by Joan Smith
“I realize that. I shall keep you informed as to what I mean to do. Well, I suppose we shall be seeing a good deal of you now that Sally is here.” There was no joy in the speech, but more resignation than Degan expected.
“Yes, you will see a good deal of me,” Mérigot said with a soft smile at Sally.
Degan stirred restively in his chair and quickly changed the topic. “I expect your cousin has been telling you about her experiences in escaping,” he said.
“All about them, and I disapprove of your joining a gypsy caravan and dancing for pennies, Minou,” he said, wagging a finger playfully at Sally.
This was a new revelation to Degan. He glowered in silent rage for thirty seconds, then could contain his wrath no longer. “The less said about that sort of thing in public, the better,” he said repressively.
“Ah, but we are not in public, monsieur,” Sally reminded him. “I have no secrets from Henri and Papa, and as you appear to be something of a member of our family, I shall have none from you either, I think.”
“What do you think of our girl’s having traveled through England as a boy, milord, and slept the night in a hayrick with two migrant workers?” Mérigot asked Degan, with a sly smile to Sally.
“Extremely unfortunate, and best forgotten,” was his blighting answer.
“I wish I had been there to see it.” Mérigot laughed.
“You want me to do my gypsy dance for you?” she asked, and arose at once to show him, her fingers snapping.
“No!” Degan said angrily.
“I was not speaking to you, Citoyen Degan,” she replied, but as her father too looked displeased, she returned to her seat. There was some smiling comment between Mérigot and herself. For half an hour longer the French guest remained, monopolizing the better part of the lady’s attention, and throwing Degan into deeper and deeper dudgeon. At length, Mérigot arose to take his leave.
“I shall call on you tomorrow morning, Minou,” he promised.
“Good. My robe, she will be ready. I do not wish to appear in public in my pantalon. You will take me to the shops, yes, Henri? I want to buy many, many things. You have an excellent taste. Do I have some money, Papa? Some money of my own? Mama said Tante Dee gave me some money.”
“Yes, you have money. I shall arrange funds for you,” the father said obligingly. Degan took the idea Mérigot listened closely to this interchange. The Frenchman did not, of course, inquire just how much money Sally had, but he was definitely interested. That smile, accompanied by an appreciative raising of the brows, showed a very enthusiastic interest.
“Très bien. À demain,” Sally said.
“Words are inadequate to say how much I like having you back,” Mérigot told her, kissing her hand a resounding smack, in a playful way. Then he bowed from the waist, and bobbed his head toward the gentlemen before leaving.
“How handsome Henri has grown!” was her first comment when he had left the room. “He must have many flirts. Has he, Papa?”
“You must know I have not been at all close to Mérigot, Sal,” he said, and again that sheepish look was on his face. Sally pouted and tossed her copper curls.
“I mean to see a great deal of him,” she said boldly. Her father looked as though he would like to raise an objection, but as he did not do so, Degan spoke up.
“He is not quite top drawer socially.”
“He is the son of a noble family. He is as good as you or me!” she flashed out angrily.
“He is not quite as rich as you or me, however. Take care he isn’t looking for an advantageous marriage.”
“How dare you!” she said, turning on him in cold fury. “How dare you accuse Henri? Papa, why do you let this bourgeois fils d’un—”
“Quiet, Sal!” Harlock said sternly. “Told you it ain’t that, Rob.”
“Whoever marries him is lucky! I wish I could marry him!”
“Yes, and might be glad to get him if he decides to spread the half of the stories you’ve been telling him. Your unfortunate adventures in arriving here are better kept within the family. You will be of quite sufficient curiosity to the vulgar mob without adding those tales to your repertoire,” Degan said.
“You forget Henri is family. My family! He is a good deal closer to me than you are. And doesn’t poker up at nothing either.”
“Someone had better warn you, Lady Céleste, and as your father is disinclined to do so, I shall undertake to tell you myself that it will give a very poor idea of your morals to hear you have been sleeping in hayricks with men, and dancing with gypsies. No man will be interested in offering marriage to a young lady whose conduct tends to the suspicion that she is unchaste.”
“Nonsense! Sally is chaste. Ain’t you?” her father asked, with a sudden shiver that she was not. Good God! Living with Marie and growing up in heathen France. He sat in apprehension, waiting to hear confirmation that she was pure.
“Chased?” she asked, frowning. “Certainly I am the most chased lady in England. I was chased by the forgeron in Paris, the boucher in Berck, the baker in Tenterden—”
“Damme, not that chased. Was you caught, that’s what we want to know,” Harlock demanded impatiently.
“Ah, tu parles de chasteté! Je suis vierge, Papa.”
“What does she say?” he asked Degan.
“She says she’s a virgin,” he answered, and blushed to the roots of his hair to be using such language in polite mixed company.
“Thank God for that!” the father said, vastly relieved.
“But you cannot think me so foolish!” Sally objected, offended. “Till I am married I cannot have any lovers. We single girls must be very careful of that. Mama says—”
“Never mind what your mother told you!” Harlock said in a rising voice.
“You mean in England an unmarried girl may have lovers?” she asked, with a bright smile.
“No, that is not what he means!” Degan shouted.
“Quoi donc?”
“Such matters are not for a young lady to discuss. You shouldn’t know about such things.”
“How should I not know? Mama had dozens of lovers.”
“Well, she shouldn’t have!” Harlock said. “Damme, Degan, I begin to wonder if you ain’t right about Sal needing a husband.”
“I do not want a husband!” she said at once. “When it is time, I shall choose my own husband.”
“Some caper merchant like Mérigot,” Degan was unwise enough to say.
“Bettor a caper merchant than a coq farci like you,” she shot back.
“I am not a stuffed rooster!” he shouted, his voice strident.
“Vous avez raison. You are an empty rooster, nothing but the crowing. I leave now, Papa. Bon soir, Citoyen Coq,” she said saucily, and marched from the room.
“How soon does Miss Fawthrop arrive?” Degan asked.
“Told her to leave immediately. Should be here tomorrow or the day after. Was just thinking, Degan... she won’t be able to handle Sally. You’ll have to lend her a hand.”
“I! It has nothing to do with me.”
“Kin, after all. We don’t want Mérigot monopolizing her time, drawing her into his set.”
“Good God no!”
“You have a good circle of sensible acquaintances. Huntley and Deverel, that sort,” he said, naming two stodgy conservative lords.
With a memory of Sally’s sharp tongue and bold eyes, Degan began to suspect the girl’s father did not understand her, to suggest such stuffed cocks as husbands. Some sudden reversal in their opinions had taken place in the short space of twenty-four hours. Degan did not remain much longer, and when he left, he had begun to think he might have to sacrifice a few days and evenings to Lady Céleste. His heart, somehow, was not as heavy as it should have been at the awful prospect. His mind dwelt rather on a new maroon velvet jacket to spruce him up for the coming season. Didn’t want to look like a dashed parson, after all. Only twenty-nine years old.
Chapter Five
The next morning, Sally again breakfasted with her father and saw him off to the House, with the reminder he was to get Mama’s escape arranged at once. While he was leaving, her modiste arrived with the promised gown, a green sarsenet that set off her flaming crown. With no pelisse yet to warm her shoulders, the green Chinese shawl was again removed from the table in her room to perform this office. When Mérigot arrived, she stepped out the door with him, to be lifted into his high-perch carriage, and a stunning picture they made, sitting behind a pair of gray high-steppers, chatting and laughing.
Mérigot was much admired in a certain section of society, namely that band composed of ladies who were more interested in a flirt than a husband. Known to be virtually penniless, he was kept from a too dangerous propinquity to debutantes, but among the young married women, he was a popular escort.
The first stop was necessarily at the milliner’s, for Sally’s curls were uncovered by even a cap. She tried on various trifles designed for the pompadour style popular at the time, but they ill suited her victime. With an innate sense of elegance inherited from her French mother, she scorned them all, and with a curious eye at Mérigot’s chapeau bras, she purchased a length of green ribbon and a feather.
Their next stop was at a male hat merchant’s, where she purchased the smallest man’s hat the store contained. This she decorated with her green ribbon and feather, cocked the hat at a saucy angle over her left eye, and went sauntering out the door with this concoction on her curls.
Deeming herself now suitably attired, she took Henri’s arm to stroll along the shopping district, the pair gaining a good deal of attention for themselves. The ladies’ eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in jealousy, and soon settled down to a hard, calculating gaze to see how this mode might be copied.
Georgiana, duchess of Devonshire, though she had never had Mérigot presented to her, knew him by sight, and accosted him to be presented to Lady Céleste. With her drawling accent and capture of Fox, the ardent Whig, as her dear friend, Georgiana was the outstanding leader of the ton, and a stunning beauty.
“My dear Mérigot, you must forgive my brazenness in making myself known to you,” she said with a smile. “I heard from my friend Charles Fox last night that Harlock’s daughter is back from France, and know your charming companion is she.”
She then turned to Sally. “I knew your mama well, my dear. What a striking resemblance! I do hope she too managed to escape Robespierre.” Had Charles not told her she had, the question would not have been asked. Her real reason in making the acquaintance was to be the first to secure Lady Céleste’s attendance at a social function. By such little tricks as these did she retain her reputation as the first in society.
The desired introduction was performed, and for full ten minutes the party stood chatting on in the most amiable way. The ladies were mutually entranced with each other. Georgiana’s habit of sprinkling her conversation with many French phrases helped the friendship along, and before they parted an invitation had been extended to attend a small rout party three nights hence. Sally could not like to accept without a proper gown, but when a ball a little further in the future was mentioned, she expressed all eagerness to attend.
“She is the real queen of society,” Mérigot informed his companion.
“She is très chic,” Sally allowed. “Almost she makes the ridiculous styles of England appear attractive. Almost.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised to see her style altered in the near future,” Mérigot replied, with a bantering smile at Sally’s hat. They were both surprised to see it altered so very soon, that same morning in fact. Not half an hour later the duchess passed them on the far side of the street, wearing a chapeau bras adorned with buff and blue ribbons, Fox’s colors. She waved at them gaily, pointing to her new headgear and laughing.
“She means to give you credit for the style,” Mérigot explained. “That assures you a position in the first rank of fashion, Minou.”
“Kind of you to say so, chéri, but you know me well enough, I think, to be sure I would end up there, with or without the duchess’ help.”
To ensure being suitably outfitted for this lofty position, Minou purchased a large quantity of items. What a thrill it was to again be shopping for fashions. Her months in the asylum were all made up for in a morning. Ribbons, lace, buttons, silk stockings, patent slippers with silver buckles, scarves and shawls were snatched up, always with a thought to the gowns already selected, and with a thrifty French eye to price as well.
The larger parcels were put into Mérigot’s parked carriage, but the escort was pressed into being a footman for the several smaller packages. When Degan, traveling along the opposite side of the street, saw them, even the lady had her arms full.
He saw as well that she was outfitted in a manner that caused her to stand out sharply from the crowd. That she looked quite simply ravishing was not sufficient to forgive her appearing in public in an ensemble that more closely resembled a peasant girl’s than a lady’s. Her hair was still in that atrocious mass of Titian curls; her gown was too simple and clung too closely to her body; her hat was recognized as a gentleman’s; and she was laden down with boxes and bags like a pack mule.
Perhaps it was the gallant, smiling escort that annoyed Degan most of all. He darted across the street, narrowly missing collision with a carriage, and not quite missing the shower of dust thrown up in the wheels’ wake. When he approached them in an angry mood, he looked as odd as the lady for the layer of dust that decorated him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked.
“I would say you have been caught in a very bad dust storm, Citoyen Degan,” she replied brightly, with a merry glance at his predicament.
Batting at his coat and trousers, he said, “I do not refer to my condition, but your own, Lady Céleste.”
“You are indeed selfless to have a care for me, when you present such a discreditable appearance yourself. For that I shall stifle all my desire to pretend I don’t know you. You will bear with me, Henri. Perhaps we may pass Degan off as your solicitor. Do you like my new chapeau, citoyen? I call it the English liberty cap.”
“No, I do not care for it. You will make yourself the laughingstock of London if you wear such contraptions in public.”
“I am indebted to you for your sartorial advice,” she replied with a scathing eye at his jacket, which, while it was well tailored, made no claim to high fashion, even without dust. “As the duchess of Devonshire has been kind enough to compliment me with the sincerest form of flattery—imitation—I cannot feel my chapeau will be the butt of criticism.”
“Don’t imagine the duchess will make herself ridiculous by following your example.”
“She does not make herself ridiculous in the least. She looked quite well in her copy of my chapeau, but of course she must lower her pompadour to achieve the proper result. She will learn quickly, that one.”
“Does your father know you’re out walking the street in that outfit?” Degan demanded.
“I trust he does, as he gave me a great deal of money, and could not expect me to spend it while sitting home.”
“You ought to have brought a footman with you. A lady does not tote her own parcels,” he said, finding himself out-talked at every turn, and disliking to say outright the father was unwise.
“Truth to tell, my arms ache,” she answered agreeably, then promptly dumped all her load into his arms. “Our carriage is just there, at the corner. Would you be kind enough to put them in it for me? You might as well take Henri’s too. We were about to go to a coffee shop for some refreshment.”
Mérigot hesitated to follow her example. Degan was glaring at him with such ill humor that he suggested they all go along to the carriage and unburden themselves. “If you are hungry, why do you not go home to eat?” Degan asked, disliking very much to think where this Frenchman would take Sally for refreshment.
“We have an arrangement to meet some friends of Henri’s at La Forge. It is a littl
e place run by some French émigré; it is where all the French crowd hang out,” she told him, voicing exactly what he dreaded to hear.
“Your father would not approve,” Degan said repressively, wanting very much to forbid it, but coming to realize this would not serve his purpose with the headstrong creature. Nor was he in any position to forbid anything either.
“My father is not so pompeux as you fear. The place is unexceptionable, or Henri would not have suggested it.”
They placed their parcels in safekeeping with the lackey waiting at the carriage, and Sally turned to Mérigot. “Which way is it?” she asked, carefully excluding Degan.
“It’s this way,” Degan told her, taking her elbow in his hand, thus showing clearly he considered himself one of the party. If old John had turned fool, it was incumbent on him to protect the girl from making a scandal of herself.
She was deeply chagrined to have to include him. She frowned her displeasure to Mérigot, who hunched his shoulders in a silent Gallic acceptance of fate and took her other arm.
The place was as unpleasant to Degan as it was delightful to Sally. She felt very much at home with the atmosphere echoing French accents, an odor of garlic hanging on the air, an easy camaraderie never found in a polite English coffee room. This was the regular meeting place of those Frenchmen fortunate enough to have escaped the Terror. Here they met to lament the past, arrange the present and dream of the future. The clientele was composed almost entirely of gentlemen, every one of whom seemed to be on terms with Mérigot, and eager to be on terms with Lady Céleste. There were laughing jokes about the casual use of the title “Lady.”
“Call me Citoyenne Sally,” she suggested readily.
“You are in England now, mam’selle,” one spoke up. “Miss Sally would be better.”
“But I am half French, monsieur. Disons Mademoiselle Sally,” she countered, and within minutes the name had firmly attached itself to her. Degan sat itching to take her by the arm and drag her forcibly away from this rabble, which he considered rabble in spite of the introduction of several comtes, vicomtes and even a duc. They all appropriated a title the minute they set foot on English soil.
