‘May I present Miss Madeleine Moreau and Mrs Levesque?’ says Georgiana.
The comte is tall for a Frenchman, dark-eyed and with his curling hair cut short in the latest French style, to expose the firm angles of his jaw and long nose.
‘I no longer use my title,’ he says, ‘since the nobility was abolished in France.’ His expression is severe until he smiles, when his eyes seem illuminated from within. He speaks English with a light accent and, in spite of my dislike of the spoilt and frivolous French aristocrats, I find his looks extremely pleasing.
Georgiana turns to his companions, a middle-aged woman with bewildered eyes and a corpulent man with pudgy white hands. ‘The former Marquis de Roussell and his wife are recent émigrés from the Revolution,’ she says. ‘Mr d’Aubery has accompanied them on their journey to London and is introducing them to society.’
I can’t help studying his face covertly. There’s a curiously exciting frisson in talking to a man with a disreputable past. ‘So you are not an émigré, too, Mr d’Aubery?’ I ask.
‘Not at all but I often visit London.’
Sophie and I make conversation, in French, with the new arrivals since they have a poor command of English. Mr d’Aubery, I notice, watches me carefully all the while I speak. I do not take to the marquis, who is altogether too ready to talk of his plans to join the émigré army and ‘whip the tails of the bloody revolutionaries’.
‘Too late for that,’ says Mr d’Aubery. ‘The interference of the Duke of Brunswick’s army only served to intensify opposition to the king.’
‘I’m beyond caring about the king,’ says de Roussell. ‘He’s a lost cause, anyway. But I want my estates returned to me.’
‘The émigré army is under-funded and poorly equipped.’ D’Aubery shrugs in that peculiarly Gallic fashion. ‘I see little chance of success for it. And in any case, it is impossible for you to return to France now without incurring the most severe of penalties.’
De Roussell scowls. Sensing that the conversation is in danger of becoming contentious, Georgiana draws the marquis and his wife away.
‘If you will excuse me,’ says Sophie, ‘I must find Mr Stowe. Last week he promised to write an ode to my dimples.’ She flits off to the other side of the room where the poet is in earnest conversation with a red-haired man wearing a yellow waistcoat.
I turn back to Mr d’Aubery, delighted to have his sole attention.
‘You speak French well,’ he says, ‘and your name is French, too. When did your family come to England?’
‘I was born here.’ I like the way he regards me so intently while I speak, as if he’s really interested. ‘My mother is English but my father is French.’
‘And he came from…?’
I hesitate. How can I tell him I have no idea, without sounding foolish? ‘I have never been to France,’ I say, sidestepping the question and changing the subject. ‘Did you hear the news today? I understand that King Louis has been imprisoned.’
‘It is a worrying time,’ says the former comte. ‘Whilst I support the Revolution in following the principles of freedom and equality, I fear that the working men are allowing their passions to become so inflamed that they no longer see reason.’
‘It’s a time of great change for France,’ I say. ‘But who can blame the people if they demand equality?’ I’m on my favourite hobbyhorse now, my views formed from endless discussions with Papa and other members of the French community in London. ‘It’s patently unfair if the poor are those paying all the taxes while the aristocrats, who do not, flaunt their luxurious life style in their Parisian homes, leaving the workers on their estates to starve.’
Mr d’Aubery’s well-defined mouth tightens. ‘It isn’t always like that.’
‘The French nobility stunt the growth of society,’ I say firmly. ‘And the clergy are greedy and over-privileged. I can only believe it to be of benefit to the people that Church property has been confiscated and the proceeds used to strengthen the economy.’
‘Whilst there may be an element of truth in what you say, Miss Moreau, do you not think it arrogant of you to make such statements as if they are fact when you have not only never lived in France, but not even visited the country?’
Heat floods my neck and burns in my cheeks. ‘Perhaps distance lends perspective.’ I can hear the vinegar in my tone.
His eyes glitter, as cold and hard as jet. ‘Then we must agree to differ, Miss Moreau.’ The comte makes me a stiff little bow.
Mortified, I watch him walk away. How disappointing that one so well-favoured should be so haughty. Still smarting from his comment, I seek out more comfortable company.
Sophie is talking animatedly to the man in the yellow waistcoat. His copper hair is carefully tousled and he runs his fingers through his disordered curls while his gaze rakes up and down my friend’s figure and comes to rest on her plump breasts.
‘Madeleine, this is Mr Jack Fielding,’ she says. ‘May I present Miss Moreau?’ Sophie lays a hand on my arm. ‘Mr Fielding is an artist and has just completed his portrait of Horace Walpole’s cousin.’
‘How very interesting,’ I say.
Jack Fielding doesn’t return my smile but reaches out for one of Sophie’s curls and winds it around his finger. ‘There are intriguing chestnut lights amongst the brown and your olive skin tones are so much more interesting than the milky-white complexions of the native English.’ He studies Sophie through half-closed eyes. ‘Yes, I really think I must paint your portrait, Mrs Levesque.’
‘Oh, would you?’ Sophie gasps.
‘I shall call on your husband tomorrow to make the arrangements.’
A quiver of unease runs down my spine as she smiles foolishly back at him and I remember that I saw just the same expression earlier that day on Amelia Wainwright’s face while she was eyeing up the infantrymen.
Chapter 2
September 1792
‘Again, Aunt Madeleine!’ Henry’s voice is high-pitched with excitement.
I glance at Sophie and she shrugs and looks away. ‘Once more,’ I say, ‘and then you must play quietly while I talk with your mama.’ Grasping the string around the spinning top, I give it a sharp pull. The top, gaily painted in red, blue and yellow, starts to spin and the colours blur together into a rainbow as it hums and twirls upon the polished floor of Sophie’s drawing room.
Henry shrieks with laughter but Sophie is staring out of the window and jumps when I touch her arm. ‘What is it?’ I ask.
She turns to watch the spinning top until it begins to wobble increasingly violently before finally falling over.
Henry looks up at me hopefully.
‘No more,’ I say.
I wait until I’m sure he’s absorbed in arranging his soldiers into battle formations before asking Sophie again. ‘What is it that troubles you?’
‘It’s Charles,’ she whispers, glancing at her son’s dark head bent over his toys. Slowly, she pulls back the lacy frill of her sleeve and I gasp to see the ugly bruises on her forearm.
Before I can say anything, there’s a quiet knock on the door and Henry’s nurse enters. ‘I came to see if Master Henry would like to go for his walk now?’ She has a broad country face with a smattering of freckles on her nose.
Henry scrambles to his feet. ‘Can we feed the ducks again, Betty?’
Sophie is smoothing down her sleeve, hiding the bruises again. ‘But you must take care not to fall in the water.’ She kisses Henry and he runs off hand in hand with the nursemaid, chattering excitedly.
‘Betty has been with us for four months now,’ Sophie says as soon as the door has closed behind them. ‘Henry adores her.’
‘Sophie, never mind the nursemaid! Why did Charles do this to you?’
‘He’s taken another mistress,’ she says, her voice devoid of expression. ‘My dressmaker let it slip. It seems that I share her services with my husband’s new fancy piece. You can imagine the humiliation of it; the beastly girl was sticking pins into my
hem and darting spiteful little glances up at me from under her eyelashes to see if I knew.’
‘Oh, Sophie!’ But I’m not surprised since it’s well known that Charles Levesque is a philanderer. What does surprise me is that for such a thick-set man with eyebrows that meet over his nose and little small talk, he appears to have no difficulty in finding women who are happy to climb into his bed. Four years ago I begged Sophie not to marry him but her family and the Levesques had common business interests and she succumbed to familial pressure.
‘Of course, I pretended that it doesn’t concern me,’ says Sophie unhappily. ‘It’s not that I care that he has other women… well, not particularly as we’ve never pretended it’s a love match… but he always becomes so wretchedly fault-finding with me when he has a new mistress.’
Anger makes me speak sharply to her. ‘And so he hurts you and soothes his conscience by persuading himself you drive him to it.’
‘That’s it exactly!’ Sophie wipes away a tear. ‘It’s not as if I’ve ever refused him in any way…’ Her voice trails off as her cheeks blossom scarlet. ‘But now that I’ve given him the son he wanted, I’m of no further use to him.’
‘Change your dressmaker at once and keep out of Charles’s way until his passion for this strumpet wanes, as it surely will.’
Sophie sighs. ‘Still, Charles is so preoccupied with her that he did agree to commission Mr Fielding to paint my portrait.’
I say nothing but there’s something about Jack Fielding that makes me uneasy.
Children’s voices call to each other across the garden and the evening sun slants through the lime trees, highlighting my mother’s hair with gold.
‘An evening such as this is a gift,’ she says, threading her needle with vibrant turquoise silk for the kingfisher’s wing that adorns the waistcoat she’s embroidering for my father.
I rest my book on my knee. ‘September is always a poignant time. It’s hard to imagine that it will soon be winter.’
There’s a footfall on the gravel and Mama moves her sewing basket so that Papa can squeeze between us on the bench.
‘I have been to Harold Jephcott’s chambers,’ he says, ‘to further our discussions. I am inclined to consider his proposition favourably but since we would all be working closely together, I suggested that he should meet you both. He has invited us to be his guests at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens next week. There is to be a masquerade and fireworks.’
‘A masquerade!’ A thrill of excitement runs through me.
‘Philippe!’ Alarm makes Mama grip my father’s sleeve. ‘You know how wickedly licentious these affairs can be.’
‘I promise not to leave your side, chérie.’ Amusement glints in his eyes.
‘But what about the rakes who might make improper suggestions to Madeleine?’
Papa raises his shoulders and turns his hands palm up. ‘Our daughter will stand no nonsense from any young man. Mr Jephcott will bring his wife and daughter and hire a box where we can sit safely away from the rabble. I shall, of course, defend the honour of my womenfolk with my life.’
‘There’s no need to descend into melodrama, Philippe,’ says Mama, crossly.
I’m delighted at the prospect of such entertainment. ‘I would so like to see the costumes,’ I say. ‘It will be as good as a play.’
Mama sighs. ‘As long as we’re seated in a box and stay together, I agree that it would be entertaining.’
‘Then I shall send word to Mr Jephcott.’
‘And I’ll ask Sophie where we can hire costumes,’ I say, my mind brimming with visions of Greek goddesses, water sprites and ancient queens.
‘On a more sober note,’ says Papa, ‘on the way home from Mr Jephcott’s chambers I ran into Guy Foucault and Pascal Simonet. We repaired to the Cross Keys for a glass of wine. Simonet had the news that there was a massacre at the prison de l’Abbaye in Saint-Germain a few days ago.’
‘A massacre?’
Papa is grim-faced. ‘An angry mob murdered twenty-four priests who were being taken to the prison. Then they forced their way inside to kill hundreds of the prisoners. The riots still continue.’ Papa sighs. ‘The ancien régime and the France of my childhood are gone for ever.’
Although brought up as a Roman Catholic Papa rarely goes to church, though he never stops Mama and myself from attending. He’s always been reluctant to discuss religion, saying it’s up to each man to make peace with his own god.
‘Don’t you ever wish to go back to France?’ I ask.
‘There is nothing there for me.’
‘But don’t you want to know how your family fare since the Revolution?’
‘You know I never talk of them.’ Papa glowers at me.
‘But Papa…’
‘Enough!’ He pushes himself to his feet. Without glancing at me again, he walks back towards the house.
‘You must not worry him, Madeleine.’ Mama’s mouth is set in a disapproving line.
‘Worry him! Isn’t it my right to know about my family? What is so terrible that you make a conspiracy of silence?’ My hands are curled into fists and my nails bite into my palms.
‘I will not go against your father in this matter. The past is the past and we can never return to it. Besides,’ Mama reaches out to touch my hand, ‘we have each other. What more could we want?’
I snatch my hand away and rise to my feet. ‘I need to know where I come from. Who are my grandparents? Do I have cousins, uncles, aunts? Tell me, Mama!’
‘I cannot speak of it,’ she murmurs, head bent again over her embroidery.
My pleasure in the beautiful evening is all gone. Angry, I stalk away from her and set off along the street, hoping that a brisk walk will dissipate my annoyance.
The following afternoon the excitement in the air of Georgiana’s crowded drawing room is almost palpable.
‘So that,’ says Sophie, ‘is the end of the French monarchy.’
All the talk is of how the Convention has declared France a Republic. The escalation in violence during the September massacres resulted in over a thousand prisoners being killed: clergy, nobles, common thieves and prostitutes all together.
‘The Princesse de Lamballe was dragged out of her cell in La Force and killed most horribly,’ says Georgiana. She leans forward to whisper. ‘She was the Queen’s close friend but that didn’t stop the mob raping her, cutting off her breasts and sticking her head on a pole. They held it up outside the window of the Queen’s cell, jeering and taunting her.’
‘That’s barbaric!’ I’m sickened by the thought of it.
Sophie shudders theatrically and stands on tiptoe, scanning the assembly.
‘The princess was in Bath last year, trying to raise support for the French royal family,’ says Georgiana.
‘She’d have done better to have stayed there,’ said Sophie, peering over my shoulder. ‘Even if she did end up having to scratch a living making bonnets, like some of the other émigrés.’
‘As long as Citizen Louis Capet, as they now call the king, is alive there’ll be unrest,’ I say.
‘Oh!’ Sophie says, her cheeks flushing rose pink. ‘Excuse me.’
Georgiana and I watch her as she hurries away to greet Mr Fielding.
‘He’s going to paint Sophie’s portrait,’ I say.
‘Is he now?’ Georgiana raises her eyebrows. ‘She needs to be careful of Jack Fielding. He breaks hearts.’
‘I’m sure Sophie is worldly wise enough to resist his blandishments.’ But as I see the way she is laughing at some comment Fielding had made, I have misgivings.
I glance up as more guests arrive and recognise the Marquis de Roussel. He hasn’t brought his wife with him this time but the Comte d’Aubery is at his side.
‘Mr d’Aubery is here,’ I say. I feel an odd quickening of my pulse at the sight of the darkly handsome man who had discomfited me so on our last meeting.
‘He’s taken a house in Conduit Street until the end of the year,’ Georgiana says. �
��I understand he’s continuing to escort émigrés to our shores. Charming, isn’t he?’
‘I found him extremely self-important,’ I say, uncomfortably picturing the disdain for me in his eyes when we last parted.
‘I haven’t found him so,’ says Georgiana.
‘Tell me, did he really murder his wife?’
She shrugs. ‘There was a deal of speculation over the matter, I believe.’
But I forget Etienne d’Aubery as I watch how closely Sophie and Jack Fielding stand together as they talk.
Fielding glances over Sophie’s shoulder and meets my eyes. He stares back at me, unsmiling, his fingers trailing over the bare skin of her arm as she gazes up at him.
Then I become deeply involved in discussing education and the rights of women with Mary Wollstonecraft until Mr d’Aubery joins us. I stop talking in the middle of a sentence and stand stiffly, remembering our last encounter.
‘What is your opinion of recent events in France, Mr d’Aubery?’ asks Miss Wollstonecraft.
‘I am saddened that it has come to this. The end of the monarchy…’ He shakes his head sorrowfully.
‘But the people of France are free from tyranny now,’ I reply. I’m wearing new yellow satin shoes that have begun to pinch one of my little toes. I shift slightly from foot to foot. The shoes are very pretty but I’m still undecided if that compensates for the discomfort.
‘That, of course, is true.’ He regards me steadily with his dark eyes. ‘But I believe that losing the monarchy will release a terrifying beast such as the French people never imagined. The different factions are each so convinced their way is the correct way that I fear for the future of my country.’
Miss Wollstonecraft glances over at Mr Fox, who is saying goodbye to Georgiana. ‘Please do excuse me,’ she says. ‘I must catch Mr Fox before he leaves.’
I glance at Mr d’Aubery uneasily, not caring to be alone with him.
The Chateau on the Lake Page 2
