Regency Belles & Beaux

by Michele McGrath

  A little later, as they bowled along in Sir Edward’s well sprung chaise, Alice could not help laughing. “Did you see poor Mama’s face? You properly rolled her up. I thought she would have apoplexy on the spot.”

  Sir Edward grinned. “A good soldier understands when to retreat. I’ve wanted to do that ever since we arrived. Yet I must tell you, my love, that ‘properly rolled up’ is a most inelegant expression on the lips of a gently reared female.”

  “As if you don’t use it yourself!!”

  “One of the many privileges of my sex.”

  Some miles further on, he asked, “Did you mind me extracting you from Kirkmore? I could see that the occasion was going to deteriorate further and nothing would be served by staying.”

  “Indeed no! I was never more grateful to escape from there in my life! The funeral was over and the will read. I didn’t want to be part of any more family recriminations. I’m glad to be on my way home.”

  “By the bye, who was that awkward, badly dressed female that your mother insisted on keeping by her side?”

  “Poor Miss Talbot. Anyone would be uncomfortable in such a situation. As for being badly dressed, she is still in half mourning for her father. I kept thinking that if she wore a different colour and her hair was fashionably cut and curled she would be quite pretty.”

  “Perhaps. She has striking eyes, but she looks so stern. I wouldn’t like to argue with her. Who is she?”

  “The daughter of the local vicar. I don’t know her well but the housekeeper told me about her. She was a teacher at a girls’ boarding school until she came home to nurse her mother until she died. Her father didn’t survive her for long and the poor girl doesn’t have many relatives. Apparently, she was about to be turned out of the vicarage with nowhere else to go when Mama swept down on her and brought her to Kirkmore.”

  “That sounds most unlike her.”

  Alice giggled. “Perhaps I should tell you that Cousin Susan, Mama’s previous companion, had recently left to look after her deceased sister’s husband and children. Mama needed someone to run her errands and listen to her stories. She doesn’t like to be alone and now that Matilda, Cecily and I are married…”

  “… you have escaped from her clutches. Poor Miss Talbot.”

  “I pity her too,” Alice replied.

  The following morning, as they settled themselves into the chaise again, after a leisurely breakfast at the posting inn that enjoyed Sir Edward’s custom, Alice asked,

  “Do you remember promising me that we should travel to Paris to meet my French relations?”

  Edward smiled. “I do, but if your French uncle is at all like his sister, I’m not sure that the encounter will be a happy one.”

  “According to Philip he isn’t. He said I’d like Oncle Richard.”

  “What are you asking me, my love?”

  “Can we please go to France, Paris for a start, and then to Dauphiné? Philip could be in one of those places and he may not know that Julian died a few months ago or realise that he is the new Earl. It’s too soon for him to have heard of Papa’s death.”

  “A letter would reach him sooner than we would,” Edward pointed out.

  “I’ll write of course, if only to forestall Mama who will certainly tell Oncle Richard. I would like to see Philip. He has decisions to make and perhaps I… we can help him.”

  “You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?”

  “He’s the nearest to me in age and when we were growing up, he was the only one who liked me. My sisters are cats and totally uninterested in ‘scrubby children’ as they called us. Philip and I were friends, not just brother and sister. I hope everything has been resolved now he has returned to France and he is happy again.”

  “I doubt he is in the circumstances. He wouldn’t be able to marry Celia with her husband still alive.”

  “Staunton is a monster. He used to beat poor Celia. Philip had to save her,” Alice protested. “She would have died if he had left her where she was, as I have told you before.”

  “Nevertheless his actions make it a trifle difficult for him to return to this country and take up his title, if she is living under his protection.”

  “He would never abandon her; of that I am sure. You don’t know him.”

  “I regret that I have not yet had that privilege. Our fleeting acquaintance in London did not admit me to his confidence. That is easily remedied, though, if I agree to your earlier suggestion to go to France.”

  She shot up in her seat and clapped her hands. “Oh, Edward, really?”

  “Provided you love me even more than you do now.”

  “Impossible. I love you so much already. But will you take me soon?”

  “Yes, my dearest, if only to annoy your Mama.”

  Chapter One

  Lord Philip Sutherland leaned upon the hilt of his smallsword and sighed. Being a fencing master was a poor way to earn a living. Unfortunately, it was the only employment he had been able to find ever since the government of France changed. The Baron de Vezey, ennobled by the Emperor himself and a translator at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, was no longer welcome in the corridors of power. Philip, who had fled to France under a cloud and adopted the French sobriquet, was in no position to return to his own country and one must eat, after all.

  “Are you ready, Monsieur?” The Englishman came towards him, swishing his sword from side to side as if it were a flail. He was big, far taller than Philip and with a longer reach. Lord Worthington considered himself to be a formidable swordsman, as he quickly pointed out, despite requesting teaching in the Italian style. When Philip showed him the differences between the two techniques, he barely paid attention, proclaiming that the English fashion undoubtedly superior. Philip, a master of many styles, thought the man a dolt, only interested in boasting that he had taken instruction in one of the famous Salles des Armes while visiting Paris. This pastime had become fashionable among those English nobles who swarmed into France now the wars were over and the king was safe on his throne again.

  Philip never argued with paying customers although it was sometimes difficult for him to hold his tongue. His position in the Salle des Armes depended on pleasing his clients, so he repressed his irritation and suggested a bout to test Lord Worthington’s theory.

  “At your service, sir.”

  They bowed to each other, crossed swords and the fight began. Cut and thrust, parry, riposte, first one way then the other. The clang of metal and the patter of their footsteps. At the beginning Lord Worthington tried to overcome his slighter opponent by using his strength, a common mistake, betraying his lack of skill. Philip, lighter on his feet but with a wrist of steel, danced away from him, his sword a whirl of silver in the well-lit fencing hall. Given his efforts, the Englishman started to tire and, as a consequence, his temper seemed to desert him. Philip attacked, forcing his adversary towards the other side of the room. Lord Worthington kept panting and muttering under his breath, as he attempted to regain the initiative. Philip was both impressed and angered by the stream of his invective.

  He assumes that I cannot understand him, Philip thought, a pity for him that I do. No gentleman should endure such insults from another. I won’t bear this. He must be taught a lesson. Marco will forgive me when I explain.

  Remorselessly, Philip increased his pace. The fury of his attack pushed the Englishman towards the wall. Philip lunged, blocked the following parry, a sudden twist and Lord Worthington’s sword leaped from his grip and slithered across the floor of the salle. Philip stepped back and bowed. At first he thought that his opponent would leap at him. He stood still waiting, keeping eye contact. Marco, the owner of the fencing school came hurrying over, carrying the Englishman’s weapon in his hand. He held the hilt out to him, over his arm.

  “Marco, this man of yours…” Worthington got no further.

  “A fair fight in all respects, Monsieur,” Marco interrupted him. “I was watching you both. The Baron has demonstrated the Italian Tech
nique perfectly, just as you requested. Should you wish for further tuition, you will no doubt return.” Marco waved a hand and a lackey brought over a silver salver with crystal wineglasses. Lord Worthington snatched one and downed its contents, slamming it back onto the tray. His eyes roamed across the crowd of spectators. All the other bouts had ended in order to watch his humiliation.

  “A cold day in hell before I return, Marco. As for you, Baron, if you cross my path again, you will be sorry.” He stormed out.

  “Why was he so out of reason angry, mon ami?” Marco asked.

  “He didn’t like to be beaten in front of witnesses. When he arrived, he boasted of his swordsmanship, such as it is, and likely enough he has done the same before to others. He did not want it to be shown to be inferior.”

  The two men looked at each other. “What did he say to you to make you use the cross-block? That was not a kind thing to do, with a man of his accomplishments.”

  “Or lack of them. He cursed me in English, Marco, not knowing that I speak the language. I prefer not to hear my mother called a whore and my ancestors for several generations accused of impossible and painful perversions.”

  Marco laughed. “Nor I, my friend, but Louis, do not lose me too many customers because you cannot keep your temper when someone insults you. Your skills I admire but I can’t afford the loss of income. What if this man should carry the tale to his compatriots and they decide not to come here?”

  “They’re more likely to flock to you, out of curiosity if for no other reason. He enjoyed a reputation in England, or so he told me. His defeat is certain to be talked about and people will want to find out the truth of what happened.”

  “Let’s hope so, for both out sakes.”

  Marco said no more but the reprimand stung. Philip understood that, while Marco was a friend, he would not continue to employ him if he acted again as he had tonight. Fencing masters were not allowed to duel down an opponent who annoyed them; only gentlemen enjoyed that particular privilege. Some might say that Philip gave up his right to act like a gentleman when he fled from England. Lord Philip Sutherland, second son of the Earl of Kirkmore, was born one of the Upper Ten Thousand and any man’s equal. Baron Louis de Vezey, once aide to the Duc de Vicenze and now a lowly teacher of the art of swordplay, could not afford to lose his employment. He would not be the only person to starve if he did so.

  As Philip walked through the darkened streets of the capital, snow started to fall from the cloudy sky. He looked up, catching a brief sight of an icy moon looking down and filling the foetid alleyways with a milky light. It was December when the winter chill fell on the city and people died. For a moment Philip wished he was walking back to his home in the north of England. Even Kirkmore would be warm and welcoming on such a night, in stark contrast to what he knew awaited him at his lodgings.

  He stopped at a shop, bought a few vegetables and a hunk of cheese. A bottle of non-descript wine would help to make this unpalatable fare seem more like a feast, or so he hoped. He wished there were flowers to bring home, an early Christmas gift. Celia loved flowers, but they were impossible to find in this area of the city in winter. Trudging up the stairs to the rooms Philip rented in the dismal lodging house, he kept thinking that life could have been so different. If Celia’s father had not refused his offer for her hand in marriage. If Celia had not been made to marry a bully and a wife beater. If Philip had killed Staunton in the duel he had forced upon him as he intended. They would have been married and living in London or even at Kirkmore with perhaps a child on the way. They would have been happy; there was no doubt in Philip’s mind that this would have been so. Now they were existing precariously in this dirty place, whose putrid airs did not to allow Celia to recover her health. Ever since he rescued her from England, she had been ailing.

  I wanted to bring her to my aunt in the vineyards by the Isère, Philip thought, but if we had continued our journey, she would have died. Ifs, ifs nothing but ifs.

  He had been sure at the time that it was the right thing to do, resting for a while in Paris where he had contacts. The jolting of the stagecoach over the muddy autumn roads had made him fear for Celia’s life, but even when they stayed still, she did not become stronger. Every day, he dreaded the moment when he walked through the door of his apartment. Some days Celia would be waiting for him, alert and happy to see him. More often she lay in her bed, unwilling or unable to move. He had hired a young girl, Agathe, to care for her. It cost more than he could afford, so he had to send his manservant, Jacques, back to his home in Dauphiné. This was a blow, because they had become fast friends but he was not able to support two servants. Celia needed a woman to stay with her, in case anything happened, more than he needed a groom.

  Today it was Agathe who met him. She put a finger to her lips, ordering his silence.

  “How is she?” he whispered.

  “Asleep.”

  He picked up a lantern and tiptoed into the closet which held Celia’s bed. It was not one he was able to share with her. She had been too ill or too frightened to respond to him and so he used a paillasse beside the fire in the main room. A glance at Celia’s face made his heart start to pound. She was sheet white and, for a moment, she seemed not to be breathing. He put his hand to her neck, seeking her pulse and, with a surge of relief, he felt the faint beat. She did not stir as he touched her and this alarmed him.

  “Celia! Celia!” he cried. Her eyelids fluttered but she made no other response and his heart contracted. He hurried back into the main room.

  “Agathe, go quickly and fetch the doctor to Madame. I think she is worse. Why didn’t you send for me sooner?”

  “She was better this afternoon and went out for a short walk. It was only after she returned that she said she felt ill and took to her bed. At first I thought she was sleeping and by the time I realised she was worse, you would have been on your way here. Tell me I did not do wrong, Monsieur?”

  Philip wondered what to say. She should have sent for him, but how could this young girl know the difference between sleep and unconsciousness? So, he said,

  “Of course not, Agathe. Go now and hurry.”

  When she had gone, Philip retrieved the few francs he kept secreted beneath a floorboard under a small press in the corner of the room. He would need them to pay the doctor. Agathe was trustworthy up to a point, but he hid the few things of value he possessed and could not afford to lose. She was a comely enough girl and might have a boyfriend who was none too scrupulous. He never inquired about her life when she was not at the apartment.

  Docteur Nicot arrived, examined Celia and gave it as his opinion that she should be bled.

  “She is too weak to survive such a procedure, surely?” Philip objected.

  “She’s unlikely to survive in any case and without bleeding, she certainly won’t.” He went over to his bag and removed a knife and a bowl. He turned over Celia’s wrist and said,

  “Please hold her still.”

  The blade was descending when Philip caught his hand and pushed it away. The doctor glared at him. “Are you rejecting my care?” he demanded in a loud voice.

  “I am.” Philip met his eyes and held them, although he was shaking. “She’s weak enough. Wounding her will weaken her further.”

  “Unless the poisoned humours are released, she won’t recover, I tell you. If you don’t allow me to continue, then she is sure to die and the blame is yours.”

  For a second Philip’s resolve weakened and then he shook his head. “Can you suggest anything else, Docteur?”

  “Keep her warm, give her liquids while she can still swallow and pray. That’s all I can advise you to do, young man. The rest is up to her. If you forbid me to bleed her, there is nothing further I can do, unless she passes the crisis and regains consciousness. If she does, send for me.”

  Philip showed him to the door and paid him his fee, grudgingly. Then he told Agathe to heat some bricks on the fire. He opened the bottle of wine he had bought and tried
to force a few drops between Celia’s lips but they ran out of the corner of her mouth. The bricks were put beside her in the bed. After a while, Philip saw sweat on Celia’s brow. He prayed that it was a good sign even as he mopped the moisture away.

  Agathe had crept into the room and shared his vigil. From time to time she replaced the hot bricks and tried, in her turn, to help the young lady to drink but she was even less successful. She would have brought food to Philip, but he told her he did not want to eat. It would sicken him. She offered to fetch her mother who had more experience of sickness than she had herself. This offer was accepted but, when Madame Buchard arrived, she had little advice to give him.

  “Is your wife with child, Monsieur?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Philip was so shocked by the question he blurted out, “Not by me, at least. She is not my wife.”

  “You have misled me Monsieur. I can’t have my Agathe continue living with you in a house of sin.”

  “Madame, I had no intention of ever deceiving you. Celia married a man who misused her. When she told me of her plight, I took her away from him in order to keep her safe. I intended to put her under the protection of my aunt but Celia has been too ill to travel to her home, which is in the east. Celia is my childhood friend; I could not have abandoned her to that brute. I swear to you I’ve never laid an unclean hand upon her. Agathe will tell you herself that she hasn’t seen the slightest thing wrong. Now Celia is so weak, she may die. Please let Agathe remain to help me until we know for sure.”

  The woman stared at him for a long time before she nodded slowly and said,

  “Ah la pauvre petite. Quelle vie. Agathe can stay until the lady recovers. When she does, you must send her home to me at once.”

  “My word on it, Madame.”

  Agathe’s mother left and they settled down beside the bed, waiting for Celia’s condition to change. The night was the longest Philip ever remembered. He sat shivering, despite a blanket around his shoulders and a glass of warmed wine in his hands. Agathe stayed with him most of the time, watching the pale face that seemed to become even paler as the sky lightened with the dawn of a new day.