by French Leave
“Oui, so you said at the time,” Lisette said placidly, retrieving her cup and sipping the warm liquid.
Waverly leaped to his feet, and instantly regretted it. The room spun crazily around him, forcing him to sit down on the edge of the bed. “And you came with me anyway? Good God, girl, have you run mad?”
“Mais non, milord, you were in every way the gentleman. You even offered me the bed.”
“Well, that was certainly generous of me,” muttered the earl. “Thank God you had the sense to refuse that offer, at any rate.”
“Oh, but you assured me you were not so desperate for, ah, la société de la femme that you would stoop to ravishing les religieuses”
Waverly groaned and covered his bloodshot eyes with his hand. “I must have been even drunker than I imagined!”
“Now you would like some café, oui? Will you take sugar?”
“No, make it straight black,” said Lord Waverly, accepting a cup from her hand. Having drunk two cups of this reviving brew, he washed, shaved, and dressed, after which he felt more capable of facing the situation in which he now found himself.
“So I promised to take you to England,” he remarked to his companion. “Did I, by any chance, happen to mention what I intended to do with you when we arrived there?”
“Mais oui, milord. You agreed to take me to mon grand-père, who will give you a reward of the most generous for your trouble.”
“So this shatter-brained scheme was your idea? You relieve my mind! Now it remains only to decide how we are to smuggle you out of Paris.” Lord Waverly studied Lisette for a long moment. No womanly curves were discernable beneath her shapeless habit, leading the earl to deduce that her figure was as yet undeveloped. “I think our best bet is to disguise you as a boy, and let it be known that you are my ward,” he declared at the end of this inspection.
Lisette was not best pleased with this plan. “A boy, milord? Pourquoi? Why should your ward not be a girl?”
“Because no one in his right mind would name me ward to a girl of seventeen!”
“Très bien, then I will be your sister,” pronounced Lisette.
“My dear child, I am thirty-five years old! You might well be my daughter!”
Lisette could not agree. “C’est absurd! If I were your daughter, I must have been sired when you were but seventeen!”
“Just so,” the earl said darkly.
He left Lisette alone to ponder the significance of this cryptic utterance while he undertook to procure a suit of clothes befitting a boy of, he thought, about thirteen. It was while he went about this task that he first heard the rumors of a wicked girl who had escaped from the convent of Sainte-Marie on the very morning she was to have taken her vows.
Being nominally Anglican, Lord Waverly had not given much thought to what might happen to Lisette if she were captured, and he was disturbed by the whispered horrors of hair shirt and scourge. His rôle in Lisette’s flight underwent a metamorphosis from the capricious lark of an inebriate to a mission which must succeed.
Having purchased a shirt, coat, trousers, shoes, and stockings, Lord Waverly stopped at the frame shop below his lodgings and requested of its proprietor the loan of a pair of shears. Lisette, fully cognizant of the need for disguise, received her new wardrobe with resignation, but questioned the necessity of the scissors.
“What do you intend to cut, milord? Are the shirtsleeves too long, perhaps?”
“Take off your headdress, Lisette,” said Lord Waverly, not quite meeting her trusting gaze.
Lisette obeyed and the headdress was removed, revealing a cloud of dusky curls.
“Unpin your hair.”
As realization dawned, Lisette’s dark eyes grew wide with horror. “Non, milord, do not cut my hair! I will cover it with a hat, and no one will ever suspect!”
“They are already searching for you,” Waverly informed her. “Your escape is already the talk of Paris, and God help me, I didn’t know until I heard it in the streets what a price you will pay if you are caught. We cannot take foolish chances.”
“But, milord—”
“No buts, my child. If you expect to reach England safely, you must do as I say.”
Reluctantly, Lisette removed the pins from her hair, and the dark locks tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. Without a word, Waverly set to with the scissors, and for a long time there was no sound in the tiny room save the metallic snip of the blades and the hushed whisper of Lisette’s long hair sliding down the back other habit to land at Waverly’s feet.
“Finished,” the earl pronounced at last. “It is a comfort to know that, should my skill at cards ever desert me, I can support myself as a valet.”
Receiving no reply to this admittedly lame attempt at humor, he laid aside the scissors, took Lisette’s chin in his hand, and tipped it up, the better to survey his handiwork. Freed of its weight, Lisette’s remaining hair curled riotously about her head in a manner many a dandy required the use of curling tongs to achieve. But the earl’s admiration of his chef d’oeuvre was cut short by the sight of Lisette’s brimming eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Lord Waverly, who would have hardened his heart against hysterics, stroked her damp cheek with one finger.
“It will grow again, ma petite,” he said gently.
“Oui, milord,” agreed Lisette, her voice little more than a whisper.
* * * *
They remained in Paris for three days, waiting for the hue and cry surrounding Lisette’s disappearance to die down. Lisette, in her boy’s clothes, chafed under this forced inactivity, but Lord Waverly, while not unsympathetic, remained adamant. By day, he did his best to enliven his ward’s confinement by recounting highly expurgated tales of his life in London; by night, he presented himself without fail at the Salon des Étrangers, where his skill at hazard soon won him the wherewithal to hire a post-chaise to convey them to Calais, where they might board a packet for Dover.
In exchange for one of his livelier (and more heavily edited) stories, Lord Waverly required an accounting of how she came to escape from the convent of Sainte-Marie.
“I never wished to enter the convent at all,” Lisette replied candidly, “but Maman and Papa died when I was still quite young—” Waverly’s lips twitched slightly at the implication that Lisette’s youth lay in the distant past. “—and Oncle Didier and Tante Simone, who had taken me in, they wish me to marry mon cousin Raoul, who has a face like a weasel. Quel horreur!”
“Unthinkable!” agreed Lord Waverly, and although he shuddered visibly, his blue eyes gleamed with amusement.
“You tease me, milord, but it is quite true,” Lisette chided him. “Alors, when I tell Raoul I will not marry him, Oncle Didier and Tante Simone say I must take the veil, for they have not the means to support me any longer. For Papa was cut off by his papa for marrying Maman, and so I have no expectations.”
Waverly raised a hand to interrupt this rambling monologue. “A moment, please. I thought you said your paternal grandfather would reward me handsomely for bringing you safely to England.”
Lisette’s black-eyed gaze fell to her lap, and she looked the picture of guilt. “As to that, I have never met mon grand-père, although I know he is very rich. And,” she added hopefully, looking eagerly up at the earl, “I should think that by this time he must regret most bitterly that he cast off his only son, oui? And be pleased to discover he has une petite-fille?”
Lord Waverly tried to look stem, and failed. “I see it all now! You did not escape from the convent at all. The Mother Superior undoubtedly tossed you willy-nilly over the wall!”
Lisette looked up hopefully. “Then milord is not angry?”
“On the contrary, I consider it a judgment upon me for over-imbibing.”
Lisette snatched up his hand and pressed it to her lips. “Oh, I am so glad, for I have suffered agonies of guilt!”
“You will pardon me for observing that you kept your sufferings remarkably well-hidden,” remarked Lord Waverly, gently
withdrawing his hand from Lisette’s grasp. “You are a designing minx, and I can only wonder that you went so meekly to Saint-Marie.”
“Oh, but Tante Simone assured me that I did not have to stay if I did not like it. Moi, I know I will not like it, but Tante is sad because I will not marry her son, so I do as she wishes and go to Sainte-Marie. And I am très misérable, just as I expected.”
“And your uncle and aunt?”
“I write to them many letters, telling them I am unhappy, but they never come for me. So the night before I am to make my vows, I stay awake all night. I tell Mamére I wish to spend the night in prayer, and she allows me to keep a candle burning in my chamber. And I do pray, but my prayers are for deliverance. Also I tear my bed sheets into strips and make for myself a rope. Then, much later, I climb up to the roof, tie my rope to the gutter, and lower myself down over the wall. That is when you came along.” She paused here and regarded Lord Waverly seriously. “Do you think I am very wicked, running away from the convent when it was what my uncle and aunt particularly wished?”
“My dear child,” the earl was moved to declare, “I think you are quite possibly the bravest person I have ever known.”
But her bravery was to be tried still further. They departed for Calais at ten o’clock in the morning, in full view of half the citizens of Paris. Lisette was all for slipping out under cover of darkness, but Lord Waverly was adamant: they would not indulge in any behavior which might be interpreted as clandestine. Lisette could not but think his dedication to this program extreme, as when he insisted not only upon stopping downstairs to pay for his lodgings and arrange to have transported to England those of his belongings which he must of necessity leave behind, but going so far as to make his young ward known to his landlady. Lisette was quite undone by this unexpected introduction, but Madame Valliers saw nothing in young Luc’s manner beyond the quite natural shyness of a boy on the verge of adolescence, and so Lord Waverly and his ward boarded their hired post-chaise unmolested and were soon on their way.
“C’est merveilleux!” cried Lisette, removing the flat-crowned cap that covered her cropped hair. “Madame was not in the least suspicious!”
“And why should she be suspicious of a mere lad?” responded Lord Waverly, watching through the window as the post-chaise swung northward.
“I look so much like a boy?” asked Lisette, her smooth white brow furrowed in a frown. “Vraiment, I do not think that is a compliment!”
Lord Waverly abandoned his inspection of the passing scenery and turned to face her. “Do you want compliments, or do you want to reach your grandfather in England?”
“I want to reach mon grand-père,” Lisette replied without hesitation. “But if I were a boy, I would wish to grow up to be just such a man as you.”
“Good God, why? I wouldn’t wish such a fate on my worst enemy!” exclaimed Lord Waverly, rendered extremely uncomfortable by the soft glow lighting Lisette’s dark eyes. “I am no hero to be adulated, Lisette. You would do well to bear it in mind.”
Lisette would have argued the point, but seeing the forbidding expression on her guardian’s face, she wisely held her tongue. For the next eight hours, the post-chaise bowled steadily northward, stopping at intervals to exchange the winded and sweating horses for fresh cattle. Each of these delays was a fresh agony for Lisette, impatient as she was to put the choppy waters of the Channel between herself and the convent of Sainte-Marie. She bore it all, however, with stoic fortitude until they reached the city of Amiens, where Lord Waverly announced his intention of procuring a meal and a room for the night.
“Mais non!” cried Lisette, her expressive eyes growing round with alarm. “Better that we should press on to Arras.”
“Arras? Nonsense, child! It would take another five hours or more.”
“Five hours is not so very much—” Lisette began, only to be cut short.
“Now, look here,” said Lord Waverly sternly, “you’re the one who invited me along on this little jaunt, and if you want me to get you to England safely, you’ll be quiet and let me do it my way!”
“Oui, milord,” Lisette said meekly.
Accordingly, she made no demur when they drew up before a bustling posting-house, but donned her boys’ cap and followed Lord Waverly from the chaise. The inn yard fairly bustled with activity, most of which appeared to be centered around a small bowling-green where gathered more than a score of men of all ages and social situations. As a quartet of men took turns rolling small wooden boules across the green, the various members of the group either cheered or groaned, according to the fate of their favorites.
“We seem to have arrived on tournament-day,” remarked Waverly, who had not lived in France for four years without becoming acquainted with the national sport.
Lisette vouchsafed no response beyond an anxious glance at the boules players, but entered the posting-house in Lord Waverly’s wake. The inside, too, was crowded, and Waverly was not surprised when his request for two adjacent rooms was denied.
“Mille pardons, milord, I don’t have an empty room to boast of,” said the hôtelier with some satisfaction, for he could tell at a glance that his patron was one of those debt-ridden Englishmen who had crossed the Channel in droves since le petit général had been banished to an ignominious exile on St. Helena.
Waverly accepted this disappointment with equanimity, drawing a golden louis from his pocket. “A pity,” he said, turning the coin over in his hand. “I must hope for better luck at the Lion d‘Or. Come, Luc.”
Whether it was the sight of the gold coin, in such short supply since the Revolution, or the mention of a rival establishment that jogged his memory, mine host suddenly bethought himself of a spare chamber which he had, until that moment, quite unaccountably forgotten. This he offered to Lord Waverly, along with his sincere regrets that he had no second chamber to offer milord’s companion. Would milord and the young gentleman perhaps desire a private parlour in which to dine?
Recalling the boisterous group outside, Lord Waverly was sorely tempted. But he was determined not to act in any way secretive, and so he opted for the coffee-room, secure in the conviction that by the time the athletes finished toasting the health of the winners and drowning the sorrows of the losers, not one of them would notice a woman if she danced naked upon the table.
He allowed the innkeeper to usher them to a table in the coffee-room and to place before them a bottle of the local wine and a pair of glasses. Lisette downed her wine greedily and reached for the bottle.
“Are you sure that is wise, enfant?" asked Lord Waverly, observing this action with a raised eyebrow.
“You forget that I am French, milord,” she said, lifting her chin. “Sans doute, I could drink you under the table, if I wished.”
“Be that as it may, I do not think this is the time to put it to the test,” Waverly replied, firmly moving the bottle out of her reach.
“You only say that because—” Lisette broke off abruptly, her frightened gaze fixed on some point over Waverly’s left shoulder.
“What is it?” he asked, resisting the urge to turn around. “What is the matter?”
“It—it appears the tournament is over, milord.”
Indeed, the door to the tap-room had opened to admit some half-dozen young bucks, all arguing animatedly about the game just ended.
“You are a great fool, Henri,” one informed another in tones of disgust. “Why did you not fire at the cork, hein?”
“You must have known your point would be off the mark,” concurred another.
“Mais non!” cried the wronged Henri, launching into an impassioned defense of his skill.
Lord Waverly nodded at the group as they came abreast of his table, wondering what about them Lisette had found so frightening. The players returned his nod, most affording his youthful companion only the most cursory of glances before passing on. One, however, lingered long enough to favor Lisette with a piercing stare, then hurried to catch up with his croni
es.
Waverly, observing this exchange and noting his companion’s pale countenance, said briskly, “The hour is far advanced, Luc, and you should be in your bed.”
“Oui, milord,” Lisette murmured, casting him a grateful look as she rose from the table.
After she had gone, it was but a moment before the boules player returned to Lord Waverly’s table.
“A handsome lad,” remarked the Frenchman, eyeing the earl speculatively. Several years Waverly’s junior, he possessed a pair of close-set, narrow eyes, a longish nose, and a pointed chin. “A relative, perhaps?”
Lord Waverly had supposed Lisette’s unflattering description other cousin to be figurative, but now realized that she had spoken quite literally. “My ward. And handsome, yes, but a bit more prettified than I would like. It is to be hoped that a few years at sea as a midshipman will make a man of him. Will you sit and have a drop?” he asked, indicating the bottle of wine.
The Frenchman demurred, pleading the necessity of returning to his friends, and took his leave. Lord Waverly let out a long breath and forced himself to remain at the table over another glass of wine before joining Lisette upstairs.
“Well, you insufferable brat,” he said, shutting the door of their shared chamber, “there is a young man below who takes an uncommon interest in you. Have you any idea why?”
Lisette nodded. “It is mon cousin, Raoul. Did I not say he had a face like a weasel?”
“Your cousin is here? I thought your family was fixed in Paris!”
“Mais non! I never said my family was in Paris. They live in Amiens, where Oncle Didier is un avocat. You must have assumed they lived in Paris because that is where my convent was,” she added helpfully,
“Do you realize how close we came to being discovered back there?” demanded Lord Waverly, livid with anger and badly frayed nerves.
“Oui, I feared as much,” confessed Lisette. “That is why I wished to go on to Arras.”
“Well, why the devil didn’t you say so?”
“I tried, but you told me to be quiet and let you do it your way,” she reminded him.
