Very well. First, apologize, and second, refill my glass. And Wilkinson, tell the servant to knock down that fire. It's growing hot as Hades in here.
All right then. Where was I? In the carriage with Rose—Miss Laval to you—with the crowd milling about, and I had completely forgotten about the races. She had forgotten as well, but when we heard the trumpets, she sat up and exclaimed, “Oh, mon frère!”
For of course, she was not there at the races alone. Her brother, it comes out, is the manager of Lord Delingpole's racing stables, if you please. And if I were not the oldest son of a baronet, I can think of nothing I would rather be.
Miss Laval was all for going out and finding him, but I persuaded her to stay with me, out of the rain, and I sent Phillips to find him and tell him his sister was safe.
My carriage was placed to command a good view of the track for the final stretch, and Miss Laval and I were just exchanging information about our horses—that is, Lord Delingpole's and mine—when we saw them thundering around the track. I could tell by the way she watched, barely breathing, that she was heart and soul for her brother and that she was very familiar with horses and racing. There was Delingpole's filly, Lelantos, in the lead and to my great joy, Benedick was near the front of the pack, churning through the mud. In a twinkling, they passed us and we craned our necks out of the window to watch the finish. A tremendous cheer went up and soon the word passed back to us that Lelantos had won and Benedick—my Benedick—was second.
We congratulated each other—and believe me, contemplating my winnings was only a small part of the pleasure. The real pleasure was studying that face, those dark, sparkling eyes, the play of her countenance, those lovely, pink lips, seeing her smile, hearing her laugh. I have never been at a loss around the ladies, but with Rose, it was all so easy, nothing studied, no affectation.
Rose and I seemed destined to come together to share this victory. She had quite recovered from the horrors of Carbuncle and Pox-face. By Jove, I had never spent a more pleasant afternoon.
Perhaps an hour passed by when Phillips returned with Rose's brother, René de Laval. He was a short, slender, sleek fellow with dark hair and eyes like his sister. He was a little stand-offish at first, but I allowed for him being a Frenchman, don't you know. In fact, I learned from Rose that their father was the Marquise de Laval. If it were not for Robespierre and those other bastards, they would be in some chateau back in France. Instead, her father got the chop from Madame La Guillotine.
Once Rose told him—in very excited, rapid French which I could but half follow—how I had rescued her from Carbuncle and Pox-face, I thought he might have thanked me. But that would be expecting too much of a Frenchman, wouldn't it? Instead, he looked very severe upon her, as though the whole affair was her fault.
“La prochain fois, tu doit etre plus prudent, Rose,” he said, frowning.
“The next time?” I asked. “There will be no next time, Monsieur de Laval, surely.”
"I meant, monsieur, that the next time we go to the races, she must stay close to me. She has a lady's maid in Weymouth, but we did not bring her with us. And she walked out alone today and nearly came to grief, it seems.”
The rain had stopped and the setting sun was sinking through the distant trees, and I realized that in addition to being besotted with Rose, I was also hungry. I did not think it at all out of place that I should invite the de Lavals to dine with me, no matter that de Laval worked as a horse trainer, considering their noble birth.
Except of course, I had no money.
“Oh, but you said you placed some wagers!” Rose recalled. “Where can you collect your winnings?”
Leaving my coachman and groomsman to prise the carriage out of the mud, we trod back over the field. With the crowd thinning and in the half-light of dusk, everything looked somehow different, and I could not spot the stall of my blackleg who would pay me out ten-to-one. We walked and we searched, but we could not find him. Happily, though, we came across my particular friend Sneyd—you have heard me speak of Sneyd—who paid off our gentlemen’s wager, and that was more than enough to purchase a private dining room, some decent wine, and a good dinner.
And then, I had the pleasure of looking at Rose by candlelight and hearing more of her story. Rose's chief memories of France were of the convent school in which she had lived. I wonder which of us had the more Spartan childhood? Which has the more brutal regime or worse food, Eton or a French convent school? At any rate, I never had to cross the Channel at night in an open boat, disguised as a peasant, clinging to my poor mother, as these two did when very young. Their mother fell ill and died shortly after they arrived in England but Rose and her brother were sent to good boarding schools. They were both so well-informed, and of such good discourse, that believe me, I was cudgeling my brains, trying to remember more of my school room French. I suddenly wished I could quote Moliere and Montesquieu; I wished I had paid attention at Oxford. I wanted to be better than I was—for her.
We discovered we had a hundred shared pleasures and interests. We loved music—
Dash it, of course, I love music! Who said I don't love music?
And the countryside, and good food, and we laughed at the same things. I realized that I had always been one to talk to the fair sex, trying out my wit, or my gallantries, but with Rose, I was talking with her, if you understand my meaning.
As for René, while there was still something cool and reserved about him—perhaps he was ashamed of the gulf in our stations in life—by Jove, there never was a fellow who knew more about horses. It was a delight to converse with him. And there was Rose, sitting opposite me, watching us both, with a little smile which seemed to say she hoped that her brother and I should become good friends.
Well, I saw them to their hotel with a promise to call on her tomorrow, and René gave his consent that Rose could watch the races from my carriage, for the rain never let up all the next day, you know. What did I care, when I was picnicking on chicken and champagne with Rose? Of course, my servants and I tried to run down that blackleg—we never found him. But I spoke to the race committee and left a damned good description of him with his stupid boxer's face. I should have minded more, but I was otherwise preoccupied, as you can see.
So that was Basingstoke. I left lighter of pocket than I arrived but never happier, and I sent my groomsmen to walk Benedick back home because Rose and René were going on to the seaside, and I determined to follow them to Weymouth. My father's name, of course, is good for credit anywhere, so I took a respectable hotel room overlooking the water and had no other aim in view but to entertain my new friends in the most liberal manner. But he had Delingpole's horses to look after, and she had concerts to give, you know, and I was jealous of every moment she spent away from me.
You may remember, when we were young, and all the émigrés came pouring over from France, and what a to-do there was about helping them? Well, many of our society ladies organized concerts, and they discovered that Rose could sing like a little bird. They taught her to sing all the saddest arias and put her on display at these affairs, to raise money for the émigrés. O Malheureuse Iphigénie— Stay, I shall give it to you in English…
O! miserable Iphegenia
Your family has been destroyed
You, my people, have no more kings
And I have no more family.
Mingle your plaintive cries
with my endless lament.
You have no more kings;
and I have no more family.
* * *
Can you picture it? The little orphan of the Revolution with her enormous dark eyes and long ringlets. Vous n'avais plus de rois, je n'ai plus de famille. No doubt the ton emptied their wallets for her.
Damn, the smoke is stinging my eyes. Trim that candle, why don't you?
René told me that the King himself used to have her sing for him at Weymouth—back when he used to go there every summer—and he was quite enchanted with her. So, she is still o
ften engaged to perform there—privately, you understand, at private concerts, not on the public stage. She is, in every respect, a perfect gentlewoman, and I would have knocked any rascal flat on his backside who dared to say otherwise.
Thus began the happiest six weeks of my life. I claimed Rose's company every evening that she was disengaged, and every day as well. Sometimes she and her maid would go sea-bathing, and I would meet them afterwards and take them to eat ices or escort them to the shops. I never spent so much time at the library either, for, as I said, she was no feather-head and she was always reading some book or other. And some of my friends happened to come and go that summer, such as Charles Anderson and his sister—you have heard me speak of Anderson—and we would get up little parties to explore the countryside in my carriage, or hire some horses and go riding together. Of course, Rose sits a horse beautifully. I even arranged some excursions on a little sailing boat, up and down the coast.
Rose had some acquaintance there, too. She introduced me to Mr. Wilmot, a very decent old fellow. He knew my father, from when they sat in Parliament together. Rose told me that he helped raise piles of money for the French refugees, back at the time of the Terror, and he has known her since she was a child.
Wilmot's wife invited me to a concert she held for her friends, and Rose was the star performer. She was dressed all in white and silver, in the costume of a Grecian goddess or priestess or something, with a tunic of some light fabric, held together with silver clasps at the shoulders. She had silver bracelets winding like snakes around her bare arms. Her long hair was caught up in silver ribbons and the rest flowed down her back in dark ringlets. I cannot even try to tell you how beautifully she sang, with her voice throbbing with emotion, and her graceful gestures, like a Grecian statue come to life. I wanted to cuff every blockhead who spoke, or who sneezed, or yawned during her performance.
Hah! I recall, that is same the night I met Yates—John Yates, d'you know him? Lord Pencroft's youngest son. He had volunteered to recite an epic poem for the concert and I expect Mrs. Wilmot was too kind-hearted to refuse him. He gave us a portion—thank God!—a portion only—of The Grave, and quite a piece of work he made of it too, bellowing in a huge, hollow voice and rolling his r's like a demented Scotsman and waving his arms like a tree in a gale. Like this:
What groan was that I heard? Deep groan indeed…
With anguish heavy laden! let me trace it:
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man,
gasps for breath…. What now avail
The strong-built sinewy limbs, and well spread shoulders!
See, how he tugs for life, and lays about him
Mad with his pain!
* * *
Et cetera, et cetera. Oh, thank you, fellows. I do think I did him justice there. It was all we could do to keep our countenances. Yates was very evidently wanting some puff of praise afterwards, so I told him that “the artistry of his performance exceeded my powers of description,” which pleased him very much. But, you mustn't betray me to Yates. He's an agreeable fellow, and we became friends after that.
The month of August passed away very agreeably in Weymouth, but then, I would have been happy in Timbuctoo if Rose was there, and fortunately Lord and Lady Delingpole were spending the summer at the seaside, so René continued in attendance on His Lordship, and Rose had several more engagements to perform.
I think she was proud of her independence. She would not let me buy anything for her but flowers, although I wanted to shower her with gifts, with anything her heart desired. She dressed beautifully, but not in a showy fashion—I am no expert on these matters, but I think no one can compete with a Frenchwoman when it comes to looking smart on a small income. No one made so good a figure on the promenade as Rose, nor, I fancy, could you have seen a happier couple than she and I.
René was more than complacent about my attentions to his sister. I fancy that I would be more watchful on my own sisters' behalf if some designing rogue was being too encroaching with them! For truthfully, I took as many liberties with Rose as she would permit. René would hide behind the newspaper while Rose and I whispered at the breakfast table or let us dawdle behind him when we walked through the park in the evening. When we went to the theatre together, he would sit at the front of the box and actually watch the play, and Rose and I sat behind so that we could give all our attention to each other. Say, however—when we were watching The Heir at Law—you recall that part when the fellow from the country finds his father's old lottery ticket, and you know, of course, this means he's going to be very rich by the third act. Well, Rose must have been watching the stage, for she scoffed and rolled her eyes and exclaimed, “Imbeciles! The lottery! It is a tax upon idiots!”
“Why,” I asked, “do you not like to take a little flutter now and again? What about your brother's horses? Don't you wager on them?”
She turned and looked at me with the utmost seriousness. “I despise gaming. I despise gamesters. What—these so-called lords of creation”—and she gestured out across the theatre, where the cream of society was gathered—“they call it a ‘debt of honour’ when a man bankrupts himself, and ruins his name, and condemns his wife and children to misery?”
So, then it came out. Her own father, the marquis, had destroyed the family's fortunes because he would not leave off gambling. He lost his head during the Revolution—he had lost everything else before.
Well, no wonder she hated gamesters and she could not properly mourn for a father who had reduced his family to such dire straits. “All because he would not stop playing at cards! Cards! Le diable! My mother begged him, weeping, on her knees! The servants left us, the bailiffs came and took the furniture away; then they took me away from Maman and sent me to the convent…. I was five years old….” She brushed away a tear. “The idiot who places a wager on chance—‘The next card will be an ace. My horse will be the fastest.’—Bah! I say they deserve to lose their money if they have such contempt for how hard it is to earn it. They, none of them, have worked a day in their lifetimes, but they spend as though they were pouring out the water!”
“There, there,” I whispered as more than one head was now turning our way in the theatre. “My dear Miss Laval, you honour me with your confidence. Please, forgive me for awakening these painful memories.” The heroine in the play, you remember, became destitute when her father died. “What an unfeeling fool I was to take you to see such a play! Er, although of course, it ends happily.”
And then I blurted out: “If I had my dearest wish, Miss Laval, it would be to devote myself to your happiness for so long as you will permit me.”
She trembled—I was startled myself at what I had just said. I had as good as proposed marriage to her, a thing I had never been in the least tempted to do with any other young lady of my acquaintance. I hardly knew myself at that moment—and hardly cared.
She smiled up at me, with another tear glistening in her eye, and answered, “What a woman needs to make her happy, Mr. Bertram, is a man who respects the woman he loves, who will not destroy her life and his through his vices and imprudence.”
This took me aback. I had everything—my family, an estate, the promise of a baronet's title, servants, carriage, horses, the best education money could buy. And while I had been taking my ease, and doing exactly what I pleased, Rose and René had struggled for everything they had, through their own skill and pluck. My darling Rose had lost her beloved mother, her home, and her fortune, because of the vices, cruelties, and follies of men. No wonder she mistrusted Dame Fortune. Deuce take me, but I wanted to lay all I had at her feet at that moment.
As we were leaving the box, I think that René chanced to see someone in the corridor that he did not want to meet, for I saw him stiffen and change direction and then swiftly hurry on ahead of us. His affairs held no interest for me, because it meant I was suddenly alone with Rose. Unable to help myself, I pulled her back into our little balcony and whisked her behind the side-curtains, pul
ling her close. I caught the scent of her perfume—ah, I am certain you think I am about to describe the aroma of roses. But my Rose was not so obvious. She preferred verbena. Roses are too sweet, she told me.
“Rose, my darling Rose,” I murmured. “Tell me what I may do to be worthy of you.”
She tipped her head up to look at me—I could not resist—I cupped that beautiful face between my hands and drew her to me for a kiss, as I had so often dreamt of doing. She did not resist or make a sound. I gently brushed those full lips and stroked that perfect, downy cheek. Her eyes were closed and a tear glistened in her long eyelashes. She laid her head on my chest, and she felt as though she belonged there, nestled in the shelter of my arms.
“Tom—Tom Bertram, I believe you are a very kind man, a very good man. I do not think you could be selfish or thoughtless or cruel, not with anyone you loved.”
“Kiss me, Rose” was all I could manage, and my beautiful girl—well, they say a gentleman does not kiss and tell....
Well then, more brandy, please.
Dammit it all. If I could relive one moment of my life, it would be that moment when she turned her face up to me, and her lips met mine, and sweetly parted and—I was in danger of losing control of myself, but Rose managed to pull away and then—she winked at me and grinned and said, “And how did you like the play, Monsieur Bertram?” That was my Rose. She could fly from tears to mirth like a child. I believe we were both laughing like naughty schoolchildren when we reappeared and found René, who rolled his eyes but otherwise said nothing. It was his duty to have a serious talk with me. But he had other things on his mind, I fancy.
Another thing, by the bye—I have not, from that moment, played a single game of chance, or placed a wager, or bought a lottery ticket. I have sat through plenty of sermons against gaming, and of course, my father has raked me over the coals many a time, but no one, I suppose, has the address of a Frenchwoman. Rose convinced me, when no one else could.
Dangerous to Know Page 15
