraits of the Charteris family looking down at her solemnly with their painted eyes. The garden beyond, gilded with sunlight. How could she be so ungrateful?
Ungrateful, because all this comfort and order felt like a cage. Oh, that these gentlemen had never called. Oh, that she had never gone to that fair.
It was madness to even consider marriage to a man she had never met. And yet her parents had wished it. A vision of her mother holding her at the window of the château and pleading for her life, while the mob roared and the hungry flames licked at the building, assailed her. And this comte. Impoverished and far from his native land …
She came to a decision.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “I cannot possibly give you any reply at the moment. Please stay here as my guests for a few days. It will give me time to give you my answer.”
“You are very kind, my lady,” said Monsieur Renaud. “It would be pleasant to rest in the English countryside.”
Delphine rang the bell for Bradley and informed the butler to arrange rooms for the two guests. After they had gone, she sat down at a writing desk by one of the windows and studied the legal documents carefully.
