Lady of Fortune

by Mary Jo Putney

  Christa said regretfully, “It is better you not know where I am going. I promise I shall be safe, and perhaps sometime in the future I will be able to write to you. But for now …” She gave a Gallic shrug, then went to the wardrobe and took out several lengths of fabric. “I have a present for you, Annie. My dresses would not fit you, but here are some pieces of silk and velvet for your trousseau. I am sure that you will have persuaded William to the altar by this summer.”

  “Oh, Lady Christa!” Annie reached out in awe and stroked the beautiful fabric, then looked up with tears in her eyes. “I will miss you ever so much. Sometimes … it was like we were friends, not that I was just a servant.”

  Christa gave her a last hug, then said shakily, “You have been a good friend, Annie. I will miss you too. Now, go quickly, before my resolve weakens.”

  After the maid left, she lay down to attempt some rest. She had six hours left to enjoy the fine feather mattress.

  Chapter Three

  It was early afternoon of the next day when Lord Radcliffe decided to summon Christa for another discussion. Her absence from dinner hadn’t surprised him but he thought twenty-four hours should have begun to reconcile her to his proposal. When her maid, Annie, came down and stammered that Lady Christa wasn’t there, he first thought she must have taken a walk. “When did she go out?”

  “I … I don’t know, my lord.”

  Something about her guilty look triggered his suspicions. Damnation, surely the chit wouldn’t be foolish enough to run away! His brows drew together and he demanded curtly, “When did you last see her?”

  “L-last night, my lord. She said she didn’t want to be disturbed this morning.”

  The ever-calm Lord Radcliffe began to swear with startling fluency, then stood, towering over the frightened girl. “She has run away, and you have helped her. Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know, my lord,” she said in a trembling voice.

  The earl held her eyes with his and spoke softly, every word cut and wielded like a weapon. “Ann Wilson, your father, your brothers, and your sister all work for me, as does your lover. He, I believe, is the sole support of an invalid mother and three younger children. I will ask you once more: Where is she?”

  Annie started crying. She might have been a heroine if only her own welfare was involved, but the man in front of her had the power to beggar her entire family. How had he known about her and Will, cold stick of a man that he was? She had always thought him a good enough master who paid reasonable wages and never beat a servant, but now he terrified her. With a silent prayer for forgiveness, she quavered, “She’s gone to London, my lord.”

  He nodded; it was the logical move. “Whom was she going to stay with?”

  “I don’t know, my lord.” As his brow furrowed angrily she said desperately, “As God is my witness, my lord, she wouldn’t tell me! Lady Christa was going to look for work. She asked me to find the names of registry offices.”

  The earl looked at her anguished face and nodded in acceptance. “Whom did you ask for that information?”

  “Mrs. Harris, my lord.”

  “Send her in. If you wish to stay in this house, it will be as a parlormaid. Now, go, while I am still feeling merciful.”

  Lord Radcliffe watched broodingly as she scuttled out of the room. Marie-Christine had often asked him to frank letters to émigré friends in London; he could remember most of the names and addresses if he tried, and Mrs. Harris could tell him what registry offices she had named. He rang for his valet; when that gentleman appeared the earl said shortly, “Pack my clothes. We leave for London in an hour.” The valet bowed and left the room as quickly as possible. He had never seen his controlled, remote master with a face like that before.

  Christa had given herself ample time to reach the crossroads where the coach could be stopped, and had a long, cold wait before the winter dark began to lighten. When the coach’s arrival was heralded by the pounding of heavy hooves, she started waving, holding her ground even when it appeared she might be run over. In a jumble of curses, the thick-set driver pulled up and glared down at her.

  “Please, monsieur, I wish passage to London.”

  He considered for a few moments, then nodded and said, “Pass your box up.” As Christa boosted it in the air she was grateful she had packed no more. Pushing the long-suffering outside passengers aside, the driver precariously fastened the portmanteau atop the pile of existing luggage. As he did so, a red face appeared at the window to bawl, “You can’t take her, there’s no room inside.”

  Another voice chimed in, “Aye, another passenger will burst the sides of the coach.”

  Christa was starting to worry when the driver yelled, “There’s always space for a little dab like her. One of you gents might like to carry her on yer lap.” He cackled at his own wit.

  The red-faced man, unabashed, yelled back, “She’s not on the waybill. Us who is already here have our rights! I’ll report it to the company!”

  The driver spat contemptuously, narrowly missing the man in the window. “There ’ud be plenty of space if we left you here. Get in, miss. We’ve a shedjool to meet!”

  More voices sounded, agreeing that time was a-wasting, and if the red-faced man didn’t like it, he could walk to London. As Christa scrambled up, she suspected the driver’s championship stemmed from a desire to keep her fare for himself, but she was too grateful to care.

  Inside, the red-faced man glared at her while a plump, motherly-looking woman smiled encouragingly. The coach jerked into motion before she could be seated, and she very nearly did end up in someone’s lap before squeezing herself between a grossly overweight woman who apparently considered bathing unhealthy, and a greasy-looking clerk who tried to engage her in conversation. His eyes bulged slightly and he would lick his lips as he stared at her. Christa said several times in her heaviest accent that she did not speak the English, but he persisted. Tired from lack of sleep, she dozed later in the morning but awoke at the feel of a furtive hand on her breast. Her outraged “Monsieur!” was accompanied by such a glare that the clerk shrank as far back from her as possible. Ostentatiously turning away, she refused to look at him for the rest of the journey.

  It seemed an endless day of jolting and tight quarters; on muddy, rutted late-winter roads, a coach ride was an exhausting business. At least all of these bodies together keep us from the cold, she thought philosophically; as long as I don’t breathe too deeply I shall do very well. Of course, travel was always tiring, but Christa now better appreciated the roomy, well-sprung private carriages she had enjoyed in the past.

  She made the most of the short stops to stretch her legs and nibble on the food Annie had packed. The trip helped Christa to distance herself from Comtesse Marie-Christine d’Estelle. She must forget that that usually pampered young lady had ever existed—she thought of her new life as a role in a theatrical. If she could not convince herself that she was of common birth, she would be unable to convince anyone else. When they finally reached the London inn that was the end of the line, she stretched her aching body and told herself in amusement that a stagecoach had been a splendid place to begin her new life; she now felt very common indeed!

  Christa’s spirits rose as she looked around at the brawl and bustle of the city. Had not an Englishman once said that a man who was tired of London was tired of life? Surely she could find a place in this teeming capital—perhaps someday she might even find a man to share her life. Ignoring a seedy-looking fellow who asked if the young country miss needed a place to spend the night, she lifted her bag and set off to find her cousin Suzanne.

  Suzanne de Savary had had a long day at the shop, followed by an overstimulating supper with her four children; it was not surprising that it took her several moments to recognize a figure on her doorstep that managed to be both jaunty and disheveled at the same time. “Eh, Suzanne, I know I am déclassée, but surely you will not keep me on your doorstep?”

  “Christa!” Suzanne shrieke
d before sweeping her into an embrace. When the children realized that their favorite cousin had arrived, pandemonium reigned for some time. The four children ranged in age from thirteen to six; Suzanne herself was a darkly handsome woman in her mid-thirties with the supremely stylish look of a certain kind of Frenchwoman. She was a first cousin of Christa’s mother and had known Christa all her life.

  “We have just finished our evening meal, Christa, but there is bread and soup. You must be hungry.” Suzanne looked apologetic but Christa absolved her with a smile. Times were not easy for her cousin—this tiny flat above a draper’s shop was a far cry from the luxurious home she had known in Paris. Suzanne had fled to London three years before, when her husband was arrested; he was a Girondist who eventually went to the guillotine when his politics were declared too moderate.

  “Some of your wonderful soup would be exactly right. And for these greedy urchins, I have some candied plums.” She stroked the spun-floss head of the smallest de Savary, Hélène, as a ragged cheer went up. Even Suzanne looked pleased as Christa produced a packet acquired from a street vendor; everyone in the de Savary household had a too-seldom-indulged sweet tooth.

  A place was set at the table for Christa; if the amount of soup seemed meager, she made no complaint. While she ate, the children devoured the sticky plums and told her of the trials and triumphs since last they had met. After she had wiped up the last drop of soup with a piece of crusty bread, her cousin set a steaming pitcher on the table with a flourish.

  “Oh, Suzanne!” Christa said as she inhaled reverently. “A proper pot of French coffee. For this I would have walked to London. These barbaric northerners have a way with tea, I admit, but their coffee … mon Dieu!”

  Her cousin waved her hand grandly. “For you, ma petite, the best that Chateau de Savary has to offer.” Another hour was spent in general conversation before the children’s heads began to nod. Only after they had been put to bed in the small back room did the two women start to talk seriously.

  “Now, little cousin, you will tell me why you appear at my door, after dark, covered with mud, and without proper escort,” Suzanne said as she put the coffee on the stove to reheat; it was too precious to waste.

  Christa sighed, feeling the weariness of her long day. “I am here to look for work. I know you have little space, but I hope I can stay a few nights while I visit the registry offices.”

  Suzanne poured the last of the coffee into two mugs, then sat and eyed Christa thoughtfully while she sipped. Finally she said, “You are welcome to stay as long as you need, but you seemed to be very comfortably situated at Radcliffe Hall.” Her rising inflection made it a question.

  “Charles’s uncle, the present Lord Radcliffe, tells me that I am destitute and that he wishes to marry me. I do not like the way he asks.” Christa shrugged. “So here I am.”

  Suzanne studied her young cousin. It was hardly surprising the uncle was taken with the girl; her combination of blithe intelligence and delectable curves had won her many admirers. “I have never met this Lord Radcliffe but he is said to be an honorable man as well as a very wealthy one. Did you not even consider his proposal?”

  “No,” Christa said shortly. “I will marry for love or not at all.”

  Suzanne raised her eyebrows. “You are sure? Love is all very well, but there is much to be said for wealth. It is a hard world for a woman alone.” Her eyes clouded as she was reminded of her own dilemma; then she continued, “What will you do?”

  “I will find a position as governess.” Christa leaned forward eagerly, her fatigue forgotten. “You know how Papa was about education! I know far more about history, literature, philosophy, and mathematics than most men who have been to university.” She grinned. “My accomplishments are not so good, but I am competent with music and drawing, and of course my French and my needlework.”

  Suzanne looked dubious. “I do not doubt your learning, but you are young and have no experience.”

  “I have taught children and servants on Papa’s estates many times, and it was a great pleasure. I thought you and some of our émigré friends might write letters for me.”

  Her cousin nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps it can be done. Certainement I can give you a character. But jobs are scarce …” Her eyes rested on the plain white wall without focusing. Christa leaned forward and took her hand.

  “And now will you tell me what is troubling you?”

  Her cousin started guiltily. “Is it so obvious? It is of no importance—nothing can be done.”

  “Tell me anyhow,” Christa coaxed.

  “Well … you know the modiste I have been working for, Mme. Bouchet? Though she has never been closer to Paris than Greenwich, she has been a good employer. I have become her chief assistant this last year.” Christa nodded; the two had corresponded regularly and she knew her cousin had been pleased with the situation.

  “Madame’s hands have been bothering her; they are too swollen now for her to work easily, and she has decided to sell the shop and move to Canterbury to live with her sister. She would like to sell it to me, but …” Her voice trailed off.

  “You cannot afford it?” Christa questioned.

  “Exactement. There is an Austrian woman interested and she can meet Mme. Bouchet’s price. Madame gave me some time to see if I could raise more, but I sold everything I could, even my wedding band, and it is still not enough. I even thought of writing to you, to see if I could borrow some, but now …” She raised her head proudly. “I shall manage. I will find another situation; soon I will be chief assistant again. And in a few years, perhaps I can open my own shop.”

  Christa knit her brows. Suzanne must have been desperate indeed to consider borrowing—she had refused Christa’s help in the past. In the days when I thought I had money.

  “How much more do you need?”

  “A fortune … a hundred pounds.”

  Christa reached under her skirt and wrestled with the pouch hanging from her waist while Suzanne watched in bemusement. Finally unfastening it, she pulled it free of her petticoats and poured the golden coins inside onto the scrubbed deal table. “Voilà! The shop is yours.”

  Suzanne gasped. “Marie-Christine, I cannot! It may be years before I can repay you. Perhaps never.” She reached one hand out longingly, the once-white fingertips roughened from constant manual labor. If she accepted the money, it would mean a future for her children …

  Christa said severely, “It is not a gift, it is an investment. You will buy the shop and call it ‘Suzanne’s’ and work very hard. A year or two from now, when you are the premier modiste in London and can afford to pay me, I shall come work for you. We shall be partners.”

  “You could become my partner now,” Suzanne offered.

  Christa shook her head firmly. “That would strain your resources too much. You will want to make changes in the shop, won’t you?” At Suzanne’s nod she continued, “That will cost money. And you must support yourself and the children and be able to weather slow spells and customers who do not pay quickly. Money will be in very short supply at first; you do not need another mouth to feed. And your flat here is too small for another person.”

  Suzanne was silent, unable to refute her cousin’s logic.

  “And there is another thing,” Christa said slowly. “It is very strange of me, but … I want to know that I can stand alone, without help. If I work with you, once again I would be sheltered.” She smiled with a trace of embarrassment. “I know I am foolish—but the time to become your partner is in a year or two, when you are a success.”

  Suzanne was silent for a moment. “I think I understand. But if I am not a success—”

  “Of course you will be!” Christa laughed. “You have more style and fashion in your little finger than any woman I ever met. And will it not be amusing to work together?”

  Suzanne came around the table and hugged her, tears of gratitude in her eyes. “You are my good angel.”

  Christa wrinkled her nose in embar
rassment. “Eh, bien, but even angels need sleep. We must both be up early in the morning.”

  When Suzanne arrived home the next evening she paid little attention to the carriage standing in front of the draper’s shop until a man stepped from it to address her. “Mme. de Savary?”

  She whirled and looked at him suspiciously, seeing a tall, fair man with a cold face and impeccable tailoring. “Monsieur? I do not believe I know you.”

  He bowed. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Lord Radcliffe, and I would like speech with you.”

  She looked at him with interest. So this was the wicked uncle! “Very well,” she agreed. “But it must be while I begin the evening meal. My children will be home from school soon.”

  The earl nodded, then followed her up the dark stairs to the low-ceilinged flat. She removed her cloak and went to the stove to build a fire. “What did you wish to speak of, Lord Radcliffe?” she asked without looking at him.

  “I am seeking your cousin, Marie-Christine d’Estelle.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “You have misplaced her? I thought she was living under your protection at Radcliffe Hall.”

  His lips tightened and he said, “She left two days ago.”

  Suzanne lifted one eyebrow. “So? Christa is of age.”

  The earl said smoothly, as if it had been said several times before, “Yes, but she had been unwell, feverish, and I am worried about her. She has never recovered from the loss of her family.”

  “And of course you wish to rescue her?” The irony in Suzanne’s tone was so gentle it might have been imagined.

  Lord Radcliffe nodded stiffly. “Of course. I am very worried about her. Here is my card,” he said as he drew out his card case. “If you hear any word of her, I would be very appreciative if you would inform me as quickly as possible.” He looked around the shabby room significantly. “Very appreciative.”

  Suzanne’s initially open mind closed with a snap. Why, the man wanted her to sell information about her little cousin, her good angel. No wonder Christa wanted nothing to do with him!