by Mary Nichols
‘That is what I am hoping. Unfortunately, I have no idea what she looked like twenty-five years ago, let alone what the passage of time might have done to her appearance.’
‘You know, Major, I might still have that portrait,’ Frances said. ‘Would you like me to try to find it for you?’
‘Indeed, I would. I would be grateful for any help.’
‘You have an impossible task, my friend,’ Marcus said. ‘Perhaps Armitage should have had his pangs of remorse sooner. He has left it a little late to make amends now.’
Duncan looked sharply at his father. It did not sound as if he agreed with the Viscount’s obstinate stand. ‘I assume you would not have cut her off, Sir.’
‘No, I should have handled it differently, I think. Bought the young man out and found him employment, tested him. Asked them to wait a little. She was young. Nothing is ever gained by putting one’s foot down in such cases, except misery and alienation.’
Duncan was reminded of Lavinia’s assertion that their father had suffered from being forced into a marriage he did not want and perhaps one day he might ask him about it, but for now, he was comforted. If only Madeleine had not been a servant of the Bulfords! He decided to take Sir Percy’s advice and ask her about it, if only for his own satisfaction.
Sir Percy called for Madeleine and Marianne in his carriage, gallantly told them he would be the envy of the ton with two such beauties to escort, and took them to supper at Clarendon’s which was a huge extravagance. After a gourmet meal and a shared bottle of wine, they set off for Vauxhall Gardens, reached by driving over Westminster Bridge to the south side of the Thames. The bridge was regularly clogged with traffic and tonight was no exception; it took over an hour to make their way across it.
Once they had arrived at the entrance to the gardens, Sir Percy sent his carriage home with instructions to return at midnight, paid their entrance fee and offered his arm to escort them through the shady walks, dotted with statuary, pergolas and fountains, all illuminated by hundreds of lamps, to the huge circular music room where the orchestra was already assembling.
They were soon absorbed into the crowds that were gathering, promenading about the vast central room, waiting for the music to begin. There was an air of expectancy, excitement even. Handel’s Water Music had first been performed here over seventy years before and had been a regular offering ever since. It lent itself so well to the setting, the leafy bowers, the quietly lapping river, the warm evening and wide sky; the sense of timelessness.
‘So romantical,’ Marianne said, with a sigh. ‘Don’t you feel it, Maddy? As if the ghosts of all the lovers that ever were are gathered here. What a setting it would make for Love’s Labour’s Lost.’
The play was set in a park outside a palace and Madeleine agreed that, yes, it would. ‘But I doubt we could make ourselves heard out of doors,’ she added.
‘Oh, you have no soul,’ Marianne said, laughing. ‘I wonder who is here that we know.’
‘Everybody, I should think,’ Sir Percy said drily. ‘Hang on to me or we shall become separated.’
Madeleine did her best, but when the orchestra finished tuning their instruments and the conductor came forward to begin the recital, everyone surged forward and she found herself being pushed from behind and in the mèlée became separated from her companions. There was nothing she could do about it and so she settled down to enjoy the music, wedged between an overdressed tulip who was what was termed a beau nasty, judging by the odour of his unwashed body, and an equally ostentatious woman. The feather that curled round her turban was so long it was tickling Madeleine’s nose.
‘Hats!’ someone yelled from behind her and the woman, along with everyone else, removed her headgear and Madeleine was able to see a little better.
Once the recital began, Madeleine stood enthralled. The stuffy atmosphere and the fact that her shoes were pinching faded from her mind, until the last note of music died away, to the accompaniment of thunderous applause. After several encores, the audience turned almost in unison to find the best place to view the fireworks. Madeleine searched about her for Sir Percy and Marianne; though she could see no sign of them, she saw no reason to worry. She had heard Sir Percy tell his coachman to return at midnight; all she had to do was make her way to the gate by the appointed time and she would find them there.
The crowds were still so thick that she could not have made her way against the general flow even if she had wanted to. She allowed herself to be carried along and found herself near the river bank. It was a good spot to view the fireworks, which were being set off across the river, and people were congregating all along its banks. The crowd fell silent as the sky was lit by fountains of coloured light and the air punctuated by the sharp crack of explosions.
When the last of the drops of colour fell to earth, there was a concerted sigh and then Madeleine suddenly saw Benedict Willoughby, outlined by the dying embers, standing beside a small inlet of the river in pantaloons and shirt and nothing else. And beside him, similarly dressed, was Duncan Stanmore. Both men were fit, but Duncan’s torso rippled with muscle and his tight trousers left little to the imagination. She was too far away to see his expression, but he seemed very intense, concentrating on watching half a dozen men lay a smooth, round pole from bank to bank across the stream that fed into the main river.
Madeleine craned forward as the crowd, now there were no fireworks to see, gathered about them in curiosity. A whisper was carried from person to person, from one small group of people to the next, growing in volume until it reached the spot where Madeleine stood. ‘They are going to fight a duel.’ The crowd rushed forward, running to be nearest the action, taking Madeleine with them.
Her heart was in her mouth. Sir Percy had told her he did not think either man was in a mood to proceed with that foolhardy challenge and having seen them with their arms about each other only the day before, she had assumed all danger has passed. How wrong she had been!
She struggled through the crowd, using her elbows when necessary, until she was very close to the open space that had been made around the men by their seconds. Her intention was to try to stop it, but before she could do so, the two men bowed formally to each other and were each handed a pillow. The crowd began to roar with laughter as they both climbed astride the pole and inched their way out to the middle, facing each other.
‘They are going to fight a duel with pillows!’ the onlookers shouted. ‘To be sure they will never kill each other with feathers.’
James Corringham, who was acting as one of Duncan’s seconds, went over the rules in a loud voice so that those nearby could hear. They were not to touch each other with anything other than the pillows and no one from either side was to touch the poles or assist in any way until one or the other was in the river. He asked them both if they were ready and, when they nodded, fired a pistol into the air and they set to, clinging to the pole with their knees and one hand while battering their opponent with the pillow held in the other.
‘What are they fighting over?’ someone behind Madeleine asked a companion.
‘To be sure it can only be a wench.’
The first man laughed. ‘Then they must count her worth in feathers, not enough to risk getting hurt for. Do you know who she is?’
‘No. But I know those two. Best of friends they are, so it can only be a jape to amuse the crowd.’
Madeleine had heard all she wanted to hear and would have liked to leave, but she could not make her way out of the press of people around her and was obliged to stay in her place. Both men were still wielding their pillows, but there were feathers everywhere and they would soon only have the cases in their hands. Besides, they could hardly go on for laughing.
‘Go to it, Stanmore!’ someone shouted.
‘Have at it, Ben!’ yelled someone else.
It took all their concentration to remain on the pole and they had eyes only for each other, but when Benedict slipped and had to put both hands down to recover his balance, Duncan mo
mentarily looked up. He saw Madeleine, standing watching them. She was not laughing like everyone else; in fact, she looked decidedly miffed, standing alone in a dark gown studded with brilliants, which made her look like a goddess. How could a kitchen maid show such a commanding presence?
It was almost enough to unseat him. Luckily Benedict was busy settling himself again and he had time to recover his balance. But it was no longer funny and he wanted to finish it off as quickly as possible and hitched himself forward to get in closer to his opponent. One furious swing and Benedict was hanging upside down under the pole, held there by his crossed legs and scrabbling hands. He was not yet in the river and tried to pull himself back, but Duncan thrashed him again and again with the remains of his pillow, to the accompaniment of the roars of the crowd. At last Benedict’s legs gave way and he fell with a splash into a couple of feet of water.
The crowd cheered and Duncan held up the pillow in salute and that was his undoing. The pole was wet and slippery and he joined his friend in the water. They were helped out by their laughing seconds, who stood by with blankets to wrap round them. ‘Well done!’ Donald shouted, shaking Duncan by the hand. Duncan strode over to Benedict and offered his hand, but when he looked up again for Madeleine, she had gone.
Chapter Eight
Madeleine had taken the opportunity to escape as soon as the fight was over and the crowd began to disperse. She found Sir Percy and Marianne walking arm in arm down the main avenue towards the entrance. They were laughing.
‘Where have you been?’ Marianne asked.
‘Watching two grown men make cakes of themselves.’
‘Oh, so you saw them too?’
‘I should think half of London witnessed it and if they did not, they will hear all about it in the morning.’
‘Better that than kill each other,’ Sir Percy said. ‘I think it was rather clever of them. Honour is satisfied and no one hurt. A good way to round off the evening’s entertainment, though what the Duke will say when he hears, I do not know.’
‘Doubtless he will agree with you,’ Marianne said.
Madeleine was silent. In her heart she knew they were right, but she could not help remembering the comment of the man standing behind her: They must count her worth in feathers, not enough to risk getting hurt for. She did not know whether to be furious or thankful.
She supposed she had seen the last of both of them, but she was wrong. Duncan was in the audience the following evening and was waiting at the stage door when she left the theatre at the end of the evening. She pretended not to notice him, but he stepped in front of her, magnificent in a black evening suit with a snowy white frilled shirt. ‘Miss Charron, good evening.’
‘Good evening, my lord.’
She went to pass him, but he took her arm. ‘Allow me to take you home. My carriage is outside.’
‘What makes you think I have any desire to ride in your carriage, my lord Marquis? I have nothing to say to you.’ She tried to sound haughty and indifferent, but inside she was quaking. For all he had made a fool of her, pretending to have feelings for her when all the time it was a great game to him, she still loved him. Hurt as she was, nothing could change that.
‘But I have a great deal to say to you and unless you want it said here and now, for anyone passing to hear, you will get into the carriage. I will take you straight home, have no fear.’
It did not sound as if he intended to make protestations of love or suggestions she should become his paramour. His voice was cold, as indifferent as she had hoped hers sounded. ‘I am not afraid,’ she said. ‘And as you have so kindly offered, I will save myself the price of a cab.’ She did not wait for him to escort her, but strode out, head high, and stepped up into the carriage. He climbed in beside her.
‘I did not know you would be at the fireworks,’ he said when they were under way.
‘There is no reason why you should, my lord. I go where I please, with whom I please.’
‘You appeared to be alone.’
‘I was not. I had become temporarily separated from my companions. It was of no consequence, I soon found them again.’
‘I looked for you, you know. Afterwards.’
‘Why? Did you imagine that I would be amused by your antics?’
‘It wasn’t done for your amusement, Miss Charron, but in order to save bloodshed.’
‘You could simply have refused Mr Willoughby’s challenge.’
‘And be known for a coward! No, Miss Charron, that was not to be thought of, honour had to be satisfied. Now Willoughby and I can be friends again and no harm done.’
‘Is that why you stopped me tonight, simply to tell me that? Because if you did, I must tell you I am entirely indifferent.’
‘I do not think you are indifferent. I think you are angry.’
He could read her mind too easily for her comfort. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘But do you know what they were saying, those people gathered round you? They said that I was valued at a handful of feathers.’ She spoke bitterly, realising that she was being unjust but unable to stop herself.
‘You would rather we fought to the death?’ he queried, angry himself now. ‘I might have known that would tickle your prodigious vanity.’
‘My vanity! What do you know of my vanity, or my humility come to that? You do not know me.’
‘No, and that’s a fact,’ he snapped. ‘Why did you not tell me you had been a servant in Lord Bulford’s household?’
So he had heard. She was not surprised; it could only have been a matter of time before one of the Bulford girls, if not Henry himself, remembered her. ‘Is there any reason why I should have?’
‘You knew that I… I was growing fond of you. You led me on to believe…’
‘I did nothing of the sort. I told you plainly that I would not become your chère amie.’
‘I did not suggest you should.’
‘You did not have to, it was what you meant. I am not a fool, you know.’
‘No, but you are a liar.’
Unable to deny it, she was silent. The carriage rolled on through the streets of London, now in the light of street lamps, now in darkness. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of her face. It was not defiance he saw there, nor truculence, but infinite sadness. His anger melted away.
‘Will you tell me why?’ he asked softly.
She forced herself to sound normal, though there was a catch in her voice. ‘You mean why I did not tell you I had been a servant? My lord, you knew I had been in an orphanage, surely you realised I had not gone straight from there to the stage? I was put to work at Lord Bulford’s residence and very hard I had to work too. After that I earned my living as a seamstress before I met Mr Greatorex and he saw my potential as an actress. I did not lie, I simply did not go into detail, that’s all.’
He sighed. Lavinia had been right and he ought to admire her, not condemn her.
‘And the French grandfather?’
She gave a strangled laugh. ‘Now we are getting to the hub of the matter.’
‘No, it is of no importance to me, my dear. I would love you whoever your grandfather was, but Society has its own funny ways.’
Her heart soared. He loved her. He had said he did. But there were obviously conditions and he still did not know the extent of her deception. She ought to make a clean breast of it, but just for a moment she wanted to savour the idea of loving him and being loved by him, as if there was no great obstacle blocking their path. She was reminded of the little lecture Sir Percy had given her about a landowner’s responsibilities and the need to have the respect of those around him. Was he being torn two ways?
‘So I have discovered,’ she said. ‘But you spoke of love. Love does not admit of barriers, does it? If Society’s opinion is so important to you, then it cannot be love you feel.’
‘You do not understand.’
‘Oh, I understand only too well. If I were of noble birth and stopped earning my living on the boards, then I might, at a pinc
h, be accepted by this Society you set such store by. I tell you this, my lord, I will not pretend to be other than the actress I am and if you cannot accept that, then there is no more to be said.’
He turned towards her as the carriage drew to a stop outside her lodgings and took both her hands in his. ‘Madeleine, why are we quarrelling? I did not mean to disparage you. I love you. I thought you loved me. Tell me if I was wrong.’
Steeped in misery, she could not give him an answer, though he was evidently waiting for one because he made no move to get out and help her down but continued to hold both her hands. If she had any sense, she told herself, she would pull away, open the door and jump down herself, but she was shaking so much, she doubted if her legs would support her.
‘Well, my dear, shall I assume you are not going to deny it?’
‘If I say you are wrong, you will only call me a liar again,’ she said miserably.
‘Then you do.’ He turned her hands over and raised the palms to his lips. She shuddered with an exquisite pleasure which sent ripples of desire running through her body. She lifted her face to look into his for one long searching moment, during which his eyes never left her face, then slowly he lowered his head and kissed her lips. His mouth on hers was gentle at first, tentative almost, but when she did nothing to resist it, the pressure of his lips intensified and became more demanding until she was screaming inside for him to make love to her.
When at last he let her go, the tears were streaming down her face and she could not stop them. ‘Oh, my dearest love,’ he said, handing her his handkerchief. ‘You do, you really do.’
She scrubbed at her face and pulled herself together. ‘It makes no difference. I will never be your mistress, I will never be anyone’s mistress.’
‘Not my mistress, my wife. We could be married if only—’
Her laughter sounded harsh in her own ears and it startled him. ‘Oh, yes, my lord, if only someone were to wave a magic wand and obliterate my past and make me one of the nobility. Pigs will fly first. I have no past except the one you know and now that Miss Bulford has recognised me, the whole world will soon know it.’ She took a deep breath determined to finish. ‘Far from having a noble background, I am a child of the people. I do not know who my grandfather was. I invented him. I do not even know who my father was, presumably one of the Duke of Wellington’s scum…’ Her voice was full of bitterness. ‘There! Are you satisfied now? It’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?’
