She realised she was as anxious not to offend Agnes as she would be with any friend. She was glad she had given the girl generous cash present she could little afford on St Nicholas’ Day. She envied Monsieur Émile, who was so rich – despite the depredations of the French Revolution upon his family’s fortune – that he could take on little Katarina and pay for her future without thought.
Envy him? She reminded herself – as she had several times when feeling indignant at his treatment of her – how poor Monsieur had lost his whole family.
Far from doing something to comfort him, as she wanted, she was somehow in a grotesquely false position of having distressed him further.
After breakfast, the Dowager Countess gave Sophie and Miss Morwenna the expensive boxes of sweetmeats brought by her nephew ‘for the ladies’. Sophie knew the Dowager Countess had given him the slippers embroidered for him by Sophie, and she wondered if he’d put them on to aim some more kicks at the fire.
“There’s lovely, these back curls have come up perfect…Was Georges asking of you, isn’t it, thinking himself discreet, ‘Did Mademoiselle Sophie always stay in England before coming here?’
‘So far as I know, I say, ‘Why do you ask?’ He looks all conspiratorial, if that is the word. ‘Gilles Long Legs is sure they met in Paris when he was – Ahem! – in disguise as a rogue of sorts, shall we say? They got lovey-dovey at a party.”
“Oh, dear!” Sophie felt her face burn as Agnes related Monsieur Émile’s story. Agnes was saying, “I told him, ‘I don’t know how this misunderstanding comes about, but Miss Sophie is the sweetest mistress I could wish, so honest she does not know how honest she is.’
‘He says, ‘It is a puzzle. I see that maid Éloise is eager to try and console Monsieur. A good thing, for he is in a foul temper.’”
Sophie felt nettled. She guessed this disapproval had nothing to do with maidenly modesty. She shot a sharp glance at Agnes bland face.
She drew as deep a breath as she could as Agnes put on her stays. “Agnes, forgive my curiosity, but I regard you as a friend, you know –”
Agnes broke off to plant a tipsy kiss on Sophie’s cheek. “And me you, cariad!”
“But I am anxious about you becoming so – friendly – with Georges. He does seem a rogue, dear. What you said about the way he and Monsieur Émile lived in Paris – I do not want to be judgemental, he may well have come to regret it, but –” Her voice trailed off.
“The cards said they were rogues, isn’t it?” Agnes’ eyes sparkled. “Though you do not need to worry, Miss Sophie. I will tell you a secret. I would not take him seriously as a prospect for the long term, as I have a child to think of.”
“Why, Agnes! Boy or girl?”
“Girl, Miss Sophie. She’s two and named Eiluned. They don’t know hereabouts how she is mine, for I went down to my sister as married a sailor a world away in Swansea to have her. Now my Mam takes care of her after I heard as the Dowager was looking for a new maid.”
Sophie knew most respectable people would say she should be shocked. She wasn’t. She could never regret a baby’s coming into the world. “Had you told me before, I would have given you more free time to spend with her.”
Agnes planted another kiss on her head. “Now that is you all over, Miss Sophie. Who wouldn’t love you?”
Sophie was seized by the self-pitying thought that – happy as she was at Plas Uchaf – had Harriet and John loved her more, they wouldn’t have packed her off here at all. She put it aside. Harriet would be the first to point out it was Sophie’s own fault if she still faced the prospects of a poor relative; in her confusion, hadn’t she overlooked Monsieur Émile’s glittering offer?
Sophie regretted that bitterly. She hadn’t objected to Monsieur Émile as a man, after all, having admired him from afar for years, while his touch when he had kissed her hand in greeting had set her a-tingle as no other man’s. It was only when he had started to make insane passionate declarations that she had frozen with alarm.
As for Dubois Court, Sophie had heard how wonderful it was there. He owned a magnificent town house, too. It was all too bad.
To Sophie’s relief, Georges wasn’t called on either to serve or to stand and wait at dinner. Perhaps he was too drunk, if Agnes’ condition before dinner was anything to go by.
They were lively over the magnificent Christmas dinner, though Monsieur Émile took no more notice of Sophie than civility required and a couple of covert glances at her in her low peacock blue dress. Of course, if she had taken a long time over her appearance today it was because she wanted to look nice for Christmas.
The Dowager Countess was displeased by Émile’s removing Katarina from the Kenrick’s. Still, as it was the first Christmas dinner they had shared in years, she merely clicked her tongue. “You demonstrated the rashness that characterises you, Nephew. The Kenrick’s must be offended at so high-handed an action.”
“I could not leave the little girl so, Madame, or she would run off into the snow, and might perish. However, I realise I have created an awkward situation for you and I will call upon Kenrick tomorrow and offer reparation.”
Morwenna turned her arch smile on him. “Émile never could stay out of trouble for five minutes together. Well, Ma’am, Kenrick said Mistress Kenrick would soon remedy his staff problems, so she must hire another kitchen wench, too. Kenrick himself has altered much since he used to live here! Recollect you working with him in the Late Count’s laboratory over those summers, Ynyr and Émile?”
Lord Ynyr smiled. “It was work upon blood. Kenrick was different then, quite a cheerful fellow indeed. When Émile came over for the holidays, eager for riding and sword play, he found me immersed in natural philosophy. Recollect you, Cousin? You jeered me about it firstly, but were soon drawn in yourself.”
Morwenna gave a pretty shiver. “There is a disturbing atmosphere in the hallway at Plas Cyfeillgar. Legend has it you may see something horrible there.”
Monsieur Émile suggested lazily, “Possibly the man who roared up the stairs.”
“Was not that absurd? I could scarce keep my countenance.” Miss Morwenna giggled from Monsieur to the Count and back again.
Sophie, silently but smilingly following the conversation (as became a poor relative) started as she caught Monsieur Émile’s eyes on her.
Miss Morwenna went on, “The ghosts there sound much more impressive than our own Grey Lady, who has not yet honoured me. Should she so, I shall offer her my best pink slippers, which might cheer her and render her name inappropriate.”
The Dowager Countess said solemnly, “Alors, I myself have lived here nigh on two and thirty years without seeing The Grey Lady.”
Morwenna wheedled, “Pray indulge us, Ma’am, as Christmas is the time of year for ghost stories. Ynyr must tell us one when the gentleman deign to come up from their port.”
They had another sort of ghost story. While the wind howled about the roofs and chuckled down the drawing room chimney, Monsieur Émile read to them the novel ‘Of Terror’ Morwenna brought out. “Everyone in Town talks of Madoc the Magnificent or the Vampyre’s Curse. For my own part, I found it absurd.”
It was. Sophie, putting to rights the Dowager Countess’ sewing, found herself laughing outright as Monsieur Émile read to them – eyebrows raised – of the prosing speeches of the hero Eugene and the faintings of the heroine Lucasta, while Madoc’s appearances were always greeted with cries of, ‘Fie, you foul fiend!’ No wonder he was so unpleasant.
She found Monsieur Émile’s voice melodious. Watching him, she was more than ever puzzled; he seemed so sane about everything save this insistence on their supposed meeting.
The oddity of an aristocrat admitting to living amongst ruffians in Paris did make her wonder about the workings of his mind, even given the desperate situation in which he found himself. She had been too astonished to think much about Agnes’ and his own remarks about his criminal lifestyle (and that of his valet Georges). Now having leisure to think
about it all, it seemed incredible. She couldn’t help taking covert glances at him, so astounding was everything about him.
He caught her doing so and gave her a chilling look in return.
Meanwhile, the Dowager Countess did her embroidery with calm confidence and Lord Ynyr was holding his own with Miss Morwenna at chess.
Whatever would they make of their relative’s history, did they know of it? Whatever would Miss Morwenna make of Monsieur Émile’s proposal of yesterday?
Lord Ynyr and Émile stood at the front entrance of Plas Cyfeillgar. The wind blew icily in their faces, and they knew it wouldn’t be much warmer in the house.
“No birdsong, as usual.” Émile poked at the boot scraper with one toe. “Did you remark that, Ynyr? No doubt they mislike the jolly atmosphere too.”
“If he berates you, will you be as eager to challenge him* as you were yesterday?”
Émile laughed. “I liked not his attitude towards the ladies. A shame Mistress Kenrick is not arrived. I cannot believe she can be as lovely as rumour has it.”
“Did you never meet her in London? She is beautiful indeed, yet I fear I like her not. Émile, I suppose we must obey Morwenna and look for something terrible in the hall.”
A flash, as of distant lightening, made them turn. Kenrick stood behind them, though they hadn’t heard him approach. His smile was knowing. “Gentleman, this is opportune. I was having coffee in the morning room.”
Émile bowed solemnly. “Merci, Monsieur.”
“That is kind.” Lord Ynyr hoped they wouldn’t be long in the miserable place almost as much as he hoped there wouldn’t be some unseemly brawl. With Émile’s hot temper, you never knew.
Kenrick took them through a side door. They wouldn’t be able to report back to Morwenna about the shifting shadows in the main hall. He led them down flagged passage that had no shadows at all.
“One of these days you may care to look over the books in my study there, gentleman. Then, there is my little laboratory.” He gestured to the next door, giggling, and turned into one opposite.
This room was luxuriously furnished yet fireless. The cold was such that even Lord Ynyr, brought up used to the winter chill of Plas Uchaf, was glad there had been no servant to take their coats.
Kenrick rushed out and down a corridor leading off to shout down the well of the stairs to the basement. The Count wondered if there would be a repeat of the events of last time.
When Kenrick returned, Émile addressed him suavely. “Monsieur, I have come to admit to increasing your staff problems by stealing the little kitchen maid Katarina. I am willing to pay you back any wages, or whatever you deem necessary. She was weeping, just beaten by one of the women, and about to run away, which late in the day in such weather is not to be recommended, so I took her home with us.”
Kenrick moved closer as Émile spoke. To Lord Ynyr’s amazement, he sniffed the air with a series of quick twitches of his nostrils, like a dog. only to jump back, paling, looking repelled. Perhaps the garlic to which Kenrick was allergic lingered from last night’s dinner on Émile’s breath.
Kenrick seemed to need to recover before saying flatly, “I think the cook complained the wretched skivvy was run away. I know how it is with young bucks, and I would not fall out with one who might be so useful to me over a scullion. But sure the girl is very young?”
Émile’s eyes flashed, but he replied evenly, “Katarina is a child of perhaps twelve and accordingly safe from my advances, Monsieur. In Paris, my friends and I served men who took advantage of children entirely as they deserved.”
Lord Ynyr noted his smile of savage delight at the memory. There were times when his cousin, scion of the Dubois, made him think of nothing so much as a pirate. No wonder he got on so well with his appalling valet.
Kenrick spread his hands. “I did not know she was so young. You speak of compensation, but I would rather have your assistance in my scientific endeavours. The girl was of little use. My Dear Wife persuaded me to keep her out of kindness.”
The Count felt a stab of sorrow for Kenrick; something about Kenrick’s tone made it plain the ‘Dear Wife’ wasn’t the present one.
“Scientific’ endeavours, Monsieur?” Émile raised his eyebrows.
Kenrick turned a challenging look on him. “Yes; I am interested in the nature of time, of access to the past, and of travel through time. I am sure you gentleman know there can be no possibility within the current constraints of knowledge in effecting physical travel through time. However, there is another branch of knowledge which I believe may prove fruitful. I concede the methods I use are called ‘magic’ by the vulgar, yet in applying mathematical principles to the same I hope to bring precision to their use.”
Émile regarded him inscrutably. Kenrick paced about. “I have finally been able to acquire a treatise written earlier this century by one who knew of what he spoke. I believe, gentleman, through bringing this mathematical understanding to the use of thought forms set out therein, I may be able to bridge the gap between natural philosophy and magic and affect a form of travel through time.”
He wheeled about to see them both repress a smile, and his own mouth tightened over his long eyeteeth. “You doubt me, gentleman?”
“Forgive me, Monsieur.” Émile still smiled. “I have a sceptical disposition and am the worst person in whom to confide your unusual ambitions. Alors, regarding the more established spiritual convictions, it is all I can do to attend church sufficiently often not to become a social outcast.”
Anger glittered in Kenrick’s glassy eyes, but his tone was soft. “Indeed, Monsieur Dubois, you would be foolish to underestimate the power of natural forces used by mankind throughout the ages to influence material events. They all rely, one way or another, upon the use of thought forms.”
Émile raised his eyebrows again. Lord Ynyr spoke soothingly. “Possibly, Sir. Truly, everyone must make his own choice concerning such issues; speaking for myself, I must see such mysteries as best left unexplored.”
“Does not Your Lordship find such an orthodox approach confining?” Kenrick stood looking from one to the other, his ruddy cheeks crimson.
Émile – completely indifferent to his outrage – began to speak, but Kenrick darted over to the door. “Our refreshments are come at last!”
He flung open the door to shout down the corridor, “You have been long enough about it!” Back in the room, he stood before the empty hearth, arms sullenly folded.
A stout middle aged serving man brought in a laden tray. He wore a livery so ill fitting – the top half so tight it seemed in danger of splitting, the bottom half so loose, it looked about to fall down – Lord Ynyr stared. Émile’s lips twitched. The man thumped the tray down on a side table with a look of triumph which turned to one of hatred as he turned to his master.
“We will help ourselves.” Kenrick waved the manservant away irritably. The man trudged out, banging the door. Kenrick whipped about in outrage, but said nothing, going over to busy himself with the coffee things. He held a cup out to Lord Ynyr, and as the Count as he stepped over to take it, Kenrick’s glassy gaze met his.
Those eyes appeared to grow; Lord Ynyr found his mind drifting. It seemed to him as he looked into them that hidden in their depths was a secret of massive importance.
He wrenched his gaze from Kenrick’s. His mind cleared gradually to hear Kenrick saying, “…Utilise your admirable mathematical ability, Monsieur, as it seems this wretched mathematician will renege on his agreement to assist me. I am no flatterer, yet I have heard from those qualified to understand how your talent is outstanding, particularly in one whose university education was tragically foreshortened.”
He cleared his throat, and his tone became oily again, though his eyes remained cold. “Yes, Monsieur, you can hardly have been immune yourself from an urge to reverse time.”
At Kenrick’s words Émile’s eyes sparked angrily. Kenrick seemed oblivious as he went back to pacing about. “I know your gifts woul
d be invaluable to me, for as I have told you, my own understanding of mathematics is limited.” He gave a brief smile of expectation.
Émile didn’t return it. “I thank you for the compliment, Monsieur. No doubt you are correct in asserting there is presently no means of harnessing sufficient energy to affect physical travel through time. However, speaking from my own, possibly uninformed, point of view, I see it as no reason to retreat into areas of superstition and unreason.”
Kenrick’s angry eyes still sought Émile’s, but Émile was looking at his ill-tied neck cloth. “I confess myself disappointed to find both Your Lordship” – he bowed quickly in the Count’s direction – “And you, Monsieur, adopt a hidebound attitude. I think that prating fool of a Vicar would be satisfied by the orthodoxy of your views. I have found a method of access to the past already.” He suddenly let out a shriek of laughter. “The dead past, where our crimes lie buried, eh, Monsieur Dubois? I have often thought on how many of us are more fitted for dangling from a noose at Tyburn than enjoying the comforts of a drawing room. Are you then certain you wish to decline my offer, for I will not approach you again?”
Émile rose. “Your notions are intriguing, Monsieur, but I am too much of the sceptic to be of assistance to you.” He lounged over to the coffee table to return his cup. “Thank you for the coffee. We will no doubt speak again. Presently, Lord Ynyr has matters requiring his attention. Regarding the compensation I must owe you for taking away little Katarina?”
Kenrick glowered. “No, Monsieur, the child was a burden. I require no payment unless it might be a few songs from that little chit who is companion to Her Ladyship – what is her name – Miss Sophie? She has a lovely voice. It would sooth the most savage breast, eh, Monsieur?”
Lord Ynyr saw Émile start to speak, seemingly provoked into meeting Kenrick’s gaze, then instead pull his eyes away, shaking his head angrily as if stung by an wasp.
The Count addressed Kenrick coolly, “Miss Sophie came to us as my mother’s companion, Sir, but she is become a valued family member; her delightful singing is but one of her accomplishments. Now we must detain you no longer. Please do convey our greetings to Mistress Kenrick when she joins you.”
That Scoundrel Émile Dubois Page 8
