“A Brahmin?”
“In India there are four classes of Hindus. The highest is the Brahmin or priestly class.”
“How interesting, Mister Seymour, but you were saying?”
“My tutor, Gopal Krishna das, who taught me Sanskrit and Bengali, told me his people believe we are born many times. He also said that sometimes those connected to each other in past lives reconnect in their present one. Do you think it is true of us?”
“No. I mean, that is I’ve never considered the subject.” Flustered, Juliana regarded him with troubled eyes, doubtless because the idea of birth and rebirth seemed scandalously alien.
“No need to look so worried, Mistress Kemp. I do not entirely believe in my tutor’s philosophy. However, I admit that when I first saw you, it seemed I already knew you. It is why I just called you ‘dear soul.’”
No sooner did Gervaise speak than he wondered why he spoke so frankly. It was as though he had allowed her to read a page of his locked diary written in code. He smiled wryly. The only explanation was an almost irresistible desire for her to know him better. He must remain on guard for fear of being propelled forward by a tide of desire, despite all his good resolutions never to take advantage of her.
“It seems India is an interesting country.”
He smiled with appreciation of her unwittingly tolerant attitude toward an alien philosophy. “You are right, Juliana. India is not only strange, it is also beautiful and captivating.”
“I did not give you permission to make free with my name, sir.”
“Dear soul, please give me your consent to call you Juliana? I dislike the formality of calling you Mistress Kemp.” Unexpectedly bashful in spite of his experience with the frailer sex, he smiled. “Pyari, you are an unparalleled ruby.” I am sure you know what it says in the Bible. ‘Who can find a virtuous woman, for her price is far beyond rubies?’”
“Flatterer, I vow you broke many hearts in India.”
Gervaise cleared his throat. He looked away from Juliana, the memory of his jet black-haired wife—whom he had adored and lost so suddenly to a fever—strong in his mind.
Juliana chuckled. “Moreover, you do not know me well enough to compare me to a ruby.”
“I enjoyed little association with women in India. Respectable Hindu and Muslim ladies are guarded from men.” He told her the truth. Ladies were kept in seclusion, yet there were other women. Some European men maintained harems of dark-eyed beauties in quarters behind their official residences. As for his wife, she was a highborn Hindu whom he rescued from being forced into marriage to a man forty years her senior.
He still mourned his young wife’s death, but was not prepared to speak of her to Mistress Kemp. “In private, I shall call you Juliana. You may call me Gervaise,” he said to forestall another awkward question. He rapped on the door. The groom opened it. Gervaise helped Juliana out of the coach.
“Will you partake of a glass of wine, Mister Seymour?”
Careless of onlookers, Gervaise reached out. He raised her chin with the tip of his gloved finger. “Say my name.”
Colour flooded her cheeks. “You are bold.”
Juliana’s blush enchanted him. His heart lightened. In private, would she address him by his Christian name? The intimate prospect excited him. He proffered his arm. She rested the tips of her fingers on it while Sukey hurried to open the door of the lodgings.
“Come.” Juliana led him upstairs to her apartment.
* * * *
Juliana did not want Sukey to overhear her conversation with Mister Seymour, so she asked the girl to tidy the bedchamber, separated from the parlour by a small hall.
“Leave the doors open,” Juliana ordered the girl.
After Sukey went out of the room, Juliana handed Gervaise a glass of Madeira wine. “Please sit, Mister Seymour.”
Gervaise took his ease on a chair at one side of the fireplace. “I beg you, no more formality.”
Juliana perched on the sopha opposite him, a glass of wine in her hand. Whatever the cost, she must know the truth. “Are you married?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“You bought a rattle. I thought it might be for your child,” she said, limp with relief.
A shadow seemed to cross Mister Seymour’s face before he spoke. “I see. You are mistaken, Juliana.”
“Who is it for?”
“A gift for a child not yet born.”
Whose child? Why was he so evasive? Good manners prevented her from cross-questioning him. She looked down into her glass of wine. “You know so much about me, yet I know so little about you. Why did you go to India?”
“I harboured no wish to become a clergyman, the fate usually reserved for the fourth son in a large family. My father arranged for me to join The East India Company. To his surprise, I survived the land of virulent disease while death reaped two of my three elder brothers.”
“Your father must have been grief stricken.”
“More than likely Father railed against God for thwarting his plans.”
“Oh, I understand,” she murmured, although she did not comprehend why his father cared so little for his fine son. Having basked in the love of both her mother and father, she pitied him.
“Do not look so dismayed, Juliana.”
“I am sorry your brothers died.”
He shrugged. “No need to waste your sympathy. Before I went to India—at the age of sixteen—we were always at odds.”
She smiled at him sympathetically. “Your mother must have been heart-broken when you left.”
“No, she was too busy at court.”
“How long did you remain abroad, Mister Seymour?”
“For almost fourteen years. Do not look aghast, by and large I enjoyed them.”
She poured more wine for him. “To judge by your golden brown complexion, you returned to England recently.”
He nodded.
“I would not have thought you are so old. You look like a boy because you do not wear a wig.”
“You flatter me. I am eight and twenty years old.”
“Not a boy then, but tell me if there is a happy end to your tale, Mister Seymour?”
Gervaise regarded the flawless topaz set in his gold ring. “No.”
“Did you prosper in India?”
“Yes, by chance, I found a fortune.”
“How did you find it?”
“I came upon some poor souls lying on a riverbank, where their blood had seeped into the sand. I think my arrival with a small escort of sepoys disturbed their attackers, who slipped away into the jungle, and—”
“Sepoys?” Juliana leaned forward, her hands clasped together.
“Soldiers.”
“Oh. What did you do?”
He relaxed, surprised by how easy he found it to confide in her. “Doubtless the dead men were the victims of a robbery. I ordered the havildar—”
“Havildar?”
“The sergeant. Well, as I was saying, I ordered him to have the area searched. Unfortunately, he and his men found no clues to the murderers’ identities. From their clothes, we decided the dead men might have been merchants travelling with a small entourage.
“I cannot describe how sorry I felt for the deceased men’s relatives. In all probability, given the nature of the vast, sparsely populated land, it was unlikely they would ever know how their loved ones met their deaths, and equally unlikely that the murderers would be brought to justice.”
“You were saying,” Juliana prompted.
“Yes, anyway, while the bodies were burned according to Hindu custom, I rode along the shoreline seeking clues. I found none, however I did discover a man’s body sprawled on the bank next to his dead horse. A spear in his back had killed the unfortunate fellow.”
Juliana shuddered. “Did you not fear being attacked?”
He shook his head. “Yes, although I was well-armed, I could have been attacked from behind.”
She reached a hand out to him, and then
withdrew it hastily. “Thank God you lived to tell the tale.”
“Thank you.” Mister Seymour cleared his throat. “Anyway, I dismounted and rolled over the unfortunate man’s dead body, which was sprawled on top of a sandalwood chest. I forced the lock with my dagger and opened the lid.” Gervaise twirled the stem of his glass. “Do you know aught about India?”
“A little, but I would like to know more.”
“Men go to foreign climes with dreams of making a fortune. In the chest which I found, were riches beyond anything most men imagine. Riches which shone as brightly as the sun: rubies the size of pigeons’ eggs, large diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds besides ropes of gleaming pearls and gems set in gold.”
He sipped his wine. Of course, he had reported his find to The East India Company but had refused to hand it over. When he found the treasure trove, he was not engaged on official duty. He was a good shot, so a wealthy Indian landowner had requested him to use some of his leave to kill a man-eating tiger. After much argument with company officials, he eventually received permission to keep his booty.
Juliana frowned. “It seems strange that the chest was overlooked by the thieves.”
“You are right. I assume we disturbed the murderer before he had time to dismount and seize it.”
“So your tale has a happy ending. You returned to England a wealthy man. I daresay your family is pleased by your safe return?”
He put his wineglass down. “Tomorrow, I will try to find proof of your parents’ marriage.”
Juliana frowned but accepted his reluctance to discuss his family. “While you search for proof, I shall call on my aunt. The worst she can do is to refuse to speak to me.”
“I will accompany you.”
“You are kind yet—”
“What?”
Juliana looked down.
“You fear she will think the worse of you if I escort you?”
“Yes.”
“Her curiosity might prevail.”
Juliana laughed. “Maybe, yet it is likely she will refuse to see me.”
“Ah.” He twirled the stem of his empty glass. “I think we can overcome the difficulty.”
Chapter Seven
“Monsieur Seymour presents his compliments. He asks if you will receive him,” the Sarrazin’s butler said.
When Madame Sarrazin took a card from the silver salver Pierre proffered, she wondered why colour flooded his normally pale cheeks. Absent-minded, she scanned the card while silently questioning her husband’s decision to promote twenty-eight year old Pierre from lackey to butler.
“Monsieur Seymour, me, I know him not,” she muttered—suspicious because her social circle only included other French Protestants, followers of Calvin.
“Seymour,” Martin Sarrazin murmured. “His name has been mentioned to me. We will receive him, Pierre.”
Madame smoothed her dove grey, quilted petticoat, worn beneath a silver-embroidered skirt. The unknown gentleman would find nothing to criticise. She smiled with contentment while she eyed the mirrors, the blue and white delftware, oil paintings of her late father and mother-in-law, and carefully selected furniture made by skilled Huguenot cabinetmakers.
Her smile widened. Thanks be to le bon Dieu, the good God. When her father, Sieur de Hautville, fled France, he not only smuggled a substantial part of his vast fortune into England, he ensured she would marry a man of considerable wealth.
* * * *
Head held high, her hand resting lightly on Gervaise’s velvet-clad arm, Juliana swept into her aunt’s comfortable, elegantly furnished parlour, where she eyed the elderly couple who sat opposite each other, dressed in clothes of the sober hues most often favoured by French Protestants.
The petite lady, whom Juliana assumed to be her aunt, stood with surprising haste. “Marguerite!”
“No, I am your niece, not your sister.” Shocked by her aunt’s anguished exclamation, Juliana stepped forward with her hands outstretched.
“But…but you are the devil’s mirror image of my sister.” Madame Sarrazin recoiled, and then fainted.
Somehow or other, Pierre managed to catch his mistress before she fell to the floor.
Her arms still outstretched, Juliana stood aghast for a moment, before she crossed the parlour to stand next to Gervaise.
Pierre looked at his employer for guidance.
With his butler’s assistance, Monsieur Sarrazin laid his whey-faced wife on the sopha. “Fetch Anne-Marie.”
Pierre hurried toward the door while le monsieur returned to his wife’s side to rub her hands. “Pierre.” He did not look at his tall, broad-shouldered servant.
“Monsieur?”
“How dare you admit this woman to my house without asking us for permission? You are dismissed from my service. Be gone within the hour.”
“But Monsieur, please, not without a character. Also—my wages? I beg of you.”
“Pierre, leave my house. I never wish to lay eyes on you again.”
His face almost as pallid as her aunt’s, Pierre stumbled toward the door.
“Where is Anne-Marie? Why is she taking so long to come?” Le monsieur glared at Juliana as though he blamed her.
“A moment, Pierre.” Gervaise spoke in too low a tone for le monsieur to overhear him. “You lost your position because I persuaded you not to announce Mistress Kemp. Wait outside the house until we leave. I shall consider what can be done for you.”
“A million thanks, Monsieur Seymour.” He left the parlour a moment before a plump, elderly woman, neatly clad in steel-grey garments, bustled across the threshold.
Monsieur Sarrazin stood. “Anne-Marie, attend to your mistress.” He turned his head to look at Gervaise. “Monsieur Seymour, remove Mademoiselle from my house.”
“No.” Gervaise took his enamel snuffbox out of his pocket. He scrutinised it as though nothing in the world interested him more.
Monsieur’s wrinkled cheeks reddened. “I beg your pardon?”
Gervaise turned the snuffbox to the light, and then held it out to le monsieur. “A pretty piece made by one of your compatriots. Look at it carefully. The shepherdess is as charming as your niece.”
Juliana looked from her uncle to Gervaise, appreciative of his use of the snuff box to annoy her uncle. She opened her mouth to speak. Anne-Marie prevented her by seizing her wrist while le monsieur was preoccupied with his wife. Surprised, Juliana looked at the wrinkled face.
Anne-Marie’s faded blue eyes filled with tears. “Le bon Dieu has answered my prayers. I have lived to see my angel’s daughter,” she murmured to Juliana in French. “Give me your address, chere. I will visit you.”
Juliana whispered it to Anne-Marie a moment before her aunt’s eyes flickered open.
Madame Sarrazin scowled at Juliana. “You should not have come here.”
Anne-Marie hurried to her mistress and patted her hand. “I shall give you some brandy to soothe you.”
Le monsieur stood. “Anne-Marie, a pillow for your mistress’s head.”
“Rest, Madame. Do not perturb yourself, I shall rid you of our unwelcome guest.” His fiery eyes plumbed the depths of Juliana’s eyes. “Get up.”
Unnerved by his animosity, Juliana obeyed.
“Monsieur, we require answers to some questions,” Gervaise said with a hint of menace in his tone. “I suggest we go to another room in order to allow your wife to recover.” Sarazzin hesitated. Gervaise continued. “Or would you prefer Mistress Kemp to question you here and now?”
Gervaise offered Sarazzin his open snuff box. “Will you partake of some snuff?”
Le monsieur shook his head, obviously bewildered by Gervaise’s sangfroid.
“As you please.” He ignored Sarrazin’s scowl, applied a pinch of snuff to his nostril. “Ah.” He dabbed his nose with a monogrammed handkerchief.
Like a man bewitched, Monsieur Sarrazin watched Gervaise snap shut the enamelled lid. The spell broke. “Come with me.” Le monsieur led them into a small book room fu
rnished with four chairs, a desk, and shelves crammed with books. He sat down, but did not invite his guests to be seated.
Juliana scrutinised him. “Monsieur, what caused the estrangement between my mother and aunt?”
He glowered. “You, the daughter of a scheming turncoat and his faithless mother, dare to ask me?”
Turncoat, what could he mean? She swallowed. Could the letter addressed to Baron Kemp—which Gervaise delivered to her—have been intended for her father? In spite of the cheerful fire burning in the grate, she shivered.
“What do you mean, Monsieur?”
“Your father’s religion and politics changed more than once.”
She sank onto a chair. “Many men adapted to suit the prevailing wind.”
“Indeed they did, God curse them. However, I know of no other who converted from devilish Roman Catholicism to the Anglican Church before marrying a Huguenot heiress legally betrothed to another man,” Monsieur Sarrazin said, his nostrils pinched with disdain.
She rubbed her cold hands together. Her mind reeled. If the accusation was true, it must be why William accused her mother of being a whore. As Mr Yelland had confirmed, in the eyes of the church a betrothal was as binding as a marriage ceremony. Indeed, Juliana acknowledged, because it was sacrosanct, some couples indulged in the intimacy of marriage before wedding in church. She frowned, certain her uncle was not telling her the entire truth.
Juliana sought for a verbal raft to keep her afloat on a turbulent ocean of complexities. “I have reason to believe my grandfather left Riverside House to my mother and her heir by deed of settlement? Surely he would not have done so if my parents married illegally. He must have approved of the match?”
“For the great love he bore your mother, Marguerite—the image of her dead mother—your grandsire settled Riverside on her and her son. Or if she did not bear a son, her eldest daughter,” Monsieur explained.
Juliana shook her head as though she emerged from a nightmare. “You are sure?”
Far Beyond Rubies Page 8
