“And who are Madame’s betters?” Gilbert inquired from the stairs. He was an arrestingly handsome picture as he came down the stairs in a bespoke suit of dark brown superfine and gold brocade waistcoat.
“Would those betters be the parties who do not understand etiquette? You have twice been informed that Madame is not at home to visitors. You will depart, or I shall send for both the master and the gendarmerie ... the police.” Gilbert continued to descend the stairwell and his last remark was addressed eye to eye with Alice.
Astonished into silence, she made her way back to the door, making a great show of dropping her card in the hallway salver. Clearly she had not expected my majordomo to be so forceful.
“Don’t bother to show me out,” she huffed, and slammed the door behind her.
With a sigh, I went back to the kitchen and returned my attention to the cookery books that Maggie and I were using to select our menus. Yet, the interruptions continued.
Erik came home for the day at noon time and we had just sat down to luncheon when Olympia Harrington, unchaperoned, pulled her high-wheeled phaeton into the stable yard. Michael ran to greet her. The poor pony was breathing heavily, having both gag bit and bearing reins added to her harness for “style’s sake” and being unable to use either lung or muscle to best advantage.
Olympia alighted, dropping the reins with a haughty gesture that presumed, correctly in this case, that someone would see to her horse. As Michael undid the bearing rein so that the horse could drink some water, the blonde girl approached the house and, as her mother had earlier, pushed her way past Dolly.
“Mrs. LeMaitre, Mother told me you were at home today, but perhaps she is wrong. Surely you do not receive while dressed as a shop girl.” She smugly smoothed her elegant silk walking suit. “And, Monsieur LeMaitre, how wonderful to find you at home, too.” She extended her hand, and Erik sketched a bow over it.
“Madame LeMaitre is not at home to visitors,” Erik murmured. “I’m afraid your mother was mistaken.”
“Oh, no. She was here earlier. She even left a card.”
“Erik, my dear,” I said quietly, laying my hand on his arm. “I will explain after Miss Harrington has departed. Really, my dear,” I added, turning to the girl, “Your mother was informed that I was not at home to guests, and I cannot imagine why she would tell you otherwise.”
“Really. Well, then, I will complete my business and be on my way.”
“Yes, please,” Erik intoned.
“Oh, very well,” she said as she stomped petulantly back toward the door. “Mother has asked that you join us in our box at Covent Garden for the opera on Christmas Eve. It’s a mixed program, and one of the singers is from France. She thought that you might enjoy it.” She dropped the written invitation and two billets on the hallway salver.
“You may tell your mother that we are honored to join you,” Erik replied. “Would you like to wait for a written response to take to her?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
With that, the girl flounced toward her gig, refused Michael’s offer of assistance to step up, and flicked her buggy whip across the little mare’s back. I noted with some glee that the pony’s bearing rein was gone from the harness and wondered when Olympia would notice.
“Nasty things, these,” Michael said as he produced the strap from a pocket. “Young madame won’t pay any mind, but the mare will be the happier for it.” His smile was grim as he touched his cap and returned to the stable.
“I think, my dear,” Erik said as he closed the door, “that you had best tell me about Madame Harrington’s visit this morning.”
CHAPTER 38
October-November 1889
Alice Harrington invited me to several of her at-homes. Such visits were the main activity for ladies of her station: tea parties with gossip, at a different woman’s house each day of the week. I found them dreary affairs; listening to the scandals of Lady Thus-and-So grew dull with repetition.
Eventually, I tried holding my own afternoon salons. I worked with Maggie to recreate some of my favorite recipes for madeleines and cheese crisps, and had Russian tea and American coffee on offer. The ladies came to the first one in droves, and I was so very excited. They were chatting away, eating the treats and sipping their hot drinks. At last, I thought, perhaps I have found a way to fit in.
It was only when I stepped out for a moment to get another tray of madeleines rather than ringing for them, that I learned the truth. I was returning with the plate when I overheard Alice Harrington discussing me.
“Well, she is French, you know. They’re all lazy creatures. Her husband is a charming man; pity about the mask. Wounded in the Crimea as a young man, you know. My daughter is quite taken with his singing and wants to have lessons of him, but the wife won’t hear of it. They’ve no children; she’s barren, I’m sure of it. My Olympia would be happy to marry him if he’d put the wife aside.”
“Well, Alice,” said another lady in response, “I think she’s no better than she should be. Look at these books she reads: Balzac and Hugo. I ask you. Everyone knows French books are filled with filth. And I hear she drinks absinthe.”
All of the ladies made shocked sounds at that.
I stepped back into the room, pretending to have heard nothing. “Here are some more madeleines, my friends. Please, help yourselves.”
When they left, I was surprised to see a pile of visiting cards on the hallway salver. Perhaps it had gone better than I had thought.
Not one of them had an address on the back. Not one of the ladies whom I had entertained was at home to me.
It became harder and harder for me to get up in the mornings; some days, I chose to simply stay abed and sleep. Pierre would curl up with me and we would nap the day away. I had no appetite at all: Honor had to take in the waist of my skirts. It didn’t matter, really, because all I wanted to wear was the lavender flannel night rail Erik had bought for me during our brief honeymoon. Maggie tried to entice me to eat something, preparing nourishing soups that would be easy to digest, but to no avail. I would drink some water and nibble at bread, but that was as far as it went.
Erik had a doctor visit, but he could find nothing wrong with me. Erik told me later that the doctor also advised him to get a child on me as soon as possible, because I was obviously melancholy due to barrenness. Erik knew I did not particularly want children and, when he told the doctor that, the doctor advised him to kill Pierre.
“Take away her cat and she’ll want a child to dote on instead,” he’d said. “All women want children, but some of them just don’t know it yet.”
Erik escorted the doctor to the door himself at that point, telling him that if his advice was to kill something I loved then his advice was not needed in our household.
Thereafter, I often stayed abed. Erik gave orders that I was not to be left alone. When he was at his office, Honor or Gilbert would stay in the room with me. Honor did needlework most of the time and did not speak to me. Gilbert told me that she felt it inappropriate to discuss things with her employers, that she believed in what she called “keeping to her place.”
Some days, I would pretend to be asleep, listening to the two of them talk when they relieved each other. That Honor and Gilbert cared for one another was apparent, despite her blunt attitude that he needed to learn “more English ways.” She even pronounced his name in the English fashion, making it sound harsh and hard to my ear. I was nevertheless pleased that my dear friend had found female companionship, regardless of her plainspoken ways.
Gilbert developed an interest in art and took up drawing. I would sometimes wake to find him sketching something, but he would never show the drawings to me. He claimed that they were unschooled and that he would show me his work someday, but not just now.
One morning, Gilbert brought me a gift: a soft stuffed horse covered with velvety black plush.
“It’s Josephine,” he whispered as he settled the toy in my arms.
I wrapped my arms around the soft pony and fell asleep, awakening after luncheon when Erik came in to check on me. He was bemused by Gilbert’s choice of a gift, and said so. But I was pleased by the gesture. I missed France, Josephine, and our life in Paris more than words could say; Gilbert’s present was a reminder of happy times.
Some days, Gilbert would persuade me to go on an outing with him; the British Museum was a particular favorite. On those occasions, I could forget my troubles and pretend that we were still back in Paris. Gilbert would take his sketch pad and draw the sculptures, or make quick studies of the other patrons. Those excursions were the high points of my existence, and yet there were far more times when I could not arouse myself enough to leave the house.
After nearly a month of me staying abed, Erik had another idea. When we awoke that morning, he announced his intention to seek out a riding horse for me. I sat up in bed at that; the idea of riding again instead of being driven everywhere sent a surge of happiness through my entire body.
“Do you want me to go with you?” I inquired as I watched him put the final touches to his attire. Riding breeches, a tweed coat and a crisply pressed shirt and neckstock presented a picture of country elegance.
“No, I’ll take Michael along. You remain abed as long as you wish.” He leaned down to kiss me gently.
As I was now wide awake, however, I got out of bed and donned a wrapper. I made my way downstairs to the kitchen, where Maggie and Dolly were already at work.
“Please, might I have a cup of tea and some toast?” I sank into a chair; the lack of activity had left me rather weak.
Gilbert came in the back entrance with more wood for the stove and began to fuss about me immediately. “Claire, er, Madame ... are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?”
“No, mon vieux, I am fine. Erik is going to get me a horse today. I need to have something to eat if I am to start riding again. I cannot be a slug-a-bed.”
Maggie and Gilbert exchanged a look at that point. They understood, far better than I did, that I had not been in bed out of sheer laziness, but that I was still in a state of melancholia that only time would eradicate.
“Well, Ma’am Claire,” Maggie said as she set the tea and toast in front of me. “You eat that slow-like. Let us know what else you need.”
What an interesting world I live in, I thought as I sipped the tea. My so-called servants are more kind than my so-called friends.
After I had broken my fast, I asked Gilbert to help me up the stairs and to ring for Honor to attend me. I wanted a bath first and foremost, and washed both body and hair twice before I felt clean enough. Honor laced my corset as tight as it would go and still it was loose on me; I had lost entirely too much weight and she clucked sadly.
“We’ll have to get you to the corset-maker soon, Ma’am Claire. This French one is just too big now.” She made a pretty moue.
It was my favorite China-blue silk; I hoped that a competent corsettier could take it in. Over my plainest petticoat went a dark blue skirt; my blouse was a lighter blue. My hair was just past my shoulders; a dark blue ribbon band kept it out of my eyes.
Gilbert helped me down the stairs. I could not help noticing, once again, the smile in his eyes when he looked at my pretty, red-haired maid.
“Gilbert, my friend, are you courting?” I asked as he helped me to the parlor and settled me onto the chaise longue near the fire.
My handsome friend blushed red. “Yes, Claire. Honor and I are courting. She is a good woman.”
“Then I wish you the best of fortune.”
I was prevented from saying anything further at the moment by Jamie bursting into the parlor.
“Papa’s just bringing the carriage ‘round. They must have the horses!” he exclaimed.
“Well, Gilbert, if you would be so kind as to help me outside to see what Erik has brought home, I would be much obliged.”
When I got out to the yard, Michael was just untying a mettlesome bay gelding from the back of the carriage.
“Where is Monsieur LeMaitre?” I inquired.
“He’s coming along with the horse car,” Michael replied, an odd look on his face. “This beautiful horse he picked out for himself, but I don’t know about the one he said you’d want.” He shook his head slowly. “I just don’t know.”
I occupied myself with rubbing the gelding’s velvety nose and speaking quietly to him in French while Michael brushed him down. Before long, the horse car came into view. Erik alighted from the rear and paid the driver ... and then led out the saddest, thinnest chestnut mare I had ever seen.
“You see, ma’am,” Michael said. “That’s the horse he said you’d want.”
Erik led the poor horse over to a stall. Her gait was halting, for her feet were overgrown, and her ribs were so visible that she might have been an anatomy lesson. Nevertheless, I could see that her breeding was good; her face had the slightly convex profile that betrayed Arab blood, and her conformation overall was excellent.
“Better that one should go to the knacker,” Jamie muttered.
“Ah, no, Master James,” Erik responded. “You see, Claire has a way of loving broken creatures back to life. This horse is more than she appears to be. Look at her teeth.”
“I’m not touching that sack of bones,” the boy responded.
“You’ll do as the master says,” Michael responded, but still his son stayed put.
“Very well, then,” I said. I lifted the poor mare’s muzzle gently and put my thumbs into the bars of her mouth. She opened obediently, revealing teeth that showed her to be less than 10 years old.
“Erik, she’s young yet!” I explained.
“That she is. I paid five pounds for her, since that’s what the drayer said the knacker would give him.” He smiled sadly. “Do you think you could work with her?”
“I can try,” I said, for my heart had gone out to the poor animal who had come down in the world and known a very hard life. “First thing, Michael, please trim her feet. And Jamie, you help me brush her. I suspect we’ll find that she’s beautiful one day; we just cannot see it yet.”
“What are you going to call her?” Erik asked.
“I don’t know,” I responded, working my fingers through a tangle in her dull red mane. “Pauvre ange.” I reverted to my native language for just a moment, calling the horse “poor angel,” and there I found my inspiration.
“Erik, I think I shall call her Angel.”
Erik continued stroking the poor horse and talking to her quietly, his hypnotic voice as effective on her as a sedative. She lifted her feet willingly for Michael to cut away the overgrown hooves and pull off the shoes that should have been changed weeks ago. She leaned into the curry comb and dry, dull hair shed onto the cobblestones as I worked on one side and Jamie the other.
“You’ll not be able to ride her for a while,” Michael cautioned. “I’ll need to find you a sidesaddle.”
Erik laughed aloud at that. “Michael, my lady wife will scandalize you and the entire neighborhood. She rides beautifully ... and astride.”
Jamie blushed beet-red at the thought and plied his brushes with a bit more vigor.
I handed my curry comb to Jamie to put away with the rest of the grooming tools and slipped my hand through the cheekpiece of poor Angel’s head collar. She looked better already with the dry, dead hair combed away; she was a beautiful red tone underneath. Unfortunately, my ministrations to the horse had resulted in my blue skirt being covered with red hair; Honor would be very frustrated when it came time to brush it.
If the truth be told, Angel and I healed one another in many ways. I grew physically stronger as I worked with her each day. The first day I had Jamie give me a leg up to lay across her back, my heart began to sing as it had not in many months. I loved riding, and even a sedate walk around the yard improved my state of mind. I was still melancholic at times; I had given up on the salon and no longer went to anyone’s at-home days; I did not fit in that way and realized that I d
id not want to. If people looked askance that my servants were my friends, why, let them do so. I would rather be among those who cared.
CHAPTER 39
December 1889
One day when I felt up to activity, it snowed in London. I had planned to visit a museum, but Gilbert had a different idea.
“There is a frozen pond at the Tower, Claire. Perhaps you would like to try ice skating? I would be happy to accompany you. Alas,” he gestured toward his leg, “I shan’t be joining you on the ice. Nevertheless, I could take you there and back while Erik is at the office.”
“It’s the Stubbins’ day off, Gilbert. If we take the carriage, one of us shall have to stay with the horse. That wouldn’t be much company for either of us. I might just as well to stay home in that event.”
“Then we shall have the grand adventure of taking the omnibus.”
Gilbert would brook no resistance, and I was glad to have something to do. I had never tried ice skating, but was grateful to Gilbert for his willingness to help me. The days that I felt like trying to do anything were crucial, and could not be ignored. So, I dressed warmly in a grey tweed walking suit and black boots. Over the top went a bottle green coat with black fur trim, matching bonnet and muff. We took the omnibus to the Tower and I rented a pair of skates to attach to my boots.
I was frightened at first and a little off-balance. I fell more than once, but with the assistance of some children eventually learned the correct motions to propel myself around the pond. There were many folk out on the ice, laughing and enjoying themselves, and I could not help but feel my mood lighten.
After I returned my skates, my legs rubbery with exertion, Gilbert bought mugs of tea and roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor. We watched the other skaters for a while, sharing our snack in companionable silence. When we finished our treat, I thanked Gilbert.
“It is nothing, Claire. Seeing a bit of color back in your cheeks and a smile on your face are worth more than gold to me.” Gilbert’s gaze was penetrating at first, and then he looked away. “I should take you home soon, Claire.”
THE SEDUCTION OF GABRIEL STEWART Page 13
