She wanted to call out to him from the window, but she refrained from doing so, though it took almost every ounce of self-control that she possessed to keep from tearing down the stairs and throwing herself upon him, demanding an explanation from him.
But what good would that do? Even if he hadn’t betrayed her so cruelly, his mother was right. They were from two different worlds, a whore and a nobleman, and the two were never meant to tarry, except perhaps in the darkest recesses of the night. For certainly she could share his bed for a time but that’s all she could ever hope to share, and she had been the fool to allow herself to imagine that it would be different. A lone tear rolled down her cheek as she stood at the bay window, watching the little gold and cream carriage roll off down the street.
She was nothing, no one without him. How could she ever return to her former life entertaining society gentlemen when she felt so wretched? The madame refused to send her any clients, since James had paid enough sovereign to ensure she remained exclusive to him for an entire year at least, and the white-haired doyenne dared not risk displeasing a duke. Lenore was grateful for that fact, at least; she would not have been able to attend to the needs of any man at present, for her heart felt as if it were broken.
Two weeks later, and the heavy sadness in her heart had a new companion, sickness. Lenore tossed and turned at night, unable to sleep, and by day she barely managed to drag herself out of bed, lest her fragile stomach take umbrage to the fact. Shocked by her unhealthy pallor, Madame fussed about her.
‘You must eat, Lenore,’ she said, thrusting the tray containing a bowl of onion soup and a hunk of soft, white bread under her nose as she lay in bed.
‘I … I cannot keep anything down, I fear I am sick,’ she said, looking up at the woman helplessly. Her head was pounding and if she moved she felt as if she would retch, even though she had vomited so many times that surely there was nothing left in her but bile.
Madame regarded her then, a strange expression crossing her face.
‘Oh my goodness gracious,’ she gasped, ‘you are not sick at all. Oh my dear girl!’ she exclaimed, her hand flying to her mouth.
Confused, Lenore looked at the woman.
‘I’m not sick? But I must be. I can barely move for fear I shall retch.’
‘Oh my dear girl. My poor, dear girl.’ Madame made a soft tutting sound, shaking her head as if the knowledge she possessed was far too upsetting to utter.
‘What?’ she croaked and attempted to sit up in the bed, only to find Madame pushing her down, gently but firmly, urging her to settle back against the embroidered velvet of the bed’s headboard.
‘Do not distress yourself, dear,’ the older woman said, her tone akin to that of a mother hen.
‘But if I’m not sick, then what is it?’
‘You are with child, Lenore,’ Madame informed her, looking sympathetically down at her. Stunned, she stared back, her mouth agape.
‘With child? But I can’t be, I –’ She broke off as she realised. Of course she could be; she knew full well that it was perfectly possible. Why, she had lain with James almost every night, after all. But how could she have a child? She was a whore, a courtesan. Her duty was to pleasure men; how else could she earn her keep? A child would make that task near impossible. Even when her looks faded and she was no longer celebrated or sought out, there would still be no place for a child, not in the twilight world she inhabited.
No she had fully expected to become a doyenne, like Madame du Monsignor, whose duties were the management of a house of ill-repute, and the care and wellbeing of girls in her ward. Not a mother, how could she be a mother? She would be bringing a bastard into the world. How could she inflict that kind of misery on an innocent child?
‘Oh my poor, sweet girl,’ the woman said, her hand reaching out to tenderly stroke her cheek. ‘Lenore, you must tell the duke,’ she insisted, ‘he will take care of you.’
Vehemently, she shook her head.
‘No. The duke must not know of this. He is betrothed to be married, to a very great lady; he shall not know of my condition.’
‘He told you of his betrothal?’
‘No. His mother told me. She followed him here and told me after he had left. She gave me a purse stuffed with a hundred gold pieces and told me to stay away from him, but I threw it back at her and told her she could keep it.’
‘But Lenore, you must tell him. He would want to know, I am sure. He calls for you every day and he is greatly distressed when I send him away,’ the woman said, urging her.
He was distressed because of her? Could it be possible? A sharp pang of sorrow coursed through her body, but she remembered Lady Durham’s words about the Lady Marchmond and her jaw tightened in determination.
‘He is not to know. He betrayed me. And when he calls for me you must send him away.’
‘Oh child, why send him away, for he is sweet on you and so obviously cares for you?’
‘He is a duke and I am a whore, and he cannot afford to care for me,’ Lenore said flatly, for it was the truth.
‘But Lenore –’
‘No. I will not tell him,’ she replied, interrupting the woman’s protest stubbornly, and turning her head away to signal that that was the end of the matter and she would brook no further argument.
Chapter Eight
Three months later and the worst of the sickness had passed, though the heartache remained. She missed him every day, though strangely the baby inside her, unwanted as it had first been, had become a peculiar comfort to her. It was as though a part of him had not gone from her, but flourished inside her instead, secretly, in the child that grew within her belly.
She sat there, staring out of the little bay window in her bedroom at the October afternoon sky, in the soft powder blue velvet armchair, as she had taken to doing of late. Just then, there was a soft knock at the door.
‘Lenore?’ came Madame’s voice. She sighed; she needed to be alone with her thoughts, but the woman sounded insistent.
‘Come in,’ she called out in reply, getting to her feet. Madame scuttled into the room, her scarlet skirts swishing stiffly about her. Scarlet was a trademark colour for the kindly old woman, and it was rather apt. After all, in her heyday she had been the most famous courtesan in Paris.
‘Lenore, my dear, there was a letter and a package delivered by a messenger boy,’ she said breathlessly. ‘It has your name on it,’ she added, thrusting a small box and a cream envelope at her. She looked down at the elegant handwriting on the front of envelope, saw the gold embossed rose in the corner of it, and her heart suddenly leapt into her mouth. James?
Hastily, she removed the layers of soft blue crepe enshrouding the small parcel to reveal a black velvet box, similar to the one that had contained the tiara, but smaller this time and more oblong in shape. Quivering, her fingers prised the lid of the box open, Madame’s audible gasp vying with her own as their eyes alighted on the contents. Nestling against the satin inside was a stunningly beautiful necklace, each side studded alternately with emeralds and diamonds, the centrepiece of the whole thing a large, square-cut diamond showcased within an elaborately fashioned gold claw-foot clasp. The stone was bigger than any she had ever seen before.
‘Oh, it’s so lovely,’ she gasped, staring at Madame incredulously; the woman’s eyes were out on stalks at the size of it. It must be from James, for who else would show such generosity towards her? Come to think of it, who else had such wealth at his disposal? Even her richest clients could never afford to buy her a necklace like this one, so encrusted with precious gemstones, and that diamond – why, it was fit for a queen.
‘So what does he say? Open the letter.’ Madame’s urgings prompted her out of her reverie. Hurriedly, she obeyed, her fingers tearing open the envelope.
My dearest Lenore,
I greatly hope this letter finds you in good health despite your condition. I have been most distressed at not being able to reach you and it pains me greatly that you wil
l not receive me, though I cannot say it is entirely underserved. I should have treated you with the respect that a great lady undoubtedly deserves, by asking you to become my wife.
Even before I heard you were with child, I knew I wished for you to marry me, Lenore, but now I know I must, if possible, act to win your heart, lest I lose it and you for ever. That would be something that I think I should not be able to bear. Please consider my proposal, Lenore, for I assure you I am most sincere. Do not fear for my family, for I care not for what my mother desires and I swear to you I have remained faithful to you and only you. You have my heart; it is entirely in your keeping.
I am afraid you were misinformed by my mother that I was courting another and I am sorry to hear of it, for the thought of your being distressed or upset troubles me greatly. I am my own man and I shall do as I desire. I will call on you tonight, and shall await your answer with hope.
Your ever loving and faithful servant,
James
‘Oh,’ she cried, her legs buckling from underneath her as she reached out to the back of the velvet armchair to steady herself.
‘What is it, my dear?’ Madame’s eyes were full of concern as they regarded her.
‘He … he wishes for me to marry him,’ Lenore gasped, her eyes incredulous as she stared into the woman’s face, a million possibilities racing through her head.
‘You must answer his proposal,’ Madame insisted. ‘You must say yes, of course you must. I know how much you care for him and he for you, and Lenore, you will be a duchess.’ The woman clasped her hand to her mouth as if she could scarcely believe this new, thrilling piece of news.
Could she marry him? Her instinct was to say, yes, yes of course she would, for she had dreamed of barely anything but since the moment she had met him. But she was still a courtesan and he was a duke, and even if he defied his mother’s wishes and married whom he pleased, he would be ruined. And how could she do that to him?
‘I … I can’t,’ she faltered. ‘I cannot marry him, for it will ruin his life, surely? I am a courtesan, he is a nobleman.’
‘Do you not love him after all, my dear?’ Madame asked, patting her on the back tenderly, her elegant features quizzical as she regarded her.
‘I do love him, how could I not? How could anyone not love such a man?’ she blurted out, the tears rising in her throat, threatening to choke her.
‘Then why –?’
‘It is because I love him that I cannot marry him. Don’t you see?’ She lifted her gaze to look at the woman, her eyes heavy with sadness. ‘It would be a disgrace for such a man to marry a common pauper, and a courtesan at that. And I cannot be the one to bring such disgrace to his name,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I cannot do that to him. I love him too much for that.’
‘Lenore,’ Madame said, taking her arm gently. ‘Child, there is something I must tell you. Sit yourself down, for this may come as a shock to you.’
She looked up, brow knitted in incomprehension. ‘Tell me, but what, what is it –?’
Madame silenced her with a fingertip, bringing her black satin-gloved hand to her lips to hush her.
‘Sit down, my dear, and everything will become clear, for now I can see that it is time to tell you the truth.’
Obediently, she did as the woman asked of her, settling down on the soft powder blue armchair and arranging the white muslin of her skirts. Expectantly, she looked up at the woman, her mind still in disarray over James’s sudden proposal. The truth: what on earth was Madame talking about?
‘My dear, you remember how I told you of the circumstances of your coming into my care?’ She looked at Lenore for confirmation.
Nodding her acknowledgement at Madame, she frowned. ‘Yes, yes, but –’
‘I must confess, my dear, that what I told you was not entirely true, not all of it. Your mother and father are dead, and it was indeed your mother’s sister who entrusted you into my wardship, but not because she was a struggling and weary wife with little other choice but to leave you on the doorstep of one of the most infamous houses of ill-repute in Paris.’
‘Then why did she leave me?’
‘Because she was in fear of her life. It was the time of the revolution, my dear; your mother and father had been captured and she did not know if she would be next …’
‘Captured? Why were they captured?’ Her mind was racing. Her parents had died of the typhoid; she had grown up all her life with the knowledge of that. And who on earth would have wanted to capture the daughter of a farmer and the son of a blacksmith?
‘They were captured because all of France had tired of doffing its cap to the nobility.’
‘But I still don’t understand …’
‘Lenore, your mother and father were the Comte and Comtesse of Carcassone, and you were their only heir. The mob was hungry, angry for noble blood, and they were finding and rooting out the aristocracy wherever they could find them in order to drag them off to the guillotine.’
‘My parents were high born?’
‘They were, my dear. And your mother’s sister, the Duchesse Dupont, was in very grave danger; she could not keep you in her household. The best place for you was somewhere the mob would never think to look for the baby countess, the house of a notorious courtesan.’
‘I was a countess?’ Leonore looked at the woman incredulously, unable to believe what she was saying. Her head swam; she feared she might actually lose consciousness, there was so much to take in, so much information.
‘Yes, my dear. After your mother died, you would have inherited her title, and if you doubt the truth of my words, I have the documents in safe keeping that will prove the truth of what I tell you. As it was, your mother’s sister, the duchess, managed to transport a portion of your parents’ wealth to England in secret.’
‘I have an inheritance?’ she squeaked. She could hardly manage to speak.
‘A portion of it was assigned to me for your care and keeping, but the most of it was placed in trust for you to access should I die, or were you ever to leave my house in order to marry.’
‘How much is it?’ She could scarcely contemplate the possibility that she was in possession of her own fortune. How could this be real?
‘Fifty thousand pounds is sequestered in the vaults of the bank Coutts for your disposal, my dear.’
Lenore gasped. Fifty thousand pounds – why, that was a king’s ransom, surely? That was enough money to ensure that she would never want for anything for the rest of her entire life.
‘But why did you not tell me of this before?’ She looked at Madame, puzzled.
‘I did not tell you of the circumstances of your birth because I did not see how it would be of benefit to you, my dear. After all, in France it was imperative that no one knew who you were. And I brought you up the only way I knew how, the only way a girl with no family, no dowry, can support herself in this world and live in relative comfort.’
She nodded.
‘Yes, I understand. But what if … what if I had married?’
‘Then I would have told you just the same. But you had never expressed a romantic interest in any man before, dear, which is why I did not inform you. Though now you have fallen in love – and with a duke, no less – now it is the right time.’ The woman looked at her gently. ‘You must go to him, Lenore, but though you are a courtesan you will not go to him as a pauper, as you fear. Though how wonderful it must be to know this man would love you even if that were all you were. No, child, you will go to him with your head held high, as a great and noble lady, the former Comtesse de Carcassone. And he and all of society will embrace you with open arms.’
Madame was right. He would love her no matter what, she knew that now, for had he not proved that? He would have married her if she were nothing but a common courtesan with no fortune and no dowry. Only her love for him would have prevented her from accepting him, but oh – now she would accept, for she could hold her head high in front of his family, in front of that dragon the
Lady Durham, in front of everyone, for she was a countess of noble birth.
Chapter Nine
Descending the staircase of Madame du Monsignor’s house as James waited for her at the bottom, she held her head as high as if she were a true queen. The sight of his handsome face looking up at her in such wonderment caused her heart to leap with joy.
‘Lenore,’ he murmured, as he took her elegant green Chantilly lace-gloved hand, kissing her fingers. She had selected the gloves especially so as to match the delicate cream lace gown she wore, that was trimmed with a ribbon of green velvet. The tiara was resting on top of her raven waves and the necklace he had sent her was clasped around her neck, the beautiful square diamond in the centre of it winking and glistening against the creamy white flesh of her décolletage.
‘You look absolutely breathtaking,’ he whispered in her ear as she allowed him to take her arm in his, and together they walked toward the door that Mary the maid held open for them. The young girl’s face was a perfect picture of incredulity when she saw the size of the diamond that Lenore wore around her neck.
As they walked through it, she smiled as the girl’s eyes goggled again at the sight of the cream and gold-bedecked carriage, the white horses with their tall plumes of gold splendid in their livery as they stood before it, ready to surge forward at the coachman’s instruction.
Once they were settled inside he looked at her, clasping her hand in his as he got down on one knee. Her heart thrilled. She had fantasised about this very moment so often since she had met him and now here it was actually happening. His hand fumbled in the lining of the blue velvet frockcoat he wore, searching for something. Removing a small, square black velvet box from the inside pocket of his coat, his other hand moved to open the lid, presenting her with a sight of the magnificent jewel.
The princess-cut emerald winked at her, the four diamonds that flanked it smaller in size but no less splendid, the gold band it adorned embossed with delicately etched gold roses and coronets. It was exquisite, the most beautiful piece of jewellery she had ever seen.
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