That Scoundrel Émile Dubois

by Lucinda Elliot

  “Georges calls him ‘Monsieur Gilles’ sometimes.”

  Sophie remembered the names underneath a small portrait back in her family home that she used to gaze on so often. “Of course, he’s Émile Gilles Gaston Dubois. It is going to be so embarrassing meeting with him again, Agnes, though I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Your new pink gown for dinner this evening, I think, Miss Sophie, to give you courage. Well, is impossible to think hard of a man as has the good sense to fall in love with you.”

  “Even in a meeting that never happened? I believe he said in May. That was some weeks before I left Chester.”

  Agnes worked hard upon Sophie’s toilette and finally gave a sigh of satisfaction. “You do look lovely, Miss. Miss Morwenna does think herself such a beauty, but you will outshine her quite.”

  Sophie thought the new, bright pink dress shockingly low, and tried to pull the neckline up. Still, it was made up according to the Dowager Countess’ specifications. Sophie suspected her patroness took the same satisfaction in dressing her up as she herself once enjoyed with her dolls.

  “You have done wonderful work on my dress and hair, Agnes. Still, you should know that there is an unspoken rule for Poor Relatives all: ‘Never Outshine Your Betters’, though Miss Morwenna is so handsome there is no danger of that.”

  Agnes wouldn’t concede this. “She don’t have half the figure or complexion that you do, Miss Sophie, and clomping great feet besides.”

  “I think you prejudiced in my favour, Agnes, cariad, and she is tall, and she could scarce balance on my feet. Wish me luck, dear, for I am terrified of Monsieur’s anger.”

  As Sophie entered the room, making her curtsey, she caught Monsieur Émile’s gaze at once. He was talking with Miss Morwenna (becomingly dressed in green). After one glance at Sophie in her low-cut dress and a nominal bow, he went on joking with Morwenna. Obviously, his form of madness wasn’t one where he forgot a wrong almost as soon as he imagined it.

  The Dowager Countess was wearing her spectacles and examining her tapestry work in dismay.

  Lord Ynyr was in an expansive mood. Apart from this visit from a favourite, long-lost cousin, lately his herbal cures were proving effective. There was an outbreak of a seasonal illness, with ten staff members ill in bed; he had treated them himself with encouraging results.

  Sophie smiled at him, touched by his enthusiasm. Then she remembered Monsieur Émile’s suggestion that her apparent indifference to his own proposal was due to her having an eye to Lord Ynyr’s title. She felt her face redden guiltily as Lord Ynyr ran on, “There is the strange case involving Sian Jones from the farm on the top road; Dr Powell confesses himself puzzled. There is shock to the system, though how this happened is a mystery. She was walking back from seeing a friend and claims – perhaps she was influenced by the stories of a ghostly dog who supposedly stalks the lanes of a night, though this was late afternoon – she saw red eyes and remembers nothing else before coming to herself.”

  “The poor girl! That sounds most alarming, delusion or not.”

  “It is absurd, but it seems she had odd bites upon her throat, and is convinced it was a supernatural attack. Miss Morwenna will be delighted, I fear, at this similarity to the vampire tales of Eastern Europe. One has to remember that there are any number of biting insects under the trees of an evening, and some may have survived into the winter. She possibly scratched herself in falling or when coming to herself. One of the problems in treating the local community is the poorer members retaining many superstitious beliefs. I am using a cure, but it is a puzzling case.”

  “Émile, you are dreadful!” Miss Morwenna’ clear voice came suddenly. Sophie and Lord Ynyr glanced over to see her smiling encouragement of whatever form this dreadfulness was taking.

  As so many of the footmen were ill, Émile’s valet Georges was obliged to wait at table for dinner. Clearly, he was outraged. He avenged himself by wearing the livery in which he had been fitted out as though he revelled in its absurdity. Besides this, his position between Miss Morwenna and Sophie enabled him to leer down the cleavages of both. Meanwhile, he wore an expression combining lasciviousness and self-congratulation, as though congratulating himself on the pornographic nature of his thoughts.

  Sometimes, Sophie caught Georges’ master taking a look at her exposed flesh himself, though more quickly and subtly. A most unfortunate duo. She had to smile at this thought. Naturally, Monsieur Émile chose this moment to glance at her and his face froze.

  Sophie sensed Miss Morwenna picked up the tension between and Monsieur Émile and their poor relative; no doubt her elaborately styled head was whirling with speculation. In her surprise, she even glanced at Sophie twice, while she treated Monsieur to the same teasing ways she used on Lord Ynyr, attacking him with her fine eyes and lashes.

  As so often, Sophie admired Morwenna’s vivacity; she wondered Lord Ynyr hadn’t admitted defeat and proposed years ago. Watching the exchanges with Émile Dubois, she wondered if Miss Morwenna preferred him, but she seemed scrupulous in how she divided her attention between the two young men.

  The atmosphere of the dinner table was lively and cheerful ostensibly, for all the undercurrents of hostility. Monsieur Émile told funny stories.

  “The lovely primrose shade of Morwenna’s gown (Morwenna smiled and batted her lashes) puts me in mind of an absurd thing that happened when I used to call on a friend back in London, for the room was decorated in the same colour. An abusive parrot – a pet of the lady of the house – perched in a gilded open cage. It liked to remind me, ‘You are ugly’.

  ‘One day, it lost patience with me altogether and flew at me, ripping out some of my hair and tearing my jacket and shirt. I had to beat it off without hurting it, and it retired sulkily back to its cage just as Captain Allsopp was shown into the room. He took one look at me, and then drawled: “By Gad, Monsieur Dubois, I had no idea that the situation of the émigrés from France was so deplorable…”

  Sophie didn’t need to force her laugh. She felt more than ever regretful that they had fallen out. She delighted in people who told stories against themselves.

  For all Monsieur’s vivacity, his appetite disappointed his Aunt. “Émile, I ordered all your favourite dishes, yet you leave half of them untasted!”

  “Forgive me, Madame. I will remedy that at once. This omelette rustique is excellent.” He picked up his fork again. Sophie heard Georges sniggering.

  “Did you know Kenrick is back at Plas Cyfeillgar, Émile?” Lord Ynyr asked. “I believe you met him in Town.”

  “Yes, Ynyr, he came over at a mathematics lecture at the Royal Society and reintroduced himself. He asked me if I understood the principles, confessing that he hadn’t.

  ‘On my saying if so he cannot have found the talk interesting, he said he was hoping to further his own understanding, claiming he had been working upon extending the borders of natural philosophy* to include: ‘That branch of knowledge vulgarly known as “magic”, Monsieur Dubois.’

  ‘He was hopeful that he might apply certain mathematical formulas to the use of, ‘The Power of Thought Forms to Effect Travel Through Time.’ I had to hide my smile, seeing an incongruous picture of him in a wizards’ crooked hat and starry gown, frowning over some mathematical tome.”

  Morwenna giggled happily. “How absurd!”

  Lord Ynyr laughed, but twirled his moustache, which Sophie had noted was his habit when uneasy. The Dowager Countess clicked her tongue. “Such mischievous ideas, Émile. Whatever would the Dear Late Count make of one of his protégés meddling in such matters?”

  “Alors, he would think it nonsense. Kenrick’s combination of outrageous notions and a sharp intelligence add to the amusement of his conversation, Ynyr.”

  “I confess, Émile, when I called on him I found the atmosphere at Plas Cyfeillgar unpleasant. There is an unnatural quiet there which would no doubt delight you, Morwenna, with your weakness for a ghost story.”

  Morwenna dimpled.

/>   “A sullen manservant opened the door and a sad little girl from the kitchens served us refreshments. He apologised for it, speaking of staff difficulties, saying that his better staff were away with Mistress Kenrick. I am afraid that Miss Sophie must find this a chilly house, on high as we are, but the cold here is as nothing to that at Plas Cyfeillgar.”

  Monsieur Émile frowned. “I cannot endure a man who mistreats his staff.”

  His own servant aimed another hot glance down Sophie’s cleavage. The ancient butler noticed and his expression hardened from wood to stone. Sophie tried to pull up the neckline of her dress surreptitiously, and Monsieur shifted uncomfortably.

  The men lingered over their port far longer than was normal for Lord Ynyr, while Sophie righted the Dowager Countess’ tapestry work and Miss Morwenna played seasonal music.

  When they came in, the Count asked at once, “Morwenna, could we have some carols?”

  “If you hadn’t been roaring with laughter over your own stories you would have heard me singing them this past half hour, for the dining room is directly underneath us.” Miss Morwenna had left the instrument on their arrival. “I do hope you are not becoming a couple of topers.”

  Monsieur smiled at her. “We must apologise for the delay and would be delighted if you were kind enough to indulge us, Morwenna.”

  “Seeing you ask, Émile – just restored to us as you are – I will submit. What would you like?” Miss Morwenna swayed back over to the instrument, her silks rustling.

  When Sophie had to cross the room herself to give the Dowager Countess her untangled tapestry work, she felt hostile eyes on her. After that, she sat as far away from the lively group by the piano as possible, working on a baby’s shawl and enjoying the carols.

  Then, Lord Ynyr came up. “Miss Sophie, Morwenna wishes to try out some new strategies on my Cousin at chess, so I wonder if you could oblige us in turn? I would so like to hear that song you sing sometimes, that obscure one from one of Handel’s operas, ‘Ombra something’.”

  “‘Ombra Mai Fu’* Your Lordship? I would be delighted.” That was only polite, but Sophie was nervous at singing before the hostile Monsieur Émile, who must have heard all the best singers in London. She was scared her voice might wobble with nerves.

  To her relief, she was able to hold the long note at the beginning of the song more firmly and sweetly than she had yet. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Monsieur Émile pause, holding a chess piece, as though startled. The whole song went well.

  Everyone broke into applause when she had finished, even the stunned looking Monsieur Émile, while Lord Ynyr called, “Bravo!”

  “Why, Morwenna,” he laughed as he glanced at the chess game, “You have my Cousin looking like he has been sucking a lemon!”

  Morwenna frowned. “Émile, do you think I am still ten, to believe that you missed that trap for your Queen?”

  “Vraiment, Morwenna, I did. There is no excuse for me. I deserve to lose her.”

  It was only later that Sophie thought that those words might have been aimed at her.

  Now, she went on to sing more pieces, all enthusiastically received. At the end of ‘Voi Che Sapete’ from Mozart’s ‘The Marriage of Figaro’, she heard the Count exclaim, “Morwenna, you have Émile routed!”

  “I surrender, Morwenna. I am sorry to have given you such a sorry game, and hope Cousin Ynyr puts up more resistance.”

  “Alors, you still have a face like a boot.” Georges told Émile, when the Landlord had set down the bottle and glasses on their table. “You may as well say what is amiss. You ain’t had much luck with blondes, one way or another, have you? I’d go back to them brunettes you always preferred, like that Lola. She was some woman! I was after her myself for weeks.”

  Émile downed a glassful in one go. “What do you mean?”

  “I sent her all sorts of presents with compliments –”

  “No, I mean about blonde women.”

  They were at the inn in Llangynhafal, the nearest village from the Famau Mountain, where a group by the fire sang Welsh carols.

  “I saw you give that little Sophie de Courcy a couple of filthy looks over dinner, so I suppose she has to do with your foul temper. For myself, I was too grateful for the nice view she gave us to find fault with her. Umm. I shall dwell on them dugs later, and Miss Morwenna’s too.”

  Émile cursed him again for a dirty minded rascal and stared at his drink.

  “Then before that there was that blonde little bourgoise back in Paris was robbed and you was looking after, clean vanished from one of them street parties. My spies told me of it.”

  Émile smiled sourly. “Of course, it would have got back to you.”

  Georges spread his hands. “Naturally. My spies said you was acting besotted so they tried to find her themselves, reckoning you would pay well to know where she was. Come to think of it, weren’t she called Sophie too? It’s Sophie’s you want to avoid, then.”

  Émile grimaced. “Georges, would you strongly object to not telling me any more about what your spies told you? It’s the same girl.”

  Georges stared. “What?”

  “Mademoiselle de Courcy is the girl I met back in Paris. When I saw her here, you can imagine how delighted I was. But when I got her alone, she acted as though she didn’t even remember me.”

  Georges stared. “Merde! But it would be even more insulting, had you got further with her.”

  “Her forgetting is insulting anyway – because – alors, it’s insulting anyway. I was waiting for a meeting with some fellow at Adeline’s with a couple of the others when Mère SlapEm came along with a fair-haired jeune fille she said was set on by a couple of roughs she would know again. I told Professor Felix to look after the girl, but he reminded me I had a meeting so I stayed behind with her.”

  Georges snorted. “I would have taken my chances with you rather than Mère SlapEm any day.”

  “So would anyone, Georges. I was put out at first, having things to do. Besides, I didn’t trust the girl’s story, though if she was acting she was brilliant at playing a lost ingénue, and an Anglaise, too. Ma SlapEm was no fool and she believed her. Still, you may guess I kept an eye on my pockets as I sat her down and talked to her over a glass of wine. I realised she was a genuine bourgeoise and she seemed so innocent. I could scarce believe it.

  ‘Besides, I enjoyed practising my English. We had soup. She didn’t let me take her back to where she was staying. That was suspicious enough. She had no money, yet she freely admitted she’d had none before those cowards tried to rob her. It was such things made me sense that I could trust her; so I thought then, anyway.

  ‘She insisted on giving me a sapphire necklace in a ridiculous payment for the food. I put it in my pocket, but only to make her stay; I became ludicrously anxious that she should stay. She said she could explain everything later, only I would scarce believe her.

  ‘Even that did not make me cynical about her. Some couple of times, it was as though she tried to tell me, and she seemed to choke. That did not bode well for her character, bien sûr….” Émile sighed and fiddled with his glass.

  “We went on talking. I began to feel ever more stupidly happy. I was delighted the man I was meeting didn’t come. You may laugh, Georges, but truly, I did not realise what was happening to me, so I never thought to get out of the way, having never fallen in love since I was a boy. Alors, I didn’t know what it was until it was too late.”

  Georges wasn’t laughing now; he was looking sympathetic.

  “I asked her to come with me to the party. You already have it from your spies how things went on there. I still have the necklace.”

  “Are you going to give it her back? It seems but fair, as she cannot be well off.”

  “I suppose I will. Georges, now she denies with wide eyed innocence that she ever met me in her life after we were youngsters, protesting she has never been abroad!”

  Georges whistled. “Maybe you acted sudden and she was shy about h
aving carried on with the ruffian as you then were.”

  “I suggested that myself, Georges. I actually asked for the arrogant minx, and she ignored me!” Émile did some more heavy breathing.

  Georges snorted, blew his nose and poured Émile another drink. “I am sorry, mon ami, but can she really be the ingénue she would have you believe, out alone in those parts with our countries at war? How came she there?”

  “If she is acting, she is a genius. It is unaccountable, Georges. If I were on the outside, watching us, I would say that she told the truth.”

  “I believe you, for if anyone had asked me before hearing this odd tale, I would say she was a guileless creature. Fancy ta Tante’s companion rejecting your offer! That is a lesson for you, Monsieur. You always did consider yourself such a catch. You must talk with the girl again, du calme. Tomorrow, I will ask the delectable Agnes about her, but discreet like, for I can see she dotes on her mistress.”

  Émile said sourly, “You ask Agnes, Georges. Still, I do not know if I shall ever honour the wretched girl with my attentions again. She humiliated me quite! I saw her smiling to herself over dinner, no doubt gloating over her conquest. Perhaps that is what woman are like, if they find themselves in a position of power over you. I never saw that in them before.

  ‘We must stay on here, because of the trouble down south, and it wouldn’t be polite to Madame La Comtesse to leave betimes, but I detest the thought of having to see her constantly. On top of everything else, she sings like a siren.”

  “Hoighty-Toighty, Monsieur Dubois, as Agnes would say. Perhaps you should go to her dressed as Gilles Long Legs. It may well be she prefers them rough, for it can be so with these nicely brought up, sheltered girls, as I was delighted to find out one day last spring – ”

  Émile glared. “Se taire, Georges!”

  A stout, red-faced farmer had left the group by the fire to go and look through the window. Georges turned to look too. “Snowing again. We didn’t get that in Provence.”