by Karleen Koen
The footman held out a chair at the opposite end of the table. Roger was at the other end, with Montrose and White at his right.
"No," she said. "I wish to sit here."
She indicated the empty seat on Roger's left and intercepted a look between White and Montrose that made her grit her teeth. As she settled herself, she said, "Sleeping? No, I came home early last night. I could not find you, and I was so tired."
There was a silence. She smiled into her coffee as the men sat back down. After a moment, Montrose, whose place was directly opposite hers, cleared his throat and said, "Ah, I have arranged for you to visit the Chateau de St. Honore, sir. The count requests that you share luncheon with him. And the Trianon will be opened for you any time you wish. The regent says to simply select a day. And Madame has sent a note asking you and Lady Devane to St. Cloud."
Barbara took a deep breath. "Trianon is one of the king's residences, is it not? I would love to see it."
Roger smiled. "It would bore you. The talk will be of nothing but architecture."
"But you are searching for ideas for Bentwoodes, are you not, Roger? How could I be bored with that? It will be my home too. I know more about architecture than you think." Under the table, she crossed her fingers and said a prayer. You will go to Hell for lying, Annie always told her. She knew nothing about architecture. But she would learn.
A footman entered carrying a bouquet of camellias, their full, lush blooms a soft pink, edged in white. He handed them to Barbara with a bow, and more surprised than anyone at the table, she took them.
"Law has asked to see you at five," Montrose began, but Roger's attention was fixed on the bouquet and on Barbara's face as she buried it in the flowers.
"They have no smell," she said through Montrose's sentence. She was smiling at Roger, that smile of hers which so charmed people. Roger did not smile back. Montrose gave up. No one was paying any attention to him.
Barbara pulled a small white card from inside the bouquet and read it. Her brows drew together. The smile faded.
"Well, really," she said, "I thought these were from you. Who is Henri de St. Michel? Have I met him? There must be some mistake. I will tell the footman to return these—"
Roger held out his hand, and obediently she placed the card in it.
"'To the memory of last night—Henri de St. Michel,'" he read aloud. "The memory of—whom did you meet last night, Barbara?"
White began to polish his butter knife with a napkin and Montrose shuffled his papers; both would rather have died than leave the room at this moment.
Barbara tapped a finger against her mouth.
"I can think of no one. You were with me at the reception, and at the hall, I simply wandered around—really, Roger, the men are so rude—" She was suddenly silent. The image of the man in the red cloak had popped into her mind. But why would he send her flowers? He did not even know her name. She told Roger of it.
He handed her back the card. "It must be St. Michel. And apparently he is taken with you. You should be flattered. He is one of the young Turks of the city. You should also be careful. He is quite ruthless in his methods. I see I shall have to watch out for you more carefully at public balls, or I shall be fighting a duel over you." He laughed suddenly. Everyone stared at him. "I never expected to fight a duel over my own wife," he explained, but no one else found it amusing except Barbara, who clapped her hands together.
"A duel! How exciting! But, of course, I would not want you to have to do that. I will send the flowers back at once, Roger. He is impertinent."
"That would be gauche, Barbara, and never let it be said that I have a gauche wife. St. Michel has simply expressed an interest in you as an attractive young woman. I have done it myself a hundred times. Accept it as a compliment. I want you to be fashionable and sought after. I think you would enjoy it very much. But no duels, please."
She plucked three blossoms from the bouquet and sent two of them skittering across the table to White and Montrose.
Leaning toward Roger, she carefully fastened his in his buttonhole, inches from his face. Shyly, not quite daring to look in his eyes, she kissed his cheek. Her lips were soft.
"In memory of my first conquest," she said.
Roger stood up and pinched her cheek. "Your second. I was your first. I am meeting St. Honore at noon, but I will be home for dinner. You look very pretty this morning, Barbara. Is that a new gown? No? I like it. Francis, follow me out."
Smiling to herself, she attacked her cold breakfast. White continued to drink his coffee, now and again glancing across the table toward her. He liked looking at her, liked the lean lines of her, the way she spoke so directly, so unexpectedly in that low, throaty voice. In a few moments, Montrose burst back into the room.
"Mr. Montrose, you must advise me," said Barbara, looking up from her plate. "Ought I to hire a secretary? Or will you help me with some small commissions? I do not want to infringe on your duties with Lord Devane." At that moment, she looked very much her age.
In spite of himself, Montrose thawed. He sat down. "I am at your service, madame."
"Good. I have not explored this house fully or met the servants. What do you suggest?"
Montrose looked startled. "Suggest?" he said tentatively, as if she had implied committing murder. White covered his mouth so that they would not see his smile.
"Yes." She said directly, "I am mistress of the household, you see. And I do not feel it has been established clearly."
"Ah…I will arrange for an appointment with the housekeeper, madame, so that you may tour the house. And, ah…I will assemble the servants at your convenience and introduce them. And I will arrange appointments with the majordomo, the cook, et cetera, so that you may make your preferences clear to them…" He trailed off, eyeing her to see if there would be more. There was.
"Very good. What is Lord Devane's schedule?"
"His…schedule?"
"Yes. What time does he breakfast each morning? Is he going to hold a levee? On which mornings? Is the open table scheduled every day? You know, Mr. Montrose."
"Ah, he is holding his levees on Thursdays only. He breakfasts at ten every weekday morning, and we go over his appointments at that time. The, ah, open table is scheduled on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays, madame."
"Excellent, Mr. Montrose. Thank you. In the future, will you and Mr. White make it a point to come down to breakfast half an hour later than you do now? And any guests we should have are to breakfast in their rooms."
"Half an hour…but why?" He quickly added, "If I may ask."
"I wish to breakfast privately with my husband each morning before the day's business begins."
"Would you prefer that Mr. White and I breakfast in our rooms, also?"
She wiped her mouth with a napkin. "Oh, no. It is Lord Devane's habit to meet with you in the morning, and I will not change it. Except slightly, to include me. I am sure he will not mind." She smiled, her grandfather's smile, and stood up.
"And would you please begin interviewing for a new lady's maid for me? A French one. I wish to send Martha back to England as soon as possible."
"B–back to England?" Montrose said in a dazed voice.
"Yes. She is unsuitable. Good day, Mr. Montrose. Mr. White?"
White looked at her. He had enjoyed watching her deal with Montrose. Now it must be his turn. She smiled at him, and unlike Montrose, he could not help smiling back.
"Could you please select some books on architecture, books Lord Devane would be familiar with, and send them to my rooms? I lied before. I know nothing of architecture."
The door closed behind her. White pulled up his lapel to smell the camellia she had given him. She was right; there was no fragrance. He said, "She may favor her grandfather, but do you know whom I am reminded of?"
Montrose swelled up like a pigeon. "Who?"
"Her grandmother. The Duchess of Tamworth."
* * *
She was pleased with herself. Enormously pleased. S
he had been cool and dignified, as befitting the lady of the household. She had spoken up to White and Montrose. Firmly, but not coldly (in her mind's eye, she could picture her grandmother's nod of approval). And now, she was going to go out. On her own. After all, she was a married woman. She could do so. She had an invitation to an afternoon at the Marquise de Gondrin's. She would be safe there; Marie–Victorie de Gondrin was only a few years older than she, and very kind. Her salon was as good a place as any to try her wings as a fashionable young matron. She took a deep breath. Forward, as her grandfather would have said (in the rose garden, holding his pruning shears before him like a sword, while she and Harry followed, the only soldiers left to him). Forever forward.
Marie-Victorie's red-and-gold salon was crowded. Some of the guests sat in a circle of armchairs listening to a speaker. Others played cards at the three tables set up for that purpose. Still others were strolling around the room arm in arm, talking, stopping to listen to the trio of musicians playing at one end of the room or to eat and drink from the buffet table nearby. The hostess, Marie-Victorie, Marquise de Gondrin, was nineteen, with dark hair and eyes, and a figure that was fashionably plump. She was from one of the finest French families, and she had married into a family as distinguished. It was a marriage arranged by her parents, and she tried to be all that was dutiful to her husband, who had died some years ago. Most of her girlhood had been spent in a convent, where she had learned to embroider, say her prayers, dance, draw, read Italian, and do accounts. She had also learned a love of God from the holy sisters, and though she lived fashionably, she tried to practice God's commandments, even though her friends, such as the Duchesse de Berry and Mademoiselle de Charolais, most definitely did not. She saw Barbara standing in the doorway alone and excused herself from the guests she was talking with to go to her.
A young man, whose hawklike nose gave his ordinary looks some interest, had been leaning against a wall behind one of the card tables. When he saw Marie–Victorie hurry to the doorway and greet her newest guest, a thin girl, wearing little rouge, but with beautiful red-gold hair, he straightened up and moved closer to them.
"How lovely you look," Marie-Victorie said to Barbara, kissing her cheeks. "Fresh and unspoiled. Come, do you wish to play cards or listen to Monsieur Descartes declaim?"
"I will listen."
Marie-Victorie interrupted the thin man in a preposterous wig who was holding the armchair circle enthralled with his theory that Racine's dramas reflected both fantasy and life, to introduce Barbara. She was given cold nods and assessing looks. She wished she had worn more jewelry. She sat down in a chair next to an old woman who had been introduced as the Princesse de Lorraine. The other guests were once more listening to the lecture with absorbed looks on their faces. The princess smelled as if she had not bathed in a long time. She was looking Barbara up and down, paying no attention to the talk on Racine. Her rouge was crusted into the wrinkles of her face, and what few teeth she had were rotted.
"So you are Montgeoffry's new rosebud. You look a rosebud, all pink and gold and fresh. But you sound like a courtesan. That voice. It ought to tickle Montgeoffry's fancy." The princess cackled like a witch. Barbara was reminded of her Aunt Shrewsborough. Why did old women always think they could say whatever they pleased?
"I heard he married a child," said the princess, "and I see it is true. You look hardly old enough to wear rouge. You are not wearing enough, girl, and you ought to. It is the fashion, you know." The princess belched loudly. A servant standing behind her leaned over. The princess made an impatient movement with her hand.
"No! No! Damned pest! I pay him to follow me about and make sure I do not fall out of my chair. And what does he do, but continually annoy me. There are no more decent servants to be found these days. In my day, we flogged them. Today, it is nothing but leniency."
"I sympathize with you," Barbara began cautiously. "I am looking for a lady's maid myself because—"
"Just what you need!" interrupted the princess. "A bright, pert lady's maid who knows what she is doing. She will bring you into style, put more color in those pretty cheeks. I will keep you in mind—"
"That would be wonderful. I—"
The princess belched again. It was loud enough to halt the lecture in midsentence. Once more the servant leaned over her.
"Go away!" she cried. "Fool! Impertinent fool!"
Monsieur Descartes picked up his thread of thought smoothly. As did the princess.
"Speaking of impertinence, have you heard the latest, rosebud? Orléans's daughter, that slut de Berry, is said to be sleeping with a lieutenant of the dragoons, someone named Riom, they say. I thought she was involved with young Richelieu, but my daughter was telling me just the other day that de Berry has to ask this Riom's permission to go anywhere. That he slapped her in front of a room full of people. And she puts up with it. Bad blood! Bad blood! That's what happens when cousin marries cousin…the mind goes. All the Orléanses are half-crazy. In my day one might go to bed with a lieutenant, but he did not tell one what to do."
Barbara sat transfixed. She had no idea what she should say.
"Excuse me for interrupting," said a voice over her shoulder, "but Madame de Gondrin wishes Lady Devane to meet an admirer of hers." Barbara did not recognize the speaker, but she was glad of any excuse to leave both Racine and the princess.
"Go on, then," cackled the princess, waving bony arms. "You are only young once, heh, rosebud?"
The young man led Barbara to one of the long windows that overlooked the gardens, rather than to Marie-Victorie.
"You are fortunate," he said. "The princess considers it beneath herself to use a chamber pot and often relieves herself directly on the floor. That servant behind her cleans up, but it is hell on priceless rugs and whoever may be standing near."
She stared at him. He acted as if they were old friends when they had not even been introduced, and she was trying to decide whether she should be insulted by it or not when he, as if by magic, held up a camellia before her. She had no idea how he managed it, and that did not matter. What mattered was the grace of the gesture and the fact that the camellia was a pink one, edged in white. He grinned at her.
"You." Barbara's afternoon began to be interesting, after all.
"Henri Camille Louis de St. Michel, at your most humble service."
"But how did you know me?"
"I asked Marie-Victorie to tell me the moment you arrived. I watched you with the princess, and at the moment I gathered her smell was overwhelming you, I came to the rescue."
So this was her first admirer. She considered him. He was about twenty, ordinary in every way except for his hawklike nose, which gave him a predatory look. He seemed certain of himself.
"Did you receive my flowers? Camellias are my trademark."
"They were lovely. My husband thought so too."
"The half-opened ones remind me of you. You have that half-wakened, fresh look about you. Very English, very appealing. Like a woman just learning of love."
"It must be the lack of rouge. The princess says I do not wear enough."
He stared at her, not certain whether she was serious or not. She was not playing according to the usual rules, which required that she should either draw back, offended, or let him know that his pursuit would be welcome. Confused, he decided to laugh.
Barbara's eyes sparkled. Already she had an admirer. She tossed her head. It was exhilarating not to have a chaperone hanging over her. Before her marriage, she could not even speak to a man without her aunt frowning or her grandmother drawing her away. It was not that they did not trust her; it was that the reputation of a young, unmarried woman was so easily damaged. If she laughed too loudly or smiled too much, if she seemed to like talking to young men…there were a hundred things she must do and not do. A young lady must always be modest, quiet, demure, obedient. Now, as a married woman, she had none of those restrictions—unless Roger wished to impose some—and he did not care to…yet. The freedom
was wonderful, as was the knowledge that this man found her attractive. If he found her so, then surely Roger must also.
St. Michel backtracked a little. "Are you enjoying Paris?"
"I am now…"
This he understood. He stepped closer to her. "When may I call on you?"
Her eyes were wide and blue and innocent. "Lord Devane and I would be happy to receive you at any time."
She curtsied and went to Marie-Victorie. She had enjoyed herself. St. Michel was fast, as Roger had said.
Armand, the Duc de Richelieu, sauntered over to St. Michel, who was still watching Barbara. Marie-Victorie was escorting her around the room, introducing her to more people. If St. Michel was ordinary, Richelieu was ugly, with a thin, narrow face and strange yellow-brown eyes, eyes that made people shiver when they saw them in certain lights. His voice, however, was soft and caressing. If a woman closed her eyes and listened only to his voice, she would swear he was the most handsome man in the world. Some women said his voice bewitched them.
