“Eliza’s coachman, Jacques, will take excellent care of me,” she assured him.
“Jacques? He’s French?” Edward was clearly appalled.
“All of Eliza’s servants are. They all come from her husband’s estate. And trust me, they are all very loyal to her.”
“Be careful,” he repeated.
“I shall. Thank you for your hospitality, although I didn’t take advantage of it for very long.”
“You are always welcome here,” he said.
“Thank you, dear brother. If it were up to you, I’m sure that would be true.”
“Elizabeth means well . . .”
Jane put her hand to her brother’s cheek. “It’s fine, Edward.”
Edward nodded as they stepped to the carriage. “Please take care, Jane.” He handed her a parcel he had waiting at the door. “This is for you,” he said.
Pleased, she accepted the package. “Is it writing paper?” His indulgent smile told her the answer. Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Edward!” Then before any further displays of affection could embarrass her, Jane turned to go outside.
Jacques was waiting respectfully. He had already stowed Jane’s trunk, whose shabbiness was an embarrassment to the elegant vehicle.
His face was round and dark and perfectly inscrutable, as a good servant’s should be. His only unusual characteristic was a shock of brown hair that stood up from the back of his head. As soon as Jane appeared he hurried to open the door to the carriage.
The carriage was even more luxurious inside than out. The dark red velvet seats were plush and thick, to cushion the traveler against ruts in the road. Jacques had put heated bricks in felt pockets on the floor so her toes would stay warm. Trust Eliza to travel in comfort.
Jane looked through the narrow rectangle of glass behind her head. She caught a glimpse of the window of their room, but Cassandra was gone, conscripted no doubt to help with the children. Jane gave a quick wave to Edward and sat back in her comfortable seat.
With a shake of the reins, the carriage lurched forward. Jane was off for a rendezvous with adventure. She could not recall looking forward to anything quite so much. But Godmersham was not long behind them when Jacques opened the small window that let the driver communicate with his passengers.
“Mademoiselle Austen, I fear we are being followed.”
CHAPTER 4
This sort of mysteriousness, which is
always so becoming in a hero . . . increased
her anxiety to know more of him.
NORTHANGER ABBEY
Jane scrambled to her knees to peer out the back window. Even though it was still early afternoon, the road was deserted—not a farmer or wagon to be seen for miles, just a solitary horseman charging toward them. He was several hundred feet behind the carriage, but he was gaining.
Jane’s heart skipped a beat; her brothers were always warning her about bandits who preyed on innocent travelers. It would be too aggravating to have to admit that Edward had been right.
“Hold tight, mademoiselle.” Jacques cracked his whip and the carriage lurched forward.
Bracing herself against the jolting, Jane fixed her eyes on the rider. As he urged his steed faster, Jane saw he wore a dark black cape and hat. He drew closer, and she saw that he had draped a scarlet scarf about his face, hiding his features. Her fingers tightened on the windowsill. She was breathing so quickly she felt lightheaded. “Make haste, Jacques!” she shouted.
In another moment, the horseman drew abreast of the carriage horses and pointed a pistol at Jacques.
“Stop the carriage,” the bandit shouted.
Jacques ignored him and whipped the horses to greater speed.
“Stop the carriage!” the bandit shouted again as he fired the pistol in the air. His horse, frothing at the bit from its exertions, reared. Rounding a turn, the carriage tipped, the wheels on the right side leaving the ground. Jane was thrown against the side of the carriage and then fell to the floor. She squeezed her eyes tight, waiting for the crash, but with a terrible thud the carriage wheels slammed back onto the road. Jacques shouted at the horses and cracked his whip.
“Jacques, do as he says!” Jane shouted as loudly as she could. “Stop, Jacques! Arrêtez!” If the choice were to be crushed in a carriage accident or to face an armed bandit, she would take her chances with the bandit.
Jacques pulled the horses to a stop. Jane climbed back to her seat and breathed deeply, forcing herself to be calm.
Outside the carriage, the man reined in his horse. Carefully replacing his pistol in a holster at his belt, he called out. “Madame, I apologize for my brusqueness. I sincerely pray that you suffered no injury. I meant no discourtesy, but I had no other way to beg an audience. Come out of the carriage, s’il vous plaît.”
Straining to hear every word, Jane peeked out the window. Disbelief warred with relief in her mind. The gunman didn’t sound like a criminal. Perhaps he was a gentleman-bandit, such as one read about in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels? Jane couldn’t believe her luck to actually meet one.
I am not afraid, she told herself. She adjusted her bonnet and straightened her gloves. She stepped outside. The wind was sharp and sliced through her woolen pelisse.
She lifted her chin to consider her pursuer. His clothes showed signs of hard travel and long wear, but she could see that they had originally been tailored and expensive. A gentleman-bandit indeed.
“Mademoiselle!” he said, surprise evident in his voice. “Please ask the Comtesse de Feuillide to join us.”
“And if I decline?” she asked. “Would you shoot me?”
“I would much prefer not to,” he said in a genial manner.
“You are no bandit,” she said, contemplating his appearance and demeanor. “Perhaps you are a French émigré fallen upon hard times?”
“Very hard times,” he agreed. Above the disguising scarf, his eyes were dark brown with flecks of gold. “I shall ask again: Please have the Comtesse de Feuillide step outside.”
“I am alone,” Jane said matter-of-factly, although the words made her realize how vulnerable she was. Jacques was perched high on the carriage seat, and what could he do to protect her from a pistol?
“This is the Comtesse’s carriage, is it not?” he said, gesturing toward the crest on the door behind Jane. It was newly painted in gold and proclaimed to anyone with a knowledge of heraldry that this was the de Feuillide carriage.
“Yes, it is. But I assure you I am its only occupant.”
The man dismounted, strode past her, and threw open the carriage door. “Where is she?” he demanded, turning to Jane.
“I am not accustomed to being interrogated by strangers who are armed,” she said, watching him carefully. He was of medium height and medium build. His hands were gloved so she could see no identifying ring. Even his hair was hidden under his sweeping hat. Was there nothing to distinguish him except those gold-speckled eyes?
He paused, and then bowed slightly from his waist in the Continental fashion. “I must apologize for my ill manners. Would you be so good as to tell me where I could find the Comtesse?”
A mysterious Frenchman was looking for Eliza. Jane felt a prickling of anxiety. Perhaps the rumors were true and Eliza had allied herself with the French. But if that were so, this stranger would not have to act the highwayman and force her vehicle to stop. He must be Eliza’s enemy despite his elegant manners. Therefore, he was Jane’s enemy as well.
These thoughts took no longer than an instant. “Perhaps I could carry a message to the Comtesse?” she suggested.
He shook his head. “I think not, mademoiselle. I have no wish to detain you further; just tell me where to find the Comtesse, and you may be on your way.”
“I shall not tell you where the Comtesse is, and I shall be on my way regardless,” Jane said, growing more confident with every exchange that the man would not harm her. “If she welcomed your company, then you would already know how to f
ind her.”
He hesitated, and then cursed. Jane’s French was rudimentary, but with six brothers, she could recognize profanity in several languages.
The mysterious man mounted his horse. Pulling in the reins tightly, he looked down on her. “The Comtesse has a staunch ally in her cousin. I suspect we shall meet again, Miss Austen.”
“Wait,” Jane cried, stepping toward him. “How do you know my name?”
He bowed his head and touched his fingers to his hat and then to his lips. Then he kicked his horse and galloped away.
Jane stood in the center of the road, watching him go. She did not believe he had given up. No doubt, he would wait for them farther along the road and follow them from there.
Jacques climbed down the ladder so rapidly he almost fell. “Mademoiselle, are you all right? I didn’t know what to do.”
She held up a reassuring hand. “He did not hurt me. You did the correct thing.”
They both stared after the horseman, who was growing smaller in the distance. “Did you recognize him?” she asked.
“How should I know a highwayman? Because we are both French?” he bristled. “I am loyal, both to my mistress and to my adopted country.”
“Jacques, I wasn’t questioning your loyalty. Consult your memory. Was that gentleman—and despite his actions I do not think he was a highwayman—familiar to you in any way? Perhaps he was an associate of the late Comte?”
Jacques shrugged. “I do not know him, mademoiselle.”
“But he knew my name!” Jane said. “He must be someone with whom I am acquainted.” She searched her memory, but she couldn’t recall meeting anyone like the stranger. Of course, he had carefully hidden anything that might identify him. But what about that odd gesture at the end? Was it French? Or was it unique to him?
To better remember the movement, she mimicked it, her fingers going to her forehead, then briefly touching her lips.
Jacques started. “Mademoiselle, forgive my impertinence, but why did you do that?”
“The mysterious gentleman did it as he took his leave. Didn’t you see?”
He shook his head.
“You’ve seen it before!” Jane accused. “What does it mean?”
“Rien. For an instant . . . but no. C’est impossible.” Jacques simply shook his head. “We must resume our journey, mademoiselle. La Comtesse will be waiting.” He held the door open for her.
“But, Jacques . . .”
The perfectly blank expression on the servant’s face told Jane that ask as she might, she’d get no further information from him. Suddenly, Jane wanted very much to see Eliza.
CHAPTER 5
“You do not look well. Oh that I had
been with you! You have had every care
and anxiety upon yourself alone.”
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Jane could barely sit still until they arrived at the Fox and Hounds. Her body hummed with an excitement she’d never felt before. She felt so alive. Jane had often written about adventures in her stories, but this was the first time she was the heroine of her own. With a self-deprecating sigh, she amended the thought. She was the heroine of this particular tale solely because of a mistaken identity.
They pulled up in front of the Fox and Hounds Inn. Without waiting for Jacques to open the door, Jane flew out of the carriage into the inn, past the curious eyes of the hostler. She went to the reception desk and asked for Eliza. Upon being directed to a private room in the restaurant, she hurried there. Without ceremony, she threw open the door.
Eliza was dozing in a comfortable chair by the fire. When the door slammed against the wall, she jumped, her illustrated newspaper sliding to the floor. She blinked and then squinted. Her eyesight was poor, but she was too vain to admit it.
“Who’s there?” Eliza called.
Jane rushed to her cousin.
“Jane?” Eliza yawned delicately. She shook her head to wake herself up, setting the bonnet covering her powdered curls askew. “What on earth is wrong with you? First you write the most perplexing letters, and now you burst in like a summer storm.”
Jane gathered her wits, reminding herself that if Eliza were innocent, then she knew of no reason to be concerned. “I apologize, dear Eliza.”
“Perhaps you are just tired. You must refresh yourself after your journey.” Before Jane could protest, Eliza rang a bell and the inn’s serving girl appeared. “A basin of warm water for my cousin, please?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The servant stared at Eliza with near adoration. Jane never understood how Eliza could give servants as much trouble as she did but remain everyone’s favorite.
“Where is Marie?” Jane asked. Marie was Eliza’s maid and was always in attendance.
“My pelisse had an unfortunate encounter with some mud on the journey. She’s attempting to rescue it,” Eliza explained.
A few minutes later, Jane’s coat had been neatly put away and she had bathed her face. Eliza pressed a glass of mulled wine into her hand. “Maintenant dis-moi, ma chérie, what happened?”
“There was a frightening incident on the road today. I feared for your safety.”
“My safety?” Eliza’s plucked eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Jane, have you been drinking? Perhaps your brother gave you a flask of brandy to warm you on the journey?”
Jane shook her head. Edward would never think to give his sister spirits no matter how long the trip. She took a deep breath. “We were waylaid by an armed man on horseback.” Her matter-of-fact tone didn’t stop her heart from beating more quickly at the memory.
Eliza sat up and gasped. “A highwayman? Near here?”
“Yes, less than an hour ago,” Jane answered. Quickly, she related her adventure.
“And he was looking for me?” Eliza marveled. Jane watched her closely, looking for clues that Eliza might know very well who the mysterious stranger was.
“Does he sound familiar?” Jane asked. “He knew I was your cousin—that implies some knowledge of your connections.”
Eliza frowned prettily. “Do you really think I have so many masked men among my acquaintance? I know no one so eccentric. Why not just call upon me? Or send a letter?”
Knowing that letters to Eliza were liable to be intercepted, Jane wondered whether the masked man was prudent rather than dangerous.
“Jane, what else is there?” Eliza, for all her affectation, was quite shrewd. Her eyes narrowed and she jabbed a finger in Jane’s direction. “What haven’t you told me?”
Edward had not sworn Jane to secrecy, which was his mistake. Jane didn’t hesitate. “My brother Edward has been charged to keep a watchful eye on you.”
“By whom?” Eliza’s enormous eyes went wide, reflecting the dancing flames from the fireplace.
“The War Office.”
“The War Office is interested in me?” Eliza’s hand went to her bosom. “But why?”
Jane hesitated. “They suspect you of . . . well . . .”
“Out with it, Jane! I’ve never once known you to hold your peace—can you be so exasperating as to begin now?”
“Espionage.”
Eliza’s face was so full of puzzlement that now Jane was sure the intelligence was news to her. “They think you are sending information to the French government about our troops and port defenses,” Jane said softly.
Eliza was motionless as a china doll. When she spoke, her voice was full of indignation. “The French Republic has made me a widow. Why would I help them?” She pulled off her fashionable bonnet. Jane caught her breath. Instead of the long curls that fell below Eliza’s shoulder, her cousin’s hair was only a few inches long.
“What have you done to your hair?” Jane asked, appalled. She herself kept her hair short, to her shoulder, but only because it was less trouble. Eliza had a maid, and her hair-dressing was always ornate.
“This is what a woman looks like before the guillotine.” Eliza’s hand went to a tendril of hair lying against her cheek. “They cut Marie Antoinet
te’s hair like this before they took her head. The same guillotine killed Jean. So I decided I’ll wear my hair like this until his death is avenged.”
Jane nodded. Only four years had passed since England had been shocked by the murder of King Louis XVI. A few months later, his queen had lost her head as well. Eliza’s husband of fourteen years, the Comte de Feuillide, had been executed the following year for being loyal to the deposed monarchy. Eliza had lost her husband, and her son had lost his birthright, including his title and the estate in France.
Jane reached out and took Eliza’s hands in her own. Edward and his friend Major Smythe were fools to think that Eliza would aid the French.
“Besides,” Eliza said, “short hair is all the rage among the émigrés!”
Jane couldn’t help but smile. Her cousin’s vanity would always trump politics.
“Troops and ports are ridiculously dull,” Eliza mused. “Even if I knew anything about them, I would do my best to forget as quickly as possible.”
“That’s what Cassandra and I thought as well,” Jane agreed. “But apparently there are concerns about the company you keep. It has been noted that you have been a frequent guest at the home of a Mr. Balmont in London.”
“But of course. I knew Monsieur Balmont first in Paris. I renewed the acquaintance here in England. His chef is the best in London; an invitation to one of Monsieur Balmont’s suppers is much sought after.”
“Edward has been told that Mr. Balmont is a well-known spymaster for the French.”
“So?” Eliza blinked her bright eyes and shrugged. “That does not affect the quality of his meals.”
Jane settled back in her chair, arms crossed. “Eliza, for an instant, please be serious. Your association with this man is damaging your reputation.”
“Only among the bores who run the War Office,” Eliza said, stretching her hands out to the fireplace. “But in any case Monsieur Balmont’s salon is full of émigrés—all of London is. You cannot walk across Pall Mall without meeting an acquaintance from Marie Antoinette’s court. Did I ever tell you about the time the queen came to a ball dressed as a Turk and covered with feathers and diamonds?”
Secrets in the Snow Page 3
