Velvet

by Jane Feather

  In her bedroom Gabrielle regarded Nathaniel quizzically. “Why do I have the feeling you’re about to be unpleasant?”

  “What possessed you to make such a vulgar and indiscreet remark?” he demanded, striding to the window. “It embarrassed everybody.”

  “No, you embarrassed everybody,” she corrected, “by scolding me like that.”

  Nathaniel said nothing for a minute as he stared out the open window. A flock of swifts were diving and circling through a cloud of midges hovering over the river, and the evening air was hot and heavy.

  He didn’t want to have this discussion, but he knew it had to come out in the open, for Gabrieile’s sake. He hadn’t realized until then how strongly he felt. “Gabrielle, I don’t want any more children,” he said finally.

  Gabrielle sat on the bed. “I think you mean that you don’t want me to become pregnant.”

  “It’s the same thing.” He turned to face her, his eyes troubled but his face set.

  She shook her head. “No, it’s not at all the same thing. And I’m telling you now that I am not Helen. I’m strong as a horse, as you well know, and—”

  “I don’t want to discuss this further, Gabrielle,” he interrupted. “I am not prepared to father any more children. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t you think this is a bit premature?” Gabrielle said. “To be quite so definite before—”

  “I wanted to bring it up now,” he interrupted again. “If you can’t accept this, then I’ll understand if … if—” He broke off, running his hands through his hair, his eyes anguished. “If you don’t want to go through with the wedding,” he finished in a rush.

  He was serious! Instinctively, she attempted to lighten the atmosphere. “But we’re already married,” she pointed out, raising her eyebrows.

  Nathaniel shook his head. “I think we can forget that ridiculous ceremony,” he stated. “God knows if it was legal, but I’m prepared to forget it ever happened.”

  “Weil, I’m not,” Gabrielle said firmly. “And I think it’s most unchivalrous of you to suggest I might become a bigamist.”

  “Don’t make a joke of this.”

  “Well, I don’t know what else to do,” she retorted. “You’re being absurd.”

  “I’m being honest,” he snapped. “And I’m trying to save you from making a mistake.”

  “Oh.” She stood up, her eyes flashing. “Well, let me tell you, Nathaniel Praed, that I don’t need saving from anything, and I’ll make whatever mistakes I choose. And if that includes marrying an arrogant, miserable, self-willed, ill-tempered, misanthropic bastard, then so be it.”

  “You are a termagant,” Nathaniel declared as honeyed relief flowed in his veins.

  “Well, maybe you’d like to think twice about marrying me, in that case.”

  “Oh, I have,” he said with a slow grin. “Many times. It doesn’t seem to make any difference though.”

  “Bastard,” she said again, but with a responding grin, relieved in her turn that the painful intensity had dissipated. He’d change his mind once he was secure in their marriage. There was plenty of time.

  “And as it happens, I do have an opinion on black ribbons,” Nathaniel said. “I won’t permit them. This is a wedding, not a wake.” He pulled her to him, pushing up her chin. “And once we’re married, I won’t tolerate being savaged by a disrespectful virago either. Is that clear?”

  Before she could respond, he sealed the statement with his mouth on hers, his hands sliding around her body to cup her buttocks, pressing her hard against him until he felt the playful resistance leave her. Her mouth was soft and yielding beneath his, her body moving against him of its own accord.

  The door burst open at this inopportune moment. “Gabby … Gabby … can I … oh—” Jake stood openmouthed in the doorway, staring.

  Nathaniel released Gabrielle and turned slowly, bending a stern eye on his blushing son. “I believe you forgot something,” he said. “What do you normally do outside a closed door?”

  Jake shuffled his feet. “Knock.”

  “Precisely. I suggest you go back outside and start again.”

  “It’s easy to forget in all the excitement,” Gabrielle said.

  Jake shot her a grateful look and rapidly disappeared.

  “You shouldn’t make excuses for him,” Nathaniel said, frowning.

  “Oh, but he was so embarrassed, poor lad.”

  “It could have been a great deal more embarrassing …” Nathaniel’s frown deepened as he regarded the closed door. “Now what’s he doing?”

  “Perhaps he’s too uncomfortable to try again.”

  Nathaniel shook his head and impatiently opened the door. Jake was standing in the corridor, chewing his lip. “Did you want to talk to Gabrielle?” his father demanded.

  “Yes, sir.” Jake nodded.

  “Well, come in, then.” Nathaniel waved him in and Jake scuttled past him. Clasping his hands tightly, he gazed intensely up at Gabrielle and spoke in a rush.

  “Primmy says that when people get married they have page boys,” he blurted out “Can I be your page boy when you marry Papa?”

  “Yes, of course you can.” Gabrielle bent to kiss the earnest little face. “I would be honored … and so would Papa.” She glanced up at Nathaniel and Jake’s anxious eyes followed hers.

  “Yes, I would,” Nathaniel said gravely. “In fact, I’d like you to do something very important. I need someone to hold the ring and give it to me at the right moment. Do you think you could do that?”

  Jake’s face was scarlet, his brown eyes huge, and he could only nod vigorously. Then abruptly he turned and ran from the room, and they could hear his shrieking whoop of excitement receding down the corridor as he headed for the nursery stairs.

  “Now, that, Papa, was an inspiration,” Gabrielle approved, smiling. “And it deserves a kiss.”

  “More than that, I believe,” Nathaniel said. “But I think I’ll lock the door.”

  The next afternoon Jake stood behind his father in the dim, musty light of the village church, waiting for Gabrielle. He clutched the gold circle that Papa had given him so tightly that it seemed to be ingrained in his hot, sticky palm.

  Papa had said there wouldn’t be anyone there but their three guests and Primmy and Mrs. Bailey, and any of the household who might want to give up part of a Saturday afternoon to see Lord Praed married, but in fact the church was full. The entire village had turned out, as well as the estate workers and tenants.

  Jake’s stomach was fluttering. Supposing he missed the right moment, or, horror of horrors, dropped the ring. He stared down at the uneven flagstones at his feet and imagined the bright little circle of gold rolling away under one of the pews among all those feet.

  He took a step closer to Papa and tugged his coat with his free hand. “What happens if I drop it,” he said in a loud whisper that reached the front pews.

  “We’ll just pick it up again,” Nathaniel said with a calm smile.

  Jake nodded, but kept hold of his father’s coat. It made him feel better.

  There was a rustling in the church, people turned their heads toward the door, and Jake looked too. Gabby was walking up the aisle with Lord Vanbrugh. She was smiling, acknowledging the people in the pews, and when she reached Jake, she bent down and kissed him.

  “I might drop it,” he whispered.

  “Then we’ll pick it up,” she said, just like Papa, and he knew it wouldn’t matter. He let go of his father’s coat and looked confidently around as Reverend Addison began to speak in his Sunday voice.

  “I think I’m going to cry.” Georgie said matter-of-factly to Miles. “Doesn’t Gabby look wonderful?”

  She did, Miles agreed. Nathaniel had prevailed over the black ribbons and she wore a blue-gray gown opening over a half-slip of Valenciennes lace, her hair piled high and held in place with a pearl-encrusted silver fillet. Pearls encircled her throat and wrists, and their creamy pallor seemed to blend with her skin, accentuating
the dark eyes and the vivid fire of her hair.

  Nathaniel’s head whirled. He wondered if he would ever become so used to her that she would no longer take his breath away. And then she gave him her crooked little smile and there was a gleam of mischievous invitation in her eye, and he knew that she would never lose the power to enchant him.

  “With this ring I thee wed,” the Reverend Addison intoned.

  Jake instantly stuck out his hand, open-palmed. His father peeled the ring off his palm and ruffled his hair. Gabby winked at him, and he squeezed one eyelid shut, wrinkling his nose in imitation.

  “With my body I thee worship …”

  Gabrieile’s hand in Nathaniel’s quivered, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around his, her eyes locked with his.

  Georgie gave up the struggle and snuffled pleasurably into her handkerchief and even Miles blinked rapidly. The powerful magnetism between the couple at the altar was almost palpable in the still, attentive church.

  And then it was all over and the organist began to play and Lord and Lady Praed went into the vestry to sign the register.

  “Jake, I want you to run an errand for me,” Nathaniel said, “if I can find some paper—oh, thank you.” He took the sheet of paper and quill offered by the vicar and wrote swiftly. “I want you to take this note to Mr. Stewart, the bailiff. He was in the church, but I expect he’s outside now, waiting for us to come out. Can you do that?”

  Jake nodded importantly, took the note, and ran off.

  “What was all that about?” Gabrielle scrawled her signature in the ledger and stepped aside to make room for Nathaniel.

  “I hadn’t expected such a turnout,” he said. “I thought I’d better host a reception. Stewart will put it about that the Red Lion is open for business and the drinks are on Lord Praed.”

  Gabrielle smiled to herself. She’d noticed that winter day on the river that a different side of Nathaniel was revealed when he was in character as lord of the manor; it was a role at which he was naturally adept, inspiring both affection and loyalty.

  Outside, they were engulfed in the throng of well-wishers, women bobbing curtsies, men twisting their hats between their hands, offering awkward but genuine congratulations, children shyly smiling, pushed forward by their parents.

  It seemed to put a seal on the marriage that Gabrielle hadn’t thought she needed or wanted. And yet this public acknowledgment filled her with a deep sense of satisfaction and contentment. She was well and truly married to Nathaniel Praed. A convoluted past of deception and fear behind her, a simple conventional future lying ahead.

  Talleyrand would be smiling.

  “Honeymoon time,” she whispered as the crowd thinned and they began to walk toward the lych-gate.

  “So it is,” Nathaniel said. His hand drifted down her back, coming to rest on her bottom.

  “There are people around!” she hissed, moving forward. The hand followed her.

  “So what? I can touch my legal wedded wife if I wish … wherever and however I wish.” He smiled with such complacency that Gabrielle went into a peal of laughter.

  “Why do I have the feeling our hosts are about to find us surplus to requirement?” Miles murmured.

  “I think we should dine in Lymington,” Simon agreed. He looked behind him. “Where’s Jake? Oh, there he is.” He called the boy, who came running over, still glowing with self-importance. “How would you like to come into Lymington with us, Jake?”

  “With Gabby and Papa?”

  Georgie shook her head. “No, just with us.”

  Jake frowned. Papa and Gabby were walking very close together. He remembered the previous afternoon when they’d been kissing. A blush spread over his cheeks and he nodded. “Yes, please. If Papa says I can.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” his godfather said cheerfully, taking his hand. “I doubt your father will have an opinion on the subject.”

  26

  “They’ve captured the entire Danish fleet! Bombarded Copenhagen and the entire fleet captured!” The Emperor Napoleon paced the council chamber at the Tuilleries Palace, carrying his rotund belly high over his short legs, his hard eyes glaring at the select gathering of ministers.

  “It would appear so, sir,” Talleyrand agreed, taking snuff. The newly entitled Vice Grand Elector of France was standing in a window embrasure, leaning against the broad sill, resting his crippled leg as the debate raged around him.

  The English government had responded to Talleyrand’s artfully directed intelligence at Tilsit with both speed and efficiency. There was now no Danish fleet to enforce a blockade of the Baltic ports. Of course, the Danes weren’t too happy about it, in fact rabidly anti-English as a result, but it certainly took the teeth out of the secret articles to the Treaty of Tilsit.

  Talleyrand looked down idly on the gardens of the Tuilleries bathed in the late September sun. The leaves of the plane trees were turning russet, and from the Seine came the frantic barking of a dog in the stern of one of the long barges slipping beneath the Pont Neuf.

  “Monsieur Talleyrand, what is your opinion of the Portuguese government’s refusal to enforce the blockade?” The new Minister for Foreign Affairs posed the question somewhat hesitantly He was still accustomed to deferring to the former minister but felt that perhaps he should be asserting his own opinions rather more definitely.

  “Inconvenient, in the light of the Danish catastrophe,” the Vice Grand Elector said.

  “Inconvenient! You call it inconvenient!” exploded the emperor. “I tell you it’s the epitome of treachery.” He fell into a fulminating silence, examining Talleyrand with steely hostility. The man was too clever by half. Every diplomatic court in Europe hung on his opinion and advice, and if it came to a disagreement between the emperor and Talleyrand, Napoleon had the uneasy suspicion that the former’s opinion would count in such circles for more than his own.

  If only he could do without the man’s cleverness and expertise himself. It was both disagreeable and inappropriate for an emperor to be dependent on the assistance of anyone, and most particularly a man who had distinct views of his own and didn’t hesitate to impart them. But the fact remained that the Emperor Napoleon could not manage to govern his vast empire without the help of Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord.

  “It would ruin Portugal to enforce the blockade, sir,” Talleyrand pointed out as he’d done often before. But this was another instance where the emperor refused to listen to Talleyrand’s doctrine of moderation when it came to dealing with opposition. The emperor never looked ahead, anticipating consequences, but acted only according to the dictates of his ambition. His genius lay in turning circumstances to his own advantage, but Talleyrand saw only disaster in increasing France’s liabilities at this point.

  “We shall enlist the help of Spain,” Napoleon announced, “We will suggest to her a partition of Portugal. That will bring Portugal to heel. Champagny, send a message to the Spanish king, inviting him to send emissaries to Fontainebleau for a secret convention next month. We shall hold court there.”

  Talleyrand turned back to his contemplation of the garden beneath the window. The English government needed to know what Napoleon was up to now. The subjugation of Portugal was only an excuse for gaining French control of the entire Iberian Peninsular. Napoleon might well deceive the Spaniards with his offers of false friendship, but they’d discover the treachery of their assumed ally once they gave him free passage across their country to gain access to Portugal. Once in, Napoleon would secure the most important strategic positions and they’d never see the back of him.

  The English couldn’t afford to stand by while the Peninsular was peacefully incorporated into the French Empire and the killer blockade extended to its ports.

  Gabrielle was now married to her spymaster, and Fouché was beside himself. The policeman had a long reach, but he couldn’t be revenged on Gabrielle without jeopardizing his uneasy alliance with Talleyrand, an alliance he needed at the moment more than he needed
revenge for being duped. While Gabrielle remained in England, she would be safe.

  Safe and perfectly placed to be useful, her godfather reflected, if she could be persuaded.

  He’d send the intelligence to her, suggesting she pass it on to the right quarters. She was clear-headed and pragmatic; he couldn’t imagine she’d refuse to do again what she’d once done so successfully. She would see that she would only be helping her friends and her husband’s country that was now her own.

  Gabrielle leaned back against the stone seat of the garden bench, Talleyrand’s encoded letter lying open on her lap. The ground at her feet was a carpet of copper leaves that still wafted down from the beech tree behind her. The air was sharp with the acrid smell of burning leaves from the gardener’s bonfire, reminding her of roasting chestnuts and eating buttered toast on winter afternoons before blazing log fires. Comforting, secure images of childhood in the DeVane schoolroom.

  Damn Talleyrand! Damn this goddamned war! She folded the letter and pushed it into the pocket of her pelisse. Her godfather had offered no suggestions as to ow she was to pass on the information, merely reiterated that his identity must be kept absolutely secret. The envelope had been addressed in a feminine hand and had arrived on the London mail coach. There was nothing to connect it with the author of the letter.

  She shivered. It was getting cold, and the evening star was already visible in the metallic sky above the river. She stood up and began to walk back to the house.

  She could always ignore the letter.

  She kicked at a pile of leaves, and suddenly a memory rose as vivid and clear as if it had been yesterday. Guillaume, at Valançay one October, lying on his back in a pile of leaves where she’d pushed him. He was laughing, holding his arms up in invitation ….

  It still happened occasionally, this upsurge of memory, but the sadness usually had a sweetness to it. The images were like the pictures and memorabilia of long-lost childhood that one looked at in attics: dusty portraits, forgotten toys, scraps of material, pressed flowers. But not this one, not this time. She felt only a deep well of loss, an awareness, sharp and bitter as aloes, of a squandered life.