by Amy Lake
“Oh, for the love of—”
“Can we talk about this elsewhere?” begged Lizzie, steering Penny away from the punch bowl. The conversation, although now conducted sotto voce, was attracting more attention than she wished. She’d seen Lady Jersey glance in their direction—
“What do you mean, not exactly?” hissed Miss Perrin.
Elizabeth suddenly felt like she would break into tears, as wretched as the weakest of emotional females.
“I think,” she told Penny, “I should stay at your house again tonight. Would you mind?”
The two young women left the Pemberton’s ball as soon as politeness allowed. Miss Perrin was alarmed at her friend’s state, as Elizabeth seemed ready to break into tears, or to laugh hysterically at the drop of a ha’penny. Miss Asherwood was clearly avoiding Lord Winthrop—strange behavior for the newly affianced, but Penny had her suspicions about that. At any rate, ’twas best to remove her from the eagle-eyes of the ton dragons before she said or did anything that could not be swept beneath the rug and ignored.
Miss Asherwood saw Lord Blakeley once before they left. He was dancing with Adelaide Caldwell, without a care in the world.
Back at the Perrins’ home, after an endless carriage ride conducted in silence—as Lizzie could not trust herself to speak without collapsing into sobs—she explained everything to Penny.
“He does not love me!”
“But—”
“So what was I to do? I will become engaged to Lord Winthrop, and I will be married, and have children, and be h-h-happy!”
Penelope, although worried by Elizabeth’s tears—it was not like her friend to be so distraught—focused on the immediate, practical aspects of the situation. “But Geoffrey doesn’t know,” she reminded Lizzie. “You can say nothing, and ’twill all be forgotten by tomorrow.”
“But Lord Blakeley knows!”
“I’m sure his lordship will understand if—”
“He’ll think I’m a ninny!”
“Would you prefer that or to be engaged?”
Miss Asherwood threw herself face-down onto the counterpane of Penny’s bed. “I don’t know!” came the muffled words.
Penelope sighed.
Elizabeth rolled over on her back, wiping tears. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t love me.”
“Lord Blakeley.”
“Neither of them!” cried Lizzie, and to Penny’s raised eyebrow— “Oh, Geoffrey doesn’t love me either, you know that perfectly well.”
Miss Perrin did.
“I want to be loved, Penny. To be really loved, and to love in return. Is that ridiculous, do you think?”
“I do not,” said Penelope, “think it ridiculous at all. But it is not something one can count on in life, you know.”
“Well, it ought to be,” said Miss Asherwood.
“But Lizzie, if you are engaged to Lord Winthrop now, what happens when you do find that person, later?”
Elizabeth looked at Penny, sadly. “There will be no other. I have found him already, and he does not love me.”
* * * *
A similar conversation was occurring in a different part of London, albeit one without tears.
“She’s engaged?” said Mrs. Caldwell, frowning. “That hardly seems possible.”
“Why not?” said Lord Blakeley. He and Adelaide were sitting in that lady’s parlor, and his lordship was making his way steadily through a large glass of brandy.
“Well, for one thing—” Mrs. Caldwell hesitated. She wasn’t sure she should admit how closely she’d scrutinized Elizabeth. “I . . . happened to see her shortly after the sarabande, and I’m quite sure she was deliberately avoiding Geoffrey Winthrop.”
Peregrine rejected that small ray of hope, giving a snort of disbelief. “You ladies always pretend to see more than there is.”
“We ladies—” Addy laughed. “I’m no lady, as you know. But we females are generally correct.”
“Pah.” Blakeley took another large swallow of the haut-armagnac, adding, “And what does it matter? If she claims ’tis so, it must be her wish.”
“I’m not so sure.” Mrs. Caldwell was feeling a twinge of guilt. Had she pushed Miss Asherwood over the edge with her attempt to elicit jealousy? But she’d been watching both members of the supposedly happy couple at the ball, and if that was a recently-engaged pair, she’d eat her slippers.
“I don’t suppose there’s any more brandy?” said Lord Blakeley.
* * *
Chapter 36
Marguerite in Hiding
It was raining hard, with flashes of lightning occasionally streaking overhead. Marguerite was soaked to the skin within a few minutes of leaving her makeshift home for the night, a shelter for lambs that had been built years and years ago in an out-of-the way corner of the chateau’s land, and which was no longer used.
She knew she had taken a risk staying in the mangeoire; the men could still be in the area, searching for her, or simply looking for animals to steal. But she’d gone too long without sleep, only a few minutes stolen here and there huddled in thickets and copses of thick grass, and she had been too exhausted to continue. ’Twas fortunate, thought mademoiselle du Merveille, that it was summer. At least she would not freeze to death.
Although she might starve. The woods and rolling fields of the Picardy countryside were abundant with food for the birds and animals of that area, but Marguerite—who was always happiest with a small loaf of fresh bread from the comtesse’s kitchens and a bit of cheese—had no means to take advantage of any of it.
She could fish in the nearby stream, she supposed, if she could find a bit of string.
For a moment the memory of her mother overwhelmed Marguerite; an afternoon sitting on the banks of that same stream with the comtesse, watching the small perches who seemed to play in the current, the sound of sheep bleating in the distance—
Marguerite wiped away silent tears. She had no time for memories. She must find a place to hide for a few days, a place where she could sleep without worry and obtain food. And it had to be nearby. Because she needed to wait; rest a little bit, gather supplies and prepare.
She had thought it over carefully, through the long hours of the previous night. The letter had been sent to Miss Asherwood, with the request from the comtesse that Marguerite travel to England. The girl remembered how surprised she had been when maman had suggested this trip, which Marguerite had argued for, unsuccessfully, during most of the past year. Surprised—and overjoyed.
“She is out of mourning,” the comtesse said. “I think a visit would not be unwelcome.”
Marguerite was too happy to bother pointing out that even the strictest rules of mourning did not forbid family visits. Perhaps . . . perhaps she did not count as family?
But that was nonsense. They were sisters.
And Miss Asherwood had replied, immediately. Marguerite still had the letter, folded and kept in her bodice. She had memorized the words.
I will make the necessary arrangements
this side of the Channel—please advise
me without delay of your plans—
They had written back to Miss Asherwood, of course, that same day. The comtesse had said that Marguerite would go to Dover. But maman had not yet explained more, and Marguerite had never been as much as five miles away from the chateau. She had seen maps, but in the present circumstances her best idea of the location of England, the Channel, or even Calais was that they were somewhere in the direction of that big oak tree.
This was insufficient. Marguerite would need to have a better idea of where she was going before she left the familiar area around Beauvoir.
Marguerite now realized that her mother had suspected, somehow, that the salauds would come, although this made little sense to the girl. The people of Doullens and its neighboring hamlets had no reason to dislike the comtesse, who had always been kind and generous to anyone at her door.
But as her mind, unwillingly, skittered back over that aw
ful night, Marguerite realized that she had not recognized any of the men who had come to the chateau. They had not been from this area, and perhaps that was good news. They would not know where to hunt for her. If they cared to look.
“Twee—twee—eet!”
The sound was barely heard over the droning patter of rain. Marguerite froze, and dropped down to a crouch.
“Twee—twee—eet!”
It was a bird call, but from no bird that lived in this area. Then—she relaxed. She must have been exhausted, indeed, not to have recognized that sound immediately. And she should have known that Armand would figure out a way to help.
* * *
Chapter 37
Lord Winthrop Takes Charge
Despite their application to his future, Geoffrey, of course, knew nothing of the conversations that were taking place the night of the Pembertons’ ball, either between Elizabeth and Penelope, or between Lord Blakeley and Mrs. Caldwell. He felt particularly disgruntled that evening, and left for his club after the ball, where he had stayed until quite late hoping to again see Miss Asherwood.
She seemed to have disappeared.
“Enough of this,” said Lord Rose. “Give the chit her walking papers.”
Jonathan Rose had recently suffered another disappointment in his love life, the defection of a young woman whom he had proclaimed—as often before—to be ‘the one,’ but who had preferred a somewhat richer gentleman in the end. He was even more cynical in mood than usual.
“Geoffrey,” said Viscount Marbrey, “our esteemed friend is correct on this occasion. You must put your foot down.”
“And if she refuses me finally?”
“Ha! So be it, my boy,” said Jonathan. “You’ll be better off.”
It wasn’t only that Elizabeth had left the ball without a word to him, thought Lord Winthrop. Such things happened in a large society event.
It was that damned Blakeley again. He had seen them dancing, and Lord Winthrop was young, but not insensitive—or dim-witted.
He knew love when he saw it. And perhaps it later occurred to Geoffrey that he had never seen it on Miss Asherwood’s face before. But that evening, in the company of his friends, he was soon able to block the memory of the sarabande, and to banish such ideas from conscious thought.
The next day Lord Winthrop, despite being somewhat the worse for the previous night’s drink, was newly energized and determined. His friends believed that Miss Asherwood required a firm hand. He’d heard this advice before, but for whatever reason he was now ready to take it. He called at Aisling House that afternoon, to find Miss Asherwood again at Miss Perrin’s, but expected home before tea.
“I’ll wait,” Lord Winthrop told the butler, and settled down in the library for, if the gods were willing, a short, restorative nap. And he had indeed fallen asleep over a volume of Bunyan—the first part of The Pilgrim’s Progress, a book he had no intention of reading, but which would signify the serious character of his visit. He was snoring softly when a sharp noise brought him awake with a start.
“Lord Winthrop.”
Geoffrey looked around him, a bit dazed.
“Mmm?”
“Lord Winthrop, I wonder that you are willing to wait so long for my niece.”
Aunt Philippa was sitting in the armchair across from his resting place on the library sofa; Geoffrey saw that she had a walking cane in hand—no doubt the source of the sharp noise—and was dressed as oddly as usual, in a gown with wide, panniered skirts, of a type he thought he had seen his mother wear once, to a fancy-dress ball.
She was regarding him with sharp eyes. Lord Winthrop sat up, retrieving the volume of Bunyan from the floor.
“Ah . . . Miss Cavendish. How nice to see you.”
“I’ve no doubt,” said Aunt Philippa.
“Has . . . has Miss Asherwood returned from Miss Perrin’s?”
“A few minutes ago, yes. She will attend you shortly. But I thought you and I ought to have a talk, first.”
Geoffrey wondered if the previous night’s brandy had left him in worse shape than he thought. Miss Cavendish wanted to speak with him? His mind flew, guiltily, to the . . . affair at Vauxhall Gardens, an episode which he had tried to put out of his mind. Oh heavens, had there been talk? Did Elizabeth’s aunt know?
Damn the viscount, had he spread rumors as a lark?
Such is a guilty conscience. But Aunt Philippa’s next words put him at ease, of a sort.
“Are you planning to propose to Elizabeth?”
She does not seem upset at the idea, thought Lord Winthrop. That must be a good sign.
“Ah—” He hesitated.
“Well, boy?”
“Geoffrey!” Elizabeth’s voice, to Lord Winthrop’s relief. She was standing at the doorway to the library, looking at him and Miss Cavendish in some confusion. “What a pleasant surprise,” said Miss Asherwood. “Have you . . . have you been here long?”
Geoffrey was on his feet. “Ah, yes . . . no.”
He thought he heard a sniff from Miss Cavendish.
Lord Winthrop had intended to press Elizabeth for an engagement without ado, but found it almost impossible to begin that conversation in the company of her aunt, who seemed to be staring at him if he was a particularly unimpressive sort of insect. Propriety had never demanded that they wait for Miss Cavendish’s presence in the library, but once there propriety certainly required that she stay.
Give the chit her walking papers, he heard Lord Rose say.
Time to put your foot down.
And he imagined his friends’ laughter, if he returned to the club, once again, unengaged and yet not free.
Lord Winthrop took a breath.
“Miss Asherwood,” he began, adding for good measure— “And Miss Cavendish, of course. How good of you to be here. I have come to ask for Elizabeth’s hand.”
Both women stared at him wordlessly, which was not promising, but Geoffrey felt the sudden courage of a man who has finally come to the point. His chin notched up and he regarded Elizabeth with a steady gaze.
Aunt Philippa’s eyes were guarded. She watched Miss Asherwood, too, as the young woman walked slowly to Lord Winthrop.
Elizabeth extended both hands.
“I would be most happy to be your wife, Lord Winthrop,” she said, smiling.
And Geoffrey felt something well up inside him, something deep and strong and not at all like happiness.
Miss Asherwood insisted that Penelope be told first, and sent a footman off with a note forthwith. A personal visit might have been more expected, but Elizabeth felt that the announcement would somehow be easier if she didn’t need to look Miss Perrin in the eye.
The news was thus delayed for a day or two in reaching the ton generally; first until Penelope had a chance to see Lizzie, and talk to her, and secondly because neither of the principals seemed inclined to its wide broadcast, but eventually Lord Winthrop did return to his club.
And after that Viscount Marbrey and Lord Rose made it their business to see that London society was informed, and so it was shortly.
Including, of course, Peregrine Blakeley.
* * *
Chapter 38
Marguerite and Armand
“Twee—twee—eet! Twee—twee—eet!”
The girl stood up from her crouch. “I’m right over here, Armand,” she called. She saw the boy about fifty feet away, walking toward the creek. The rain had now stopped and she could hear him whistling.
Armand turned around. A smile spread over his face as he ran toward her.
“Margot!”
They hugged for a long while, Marguerite in the relief of finding someone she knew and could trust, Armand in the simple affection of a fourteen year-old boy.
“I’m so glad I found you!” he said.
“I’m glad you found me, too.”
Armand looked up at her, tears in his eyes. “I am sorry . . . for your maman.”
“I am too,” she whispered, unable to say more.
>
The boy seemed to sense that she could not bear to speak of the comtesse. He took her hand and they sat in silence for a time.
The sun had followed the rain, and it was growing warm. They remained on the banks of the creek in the shade, Marguerite no longer worried, at least for the moment, that she was being hunted. Armand would have known.
“I thought they had taken you,” he told Marguerite. “Or—”
“I hid,” she said.
Armand was impressed. “Do you know who they were?” he asked her.
Marguerite shook her head. “But I think maman knew,” she told him.
“I brought you some food,” said the boy. He held out a large, carefully folded packet, and Marguerite’s mouth watered. She could smell the fresh bread inside.
“Oh!” she said, and hugged him again.
Armand was the son of the chateau’s gardener, and had been mademoiselle du Merveille’s best friend since childhood. It was one of those deep, immediate connections, where two children recognize a fellow soul. Marguerite knew no-one else even close to her age nearby, and she and Armand shared every interest, including a love of the Picardy countryside and a passion for animals, although in the girl’s case this tended to focus on the small and fluffy, whereas Armand preferred the care of horses to all else. He haunted the chateau’s stables, such as they were, when there was no other work to be done.
In Paris such an association might have been frowned upon; in rural Picardy it went unremarked in children of their age, and Marguerite was never happier than in the company of Armand St. Juste. Only a small cloud had ever marred her contentment, a hint from her mother—it had been months ago, now—that this friendship would someday come to an end.
Marguerite remembered the conversation, which had occurred shortly after the Leveque family had left Beauvoir, their week-long visit finally at an end. The Leveques were old friends of the comtesse, and their son Gerard—a dull, thickset boy of nearly eighteen—had accompanied them to Picardy. The girl had done her best to entertain Gerard, but his sole interests seemed to be in food and games of alouette, which he played by the hour in the salon, while Marguerite had much rather been outside with Armand.
