by Amy Lake
“But you remained involved,” she said. “With . . . with France, I mean.”
“At first, only by post. My mother never went back to Normandy, although she did invite Aunt Silvie to England every year. My aunt would not come—” He broke off.
“—but I couldn’t leave them behind.”
His cousins, she realized.
“I wrote to Michel every month. Occasionally he answered, and gave me some news of the family, but ’twas as if Herve and Gillet had disappeared. So, after I turned sixteen and had some access to money of my own, I went.” He shrugged. “Not that it did much good.”
She waited for more, but his lordship was at an end for now. “Look,” he said, smiling, and pointed to a mother duck leading her troop of tiny ducklings across the road, oblivious to the horses bearing down on them. Lord Blakeley stopped his team and they watched the ducklings, with a few moments of alarmed peeping, manage the ditch on the far side.
“Marguerite would love this,” said Elizabeth, sighing.
Blakeley raised his eyebrows. “Ducks?”
“Yes. She sends me drawings. She is completely in love with all manner of small animals.”
“Ah.”
“She would have names for every one of them, I’m sure.”
When the last duckling was safely across, Lord Blakeley flicked his whip lightly to one side—Elizabeth noted that he never touched his horses—and the phaeton moved smoothly forward. He drove very differently from some of the young men of her acquaintance, who affected an aggressive air, and who seemed to think that young ladies should be impressed by the high-strung nature of their animals, and the difficulty of handling such a team. Lord Blakeley was relaxed, and his matched greys were elegant in step and equally calm.
“They are the most beautiful horses I have ever seen,” she said, only then realizing she spoke out loud.
Lord Blakeley laughed. “Ssh,” he told her. “They’re already spoiled beyond belief.”
The mood between them, which had been so somber a few minutes ago, now lightened—to the relief of both, it seemed. A few cows appeared to their right, and Lizzie sighed again, completely at peace.
“Where is London?” she asked. “Has it disappeared?”
Her companion nodded. “For now.”
’Twas as if they travelled in a different world, only the two of them, a place without worries or responsibility, with no question of marrying Lord Winthrop or not marrying him, no balls to prepare for or musicales to attend. She sank gratefully and with her whole heart into this world, and the quiet of the drive now felt easy and restful, nothing at all like the awkward silence of two people who had run out of things to say.
Elizabeth was no longer nervous in Lord Blakeley’s presence. Her heart no longer hammered as if it wished to beat through her chest. And yet she was still so aware of him—so aware of his body, his thighs close to hers, his hands on the reins, the muscles of his arms guiding the team—that she felt that the connection between them was almost palpable, physical.
Does he feel the same? she wondered. Her hands occasionally moved in her lap, a slight tremble, and she knew that if she allowed it, if she ceded control, one would tuck under his lordship’s arm, just as she had seen Miss Ware do.
“Miss Asherwood.”
His voice was soft, and a little rough.
She turned toward Lord Blakeley, still under the spell of ducklings and cows, and the smell of cut hay. “Mmm?”
His right hand came around the back of her head and he drew her to him. Elizabeth never thought to resist, and the kiss deepened until both of them were lost entirely to the outside world. ’Twas fortunate that his lordship’s cattle were well-trained and calm, as the reins were slack in his other hand.
He broke away with a soft groan.
They were both out of breath. Lizzie was sure she was flushed, and that her nose had turned an unappealing color. They looked at each other, and she felt that she could see directly into Lord Blakeley’s soul.
“Miss Asherwood—”
She leaned forward, and kissed him back.
* * *
Chapter 29
Marguerite
Marguerite huddled against the back wall of the wardrobe, her eyes clamped shut, her hands pressed over her mouth. She willed herself not to cry out.
Heavy footsteps thudded on the staircase, accompanied by shouted cursing. The door to the bedroom crashed open, and she heard more shouts, a loud conversation between several men.
“Imbécile. How could you let her get away?”
A grunt, followed by a different voice. “Our young Henri did not know that a comtesse’s brat could kick so hard!”
A burst of laughter. “Or with such aim!”
“She cannot have gone far.” A third man. Marguerite shivered. She knew the face that accompanied that voice, she knew that she would see it in every nightmare for the rest of her life.
“En garde!”
Sounds of crockery breaking, a nightstand being turned over.
“Hey! Watch out!”
More yelling and laughter followed, as the men tore the room apart. One violent crash was accompanied by the sounds of shattering glass, and Marguerite knew that the room’s heavy ormolu mirror, a beautiful carved piece passed down from the comtesse’s great-great grandmother, was gone.
“André! Check the armoire.”
Marguerite froze. The wardrobe door was flung open with such force that the hinges gave way and wood cracked. She heard clothes being tossed out onto the floor.
“Rien,” said André. Nothing.
“Merde. She cannot have left the chateau.”
“It’s a big place. There is the cellar, the attic—”
“What do we care about a child? Leave the girl be. There’ll be nothing left anyway.”
She had not heard this voice before. In comparison to the others, the man sounded almost kind.
But Marguerite knew the truth. None of them were kind.
* * * *
The long night crept slowly toward morning. Marguerite did not move, even when she heard a scream, which was abruptly and mercifully cut short. Even when she heard the men calling from somewhere out in the courtyard, below the window.
“Mademoiselle! You must stop hiding! Everyone must leave this place at once. Do not worry, I promise that no harm will come to you!”
Marguerite did not move. In front of her closed eyes she saw the woods of the chateau, felt the cool breezes in the shade of spreading oaks. She thought about the ducklings in the chateau pond, how they always swam behind their mother in a ragged single file. She thought about Madam le Cochon’s piglets, born just last week, their soft grunts as they nudged and quarreled for space at the sow’s side. The runt was a tiny creature too weak to vie with its siblings, and Marguerite had nursed him herself, using a bit of hollow straw and cows’ milk.
The air grew chill. She thought about her father, whom she had seen only a few times a year while he was still alive. Maman had finally explained that Sir Terence had another family, another daughter, several years older than Marguerite. Her father wished to see them more often, but could not. It was si triste, but—
The girl had heard nothing after that first sentence. Her eyes turned to her mother’s, full of happy tears.
A sister! She had a sister!
Marguerite was untroubled by the concepts of illegitimacy or a second family, and her heart bore no more room for resentment than Lizzie’s. She had loved her sister, worshiped her from the moment she had first learned of her existence, and wished for nothing but to write a letter, immediately—
Not yet, said her mother, but would not explain.
At some nameless hour, which she thought might be near dawn, Marguerite crawled stiffly out from behind the wardrobe, from a nook in the plastered wall concealed by the heavy wood, a space too small for anyone but a child—or a slender young woman—to hide within. Her body ached from the long confinement, her thin legs almost numb.
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Her mother had showed her this space only days ago.
Maman. Marguerite’s eyes filled with tears, but she did not cry. The time for crying would be later.
She crept soundlessly to the bedroom door, stepping around furniture and clothing and shards of mirrored glass. The chateau had been eerily silent for hours, but she still stopped and listened for a full minute, ticking off the seconds with her fingers, before moving out into the hallway.
Marguerite smelled smoke.
* * *
Chapter 30
Aftermath
What had she done? What had she done?
Miss Asherwood returned to the Perrins’ home in a state of euphoria—and panic. She had kissed Lord Blakeley. She had kissed him.
He kissed you first.
True. But—
And it felt—oh, it felt so right, and she had not wanted to stop at all. And he held her so tightly and finally stopped, but only to say—“Shall we take a walk?”—because a high-perch phaeton was no place to become distracted, even Lizzie knew that—
—and he had lifted her down, his hands on her waist, and tied up the horses, and they had walked a little ways into the shade of a huge silver birch. Lord Blakeley had been concerned about the ground, and went to fetch a blanket from the phaeton, and Elizabeth stood there, watching him go and watching him return. They sat down on the blanket, and held hands, and kissed.
Neither of them spoke, until at last Lord Blakeley said, “Miss Asherwood—”
She laughed. “Lizzie,” she told him.
“Lizzie—” he began, but had nothing more to say.
“You what?” Penny was staring at Miss Asherwood as if Elizabeth had lost every vestige of sense.
“I kissed him.”
“Kissed him!”
“Several times. Oh, and we sat on a blanket, underneath some birch trees.”
“A blanket!”
“You keep repeating everything I say.”
The two women were in Penelope’s bedroom, trimming candle wicks and trying not to make a mess on the rug. Elizabeth had decided that one more night spent at the Perrins’ would be best, as her emotional state was such that she doubted she could sleep, and talking to Penny was the only possible relief.
“Just kissing?” asked Miss Perrin.
“Well—”
“Lizzie!”
“We held hands.”
“Oh.” Penny was mollified.
“And his cousin died—a young girl.”
Penelope frowned, and Miss Asherwood realized that this remark made little sense in the context of the present conversation. “He was telling me a story about her, I mean,” added Elizabeth. “She fell out of a tree and broke her ankle.”
“My goodness, I’m so sorry.” Penelope was instantly concerned. “Just recently?”
“Oh— No, it must be fifteen or more years ago, I suppose.”
“I’m confused. You were kissing, and then—”
“No. The story came first. But, oh, Penny—I feel like I’ve known him forever. I felt like we could have talked forever. He is so handsome, and he handles his team so well, and he is kind and thoughtful, and he must be terribly brave—”
“Breathe, Lizzie.”
“And I kept thinking about Susannah.”
“Susannah?”
“We always talked about how . . . how forward she is, and why would she do such things, but now I think I know.”
“Now that you are an experienced flirt?”
“It isn’t flirting, to feel like this.”
“Lud.” Penny rolled her eyes. “But you and Geoffrey—”
Lizzie shook her head. “That was nothing like this. Penny, I think I love him.”
“Does he love you?”
Miss Asherwood was unable to answer that question. She felt confident that Lord Blakeley had taken pleasure in her company, and in their conversation, and absolutely certain that he enjoyed kissing her.
But love? He had never offered her the use of his first name. And when they arrived back at the Perrins’ home, Lord Blakeley lifted her down from the phaeton without further comment, and bowed, and left after seeing her to the door. There was still the reply from Monsieur Rabaillat to consider. But other than that, Elizabeth had no idea when she would speak with Peregrine Blakeley again.
It somehow didn’t matter. I love him, she thought. And I will always remember what it feels like. No matter whom I marry.
* * * *
This time he had told her. From start to end, Fanchone’s story, the story no-one but his family and Anthony Dewhurst knew.
And even Dewhurst had never heard Peregrine’s confession; the pain and the guilt, the miserable nights listening to his aunt sobbing in her bedroom, his mother’s words soothing and indistinct through the stone walls.
No, Anthony didn’t know any of that—but she did. And she had given him no false sympathy, no trite words, nothing besides a look that was so full of compassion that he had nearly broken down.
Blakeley had been to Fanchone’s funeral, heard one person after another tell his aunt about God’s providence, and God’s will, until he was ready to scream.
God had nothing to do with this! he had wanted to tell them. ’Twas all of you, letting that boy run riot.
’Twas me.
* * *
Chapter 31
Geoffrey
Lord Winthrop was unaware of Miss Asherwood’s trip to Marylebone Park with Peregrine Blakeley. Or, one might say he was unaware of the facts, but not the substance. He knew Elizabeth was drifting away from him, and that her attention was elsewhere. He could not blame it on her father’s death anymore, or the stresses of a return to active society.
No, her attention was further and further from him, personally. Lord Winthrop was not an insensitive male. He could tell.
And, somehow, it didn’t seem to matter. This realization, more than any other, disturbed Lord Winthrop. He didn’t miss her. In fact, Geoffrey felt oddly disinclined to call on Miss Asherwood, although he had continued to do so. Her face and figure were as charming as ever, her conversation pleasant. She had always had an excellent sense of humor; Geoff knew he was deficient in this respect, and had tried to appreciate Elizabeth’s ease with a humorous remark.
He’d been told since childhood that she was his intended, and after the death of both parents, any deviation from that plan was unthinkable. He felt responsible for her, but how could he continue to keep this responsibility if she would not consent to their marriage?
Recently he had made the mistake, so obvious in retrospect, of mentioning some of these thoughts to Viscount Marbrey. Through him, the entire group of friends became aware of Lord Winthrop’s changed mood, and they were now like hounds on the scent, determined to show Geoffrey what he had been missing. Two nights ago Matthews had gone so far as to introduce Lord Winthrop to a Cyprian, a young woman who had met them that evening, ostensibly by chance, at Vauxhall Gardens.
The Cyprian was a female of extraordinary beauty, and equally forward manner, and Geoff was, on that occasion, definitely in his cups. They had somehow found themselves alone on one of the dark garden walks, and she had made so free with her hands that he lost all control and had, in fact, taken her there and then on the grass.
Not his first time, but the first since he had renewed his efforts to become engaged to Miss Asherwood, and Lord Winthrop was heartily ashamed of himself afterwards, a sentiment not lessened by Viscount Marbrey’s knowing leer when they rejoined the party. Nor lessened by the second time, the second dark walk, which occurred later that evening.
He woke up the next morning with a sense of near despair. What kind of a man was he? No wonder Miss Asherwood was losing interest. He sent a note round to Aisling House at once, telling Elizabeth of his intentions to visit that afternoon. The footman returned to inform Lord Winthrop that Miss Asherwood was currently spending the day with Miss Perrin.
Very well, thought Geoffrey. Tomorrow, then. Or even
tonight, at the Pembertons’ ball.
* * *
Chapter 32
Lefèvre
Pierre-Louis was furious. The plan had been so simple, only an imbecile could have failed to make it work. But the men he had hired—and admittedly, one didn’t get the cream of the crop for a job like this—were worse than that. Lefèvre glanced at the woman unconscious on his bed, and thought that someone would pay for this. Someone had to pay. They’d ruined everything.
Grab the girl first, he’d told them. In the middle of the night, Marguerite du Merveille would be in bed. Once they had her, the mother would be easy.
“Threaten the brat. The comtesse will come along without any trouble.”
But the dogs, the damned hounds, had made a racket to wake the dead, and André claimed—claimed!— that when they found Marguerite’s bedroom, the girl was gone. Disappeared completely, as if that was possible. And the comtesse was awake.
“Nearly took Henri’s arm off, she did,” said André, which was true enough. “Bled like a pig.”
Alice du Merveille was apparently acquainted with the use of one of the comte’s old swords; either that, or it had been a lucky try. She put such a slice in the arm that Henri would have a thick, ugly scar for the rest of his life.
Not that Lefèvre cared.
With the girl a captive, Alice du Merveille would have gotten in the cart, and the two of them taken along the Paris road, with plenty of threats and talk of the guillotine from the supposed revolutionaries. And then he, Pierre-Louis Lefèvre, would be there to rescue them—working in the fields early the next morning, a happy coincidence—when the cart drove by.
Simple. Foolproof.
“Why didn’t you lie?” he shouted at the supposed leader, one Arnaud Dumont. “Tell her that you already had the little bitch?”
“I did. The woman didn’t believe me.”
“Gah.”
Alice du Merveille had fought so hard that Arnaud eventually hit her and knocked her out. So instead of a dramatic roadside rescue of mother and daughter—Pierre-Louis had dreamed about this moment for weeks, the terrified and oh-so-thankful comtesse collapsing in tears into his arms—he had an unconscious woman in his bed, one who would see only his face when she awoke.
