by M. C. Beaton
“I watched you coming out of the wedding,” said Charlie. “Face like a fiddle, beggin’ your parding, I’m sure. Looked as though you couldn’t stand the sight of him, that you did, and he noticed it, ‘e did. I knows him, see. Then you ups and orfs on your wedding morn, leaving money for him like he was a demy-rep.”
“And where is this wounded and cut-to-the-quick master of yours now, think you?” demanded Delphine.
“Probly as drunk as David’s sow, missus. I can see ‘im a-lyin’ on some boozing ken floor with his heart broke.”
“Fiddle!” snapped Delphine. She was beginning to feel guilty and, like most guilty people, she changed the feeling promptly into one of justified anger.
“It is not my fault,” she said and then bit her lip.
What had come over her that she should start apologizing to a shabby servant?
Charlie knew he had gone too far and immediately presented a picture of abject subservience, although he watched her face from under his stubby eyelashes.
“Where do you think he is?”
“Don’t know, my lady,” said Charlie, according her her title for the first time. “Ain’t that servant abaht?”
But Marie had obviously only been there for a short time before returning to her mistress. The living room was clean, and the fire made up.
Delphine shook her head.
“I can find out,” said Charlie after some thought. “T’ain’t hard to find out tings in this area.”
He darted off. Delphine sat down on a spindly chair and wondered what to do.
It was too late to secure a seat on the mail coach. She could always hire a carriage, but that would mean a journey through the night, facing the perils of highwaymen and footpads.
Her nagging conscience was telling her she hadn’t even given this odd marriage a chance. Someone was singing in French in the square outside, his song punctuated by giggles from a female audience. Delphine lit the candles to banish the darkness, which was gathering in the room.
Her eyes fell on a small shelf of French books. She took out a novel and settled down to read, willing herself to concentrate on the words.
An hour passed and still Charlie did not return.
Perhaps he had found out the whereabouts of his master, and both were sitting in some low coffee house or tavern toasting the comte’s escape from this marriage of convenience.
All at once, there came an excited hammering on the door. Delphine went to answer it.
“He’s gone to a breakfast in Richmond,” said Charlie cheerfully. “At a Mrs. Brandenbaugh. I have the direction. I’ve got a carriage outside and grooms an’ all, belongs to a Monsoor Duclos. It’ll take us there, quick as quick.”
“I do not wish to go where I am not wanted,” said Delphine stiffly.
“Oo says you wasn’t wanted, missus?” demanded Charlie in pained tones. “Seems to me like the guv thought he wasn’t wanted. Might as least go along and say hullo.”
Delphine thought hard, pride warring with guilt. Then her eye fell on a tray of cards on a table near the door, and she silently turned them over. The Marquis de Graux and Monsieur Renaud had called. So had many others of the French community.
“I’ve got me new livery,” pleaded Charlie. “I could change in the kitching. Don’t want to sport your blunt on a new livery, missus, and never let it see the light o’ day.”
“Oh, very well,” said Delphine crossly. “Wait for me. I must change.”
Alone in the bedroom, Delphine unfolded a gown from its tissue paper. She had made it during the winter in the faint hope that one day she might go to a ball. The dress was a beautiful specimen of silver embroidery on the sheerest mull, and it was to be worn over a slip of white satin. She had copied it from an illustration in La Belle Assemblée. Quickly she washed and changed and put it on. Over it she wore a pelisse of cambric, called a “fugitive coat,” trimmed with Vandyke edging and embroidery.
She brushed her hair until it shone and arranged it in a Grecian style, pinning two large white silk roses among her glossy curls.
Roman pearl drop earrings, a silver fan, and white linen gloves completed the ensemble.
When she entered the living room, Charlie was already strutting about in his new livery.
His coat was a tight little scarlet tunic like a jockey’s, decorated with three rows of steel buttons. He had buckskin smallclothes, top boots, and an old-fashioned three-cornered hat with a white cockade stuck in it. He told Delphine later that it had once belonged to a noble supporter of Bonnie Prince Charlie who had lost his head on the Tower block, and the executioner had popped the deceased’s hat at the pawn.
Under his hat, he wore a white wig which had been designed for a larger head than Charlie’s. His small, dirty face was shadowed by the enormous front curls, but Charlie seemed to think it his crowning glory.
Monsieur Duelos’s coach was a great state affair, encrusted with flaking gold paint. The seats inside were spilling their stuffing onto the floor, and Delphine had to sit on a blanket to protect herself from the prickly horsehair which stuck out of the rents in the upholstery.
Charlie was in seventh heaven. Sometimes little groups of people would set up a ragged cheer as the great coach dipped and swayed and rumbled past.
In the dim light from the dirty parish lamps, Monsieur Duelos’s coach did look rather like one of the royal carriages.
Delphine began to wonder what on earth her husband would do and say when he saw her.
The Comte Saint-Pierre was relieved to find that Madame de Manton was the only member of his compatriots at the breakfast. He did not wish to be asked about his marriage or to answer questions about his wife.
He had been a success, particularly with the ladies. To them, he was an unattached and handsome man. With his usual finesse, he had avoided the debutantes and settled on the company of his hostess, Mrs. Brandenbaugh, a merry widow of uncertain years. She had faded blue eyes and a pale aureole of golden hair, almost too gold. She had painted her face with the hand of an artist.
She had lost none of the coquetry of her youth, nor had she lost her excellent full-breasted figure whose charms were daringly revealed by the damped gold tissue of her gown.
His wounded pride appreciated each pressure of her hand and each roguish glance from her eyes. He had often, in the past, had the opportunity to become some wealthy lady’s cicisbeo and settle down to a lapdog life of comparative ease until his wrinkles put him out of favor. But he had valued his independence. He was proud of his name and his family. Unlike many of the other French émigrés, he had no dream of his lands being restored. He had been content to work hard and enjoy himself as much as possible. His skill in juggling and conjuring had been parlor games during his childhood to amuse his parents and their friends. In his years in London, they had often been his sole means of livelihood.
When Madame Beauchair had run up to him at the fair, gasping that she had seen the ghost of Félice de Fleuris, he had thought it one of her many fancies. So many of them had had their brains slightly addled by the horrors they had seen.
But when it had transpired that the pretty, vivacious young woman who had given him a guinea was none other than his betrothed, he had felt a quickening of the senses and the beginnings of hope.
Jules Saint-Pierre had had many affairs, most of them light and pleasant, but he had never been in love.
He was very much his parents’ son. Love did not enter into marriage. A suitable alliance was contracted between your own family and that of another, and you were honor-bound to abide by your parents’ wishes.
Had Delphine had no money, he would have wished to marry her just, the same. He had a craving to put down roots and form some sort of family; to have children to carry on his name. But the fact that she was very wealthy indeed did have added charms; that much he had to admit. To once again own lands and belong somewhere seemed like the fulfillment of a dream.
But he had not taken into account the character of the wo
man he was to marry.
She was, at times, rude, silent, gauche, willful, and, at others, charming beyond belief.
Not at all the complaisant female he had imagined.
Well, it was over now. That much she had shown by leaving him in such a cavalier fashion, by leaving money for him.
He wondered what she was doing.
And poor Charlie, who dreamed from morning till night of horses, nothing but horses, and who had stuck loyally to his penniless master. Would Charlie be content to return to the old ways?
There was dancing and food and music and cards, noise and laughter all about. Mrs. Brandenbaugh squeezed past him in the press, leaning against him deliberately so that he could feel the pressure of her full breasts against his back and smell the musk of her perfume.
He gave a little sigh and turned and put his hands at her waist and smiled down into her eyes.
“Why don’t you show me these famous gardens of yours?” he teased. “‘Tis suffocating in here.”
Mrs. Brandenbaugh gave a nervous giggle but led the way through long french windows and out onto a terrace overlooking the gardens.
Formal bushes and trees, grass, and flowers stretched out in the light from the house and disappeared into the blackness. For a moment, he forgot about Mrs. Brandenbaugh and willed himself back to his father’s château on the Loire, looking down at the sleepy curves of the river and the jumble of pointed roofs of the village, which huddled against the walls of the castle.
He could almost smell the thyme and rosemary from his mother’s herb garden. He half closed his eyes, seeing again the sunlight on the flat fields bordering the Loire while over in the distance rose the turrets and battlements of the de Fleuris château.
“Dreaming?” teased a light voice at his elbow.
He gave a little shrug and smiled lazily down at Mrs. Brandenbaugh. “Dreaming of you, ma’am,” he said. All he had to do was put an arm around her waist and draw her close and it would be understood that he could stay the night after the other guests had gone. All he had to do was finally admit to himself that his strange marriage had been a mistake.
She swayed towards him slightly, her lips parted and her eyes bright.
He bent his head very slowly towards her.
“What is it, James?”
The comte blinked. A footman was standing nervously, holding a card on a tray.
“A lady to see the Comte Saint-Pierre,” said the footman, staring into the middle distance and holding out the tray.
Mrs. Brandenbaugh snatched the card. “One of your admirers in full pursuit?” She peered at the card, holding it up to the light shining from the window.
Mrs. Brandenbaugh’s gaze flew from the card to the comte’s face. He twitched the card from her fingers and, taking out his quizzing glass, studied the inscription.
“Lady Charteris” had been scored out and printed neatly underneath was “The Comtesse Saint-Pierre.”
“Your sister?” queried his hostess faintly.
He had only to tell her he had no wife or sister. He had only to tell her he had never heard of the Comtesse Saint-Pierre and Delphine would be sent on her way.
But she had followed him all the way from London …
“My wife,” he said.
“Your wife? I was not aware you were married.” “I was married yesterday.”
“It is cold outside,” said Mrs. Brandenbaugh in a thin voice. Without looking at the comte again, she walked off down the terrace, her head held high.
The comte turned to the footman. “Lead the way.”
Delphine was sitting in an anteroom off the main hall, her reticule on her lap, back straight, knees together, looking straight ahead, a faint tinge of embarrassment coloring her cheeks.
The comte closed the door behind him and leaned his broad shoulders against it and studied his bride, noting the glittering, elaborate gown and the glossy curls.
“I am honored,” he said, walking forward and raising her hand to his lips.
She snatched her hand away and buried it in her lap.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “Why did you come?” “To see you,” she replied in an odd, rusty sort of voice.
“And now you have seen me …?”
“I don’t know,” she said miserably. “You went away without telling me where you were going.”
“As you did not? You said the day before that we—we, mark you—would go to your lawyers.”
“I decided to go alone.”
“Why?”
“I thought they would be shocked enough without actually meeting you.” “You are rude.”
“I mean, I thought you might start juggling things and producing rabbits from hats.”
“In short, you are ashamed of me.”
Delphine thought desperately, and then said in a small voice, “Yes.”
“Then there is no more to be said. You will find the money you left me untouched. May I suggest we tear up our marriage lines and forget about the whole unfortunate episode?”
“We gave our oaths before God …”
“To love and to cherish? I see little of that in your behavior.”
Delphine remained silent.
“So,” he said at last, “I will escort you to town and wave farewell to you on the morrow and then return to my reprehensible pursuits.”
“Very well,” snapped Delphine. She did not know what she had expected of him. A little gratitude perhaps? She could not really believe that he was throwing her fortune away. She cast a fleeting glance at his face. He was stifling a yawn.
“Are you always sleepy?” she demanded.
“Always,” he said amiably.
They made their good-byes to their hostess, who looked scornfully at Delphine and pleadingly at the comte.
Delphine caught the glance. It was brought home to her for the first time that the comte had not needed to marry her if he wished to marry money.
Outside, Charlie, a huge grin stretching from ear to ear, was holding open the carriage door, bowing so low he seemed likely to split his new buckskins.
“Dear me, Charlie,” said the comte, surveying his servant’s new finery. “In good coat, I see!”
He helped Delphine into the cumbersome coach and then settled himself beside her.
He pulled a dusty carriage rug over her legs and an antiquated bearskin over his own.
The coach rumbled forward.
The comte closed his eyes and went to sleep.
So that was that, thought Delphine as the coach rumbled down the tree-lined drive.
Tears pricked at the back of her lids, and she felt rejected and very much alone.
Somehow she had pictured him being delighted to see her, reassured, and glad that she had not left him after all.
She stole a look at him. He was very handsome. Many women must find him so. Women who wore scandalous gowns like Mrs. Brandenbaugh; scented, frivolous women, not timid country mice like herself.
She had never wondered about her own attractions. Sir George had adored her. But he had encouraged her to share his isolated life. Faintly from behind them came the strains of a waltz.
“I thought I might have a chance to dance,” thought Delphine miserably.
She took a handkerchief out of her reticule and blew her nose hard.
A rising wind rattled the branches of the trees on the right of the road and sent ripples scurrying across the surface of the river on her left.
Nothing lay before her now but a return to the old ways, to rustic stagnation with only the sound of Maria Bencastle’s carping to ruffle the still waters of her life, the way the wind was ruffling the water of the river.
The coach slowed as it started to ascend the crest of an old hump-backed bridge. How near the water looked!
The coach gave a lurch. The horses reared and neighed. The comte opened one eye and raised one sleepy eyebrow.
Out in the darkness of the Richmond night, a great voice cried, “Stand and deliver!”
Delphine let out a scream.
“Quiet!” said the comte. “They kill their victims on this road, as I recall.”
He opened the carriage door beside Delphine. She found herself looking at a low parapet with the river shining in the moonlight underneath. The River Thames looked swift and fast and deadly.
“Out!” whispered the comte. “Beside me. On the parapet.”
Delphine was too shocked to do anything other than obey him.
The carriage door on the far side was wrenched open, and a masked face peered in.
The comte, balanced on the parapet with his arm around Delphine’s waist, suddenly dived headlong into the river, taking her with him.
They plunged down into the icy water, down and down and down, until Delphine felt they could never manage to rise again. Then the comte began to pull her up towards the surface. She felt her lungs would burst. Just when it seemed the roaring, pounding, suffocating nightmare of the icy water would go on forever, her head broke above the surface of the water, and she took a gasping breath of air.
“Don’t thrash or struggle,” said her husband’s calm voice in her ear. “Let me hold you.”
Delphine shook the water from her eyes. One of the roses dropped from her wet hair and went spinning off down the river.
The moon had come out. The black bulk of the coach could just be seen, lumbering off in the distance, swinging around the turn in the road which would take it away from the river.
On the bridge stood two black, masked figures. There was a flash of light, and a bullet spat into the water near Delphine’s head.
“Down again,” said the comte cheerfully.
Delphine took in a huge breath of air just in time. The next second, he had doubled over and dived, still holding her firmly, dragging her back down into those terrifying, roaring depths of the river.
“This is it!” thought Delphine in a confused, panicky way. “This is death. How stupid!”
Her senses began to swim. She could not possibly hold her breath any longer. Then she began to feel herself being pulled back up.
