She smirked and sighed. “It is older for a woman, you know.”
“Aye, I do. Now drink your chocolate and try to rest. I will come back later. I should help with the cleaning – since we now have water.”
She nodded, and I left her there sipping her chocolate.
I emerged to find Striker, Pete, and Agnes had returned, and Sarah had risen from her nap. The atrium was quite busy as my sister inspected the purchases the men were bringing in from a cart, and Henrietta, Samuel, and Gaston had begun to haul water from the cistern upstairs.
I caught Agnes’ arm as she hurried past with more purchases from the market and whispered, “Did you find her?”
She nodded curtly. “She is supposed to go to the stable.”
I wondered if Gaston knew that; and then I wondered if Bella would receive her. I hurried to the stable and peered in: I saw no slender lads inside, but the dogs were snuffling and growling near the fence. I thought it amusing that Agnes had not realized the dogs did not know Christine as we did.
I poked my head out the gate and found Christine there, leaning on the wall looking at the charred remains of Vivian’s house. She had her hair stuffed up under a kerchief and hat, and her breasts were bound flat under a loose men’s shirt; and as I had the first time I saw her dressed as a boy, I wondered how anyone could be fooled, but they had been, and even now I thought it likely I could introduce her to the Marquis and he would wonder how I knew some peasant lad and why I was bothering to show him off.
“She burnt it because she thought I was going to put her out and marry you,” I said jovially. “She did not wish for you to have it.”
Christine started and whirled to face me. Her eyes lit at the sight of me, and then narrowed. “But…” she began with consternation.
“It is but further proof that drunken young ladies should not listen to the gossip of servants, if such a thing should need further proof. Come in; let us introduce you to the dogs.”
She hesitated before picking up her sack and slipping past me through the gate, and I knew it was due to her fear of me and not the snuffling beasts with raised hackles. I pushed the dogs away and admonished them to behave and sniff her as they would but not to bite. She held out her hands and let them learn her smell.
I led her to the stable. “Bella, the bitch, has puppies, and she is good with us, but she might not take kindly to a complete stranger. We will have to go slowly.”
She nodded.
“Will,” Gaston called down from the balcony above. Then he saw Christine and he took a long breath.
She smiled weakly and waved.
“Who is that?” Striker called from next to Gaston.
“Chris, an old friend of Agnes’,” I said.
“Well put him to work so we’ll know where she is,” Striker said. “I don’t need her disappearing again.”
I chuckled, and Gaston shook his head.
“I should see to Jamaica,” Gaston said. “I was going to ask if you would accompany me, but… you should probably stay now.” His gaze flicked to Christine.
I shrugged, but my gaze held firm on his. “If you wish.”
He nodded thoughtfully and shrugged. “I can go alone.”
“Then go,” I said. “We will see if we can get a room clean. Remember the funnel.”
He nodded. “That is why I need to leave now.”
Christine watched him hurry to the stairs and down, and then eyed me with curiosity.
“We named the baby Jamaica,” I said with a grin, and took her sack and put it inside the stable. “Mistress Theodore is her wet nurse for the time being.”
“What baby?” she asked.
I snorted. “My wife’s. She gave birth the morning after the fire.”
“Ohh,” she said. “Might I ask: is it yours?”
“It is now,” I said with a surety I found surprising.
“Ahh,” she said with feigned nonchalance.
I found I did not wish to speak with her about the great number of things we should probably speak of – not alone. I led her upstairs and we joined the others in cleaning, starting with the Marquis’ room. To my amusement, our number included Dupree and the Marquis in very plain breeches and shirts. Only Sarah was spared hauling buckets or swabbing the walls, ceilings, and floors. We only had one upset, when Agnes became quite daft in her pleasure at seeing Christine in the house.
Striker pulled me aside shortly after I shooed the girl out.
“Is that Agnes’ boy, that skinny little shite?” he whispered.
I groaned. I did not dare tell him, as I could not be sure how he would feel about hiding Christine; and yet, if I did not tell him, I could not set the matter straight concerning Agnes’ preferences.
“Nay, he is a friend,” I said firmly. “That is not the type of… person she seeks as a suitor. She is merely very happy to see this friend. And why do you care?”
He shrugged, but then his nonchalance turned to a speculative study of me. “Why don’t you care? What interest do you have in the girl anyway? Philanthropy? Do you plan to feed and clothe her for the rest of her life so that she can draw things: like you’re her patron or some such thing?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “And once again, why should you care? Has she been a bother to have about the house?”
He sighed expansively. “Nay, nay, Sarah is fond of her, but I’m ever being asked if she’s available. People act as if she’s my ward. And your uncle, good Lord. He wishes for her to be married off as soon as possible.”
“Why?” I asked. “And where is that bastard? He was not at the party. He has not come to see if we burned away. Has Sarah been corresponding with him?”
“She sent him a note when you arrived, another concerning the party – which she was sure he was invited to – and another after the fire. She is actually becoming worried, but we need to attend to this before going in search of the daft bastard.” He shook his head. “I think it’s likely he’s off visiting some plantation – God knows where – and all of the notes have not reached him yet, or his reply has not reached us. And…” He lowered his voice and wrapped an arm around my shoulder to whisper. “We think he is a lonely and horny old bastard, and that’s why he wants the girl married off and out of the house. She frustrates him.”
I swore.
Striker shrugged and spoke defensively. “You have not seen how he eyes her.”
“I am not angry with you for the supposition, I am angry with him for being… an aging man with needs, I suppose.” I chuckled. “The girl is not available unless for some unforeseen reason she takes a fancy to someone – which I do not see happening.”
“Why?” he asked with amusement. “Though I should wonder, she lives well enough here without having to put up with some damn arse.”
“She favors women,” I said flatly.
He frowned, as if he did not comprehend my meaning, and then he snorted. “How does she know? Has she been with a man?”
I punched his shoulder hard enough to make him curse. “I cannot believe you said that,” I hissed. “You daft bugger. How do you know what you favor? How do any of us? She knows.”
“Truly?” he asked with sincere curiosity and rubbed his shoulder.
“Truly,” I said.
He was frowning. “Well, that explains some comments Sarah has made… I am a daft bugger.”
I grinned. “Aye, but we choose to tolerate it.”
He snorted.
“I suppose I will have to broach the matter with my uncle in some fashion,” I sighed, “but perhaps we will be lucky and he is already off with some lonely widow.”
“God, no,” Striker said quickly. “Then he will bring her here, and Sarah will have to deal with her.”
“Oh, well, perhaps he has contracted malaria and died.”
“Not that I wish the man to come to harm, but…” Striker sighed.
“I will go and look for him anyway, after…” I gestured at the cleaning – and spied Christine. “We h
ave much to do here first, though.”
“Aye,” Striker said and hefted his mop. “If he’s dead, someone will surely send word.”
Gaston returned an hour or so later. He appeared happy and far more relaxed than he had in the morning.
“How is she?” I asked, as he joined us in the guest room where Christine and Rucker were mopping the walls while Pete and I worked on the ceiling.
“The glazier made an excellent little funnel.” He indicated the size with his fingers. “She had woken by the time I arrived, and I was able to give her a very small dose, and then she ate and slept again; but this time, not like one dead.”
“That is wonderful news,” I said.
He smiled broadly, but it fled as he glanced at Christine. He came to me and leaned close to whisper, “What has she said?”
I shook my head. “We have not spoken at all.”
He nodded grimly and took my mop. “You should see to the other one.”
I brushed a kiss on his cheek and went to look in on Vivian. I found her sleeping, and tried not to disturb her as I emptied the pot and brought her more water and chocolate.
Two of the rooms, the Marquis’ and the guest room, were cleaned and drying and we were working on ours by the time Sam told us supper could be served. It was with great relief that we stopped working and retired to what little water was left in the cistern to wash and prepare to eat. As the Marquis was still occupying the dining room, Sam laid the meal out on the atrium tables as he had in the morning. Thus Christine was able to sit next to Agnes without causing any fuss.
I took Vivian a bowl of stew, and she actually seemed pleased to see me – and the food – though she still appeared quite tired.
“How is the baby?” she asked after her first mouthful.
“Gaston was able to relieve her discomfort with precision this time, and she ate before she slept.”
“Can I see her?” she asked.
I shrugged. “If you feel up to it, we can take you to the Theodores’ tomorrow…”
“Nay,” she said quickly and quietly. “Not there. Can she be brought here?”
“Perhaps, if Mistress Theodore and Gaston feel it wise. Do you not wish to see Mistress Theodore, or do you not wish to be seen?” I asked, and joined her on the settee.
“Both,” she said irritably. “I can imagine what she thinks of me without seeing it in her eyes; and as you have noted, I burned all my clothing. Not that any of it would fit now.”
“How should we remedy that?” I asked sincerely. “My intent was not to keep you in this room forever, and you do need clothes. Can Henrietta buy you something in the market, or should we send for a dressmaker?”
“Lord, no,” she said and studied her bowl with embarrassment. “Henrietta can find me a dress, I am sure. And shifts, and shoes, and…” She sighed and stabbed at a piece of meat with her spoon.
“We have cleaned the guest room upstairs. I suppose, after it is painted, we can move you up there. It will be brighter than this cave of a room. And you can have a decent bed and a place for your things, and the baby when you are able to care for her.”
She regarded me hesitantly. “I am growing fond of this cave.”
I smiled at my choice of words and hers. “We can have a bed brought in here, too, if you would prefer; but it has been my experience that men – and women – should not live in caves.”
“You believe that sunlight is good for the constitution or some such rubbish?” she asked. “It gives me freckles.”
I chuckled, both at her literal interpretation of a thing I considered only as a metaphor and the thought of her having freckles. No gentle-born lady had freckles past her days in a nursery: they avoided the sun as if it might give them the plague. It was another shadow on the wall of the cave in which they dwelled: freckles and tanned skin were the mark of peasants or children; they could never be seen as either.
“Do not mock me,” she said with more sadness that I would do so than ire.
“I am not. I… It would be difficult to explain, the idea of caves has more philosophical meaning for me.”
“Now you are patronizing me,” she said bitterly.
“Nay, nay. Why are you fond of this cave?”
“There is no one else in it,” she said flatly, and turned her attention back to her stew.
“Well, if you move to the guest room, you need not see anyone you do not wish there, either; and the house can have a parlor again.”
“That would be acceptable then. Must I remain chained?” She did not turn to meet my gaze on the last.
I snorted. “Only if I cannot find a way to lock the doors and window.”
She swore quietly.
“I will not have you wandering the house at night – or the streets – seeking rum,” I said lightly. “When I feel some assurance you will no longer seek it, then you may have your freedom.” I stood to leave.
She looked up at me. “What if that day never comes?” she asked with a degree of challenge.
I grinned. “Then we shall have to lock you away in a tower like a princess in a children’s tale. Or shoot you.”
She rolled her eyes and awarded me a dismissing wave.
I wondered what we would do to keep her from spirits while we roved: whose care would we leave her in? Then I wondered if we should rove, or if Gaston would wish to leave the child.
I found Gaston sitting with his father, happily eating his stew.
“What do you know of that boy?” the Marquis asked before I could finish sitting.
I looked to the Marquis and raised an eyebrow. He gestured toward where Christine sat with Agnes.
“Why?” I asked.
“If the girl is to be your ward, you have to consider such things,” he said quietly.
Gaston coughed and quickly leaned away from the table.
I patted his back as I responded cheerfully. “I do not view it as a matter of concern… for reasons I do not care to discuss at this time. Despite how it might appear, there is no cause for concern that they will engage in any lascivious behavior.”
Actually there was, if Agnes had her way; but it was my understanding that Christine had rebuffed the girl’s overtures, and I doubted she would have a change of heart now.
“Whether they do or not,” he continued to admonish; but this time I noted a sly cast to his mien, “it is the matter of appearances you must be concerned with, if the girl is to ever be married off properly. Surely you, who I would imagine has ruined a number of girls, should know that.” He grinned.
I thought it likely Christine’s disguise had not fooled him any more than it fooled me, once he had a good look at her.
“I have, and I do,” I said. “Oui, we will do our utmost to maintain appearances until we discover what the girl wishes to do about the matter of marriage.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose I spoke too soon, then: you seem to have the matter well in hand. And… I suppose not all girls are dutiful daughters who follow their father’s or guardian’s wishes about such matters.”
I smiled. “I do not consider that a poor thing; as not all men wish to have the kind of wife a dutiful daughter makes. And from what we have seen, this one might very well be following her father’s wishes: perhaps not in her tactics, but in applying herself to the battle.”
He shrugged. “I feel you are correct; but, seeing the tactics she is capable of, I would caution that the dutiful type is easier.”
“We will keep that in mind,” I said.
Gaston had been following the whole of it. I had felt his thigh tense with alarm when he realized as I had that his father had seen through Christine’s disguise.
“And what would you advise of dutiful sons in the matter of marriage?” he asked his father.
The Marquis was surprised at the question, and set his spoon down to rest his head on his hands and consider his answer. “That, as long as the bloodlines are sound, they choose whichever horse strikes their fancy. The race is both lo
nger and shorter than we ever expect, and one cannot know, merely by looking at a horse or its dam and sire, how it will ride in the end. So it is probably best to pick a horse one can at least feel happy about at the start. There are always regrets, but, by the Grace of God, they will be because one could not ride long enough.”
“I already have an excellent horse,” Gaston said without challenge.
His father gave a sheepish grin. “So you do. I feel a mare might prove better for such a long journey, but…” He held up his hand quickly to ward us off. “As things are as they are, it would appear you are only seeking a broodmare. In that instance, I would highly suggest a dutiful one. And, since mares in general are such a rare thing in these isles, I would be happy to send you one – one far better than you have seen before.” He pointed over his shoulder at the parlor. “When you feel you are ready to take up the matter of breeding.”
“I feel I am ready,” Gaston said carefully, “but it is not a thing I wish to have sprung upon me, and… There must be time, or an avenue, to become acquainted with the girl and apprise her – in our way – of what we feel she should know.”
“That will be difficult to arrange – with you here, and the suitable candidates in France – but I understand,” the Marquis said. “And…” He glanced at me. “I know you will not be returning to France soon. Though I sometimes feel the press of my years, I should by all accounts live a while longer.” He sighed. “My greatest concern is that… You will not survive this roving you plan to do. Or I will meet some misfortune upon sailing home.”
Gaston nodded with a frown.
“We have much to consider concerning the matter of roving this year,” I said.
“Oui,” Gaston said with relief. “I wished to rove and be useful, but I was not a Comte before.”
His father nodded approvingly, and some of the tension left his shoulders.
Gaston was regarding me anxiously.
I smiled warmly. “Though I would see you serve as physician, I have no great need to rob Spaniards. We have a sickly child to concern us, and a mother who needs watching.”
He sighed with relief and jerked his chin toward where Christine sat. “Let us see what this one wants.”
Treasure Page 28
