by Edith Layton
“That’s the worst of it,” Jenkins said cheerily as he began to spread some unguent and then carefully wrapped her foot in strips of linen. “It will hurt like the devil for a few more moments, but then it will ease off enough for you to sleep.”
True to his words, by the time Jenkins had straightened and begun to pack away his medicants and remove the ewer of water, Catherine’s pain had subsided to only a low cranky aching.
Jenkins retreated to his room after bidding her a pleasant good night, and Catherine had a moment of alarm as the marquis straightened but still stood looking at her. She was about to rise and hobble back to the hearthside when he said curtly, “I’ll retire to Jenkins’ room. I hope you’re an early riser. For we have to be off by first light.”
“You may be off wherever you choose,” Catherine said sleepily. “I shall wake early and go from here and bother you no more.”
“Don’t be absurd,” he snapped. “As a woman traveling alone you’ll never get past the door by yourself.”
“But I shan’t be a woman traveling alone,” she said, smiling. “I shall be a poor zany French lad.”
“In the night, you might have gotten away with it for a few hours,” he said sternly, “but never in the day.” He cut off her next words by saying swiftly, “And if you think you can, I beg you to remember what might have befallen you if we had not interceded with that pack of mercenary curs below stairs this evening. So you shall travel with us, unless you really do desire Pierre Richard’s fevered embrace and are only trying to up your price by being a little inaccessible when M. Beaumont comes to call.”
“I shall not travel with you,” Catherine whispered fiercely. “And, at any rate, it is not Pierre Richard, it is Hervé, that M. Beaumont intended me for. And I would rather face a horde such as I met this evening than—”
But she could say nothing further, for the marquis had taken her shoulders and gripped them hard. “Hervé?” he said fiercely. “Are you sure he said it was to be Hervé?”
“Yes,” she answered fearfully, for there was a terrible expression upon his face, and she could hear Jenkins give a low whistle from the doorway, where he stood watching them.
“Then we shall awake before first light,” the marquis said grimly, releasing her and turning to go. But before he left her to the sleep which exhaustion was drawing her to, swiftly and against her will, like water flowing down an open drain, he said harshly, “And if I discover you have taken one step from this room without my knowledge, you will wish we had left you to those misbegotten wretches downstairs. You will pray for Beaumont to come and save you, I swear it.”
While Catherine abandoned her struggle against the weariness that was closing her eyes to his retreating form and her mind to the thousand questions that assailed it, the marquis was ordering Jenkins back to the bed from which he had risen.
“I’ll take the floor,” he said savagely. “It won’t be the first time and I feel the need of some penance. Hervé! There’s a turn. Bonaparte must be closer than we had thought. For if Beaumont is beginning to shower Hervé with gifts, it’s certain that his little corporal has quit his island empire and is on his way. Henri’s not a fellow to squander his riches or to take chances with fate. He takes no risks.”
“Aye,” Jenkins agreed, as he took the bedcovers and rolled them into a makeshift bedroll for the marquis over the latter’s angry protestations. “And he’ll be like a hound on the lass’s traces if he’s already promised her to Hervé. For nothing makes a fellow more of a no-account than promising something he fails to deliver. And Beaumont can’t afford being thought a noaccount, not with big things in the wind. And won’t it be sweet for him to deliver up to his new master a fine English gentleman that he can prove is a spy once hostilities are opened again? He’ll have your head neatly from your neck, lad, the moment Bonie’s got one toe back on the throne. It will be a double risk, traveling with the lady.”
“Lady?” snorted the marquis, settling himself for sleep. “But no matter. Whatever she is, I can’t leave her here. For whatever she is, she seems to have no more talent for self-preservation than she had for companioning.”
“Oh, I think she’s a lady,” Jenkins said softly in the darkened room, “for there’s no cause for a trollop to put herself to such rigs when she’s been offered such a plum. And, at any rate,” he yawned, “you have only to look at her and listen to her to know she’s telling the truth.”
“A courtesan has to be a good actress,” Sinjun whispered, almost to himself.
“Ahh, you’re just narked because you’re merely the fourth fellow to kiss her,” Jenkins laughed lightly. “Fifth, if you count the lad with the bad aim.”
The reply was a pillow flung across the room and a curt, “You’re a cat-footed sneak. Go to sleep. We have to be up early.”
But as he drifted off to sleep, there was no look of anger on the marquis’ face. Instead, one would have thought, looking at the small easy smile that he fell to sleep with while thinking of the female in the next room, that his was the best of worlds.
It was an early hour and the few birds that had braved the chill rain to greet the first light of a March morning were unheard in the finest room the inn at Saint-Denis had to offer. For a low-voiced but fierce battle was raging there.
Catherine stood, backed up against the fireplace mantel, dressed again in her outsize gentleman’s jacket, with her low-brimmed hat pulled over her forehead. The marquis towered over her, advancing upon her with his hands on his narrow hips, dressed as a gentleman of fashion, but raging like a low brawler.
“You shall not go on by yourself,” he said adamantly. “You shall travel with us and there’s an end to it.”
Catherine shook her head stubbornly.
“I know what you think of me,” she insisted, “and your saying that it’s your position as a gentleman to defend me makes no difference. I am capable of looking after myself.”
The marquis groaned in annoyance and she went on bravely, “So unless you intend to carry me out kicking and screeching, you shall have to let me go on alone. For I do know that you have no wish to draw undue attention to yourself. I’m not entirely stupid, you know, just unlucky. And I do not desire your company,” she said defiantly, tilting up her chin to get a better look at him from under the brim of the hat.
His face softened unexpectedly. Really, he thought, she looked such a complete waif in her bedraggled getup that the absurdity of her appearance and the spirited defense she was offering irrationally combined to make her irresistible.
A new train of thought occurred to him and he shrugged and turned from her.
“All right,” he said quietly. “I can, as you say, do no more. I can but let you go your own way. Of course, it is true that you do know a great deal more of Jenkins and my doings than any other man in France. In fact, if you were indeed a man, we should not be expected to let you go, if only for our own safety. For there is little doubt that Beaumont has unpleasant but extremely persuasive ways about him” he added grimly. “And there is also little doubt that as much as he needs you to build up his own personal empire, he needs poor Jenkins and me. Our heads in a basket would only add to his prestige. And once he has caught you, it will be the work of a moment to get our direction from you and then, of course, capture us.”
He heard a little gasp from behind him.
“I should never tell him,” she said stoutly.
“Oh, you should not care to, I’m sure,” he sighed. “But, of course, he has ways of making strong men tell all.”
In the small space of silence that fell as Catherine remembered M. Beaumont’s implacable smile and strong hands, the marquis continued, “If you were a man, I make no doubt that Jenkins would either have dispatched you already or, failing that, enlisted you in our cause. But as you are a woman…” He shrugged again.
“There is no need to make an exception,” the little voice said sadly. “And as I do not care to be, however inadvertently, an accomplice of M.
Beaumont, I shall come with you. But,” she added, as she turned, “I shall expect you to treat me as you would any man.”
“As a lady, never fear,” he corrected her.
“No,” she insisted, her voice rising again, “just as you would a man. I ask no special courtesies of you. Treat me as an equal.”
When Jenkins returned to the room, there was another acrimonious dispute being waged. He smiled to himself and then called their attention to his recently acquired burdens.
“The kitchen maid was glad to part with her second best dress, as a present for my own little French friend, you understand, and for a substantial price. And, My Lord, you and I are pleased to be the owners of these splendid garments, courtesy of the landlord and his stock of repossessed clothing from guests who stayed the night and went forfeit on their baggage when they could not ante up the price of their accommodations. We shall be a trio of right Frenchies till we reach Dieppe. And,” he went on triumphantly, “there’s a sadly used old mare, for a gift to my little French mistress’s father, that I managed to persuade the innkeeper to part with. For a staggering fee,” he said sadly, “but it is done.”
“A good morning’s work,” the marquis said.
“I can’t wear a dress,” Catherine said nervously, “for the landlady saw a little boy come up here last night.”
“And so she shall see a little lad leave this morning,” the marquis said over his shoulder as he inspected the garments.
“And as soon as we take the turn in the road, the little simpleton will disappear forever. In his place will be a comely peasant lass. In this,” he said, holding up a simple faded-blue long-skirted frock.
“I’ll bind up your foot well,” Jenkins added, beginning to fold up the clothes for storage in his traveling bag, “And slit the boot so you can get into it. We’ll bind it on with rope. It will only be a little way to walk,” he assured her, seeing her distress.
“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s only that I dislike being a burden to you.”
“Think of it,” the marquis commanded, snapping his bag together, “as being a necessary evil, if you will. For your own safety, and ours. And,” he added jauntily, as Jenkins bent to help her with her boot, “I think I’ll carry your treasure with me for a while, seeing as how now your strong box has been breached.”
So it was that at an early hour the landlady of the inn at Saint-Denis saw the two fine gentlemen off. They had decided, they said, not to wait upon the coach, as it would no doubt be sadly crowded. The simpleton, she noted, limping badly and dragging his battered carpetbag, came down the stair a few moments after them. As her other guests were beginning to descend for their breakfast, she did not see the lad hobble off out her door. And by the time other patrons began to throng her front room, waiting for the delayed diligence to arrive, she had forgotten that she had not seen the quiet little ragged simpleton come to breakfast.
The marquis and Jenkins stood waiting for Catherine, atop their horses, as she finally hobbled to the crossroads they had indicated was far enough from the inn. But before they let her mount the speckled gray they had procured for her, they insisted she divest herself of her costume and put on the peasant’s dress.
In the chill rain, Catherine stood behind some bushes at a distance from the road and changed quickly. Then she gathered up her things and emerged again by the side of the road.
The sight that met her eyes made her heart stop beating for a moment. For there were two evil-looking rogues atop the marquis and Jenkins’ horses. One was a swaggering younger fellow with patched trousers and a once-white shirt open at his throat. He wore a scarlet bandanna carelessly tied about his neck. The other was a gruff, grizzled fellow with a slouched hat and a none-too-clean jacket tied about his waist with a frayed belt. She was about to dart back into hiding when she heard the marquis’ deep voice call out to her. He slipped from his horse’s back and bowed to her, a wicked smile upon his lips.
“You haven’t seen the devil, child, just two vagabonds set on keeping you company. Vite, vite. We have some traveling to do.”
He helped her up into the saddle, and let his hands rest upon her waist for one extra insulting moment, and then laughed at her uncomfortable expression.
“Now, now. You did say you wished to be treated as an equal. Now I’d never keep hold of a lady for so long, but any fellow would only thank me for making sure he was well seated before we took off.”
Catherine tossed back her head and pretended not to hear Jenkins’ snort of amusement. She was fully prepared to brood upon the marquis’ impertinence, and to worry whether he had noted the shock of pleasure she had felt at his touch. But once he had remounted his horse, he slapped her old mount sharply on the rump to get her started, and they were off. Riding in the cold wind-blown mists soon took her thoughts from his warm touch and turned them irrevocably to thoughts of the fine chill rain that found its way unerringly down her collar to trace icy fingers along her back.
By the time they drew their horses to rest beside a farmhouse, Catherine was thoroughly chilled. Not much conversation had been possible as they rode the muddy lanes in the gusting wind. And now it was with a distinct shock that she felt the marquis help her down and heard his low voice whisper in her ear, “The good wife here is curious. So say nothing. Your grasp of the language, I recall, is inadequate. You’re my woman, for the remainder of the trip at least”—he laughed at her upturned face—“and very shy. But your brother and I will take care of you. We’ve bargained for a rough luncheon and then we’re off again. So sit as close to the fire as you’re able.”
Catherine was grateful for the bread and cheese and rough wine that the farm wife provided, and loath to leave her perch by the fire when the marquis arose and bade their hostess farewell. But she was determined not to be a hindrance to them, and duly remounted and rode off without protest when they indicated it was time.
The remainder of the afternoon became one wet, miserable blur to her. Even in later years she could not remember the route they had taken that day. She kept her gaze firmly on the horse’s ears and prayed for some benevolent god to stop the wind and rain.
By the time dusk fell, the rain had mercifully stopped, and the increasing winds were drying the lanes they traveled, turning some of the ruts to ice.
“This must be the house Madame indicated,” Catherine heard the marquis say. And while she was still gazing numbly at the tilted roof on the weatherworn house at which they had stopped, she felt the marquis swing her down from her saddle.
“It’s in bad shape,” Jenkins said, as they entered the simple one-room house through a door that was banging in the wind.
“War takes curious turns,” the marquis agreed, “for when the master of this hovel died in glorious battle and his wife had to go beg to relatives, I doubt they could have guessed their home would ever provide succor to their dearest enemies.”
Seeing no chairs or furniture, Catherine simply lowered herself onto a wooden box by the side of the fireplace.
“You do have a propensity for gravitating to hearthsides,” the marquis noted. “I wonder at such a sit-by-the-fire being able to pick herself up to travel the Continent in such high-flying fashion.”
But seeing how weariness had stilled her tongue, he left her and set about building up the fire and held low converse with Jenkins about securing the horses in the half-timbered barn that remained.
After a welcome dinner of cheese and bread that Jenkins had foraged earlier, and after warming herself thoroughly by the fire, Catherine stretched and began to take lively note of their surroundings again.
The marquis sat at ease across from her on a box he had found in the barn, and Jenkins sat cross-legged on the floor, gazing into the fire.
“I suppose,” Catherine said conversationally, “that it won’t be too long before we reach Dieppe, will it, Your Lordship?”
“Oh, Catherine,” the marquis answered. “Have done with ‘Your Lordship.’ We are not precisely in a d
rawing room here. I doubt the mice will be offended if all the proprieties are not observed. At any rate,” he went on, pleased to see blush upon her cheek, “It would be nothing wonderful if you did not blurt “Your Lordship” the next time we were in a crowd of Frenchmen, if you persist in calling me that. I should hate to lose my head due to an overnice attention to the correct social forms of address.
“But no, I am sorry for it, but it will be long before we reach Dieppe. It will be never. No, don’t startle. I haven’t formed the intention of becoming a lifetime resident here. It is only that too many people knew you were bound for Dieppe. Indeed, I think soon half the English in Paris will be bound for Dieppe, and it will be the logical place for Beaumont to pick up your trail. No, we will journey to Le Havre. And we shall not find ourselves berths upon a tourist packet for we will be snugly accommodated on some fishing vessel. Brandy, lace, and smuggled souls are high trade on the coast. And I think that, sly as he is, still M. le Commissaire Beaumont will not look to find one of the duchess’s doxies sharing her seat with a haddock.”
Sinjun looked up to see Catherine’s face blanch. She looked as though he had slapped her, and he turned in sudden uncomfortable contrition to Jenkins.
“It grows late, old friend. Let’s gather in some hay to make this wretched floor pass for a feather bed.”
As they rose to go to the door, Sinjun looked back at Catherine, who was ostensibly studying her fingernails with concentration.
“Forgive me,” he whispered back to her. “I have a rash tongue, and I’m sorry for it.”
Resting upon her pelisse, which lay over the mound of straw Sinjun and Jenkins had provided, Catherine stared into the darkness. Sinjun lay not far from her on the other side of the fireplace, and Jenkins, nearer to the door, breathing heavily.
She was warm and full and the two men in the room gave her a feeling of comfort and security such as she had not known in many weeks, but still she could not sleep. Her conscience twinged. Perhaps it was because she was just where she wished to be, she thought with sudden alarm. The sense of contentment and pleasure in the marquis’ company was so overwhelming that, try as she might, she could not imagine a place where she would rather be. And yet she felt that if he but knew her deep contentment, he would be somehow displeased. He would be, she thought further, convinced that she was no better than a light woman. For what decently reared girl would be so pleased in such bizarre, irregular circumstances? She ought to be, she thought sternly, fearful and trembling in distress, not as contented as a sleepy puppy.
