Monsieur le Vent now asked where they intended to stay in Calais and also in Paris. He wants to meet me again, she told herself, exulting. I have attracted a man. They were so engrossed that she didn’t notice the approach of Matthew their serving-man till he called “Mistress Deborah” over the bodies of passengers blocking his way.
“What is it, Matt?” His sun-bronzed face showed no signs of seasickness.
“Captain says he’s seen you standing all this way and begs you will come into his cabin and drink a glass of wine with him.”
“Oh, that is most kind of him but I prefer the air out here” – she looked at le Vent – “and the company.”
Le Vent shook his head. “No, pray go. The wine will sustain you.”
Deborah realised her legs were aching and her throat dry. “Very well but I’ll see you again, Monsieur le Vent,” she said, and left him smiling. It is good to take every opportunity for something new, she thought, and I have never been in the cabin of a captain of a packet boat before.
Picking her way among the bodies she found that the motion of the ship had quietened somewhat. All the same she grabbed Matthew’s hand which he held out to her so that she would not slip on the deck. Outside the cabin door Maria was waiting with a clothes brush.
“It’s dried on you, Mistress Deborah, and will brush off. Matt came for me. It’s not so bad now, the swaying up and down. There, you’re fit to be seen. But poor Mistress below! I don’t know how I can make her presentable till we can get where she can change all her clothes.”
The captain appeared at his door now, a weather-beaten man of middle years, with very tight white breeches and blue coat. He had been smoking a pipe and though he tapped it out on her entrance the smell lingered. He was not a cultivated man like Edouard le Vent but he sat her down on a hard chair screwed to the floor and she was glad of the rest. He perched on the edge of his bunk while his servant poured out two glasses of wine. Deborah feared they were not very clean glasses and took out her kerchief to wipe her lips and then, she hoped surreptitiously, the rim of the glass.
“Your good health, Ma’am.”
“And yours, sir.”
“I can’t abide to see a lady standing.”
“The benches were crowded and had become as soiled as the deck.”
“Ay, but how am I to set a sailor to the hosing down with the passengers all about?”
“I understand your dilemma, sir. Your ship was perfectly clean when we came aboard.”
He nodded. “’Tis always the way. They cannot abide even a calm sea some of ‘em. And it takes twenty-four hours or more to quieten after a storm. The English Channel is never a mill-pond. There’s always waves.”
Deborah sipped her wine slowly and he seemed content to drink his and say no more till he finished it and set down the glass, fitting it into a hole in the table. He rose to his feet.
“Tide’ll be low at Calais. We’ll heave to outside the harbour.”
“Oh, does that mean we’ll have a long wait?”
“Nay, they send boats. We’ll have you all off. The more of you as gets in a boat the less the fee for each passenger but my advice is not to be parted from your baggage. If you see it lowered into a boat get in after it or you may never see it again.”
“Certainly we will keep it by us. But what is the fee we must pay? I thought our fare took us from Dover to Calais without more expense.”
“Ah dear Madam, we get you as near Calais as we can. After that it is the French watermen who have to earn a living. If they’re greedy they may charge two guineas a boatload but it should be less.”
“Two guineas!”
Deborah had risen when he did, thinking she must leave him to his duties.
“Nay, sit you down. I’ll about my business and you’ll be called when we are ready. I can’t abide to see a lady standing.”
Deborah did as she was told but she was determined not to be shut in the cabin and after the Captain left she opened the door a little and stood by it peeping out. There was plenty of bustle now, but between the comings and goings of sailors and reviving passengers she could see the French shore and mean little houses scattered beyond it. Their ship was still moving but shouted commands were followed by the hauling in of sails and the clang of the anchor going down.
She noticed rowing boats putting out from the shore. These must be the watermen coming to meet the ship. We need to assemble our party together, she decided, and see that Matt has our baggage ready. I trust we can be in the same boat as Monsieur le Vent.
She was about to step out when she heard the captain’s voice, speaking low to someone round the other side of the cabin. “Well, Edouard, was all that talk with the lady to some purpose?”
Then she heard le Vent’s reply. “It might lead somewhere, Mon Capitaine, one can always hope.”
He isattracted to me, she thought. Holding herself very still with the door a mere crack open she was inwardly skipping like a child.
Then the captain said, with a hoarse laugh, “For the future Madame le Vent?”
And the answer came, also with a laugh. “God forbid. If I ever wed it would not be to a post. Something more curvaceous and not nearly so clever. A man must dominate, n’est ce pas?” They moved away still chuckling.
Deborah clenched her fists against her lips and a quiver of pure fury shook her whole body. Men! Never again will I go to meet one halfway! The fury exploded at herself. Fool, imbecile ever to imagine – but what did he mean, “One can always hope”? What could he possibly mean? Does he think I am wealthy, that he can travel with us and we will pay? I will certainly notget in the same boat with him.
Now she slipped out and mingled with the crowds gathering on deck and with much relief spotted John and Jeanetta emerging from below. She made her way to their side, all solicitous for her sister-in-law who was moving with great caution like an old lady unsure of her footing.
John said, “Well, Deb, you had the best of it. I stayed down there for Netta’s sake but I have never felt so ill in my life.”
Maria was following and Matt was waving from a corner of the deck where their luggage had been assembled. The air was full of shouts as the boats drew alongside. The watermen yelled their prices while the seamen encouraged reluctant passengers down the sides and ladies squealed at what they were expected to do.
Deborah strode forward and seeing a boat with a hulking boatman the size of Ranald Gordon she called to him in French that they would travel with him. He was ready with his arms to lift her down as she began to descend but she said, “I thank you, I can manage.”
Jeanetta was held by John’s arms till the boatman grabbed her and set her down, a soiled miserable bundle on the seat next to Deborah.
“I shall be ashamed to set foot on my native soil like this,” she moaned.
“We will have a night in the hotel and you will be as fresh and pretty as a picture in the morning.”
John, Maria, Matthew and their luggage were now safely stowed.
As they were rowed away Monsieur le Vent put his head over the side and called, “God speed you on your travels, Mistress Horden.” She gave the merest flip of the hand in acknowledgment.
John looked at her in surprise. “Who was that that knew your name?”
“Oh some forward Frenchman that engaged me in talk on the crossing.”
John grinned and shrugged. He doesn’t believe I could attract a man, she thought, and he is right.
So what was le Vent’s purpose, she asked herself, and a cold fear suddenly gripped her stomach. I learnt nothing about him. I prattled about our home, our family and our destination in France. The captain knew him. He makes the crossing frequently. What if he is a government agent looking for conspirators? He can now investigate John Wilson Horden and find that he fought against government forces at Killiecrankie when he was a mere lad. He may even learn that one Ranald Gordon, a notorious rebel, brought John home to Horden Hall and there captured the heart of John’s tall siste
r Deborah, the mad girl who heard he was in prison and rode to Edinburgh to plead for his life. Will the Hordens now be tainted with the name of Jacobites – even Father who fought in the Dutch wars for Charles the Second but dutifully accepted the end of the Stuarts when the Prince of Orange superseded them? What have I done?
The boat came alongside a low wooden jetty raised a foot or two above the shore. As Deborah stepped onto its planks she knew she should be exulting in her first moment on a foreign land. Instead she was bewailing her innocence of the big world and wanting the comfort and security of Horden Hall. She was cold, wet, and her clothes stank, but much worse was the fear that she had unwittingly stirred a pot of danger for herself and her family. Grasping Jeanetta’s hand and helping her over the slimy timbers she was overwhelmed with shame that she had babbled for so long and so foolishly to that man with the sinister black eyes and flamboyant moustache.
CHAPTER FOUR
A change of clothes and a night’s sleep transformed them all. Monsieur le Vent did not call at the Hotel Angleterre which boasted ‘the best reputation for cleanliness in all Calais.’ I will not let the villain trouble me, Deborah told herself, as they sat down at an early hour to what the patroncalled an English breakfast. He can be my warning light not to seek men’s company. That’s all. This is my first day in France. Oh to see Paris soon!
She voiced this thought aloud and Jeanetta immediately squealed, “No, we must set out at once for Château Rombeau. Mother and my brothers will be so eager to see us. Maman would have sent their carriage for us if she could have been sure when we would land. John has sent word ahead that we will be there this afternoon.”
John, Deborah noticed, had been looking on his wife with fond, admiring eyes. She was a picture indeed this morning with her high colour, jet-black hair and all too-perfect features. Deborah took pleasure herself in watching her rapid changes of expression, the brilliance of her eyes and the lively gestures of her delicate hands.
“Yes, Deb,” John said grandly, “I’ve hired a carriage from the inn.”
“Should we not take the diligence?” Deborah said. “I read that it is much the cheapest way of travel.”
Jeanetta flapped her hands in horror. “You saw one yesterday, a great clumsy vehicle. They crush in thirty people with their luggage and bounce you horribly. If you and John wish to travel like that when I am safe at Rombeau I am sure I shan’t mind. But today I shall go home in comfort.”
She put her hand on Deborah’s wrist so that the contrast in sizes was all too obvious. “Dear Deb, we can take the Rombeau carriage to Paris any time when you are with us.” She removed her hand to make one of her flourishes. “Of course I know Paris so well. And Versailles! Papa is much at court and Maman is forever dragging us there to see the fashions but did you know the King lays down rules for his visitors, unless he goes hunting and then everything bows to that. But you will love Rombeau in the spring. The gardens are so pretty. You are to have your own room overlooking them in our wing of the château. My uncle the Vicomte de Neury and Aunt Madeline with their daughter Sophia and her family are in the other wing. Her husband was killed in the Dutch wars and she has only her two girls. My parents and brothers occupy the central rooms. The place is much bigger than Horden of course.”
Deborah smiled sweetly. The Rombeau family can patronise me all they want, she was thinking. They can’t stop me enjoying the beauty of their gardens and my own room where I can read and write up a copious diary. I shall save money under their roof so I can tolerate today’s extravagance.
So they travelled as conveniently as was possible on bad roads little recovered from the ravages of winter. Deborah was fascinated to compare the countryside with Northumberland. There seemed to be nothing as charming as the stone-built cottages about a green and a church as in Nether Horden. What intrigued her were a number of wayside shrines where the statue of the Virgin Mary was crudely painted, and black-shawled women were huddled on their knees before her. The fields were showing a greening from rising crops but the few scattered hovels of the peasants suggested a poverty-stricken land. She remembered that France had suffered famine in the last decade and she began to wonder if the Rombeau and Neury families had to share the Château for financial reasons.
Deborah considered the family members she would meet and was pleased to realise there were no unattached men she would have to avoid. Jeanetta’s brothers were no more than boys. She was a little sad that she would not be seeing again Great-aunt Henrietta, Grandmother Bel’s formidable elder sister. She had died since John’s and Jeanetta’s wedding which she had been so eager to promote. But her daughter, Diana, Jeanetta’s mother, Deborah was curious to meet again. She had married a Rombeau second cousin who had inherited the title and land but Grandmother Bel had told her all about the brief attraction between this Diana and Deb’s own father. ‘She threw herself at your poor father with such vehemence that he was hard put to it not to catch and hold her, being the gentleman he was even at fifteen years old.’
Perhaps Father and I have the same inability to judge character, she thought. Yet I am over thirty and should know better by now. Well, I will dismiss le Vent from my thoughts and reserve my opinion of these Rombeaus. When I saw them thirteen years ago I was still recovering from Ranald and could scarce trouble myself to make their acquaintance.
She knew that the Château Rombeau was on the edge of hilly ground facing east over farmland and John had described to her its fantastic ornamentation with little pointed turrets and heraldic animals so she was not surprised when the carriage turned into gates decorated with wrought ironwork displaying flowers, birds and the crest of the Rombeau family, a snake entwined around an olive tree.
Jeanetta was bouncing up and down with excitement. “Look, look, Deb. See the gardens and they have made the fountains play for us. And there, look, the Château. Is it not beautiful?”
Deborah peered from the window. In her eyes it was grotesque. She thought of the simple front of Horden Hall, its twisted Tudor chimneys its only ornamentation apart from crude Sir Ralph of whom she had grown quite fond over the years.
“Why, Jeanetta,” she said, “it is indeed very splendid.”
As they drew closer she put her hand over her mouth to repress a laugh for the family members were assembled on the steps to greet them, all small and stiff like a puppet show waiting to have their strings pulled. The cocked hats of the men perched on their full-bottomed wigs and the fontangeof the women, including even the young girls, exaggerated the heads and they were all the colours of the rainbow, the males in velvet suits with a million buttons and the females in silks and satins. The moment of string-pulling came as the carriage drew up and the tableau on the steps came to life.
John handed out Jeanetta. The first to embrace her was a plump, middle-aged Jeanetta who must be her mother, Diana. She had the same beautifully arched brows that always showed an air of surprise. Deborah was very glad her father had escaped the clutches of this harpy. Her cheeks were fiercely red and her neck and bosom impossibly white. Her voice was shrill like Jeanetta’s and her manner extravagant.
As the brothers and father stepped up to greet Jeanetta, Diana was free to notice Deborah.
“Oh my, how you’ve grown!” she exclaimed.
Deborah smiled down at her. “On the contrary I was this tall at age eighteen.”
Diana was not put out. “Ah well, I remember you and your grandmother would walk everywhere in London and we were raised up in the carriage. So, fancy this being your first visit to France.” She turned to John. “And how is my sweet son-in-law? I congratulate you on how well my dear Jeanetta is looking. You made a safe and easy crossing then?”
Deborah chuckled at John’s embarrassment at being kissed on both cheeks.
He mumbled, “It was not so good but we are all recovered today.”
Deborah found herself being presented then to all the family in turn and was surprised to see that Madeline, the Vicomtesse de Neury, Diana’s sis
ter looked like an old lady and her husband the Vicomte a bent old man leaning on a stick. They are only in their late fifties at most, she thought.
Their daughter Sophia gave her the kindliest and most natural greeting of all. This is the lady who lost her husband in the wars, Deborah remembered. She doesn’t know that I am also widowed in a sense and regret that I will never ever have a family. These are her two girls, Louisa and Francesca. They are sixteen and fifteen I believe and were the bridesmaids I would have been numbered with at John’s wedding eight years ago. How absurd I would have looked!
The most imposing character was Jeanetta’s father, Comte Rombeau. Though he too was short he made up for it in breadth and girth. He wore a crimson coat over an embroidered waistcoat which hung to his knees, hiding his breeches. His white-stockings clung tightly about his very round calves. Deborah gave him a low curtsey so she could meet his eyes which protruded eagerly above his plump cheeks.
“Mistress Horden, you are welcome to Rombeau.” He said this in English but hurried on in French, “Sadly our countries are at war but relationship overrides such things. I admire your general Marlborough but we too have a great general, the Duc de Villeroi, and now that the armies are all emerging from winter quarters we may take our revenge for Blenheim but you are not to fear. You are under our protection and safe within the walls of Rombeau.”
He released her hand which he had kissed and flung his arms wide to embrace his great estate. “When you are rested you must allow me to escort you about the place.”
“I shall be charmed, sir.” Deborah made a point of answering him in French. Some of the family had tried out their English on her with varying degrees of accuracy so she was happy to show off her French.
They went inside and Deborah studied the elaborate furnishings of the salon as they called the first room for entertaining. Wine was served and formal speeches passed for conversation till they were shown to their rooms to be made presentable for dinner which had been held back for their arrival.
Prue Phillipson - Hordens of Horden Hall Page 3
