“Good. That will please Susannah and Max. Although I should ask—will it be desirable for the Prince and Princess of Sigmaringen to attend? Or will that create problems?”
Marguerite’s mouth dropped open. A prince and princess? She managed to find her voice enough to ask, “Why…?”
“I shall have to ask my husband,” Lady Penworth said, “and I must send some telegrams.” She bustled off, leaving Marguerite staring after her in confusion.
“You will get used to it,” Ned said.
“I’m not sure about that. Who are Susannah and Max?”
“Susannah is one of my sisters. She’s married to Count Maximillian von Staufer, who’s a friend of the Prince of Sigmaringen. And the prince is married to Olivia, whose brother Harry is married to my sister Elinor. They’re the Earl and Countess of Doncaster.”
He grinned at Marguerite, who was looking pale. “Don’t worry. It’ll be easy to keep them straight when you meet them.”
She sent him a look of exasperation that imitated his mother’s look. “Are all your sisters countesses?”
He thought about it. “You know, they are. I never realized it. Isn’t that odd?”
“Very,” she said dryly. “I will try to remember to curtsey to them all. But I do not understand your mother. I thought she disliked that I am a musician.”
“Oh, that was when she thought you were a greedy little adventuress, out to take advantage of her naive son. Me.” He grinned. “Now she’s changed her mind. You are now the brilliant artist of whom the family is extremely proud. She will ooze sympathy for all her acquaintance whose sons married insipid little creatures.”
“You talk such nonsense.” Marguerite had relaxed somewhat and looked around. She smiled. “But we are, for the moment, quite alone.”
“So we are.” Ned locked the door to assure that their moment of privacy continued.
A few days later, they were both swept away, Marguerite to Paris with Lady Penworth and Ned to England with his father.
Marguerite had spent most of her life in Paris. Had anyone asked, she would have said that of course she knew the city well. But now she was in a Paris she had never experienced before. They stayed in a suite at the Grand Hotel, where they were joined by one of Ned’s countess sisters.
This one, a cheerful woman with honey-colored hair, insisted on being called Emily. Her husband, the comte de la Boulaye, preferred to be called Lucien au sein de la famille, as he called it, in the bosom of the family. He was not a strikingly handsome man, but he had a lively, expressive face and a ready smile.
Although he had accompanied his wife to Paris, he joined the women only for dinner, being busily occupied during the day with Marguerite knew not what. Then on the fourth day of their visit, he drew her aside to speak privately.
“I have written to Ned already, but you might wish to write to your cousin Morvan as well,” he began. Then, when she looked confused, he said, “Ned did not tell you? Eh bien, I explain. Ned told me of the difficulties you had with this swine Louvois. I investigate a bit, and there will be no more trouble from him, I think.”
The smug smile with which he said this made Marguerite a bit nervous. “No more trouble?”
Lucien smiled even more smugly. “He is a fool, this Louvois. The sort who pays more attention to his waistcoat than to his investments, and who will ignore his banker’s advice and insist on investing vast sums because he overhears a conversation between two men in a restaurant. Tomorrow he will wake up and find himself bankrupt. And everyone will know of it.”
Marguerite was torn between delight and worry. “You didn’t do anything that will cause you trouble, did you?”
“Me? Never. I simply sat down with a friend and described to him a scheme that promised vast riches to its investors. I fear that Louvois, who was at the next table, hurried off before I explained to my friend that it was all a swindle and would soon collapse.” He stopped smiling and looked at her nervously. “You do not mind?”
She smiled slowly. “Mind? Oh no, I do not mind in the slightest.” She knew she should be horrified, but she was not, and she refused to feel guilty about that.
The rest of their time in Paris was devoted to clothing. Gowns from Charles Worth, mantles from Emile Pingat, hats from Caroline Reboux. Marguerite had always tried to be properly turned out, but it had never occurred to her that people could spend so much time discussing colors and fabrics and trimmings.
She had also acquired a maid, Janine, who not only helped her dress and arranged her hair twice a day—once in the morning and again in the evening, but who also clucked over Marguerite’s existing wardrobe and proceeded to alter and retrim most of the dresses. Marguerite had to admit that all this activity made her look far better than she ever had before, but it also took a great deal more time.
She hoped that she and Janine could work out an amicable modus vivendi as time went on so that she did not spend her entire life changing her clothes. Meanwhile, whenever she could, she escaped to the music room with the piano the hotel had put at her disposal.
There were both advantages and disadvantages to marrying into the aristocracy.
Chapter Forty-four
When they finally left Paris for England and Penworth Castle, they were accompanied by a massive number of trunks and boxes filled with clothing, and more to follow. Lady Penworth insisted that they had bought only the minimum needed. Janine was delighted to have scope for her talents.
Marguerite thought—and hoped—that she now had enough clothing to last her for years. Ned had, after all, said that he preferred a quiet life and avoided the social whirl.
It was a different kind of whirl that she tumbled into when the reached the castle. Ned was there—thank Heaven. But so was the rest of his family. There were sisters and brothers and their husbands and their wives and their children. There were in-laws and cousins and friends and relations. And they all wanted to welcome her.
Marguerite had never been in a family like this. When she had been growing up, it had been her and her parents. There had been friends and acquaintances—mostly other musicians—but no relatives. That was why she had been so glad when Delphine arrived. She finally had, if not a sister, at least a cousin.
Delphine. She pushed aside the memory. Perhaps some day she could remember those early days with her cousin, the good times, but not yet. The pain was still too raw.
Now she stood at the door to the drawing room where half a dozen adults and even more children were all talking and laughing at the same time. It was difficult to come to terms with all the changes.
Ned came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “Do you mind?” he asked softly. “I expect they are all a bit overwhelming.”
“Mind?” She leaned her head back against him and considered. “I certainly don’t mind. It is just that it is so different from anything I have known before. I think…I think I like it. I think I will like being part of your family.”
The days sped by quickly with people coming and going and preparations for Christmas as well as the wedding. They gathered greens and holly, trimmed the tree, and a book of carols was discovered so Marguerite could play while the others sang.
Early on Christmas morning, Ned and Marguerite stole away to exchange Christmas gifts. While in Paris, she had found for him a medieval miniature, a painting on vellum of St. George slaying the dragon to rescue the watching maiden. He had for her a manuscript of a Chopin etude. They thanked each other without words.
At last the day of the wedding arrived. It was rather like giving a concert. Instead of only Tante Héloise, there were two of Ned’s sisters to help Janine get her dressed. Instead of black silk, she wore cream-colored satin and velvet. Instead of the short walk onto the stage, there was a long walk down the aisle of the church, with Tony beside her. There was the familiar feeling of panic when she felt the eyes of the audience on her.
No, far more panic than she had ever felt on the concert stage. She was certain som
eone would stand up and forbid the marriage. No matter what Ned’s parents said, surely there were some here who would object. Someone who would forbid a marriage between a musician and an aristocrat.
But at the altar was Ned, looking worried until his eyes met hers. Then he smiled, and everything was all right. She floated the rest of the way down the aisle. The other people in the church vanished from her mind. The vicar asked questions—“Will you, Marguerite…” and “Will you, Edward…”
They joined hands and made their vows. Nothing else mattered.
And then they were married. Ned looked as amazed as she felt. They began to laugh with joy and couldn’t stop as they hurried down the aisle and out of the church.
The rest of the day was a blur of people smiling and laughing and wishing them well, of music and food and more good wishes. It was not until they were in the carriage on the way to some secret destination that she felt as if she could catch her breath.
The farewell shouts faded into the distance. The carriage doors and windows fit so well that she could barely hear the sound of the horses’ hooves as they drove away. Suddenly she felt shy. She peered sideways at Ned, who was smiling a bit uncertainly.
“Wife?” he said—half greeting, half question—and reached out a hand to her.
Her hand went to his on the instant. “Husband? Is it really true?”
“It had better be.” He pulled her to him and buried his face in her hair, turning into chaos the curls Janine had so carefully arranged. “I was so afraid you would take fright, that my family would drive you mad, and you would run away.”
She in turn rubbed her cheek against the smooth silk of his ascot. “I have missed you. Even when you were there, I felt as if you were always just out of reach.”
“I thought I would go mad with longing for you.” His arms tightened around her and his mouth found hers.
Some time later, she tucked her head against his shoulder and smiled happily. “Where are we going? Can you tell me now?”
“Well, I have found a house for us. I told my family that we would go directly there. But it’s near Oxford, and we wouldn’t arrive until late tonight. I thought that perhaps you would prefer to spend the night at an inn not too far from here and continue on tomorrow?” He raised his brows in question.
“I hope the inn is not too far at all.” Her hand slid up his chest.
“Just a few more miles,” he said thickly.
It was late morning before they finally set out on their journey, but by train the trip was not long at all. Ned saw to it that his bride was well supplied with periodicals and cushions and a plaid rug, since even a first class carriage might prove drafty. Not that he wouldn’t have been more than willing to keep her warm himself.
Although they behaved with exemplary propriety, sharing a boxed lunch of cold chicken, crisp rolls, and a thermos of tea, other travelers glanced in, smiled, and decided to sit in another compartment.
On the carriage ride from the station, when the winter sun had almost set, Ned began to worry. “I’ve only leased the house, you know, so if you don’t like it, we can look for something else.”
“Why wouldn’t I like it?” She smiled at him as if she couldn’t imagine disliking anything he suggested.
“Well, it’s not terribly big or impressive. It’s nothing like the castle or Morvan.”
“And may I give thanks for that! You do remember that all my life I have lived in rooms in cities—not in country mansions. Although,” she tilted her head, “I would prefer that it not be a hovel.”
He smiled. “It isn’t a hovel, but it isn’t a mansion either. Just a simple manor house.”
“With room for a piano and for a library?”
“With room for both.” The carriage rounded a bend in the road and he looked up. “There. You can see it now.”
The setting sun struck the honey-colored stone and gleaming windows of a square Georgian house, two stories high plus dormered attics, plain except for a small porch over the front door. On one side, the lawn sloped down to a stream.
Marguerite’s eyes opened wide. “Ned, it’s lovely.”
Her enthusiasm did not wane as he led her into the house where Tante Héloise and Horace were waiting to greet them. She had nothing but praise for the drawing room and morning room and breakfast room and dining room, though she laughed and said they would have to invite guests to fill up all the space.
With a smiling shrug he said, “There are six bedrooms.” She stopped in shock, so he added, “In case we have guests.”
At the rear of the house, he led her to a pair of broad doors. “This is what I wanted to show you.” He opened the doors on a large room with windows on three sides and gaslights for evening illumination. Low shelves holding books and sheet music circled the room under the windows, with a chaise and a pair of comfortable chairs in one corner and a ceramic stove in another. But pride of place went to a platform at one end of the room on which sat a piano, gleaming in its moiré mahogany case.
She stood in silent awe, then slowly walked over to the piano. She caressed it gently with her fingertips. “My Pleyel. It is my very own Pleyel. You brought it from Paris.” She turned to face Ned. “You have brought me my parents’ gift.” Her eyes filled with tears. Running to him, she threw her arms around him. “You are the most wonderful man in the world.”
His laugh was a mixture of relief and joy at her reaction. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather have jewels? One of my brothers said that I should have bought you diamonds instead.”
“Pftt. Diamonds.” She dismissed the notion with a wave. “Paste looks better on stage, anyway. But this… I thought I had lost everything of my family. Everything that tied me to my parents.” Returning to the piano, she pressed down a few soft chords. “It’s been tuned. You even had it tuned.”
“Oxford, you know. You can find all kinds of people here.”
Left unmentioned was the effort required to unearth the name of such a craftsman, but Marguerite’s smile indicated that she knew.
Twining her arms around his neck, she said softly, “You are the kindest, most thoughtful, most generous man on the face of the earth.”
“I know.” He smiled into her smile. “That’s no doubt why you love me.”
“No doubt.”
They knew that the years to come would be filled with music.
Author’s Note
The Chateau de Morvan, the village, and the family are all imaginary. The historical background, however, is real.
During the 1790s, there was considerable opposition to the French Revolution, particularly in the west of France, in the Vendée and in Brittany, where the Chouans appeared. This resistance included both peasants and aristocrats in an alliance of religious and royalist opposition to the Revolution. Many of the revolutionaries were strongly anticlerical, so a jeweled reliquary like the Treasure would have survived only if hidden.
Honoré de Balzac’s novel Les Chouans is a romance set in this period of conflicting rights and divided loyalties, and that is where I first met them.
As for more current events (current as far as my characters are concerned), the Franco-Prussian War, foolishly declared in 1870 by Emperor Napoleon III, was won with humiliating speed by Prussia. The Siege of Paris lasted from July 1870 to January 1871, at which point France surrendered. The Parisians did not, however, and the radical Commune of Paris continued to resist until May, when the official French army marched in and brought it to an end.
It was an unpleasant time for the residents of Paris. In his Journals, Edmond de Goncourt, who lived in Paris throughout the siege and the Commune, tells of seeing an old woman sitting on the curb and crying. When he asked if he could help her, she shook her head and said, “It is only that I am so sad.” The hunger was real as well, and the zoo animals from the Jardin des Plantes, including the elephants Castor and Pollux, were indeed slaughtered and sold in butcher shops.
And the musical part of the story? Many members of the
Benda family, originally from Bohemia, have been important in music from the early 1700s to the present day. They include instrumentalists and singers, performers and composers and conductors, and among them are two women composers, Juliane and Louise Reichardt, the daughter and granddaughter of violinist Franz Benda. I didn’t think anyone would mind if I added two more musicians to the family tree.
The Pleyel piano company no longer builds pianos, but beginning in the early nineteenth century its instruments were favored by musicians from Chopin to Stravinsky.
Franz Liszt appears in the story because his music is wonderful, but also because his generosity to younger musicians is legendary, so I feel sure he would have helped Marguerite.
About the Author
When she retired after too many years in journalism, Lillian Marek felt a longing for happy endings and stories where the good guys win and the bad guys get their just deserts. Having exhausted her library’s supply of non-gory mystery stories, she started reading romance novels, especially historical romance. This was so much fun that she thought she’d like to try her hand at writing one. So at the age of 70 she took her computer keyboard in hand, slipped back into the 19th century, and began. She was right—writing romance novels is as much fun as reading them.
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