by M C Beaton
Bouchard drew herself up, and opened the strings of her reticule and spilled a handful of gold onto a small table in the hall. “I have gold and more to pay for my room,” she said haughtily. “I desire your best bedroom and a private parlor.”
Bouchard did not realize, she had spoken in English. The landlord stared at the gold as if hypnotized. “Very good, my lady,” he replied, elevating his strange guest to the peerage. “You have my sincere apologies, my lady, but in these rough times a poor man has to be careful. My name is Moulier, Monsieur Henri Moulier, at your service…”
He led the way up the stairs, talking all the time while Bouchard grimly followed.
She was almost too tired to eat the splendid meal set in front of her an hour later, and after only tasting a little of it, she rose wearily to her feet and left the cozy private parlor to go to her bedchamber.
The sheets were clean, although patched and darned. In fact, thought Bouchard wearily as she removed her bonnet, the whole inn had the appearance of a stage set. It looked very luxurious at first, but as one looked closer, one could see the threadbare reality underneath.
She splashed water on her face and stared at her reflection in the looking glass. It was a pity my lord’s servants had seen her face in the glare of the flames, otherwise she would not have had to flee. Bouchard believed Constance and her rescuers to have perished in the blazing cottage. She thought no more of their deaths than she used to think of the feelings of the pig squealing under her knife on her father’s tiny farm in the Loire Valley all those years ago—before she took the dusty road to Paris to find her fortune, and then the even longer road to London.
It was wonderful to be back in her own country and with her own people, instead of waiting hand and foot on those cold-blooded English.
As she stared in the looking glass, the door behind her slowly opened and her eyes dilated with terror as she saw the figure of Monsieur Moulier, the landlord. He was holding a musket and it was pointing straight at her back.
“Do not turn round,” he said in careful English. And as Bouchard leaned on the washstand and stared at his reflection in the looking glass, Monsieur Moulier shot her neatly in the back.
Monsieur Moulier cocked his head to one side and listened as the echoes of the shot reverberated through the inn. But apart from the late Bouchard, it was empty of guests. Then he could hear the shrill voice of his wife telling the servants to go back to bed and mind their own business. He walked forward and picked up Bouchard’s reticule and emptied out the gold, stowing it carefully in his pockets.
“What shall we do with her?” hissed his wife’s voice suddenly from the doorway. “Shall we bury the body on the beach or hide it in some alley?”
“No, my love,” said the landlord. “Help me carry her into the innyard at the back and place the body against the far fence. We shot her when she was trying to escape, you see. That way we will be heroes, and no one will wonder why she had no money.”
“You’re mad!” said his wife, averting her eyes from the spreading pool of blood on the floor. “How will we be heroes?”
“Why,” grinned her husband, “we shot an English spy trying to escape. The servants heard her talk English. So do not fuss, ma petite, and help me with this carcass.
“The gold will help us to keep our inn operating until times are easier. Come, she was nothing but a dirty English spy,” he said, beginning to believe his lie.
“That is all. An English spy…”
Unaware that justice had been done, in a way, Constance settled down on the morning of the day of the Riders’ musicale to consult her dressmaker, Madame Vernée.
That grand mistress of the world of fashion had called in person to show Lady Philip examples of all the current fripperies her ladyship might have missed during her illness.
Constance stared down at a sketch. The lady in the picture was wearing an extremely short dress, almost to mid-calf, under which protruded a pair of lacy trousers. “What on earth is that?” asked Constance.
Madame Vernée allowed herself the luxury of a patronizing titter. “That is all the crack, my lady,” she said. “Those”—pointing to the trousers—“are pantalets. They tie at the knee and one wears them with a chemise dress. I have, by chance, one here to show you. It was made for Lady Jessington who is laid down with her lungs—this fog, my lady, will it never go away?—and as she is exactly your size, I took the liberty of bringing it along.” She waved an imperious hand, and one of her assistants opened a box and spread out the contents on the sofa. The dress was of pink satin ending in three lacy frills at the hem. The pantalets were of the same material, and also had three lacy frills at the ankle of each leg. Long silk ribbons were threaded through the tops.
It was a ridiculous fashion. “I should feel as if I were dressed in my underthings only,” said Constance, but she could not help staring at the lacy confection. It was so outrageous, so feminine, so far away from a world of murder and intrigue.
“And yet,” she mused aloud, “it is strangely becoming. I think after all I shall take it, madame. Are you sure I shall not look too strange?”
“Anyone who is anyone in London wears pantalets,” said Madame Vernée stoutly.
But, alas for Constance! the fashion was very new indeed. It appeared that “anyone who was anyone” was certainly not gracing the musicale. Her husband had said he would join her later, and therefore she had been escorted by Peter Potter, complete with Familiar. Peter had kept assuring Constance that he too was in the habit of forgetting to put on all of his clothes, and only looked doubtful when Constance explained it was the latest fashion.
But the men at the musicale seemed to find Constance’s new ensemble vastly alluring, and some became embarrassingly warm in their attentions. Some of the young matrons were openly admiring and envious, but the older women, Lady Eleanor in particular, gave Constance’s pantalets one outraged stare before turning their gaze elsewhere as if shying away from a social indiscretion.
Constance could only be glad when the musicale started. She wished her husband would arrive before she would have to rise from her chair again and mingle with the other guests. She felt embarrassingly conspicuous and very much alone. Peter had taken his leave. Lady Eleanor had insisted that the Familiar be banished to the kitchen, and so Peter had gone too, although his hostess had pointed out acidly that he could just as well sit in his own kitchens at home, and anyone who made such a cake of themselves over a mere cat must have windmills in his head.
The inevitable strains of Rossini glissaded and cascaded round the room, which was slowly filling up with fog. Every crescendo in the music was met by a perfect volley of coughs from the audience who were, of course, too well bred to cough during the pianissimo bits, and had saved the relief of their maddeningly tickling throats for the loud parts.
At last the overture was over, and all the guests found their coughs had mysteriously disappeared only to return with redoubled force as the heavy strains of Bach began to fill the room.
The yellow fog continued to seep into the room until the musicians at the other end from where Constance was sitting became a blur. The ghostly features of Mr. Rider’s new secretary loomed up out of the fog. He looked exactly like the late Evans and Constance shuddered. Mr. Rider had stubbornly refused to believe Mr. Evans’s treachery.
Without turning her head, she knew somehow that her husband had entered the room, and heaved a little sigh of relief. She would sit and dream of the Philip who had made love to her and forget about the stately and correct husband he had now become.
Peter emerged from the kitchens below stairs with his cat under his arm. Peter had eaten half an enormous game pie, washed down with small beer, and the cat had dined on a mountain of fishheads. Both were feeling comfortable and sleepy.
He felt reluctant to venture out into the fog and stood irresolute at the top of the stairs for a few minutes. He yawned as the heavy cat stirred sleepily on his arm. “I’m tired too,” said Peter. �
�Let’s find a cozy place to have a snooze.”
He ambled up the stairs and pushed open the door of the library. A cheerful fire crackled on the hearth. “This will do us nicely, cat,” said Peter. He heard the sound of a step in the corridor outside and frowned. It would be just like Eleanor, he thought, to come barging in screeching about the cat. He saw a large lacquered screen in one corner of the room. He pulled it slightly forward, and put one of the most comfortable chairs behind it, after placing the cat on the floor. He sank into the chair, after making sure that anyone peering into the room would think it was empty, and closed his eyes. The cat jumped onto his lap and performed a sleepy dance with its claws on his waistcoat and then it, too, fell asleep.
The musicale drew to an end, and the guests began to stretch and move about before making their way into the adjoining saloon where refreshments were to be served.
Lord Philip Cautry could not believe his eyes. Like a vision in the middle of the fog-filled room stood his wife, and as far as he could make out, she was dressed only in her underwear.
He strode forward and seized her arm in a strong grip, and hustled her from the room.
“Don’t say anything! Don’t even speak,” he raged, “until I get you somewhere private.”
Puzzled but unresisting, Constance allowed herself to be marched up the stairs and into the library.
“Now, madame,” grated Philip. “Perhaps you will explain what you are doing in the middle of my sister’s musicale dressed in nothing but your petticoat… and what are those?” he added furiously, pointing to Constance’s lacy pantalets.
“Oh, Philip,” sighed Constance, “it is only the latest fashion and…” She had been about to explain that she herself felt it was a trifle extreme, but her husband went on to say, “How dare you! I told you not to choose clothes without my approval!”
And Constance suddenly forgot all her solemn vows to be a meek and obedient wife.
“Pooh!” she said.
“Is that all you have to say?” demanded her husband. He himself looked very elegant and formal as he gazed down at the top of his wife’s now bent head. He was dressed in a formal habit—chocolate brown frock coat, drill breeches, white waistcoat and cravat, and white silk stockings with black pumps.
“I never really noticed your hair before,” said Constance momentarily diverted by the sight of her husband’s short locks. “Vastly becoming.”
“Do not try to change the subject,” said Philip. “What manner of woman are you, madam, to parade yourself in such clothes? You look like the veriest Cyprian.”
“Well, you should know!” said Constance, “considering your long and intimate acquaintanceship with ladies of that class.”
Lord Philip put one hand on his hip and stared coldly at his wife. “We will get nowhere by this senseless bickering,” he said. “I shall ring for a servant and tell him to fetch my sister immediately. She will lend you something suitable…”
“Don’t touch that bell!” said Constance. “You will not humiliate me in front of your sister. God knows, you have humiliated me enough yourself without calling in help.”
“Don’t be so silly,” said her husband in a now calm, reasonable voice which was more maddening to Constance than all his anger. He reached his hand towards the bellrope. Constance caught it and tried to drag him away.
Furious again, he seized her by the shoulders and began to shake her. Her long black hair came tumbling about her shoulders, and her wide hazel eyes glared at him.
“Oh, Constance,” he said abruptly and bent his mouth to kiss her. She tried to push him away, but the feel of the hard lips and hard body against her own brought memory flooding back. With one hand wound into her hair to keep her mouth pressed against his own, he wrestled frantically at his cravat with the other.
Constance finally freed her mouth and whispered, “Here? I-I m-mean… you can’t want to…”
“Oh, yes I can,” said Philip, lowering her onto the floor. His hand ran down the length of her body making her shiver, and stopped at the lace of the pantalets. “Do these peculiar things go very far up?” he whispered with his mouth against her breast.
“Only as far as the knee.”
“Good,” said Lord Philip Cautry, “because I mean to go so much further than that. How easily they come undone! Perhaps a sensible fashion after all.”
Peter Potter awoke. Someone had extinguished all the candles but the red glow from the fire revealed that he had something white and lacy lying on his chest. He picked it up and peered at it. By Jove, if it wasn’t like one of those peculiar things Constance had had round her ankles. Suddenly coming fully awake, he sat up and pushed his cat from his lap and looked around. Yes, there was another one lying beside his chair. And what were all those clothes doing hanging over the screen? Oh, dear! It couldn’t be… they couldn’t. He applied one eye to the hinge of the screen and turned as red as the glowing fire. They had, by George!
As silently as his cat, he crept from the room.
