by May Burnett
“Why don’t we all try to get some rest?” he suggested. “We can continue this discussion over breakfast tomorrow.”
Emily nodded gratefully, and closed her eyes. He draped the woollen carriage blanket over her and Margaret. Silence reigned in the coach, apart from the rattling noise of the wheels, and the clacking of the horses’ hooves. He covered the lantern.
Anthony wondered at his own calmness, now that marriage had caught up with him. It was overdue, really. He had once manoeuvred a good man into marriage on flimsy grounds, not unlike the Contessa’s action this night. In India they would have call it Karma, to have the same thing happen to him tonight. He had already come perilously close to such a match in the summer before his departure.
The slumbering face of his young bride was pale in the dimness of the coach. Unlike that other lady, Emily was an innocent, caught up in this ridiculous entrapment through no fault of her own. Anthony had to marry soon in any case. After this night’s work, he would not have to resort to Almack’s and similar haunts of the fashionable marriage mart. All that was over now, and he was glad of it.
Emily had not married him for his title and fortune, as she was unaware of their existence. She might have agreed to the marriage for security, but given her history he could hardly blame her.
Once they knew each other better, would Emily ever regret her impulsive agreement? Would he? It was possible, but would not change anything. The dies were cast.
She was fresh and pretty, but no great beauty, his marchioness, especially in that horrible shabby cloak. To be married in it was hardly a memory she could cherish. The next time would be very different.
Great beauties tended to be more trouble than they were worth. Dressed by a first-class couturière, Emily would do well enough. Margaret, on the other hand, might be considered a beauty when appropriately turned out. She was the dramatic kind of girl most men found fascinating, but even had she not dabbled in espionage, for money, he would not have felt drawn to her. Conrad was welcome to the girl if he was still interested. Anthony could hardly warn the younger man off, now he was married to Margaret's sister. Whether he wanted to or not, he had volunteered to take the responsibility for the entire family onto his shoulders. The financial part was easy enough, but his bride’s family would undoubtedly present him with many other, more personal challenges.
Would Sir Conrad be released on the morrow, as Hauptmann Ehrenblatt had intimated? It was not dawn yet, but the hours were passing quickly. He should try to rest also, but his thoughts were churning too hard to find solace in sleep. Besides, he hated sleeping in a carriage, sitting up. How soon could they stop safely?
The mental image of a bed led to the inevitable associations, for a man who had spoken wedding vows only hours earlier. Lascivious images could not be overheard, luckily, and the two ladies slumbered undisturbed. He would enjoy introducing Emily to the delights of marital relations, and trying out techniques he had learned in the East, several of which increased the woman’s pleasure. Unfortunately he could not put his plans into effect until he knew the marriage was valid. There were accidents and mischances - he would not risk leaving Emily destitute, or with a child of uncertain birth. She had already suffered too much in her young life, from the irresponsibility of her father. Her husband would not put her further at risk.
The sisters could share rooms with each other until they arrived in Geneva. He would steal the occasional kiss when Margaret was not around, accustom Emily to his touch and leave her in no doubt that they were headed to a connubial bed as soon as possible. She would be untried but he doubted she would be overly shy and maidenly. Not his stout Emily.
Margaret began to snore slightly, more proof that he had married the right sister.
He would have to do something about their mother as soon as they were safely away. Mrs Bellairs already looked much older and frailer than her age, which he understood to be in the early forties. He had only seen her during that half-hour, in dim light, but he had been shocked at her appearance. How much laudanum were those Italians dosing her with? It was the very devil, weaning somebody off that drug. A broken leg when she was already weakened was the worst possible timing. He would send a courier - a female, one of those middle-aged battle-axes whose steely will carried everything before them, with strict instructions to ensure Mrs Bellairs’ care with or without the patient’s cooperation.
That problem provisionally settled, to pass the time, Anthony calculated the expenses of their trip all the way home: the coach hire and regular changes of horses, accommodation on the way, a new wardrobe for his wife and sister-in-law, a maid or two, a house in Geneva, with servants, and sundry other expenses he could not think of as yet, but which had a habit of arising at the most unexpected times. And lest he forget, sometimes bribery was unavoidable.
Anthony had drawn on his bank in Rome, but he resolved to do so again in Geneva, or even he might run dry. Of course there were always the emergency funds. His glance flickered over the rusty lantern attached to a hook inside the coach. Its false bottom was filled to the brim with gold coins, one of several such caches, to ensure he would never find himself at point-non-plus during his travels. Twice already he had had to take recourse to these hidden assets, and one pouch had been lost in Ceylon, but he had replenished his hidden reserves in Italy. All would be well.
He closed his eyes and imagined introducing Emily to his London staff, to Marianne and George, to Rook and Anna and all his other friends. She would be Aunt Emily to little Verena and Amelia. A very young aunt to be sure...
***
The abrupt stopping of the coach woke him from a doze. Emily and Margaret were also drowsily waking, while Tsien was fully alert in his cat-like way. It was lighter outside, probably six or so in the morning.
The coachman knocked. “The left leader threw a shoe,” he reported. “We need to walk to the closest inn to either replace the horse, or wait until the local blacksmith can re-shoe it.”
Anthony suppressed a curse, conscious there were ladies present. “Where are we?”
“About four hours westwards of Verona. This is not a main road, since you ordered me to avoid those, but of course it also has fewer inns.”
There was nothing for it. The coach slowly rolled forwards, drawn by the three good horses, while the other was unhitched and led along by Anthony himself – Tsien, for all his abilities, was not as comfortable with equines.
Fifteen minutes later they came across a small, mean place, the kind of inn he never would have deigned to notice under normal circumstances. It was isolated from the nearby village by a small pine forest.
“It will have to do, we need rest in any case,” Anthony decided. “It is not likely that anyone could find us here.”
Margaret jumped out of the coach as soon as it came to a stop outside the closed-up inn. “We should use a different name,” she suggested, while Emily followed more slowly. “Does the coachman know exactly who we are?”
“The coachman knows you left from the Casa Mardiglio, but I pay him well to forget such details. Let us pretend to be French, if you both know the language?”
“Mais naturellement,” Margaret returned, and Emily added a brief, “Bien.”
Tsien had in the meantime rummaged in a valise tied to the back of the vehicle, and produced a beautifully embroidered blue velvet cloak that he draped right over Emily’s shabby black one. She nodded her thanks.
“We are Monsieur and Madame Villeneuve, and my widowed sister Madame Ribeau,” Anthony decided, “on our way back to Grenoble, from Venice.” As they had been speaking in English, he quickly instructed the coachman regarding their new identities. The man only nodded tiredly.
They had ample occasion to get their story straight, for the innkeeper took his time before unbolting the heavy door. As soon as he had taken in Anthony’s clothes, his eyes gleamed and he became highly accommodating.
“Come in, Monsieur, and have breakfast while the horse is shod,” he invited. “Mar
ia, come, set the table!” he called his wife somewhere inside, probably still dressing hurriedly.”
“Take your time. Do you have a room where the ladies might lie down for a while?”
There was such a room with two beds, not up to Anthony’s standards, but at least clean. The sisters gratefully lay down without fully undressing, while breakfast was prepared and the location of the closest blacksmith ascertained.
“Well, Madame,” he greeted Emily when she emerged, freshly washed, from the room two hours later, “the innkeeper’s son has taken the horse to be shod, and should be back in an hour at most. We have time enough for a leisurely breakfast before going on. The horses will also appreciate the rest.”
Emily was dressed in a simple black dress, not as shabby as the cloak, but more suitable for a governess than his wife. This would not do.
She buttered a slice of crusty bread. “Are we going on with the same team?” Her French had an English accent. It was to be hoped the innkeeper would not notice.
“It might be best, even if we lose some time. These belong to a Milanese livery business, from whence the coachman also comes; I have hired them for as long as we need them. Apart from this newest mishap, they have been sound enough.”
Emily nodded, not greatly interested in the details of their transport, or perhaps unwilling to be talkative in French.
“Is your sister still asleep?”
“No, she is dressing and tidying her hair. It always takes her twice as long as me.”
“That reminds me, we need to hire a personal maid for you as soon as possible.”
“I have managed without one quite well, for the last three years,” Emily returned a trifle stiffly.
“Undoubtedly, ma chère, but - ,” he broke off, uncertain how to explain that in their class it was simply a necessity, a matter of course.
“You will see the need yourself, presently,” he contented himself with saying. “When we visit my friends’ country estates, they will expect you to bring your own maid.”
“And you’ll be taking Tsien?”
“No, I shall hire a proper English valet when we get home. Tsien will come along as my secretary, if he cares to.”
“Your friends would invite you with a wife, a maid, a valet, and a secretary? Their households must be large indeed.”
“Of course we have to invite them back now and then. You will be the hostess. I hope it is not too onerous a burden.”
She gnawed her lower lip in worry. “You mentioned that your sister was a notable hostess. What exactly is required of a lady, to achieve that?”
“The actual work is done by servants, but a hostess needs a good sense of organisation and timing, an eye for detail, and occasionally an original idea. Marianne can show you.”
Emily nodded, but with little enthusiasm.
Chapter 14
Do not let pride stand in the way of necessity.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, Vol. 2, by a Lady (1824)
By the time breakfast was consumed, there was still no sign of the missing horse. Their coachman was yawning – he had been up all night, working hard, while they had dozed at least for some hours. Reluctantly Anthony ordered the man to get some sleep. The ladies also elected to rest again, while they could do so horizontally.
Despite his almost sleepless night Anthony was not exhausted, and briefly debated going after the horse. But he could not leave the ladies undefended, so he sent Tsien instead.
The innkeeper’s wife removed the remains of breakfast, except for more tea, as Anthony waited on events.
The innkeeper joined him. “Our smith is not one to be hurried, Sir, it may take some time yet till the horse returns. Do not fret.” His Italian had a strong local accent that Anthony could just follow.
“The coachman needs rest in any case. Are we your only guests at present?”
“Yes, unfortunately on this road we rarely have travellers staying overnight. May I ask what made you choose this out-of-the-way route?”
Anthony shrugged. “A whim. I always like the less travelled roads better.”
The clatter of hoofs interrupted their conversation. A moment later two Austrian soldiers entered the inn, a sergeant and a private.
“Is that your coach outside?” The sergeant asked Anthony without any greeting.
“Yes, why are you asking?”
“And what may your name be?”
“Marcel Villeneuve, from Grenoble,” Anthony said glibly. “Why this interrogation?”
“We are looking for a dangerous spy, a woman, who escaped from Verona last night in a coach like that.”
“There must be hundreds of similar coaches in northern Italy,” the innkeeper said. “Monsieur Villeneuve has been here since yesterday evening.”
“Are you sure?” The sergeant fixed his grey eyes on the man.
“I don’t have so many guests here that I would easily forget such a detail,” the innkeeper said sarcastically. “So you are hunting a woman, are you? What has she done?”
“None of your business, fellow,” the Sergeant replied. “Bring us some beer, as we are thirsty, and this is the only inn for miles.”
“Very well.” The innkeeper turned to the bar.
“Have you seen any suspicious travellers since yesterday, Monsieur?” The sergeant spoke French with a German accent. Would he be able to tell that Anthony was not speaking his native tongue either?
“No, but I slept late.”
“What of your coachman?”
“He got drunk last night and is still sleeping it off. I prefer to depart late rather than risk an accident.” Anthony used his hands to underline his words, hoping to achieve a semblance of Gallic temperament, so foreign to his own.
“Here you are.” The innkeeper placed two large tankards in front of the soldiers, who made no motion to pay for the drinks. The beer made them unbend slightly. Anthony gathered that they had ridden since six in the morning.
“Well, we must be off,” the sergeant said when he had emptied the tankard. “If she made good speed, the spy will still be hours ahead of us. But she’ll be apprehended, one way or the other.”
“Is she travelling all by herself?” Anthony asked, judging the risk justified under the circumstances. “A woman travelling alone should stand out easily enough.”
“No, she has her sister along,” the private said. “They are both supposed to be young and pretty, and most likely wearing black clothes.”
“Well, good luck,” Anthony said as the two left at last.
The innkeeper looked at him, and he looked at the innkeeper.
“Thank you,” he said. “Why did you help us?”
“I have no love for the Austrians. Between two sets of foreigners I hold to those who are paying customers. Did you notice they never offered to pay for their beer?”
“How did you know that they were looking for our party? What gave me away?”
“Your French is fluent enough – you certainly fooled that Austrian – but we used to be occupied by the French when I was a younger man, and an innkeeper, even here, runs across all manner of foreigners. I knew at once that your accent when speaking Italian is not that of a Frenchman. Are you English by any chance?”
Just his luck to run across a linguist innkeeper. “Indeed. How soon do you suppose these soldiers will come back?”
“Hard to say. It depends on how badly they want the young woman. Is she really a spy?”
“Certainly not. It is all a stupid misunderstanding, but one that would be safer to clear up from beyond the border.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Of course that is what you would say in any case. I don’t care one way or the other.”
“What would you do in my position?”
“Stay here until the early afternoon, let everyone including your horses get a good rest, and find different clothes for the ladies. Ditch the black – my wife can find other outfits for them, if they did not pack anything in different colours.”
“Only evening wear that is no good on a journey,” Anthony said, remembering the contents of Margaret’s valise.
“As long as they think the women are travelling alone, you should be all right. If they knew to ask for a man with green eyes and a Chinese servant, it would be a different matter. I wonder why they do not?”
Indeed that was strange. The search must have started before anyone had interviewed the members of the Mardiglio household. Even if the family kept mum, those insolent servants would never keep their mouths shut. But – he recalled – Tsien had remained outside, with the coach. The staff of their inn, Sir Conrad, and Hauptmann Ehrenblatt knew all about them, however. It was only a question of hours – a day, at most, – till he and Tsien were also hunted.
“You look thoughtful,” the innkeeper said, “no wonder, that is a nasty predicament, and the border is far. Maybe you should change the coach? Travel on as Italians, since you all know our language. Most Austrians cannot tell if someone has a foreign accent – there are so many Italian dialects.”
“You don’t have a different coach for sale, by any chance?”
“I know of one in this neighbourhood that would likely defy detection. One of my neighbours used to be a Harlequin, before he retired, and travelled to fairs with a whole group of actors. The coach is colourful, big and slow. It would add to your travel time, but nobody would suspect a troupe of mimes.”
“It sounds interesting – but does your neighbour also have horses for sale or rent? If I send the hired coach back to Milan, the horses will have to go with it.”
“The white horses my neighbour used are old and put out to pasture, I do not know if they would still do. Of course you could also split up. How much do you trust your coachman?”
A good question. Anthony trusted that he could pay the man better than whatever bribe the Austrians would offer, and the same went for this helpful innkeeper.
“Why don’t you ask your wife to look for those female clothes, and ask your neighbour to come by with his coach and – if possible – horses? How much do you expect him to ask for them?”
