“That noise … ” She heard old lady Pomphart muttering behind her. “What a ruin of good music.”
This pleased Marguerite even more. Maybe the night wasn’t a total waste. She pinched her cricket one last time before arranging her hands just so and descending the staircase.
All eyes turned to the lavender cloud floating down the grand staircase. Her father smiled appreciatively up at his daughter, the pride and joy of his life. Each step landed to the beat of the music until the band stopped and the head butler cried out her name. The entire room stood still and dropped a curtsy as she finished her descent. She knew Pomphart watched from the shadows above and she relished the fact that the old bat couldn’t complain about her behavior tonight.
The governess came highly recommended from some of the best families in France. Since Marguerite’s father had the best of everything, he’d paid little attention to the details and employed the woman right away. Pomphart guaranteed results with his wild daughter and Lord Vadnay had been thrilled to find someone he could throw money at to solve the riddle of his headstrong girl.
“My darling.” Her father beamed at her with pure joy as she reached the landing. “You look radiant!” He took her hand and kissed her softly on the cheek. Marguerite’s heart swelled at this praise. Regardless of her rebellious spirit, she did enjoy pleasing him now and then.
“Allow me to introduce you to a few of our guests.” He sang the words out in his most formal, booming voice.
Ah, yes. Here we go, she thought as the hired crier began his announcements.
“Lord Bladeeblah.” Ew, hair like a greasy goat!
“Sir Bladeeblah.” Teeth like a broken fence. Ugh.
“Monsieur Bladeeblah.” The smell!
“Lord Bladeeblah.” Couldn’t afford a new suit coat? His arms are hanging out an inch! Gold digger.
“Monsieur Bladeeblah.” Bad breath, pocked face.
“Sir Jean Delacourte.” Ahh, I’ve heard of him; fine features, nice clothes, but a nose so far in the air he would drown if it rained. We shall see …
And so it went as Marguerite greeted each of her guests one by one, her father beaming bright as a peacock beside her. As the eligible gentlemen filed past she didn’t take note of anyone she would enjoy dancing with, much less marrying. Delacourte was the least offensive, but even he left much to be desired. She began to crave a bite to eat when a familiar face stepped up.
“Captain Jacques Laviolette, son of the late Colonel Laviolette and Lady Jacqueline Jannot of Marseilles.” Marguerite noticed her father humph out loud as the man she immediately recognized from the streets was introduced.
Captain Laviolette grinned in a knowing way directly into Marguerite’s eyes as he expertly lifted her gloved hand in his and pressed it to his lips.
“I see you are a Navy man? Am I correct in assuming you are here by the invitation of Lord Brimbeau?” Lord Vadnay questioned Laviolette, who looked quite resplendent in uniform compared to his earlier attire in the street.
“Yes sir, I am indeed, and grateful for the invitation. It has been some time since I have been able to visit home and enjoy the finer things life on land has to offer.” He seemed taller somehow; he also smelled fresh and spoke eloquently. Still, his eyes gleamed with the same mischief he’d let loose on her before and no amount of finery could hide his leathery sailor’s skin and unruly hair.
Laviolette did not occupy more of their time than was proper and Marguerite was glad of that. Before the next suitor was introduced her father leaned over and whispered, “You know how I feel about military men.” He practically hissed the last two words.
“Yes, Father,” she hissed back. “You have nothing to worry about unless someone more interesting doesn’t come along soon. I’m beginning to think I should just join the military myself instead of tolerate a life with any of these poofers.”
“Marguerite!” Her father was cut off by the crier announcing the next hopeful lad.
After an eternity of introductions Marguerite was expected to dance with each one and pay respects in between dances to the rest of the guests. The only good thing about the whole night was the food and she made sure to slip away and sample it whenever she could. Her father spared no expense on his only child’s behalf. Table after table lined the walls of the massive hall, loaded with the latest delicacies from around the world.
There were also a number of new oddities on display. Her father shared her love of brass-work and enjoyed displaying his collection in a most unusual way. Tureens full of creamy soup were held aloft by gleaming stands. A candle in the bottom-center of each one kept the soup warm while mechanical arms reached up and over to gently stir the pots, keeping the rare ingredients from separating. They were to serve when a guest approached and pushed a polished lever. Dessert stands shaped like golden trees were rigged to tiny motors; each large flat leaf held a petit four or miniature éclair that spun delicately to the music.
Some of the older guests were amazed at the idea of food in the ballroom, but it had been rumored to be the latest style from Paris and so must be included. And just as Marguerite predicted, they had not heard of the popularity of rouge. She accomplished her mini scandal after all, much to her delight.
“Quite impressive, Father.” She knew her father was disappointed with her lack of enthusiasm at the selection of young men; she wanted to make sure he knew she wasn’t completely let down.
“Thank you, dear. If it wasn’t considered completely uncouth I’d have the bots polished up and in here serving as well.” He giggled at his own joke, lighthearted after too much wine. “But I am trying to get my only daughter a good match this evening. Anything look promising? I believe you’re to dance with Jean Delacourte next?” Her father raised his bushy white eyebrows hopefully.
“Yes, I believe I am.” Marguerite sighed.
“He’s a bit of a pretty boy, isn’t he?” Her father watched her face closely now, aware of her lack of merriment. “Not your type?”
“No, I’m afraid there isn’t anyone of my ‘type’ here tonight, Father.” She gazed out upon the sea of happy faces, feeling a bit melancholy and bored. Her dress, so beautiful in the shop and so amusing to parade down the grand staircase in, now felt more like a straightjacket. The delicious foods on the fanciful serving dishes filled her stomach but left her fancy flat after a while. She wished now that Outil hadn’t been so good at cinching corsets.
“What exactly is your ‘type’ then, my daughter?” Lord Vadnay climbed through the giddiness of the wine to grasp the situation at hand.
Marguerite had never wondered this before. Who did she want to spend the rest of her life with? What did she want in a husband, a companion? Who did she want to see waiting for her in her father’s study when he was gone? Her eyes moved back to the whirring and clicking contraptions holding all the refreshments together, pushing them up and beckoning for the guests to partake. Each and every one had been designed and handcrafted by Claude and the other smithies of the estate. They kept everything from the aership to the bots running in top shape and created every new marvel her father dreamed up. They were so capable, so reliable. Claude was so reliable.
Claude—large and graceful, dusty and sweaty, to the point when speaking and more patient than a late summer’s day when listening. She thrust her hand into her hidden pocket to feel the cool metal of the little bug he’d made her. A warmth filled her heart and crept into her eyes as she thought about his imminent departure.
“I suggest you figure it out quickly, my dear, or I will have to help you decide and you know I’m not keen on that idea.” Her father had never been a patient man; loving and kind, yes, but patience was not a virtue he developed. “Ahh, here comes Sir Delacourte. Put a smile on that drab face of yours or they’ll all be stalking out before you make any sort of impression.”
He was right; she had the upper hand in the whole game, the daughter of the wealthiest lord in the west of France, but th
e suitors also had a choice. Even the most financially desperate of them could turn her down if she seemed to be a prospect worse than poverty.
“Yes, Father.” She cranked her lips into the stickiest smile she could muster and batted her eyelashes at the old gentleman, who sighed with exasperation in return.
“Lady Vadnay, I believe I have the pleasure of this dance?” He was the tall dark one with the best suit. He smelled of expensive hair oils and foreign fabrics. Jean Delacourte was the obvious choice for her as a spouse. His family was well known for their long line of prestigious blood and excellent money management skills. (Not one gambler born in over ten generations!) Their excellent bone structure and grooming tied the package up with a neat little bow any girl would be swooning to receive. The only problem that Marguerite could see with the whole family, Jean in particular, was that they were well aware of their beauty, money, and overall appeal to the masses.
This combination repelled Marguerite. She’d never been impressed by other people’s money. She had plenty of her own. She couldn’t care less about a person’s family roots, and she had noticed that the more self-involved a person was the more dull their conversations tended to be.
“Yes, Sir Delacourte, I believe you do.”
He bowed deeply to Marguerite and then to her father and expertly led her to the dance floor. They whirled and dipped in perfect time to the modern music that could barely be heard over Delacourte’s ramblings.
“This is a lovely party. My father threw one similar to this for my sister just a month ago. Of course you wouldn’t have been allowed to attend, being under age, but it was quite resplendent. My family spared no expense, had the latest of everything flown in from Paris. We didn’t, however, extend ourselves to buffet-style refreshments, or this form of music. The finest classical group in Vienna was retained for the evening’s dancing. There were also morels from Spain and my sister’s dress was handmade in the Middle East by the most skilled of Persian silk weavers. My father has recently invested in a shipping company that deals only in the finest of silk. They say that the best weavers are maidens between the ages of eight and fifteen—smaller fingers and less to take their minds off their delicate work … ”
He may be as boring as math with Pomphart, but Marguerite had to give him this much: he knew how to dance. Too bad she couldn’t get him to stop talking so she could enjoy it.
“Your father has an odd collection of … er … serving dishes.” He suddenly faltered in his monologue.
“Yes, he’s quite fond of the work of smithies and all sorts of modern inventions.” She enjoyed having a jump on Delacourte’s silence. She was proud of her father’s oddities. “You should see the upper halls sometime, we have quite a lovely collection of modern weaponry.”
Delacourte coughed a bit at her bold statement. “I’m surprised that you would find interest in such a topic as weapons.”
“And why is that? I walk past them at least ten times every day; they are shining and bright, of excellent craftsmanship, almost like curious gemstones, and women are quite interested in gemstones. A dual-purpose gem seems to be just what a woman would fancy the most.” She smiled up at him wickedly waiting for his reply. Oh, if only Madame Pomphart could hear her now.
Marguerite didn’t think it was possible, but Delacourte pushed his nose farther in the air and looked past the top of her head to the outlying crowd. “Ladies of means and good breeding are not concerned with the likes of war and fighting. Those are the concerns of men.”
She’d predicted a diatribe like this, but actually found it a bit of a disappointment. She secretly hoped to coax more than the lecture of a nursemaid from this highly cultured young man. He finished with another stunner: “Men of the military, to be exact.”
A deep voice cut through just in time. “I suppose men of the military are only to be concerned with weaponry and bloodlust, eh?” Jacques Laviolette stood in their way, a broad smile lifting his freshly scrubbed cheekbones and curving the corners of his eyes. “Do you mind if I cut in? I wanted to ask Lady Vadnay about the automated cat o’ nine by the west wing.”
Delacourte’s surprise was not covered quickly enough by his good manners. He huffed a bit in search of a retort but, coming up short, he bowed graciously and handed Marguerite off to Laviolette before exiting the dance floor with all the grace and pride of a cat.
Marguerite wasn’t sure this was a trade for the better. Laviolette’s hand brushed her arm on the way to her small waist. His hand was noticeably rough and reminded her again of Claude. She ached to reach her hand back to the cricket in her pocket but knew better than to give away her secret in such an obvious place. Instead she focused on the decorations lining Laviolette’s broad chest as he led her into the next song.
He wasn’t quite as smooth as Delacourte, but he wasn’t a terrible lead either. Marguerite gave him that mark in his favor and decided to get the whole thing over with as painlessly as possible.
“That’s a lot of metal for a soldier as young as you are.”
“And how do you know how old I am?” Laviolette hadn’t moved his gaze from her face. She felt it heavily searching her every feature.
“Because I know your family, I know of you, and I know you’ve only just received your first commission as a captain. You told me that yourself.”
He nodded amiably at her explanation.
She decided to press further. “You should know that there is no reason for you to be here.”
“And why is that?” He was openly amused, something that Marguerite did not take kindly to.
“Because the whole evening is intended to find me a suitable husband and entertain our neighbors. You are not a neighbor or a suitable suitor.” Suitable suitor? Did I really just say that aloud? “Besides, my father would never consider giving my hand to a man of the military.”
“And why is that?” He was still smiling, but Marguerite detected the faintest hint of annoyance in his question. She was getting through.
“Because he served in the Navy and he knows what military men are like.”
“Because he is one?” Jacques smiled.
“Yes, well, no. He was with them, but not one of them. My father is a decent and well-bred man.” Well-bred? Who talks like this? I sound like Pomphart!
“I believe you. No need to defend his honor, especially to a scallywag like myself.”
Marguerite was growing impatient with her inability to break Laviolette’s good mood.
“And you have nothing to fear, m’lady. I’m not here to be your husband.” He pulled her hand into his face and kissed it as they turned quickly to the beat. “This little hand, while dainty and delicious, is the last thing in France I’d spend my time chasing.”
“Then why are you here?” It came out faster than she’d intended it to. He was winning again.
Laviolette looked into her eyes. “The food, my dear. Finest food on the western coast, or so I’ve been told.”
Insulted and weary of the entire night, Marguerite was grateful to hear the final bar of the song. She pulled back a bit too quickly and curtseyed, taking her leave without looking at her partner again.
She wished Vivienne had been old enough to attend. She needed someone familiar to stand next to for the remainder of the evening. Even Vivienne’s twittering would be welcome at this point. She wandered for a few moments, unable to locate even her father, when someone grabbed her elbow.
She turned to see a sentry had reached out to catch her attention. He was a man she recognized from the fields, he must have drawn an extra assignment. She dared not look at him any longer as she extricated her arm., “What do you want?”
“It’s Claude, he wants to see you. He’s leaving in the morning.”
“What are you talking about?” This was not the sort of news she needed to hear at the moment.
“His orders have been changed, he is reporting at dawn to the commander in town. Claude asked me to let you know
and to ask you to meet him in the gardens, m’lady.”
“Is he still there? How long has he been waiting?”
“I’m sure he is, miss.” The servant dropped his voice even lower. “He’d not leave if he thought you might come.”
Marguerite smiled at a few guests that were passing from one room to another and then turned on her heel to walk as quickly as decorum would allow toward the gardens, her hand instinctively nestled in her pocket and wrapped around the cricket hidden there.
Chapter Four
The garden was dark except for the bright yellow squares of light from inside painted on the ground and pouring over the manicured hedges. One laid itself delicately over a fountain that tinkled and sang over the orchestra inside. Marguerite knew just where to go; a hedgerow on the south side of the rose arch had a perfect little bench tucked away beside a lilac bush. She and Claude had spent many afternoons hiding in this corner reading books Marguerite had stolen from the estate library. When they were quite young they liked to suck the nectar from tiny lilac blossoms, pretending they were hummingbirds.
“Claude?” She dared not call too loudly for fear of drawing attention from other garden lurkers. “Are you there? Claude?”
“Boo!” A hand reached out and poked her cheek.
“Oh! You scallywag!”
“Scallywag? Ha! What sort of a name is that?” Claude was obviously amused with his little joke.
“It’s nothing, just something I heard from a sailor.” Marguerite was irritated that she’d let Laviolette’s conversation follow her here. Her heart beat rapidly from Claude’s joke and the frustration of the entire evening seemed to press down upon her. She grasped for his strong hands.
“Why are you hiding here? I heard you are leaving tomorrow!”
“It took you long enough to come out.”
“I only just ran into your messenger. I’ve been paraded around like a stuffed guinea hen and danced till my feet would fall off.”
The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl Page 3
