by Martha Keyes
Cecilia swallowed, but she couldn't stifle a smile.
Freedom.
She would experience one night of freedom.
10
The open landau rumbled down Oxford Street, and Jacques had to raise his voice to be heard by Letty and Miss Cosgrove, who both held a number of bandboxes in their laps.
"Have you any other commissions to fulfill?" he said, his ears ringing from the hustle and bustle of town traffic.
Letty had begged him to accompany them on their shopping expedition. She needn't have begged, though.
Jacques was painfully aware of his own eagerness for any excuse to spend time in Miss Cosgrove's company.
She was still an enigma to him, sometimes open and charmingly unaffected, at other times disappointingly similar to any other young woman whose company he might have passed time in.
"I, for one," said Miss Cosgrove, fanning herself lightly, "could use some kind of refreshment."
"Capital idea," said Jacques. He frowned. "Though I confess I have no knowledge of where we might go for such a thing."
Miss Cosgrove tilted her head as she looked at him and smiled. "Have you never had an ice from Gunter's, then?"
Jacques shook his head.
"Oh," Letty chimed in with excitement, "nor have I, but I have heard it is excessively fashionable—and truly delicious. Let us go there, if you please!" She clasped her hands in front of her chest and looked to Jacques with large, pleading eyes.
Jacques chuckled. Whoever Letty married, he would need to immune himself to such soulful appeals unless he wished to find himself under the girl's thumb his entire life. “I wouldn't dare refuse you."
He looked a question at Miss Cosgrove who said, "Berkeley Square, then," and Jacques called out to the coachman.
"Now comes the difficult part," said Miss Cosgrove with a glint of teasing in her eye. "Deciding upon a flavor."
As she detailed the different options available to them, Jacques leaned in across the seats of the landau to hear her better, smiling as he watched her describing the merits of the glace de crême aux fromages against those of the orange flower flavor.
When the landau stopped in Berkeley Square, Jacques hopped down, looking at the glinting windows of Gunter's where confectionery jars of every color sat beckoning to passing shoppers. Not even a minute had passed before a waiter rushed over to the carriage, asking how he could serve them.
As the ladies sat in the carriage enjoying their refreshment, Jacques stood against the wrought-iron railing surrounding the square, spooning the fast-melting ice cream into his mouth contentedly. A young boy and his mother walked by, the boy staring wide-eyed at the parmesan-flavored ice and informing his mother that he wanted just such a treat.
Jacques smiled indulgently at the child. If the seven-year-old Jacques, running errand after errand for Monsieur le Comte in the tense streets of Montreuil could see himself now, he would never have believed his eyes.
The life he and his father had created in England was easy and serene, nothing like the one they had left in France more than twenty years ago, nothing like the first moments in Dover where the specter of death had been their welcome. One of the first things Jacques had done on English soil had been to help his father dig a grave by moonlight in the nearest churchyard. The memory still chilled him, bringing the hairs on the back of his neck to a stand.
A raised voice sounded across the street, and Jacques pushed himself off the railing to see where it was coming from. A pleading voice in heavily-accented English responded, and Miss Cosgrove shifted in her seat, eyeing the source of the fray with distaste and unease.
Jacques walked around the landau to see what the cause of the disturbance was.
A woman, dressed in a drab brown dress with dirt clinging to the fraying threads at the hem, was surrounded by three children, begging passers-by for two pence. The smartly-dressed waiter from Gunter's pointed vigorously down the street, raising his voice to demand the family's departure.
"Whatever were they thinking, coming here of all places?" Miss Cosgrove said, watching them warily from the corner of her eye.
“I don’t know, but perhaps we should leave?” Letty said.
It was strange indeed to see émigrés in this part of town.
Jacques’s jaw clenched as he regarded one of the young children the woman had in tow. He couldn't have been more than six years old, and his blackened clothing and skin left no room for doubt that he was employed as a chimney sweep. Had Jacques’s circumstances been different, he might have looked very much the same as the sooty boy.
He felt a weight drop into the pit of his stomach as a drip of cheese-flavored ice ran down his hand. He was no better than that family; his origins were the same. And yet he stood, lighthearted, eating an ice that likely cost as much as the family's wages for the week.
The young boy licked his lips with awed eyes as he watched another waiter carry two goblets of ice to the carriage in front of the landau Jacques stood next to. The occupants were speaking in low voices as they watched the spectacle before them.
Jacques frowned. He couldn't stand idly by, pretending to belong with the high-born people who surrounded him, looking down upon the young family of émigrés. They were his countrymen, his real equals; not the whispering, censuring beau-monde he feigned to belong to—the ones who viewed the family's mere presence as a direct threat to the comfortable existence they felt entitled to.
He glanced at Miss Cosgrove, with her fear and aversion; and Letty with her wary vigilance.
Taking in a large breath, he handed his ice to Letty and, asking her to hold it, stepped across the street.
“I will send for the constable immediately if you refuse to leave, ma’am,” the waiter said.
The woman responded in French, clearly not comprehending the man's words or the danger she stood in. The last thing the poor family needed was an encounter with a constable.
"Excuse me," Jacques said to the waiter.
Upon seeing who had interrupted him, the waiter's expression morphed from one of black-browed threat to one of polite questioning. He bowed to Jacques. "How may I serve you, sir?"
Jacques looked at the waiter for a moment and then crouched down in front of the children, who were regarding him with uncertainty and fear.
"What flavor of ice would you like?" Jacques asked them in French.
Their eyes widened in concert, and they looked up at their mother with unsure but hopeful eyes, as if it might be a trick.
She looked to Jacques, the same mistrust reflected in her own gaze.
"I, too, am an émigré," he said, wishing he could say more.
She kept her gaze on him, evaluating whether he posed a threat. He smiled sadly and then nodded at her children to tell him what they desired.
"Une glace aux amandes!" said the soot-covered young boy who had reminded Jacques of himself. The boy glanced at his mother and added in a subdued tone, "S'il vous plaît, Monsieur."
The other two children chimed in with a wish for elderberry and lavender, and Jacques smiled, watching their eyes light up with anticipation. Had they ever had such a treat?
Surely the ice would be a welcome change from the plain, boiled potatoes they likely ate every day.
The waiter cleared his throat. "Sir," he said in English, "I can send someone for the constable if they are troubling you."
Jacques looked at the man, whose light sneer intensified as he sent a sidelong glance at the family. He shook his head. "I would like to order four more ices."
One of the waiter's brows went up. "For them, sir?" He indicated the family with his head.
"Yes, of course," Jacques replied. "One glace aux amandes, one lavender, one elderberry..."
Jacques looked to the mother, who was smiling sadly at her delighted children.
He was aware of the many eyes upon them, of the raised brows and jaws agape in the carriages lined up along the street. With a hint of consternation, Jacques noted Lord Retsford and
Miss Fletcher, the former stepping down from a curricle behind the landau, his eyes on Jacques.
"And for you, madame?" Jacques said in French again, pulling his eyes back to the émigrés.
Her brows went up as she met his eyes, and he nodded to reassure her. "Please allow me to offer this small gesture to a fellow countrywoman."
She shot an uneasy glance at the waiter and said, speaking to Jacques, "Another lavender, then, if you please." She hazarded a grateful smile at him.
Jacques relayed the message to the waiter, who nodded tightly, saying, "Very good, sir," before walking into Gunter's.
Jacques led the family across the street toward the landau, hoping to provide less opportunity for the gawking and gaping that was occurring. He felt surprisingly collected, despite the probable foolishness of what he was doing.
He looked up as he approached the landau and saw Miss Cosgrove looking down at him and the émigrés with distaste. He frowned and suppressed a sigh. She wouldn’t understand what he was doing.
"I think you will be more comfortable here," he said to the children, ignoring the disapproval he was courting, as the three came to stand awkwardly in front of the railing. If their coarse clothing and dirty skin hadn't immediately betrayed how little they belonged, their wide-eyed stares and ever-shifting feet would have.
"Jacques," Letty whispered in an urgent voice.
He sighed, excused himself to the family, and walked over to his cousin.
"What are you doing?" she said.
He shrugged, feeling annoyed that he was expected to account for his behavior to his young cousin. "I am helping some people who stand in need."
"With ice?" Letty said doubtfully.
"Why not? They will likely appreciate it much more than any of us do."
"Perhaps," said Miss Cosgrove, sending a false smile to the people staring at them and speaking through lightly clenched teeth, "but we are attracting a good deal of attention, and I cannot think it seemly to be fraternizing with complete strangers—and émigrés, no less."
Jacques’s jaw shifted, and his muscles tensed. “Then it cannot be seemly for you to be seen with me, can it? I, too, am an émigré.”
Miss Cosgrove frowned. “Yes, but that is different.”
He raised his brows. Little did she realize how wrong her words were. He stared at her for a moment. "Have I endangered your safety? Or is it your reputation you fear for?" He couldn't keep the bite from his voice.
She blinked rapidly, her eyes downcast as her cheeks turned red.
Feeling a sting of guilt, Jacques explained, "They are poor; they are not beasts."
"I have never spoken to an émigré," said Letty, eyeing them with a spark of interest. She pursed her lips and then stood, putting a hand out to Jacques for assistance down from the landau.
He shuffled over quickly and took her hand in his.
Letty walked over to the family, addressing them in her indifferent French with a kind smile. Shy at first, the children responded to her with short, monosyllabic answers.
Jacques's mouth turned up in a half-smile. It warmed his heart to see Letty stepping into unknown territory, heedless of the scandalized eyes which watched her.
Miss Cosgrove cleared her throat, and Jacques looked up. Her hand was extended toward him, like Letty's had been, waiting for him to assist her down the steps.
His heart jumped to his throat as he handed her down from the landau.
She nodded her thanks to him and strode over to the mother, asking her name and inquiring in pretty French whether she was enjoying the ice. The mother responded with bulging eyes and short, jerky nods—she could hardly have looked more surprised if she had been approached by the Prince Regent himself.
Jacques walked over, feeling strangely light and happy. Miss Cosgrove was stooped down in front of the youngest child, a little girl of no more than three, asking her name.
“Maurine Géroux,” the young girl replied, wiping her dirt-streaked cheek with the back of the fist which clutched her spoon tightly. With her other hand, she extended the goblet of ice toward Miss Cosgrove. “Would you like some, miss? It is delicious.”
Miss Cosgrove glanced at Jacques with her suppressed smile and a touched expression. Their eyes met in mutual amusement, and Jacques felt a quiver of joy at the shared moment.
Turning back to the young Maurine, she said, “That is very kind of you, indeed, but I think that you should have the pleasure of eating every last bite.”
Jacques smiled as Maurine beamed and spooned a heaping serving of the ice into her mouth.
"What interesting company you keep, Miss Cosgrove." The interjecting voice held a touch of derision.
Jacques stood and turned, coming face to face with Lord Retsford, whose eyes raked over the émigré family and then landed on Jacques. "Pray introduce me to your cousin who"— he scanned Jacques's clothing from his top hat down to his boots —"is from the country, I take it."
One of Jacques's eyebrows went up.
Miss Cosgrove came up next to him, saying, "Lord Retsford, this is le Vicomte de Moulinet, a cousin to my cousins, the Broussards. Lord Moulinet, this is the Marquess of Retsford."
The marquess inclined his head ever-so-slightly as Jacques bowed.
"You have a familiar air about you, Moulinet," said the marquess. "Have we perhaps met before?"
"I think not, my lord," said Jacques. “Unless you spend any time in Devon? I do not often come to town.”
"Ah yes," Lord Retsford said with an amused half-smile, his eyes moving again to Jacques's clothing. "That much is apparent." He looked at the French family, who had all finished their goblets of ice and were standing awkwardly behind Jacques, Letty, and Miss Cosgrove. "At least you seem to have found your fellows here in town."
Jacques felt his blood pulsing in his veins. Why the man had taken him in such obvious dislike, he didn't know. That it had something to do with Miss Cosgrove, he was fairly certain; the marquess seemed territorial. "I have found," Jacques said with false amiability, "that, here in town, rank is a poor indicator of how agreeable I will find someone's company."
He tipped his hat at the marquess and, with a civil smile, walked back to the French family, giving a handful of coins to the mother and wishing her a good day, while ignoring the blood pounding in his ears.
"Good heavens," said Miss Cosgrove when Jacques came to stand next to her and Letty. "How did you wrong Lord Retsford that he should behave toward you in such a manner?"
"I imagine," Jacques said with a shrug, "that it doesn't please him to see you in my company."
"Well of all the things," said Miss Cosgrove, incensed. "And him escorting Miss Fletcher here alone!" She scoffed.
Was she jealous? Or merely upset at the double standard?
He assisted both the ladies into the landau, seating himself across from them and signaling the driver to return them to the Broussard residence.
"Thank you—both of you," he said, "for your kindness to that family."
"Little Maurine was a darling," Miss Cosgrove said with a laugh. "I should never have guessed I would enjoy talking to such people, but they were very gracious and amiable." She glanced at Jacques, who was watching her through slightly narrowed eyes, and smiled widely. "And it was somewhat invigorating to flout the opinions of all those watching."
Jacques chuckled weakly. "You will have made a new fashion. No doubt on your next visit to Gunter's, you will see poor men lined up to receive ice from the ladies and gentlemen in their carriages."
He was glad that Miss Cosgrove had condescended to speak with the Géroux family. He would have been disappointed if she had maintained the distancing attitude she had first assumed. But something was shifting inside of her. He could sense it. She wasn’t the same person he had met at the ball on his first evening in town.
But to Miss Cosgrove, talking to such people was simple benevolence and charity—a brief step down from her proper place.
For Jacques, it was an acknowle
dgment of his origins, of where he belonged. Nothing separated him from looking or acting like the Géroux family except happenstance and luck. He had done nothing to deserve what he now had.
He was torn between two worlds—and he would never be comfortable in either. He had lived too long as nobility to view a return to the life and misery of a poor man with anything but great misgiving—even dread; but he was an impostor in the world in which he now lived, never certain how much people valued him or simply the title they assumed he possessed.
He wasn't sure how to continue with the duplicity.
11
It hadn't taken Cecilia longer than two minutes to look at her brother's clothing, lying before her on the bed, and realize that she would need assistance to put it on. Her hair, too, would need arranging, or else it would give her away. Thus it was that she had been forced to take Anaïs into her confidence.
But the maid, so far from being scandalized, had looked overjoyed to be involved in such a hazardous and scandalous undertaking.
Cecilia's heart fluttered at the thought of what she was about to do. It was pure folly. And yet terribly invigorating.
The pantaloons she wore clung strangely to her legs, making her feel naked and exposed while also giving a sense of support and sturdiness she was unused to. The arms of her brother's coat were meant for much broader shoulders and thicker arms—seeing it on Cecilia, no one would assume that the coat was actually made by Stultz and fit Tobias like a glove. But it would do well enough for the night.
Cecilia's golden hair was all pinned atop her head—Anaïs had done a decent job of making it look even instead of lumpy. But they had agreed that it would be better to keep Tobias's top hat on.
Cecilia had no idea what to expect from a prize fight. Lady Caroline had simply instructed her to await word—and that word had come in the morning as Cecilia sat taking breakfast in her bed.
But the note, instructing Cecilia to be dressed and ready by two, was followed only an hour after by another note, informing her that the fight was delayed.
