by Marie Laval
‘An extraordinary man,’ her father once said with unusual enthusiasm. ‘He was a philosopher, a scientist, and an outstanding statesman. Your mother was very fond of him.’
She slipped the sketchbook into her bag too.
When the mantel clock struck seven, she changed into a dove grey gown and went to the drawing room. Capitaine Saintclair sat in front of the fireplace, holding a glass of whisky in one hand and stroking Splinter with the other. He rose as soon as she came in but she gestured for him to sit down.
She asked if he was satisfied with his room. He replied that he had everything he needed. She cleared her throat and hesitated, suddenly shy.
‘I hope you will forgive my curiosity, Capitaine,’ she started, ‘but Monsieur Malleval’s letter inviting me to Beauregard to collect a bequest from his father came as a great surprise. May I ask you how long you have been acquainted with him?’
He nodded. ‘About fifteen years. We met at the regimental barracks back in 1800 when we were both very young men. I joined the cuirassiers and Malleval, the Hussars. Since then our regiments have fought all over Europe together.’ He drank a sip of whisky.
‘So he was a Hussar…’ She knew of the Hussars’ reputation, both on, and off, the battlefield. ‘I hope he isn’t too seriously injured.’
Saintclair looked up, puzzled. ‘Injured?’
‘In his letter, he mentioned a battle wound which troubles him greatly. That’s why he could not come here himself.’
‘Ah. Yes. His battle wound…well, it depends on…the weather.’
The French officer’s answer lacked of conviction. Maybe Uxeloup was more seriously hurt than he let on.
‘In any case,’ she resumed, ‘it is very chivalrous of you to volunteer to escort me to Beauregard. I much appreciate it.’
‘It is my pleasure, Madame,’ he answered. ‘I was at a loose end anyway since our new king put most officers on leave. I believe you and Malleval are related, is that right?’
She nodded. ‘I am, in a way, his niece. My grandmother, Aline, married his father in 1791 after my grandfather, Philippe, was executed. She was Edmond Malleval’s second wife.’
‘He probably had your grandfather killed to make way for him.’
She gasped. ‘Why did you say that?’
Captain Saintclair shrugged. ‘As a public prosecutor in Beaujeu, then a representative of the Public Safety Committee in Lyon during the Revolution, the man sent hundreds of people to their death—not just aristocrats but commoners, too. Anyone he suspected of plotting against the Republic.’ He paused. ‘Or, some have said, of being in the way of his ambition.’
Marie-Ange’s nervous fingers played with her wedding band again.
‘I had no idea he was one of the revolutionaries who terrorized France and turned the country into a giant charnel house. Thank goodness these awful times are over and France is at peace. Now Napoleon has been exiled and the king is back, everything will be all right, won’t it?’
His jaw tightened and his eyes flashed with anger.
‘Spoken like a true royalist, Madame. You will get on well with the captain of our ship. He’s a staunch Bourbon supporter. I think I should warn you however that there isn’t much sympathy among ordinary French people for émigrés now flocking back to claim their estates and their fortunes. Neither is there much love for the British nation as a whole. Napoleon is still very much alive in French hearts.’
She raised her chin, stung by his tone.
‘I don’t care what people think. I am a Beauregard and I have every right to visit the chateau of my ancestors.’ She stood up. ‘It is getting late. Shall we make our way to the dining room?’
Like the rest of the manor house, the dining room was austere, with a damp, frigid feel that even a roaring fire in the stone fireplace could not dispel. Robert was there already, a glass of red wine in his hand, which judging by his flushed cheeks, wasn’t his first. She gave him a stern look which he answered with a shrug, and took her place at the head of the table with Robert sitting to her left and Capitaine Saintclair to her right.
Francis served a plain but hearty chicken and vegetable stew. Ignoring her disapproving frowns, Robert poured himself yet more wine. She let out a sigh and turned to Saintclair.
‘Are you from the Beaujolais region, Capitaine?’
‘No, I’m from Lyon,’ he answered curtly.
‘That’s a very large town, isn’t it? Where is your estate?’ Robert enquired.
‘I don’t have one,’ Saintclair answered. ‘My family isn’t from the landed gentry, or any kind of gentry for that matter. My father owns a small silk workshop. He has worked all his life. He still does.’ He finished his plate and took hold of his glass.
‘Then how did you get to be a superior officer? I thought these positions were reserved to gentlemen,’ Robert insisted.
The captain’s eyes glinted with heat, yet his voice was calm when he spoke.
‘Napoleon allowed all men, irrespective of their social standing, access to the highest levels of command. The only things that mattered were ability and bravery. Isn’t that the way it should always be?’
Robert shrugged. ‘I suppose so,’ he muttered before drinking another gulp of wine.
‘Unfortunately, our new king is reverting back to the old ways and promoting men according to lineage rather than merit,’ Saintclair carried on in sombre tones.
‘You must tell us all about the battles you fought,’ Robert urged, and he went on to question the French officer about his military career, exclaiming in wonder when Saintclair said he had fought at Jena, Wagram and Austerlitz, to name but a few.
‘Did you ever meet Napoleon?’
‘The Emperor reviewed our regiment regularly. I often saw him during campaigns but I never personally talked to him.’ Saintclair’s eyes clouded over and Marie-Ange wondered if the emperor was still very much alive in his heart.
Francis brought in a final dish of rhubarb jelly and Robert reached out for the bowl. His face was flushed, his blond hair tousled.
‘Look at you, always the first one for pudding.’ Marie-Ange laughed as she proceeded to comb his curls away from his forehead with her fingers, the way she had done since he was a young boy.
Saintclair leant back against his seat and looked at her, his eyebrows arched. Suddenly flustered by the intensity of his gaze, she withdrew her hand, pushed her chair back and stood up.
‘I hope you do not mind if I bid you good night, Capitaine, I still have a few things to attend to before our journey.’ Then turning to Robert, she said, ‘Don’t be too long.’
Robert shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll come up to your room shortly.’
The noise of glass shattering made her jump. She whirled about to see Saintclair had dropped his glass of wine on the floor.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled as he bent down to pick the pieces.
‘Leave it, Capitaine. Francis will tidy up.’
Once in her room, she undressed and wrapped herself in Christopher’s large, faded blue dressing gown. Although it no longer bore his scent, she still wore it most nights to imagine his arms around her. While waiting for Robert, she set the draught board and pieces on her desk for their nightly game, as well as sheets of paper and an inkwell for the French lesson she insisted on giving him while they played.
‘I don’t know why you still waste your time trying to teach me French,’ he said when he joined her shortly after. ‘You know how hopeless I am.’
‘You will find it very useful in the Royal Navy,’ she answered with a smile. ‘Not to mention at balls and parties when you want to impress young ladies.’
But he was indeed so hopeless their lessons usually ended up in fits of giggles, and tonight was no exception.
‘I shall miss our evenings,’ he said as he lingered in the corridor, long after midnight.
‘I will soon be back. Hush now, we don’t want to wake Capitaine Saintclair.’
She gave him a kiss on t
he forehead and watched him climb the stairs to his room on the second floor. A noise at the far end of the corridor startled her. She froze and peered into the darkness, holding her breath, her heart beating uncomfortably hard. Was Capitaine Saintclair awake?
She shook her head. She was being fanciful. It was only the old manor house creaking and groaning in the blustering gale. She should be used to it by now.
Chapter Two
She didn’t enjoy the Channel crossing at all. The rough seas forced her to stay in her tiny cabin, suffering from violent bouts of sea-sickness. Fortunately, after reaching Le Havre, the cutter sailed down the calmer waters of the River Seine. Despite the cold, she was able to stand on deck much of the time and watch the flat, wintry landscape unfold. For their last evening on the river, they moored at Asnière.
‘We’ll be in Paris tomorrow morning. Let’s hope the river doesn’t freeze,’ Saintclair said as they walked on deck after the evening meal they shared with the taciturn captain of the ship. He lifted the collar of his coat. ‘You’d better go in.’
‘Not just yet. I don’t like being cooped up in my cabin.’ She sighed at the prospect of yet another uncomfortable night. ‘Do you know why the captain is so unpleasant?’ The man barely acknowledged their presence on board and answered Marie-Ange’s questions with a grunt.
Saintclair shrugged. ‘It’s my fault. I demanded he fly the tricolour as well as the white flag. He doesn’t like it. I told you before, he’s a monarchist.’
‘I see…’ So she had been right about Saintclair’s loyalties. He didn’t support King Louis’ new regime.
One of the sailors approached them and asked Saintclair if he fancied a game of cards.
Saintclair’s face lit up. ‘Definitely! I hope you have some of your fine rum left.’ It seemed that though he might not get on with the captain, the man had no problems with the rest of the crew. They played cards, smoked and drank liquors until late every night.
Marie-Ange was left with no other choice than to retire to her cabin. She lay down in the narrow bunk for a while, tossing and turning. With a sigh of impatience, she sat up and propped a pillow behind her back. The men were laughing and talking in Saintclair’s cabin on the other side of the thin partition. She thought she heard her name. They were talking about her! Curious and holding her breath, she got up and placed her ear against the wooden panel.
She heard Saintclair ask for a tumbler of rum, then another, and the game began with the clinking sounds of coins being thrown on a table and the cards being dealt out.
‘Is mademoiselle your fiancée?’ someone asked.
Saintclair let out a good-hearted laugh. ‘Fiancée? Hell no. I’m escorting her to the Beaujolais where a fellow officer has some business to conclude with her. Pass me two more cards and your flask of rum, mate.’
‘No, I don’t believe in love, marriage, and all this nonsense,’ he resumed speaking. ‘What’s the point of getting chained up to one woman when you can enjoy them all? I’m one of those who believe women are on this earth to be loved…for a few nights. Any longer and they turn into nags or cheats.’
The men laughed and made a few coarse comments about feminine charms. Marie-Ange gasped.
‘Anyway, you wouldn’t stand a chance with her,’ one man said. ‘She looks like a true lady.’
‘And she’s a widow,’ another exclaimed.
‘So what?’ Saintclair laughed again. ‘Whether they’re tavern girls or ladies, they’re all the same. They might put on a good show but there isn’t one who can stay true to one man. Women are just like kittens, my friends. A few caresses and they purr in your arms, they just can’t help it, especially where I’m concerned. So let’s enjoy them while we can.’ His words were drowned in laughter.
Marie-Ange put her hands to her burning cheeks. So that was what the capitaine thought of women, and of her—false, easy to seduce, and unable to be faithful. Well, what did he know, he was wrong. She would remain true to Christopher for the rest of her life. As for Saintclair, the man was boorish and arrogant, and she pitied the women who found him attractive. She certainly didn’t. She stomped back to her bunk, punched the pillow a few times to soften it and lay down, arms crossed on her chest. Kittens and caresses indeed! The very thought of lying in that man’s arms filled her with revulsion. Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore the rowdy laughter coming from the cabin next door and conjured up Christopher’s image before drifting into a fitful sleep.
The cutter left Asnière at daybreak. Marie-Ange went up on the bridge as the anchor was raised and the sails hoisted. She smiled with satisfaction when she saw Saintclair, pale, unshaven and with dark shadows under his eyes, standing alone at the rail. He held a tin cup of steaming coffee and rubbed his temple with his fingers. Too much fine rum and not enough sleep, probably. Dismissing him, she turned her gaze to the French countryside slipping past as they made their way towards Paris.
The ship arrived in the capital mid-morning, sailing past tall, elegant buildings, townhouses, and churches. The quays were alive with the hustle and bustle of mariners, fishermen and traders. As if he couldn’t wait to be on solid ground, Saintclair jumped onto the quay as soon as the cutter moored near the Pont Neuf.
He took care of the customs formalities, arranged for their luggage to be loaded into a cart, and hailed a calash to take them to the inn where he had booked two rooms.
‘When we’re settled at the Le Faisan Doré, I will hire a carriage and a driver for our journey to Beauregard,’ he informed her. ‘Then I’ll show you around the city, if you like.’
‘Oh yes, please!’ The excitment of being in Paris almost made Marie-Ange forget she was annoyed at him.
There was so much to see. The cobbled-streets heaved with carriages, soldiers, peddlers, carts, and horses. On the sidewalks, stalls sold everything from flowers to live poultry, fish and wheels of yellow cheese.
Le Faisan Doré was a small, respectable establishment in the Rue Notre-Dame des Champs, close to the Luxembourg gardens. Saintclair checked them in, promised to return very shortly and left.
There was still no sign of him when night fell. By then Marie-Ange was bored and very cross. He had promised to take her out, and she had waited all afternoon. Where was he?
After a supper of beef stew and apple tart, she went to the landlady, a plump, dark-haired matron.
‘Has Capitaine Saintclair not returned yet?’
The woman gave her a knowing grin. ‘I wouldn’t expect him back anytime soon, dear. He must be at his club or at a lady’s house. These cavalry officers can’t stay away from women, cards and drink.’
Marie-Ange pursed her lips in distaste. The landlady was probably right.
‘When he comes back, please tell him that I wish to speak with him at once.’
The rest of the evening passed with excruciating slowness. How infuriating to be in Paris and confined to a room. When the mantelpiece clock struck eleven, she decided that Saintclair wasn’t coming back, so she stripped down to her chemise and removed her stockings before wrapping herself in Christopher’s blue dressing gown. She shook her hair loose on her shoulders and was about to snuggle into bed when there was a sharp knock on the door.
Who did the woman think he was to summon him to her room like that? A lackey, probably. His lips twisted in an angry snarl as he climbed the stairs two by two. Madame Norton might live in a ramshackle manor house on the bleak, windswept Devonshire moorland, but she was still a Beauregard on her mother’s side and a member of the English gentry by marriage. He should have followed Martin’s advice and stayed at the club a while longer.
He walked down the draughty corridor and drummed impatient fingers on her door.
‘Who’s there?’ A timid voice answered from behind the door.
‘Saintclair. Did you want to talk to me?’ His tone was short.
The door opened just enough for Madame Norton to peer through.
He exhaled sharply to control his rising temper. ‘Are you go
ing to let me in or shall we talk in the corridor?’
She opened the door wider and he strode in.
‘Is there a problem?’ He looked down at her. Barefoot and swamped in an old dressing gown, the woman hardly reached his shoulder. He wondered what she wore underneath, if anything. His pulse quickened and a sudden rush of heat coursed through his veins. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets.
She stepped back and folded her arms on her chest.
‘You said you would be back early, yet you left me waiting here all day.’
Her icy tone did nothing to cool his blood. In fact it had just the opposite effect. He took a deep breath and walked to the fireplace to put some distance between them. His lips stretched in a thin smile.
‘Sorry. I got…distracted.’ He shrugged. ‘I did arrange a carriage and a driver for us. We’re leaving for Lyon on Saturday.’
She looked at him again in the way a queen might look at a mangy dog.
‘Why wait until Saturday? Your instructions are to take me straight to Beauregard. Monsieur Malleval won’t be pleased.’
If she meant to intimidate him, she had failed. She was starting to amuse him greatly—in more ways than one.
‘I have things to do. Anyway, what’s the rush? I thought you might like to come to town with me tomorrow and see a play in the evening.’
Her eyes flashed in anger.
‘I do not go to the theatre, Capitaine. I am in mourning.’
He arched his eyebrows. ‘After six years?’
‘My husband was a wonderful man. I will mourn him all my life.’ Her eyes filled with tears, she bit her lip.
He didn’t answer. There was one thing to be said for her. She was convincing—a first-class actress. He had almost been taken in by her wistful sighs and tearful eyes, by her drab mourning dresses and the almost virginal blushing on her cheeks every time he looked her way. He had almost believed her grief-stricken widow act…until he saw young Norton leave her room in the middle of the night with a wide grin on his face. He knew better than to be fooled by a woman, especially a pretty one.
