by French Leave
“Do you have to obey every word I say?”
“Mais oui, because I am so grateful to you for taking me to mon grand-père.”
“The more fool you,” growled Lord Waverly, and headed for bed without another word.
Chapter 3
An injury is much sooner forgot
than an insult.
PHILLIP DORMER STANHOPE,
EARL OF CHESTERFIELD,
Letters to His Son
They left Amiens the next morning while the boules players were still sleeping off the previous evening’s celebrations, and so departed unmolested for Arras. Here fortune smiled upon them, for Lord Waverly found an hôtel off the Grande Place which could offer the travelers separate rooms. Not, Waverly reflected ruefully, that such a consideration mattered any longer; Lisette had already been so long in his company that, were she to be recognized as a female at this point, her reputation would be ruined beyond redemption. But here, too, their luck held, for no one took notice of them at all beyond the idle curiosity afforded any foreign traveler.
By the time they had reached Calais, Waverly had begun to breathe easier, and Lisette had lost the hunted expression she had worn since their first encounter outside the Convent Sainte-Marie. As they boarded the packet to Dover, she fairly danced up the ladder in her eagerness to cast off. The earl, finding her enthusiasm perfectly suited to a boy of thirteen, made no attempt to dampen her high spirits, but watched in tolerant amusement as she darted below deck to inspect their quarters.
As he awaited her return, Lord Waverly fixed his eyes on the watery horizon and contemplated his return to his native soil. His reverie was at length interrupted by the sound of his own name, spoken in a distinctly British accent.
“Why, Lord Waverly, as I live and breathe!” cried his countryman, clapping him heartily on the back.
“Well met, Sedgewick,” Waverly responded, recognizing the stout, overdressed Englishman as a fellow member of White’s. “I had no idea you were in France.”
Sedgewick nodded. “Aye, these two months and more. But what of you? Never say you are returning to England!”
Lord Waverly cocked one eyebrow. “You would have me lie?”
“Why, how comes this about? I wasn’t aware that Ethan Brundy had died!”
Sedgewick laughed heartily at his own joke, but Waverly bared his teeth in a feral grin. “The last man to mention that name in my presence received a ball to his shoulder in the Bois de Boulogne.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord!” said his compatriot, more than a little affronted. “It would appear you have left your sense of humor in Paris!” he added before hurrying away, already planning how best to recount this shocking encounter to the members of White’s.
Lord Waverly turned away from Sedgewick’s retreating form, and found Lisette staring at him with wide eyes and a round “0” of a mouth.
“Milord!” she cried. “Did you challenge the English milord to the duel?”
“Not at all,” Waverly assured her. “He had the good sense to take his leave rather than risk giving me further provocation.”
“But—but what was it about?”
“Need you ask? A lady, of course,” said the earl.
Lisette stared down at the weathered planks of the deck. “This lady, she must have been very beautiful, n’est-ce pas?"
“Very.”
“And you wished to marry her, oui?”
“She was already married. I merely wished to entice her away from her husband. When she rebuffed me, I tried my hand at extortion, with the happy result of driving her into his arms. I told you I was no hero to be adulated,” he added with a wry grimace.
If this revelation served to dampen Lisette’s spirits, such an unhappy state did not last long. She was too young and too sanguine of disposition to brood indefinitely, and would, indeed, have found it difficult in any case to remain downcast on such a day. The Channel crossing was ever rough, but to Lisette, the unsteady dip and rise of the deck below her feet only added to the spirit of adventure. The sun danced in and out among scudding clouds, casting sparkling reflections on the waves, and Lisette, leaning forward over the railing for a better look, found herself seized firmly by the collar.
“Gently, brat,” advised Lord Waverly. “I have no intention of fishing you out of the Channel, so you’d best have a care.”
Lisette smiled up at him, and the earl, observing her bright eyes and ruddy, wind-kissed cheeks, could only wonder that her cropped hair and boys’ clothes had fooled anyone.
Four hours after boarding the packet, they disembarked in Dover, where Lord Waverly procured for them a nourishing repast.
“All right, brat,” said the earl, noting with some amusement that the sea voyage had left Lisette’s appetite unimpaired, “you are in England now. Where do we find this grandfather of yours?”
“Ah, but milord, I do not know.”
“You don’t know?" demanded Lord Waverly with lowering brow.
“Mais non! I have never been to England, so how could I know? But you! You are English, so naturellement I assumed—”
“My child, I am truly humbled by your faith in me, but I must point out that there are a few people in England whom I have never met!”
“Oh,” said Lisette, momentarily daunted.
“You are clearly a judgment upon me,” declared Lord Waverly, dashing a hand over his eyes. “As God is my witness, I will never again touch anything stronger than claret! Pray tell me, what, if anything, do you know of your grandfather?”
“I know his name is Robert, for Papa hoped to name me after him, but Mama thought Roberta was a name very ugly, and said Grand-père did not deserve that I should be named after him, on account of his having cast off Papa.” Her brow puckered as a new thought occurred to her. “I know he was a soldier, like Papa, and I know he hated the French, for he has never forgiven Papa for marrying une françoise. I also know that he must be very rich, for he cut Papa off without a sou, and unless he had great many of them, such a thing would not matter, n‘est-ce pas?”
The earl, following this speech with an effort, understood only that his promised reward had very likely no more substance than the proverbial castles in Spain. Nevertheless, it was all he had to go on, and so he betook himself to the nearest bookstore, where he spent several hours poring over a tome entitled Stevenson’s Guide to the Great Houses of England.
“We are bound for Lancashire,” he informed Lisette upon his return. “It appears your grandfather—who holds the rank of colonel, by the way—occupies a property there by the name of Colling Manor.”
They set out northward that very afternoon in a hired post-chaise. It had been four days since they left Paris; the trip to Lancashire required another three, and by the time the carriage at last rattled to a stop before Colling Manor, they had been traveling for more than a se’ennight. The sun was setting over the lowlands of western Lancashire, and Lisette, whose excitement over the coming reunion had at last spent itself, had drifted into sleep, her head lolling upon Lord Waverly’s shoulder. As the postilion leaped down to open the carriage door, Waverly gave his companion a gentle shake.
“Wake up, child, we’re here.”
Lisette sat upright and leaned across him to look out the window. Colling Manor was an imposing structure dating to the Jacobean era, with a pilastered façade ornamented with strapwork and punctuated at intervals with pointed arch windows. At present, these were decked in black crape, giving the house a forbidding aspect.
“It—It looks as if Grand-père is not at home,” Lisette said uncertainly.
“Let’s go see, shall we?”
He yielded to the urge to cup her elbow in his hand as she stepped down from the chaise, and side by side they mounted the steps to the portico. Here they found the door knocker also swathed in black. Waverly was suddenly conscious of a chill in spite of the warmth of his sleeve where Lisette’s head had lain. He raised the knocker and let it fall, then, fearful that its muted thu
d might not be heard within, stripped off his gloves and rapped sharply on the door. A moment later it swung open to reveal a cadaverous-looking butler wearing a black armband over the sleeve of his dark suit.
“Yes?” he uttered in sepulchral tones.
“Lord Waverly to see Colonel Colling,” the earl informed him.
“I fear that is impossible, your lordship,” responded the butler, “Colonel Colling died ten days ago.”
* * * *
“It will be dark soon,” said Lisette, after they had climbed back into the chaise and left Colling Manor behind.
“Thank you for that observation,” Waverly replied tartly.
“What will we do now?”
“My dear child, I haven’t the faintest idea,” said the earl with less than perfect truth. He had a very fair idea of where this adventure would end, and was equally certain that he would not be pleased with his fate. “Our first concern must be finding a place to stay for the night, and then in the morning we can—”
The carriage lurched drunkenly to the right, and Waverly broke off abruptly on an English word Lisette had never heard before. One look at his thunderous countenance, however, was enough to give her a very fair suspicion of its probable meaning, and she wisely forbore requesting a definition. Waverly sprang down to assist the coachman, and a moment later returned to help Lisette descend from the crippled vehicle.
“The rear axle is broken,” he said. “I’ve sent the coachman and postilion to see to its repair, while I find a place for you to stay the night. I seem to recall seeing a gate some distance back; perhaps we can get help there.”
They trudged over a mile before seeing the gate Waverly had remembered and, finding it open, followed the gravel drive to a large stucco edifice edged with iron railings in the Italian style, its tall, well-lit windows casting welcoming pools of light onto the manicured lawn. A greater contrast to the colonel’s dreary abode would have been difficult to imagine. Once again Lord Waverly knocked on the door, and once again it was opened to him by a stately-looking butler.
“Is your master in?” Waverly asked this promising personage. “We’ve met with an accident on the road, and I wonder if he might assist us.”
“And who shall I tell him is calling?”
Lord Waverly glanced at Lisette and hesitated, remembering all too well his ignominious flight from England and the peculiar circumstances in which he and his companion now found themselves. Until he discovered whose house he had stumbled upon, discretion, he decided, was the better part of valor.
“If you will take me to your master, I think I had best present myself directly to him.”
The butler recognized in the visitor’s voice the tone of one who will brook no argument and, except for muttering something about its being “highly irregular,” made no demur, but allowed the two visitors to follow him up the stairs to the first-floor drawing room. The door to this chamber was closed, and when the servant opened it to announce the caller, Lord Waverly was rewarded with a glimpse of his would-be host.
In the middle of the room, a man in his shirtsleeves crawled about on the floor with a pair of curly-haired tots, both squealing with delight, riding astride his back. The butler’s entrance caused the beast of burden to look up, and Lord Waverly, recognizing his host, was startled into exclamation.
“Good God! Not you!”
* * * *
It was not, thought Sir Ethan Brundy, the most distinguished manner in which to confront one’s mortal enemy for the first time in over four years. Easing his twin passengers to the floor, he rose to his feet and reached for the coat tossed carelessly across the back of a striped satin chair.
The children, sensing that their fun was at an end, were much inclined to cling to their father’s coattails, the firstborn, Master Charles Brundy, going so far as to regard the unwelcome visitor with accusing brown eyes and a lower lip thrust forward in a pout. His brother, Master William Brundy, the younger by some twelve minutes and ever the more vocal of the two, was more direct.
“‘oo’s dat man?” he demanded of his parent, pointing a pudgy finger at the invader.
“ ‘ush, Willie,” chided his father. “Lord Waverly is an old—acquaintance.”
“What’s ‘e doing ‘ere?” persisted Willie.
“I’d like to know that meself,” said Sir Ethan. “Run along to your mama, Willie. You too, Charlie.”
Master Charles obeyed, albeit reluctantly, but Willie Brundy was made of sterner stuff. “I want to stay with you,” he insisted, tugging at the tail of his father’s baggy coat.
Sir Ethan scooped the lad up into his arms, then turned back to regard the earl suspiciously. “I thought you were still in France, Waverly. What brings you ‘ere?”
“Not the pleasure of your company, I assure you,” drawled Waverly. “In fact, it took nothing less than a broken axle to, er, propel me to your door.”
Sir Ethan was spared the necessity of a reply by the entrance of his wife of four years, a honey-haired beauty bearing yet another dark-haired child, this one still in leading strings,
“Emily is so fussy, darling, do you suppose she could be cutting another—” But Emily’s teething woes were forgotten as she recognized the elder of the two callers. A wealth of shock and revulsion were contained in one word: “Waverly!”
“Lady Helen, your very obedient,” he said silkily, sweeping her an elegant leg. He bent his quizzing-glass upon the three children, then added in a bored drawl, “I have thought of you often over the past four years, my dear, but not once did I imagine you as the mother of no less than three weaver’s brats.”
“Four, actually,” said Lady Helen with some satisfaction. “The baby is napping.”
Waverly turned and trained his quizzing-glass upon the proud papa. “Do try for a little restraint, Mr. Brundy,” recommended the earl. “Overzealousness is the curse of the lower classes.”
“I daresay you will not have heard, living abroad, but Mr. Brundy is properly addressed as Sir Ethan,” said Lady Helen, chin held high.
“We won’t stand on ceremony with ‘is lordship, me dear.” Sir Ethan set Master William on his feet and sent him to his mama with a gentle swat to the derriere. “Take the children upstairs, ‘elen. I’ll be along directly.”
Lady Helen cast an uncertain glance at her husband and, receiving her answer in that method of silent communication peculiar to married couples, took her son by the hand. “Come along, William, you heard your father.”
By tacit agreement, neither man spoke until the door had closed behind Lady Helen and her children. Then Lord Waverly addressed his host. “Look here, I know this is deuced awkward, but I’d be most grateful if you could give my ward and me a room for the night.” As if fearing a rejection, he hastened to add, “I think you know I would not ask for such a favor were it not absolutely necessary.”
Though not gently born, Sir Ethan was an astute man, and he received the strong impression that there was more to Lord Waverly’s story than he was telling. Seeing the earl’s almost imperceptible nod in the direction of his young ward, Sir Ethan surmised the reason for Waverly’s reticence.
“You look fagged out,” he spoke kindly to the youth, who had been following the conversation with a baffled expression, much like one who enters the theatre during the second act of the play. “I’ll ‘ave the ‘ousekeeper show you to one of the guest rooms.”
He suited the word to the deed, and in a very short space of time a plump, matronly woman bore Lisette off with the promise of a plate of biscuits and a hot brick for her bed. Alone with his adversary, Sir Ethan regarded the earl expectantly.
“Will you ‘ave a drop of brandy, Waverly?”
Waverly would have accepted, but bethought himself of his vow. “Have you any claret instead?”
Sir Ethan raised his eyebrows at this unexpected request, but decanted the preferred liquid into a glass and handed it to his guest.
“Now, I wonder what sort of mischief you’re up to, tha
t you’d turn up on me doorstep after all this time?”
“Mischief?” echoed the affronted earl. “I assure you, I spoke no less than the truth when I said I’d had a carriage accident. And why you would suppose my motives to be dishonorable—”
“I daresay I was unduly influenced by the fact that you once kidnapped me wife,” Sir Ethan offered by way of apology.
“Au contraire,” protested Waverly. “Lady Helen entered my domicile of her own free will.”
“Aye, but would she ‘ave left it in like manner, if I’d not intervened?”
“Probably not, but this is all water under the bridge. If you must know, I’m in the devil of a coil. You will no doubt be surprised to learn that my ‘ward’ is, in fact, a young lady.”
Far from registering shock, Sir Ethan received this revelation without batting an eye. “Knowing you the way I do, I must say that doesn’t surprise me in the least.”
“I am doing my damnedest to prevent her becoming a nun!”
“You’d be the man to do it, too,” agreed Sir Ethan with a nod.
“It isn’t at all what you think!” growled the earl. “I discovered her escaping from a French nunnery, and I agreed to escort her to her grandfather in England.”
“Foxed, were you?” remarked Sir Ethan knowingly.
“Completely castaway, but that’s neither here nor there. We arrived at Colling Manor only to discover that the Colonel had died.”
“Aye, almost a fortnight ago.”
Lord Waverly heaved a sigh. “I shall have to marry the girl, I suppose.”
“I can’t see as ‘ow she’s done anything as bad as all that!” objected Sir Ethan.
“Touché!” said Waverly, acknowledging this hit by lifting his glass. “I assure you, I am fully aware of my unsuitability as husband to a child of seventeen! But what would you? If her grandfather had been alive, he and I might have concocted a story to satisfy the tabbies, but as it is, I can hardly abandon the girl.”
“What’s the matter, Waverly? ‘ave you developed a conscience, during all that time in France?”
