by Amy Lake
She had received Elizabeth Asherwood’s answer a few days ago—of course Marguerite could visit, and stay as long as she liked, Miss Asherwood would be utterly delighted—although she had kept this happy news from her daughter. The comtesse was still troubled by the stiff-necked English attitudes toward illegitimate children. Or at least the attitude of some of them; Terence’s older daughter seemed kind enough.
But perhaps there were worse things to face in this world than a bit of social unpleasantness.
She took another sip of cold tea.
It will not come here, Alice told herself. It cannot come to Picardy. Even several summers back, when the Great Fear had spread throughout the French countryside, leaving normally sane individuals convinced that armed brigands were about to steal every grain of wheat from their storage bins and the last scrap of bread from their childrens’ mouths, even then Picardy had remained calm.
But Sebastien’s words were disturbing. And Louis the Sixteenth, in contrast to those few summers ago, was dead. They will need someone new to blame, thought the comtesse. They cannot cut off his head twice.
It was, Alice decided, time to say something to Marguerite. She had been reluctant, for all that fifteen was accounted an adult. She herself had been engaged to the late comte at fifteen, and married within the year. But Marguerite . . . Her daughter, although not slow in understanding, was naïve and tender-hearted to a degree that sometimes caught the comtesse off-guard. As in the death, a few months ago, of one of the chateau’s ancient drays, a sway-backed mare who had lost most of her teeth and was beginning the slow process of starvation.
The stable hands had put her down, of course, and Marguerite claimed she understood the necessity. But the girl had nightmares for weeks.
I will tell her the letter has arrived, decided Alice. I will tell Marguerite she can write Miss Asherwood and confirm a visit.
And in the meantime, she could at least show her daughter the chateau’s hiding place. A niche cut into a wall, behind a heavy wardrobe, where no-one but the thinnest child could think of squeezing through. And ‘thin’ described Marguerite, who showed promise of beauty to come in large, brown eyes and a mass of glossy black hair, but who was still gangly and coltish at fifteen.
The niche had been cut decades past, even a hundred years ago perhaps, and no-one beside the comtesse—and possibly old Baston—knew of its existence.
Alice du Merveille frowned at the thought of some of Sebastien’s other stories. They could have her if they wanted—those men who claimed revolutionary ideals, and then spent their freedom drunk—but nobody was going to touch Marguerite.
* * *
Chapter 10
A Quarrel
Lord Winthrop called upon Elizabeth the very next day after the Marquess of Derwell’s ball, and although she knew he was angry, and had prepared for his visit, and carefully mapped out her own, thoughtful responses to any complaint, they still fell into a quarrel. The argument was, Miss Asherwood later reflected, the first true row of her life, not only with Geoffrey but with anyone. Unless one took count of her schoolroom years, when the very young Elizabeth had once refused her mother’s insistence that she get down from that tree—an enormous chestnut in the front courtyard—immediately.
It was the one time she could remember Lady Asherwood raising her voice.
Geoffrey had said nothing the evening before. After an awkward few moments in the arbor—
“Winthrop,” said Lord Blakeley.
“Blakeley,” said Geoff.
—she had turned on her heel and walked back to the house, with Geoffrey following. She’d said nothing to either man, not being sure of what one could say in such circumstances, although she was certain that she should have attempted a cheerful, offhand comment, something to make light of the situation.
The presence of Lord Blakeley seemed to make offhand impossible. As she left, she heard him whisper—
“Blame me.”
“I cannot believe this of you, Elizabeth.”
“You make too much of nothing,” Lizzie told Lord Winthrop. She was pouring tea; the cup rattled in the saucer as she set it down, and she sighed inwardly at this evidence of her discomposure. She was never discomposed, and it was quite annoying.
“Nothing? With Blakeley? You have no idea of the man’s reputation, or his character. He’s no fit acquaintance for a young lady.”
Geoffrey had gone rather red in the face. It does not become him, thought Miss Asherwood, who was trying to keep her own temper. She knew that her behavior in the marquess’s garden was inexcusable, but she could not explain the whole of it to Geoffrey, and so she preferred not to discuss it at all.
“Can you not think how this makes me look in the eyes of society?”
Ah, and there it is, thought Elizabeth. “Is that all you care for?” she burst out. “Your benighted reputation?”
“My reputation? ’Tis yours that concerns me!”
Geoffrey stood up and began pacing the length of the library. Elizabeth had never seen him in such a state. He went to the fireplace and stabbed angrily at the burning logs with a salamander. Sparks flew into the room.
“Geoff, stop,” said Lizzie. “You’ll burn the carpet.”
Lord Winthrop replaced the fire iron. He leaned against the mantelpiece and regarded her in silence.
Perhaps Miss Asherwood did not realize that a young man’s pride is easily injured. She had shown some reluctance to further her attachment with Lord Winthrop and, on the subject of a female’s affections, Peregrine Blakeley was just the sort of man to inspire worry.
“Geoffrey,” began Elizabeth, who realized that some details would need to be forthcoming, “I wanted to talk to him about Marguerite.”
Lord Winthrop frowned, clearly not expecting this tack to the conversation. “Marguerite?”
“Lord Blakeley is, I understand, in the Foreign Office. I thought he could help.”
“Oh.” He took a deep breath. “I see.”
Geoffrey sat down, mollified. The argument was over. But she noted that he did not ask her anything about the substance of the conversation; what she had asked Lord Blakeley, or how he had responded. And Miss Asherwood did not volunteer the information that she was now considering a visit to that gentleman in his own home.
“More tea?” said Lizzie.
“Thank you, yes,” said Lord Winthrop.
* * * *
A personal visit to Lord Blakeley was indeed on Miss Asherwood’s mind. She had discussed the idea with Penelope on the way home from the ball, and although her friend had doubts about this scheme, Penny had eventually, reluctantly agreed to help.
“You’re quite mad, you know,” said Miss Perrin.
“I need to do something,” replied Elizabeth. “My father told me to help Marguerite—”
“By visiting a rake in his home?”
“I cannot sit for weeks and simply wait for her to reply,” said Lizzie. “Do you realize that . . . that all hell could be breaking loose in Picardy and I would never know about it?”
“Well, perhaps that’s true,” admitted Penny, “but—”
“I will need Lord Blakeley’s direction, first,” said Elizabeth. “Do you suppose Henry can discover where he lives?”
“I imagine so. But Lizzie—”
“And I’ll need to pick a time for the visit. Do gentlemen wake early or late?”
“I don’t know about gentlemen. But Henry is rarely up before two in the afternoon.”
“Hmm. Morning would be better, don’t you think? Less . . . ”
“Fraught?” said Penny. “Lizzie, think for a minute. Assuming Henry can ferret him out, why not just send Lord Blakeley a letter?”
Why not, indeed? But by the next morning Elizabeth had decided against the post. Letters could be ignored. Still—
How can you even consider it? A few kisses under an arbor were naught in comparison to the action she was now contemplating, which, in society’s eyes, would put her beyond
the pale. Even the thought of it made her blush; the carriage ride to Lord Blakeley’s street, wherever it might be, the walk through his front garden, the knock at his door—
“I shall write a letter,” said Lord Winthrop suddenly.
“Oh,” said Miss Asherwood, “I beg your pardon?” Deep in thought, she had nearly forgotten that Geoffrey was still there.
“To the Foreign Office.”
“Ah. Well, I suppose—”
“It’s the best one can do. I shall write a letter to the Secretary, and ask that enquiries be made about . . . about mademoiselle du Merveille.”
A letter, thought Lizzie. Enquiries. But ’twas more than he had offered before, and she supposed she should be glad of it.
“Elizabeth,” said Lord Winthrop.
He hesitated, and she looked at him curiously.
“My concern—’tis neither of our own reputations, really.”
She waited, having no idea what he meant.
“We’re to be married someday,” said Geoffrey. “At least, that is my hope. And it is my hope, too, that someday we will . . . we will have children.”
Elizabeth looked down, unable to meet his eyes. He had said nothing beyond what she had always assumed. Still, it was difficult to face, somehow, this blunt survey of her life to come.
“Do you really want—” Lord Winthrop broke off for a moment. “Do you want our children—to be associated in society’s mind—with an illegitimate young woman?”
“Geoff—”
“I know ’tis not fair. I do.” Lord Winthrop strode to Elizabeth’s side and took her hands in his. “But this is the world we live in, like it or no. And our own children must come first, surely you agree?”
She still could not look at him. And Lizzie found it difficult to work out the logic as he wished, to put the needs of children that she did not know against the life of a child that she did. Miss Asherwood did not quite believe the ton to be as unforgiving as Geoffrey suggested, but she knew this had also been her father’s opinion—and that of Alice du Merveille.
He was watching her. “I suppose,” said Lizzie.
“I have promised to write the Foreign Office. And I will. But that is the most either of us can do. You must abandon any thought of further contact with Lord Blakeley.”
“Thank you, Geoffrey,” said Miss Asherwood. She smiled at him and, to her relief, Lord Winthrop did not comment on the lack of any promise in this response. And the topic of Peregrine Blakeley did not come up between them again for the rest of his visit.
* * *
Chapter 11
The Plan
A sennight went by, and the subject of Marguerite du Merveille was pushed somewhat to the back of Elizabeth’s mind. For all that she was concerned for her sister, and would have welcomed some official assurance that all was well in Picardy, Elizabeth put off any visit to Lord Blakeley. Henry Perrin had obtained his address, at Penelope’s request—’twas on Saint Ann’s Lane, the end nearest Orchard Street and the Dean’s Yard—but the thought of actually going to his lordship’s home overwhelmed Lizzie, and her nervousness was not helped by Penny’s continued dislike of the idea.
“I know that we have both scoffed at the ton’s rules,” she told Miss Asherwood. “But there are good reasons for some of them.”
“I know,” said Lizzie. In the light of day—at least when she was not in the midst of quarreling with Geoffrey—the plan seemed impossible.
Lord Winthrop wrote his own communication to the Foreign Office, as promised, but he warned Miss Asherwood frankly that the Foreign Office would be in no hurry to reply. As he explained to Elizabeth, the government had many more important things with which to be concerned; one French girl would not be a priority.
But when yet another week had passed, Elizabeth started to worry. That morning she and Miss Perrin took an early morning ride through Hyde Park, accompanied by Penny’s groom. The girls were both decent seats, and Miss Asherwood would use any pretext for a un-ladylike gallop. Penelope, on the other hand, had a tendency to become distracted by the presence of small animals, squirrels in particular. She would have stopped to feed them if the groom—or Elizabeth—had allowed it.
“Penny,” said Miss Asherwood, “they bite.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Penelope. “They look quite tame.”
Elizabeth was reminding Miss Perrin—for the tenth time—of the number of days that had passed since her sister’s last letter.
“A fortnight or two? You cannot necessarily expect a reply so soon.”
“I just want to know that everything is alright.”
“Lizzie, you always want to know,” said Penelope. “But you’ve done what you can.”
“You’re right,” said Elizabeth, with a touch of gloom.
“And you cannot force Marguerite to write back at the very first moment. She will need to talk this over with the comtesse. They’ll need to make plans.”
“But what if something . . . has gone wrong?”
“Why should it have?” countered Penny. “And the post in France is shockingly bad. For all you know, she’s on her way already.”
That was a cheering thought. But Elizabeth somehow knew that she would hear from Marguerite first.
Half of an hour went by. Hyde Park was a pleasant place on a summer morning, with some of the city noise left behind, and Elizabeth felt her anxieties subside. In the calm and order of London, ’twas difficult to imagine that life was terribly different elsewhere. Although Miss Asherwood was neither insensitive nor ignorant she was very young, and as sheltered as a doting father—and later an overprotective butler, housekeeper, and cook—could manage. Elizabeth’s nature might be headstrong, but society’s role for young women was a passive one.
“Oh,” said Penelope, “did you hear? Amelia has sent Clarence Lafferty off.”
This was news indeed. “Miss Campersdown broke the engagement?”
“She did.”
Elizabeth considered this. “Why, do you suppose?”
“She knew he did not love her.”
“But she knew that from the beginning.”
“I think there is a difference,” said Penny, “between knowing something and really—”
“—having one’s face pushed in it?” supplied Miss Asherwood.
“Yes. Perhaps a loveless engagement was even worse than a loveless courtship.”
“Not to mention a loveless marriage. It all sounds very dreary.”
“Indeed.”
The two women rode along the Serpentine, stopping to allow Penelope to throw a few crusts of bread to the ducks. This activity, which could be accomplished while still on horseback, was allowed.
Miss Asherwood’s mind eventually returned to thoughts of Picardy. She mulled over her options.
“I suppose I could go visit Lord Blakeley.”
“Lizzie. I told you. You’ve done what you can,” said Penelope.
Was that really true? wondered Elizabeth. “Then I will go to France myself,” she said suddenly.
Penelope groaned. “Oh, for the love of— How do you propose to do that?”
“I will . . . hire a boat—at Dover. Surely that’s possible.”
“And travel to—?”
“Well, Calais, I suppose. Isn’t that where one goes?”
“I can see that you are an experienced traveler,” said Penny drily. “And once in Calais, how will you communicate?”
Elizabeth frowned in chagrin. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“Bien sûr.”
The French language had been the bane of Miss Asherwood’s school years. Although young ladies of society were expected to speak that tongue, this was an area where all her efforts, not to mention her father’s efforts, had failed. Sir Terence’s French was impeccable, but perhaps he had waited too long before starting to teach his daughter, and his many absences had not helped matters. At any rate, she had been unable to progress much beyond a few mangled ph
rases in what even Lizzie herself could tell was a deplorable accent.
“I will find someone who speaks English,” Elizabeth said now, to Penny. “Or I will bring a note in French, asking directions to the chateau. You can write it for me.”
Miss Perrin burst into laughter.
“Then I must go see Lord Blakeley,” said Miss Asherwood, stubbornly, forced back to her original plan.
“Lizzie—”
“When we parted—that night—he said, ‘I am at your service.’”
“You’re being ridiculous. Gentlemen always say that. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“And gentlemen make visits. Why can’t we?”
Penelope sighed. “We’ve been over this and you know perfectly well why not,” she said. “It isn’t done.”
“Now who’s worried about convention?”
“I’m not worried about it. I’m worried that someone will find out—Miss Elizabeth Asherwood, approaching a gentleman’s door in the middle of the day!—and you will never be received in society again. Lord Winthrop will throw you off, and I’ll have to visit you at some out-of-the-way cottage in . . . . in Yorkshire, where you would live with a maid and two footmen, and eat mutton all year round.”
Lizzie was unimpressed. “I could go after dark,” she said.
“Lud. Don’t be a ninny.” Penny was becoming concerned. Once Elizabeth became preoccupied with a subject she could be alarmingly stubborn.
“I will ask him what he knows, and if he can . . . check on conditions in the area of the chateau. How difficult can that be?”
Penelope gave up. “You are risking your reputation, and what if Blakeley is as much a bungler as Lord what’s-his-name says?”
“Lord Teagrave.”
“Whoever.”
“He isn’t,” said Lizzie, and there was certainty in her voice. She couldn’t have explained precisely why she thought so, but the few minutes she had spent with Peregrine Blakeley had convinced her she was correct. The man radiated competence.
If he has a reputation for botching the job, thought Miss Asherwood suddenly, there must be a purpose to it.
