“Good morning.” Sir Robert’s voice surprised me.
I stopped, facing him. Too happy to be embarrassed by my childlike display, I went toward him, saying, “It’s more than a good morning, it’s a lovely morning!”
“Sleep refreshed you?” There was a coldness in the bluff voice, and anger blazed in those straightforward blue eyes.
I adjusted my cape. “Yes, thank you,” I said.
“Even though you slept alone?”
My heart started banging. “Sir Robert, I must explain—”
He cut me off with, “Explanations are unnecessary. By God, with those pink cheeks and pale, shining hair, you look an angel, but we both know you’re not, don’t we? By God, to think I was fool enough to bring you down to Foxwarren so you could decide whether you wished to bestow your hand on me!”
“Sir Robert—”
“And I thought you shy! You were simply taken aback by my British idiocy! To think I might have married you to get you! What a stroke of luck, my inviting de Mably down. He set me to rights!” The angry sentences spurted from his twisted mouth. “Last night Mably congratulated me on the emigration making it possible for me to acquire the loveliest, most radiant whore in all Europe!”
“The Baron doesn’t understand–”
“And, by God, I’m grateful for that! What a prime ass I was!”
I had to escape Sir Robert’s blustering anger. Oh, I understood his pain, but his words brought back my every shame. I felt a pariah. On shaking legs, I headed through the dewy orchard to the beech-lined avenue.
He followed, the dogs trailing him.
“The Comte de Créqui’s ward!” he raged. “Mistress, you meant! Well, now I know the rules of the game, and we’ll hammer out an arrangement. De Mably didn’t go into detail, but I gather your terms are this: I set you up well. Go blind to your infidelities. And keep your brother.”
At his mention of Jean-Pierre, tears stung my eyes. Wasn’t my own shame sufficient? Did he have to splatter mud on poor Jean-Pierre?
My shoulders went back, my willfulness took over, and I knew there was no power on earth that could make me tell Sir Robert my real relationship to the Comte de Créqui. That stubborn pride forbade me from explaining.
“Sir Robert, you invited us to Foxwarren. We had no indication of your reason. However, as your guests, Captain d’Epinay and I are owed simple courtesy.”
“Courtesy? Maybe in France. We English are more blunt. We call a spade a spade. He’s a pimp. You’re a—” He spat out a short, ugly Anglo-Saxon word.
Lifting my skirts, I ran up the slope of deep grass to the verdant shadows of the beech-lined avenue, trotting in the direction opposite the house. He caught up with me.
“Come to breakfast. Over some gammon and kidneys we’ll hammer out your price.”
I averted my head so he couldn’t see my held-back tears. I felt in my cape pocket and found the hardness of a sovereign, a blessed gold coin that would get me back to London. The dogs yipped. I continued away from Foxwarren.
Roughly, Sir Robert gripped my arm, stopping me.
“By God, you’ll listen to me! What’s the point of you daubing portraits to cover your brother’s gambling debts? I’ll take over where de Créqui left off.”
Jean-Pierre, at émigré gatherings, sometimes lost at cards, and I covered these trifling sums. That Sir Robert knew our poor, sad domestic arrangements brought such hurt that I could no longer prevent my tears.
Tears wet my cheeks, but my words came out like pieces of ice. “Captain d’Epinay is the Comte’s ward. Any generosity that my brother received came from that obligation. As for me, Sir Robert, my past is my own concern, not yours. Please convey my apologies to Lady Gill.…” My voice faltered. Must that good, hearty woman think me a whore, too? “Monday a porter will deliver the canvas to your London home. The portrait is not quite finished, so don’t attempt to pay me. I will return any fee. I wish neither to see you nor hear from you again. And now, if you will be so good as to inform my brother that I return to our lodgings.”
His hand dropped. “How the deuce do you intend to get up to London?”
“I noticed the diligence stops at the village.”
“You’re my guest. Dash it all, I can’t have a female guest of mine traveling alone on a public conveyance!”
“I doubt, Sir Robert, if I will receive any greater insults today.”
His florid face paled. I turned, wiping my cheeks as I marched under the branches. Sir Robert appeared to have given up, for I heard the yapping of spaniels fade into the distance.
The brief spell of angry pride deserted me. Cold green shadows chilling me, I hugged my cloak around me. Sir Robert had been so tender last night, obliquely bringing up the subject of marriage, so cruel and biting this morning. I knew he was hurt. Yet why, instead of quietly questioning me, had he believed Baron de Mably? Why did he consider me a promiscuous slut? André, too, while I was in the Bastille, had believed this of me. Was this particular belief directed at me, or did men inevitably consider all women totally lacking in honor? I gave a wan smile, wondering if I was getting like Izette.
To me, the saddest part was losing Sir Robert’s friendship. I genuinely liked him, enjoyed his hearty laugh, even thrilled a little to that bulky, muscular body. That’s it, I thought, sighing, he sensed my attraction. So maybe he’s right, maybe André is, too, and the Comte—he as well called me a whore. I’m capable of carnal passion, so therefore am a whore.
Pebbles had collected in my shoes, and I stopped, leaning against a beech trunk, to shake them out.
Behind me, horses’ hooves rang, wheels crunched, and a coach appeared over the crest. The Gill coat of arms was painted on the door. The coachman reined his four horses and touched his whip to his hat. “Your ladyship, Sir Robert requests—”
At this Sir Robert thrust his face out the window. His teeth showed in a small grimace. “Please don’t argue, Mademoiselle d’Epinay.”
I couldn’t embarrass him in front of his servants. He jumped down, helped me in.
For several miles neither of us spoke.
“Please understand one thing,” Sir Robert said. “I should not have spoken so crudely if what I learned from de Mably hadn’t cut so deep.”
“But you would have spoken in that same vein?”
“Yes, dash it all.” He leaned forward, his hearty face earnest. “I’ve made a hash of this, but I want to be your protector. My Leicester Square house is considered handsome. I’ll set you up there.”
“Sir Robert, you’d better let me off and return to your guests. I didn’t agree to ride in your carriage to be further insulted.”
“I want you enough to have you on any terms! By God, that’s a compliment, not an insult!”
I turned to stare out the window. We were passing a quiet old church with tumbled gravestones.
We were passing a newer church before he spoke again. “Your brother hadn’t risen, so I left a note for him with the servants.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Sir Robert, you shouldn’t be neglecting your guests.”
“Mother can handle anything,” he said, adding in a low voice, “Let me show you the Leicester Square house.”
“No,” I said sharply.
After that I stared out the window. The few times I glanced at Sir Robert, his big muscular shoulders were slumped in dejection. He’d made his advances without the least finesse, he was no practiced roué; indeed I guessed myself the first woman he’d asked to be his mistress. My pity for him increased, but my pride forbade me to go into explanations. Besides, wouldn’t telling him of my marriage throw him into greater dejection and shame? The roads were excellent. In less than four hours we were in London, in St. James Park. Not yet eleven, the last of the milkmaids sat squirting milk from their patient cows into customers’ buckets. Above treetops showed the red brick turrets of St. James’s Palace. Thus easily in England was bridged the distance between peasant and royalty.
As we pulled up in front of
my lodgings, a small man rose from the carriage block. He wore a far heavier greatcoat than was needed on this pleasant July morning. He looked a careful bookkeeper. The coachman handed me down and the small man raised his hat to show an old-fashioned close-combed peruke.
“Countess?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
I heard Sir Robert gasp.
“Gerald Camberwell at your service. Of Camberwell and Camberwell, the Count’s British solicitors.”
The Comte had said his lawyers would be watching me. And here I was, for the first time in a man’s company! I couldn’t prevent a note of alarm. “Why are you here?”
“I returned this morning from Paris.”
“Paris?”
“What the deuce is going on?” Sir Robert burst out, turning to me.
“Sir Robert Gill, may I present Mr. Camberwell.”
“He called you Countess.”
Mr. Camberwell replied for me, “Her ladyship wishes to go by the name she was born to, Miss d’Epinay. I beg you, Sir Robert, forget my lapse in professionalism. Respect her wishes.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Camberwell,” I replied. “Sir Robert, I am wife to Comte de Créqui, not … as you thought.”
He turned pale, then a deep flush rose from his somewhat thick neck to his sandy hair. The lids came half down over his humiliated blue eyes. Both hands dangled at his sides, and the left forefinger moved up and down in a little tattoo of misery.
Ashamed of my momentary triumph, I put my hand on his arm. “I’ll explain to you later. Mr. Camberwell, what brings you direct from Paris to me?”
“Bad news, I’m afraid.” He gave several deeply appropriate sighs.
“What is is it? Tell me quickly.”
“The Count of Créqui has been detained at the Conciergerie Prison.”
“The Conciergerie?” I cried. English news sheets called the Conciergerie the antechamber to death. Few left the prison alive.
“Alas,” Mr. Camberwell said.
“Why didn’t you get him released?” I demanded furiously. “You’re a solicitor! You should have had him out of there!”
“Countess,” replied the little man with a hurt glance, “your husband is a subject of France, living in France, under the French law. I’m not permitted to practice the French law. But I bring you a message from him.”
He handed me an envelope addressed: To Comtesse de Créqui, sometimes known as Manon d’Epinay. Confided to the care of Gerald Camberwell.
My hands shook. Sir Robert took the envelope, opening it for me.
My Dear,
I have no doubt that soon you will be a charming widow, and it has given me a good deal of amusement imagining you as such, twirling in your pretty gowns from one suitor to the next. Wife of my bosom, take some cynical advice. For your next spouse, pick one more indifferent than I. Your life will be easier.
Sometimes I berate myself at my lack of reason where you are concerned. How is it that so rational a man as I, who exercised power over himself and others, could not manage self-control in the matter of one quite small woman?
Of course it is all your fault. I blame your stubborn will that matches my own, your courage and sense of honor. I blame that lushly perfect body—the exquisite yet sensually inviting body, that lovely face. I blame the swift grace that makes your every movement a delight, your quick laughter, and your infuriating disobediences.
Thus I exonerate myself, and put the full burden of my excessive passions squarely on you. Therefore, my dear, I order you not to think unkindly of me.
de C
Reading, I sank on the carriage block. The letter was typical of the Comte, jeering at me, at himself, at love, yet caring too much.
Once again those harshly implacable ties were pulling at me: our shared laughter, our mingled passion, flurries of rage, the child that I should have borne him, and CoCo, as well as the oddly incestuous respect I felt toward him.
I couldn’t let the Comte die.
I’ll rescue him from the Conciergerie, I decided, without giving a thought to the means.
“I’m going to Paris,” I announced, rising.
Said Mr. Camberwell, “The Count gave his express orders that you are not to leave England.”
“My husband is aware how willful I am, Mr. Camberwell. He won’t blame you.”
“It’s not a matter of blame, Countess,” Mr. Camberwell said. “France has become very different. Letters and packages that moved freely aren’t delivered—”
“That’s why I haven’t heard from him,” I said.
“Doubtless. This letter I carried on my person. Had I not possessed English papers, it would have been taken from me many times over. Believe me, Countess, you cannot help the Count.”
“I have friends … among the Revolutionary factions,” I said, thinking of Goujon and Izette.
“It’s dubious if they can be of help.”
Sir Robert was gazing at me with a sad, questioning look that reminded me of his spaniels. “Do you care so much for the Comte?”
“He’s my husband, he was my guardian. Yes, of course I care.”
He shuffled his feet and looked away. “Love?” he asked. “Pardon my asking.”
“I do not pardon you,” I said. “I’m going to him.”
“The Revolution,” said Mr. Camberwell’s dry voice, “sweeps over the country in waves, each more violent. The King and Queen are virtual prisoners in the Tuileries Palace, and mobs seek them out. Each day ladies and gentlemen die for the crime of being gently born.”
“I leave for Paris today,” I said firmly.
“You’ll never get there,” Mr. Camberwell replied. “At every town, every village, the tax gates are guarded by an ugly crew of armed peasants, checking and rechecking papers. Two of my fellow passengers were hauled from the post and shot.” A tremor passed through the small dry body. “There were times I thought that I, a loyal subject of King George, was done for.”
“Manon,” Sir Robert said, “I mean Comtesse, you can’t go into that.”
Mr. Camberwell continued, “They are on special lookout for returning émigrés. Returning émigrés are considered the worst traitors. And that is what you would be, Countess, an émigré returning to France.”
I gazed down at the Comte’s letter. “I’m a special case. I’m one of the seven prisoners who were released at the fall of the Bastille.”
Both men gaped at me.
Mr. Camberwell’s face was seamed as if someone had carefully stitched together hundreds of tiny pieces of yellowing cloth. Finally he said, “Even so, you bear one of the greatest names of the Old Regime.”
“I use my own name,” I said impatiently. This lawyer’s haggling annoyed me.
“Pardon me, Countess, but I fail to see what purpose your going to Paris will serve.”
“I told you!” I snapped. “My friends will help me free my husband. We’ll return to England.”
“In talking to the Count of Créqui, he made it abundantly clear that he’s not of the breed who run.” The arid legal voice warmed with the admiration that the Comte, without trying, always elicited. “He won’t leave France.”
“I’ll make him.”
“He—”
“That, Mr. Camberwell, is quite enough.” I used the Comte’s peremptory tone.
Again both men stared at me in surprise. I quieted a mere lawyer. Sir Robert, though, a gentleman born, could not be silenced so easily.
“You’re intent on going then?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then pack a few things. One trunk, no more. Get together your papers. I’ll be back within the hour.”
“Oh, Sir Robert,” I cried. “I’ll be forever in your debt if you’ll take me to Dover.”
“Dover be damned. I owe you the courtesy of seeing you safely to Paris.”
My eyes fell before the honest blue ones. “I can’t let you do that.…”
“There’s no way you can stop me.”
“Y
ou see me as a lady in distress.” My voice faltered and grew very quiet. “Actually … I was as the Baron de Mably said.…”
Mr. Camberwell, discreet, gazed toward the sun-struck greenery of St. James’s Park.
“It’s a long story. Still, the Baron was right about … my relationship to the Comte.…”
“Yet very wrong, too?” asked Sir Robert.
I nodded.
“Comtesse, arrumph … I’m very ashamed. Never before behaved insultingly to a woman.” Again he cleared his throat. “This will be my way of making it up to you.”
“It’s quite unnecessary.”
But his blue eyes shone like an excited schoolboy’s. “Rescuing the Comte de Créqui from the jaws of the Revolution. Spiriting him from the Conciergerie! Gad, what an adventure!”
THREE
The Time of Terror
1792
Chapter One
A fine rain fell, blurring dust on the windows. The post had been stopped more than half an hour. The farm-wife sitting opposite (she smelled of garlic) was picking her teeth noisily. Her husband and Sir Robert stood at a distance, being interrogated by “patriots,” a pitiful group of men armed with ancient musketry. A few drenched, shivering peasants looked on. The unusual July rain fell on a scene as desolate as an abandoned battlefield. Fruit trees had been chopped down. No crops had been planted. Blackened chimneys and foundations, all that remained of a large house, lay a distance from the straggle of cottages.
A “patriot,” his shoulders covered with woven straw to keep out the rain, clumped through the ruts toward us. Opening the door, he asked, “Which of you is Mademoiselle d’Epinay?”
“I am.”
“Émigré?”
“No.”
“You left France, didn’t you?”
“But I’m returning.”
“Why?”
“It’s my country,” I said.
“Émigrés are to be jailed as traitors.”
“Traitor? Jail? Me?” I gave a false laugh. “I’m one of the seven that the patriots of France released from the Bastille.”
At this he took off his red wool cap and touched his forelock. I wasn’t surprised. Even the most ferocious “patriot” saluted this often-made speech. “Citizeness, it’s an honor to meet you,” he said. Turning to the others, he shouted, “Let ’em through.”
French Passion Page 27
