by Louise Allen
Her mind shrieked Nicholas! but her mouth was full of water, spilling down her throat. She was going to die. She had time to realise that, to wonder if Nicholas had made it to the shore, to start to say a prayer. Then everything went black.
Chapter Nine
Nicholas trod water in a patch of stillness clear of the current and scanned the surface feverishly for any sign of Cassie. The water was opaque, too thick to see through. It was pointless to dive blind, he could only pray the undertow would throw her clear.
The onlookers had launched boats and he could see two of the boatmen pulled out safely. If he did not see Cassie soon, he too would have to swim for shore. His legs felt like lead with the weight of the water and the insistent pull of the current and he had almost given up when a sudden flash of white that could have been a fish broke the surface downstream. It was a hand.
Nicholas struck out strongly towards it, promising in his mind anything in the world if it was Cassie, if he could reach her before she sank again. The whiteness was only a glimmer under the surface when he reached it, his fingers clamping around the wrist.
As soon as he touched the narrow bones, he knew it was Cassie. Desperately he pulled her up, encircled her ribcage with his arm and struck out backwards for the shore. There was a warning shout behind him, the back of his head grazed painfully on the wood of a rowing boat and arms dragged them both into the sanctuary of the craft.
Nicholas hung over the side of the boat retching, suddenly too sick to help either of them until his lungs cleared. The next thing he knew, they were on the river bank, the grass feeling wonderful under his grasping fingers.
‘The boy is dead, monsieur.’ Someone was touching his shoulder in clumsy consolation. Nicholas shrugged the man off and staggered to where Cassie was lying, her mud-streaked face colourless, her lips pinched and blue.
He lifted her shoulders, but there was no sign of life, no answering flutter of the eyelids as he shouted her name.
‘Cassandra!’ Nicholas couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe she was dead. He lifted her shoulders, but there was no sign of life, as he shook her.
She hadn’t wanted to come on the boat, had been afraid, however well she’d hidden it, and he’d ignored her fears. Because it had suited him, he had treated her like the boy she was not – and now she was lying lifeless in his arms.
‘Monsieur, leave him, you can do nothing. The priest is coming down…’ One of the boatmen was tugging at his shoulder.
‘Damn you, no,’ Nicholas snarled, too angry to respond in French. He would not accept it, not admit she was dead. His rage at himself cleared his mind. He remembered a man being dragged from the village pond when he was a child and the blacksmith turning him over and beating the water out of him until he came back to coughing life again.
Ruthlessly he tipped Cassandra’s limp body over his knee and with his clenched fist struck her hard between her shoulder blades. And again. And again. Under his fingers there was a fluttering pulse, then a sudden cough, a retch and she was violently sick. He had never felt so happy in his life.
Cassandra struggled feebly against the rough hands that were beating her. It was bad enough to be dead without being struck. Perhaps she was already in Hell, which seemed unjust, so she said so.
‘Not fair…’ It was only a croak, but the hands stopped pummelling her and turned her over gently. Someone was cradling her, stroking away whatever was clogging her eyes and nostrils. Something grazed her cheek, her temples, her closed eyes, a soft, cool touch.
The world beyond her eyelids was no longer green and she could feel the sun on her face. Someone was saying repeatedly, ‘Thank God!’ Perhaps it wasn’t Hell, after all, but Heaven. A voice she knew said, ‘Cassandra, Cassie, open your eyes… please, look at me.’ It sounded like Nicholas, but the imploring tone was one she had never heard on his lips before.
Clean, cool water was splashing over her face and she managed to open her eyes. Above her, Nicholas’s face, white and out of focus, came close.
‘I told you I couldn’t swim,’ she managed to croak.
‘And I told you I’d save you, you ungrateful brat,’ he replied, but his voice broke on the last word.
Cassandra’s body convulsed in a violent shudder and her eyes closed despite herself. There were voices on the fringes of her consciousness. ‘A blanket, monsieur… wrap the boy warmly… the Veuve Aubrac sends to say there are beds ready. Hurry, monsieur, before an ague sets in…’
Strong arms lifted her from the muddy bank and Cassandra knew she was being carried. With an effort of will, she forced her eyes open and saw Nicholas’s face, set with effort, as he picked his way over the rough ground.
‘Lie still, brat, don’t wriggle,’ he ordered, his breath coming short. ‘There’s a good inn here and you’ll be safe in bed soon.’
There was a babble of voices with one, a well-modulated woman’s voice, commanding and organising. Cassandra was aware of the change from sunlight to gloom as they entered the inn, of jolting as Nicholas carried her up a short flight of stairs and then there was a wonderfully soft, warm, safe feeling as she was placed on a bed.
Fingers unwrapped the swathing blanket, then there was silence. Nothing happened. After a moment, the woman’s voice said, ‘Monsieur?’
Cassandra opened her eyes to find a tall, middle-aged woman looking down at her with raised eyebrows. Painfully, she turned her head and saw the expression on Nicholas’s face as he, too, stared at her. Suddenly she was aware of just how little she was wearing. Her bare feet protruded from the torn remnants of her stockings, her wet breeches were moulded to her hips and with her coat and waistcoat gone, the sodden white linen shirt was as transparent as gauze across her breasts.
Without the constricting upper garments, every curve of her eighteen year old body was revealed. With a gasp, Cassandra grabbed the edges of the blanket round herself as the woman said, ‘A word with you, monsieur.’
If she hadn’t felt so ill, and been so embarrassed, she could have found humour in the situation. Nicholas appeared to have been poleaxed, and the obviously highly respectable Widow Aubrac was completely in control of the situation.
Snatches of low-voiced discussion reached Cassandra’s ears from the two who had withdrawn into the window embrasure.
‘You expect me to believe you were unaware…’
‘That she was a girl… not that she was a woman.’
‘You prefer to travel with a child in disguise? Monsieur, this is a respectable house!’
‘Madame… I assure you…’
He obviously needed rescuing before Madame decided he was a total roué and threw him out. Painfully Cassandra levered herself up on one elbow and croaked. ‘Madame.’
Instantly the woman hurried to her side. ‘Do not worry, ma petite. You are safe here. I have heard of these decadent English milords.’ She shot Nicholas a cold look. ‘Under my protection he will not touch you. I will write to your family and Monsieur le Curé will give you sanctuary under his roof until they come for you.’
‘But it is not his fault, it is I who have been dishonest,’ Cassandra protested. ‘He is the son of my godmother and I deceived him into thinking I was much younger than I am. Listen, I will tell you everything…’
‘When you are warm, fed and rested, ma petite.’ Slightly mollified, the woman turned to Nicholas. ‘Monsieur, you and I must talk later, but for now I must ask you to leave.’ There was a knock at the door and servants staggered in with a hip bath and flagons of hot water. ‘Your chamber is at the other end of the landing, you will wish to bathe and rest, sans doubte.’
Eventually, clean, warm and dry, Cassandra drifted off to sleep, aware only of the comforting crackle of logs in the grate and subdued noises from the outside world penetrating the closed shutters.
She woke to find the room full of sunlight, the shutters thrown open and the smell of chicken broth in her nostrils. Madame was setting down a tray, but when she saw Cassandra was awake, she bustled over t
o plump up the pillows and help her sit up.
Every muscle in Cassandra’s body seemed to protest. Under the starched sheet her legs were stiff and sore, and when she picked up the spoon, her wrists were purpled with bruises.
‘Nicholas?’ she asked anxiously, suddenly fully awake, the memories of yesterday flooding her mind. ‘Madame, is he all right?’
Madame smiled slightly. ‘Stiff and bruised as yourself, m’selle, but quite well. Somewhat chastened in spirit, I believe. I have remonstrated with him on his foolishness in indulging in such a charade.’
Looking at the aristocratic face, Cassandra could well believe it. What such a woman was doing running a country inn was a mystery, but in post-Revolutionary France, many people were forced to make shift as best they could.
Madame continued to talk as she straightened the bedclothes. ‘I will never understand Englishmen. How could he have been so blind? You would not have deceived a Frenchman for one moment.’
‘How long have I been asleep?’ Cassandra swallowed the soup hungrily, it seemed days since she had eaten.
‘You have slept the clock round. Now eat, and sleep again. Tomorrow, perhaps, you may get up.’
‘But I need to talk to Nicholas.’ All Cassandra could think of was the expression on his face as he realised just how she had deceived him. What would he do? Such impropriety would not be countenanced by polite society. Even the reputation of the Earl of Lydford would be damaged by such a scandal and no mother of a marriageable daughter would have him in the house again. Godmama would never forgive her if she prevented Nicholas from making a suitable marriage, as surely he soon must.
‘Not in your room. It would be most improper for the Earl to visit you here. Besides, he, too, is resting. He came close to losing his own life in rescuing you.’
So it had been Nicholas who had dragged her from the water, and brought her back from the edge of death. She found she was rubbing her wrist where his strong fingers had marked her. ‘And the others? Our boatmen?’
‘They are all safe, thank God.’ Madame crossed herself. ‘Even the one whose fall caused the accident will live, although he has a broken leg. Now rest again, that is enough talk for now.’
Cassandra was too weak to argue, even if Madame’s autocratic manner had permitted it. ‘Yes, Madame,’ she said obediently, her eyes closing even as she spoke.
When Nicholas found her the next day, Cassandra was sitting quietly on a settle by the fire in the back parlour. In the high-necked grey gown Madame had found for her and with her cropped hair, she looked like a novice nun, he thought. Her face was porcelain-pale except for a livid bruise running from cheekbone to jawline on one side and she was flexing stiff fingers painfully in her lap. Her wrists were encircled with the marks of his fingers.
‘Cassie,’ he said quietly.
Cassandra jumped, then bit her lip with pain at the sudden movement. Nicholas took one step towards her, thinking only to comfort her, then stopped, recalling just who she was. He sat down abruptly in the wing chair on the other side of the fire.
‘We have to talk.’ He looked not at her but down at his clasped hands.
‘I know, Nicholas. I’m sorry. I was headstrong and foolish and I should never have allowed you to go on believing I was so young. But I knew you would not have brought me with you if you knew the truth.’ He looked up and saw her shudder. ‘But the thought Lord Offley… He kissed me, you know. He has wet lips. I couldn’t face it. I would rather have died than remain.’
‘You almost did,’ he said harshly, looking back at his bruised, cut hands.
‘Madame told me it was you who saved me.’ Still he could not look at her. ‘Thank you for saving my life, risking your own for me. I am truly sorry.’
‘You are sorry?’ The words burst from him, his bitter control snapping. ‘I should never have taken you on that boat. You were frightened and I ignored it.’ The anger burned inside. ‘This has been a sorry escapade.’ He got to his feet and thumped the mantelpiece with his clenched fist. ‘I must have been mad that day in London.’
‘But you weren’t to know my true age,’ Cassandra protested. ‘It was I who let you go on believing I was fifteen.’
‘Just how old are you, Cassandra?’ he demanded and saw her flinch at the harshness of his tone. He was standing over her, too close, and she had to look up to meet his scrutiny.
‘Eighteen,’ she confessed quietly.
‘Oh, Cassie.’ He took her chin between his fingers, turned her face from side to side as he studied it. ‘Of all the stupid things to do.’ There was a heavy silence, then he sighed and released her. ‘What a damn fool I’ve been. I think I must have known all the time, I just didn’t want to see it. For heaven’s sake, I nearly kissed you in Lyons.’
‘You did kiss me in Paris,’ she said miserably.
‘You do not have to remind me. Hell, Cassandra, you are a woman, however little experience you may have of Society and the world. You must realise…’ How to explain what he did not understand himself when it came to her?
‘Are you telling me I cannot trust you?’ she whispered.
‘Yes. No.’ He spun away, pacing the room in frustration at inability to explain to her. ‘That night in Paris I had been drinking, you had made me angry – and then to see you looking like that… I didn’t stop to think. I reacted.’ He struggled to find the words to explain. ‘Our Society keeps unmarried girls and men apart for a reason. Sometimes our natures overrule both sense and honour.’
He saw her throat move as Cassandra swallowed. ‘What you are trying to say is that if it happened in Paris, it could happen again if we are thrown together in such intimacy. You are saying that you must send me back,’ she stated bleakly. ‘That you have no alternative.’
‘I only wish I could send you back,’ he said bitterly. ‘Don’t think I haven’t considered it.’ He tried smiling but he doubted it was very reassuring. ‘But I could not consign you to Offley’s tender mercies, not and live with myself afterwards. Nor can I send you directly to my mother. From here you would have to travel back to Lyons, then across the Alps into Switzerland and on to Vienna, and that is too perilous a journey even with a reliable escort.
‘No, I have weighed all this since yesterday and you must continue to travel with me, but as my ward, under my protection. It is no further to Vienna through Italy than to retrace our steps.
‘Madame will find you a wardrobe of discreet clothes such as you are wearing now and we must hope you can pass as a schoolgirl. I will engage a maid.’ He broke off and looked at her. ‘It will seem unconventional, but we are on the Continent: and foreigners think all the English are mad, anyway. We must just avoid the company of our own countrymen.’
‘But Nicholas, you will be sacrificing so much, missing so much of the Grand Tour if we have to avoid everywhere where English tourists will be,’ she protested. So like Cassie. He could strangle her half of the time – the half when he wasn’t wanting to kiss her senseless – but she was always worrying about him.
He shrugged. ‘So be it. I doubt I’ll have a decent night’s sleep until I can deliver you safe to my mother, never mind an appetite for art galleries and antiquities.’ He doubted he’d ever have a decent night’s sleep with her so close, regardless of where they were. Now the guilt of feeling desire for the girl he had believed her to be was gone his body ached with need.
‘Thank you, Nicholas,’ she said fervently. ‘I promise I’ll behave with discretion. I made a good boy, but I’ll make an even better schoolgirl.’
She fixed him with an imploring gaze, which he met with narrowed eyes and a slight, dubious, shake of the head. ‘You’ll be bored to tears back in skirts and with a chaperone. When the novelty wears thin…’
The rest of the sentence was drowned by the rumble of carriage wheels on cobbles, followed seconds later by the raised voice of an Englishman. Nicholas pushed open the door a crack. ‘Hell and damnation. Upstairs quickly.’
‘But Nicholas – ’
‘Don’t argue. There’s a party of about a dozen English, three carriages. Of all the cursed bad luck!’
Chapter Ten
Once she was safely in her room Cassandra set the shutters open a crack to observe the new arrivals who appeared to consist of two families with their servants. The older men, both florid and overdressed, were alike enough to be brothers. They were accompanied by their wives – one stout and perspiring in the afternoon sun, the other thin and languid – and their sons. Cassandra saw at a glance they were not of the ton. Rich merchants from their dress and manner, she guessed. The yard soon emptied, the noise transferring to the interior of the inn as they and their luggage were distributed amongst the available rooms.
Did this mean she would have to be confined to this chamber until these people – or she and Nicholas – moved on? Already the restrictions of her new rôle were beginning to chafe. At least as a boy she could have slipped down the back stairs and into the stableyard and no-one would have spared her a second glance.
There was a light tap at the door and Madame came in, accompanied by a pretty blonde woman in her early twenties whom she introduced to Cassandra as Madame Vernet, the apothecary’s wife. ‘Monsieur entrusted me to engage a companion for you, m’selle, and he has requested me to ask you to come down to dinner this evening with Madame Vernet.’
‘And the other visitors?’
‘They are not of the best society, m’selle.’ The widow spoke with hauteur, as if she and her inn were used to better. ‘Monsieur le Comte thinks it would be useful for you to practise your new rôle among people who do not know him.’
Cassandra felt her spirits lift at the prospect of a chance of escape, a change of company. ‘What am I to wear?’
‘Monsieur and I consider what you are wearing is entirely suitable for a young lady not yet out.’
Cassandra smoothed down the light grey skirts of her gown and sighed. Her new resolution to behave like an obedient young lady was being sorely tested sooner than she would have expected.
