That Scoundrel Émile Dubois

by Lucinda Elliot

  “We saw enough of it in Paris.”

  “Mae hi’n bwrw eira eto.” The farmer pointed to the snowfall.

  “Dim ond Saesnig.” (Only English). Georges indicated himself and Émile. He had learnt that much Welsh from Agnes already.

  The farmer screwed up his face in his effort to understand; after some moments, he gave up.

  Émile poured him a drink. “Please accept that with the compliments of the season, Monsieur. You see, Georges? The sight of my happy face spreads festive cheer wherever I go.”

  Chapter Five

  As Sophie waited with the others for the carriage to church the snow was thick on the ground from the fall overnight. She smiled at Lord Ynyr’s delight in his accurate prediction – he and Agnes had more in common than they realised – and at the wonderful view of the Clwyd Valley, magically transformed.

  He said, “Our ride on the sleigh this afternoon should put us in appetite for Christmas dinner.”

  Miss Morwenna clapped her hands. “Remember the bells, Ynyr!”

  Monsieur Émile smiled agreement, but looked weary and heavy eyed.

  The Dowager Countess sighed. “What it is to be young! If you will take the girls out in such weather, I must insist you all wear your furs.”

  Miss Morwenna dimpled at her boots. Monsieur Émile roused slightly: “Bien sûr, Madame. We will also ensure any snowballs we might throw have no stones.”

  Miss Morwenna was kept back by well wishers as they went to their pew; Monsieur Émile moved as though manoeuvring to sit next to Sophie and torment them both. Once next to her, he ignored her.

  Sophie was distracted from the Reverend Smythe-Jones’ sermon on self denial over Christmas by a sudden memory of his eating many mutton chops at a dinner.

  Within a couple of minutes Monsieur Émile began to doze, and even to sway towards her. She was worried the Dowager Countess might see. She nudged him. His strange green eyes opened, to wander, all at sea, before snapping back into hostile recognition. “Merci, Mademoiselle.” He drew himself up as though the idea of his falling asleep again was absurd.

  A minute later, he was asleep again, beginning to sway towards her as though he thought her a natural pillow. Incongruously, mortifyingly, she had to fight an urge to put her arms about him. It seemed as though that, too, was the most natural thing in the world. She reddened, frightened she might do so.

  She remembered now, being disturbed in the small hours by footsteps going up the middle stairs; at the time she had assumed it to be the awful Georges with one of the footman. Agnes had told Sophie of Georges’ shocking drinking, her tone indulgent. This worried Sophie, as seeming to indicate the girl was thinking of him as a possible sweetheart. Now, Sophie suddenly wondered if Monsieur Émile might be eccentric enough to go out drinking with his valet. It fitted with other odd aspects of their relationship.

  She nudged Monsieur Émile. He responded with a startled grunt. She murmured to him, but he dozed on.

  She didn’t blame him; she had never known the Reverend Smythe-Jones to speak so badly. “It is a time even to permit ourselves a little self-indulgence. Er. Yet, Always…Er…We must look for an opportunity to share…” Sophie fought back laughter. Miss Morwenna stared ahead, but Sophie saw her lips twitch.

  As the sermon ended, Sophie gently prodded Monsieur Émile – who by some fluke had only leaned his lanky frame on her lightly – awake. “Monsieur Émile, please do not think me impertinent, but I think you are in need of some rest.” He didn’t reply beyond a heavy eyed but inscrutable look. Scarlet faced, she snapped shut her prayer book.

  Sophie was standing in the great hall. Back from the village children’s Christmas party, she was admiring the view from the windows. Hearing footsteps she recognised, she skipped under the mistletoe nearby.

  When the Count came into sight, she looked unaware of where she stood as she gazed through the window. He paused, smiling, more handsome than ever in his liveliness. “Why, Miss Sophie!”

  “Such a magical transformation, Sir.”

  He came over, smiling. “Do you realise that you are putting any passing gentleman to temptation and yourself at risk?” He pointed to the mistletoe.

  She followed his gesture and cast her eyes down. “My goodness, Your Lordship, I –” Not liking to lie outright, she broke off and dimpled coyly. “What must you think of me?!”

  He took her hand and kissed it gently. “I must think you a delightful addition to our family, my dear Miss Sophie. I have never seen my mother so happy as since you have joined us. My compliments of the season.”

  There was a slight tingle as his well-shaped lips touched her skin. It was an improvement, anyway.

  “Cousin Émile has surfaced from wherever he was in hiding,” from his smile Sophie suspected that the Count had seen something of what had happened at church, “And is even now helping to prepare the sleigh bells.”

  Sophie tried to angle for the Count to hand her into the sleigh. These moments of intimacy could be built upon.

  To her disappointment, the aloof Monsieur Émile seemed unaccountably to place himself so as to be the one to do so. As he lifted her, her cheeks burnt as she forced herself to look into his eyes – almost as a dare – and they were as cold as she had expected. It was made worse by the way his touch still made her tingle.

  Lord Ynyr drove the team first. This being an occasion for the gentleman to show off their driving skills, Morwenna teased them both about their pride in their horsemanship; she assured Monsieur Émile she had forgotten all about that accident years ago; he teased her in turn.

  She even honoured Sophie by pointing out a bird of prey up on high. If it hadn’t been for Sophie’s embarrassment about Monsieur Émile – who sat as far away from her as possible, avoiding looking at her – Sophie would have loved the dash through the frozen landscape.

  As they rushed along the path which ran level past the home farm, Lord Ynyr exclaimed, “Surely it is Kenrick?” He slowed down as they approached two horsemen.

  Sophie found Kenrick – cheeks florid in the cold – even more repellent in the harsh light of the snow. Remembering her dream, she shuddered in her furs. A weedy, dismal looking boy groom was with him. She remembered how Kenrick had been the only local of note not to attend church that morning, though no doubt some had taken in no more of the sermon than Monsieur.

  Lord Ynyr spoke heartily. “My compliments of the season, Mr Kenrick, and to Mistress Kenrick, if she has joined you.”

  “Ladies. Your Lordship and Monsieur Émile.” Kenrick bowed to left and right. Sophie thought his voice oily enough to grease the runners of their sleigh. “Delighted. Monsieur Émile, I heard you were here; compliments of the season to you, Sir. It seems so long ago that we were all young pups, agog in His Late Lordship’s laboratory. Your Lordship, you must tell Her Ladyship again how I did so enjoy that excellent dinner at Plas Uchaf.”

  Sophie was sure he had fond memories of the trifle. She might have smiled at the thought, had she not feared Monsieur Émile might suspect her of thinking mockingly about him, as she sensed he had at dinner yesterday. Perhaps it was all part of his delusions.

  After she had been wakened in the small hours by those footsteps, she had lain awake for some time. She had gone over the astounding scene in the library again and again, feeling both bereft and guilty. She had wished then – and ever since – that she had managed things better, though how she could have avoided upsetting him while being truthful, she didn’t know.

  The Count and Monsieur Émile agreed on behalf of them all that they should call in at Plas Cyfeillgar, while Miss Morwenna looked as doubtful as Sophie.

  As they drew into the grounds of the great house, Sophie noticed the deathly hush, the silence from the birds. They had been quiet in the frozen landscape before, but here their stillness was eerie.

  They got out of the sleigh by the grand front entrance. Kenrick jumped down from his horse, throwing the reins to his groom, showing again startling litheness in a he
avily built man. He hurried forward to help the ladies dismount, but the others forestalled him. Lord Ynyr rushed to hand down Sophie (who was nearest to him) and Monsieur Émile quickly lifted down Miss Morwenna before turning to help the unhappy looking groom to blanket the horses.

  Kenrick opened his front door himself. Sophie put off entering until last. She was slightly behind the rest of the party as they walked up the hall. This, despite the long windows, was unaccountably dark close to the walls. It was icy. She saw a movement in the shadows and paused, stunned by the impression of a handsome, moustached man in naval officer’s uniform leering at her from their depths, white teeth flashing.

  To her surprise, Monsieur Émile turned back. “Mademoiselle Sophie?” His tone was cold, but he paused, waiting for her. The shadowy figure was gone. With a smile of thanks to Monsieur she caught up with the rest of the group.

  Kenrick showed them into a great room where a fire made even less impression on the frigid atmosphere than in the library at Plas Uchaf.

  He went to ring the bell. “A servant will be along in a minute.” He didn’t sound confident. Sophie thought the distant tinkle had the desolate noise of a bell fated to be ignored. This didn’t seem to match with Lord Ynyr’s description of the nervous servants, but perhaps they were elsewhere.

  Kenrick looked at Sophie and Miss Morwenna, huddled in their wraps, and laughed. “You ladies are like a couple charming little Baby Buntings in your furs. Let us be grateful that there are no wolves about, sharp teeth at the ready to snap at your soft flesh.” He giggled.

  The others didn’t. The Count frowned, “Why, Sir!” Monsieur Émile went further. His eyes sparked: “What do you mean by that, Monsieur?” He clearly had no inhibitions about his duties as a guest if he didn’t like his host’s conversation.

  Kenrick smiled. “Do not scowl so on me, Monsieur Émile, you have not changed, living up to your reputation as a hot head. Forgive my familiarity. The young ladies do look so charming…Where are those wretched peasants? The insolence!”

  He darted to the door, flung it open, sprinted across to a corridor opposite and yelled. From somewhere in the depths of the house, a sullen male voice shouted back.

  “Do not raise your voice at me, my man! Come here at once!” Kenrick’s voice rose into a shriek of outrage.

  The man’s voice bawled again in loutish defiance.

  Instead of falling into a terrible rage, Kenrick appeared deflated. As he came back into the room, the Count cleared his throat, about to make some protest.

  Sophie might have pitied Kenrick in his humiliation had he been less alarming. He spread his hands deprecatingly. “Forgive me. Servants these days are become impossible. The spread of Jacobin ideas, naturally. I scarce need acquaint you, Sir, with the dangers of that.” He turned his oily smile on Monsieur Émile.

  Monsieur said coldly, “Alors, it is a day most people celebrate as at least a partial holiday, Monsieur. We will not impose upon you further. You will forgive my Cousin and me if we take the ladies home.”

  The Count smiled. “Yes, please convey our respects to Mistress Kenrick when she arrives if we do not meet before.”

  There was an indefinable air of threat in the room, and Sophie was still alarmed by what she thought she had seen in the hallway. Perhaps Monsieur Émile wasn’t alone in suffering from delusions.

  They left with thanks for Kenrick’s defective hospitality. He assured them, “Mistress Kenrick will soon have the staff in order.”

  As they went through the corridor again, Sophie once more saw the shadows stir. She wondered if Lord Ynyr and Monsieur Émile did, too, for they automatically formed a sort of phalanx on either side of the girls.

  “There is an odd trick of the light here merely.” Lord Ynyr murmured to Sophie. She suspected him of reassuring himself as much as her. Meanwhile, Miss Morwenna had tight hold of Monsieur Émile’s arm.

  It was a relief even to be in the grounds with their unnatural hush. Lord Ynyr said, “For sure, there was little enough seasonal goodwill in there! Émile, we owe the ladies an apology for subjecting them to such an unpleasant visit.”

  “Do forgive me, Mademoiselles. I will just see about tipping that wretched boy.”

  Émile was striding over the frozen snow round the side of the house to the stables when a small figure darted up some steps and hurled itself against the front of his greatcoat. Startled, he realised it was a scrawny young girl. He laughed. “Careful, ma petite!”

  Then he saw she was sobbing frantically, her face soaked. “What ails you, girl?”

  She wailed in an unfamiliar accent, “She beat me! I go!”

  It was starting to snow again. As the girl made to pull away, he took her wrist. “In this snow? Have you family nearby?”

  She burst out, “They are dead!” This seemed to add the final touch to her misery. She buried her face in the front of his coat and howled. Perhaps he was put in mind of his youngest sister Marguerite’s childhood griefs, though this girl was years older. He patted her head tenderly, at all events. Her dark hair was greasy, and she smelt strongly of the kitchen, even in the open air.

  He looked regretfully down at the front of his coat, now damp with tears and mucus. “They see me coming. Shall I try and mend matters here, girl? Who’s been beating you? I think you said, ‘She’ so I cannot beat her in turn. What is your name?”

  “Katarina. I won’t go back, Sir!” She bawled desperately, while he searched about in his pockets for a handkerchief. She looked startled, but used it to wipe her face and nose before handing it back.

  “Where do you come from, girl?”

  “Transylvania, Sir. Now I must go.”

  Émile cast a thoughtful glance at the house, a handsome, red bricked building, solid after the style of Queen Anne, yet exuding a dismal atmosphere. It seemed to decide him. “Then I will take you to Madame ma Tante’s, for you will surely perish in the snow. Do not fear, I am with two ladies, and you will be safe enough. Kenrick may go to the Devil. Come with me girl, to the sleigh.”

  When Émile came back, holding the servant girl by the hand, the others stared. “I cannot leave her here; she is ill treated and would run away.” He picked her up and put her on the sleigh.

  Sophie exclaimed, “Ah, you poor thing, how you shiver. Come under these rugs with me.” She busied herself giving the scrawny girl most of her rugs. Glancing up, she saw Monsieur Émile watching her. His expression had unfrozen by perhaps a quarter. He looked as though he were deciding she could be bearable sometimes.

  The Count pulled at his moustache. “Surely we should take the matter up with Kenrick?”

  “No. I will pay them compensation if they want.”

  “Honestly, Émile, whatever will you do next?” Morwenna moved away from the greasy kitchen maid. “No doubt this will cause many problems. Oh, who cares. Let us away.”

  Agnes, who by her breath had shared a few Christmas drinks with Georges, was voluble and emotional as she dressed Sophie for dinner.

  “Well, Miss, we is all at sixes and sevens with Monsieur Émile bringing in this new girl.

  ‘‘Madame Blanch,’ he says to the Housekeeper – he must have tipped her well – ‘I know I can rely upon you to treat this little wench, my new maid, kindly. Give her as much Christmas Dinner as she can eat, and some warm clothing and maybe a handerkerchief or so – ’ looking down at his coat, for it did look as though she had blown her nose upon it – ‘And give her a bed somewhere warm, and we will talk again about training for her after the holiday. She said she had been beaten. If the bruises are bad, let me know and we will get the apothecary to treat them tomorrow.’”

  ‘‘The dirty little thing needs a bath.’ Madame Blanch wrinkles her nose. Éloise – the parlour maid, you know, Miss – puts herself forward, all batting eyelashes and bosom. ‘I will help. Her English is good, but she speaks French better, just like you and I, Monsieur. Tee-hee-hee.’

  “Poor thing, not being able to speak Cymraeg like a civilised
person. I will learn her.’ I say. Madame Blanch looks hoighty-toighty and Monsieur laughs. He says something comforting, like, in French to the little girl and turns to me. ‘Do you and Éloise look after her, Agnes.’

  ‘’Then Monsieur goes off, and Georges gabbles away with her in French. He says she is terrified of Kenrick, fearing he will come in and get her. That does make Georges laugh. ‘Let him try and Monsieur Gilles and I will give him something to remember us by. Take heart, girl, he’s well enough to work for, is Monsieur Gilles.’

  ‘She’s from a place with the outlandish name – Transylvania, that is it. Her father died early, and her mother worked for Kenrick’s first wife as folks say was so nice. Kenrick changed after she died, and started doing strange experiments and Katarina believes he is one of them human bat things, but for sure that is nonsense, Miss. Anyway, her mother brought her here but then died herself. Kenrick only kept Katarina on because of a promise to his late wife. It was good in Monsieur, Miss Sophie, to take her away from them nasty people.”

  “It was, Agnes!” Sophie’s eyes sparkled. His Quixotic act had rekindled all her old admiration for Monsieur, though John and Harriet would see it as sure evidence he was deranged.

  “All them lot working there either can’t get other work or is touched. I Is terrible things that they are starting to say hereabouts of Kenrick and his experiments, though the place was haunted before, Nain said. Don’t ever go there by yourself, Miss.”

  Sophie shivered. “I think I shall manage to keep away without any sense of loss, dear.” She glanced in the mirror. “I wish I had long black eyelashes.”

  “But Miss, you are blonde, and you cannot have everything. I do know a way of darkening them and making them look longer, if you wish me to try it.”

  “Goodness, is it paint? But I should like them so.”

  While Agnes began working on Sophie’s hair, still chattering and sentimental, Sophie braced herself for the dismal task of warning her against becoming too fond of Georges, being – as Agnes’ mistress – responsible for what Harriet would term her ‘Moral Welfare’.