The Duchess

by Danielle Steel

  She let Angélique into her small, tidy home cautiously, and asked to wait for a few minutes. She was a serious-looking woman with gray hair, and she then offered Angélique a cup of tea, and showed her into the kitchen, where they sat down. Angélique was wearing a simple black dress, with her hair pulled back in a bun, and explained that she needed a position as a nanny, and that she had worked for the Fergusons in Hampshire for sixteen months, taking care of six children, although one was in boarding school since September.

  “Sole-charge nanny for six children?” She looked surprised.

  “Yes, with a nurserymaid to help me.” She told her the ages of the children, including twins, and the gray-haired woman was impressed.

  “How old are you?” She looked very young to her, too young to handle that many children. She had heard of the Fergusons and was surprised they didn’t have two nannies, since their homes were very grand.

  “I just turned twenty,” Angélique said with wide eyes, and the woman smiled.

  “You’re still very young. Where did you work before that?”

  “I didn’t. I lived with my father in Hertfordshire. I helped run his house.” She didn’t say how large it was, though Mrs. McCarthy could tell from the way she spoke, and her demeanor, that she was educated and well brought up. “My father died a year and a half ago, almost. My brother inherited everything, so I went to work.” She didn’t say that her brother had sold her into slavery to the Fergusons. It made no difference now, and she didn’t want to complain. She thought it would make a bad impression, and others had been in similar circumstances to hers.

  “The Fergusons gave you a reference, I assume,” she said, as Angélique gazed at her, and didn’t answer, and then shook her head.

  “No, they didn’t.” She told her exactly what had happened, and then sat back in her chair and sighed.

  “You have no idea how common that is. I hear these stories all the time. That’s why I try to help young girls find new jobs. It’s usually the husband who does something like it, not a guest. He sounds like a nasty piece of work,” she said sympathetically.

  “He was. I wasn’t going to tell them. But he lied about me. And they believed him.”

  “Men like that often do lie. He was probably afraid you’d tell them, so he told them his story to protect himself. Sad about the children, though. That’s a bad way to leave. I’m sure they were very upset.” Angélique nodded, trying not to think of Emma with tears running down her cheeks, and her own. The woman looked regretful as she met Angélique’s eyes. “I’m sure you’re a very good nanny. Any girl as young as you who can manage six children that age has a knack for it. And it sounds like you enjoyed it.”

  “I did,” she said with a small smile, although she hadn’t expected to at first.

  “The problem is that without a character, I can’t help you find a job. People will be afraid that you did something to the children, or dropped the baby, or got drunk, or stole, or slept with the husband. They assume the worst if you have no letter of recommendation, and you’ve had no other jobs. We could explain it as a mad employer, if you had earlier references. But I can’t even suggest you as a housemaid with no character at all. They’ll think you were stealing, or worse. I’m sorry, I’d like to assist you, but there’s no way I can.”

  “What should I do?” Angélique asked her, looking desperate. She had no idea where to go next, and she trusted this woman’s advice.

  “You can answer newspaper ads, but they’ll turn you away. Without a letter to recommend you, there are no jobs. No one wants to take that risk, which one can understand. Particularly where there are children involved.” She looked at her thoughtfully then. “Do you speak any languages? German? Italian? French? The Italians are a bit easier about references, but you have to speak the language. I knew a very nice family in Florence a few years ago. The wife was English, of course. But the children are too old now anyway.”

  “I speak French,” Angélique said quietly. “I’m half French. I speak it fluently. I taught the Ferguson children. The little girl speaks it very well.” Mrs. McCarthy was impressed again.

  “You are quite amazing for someone who’s never been a nanny before. They were very foolish to let you go, on the strength of that man’s story. They’ll regret it one day, maybe sooner than later. You might try France,” she said, thinking about it. “Most of them will want a character too, but they’re a bit less strict than we are. And they might give you a chance. You could offer to teach the children English. I know the name of one woman there who does what I do. We worked together years ago.” She wrote down her friend’s name on a piece of paper and handed it to Angélique. “I’m afraid that’s the best I can do. There will be nothing for you here. If their houseguest meant to get even with you for rejecting him, he certainly did.”

  “I think Mrs. Ferguson wanted me to go too,” Angélique said quietly.

  “Oh?” There was a sharply raised eyebrow across the table, as she wondered if Angélique had committed some unpardonable sin after all.

  “He said something about her wanting him. Maybe that was true. But he wanted me more, or that’s what he said.” Mrs. McCarthy nearly groaned at what she said.

  “My dear, you were doomed. If there was something going on between them, and he claimed you tried to seduce him, she was sure to get rid of you. I think he knew exactly what he was doing when he told the story. You’re the victim in all this, but it won’t change anything now. Without a letter of recommendation, no one will hire you as a nanny, or any other job. I think the only answer is for you to go to France, and try there. Or perhaps America, New York. But that’s a bit extreme. Try France first, since you speak French.” She stood up then, shook Angélique’s hand, and wished her luck, and Angélique left her house in a daze. She couldn’t get a job, and had to leave England. She had been to Paris with her father, but not in many years. And it would be very different, looking for a job in a foreign country. It was hard enough here, in a city she knew. But she realized that the woman was right. She had no other choice. And America sounded terrifying to her. At least France was close, and she could always come back.

  When she got back to the hotel, she asked about taking a boat across the channel, and they explained that she would have to take a boat from Dover to Calais, and hire a coach from there to Paris. They said they’d be happy to make the arrangements for her, and she asked them to. There was no point staying in London if she couldn’t find work, and she said she’d like to go the next day. And at least she could sleep in a clean room tonight, after spending the night in the filthy coach from Hampshire the night before.

  She walked past her father’s house in Grosvenor Square that afternoon, and half-expected to see Tristan or Elizabeth stepping out, but the house looked closed, and she wandered slowly back to the hotel, feeling low. She had no idea what she’d find in Paris, or what to do. What if she couldn’t find work there either? Without a character or a letter of some kind, no one would want her. Sir Bertram and the Fergusons had put her in a terrible position. All she could hope now was that someone would hire her as a nanny in Paris and give her a chance. And why should they? She could be a murderer for all they knew. She didn’t look like one, but that didn’t occur to her. She looked like a well-brought-up young woman visiting London, in one of her older, discreet dresses. But someone had to want to hire her, and she was afraid no one would.

  She spent the night at the hotel, and asked for a tray in her room. She wanted to be alone, and didn’t want to meet people in the dining room. She didn’t know what to say to them. Her story about being a widow sounded thin even to her. She slept badly that night, thinking about the people she had left at the Fergusons’, and the children, and worried about what she would find in Paris. She felt totally alone in the world. She sat looking at the small portrait of her father for a long time that night, and had never missed him more.

  She got up before dawn the next morning, and dressed in travel clothes. The hotel
had hired a coach for her, to take her to Dover, and the coachman put her bags on top after she paid the bill at the hotel, and what she owed the coachman for the trip. And they bumped along for eleven hours after they left London. It was a pleasant ride at first, but she was too worried to enjoy it. And she was tired after the long bumpy trip when they reached Dover in the late afternoon, and she paid for passage on the small paddle steamer to cross the channel. It was a short journey, but she knew it was often rough, and a strong wind had come up. She boarded the small boat as it pitched and rolled. She had reserved a small cabin and sat alone, waiting to reach the French shore. It was very choppy, but she wasn’t sick, and she went out on deck for a few minutes to take the air. She watched England shrinking behind them, as she thought about Paris. The hotel in London had given her the name of a small respectable hotel, which they said wasn’t too expensive, but was in a good neighborhood. And she was planning to go to visit Mrs. McCarthy’s friend the next day, to ask her if she knew of a job.

  After her long day’s journey and the brief boat trip, she was feeling refreshed when they got to Calais. The sea air had done her good. Her head was clear, and she booked a coach with two other passengers, both of them French, bound for Paris, and she had no problem speaking to anyone or paying her fare. Her French was as good as it always had been. They had checked her identity papers and found them in order, and a few minutes after they arrived, after just enough time for a cup of tea in a nearby restaurant, they left for Paris. Angélique had her small locked trunk on her lap and fell asleep on the bumpy drive. She slept most of the way, and woke up when they got to Paris in the early morning hours. She had to hire another carriage then, to take her to the hotel in the sixth arrondissement, bordering the seventh, on the Left Bank.

  She had been traveling for more than twenty-four hours by the time they got there, and she was pleasantly surprised by the pretty little hotel, the Hôtel des Saints Pères in Saint Germain des Prés. The lobby was well decorated, and her room was bright and sunny, and she had a lovely view from her windows, of a garden, a church, and a small park. She could see women pushing prams, or walking dogs. It was a beautiful city, and she was suddenly glad to be there, in a whole new place where she could start a new life, far from the Fergusons and her brother, and all the pain and disappointment of the past year and a half. She’d have to take a job in service again, but for now she was free.

  She left her bags and her locked trunk in the room, and then went out for a walk, and listened to people speaking French around her. She watched the carriages roll by, some very grand, and some very sporty looking, others making deliveries. It was a bustling city, and she walked past several small parks with statues in them, and lovely trees, before she finally headed back to the hotel. She went up to her room with a feeling of peace and hope for the next day when she would ask Mme. Bardaud if she knew of a job.

  She thought about going to the Louvre in the morning, or for a walk on the Faubourg Saint Honoré, past the handsome houses there, but decided she should go to meet Mme. Bardaud first, and then walk around Paris. It brought back memories of being with her father there. She had had some wonderful times with him, staying at the Hôtel Meurice on the rue Saint Honoré, and visiting friends. She felt some strange, inexplicable tie to the city, as if part of her knew she was half French, and was glad to be home. She wished she could have known her mother and her family before they all died. Their château had been rebuilt after the Revolution, and belonged to someone else now, although she didn’t know who. The monarchy had been restored fifteen years before, after Napoleon, and now Charles X was on the throne. He was a Bourbon, and she knew she was distantly related to him through her mother, but it did her no good now. What she needed was a job, and her noble ancestry wouldn’t help her get one, any more than it had in England, where she was related to King George IV, through her father.

  Related to kings in two countries, and daughter of a duke, banished by her brother, she was reduced to working as a domestic, and at the mercy of anyone who would hire her. The only thing that saved her from total ruin was the pouch in her locked trunk. Without that, she would literally be a penniless pauper in the streets. And she was well aware of it when she went to bed that night. She had dipped slightly into her father’s money to pay for the hotel in Paris, and the travel between the two cities. She had spent most of her wages on the hotels, the coaches, and the boat. Her father’s money allowed her to stay in respectable places where she felt safe, which was important to her, and the blessing he had bestowed on her with the money he gave her before he died. But she knew she had to find work soon.

  She couldn’t live on his money forever, and wanted to save as much as she could so that one day when she was older she could buy a home of her own and stop working at menial jobs. But it was too soon now. She didn’t know how to buy a house on her own, and the responsibility was too great for a girl her age. She needed to work now. And she wasn’t sure where she wanted to live, in England or France. She had no current ties to either one. She was drifting between her lost world and one she hadn’t found yet. It was like traveling through the sky, with nothing to tie her down. She had to land somewhere but had no idea where yet. All the bonds that had once held her securely had been cut, when her father died and Tristan set her adrift.

  She fell asleep that night, thinking about all of it, and woke late the next morning, trying to figure out where she was, in the unfamiliar room at the hotel. And then she remembered as she glanced out the window, and also recalled what she had to do that day. She was going to meet Mme. Bardaud to ask about work. And soon she would be in a life of service again. She wanted to enjoy her freedom while she could. And hopefully, it wouldn’t be for long.

  She dressed in another sober gown—she had brought very few frivolous ones with her when she left Belgrave. She had croissants and café au lait in the small dining room at her hotel, and asked the desk clerk for directions to the address she’d been given. She decided to walk there—it was a beautiful spring day, and she was happy as she walked along. She missed the Ferguson children, but she had to concentrate on her own life now.

  Mme. Bardaud lived in a narrow building in the second arrondissement on the Right Bank, on the third floor. She walked upstairs, knocked, and a grandmotherly-looking woman peeked out at her, and Angélique explained that Mrs. McCarthy had sent her. Mme. Bardaud had been a governess in London before she married. She invited Angélique to sit down.

  “What can I do to help you?” she asked kindly. Angélique explained to the woman in flawless French that she was looking for a job as a nanny, or a governess, and could teach the children English if the parents wished. And as the woman had in London, she asked about Angélique’s last job.

  She told her she had cared for six children, their ages, and what she had done, how long she’d been there, and that it had been her first job.

  “And the reason why you left?” she asked, and Angélique told her honestly what had happened, and that she had no reference to show for sixteen months of work, although she promised that she had done a good job.

  “I’m sure you did,” the woman said gently, “and these stories are not unusual. I believe you, my dear. But no employer will hire someone without a reference. They don’t know if you stole from your last employer, or did something far worse than refuse to be seduced by one of their guests. And there is no one to corroborate your story.” It was no different here than it had been in London. Mme. Bardaud told her that without a character, there was no way she would find work, except perhaps washing dishes somewhere, or scrubbing floors, but not in a decent home. And she knew of no one who would employ her.

  “What am I going to do?” she said out loud, putting a voice to her thoughts. She was fighting back tears and felt completely lost.

  “I can’t help you. You need some proof that you’re a responsible, honest person, and without a reference from your previous employer, they won’t hire you,” she said wisely. Angélique thanked her,
looking dazed, and left a few minutes later, and went back downstairs to the street. There was nothing she could do, nowhere to go. She thought of Mrs. McCarthy’s suggestion that she go to America, but what if they wanted a reference there? Then what would she do?

  She walked away slowly, and wandered all the way to the Jardin des Tuileries, after passing through the Place Louis XVI. Paris was so beautiful, but she had no friends and no protection there either. It was another city where she had nowhere to go. She was trying not to panic, but she was frightened of what would become of her now. She wondered what her father would say and advise her to do. And how could he even have imagined a situation like the one she was in?

  She sat on a park bench for a while, and thought about all of it, trying to formulate a plan, with no success, and then she walked back to the hotel, and went to her room. She took out a book and read for a while, trying to escape her worries. She wondered if the hotel would let her work for them as a maid, but she was too embarrassed to ask.

  She stayed in her room until after dark, and then walked through the streets of Paris again, and stopped for something to eat, but she felt awkward being in a restaurant alone. She had never done that before, and it made her uncomfortable. She saw men staring at her, and couples. She was a young, pretty girl on her own. Her lie about being a widow meant nothing to them. She didn’t belong out on the streets alone, and as soon as she finished eating, she walked back toward her hotel. She took a different route and went down a narrow street, and was suddenly confused about which way to go. She doubled back and found herself in another narrow street, and then knew she was lost. She was frightened and it was dark, and then she heard a moan, and jumped as she looked around. She wondered if it was a cat or a dog—it wasn’t a human sound. All she wanted to do was run. And as she started to hurry away, she saw a crumpled figure in the gutter, and heard the same moan again. She stopped to look, and thought it might be an injured child. She walked slowly toward the form on the pavement, and without thinking, bent down, and saw that it was a young girl with a gash on her forehead, and blood on her face. Her eyes were closed, and one of them was swollen shut. Angélique thought she was unconscious at first, and then the girl opened her eyes and stared into Angélique’s.