by Edith Layton
When a dull, damp morning dawned at last, Nicholas was out of his bed, washed, and dressed for his journey with his traveling case in hand even before the lowest scullery maid in the hotel had lit the morning kitchen fires. Even if he had brought Makepiece with him, he could not have been gone from his room faster. So it was that he found himself with enough time, after he had settled his bill with a yawning clerk, to sit down to a breakfast before he mounted up and rode back across the trail he had just taken. He sipped his coffee and thought of England, even as he buttered his bread and knew he must return to Paris. For there was where Robin was bound for, or so he believed, or so he hoped.
It was as he left the dining room and crossed the wide lobby on his way to the stables to see to his mount and begin his journey that he heard his name being called. He turned to see the young clerk that he had dealt with in the early hours coming out from behind the desk and hurrying over to him.
“Ah, my lord,” the young man said as he came abreast of the baron, his face a study of an admixture of embarrassment and deference, “please to forgive me. It was such a stupid mistake, but my superior would discharge me if he discovered it. It is the policy of the Hotel LeReinne to ascertain from each departing guest their future destination. In case of postals to be forwarded, or inquiries, do you see? In these unsettled times,” the young man went on apologetically in his carefully enunciated English, “the authorities wish to know such things of foreign visitors. Do you understand, my lord?”
Nicholas only remained silent for a moment. He saw very well, and permitted himself a genuinely pleasant, placating smile as he looked down at the perspiring and anxious clerk.
“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “But it would be difficult to give you my exact destination, as I shall be continuing to travel about the region. Still, if there are any messages for me, I will collect them if they are forwarded to me in care of the Hotel Alphen in Amsterdam.”
“Amsterdam,” the young clerk nodded.
“Yes,” said the baron and began to leave, but then checked and, turning about, said so suddenly as to make the little clerk’s shoulder’s leap, “but this is to be considered confidential, and only for receipt of my messages.” And smiling to reassure the young man, he reached into his pocket and, withdrawing a coin whose color and denomination made the young man’s eyebrows rise even as his shoulders just had done, gave it to him along with a huge wink.
“Just so, my lord,” the clerk said, pocketing the sum before bowing low to his departing guest.
A few moments later, in a darkened corner of the lobby, the clerk received another English coin to keep its compatriot company.
“Amsterdam,” the cleric whispered upon receipt of this sum.
“Amsterdam, ah!” Sir Sidney said, and turned upon his heel before the fellow could complete his bow.
Lord Nicholas Daventry, Baron Stafford, mounted his horse and with broad unconcern headed to the north, as he whistled to himself. But he smiled to himself as well as he calculated how many more streets he must ride before he could safely turn his mount and gallop back to the west where his ambitions lay and his heart remained.
“I think,” Julia said very carefully, “that it is becoming increasingly foolish to remain here.”
“I agree that it may seem so,” her companion said calmly, “however, the baron did leave explicit instructions and those were, I believe, to the effect that we wait upon his return before taking any farther action.”
As this was undeniably true, but also undeniably flat, Julia made no reply. She only gazed over at Lady Preston and watched that good woman as she sat and read through her fashion magazine. They sat in the hotel’s small salon, for their bedrooms had become overly familiar with prolonged use, and there was nowhere else that they could agree upon to go. Julia had rejected any idea of further sightseeing, as she had said rather testily that she had seen everything of interest by this time, and her feet and her eyes were weary. But the truth was, she sighed to herself, that even a peek behind the heavenly gates would bore her at this point. It seemed she had lost the ability to concentrate. Her book lay open in her lap to the same page that it had been opened to an hour past. It seemed, she thought sadly, that no book, no sight, no sound could interest her, unless it was the sight of a certain face, or the sound of a certain footfall.
But she had waited as she had promised she would, for more than two weeks. Now it appeared that awake or asleep some part of her was always listening for his return, so that she could not fully appreciate anything else around her. Not that there was much else to enjoy, she reminded herself. As she had gotten a proper chaperone, Celeste had gratefully taken up the duties she was most familiar with, that of a lady’s maid, and so did not keep her company beyond tending to her hair, person, and apparel. And though Lady Preston was charming, and always in readiness to accompany her charge anywhere, she was, Julia thought sourly, as distant as an Alp, and almost as warm as one. She smiled to herself as she thought that Nicholas might enjoy that simile, but then frowned again as she wondered if she would ever get the chance to tell it to him.
She was almost ready to leave for home. Alone if need be, alone most probably. Her chaperone would doubtless wish to wait for her wages, as would her lady’s maid. This was, after all, Celeste’s homeland. But it was becoming apparent that she herself was no longer needed. She sighed as she thought it, so heavily that Lady Preston looked up for a moment. At that, Julia took up her book and dabbed at her eye as though it were some passage she had been reading that had so affected her. What there might be to cause such sorrow in a tour book devoted to Paris, Julia could not imagine, but her action seemed to suit Lady Preston and she went back to pursuing her fashion plates.
For a certainty Lady Preston would opt for waiting for Nicholas’s return, Julia decided, for each week that she waited her purse grew larger. Julia no longer deceived herself about the lady’s intentions, and so she no longer felt under any obligation to the older woman and had no compunctions about taking her own course of action as she saw fit. But she couldn’t determine what that course should be.
Certain facts were irrefutable. Nicholas had gone, and he had asked her to wait for him. But he had not come back, and there was always the possibility that he would not. The gentlemen of his family, Julia thought, as she had thought for several long sleepless nights now, were famous for changing their minds.
He had asked her to be his mistress, and then against all probability, there in the darkened garden, after she had unburdened herself to him, she had known that she would do whatever he asked of her. And then, of course, he had withdrawn his offer.
When she had been seventeen, she thought now, dropping her unread book back to her lap and staring at the pattern of tiny green and gold cabbage roses and buds upon the wall, she had believed that Robin had broken her heart. But now she knew that he had not, he had only caused her to hide it away. It was his uncle who had unearthed it despite all her caution, and finding it still intact, it was he who would complete its destruction. If she had thought that what she had felt for Robin was love, then she had learned better, and it was his uncle who had taught her. For young Robin, there had been admiration, laughter, and a sense of flattered importance that such a grown-up, accomplished fellow could want her. For Nicholas, there was also laughter and admiration but then, for him, there was everything else as well, including this miserable feeling that nothing in life was worth a thing unless he was with her.
Yet it appeared that just as Robin had abandoned her on a windy October night when she was miles from home, after a proposal of marriage, so Nicholas would leave her here in this hotel after his offer of carte blanche, for history had a love of balance. And then, too, Julia thought, just as Nicholas himself had said, she had a singular lack of luck with his family. These thoughts gave rise to such agitation that she found herself rising from her chair, as though their sheer turbulence had swept her to her feet.
“I ... I find I have the headac
he,” Julia temporized, as she saw Lady Preston gazing questioningly up at her. “You need not accompany me, my lady, for I’m only going up to my room to lie down for a while until it passes,” she explained, knowing only as she voiced it that this was in part exactly what she wished to do. At least, she wanted to be completely alone so that she could make plans without fearing that evidences of her plotting would show upon her face.
Her decision came to her all at once even as Lady Preston gazed mildly upon her. Though she had wrestled with the problem night after empty night, dreary day after increasingly joyless day, now suddenly, it all came clear. She must be gone from this place at once. If he had deserted her, she would be better off leaving before the time spent waiting for him became advanced enough to become embarrassing and made her a figure of ridicule or pity. She had had quite enough experience of that in the past. Then again, if he planned to return, then she decidedly should be gone when he got back, for whatever she might wish to do when she was with him, she knew very well that she must never be his mistress. With him or without him, she must accept that there would be pain. She must eventually lose him, and better now than when she made either a complete fool or a slattern of herself.
“Yes,” she said distractedly, now thinking only of what she would and would not include within her portmanteau so that she would not weep over her decision, “I think I shall lie down.”
“He will be back, you know,” Lady Preston said as she turned a page, as calmly and coolly as though she were commenting upon the satin bonnet she saw pictured there. “He loves you very much. I have seldom seen such devotion. Celeste has even remarked upon it, and she is French, so you can see how impressive his condition is, for he is usually the most discreet gentleman. The baron has a great reputation for tact, you know.”
Julia could only stare at Lady Preston, as that lady essayed a smile, so real and so full of sweetly wistful reminiscence that for a moment her thin face was unrecognizable.
“But go and lie down, my dear,” Lady Preston said, “for although that cannot help, I cannot see how it can harm you.” And then she turned her attention back to her magazine and resuming her normal expression, appeared to become quite engrossed in the depiction of a cerise evening cloak.
Julia left her chaperone without another word. Now was definitely not the time to dwell upon the discovery that the lady had a human heart, now was not the time to allow anything to shake her newfound resolve. So she kept her mind as uncluttered as possible as she approached her room, and tried to think only of what she ought to leave behind her, and what she ought to write in her farewell note.
She would have time enough to pack and to write a farewell novel, Julia thought when she entered her room and glanced at the ormolu clock upon her mantelpiece, for Celeste had her day off to visit old friends, and Lady Preston told time by her meals. She could be counted upon to leave her charge in solitary state until the dinner hour, and it was now only a few moments past teatime.
Julia found that her packing took only moments. She had decided to leave all the garments that the baron had purchased for her, save for the inexpensive pale pink one she already had on, and was surprised to discover that she had only four of her own frocks to place in her portmanteau. Celeste had given two drab stuff schoolroom gowns away, and had consigned another two rather ancient styles to the sewing basket. For all she knew, Julia thought mournfully, looking at the pitiful contents of her traveling case, her blue and gray cotton and her mauve muslin that her Mama had stitched might now be part and parcel of some quilt that the frugal Celeste had stitched up for the deserving poor.
And that was why she paused in her escape, she told herself. And that was why she opened the wardrobe door and took out the ice-blue and silver gown that was her favorite and held it up to herself so that she might have a last look at it in the looking glass. It was so favored because it was the one she had worn to the Opera with Nicholas, the one he had admired and the one he had held in his arms that night in the garden when he had made and rescinded his incredible offer. That was why she considered taking it away with her for the space of a moment. She rationalized that it was, after all, part of her wages, before she began to argue with herself, warning herself that taking the one dress would signal her desire to remain and would then surely be the beginning of taking all the subsequent wages of sin.
She stood before the gilded looking glass, with the silver and blue frock held up before her pink morning dress, her golden hair arranged about her flushed face in the softly curling tendrils that Celeste so dearly loved, and she stared at the woman she had become in the few weeks since she had left her native land. This fashionable female, this elegant, grown-up, yearning lady could never be herself, she thought dazedly. Indeed, she was now entirely unrecognizable to herself. No longer was it only her stylishly coiffed head that seemed unfamiliar. She was still unused to seeing her own white shoulders rising from her frocks, as well as the fashionable but shocking expanse at the top of her high breasts that was constantly on view, accentuated by every new gown. Perhaps that is why she did not startle too badly when a low voice intruded upon her thoughts.
“Hello, Julia,” he said, leaning against the door which he had closed softly behind him.
And without hesitation, without even much surprise, as though everything she now saw reflected before her in the gilded mirror were equally unbelievable and so equally acceptable, she spoke, as she lowered the blue gown and slowly turned fully around to face him at last.
“Hello, Robin,” she said.
He had not changed much, she thought. He stood with a faintly amused smile upon his lips, and lounged against the door as she stared at him. He was still slender and beautifully dressed, his tawny hair was still arranged in a “wind-swept” fashion, his face was still alert and handsome in that faintly mocking way. He was unmarked and only some trace of shadows beneath his clear amber eyes showed any passage of time. But then, she thought, it has only been three years, after all, nothing much can have changed since I last saw him, except perhaps my entire life.
“I prefer the rose gown, but then, as you may remember, I always did have a partiality for that color,” he commented.
Then, as he continued to return her appraising store, he said more softly, “You have changed completely. You have grown up and fulfilled your promise. You’ve grown lovelier, as I thought you might.”
“Thank you,” she said calmly, as though there were nothing fantastic in the conversation, as though it were all a dream, and for all she knew, she thought, it might well be. With her sense of unreality to guide her, she was as candid as a child who walked in her dreams might be.
“Why are you here?” she asked solemnly. “It was Nicholas who searched for you, and now is gone in pursuit of you. He isn’t back, is he?” she asked suddenly, all her interest awakened at once at the thought. She felt both fear and delight at the prospect of the baron’s return, and her spirits fell when Robin answered, with a small smile.
“No. I haven’t found him. At least I haven’t looked for him yet. First I only wanted to assure myself that what I heard was true. And incredibly, it is. You are actually here. You see, Julia,” he said, coming forward into the room to stand before her, “when the vicar in his usual uncanny fashion learned and then told me that you were traveling with Old Nick and looking for me, I was frankly staggered. I had thought you happily wed at home, Julia,” he said in almost a chiding manner, “or at least wed. Perhaps even with a little Julia or two at your knee. I sent a friend to inquire after you years ago and he saw the banns posted at your local church. A Miss Hastings to wed a Mr. Southwood. Whatever happened, my dear?” he asked gently.. She gazed at him without affront and said without rancor, “It was my sister’s name he saw, Robin, for I never wed.”
“What, did all the fellows in Surrey go stone-blind?” he asked lightly.
But reality began to intrude upon Julia, as time passed and he did not disappear in a vapor, or fade away into the ether.
For the first time she began to realize that it was Robin himself who actually stood before her and that she could speak with him as an equal at last, or at least, since their stations would always differ, then as an adult to another reasoning adult. If the past three years had brought her anything, it was this gloss of maturity. Seeing him again now after being out in the world, and after being outcast in the world, was as if to see him for the first time. She saw then a pleasant, attractive young man, and nothing more; nothing godlike, nothing exceptional, nothing to make her heart race, certainly nothing to make her uneasy or fearful. As the girl that had loved him three years ago was vanished, so it seemed that her awe of him had gone completely as well.
“Robin,” she said seriously, as though she were reading a moral tale to a very young boy, “it would have been better if they had all gone stone-deaf. It was not what they saw that offended them, it was what they heard of me. The day that I ran off with you I was reckoned an adventuress. Had I wed you, I might even have been admired for my effrontery, they would have called me your ‘spirited’ or ‘dashing’ lady. When I returned alone, I was called far more, and far less, and named something other than your ‘lady.’ I never married, Robin, but then, I never wanted to again, so you must not fret, at least, about that.”
But then realizing that this last was untrue, or at least had been patently untrue for some weeks now, she fell silent for a moment to collect her thoughts. Robin looked down at his boots and she thought she detected a faint flush along his lean cheek.
“Then I fail to understand, Julia,” Robin said, “why you have come all the way to France to discover me again.”
“She didn’t want to, you know,” Nicholas said, from the doorway.
