French Passion

by Briskin, Jacqueline;

  Chapter Fifteen

  The gateman took off his cap to Sir Robert as we passed the thatched gatehouse, and then we were winding up a green avenue of full-leafed birches. The rolling movement of the well-sprung carriage had lulled me. As we reached the crest, though, I sat up, gasping in delight.

  Below us, in a smooth dell, Foxwarren stretched its ivy-covered wings toward a circle of huge ancient oaks. Sun glinted off mullioned windowpanes. A flight of starlings burst from the shingled roof. White sheep cropped emerald green lawns, and beyond a walled rose garden was a Tudor country garden ablaze with sunflowers and hollyhocks.

  Jean-Pierre and I turned to each other.

  “It’s so like home,” he said.

  “Except home was far smaller,” I replied. Then turned to Sir Robert. “Pardon us for speaking in French. But your Foxwarren’s delightful. A tremendous version of our own old home.”

  “Good,” boomed Sir Robert. “I was afraid you’d find it small after Créqui’s estates and Paris mansion.”

  “We grew up in a tiny village,” I said.

  “The d’Epinays owned all the land—” Jean-Pierre started.

  “Once,” I interrupted, firmly squelching my brother’s tendency to romanticize. “Alas, by the time we came along, the family were church mice. You mustn’t confuse us with the grand émigrés.”

  “Speaking of that”—Sir Robert’s red face beamed—“I’ve invited some other French people.”

  My happiness evaporated. Sir Robert’s remark, meant to please, produced in me far more than the normal anxiety about a social contretemps. I sat back in leather cushions fighting a foreboding of disaster.

  One couple had arrived before us. Before they spoke, I knew they were the French people. English ladies are broader of foot and hand, their clothing is sturdier. English gentlemen bow with less grace.

  The French couple were middle-aged, she with pinched, haughty nostrils, his face lined with elegant world-weariness. He raised his lorgnon to me. He was vaguely familiar. Had he once brought a mistress to my salon? Sir Robert introduced them as Baron and Baronne de Mably, and Mably was a name I’d never heard before. I’ve seen him, I thought, but where?

  “Mademoiselle d’Epinay,” said Baron de Mably, kissing my hand.

  “Baron de Mably,” I murmured.

  And then a tall, stout lady was bustling out of a passageway. A half-grown spaniel circled her and with a friendly foot she pushed away the pup. He returned. Immediately I could see this lady was related to Sir Robert, for she had his hearty good looks, blue eyes, and booming laughter. And, indeed, Sir Robert was presenting Jean-Pierre and me to his mother, Lady Ann Elizabeth Gill. What a great, wonderful dumpling of a woman she was, in her black taffeta with unfashionably wide skirts, her blazing diamond brooch affixed at precisely the wrong angle, her blue eyes young and snapping with life.

  “So you’re the famed Mademoiselle d’Epinay my son does nothing but natter about,” she said.

  “Come, come, Mother.” Sir Robert shuffled his boots, suddenly looking very much the boy. “You’ll terrify Mademoiselle d’Epinay.”

  “Nonsense, Bob. She may be delicate in looks, but any woman who has the brains to earn her living at man’s work isn’t going to be terrified by an old hen, are you, child?”

  “It would take a far tougher bird, Lady Gill.”

  The huge taffeta-covered bosom jiggled with laughter. “Bob, for once you’re right,” she said, still chuckling. “She’s most likable. Come, child, I’ll show you to your rooms meself.” And she linked her arm through mine.

  The spaniel pup trailing after us, we ascended the dark oak staircase. Banisters supported rods with faded tatters of flags from long-forgotten battles. Nothing in this warm house was new. Everything had the look of being used by large and happy families.

  “You have the nicest son—and daughter, too—Lady Gill.”

  “Don’t I?” she agreed comfortably. “Comes from breeding them in the country. When I was a gel, I told my father, the Duke of Westchester, that I refused to breed in London. ‘I don’t want spindle-thighed Londoners coming from my loins,’ I told him. And he let me marry good plain Sir Tom Gill, though he was only a baronet. Bob’s father. Ah, we had good days together, Sir Tom and me, and I don’t regret a one of them.”

  My throat ached with an odd jealousy. Not that I envied Lady Gill her wonderful old house or her high birth—but oh, how wonderful it must be to have a rich, full life, loving one man, and never regretting a single day.

  She patted my hand. “You look sad, child. What’s going on in that lovely head?”

  I said the first words that came to mind. “I’m a country girl myself.”

  She gave me a sharp look, nodded as if a lock had clicked into place. “Then Foxwarren should be to your liking,” she said, opening a door. “We sup at eight, promptly.”

  A maid was unpacking my portmanteau. England being far behind France in fashion, the wardrobe I’d found awaiting me at the Comte’s over two years earlier was the dernier cri. As the round-cheeked girl hung each garment in the wardrobe, she exclaimed. The pale green silk with the swathed bodice, the sheer cambric belted in grosgrain, the green velvet riding habit that I’d never yet worn—I’d never left the Comte’s grounds and in London I’d been far too busy to ride, what with nursing Jean-Pierre and working. She poured me a bath. I luxuriated in hot water that I myself hadn’t boiled and lugged up three flights of stairs. The big low room was scented by bowls of English roses, and through the open-mullioned windows came the sound of iron wheels rolling up the gravel drive, happy English greetings.

  I dressed my hair in long curls, donned the celadon silk, fastened the heavy clasp of the restored d’Epinay opals, the only jewelry I’d brought from France. I gazed into the depth of the old mirror, and saw my excited pleasure at a party.

  Jean-Pierre came in, very handsome in his gold-laced Royal Guard uniform.

  “Little sister, you’re perfection.”

  “And you, sir, are most handsome—Jean-Pierre, how glad I am we came!”

  Somewhere below a gong sounded, deep and compelling.

  The Mablys and six other couples were already gathered in the long drawing room. The fireplaces at either end were lit against the cool of a summer evening, and man-servants passed brown sherry. Lady Gill introduced my brother and me to her English guests. Though of varying ages, they had a marked similarity, all being comfortably married, and possessing enough security to be unfashionable.

  I was taking a glass of sherry when Baron de Mably strolled over to my chair. “So, Mademoiselle d’Epinay, you are a dauber?”

  There was an unpleasant note in his teasing. And that unpleasantness, too, was hauntingly familiar.

  “Portraits,” I said. “That’s how I met Sir Robert.”

  “Well, in times like these we French must bend in order to live.” Again that insinuating, unpleasant tone.

  My pleasure in the party dimmed. I asked, “Baron, have we met before?”

  “Mademoiselle, we have never met.” He put a slight emphasis on met.

  Sir Robert had joined us. Once again he took in the low-cut swathing of my bodice, and there were two little flames in his Saxon blue eyes. He wants me, I thought. He’s going to proposition me. Under normal circumstances I would have treated him with coolness. However, I needed to erase Baron de Mably’s innuendos. I tapped Sir Robert’s arm with my fan. “The Baron takes a dim view of my skills with a brush. Sir Robert, pray tell him I’m as good as Romney.”

  “Better.” Sir Robert beamed. “And, by God, far prettier.” He rested his hand on the back of my chair.

  Baron de Mably raised his lorgnon to examine a bit of Staffordshire pottery.

  Jean-Pierre, engrossed in a conversation about horse racing, gave his lilting laugh.

  Impulsively I said to Sir Robert, “It’s a delightful party. How good you were to invite us.”

  “Dash it all, you must know the others are window dressing. It’
s you I wanted.”

  He spoke under his breath, yet I was sure that Baron de Mably overheard.

  Supper was announced. Sir Robert offered me his arm. Jean-Pierre bowed to Lady Gill, and off we went to a huge, hearty meal, all red meats and sturdy puddings.

  We ladies retired to the drawing room, gathering around one of the fireplaces to drink coffee. The English discussed a wedding, with Lady Gill calling out vital statistics of actors in this drama to the French outsiders, me and Baronne de Mably. The Baronne gazed into space, her nostrils yet more pinched and haughty. After a while I turned to the little table, examining a silver figurine. Lady Gill boomed, “By that Italian silversmith fellow, Cellini.” I knew this already, for the Comte had a wonderful miniature of a boy on a dolphin by the same master.

  The gentlemen, having finished their brandy, joined us. Card tables were placed. Jean-Pierre and three other gentlemen sat down to cassino, while two married couples joined to play quadrille.

  Sir Robert bent over the sofa next to me. “Did you notice our rose garden?”

  “As we arrived,” I answered. “I love walled gardens.”

  “Let me show it to you.”

  A warning sounded inside my head. I feared my own long-starved response as much as his advances. I told myself: You mustn’t be alone with him.

  “It’s too cool outside,” I replied. “And too dark, Sir Robert, to properly enjoy your garden.”

  “There’s torches lit. And we’ll send for your wrap.” His honest blue eyes intent on me, he inquired, “I say, you aren’t worried I’ll compromise you?”

  From across the room Baron de Mably directed his lorgnon at us. His gaze unnerved me.

  I laughed too brightly. “Jean-Pierre,” I called. “Sir Robert is showing me the rose garden. You must watch us from the window.”

  Jean-Pierre smiled at me briefly, then went back to his cards.

  My green cloak was brought. Sir Robert and I stepped through long windows to the terrace. We were enfolded in night smells of the country, green growing things, roses, and faint, distant memories of horses and cattle. At the far end of the terrace a pair of stone statues held torches to light the rose garden. A three-quarter moon spilled silver on the great circling oaks, the rolling lawn, the Tudor garden.

  “Foxwarren’s even lovelier by night,” I said appreciatively.

  “The first Sir Robert Gill planned the main house during Queen Elizabeth’s reign. Other Gills added the two wings and the library.”

  We strolled along the terrace. An owl hooted, a faraway dog bayed at the moon, and another dog barked. Sir Robert took my arm. And again that curious warmth filled my body. I’ve been too long without masculine attentions, I thought, and a trifle awkwardly moved away from Sir Robert.

  The rose garden was a mass of flowering bushes laced with narrow winding paths, and as we walked through the intoxicatingly sweet fragrance, there was no way I could avoid being close to him.

  “A beautiful woman like you belongs in a place like this,” Sir Robert said. From his tone I guessed his already florid face was crimson. Sir Robert was too hearty a man to pay easy compliments. He asked, “What’s your given name?”

  “Manon.”

  “It’s lovely, too,” he said. “Mother likes you.”

  “And I like her. She’s straightforward and real.”

  “That she is, and a good judge of character besides.” He took my upper arm, halting me. “Manon, tonight will you think about this garden, and about Foxwarren? I wish you would—and give a thought to me, too.”

  We were near the flaming torches, and I could see, quite clearly, the emotion that suffused his broad, handsome face. Understanding burst on me!

  I’d done Sir Robert a terrible injustice.

  I had assumed he had designs on my body. But now I realized he was talking, obliquely to be sure, about the honorable estate of matrimony. He hadn’t brought me to Foxwarren to seduce me but to show me his home and his heart.

  I felt like a great bitch. Oh, how I loathed myself. The hot blood of embarrassment went to my head. There was only one decent thing I could do, and that was to forestall Sir Robert’s proposal. I must save him the humiliation. The simplest way, of course, was to tell him I was already married. Yet in this sweet-scented, moonstruck night, the words would come too blunt, too hurtful. I drew a trembling breath and decided the morning was soon enough to tell him about my husband.

  “If I think of Foxwarren tonight,” I murmured, “will you promise not to think of me?”

  “Impossible,” Sir Robert said flatly, reaching out his arms.

  To avoid his embrace I went up the steps to the terrace. “I—I’m not as you think,” I said in a low voice.

  “I didn’t mean to be abrupt.”

  “Please let’s go back to the others.”

  He on the bottom step, I on the top, our torchlit faces were level. He gazed at me, his large face very tender. “My artist,” he said, “My sweet, shy Manon.”

  “Don’t, don’t,” I said, and my voice shook. How had we come this far in so few sentences?

  Silently, both wrapped in our own thoughts, we returned along the stone terrace, entered the long drawing room. Baron and Baronne de Mably exchanged glances. In my self-lacerating depression it seemed to me there was malice in their worldly faces. But how could they harm me here, amid these comfortable English gentry?

  Lady Gill, yawning, announced she was ready to retire.

  “I’m weary, too,” I said, refusing to catch Sir Robert’s eye as I made my good nights.

  As Lady Gill and I left the room together, she said, “Two countrywomen, eh? Early to bed, early to rise.” In the oak hall her hearty laughter resounded.

  My guilts toward Sir Robert overflowed to his mother, this good-natured, warm daughter of a Duke.

  The other ladies, of course, had brought down their own maids. The round-cheeked girl who had unpacked for me was drowsing on the pillowed settle, and I realized that she—tactfully—had been assigned to me. She looked so sleepy that I dismissed her. I undressed quickly. The walk had chilled me, and gooseflesh covered my body. In the bed was a wrapped warming pan. Another kindness. I hugged my arms around myself, trying to contain my misery. More than Sir Robert’s proposal prompted this misery.

  Foxwarren contrasted so with my own life.

  Here, too clearly, I saw what a shambles my life had become. Married to one man, loving another, and separated by a sea from both. Foxwarren reminded me of warm, sensual love, happy families, neighborliness, all that makes life worthwhile.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself, I thought, resting my toes on flannel heated by the coal-filled warming pan. Concentrate on the kindest way to tell Sir Robert you’re married. You should have realized he cared for you. You should have informed him that you’re not a free agent but the Comtesse de Créqui. You must correct your mistake in the kindest way possible. No blurting this out. I lay rigid on the feather mattress trying out various sentences. None seemed right.

  Worn out, I curled on my side, ready to sleep. And at that moment I remembered where I’d seen Baron de Mably. In Notre Dame, at the Comte’s second wedding. Baron de Mably was the awful old man (he’d seemed old to me at sixteen) who had wondered if the Comte lent me out yet. No wonder the Baron had spent this evening peering through his lorgnon at me, his eyes world-weary and insinuating.

  Shivering uncontrollably in the warm bed, I began to weep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A triumphant rooster crow awakened me.

  Sleep had refreshed and soothed me. The terrors of last night had faded. After all, what really had occurred? A very kind man had not quite proposed. I merely had to tell Sir Robert the truth: there had been no reason to treat him differently from my other clients, and therefore I hadn’t told him my marital status. I would explain the reasons for secrecy. He, being a man, would surely understand that I couldn’t expose the Comte de Créqui, a proud noble, to the shame and criticism attached to having a wife
who earns her own keep. I stretched. How simple it was. And as for the Baron de Mably—I smiled impishly. The Baron had been an awful old man, he still was an awful old man, but there was nothing he could do to hurt me.

  I ran to the window, flinging open the casements. It was early, yet already there was a soft July warmth in the air, and the room was filled with velvety odors of ripening pears and apples, flowering roses, fresh-turned brown earth. Below me rioted the Tudor garden with its lush, colorful herb beds guarded by hollyhocks and tall sunflowers that turned their golden faces upward. Starlings chattered in the nearest oak, and on the rolling lawn a peacock cawed, spreading his vivid, many-eyed tail feathers to his drab mate. Briefly I rested my elbows on the deep sill, breathing in the scents and sounds. But I wanted to go outside to Foxwarren’s grounds.

  Emptying the ewer into the bowl, I washed with cold water and hastily dressed, throwing my cape over my arm. I tiptoed by shut bedroom doors.

  The downstairs hall was heavy with odors of roasting meats, game, broiling bacon, and the distinctively acrid aroma of kidneys. Usually the heartiness of English breakfasts repelled me, but on this glorious morning I found the mix of savory odors mouthwatering. The dining room door was ajar, and I glimpsed servants setting a buffet.

  On the terrace a pack of spaniels raced at me, yipping their excitement as I patted heads and tugged silken ears. The dogs followed as I set off toward the orchard. Apples, small and green, were almost invisible amid the foliage. Jean-Pierre and I used to steal such apples, our punishment not meted out by kind Aunt Thérèse but by the griping of our own stomachs. On this burgeoning summer morning I refused to dwell on André, the Comte, the years of irretrievable shame. I was too happy, once again a protected tomboy girl. All at once I flung on my cape, holding the wool out with extended arms, whirling in great circles, the dogs barking around me.