by Stella Riley
Her French was quite good but it wasn’t that which surprised Pauline. Then she thought, Of course. D’Amboise told the Vicomte de Charenton and the Vicomte told Milady here. But why is she interested? She can’t want the rooms for herself.
Aloud, she said merely, ‘Quite true, Madame.’
Celia continued languidly plying her fan.
‘How many rooms?’
‘Three. They’re in the attic but they’re reasonably large and quite well lit.’
‘How much are you asking?’
‘Five livres a month, Madame.’
Celia tilted her head thoughtfully. She’d had a very unpleasant interview with Francis during which he’d told her it would be a cold day in hell before he did anything else for her. This, since Eden had still not sent a reply, meant that she needed to mend her fences – and supplying better lodgings seemed a reasonable way of doing so. The only snag was that, when Colonel Peverell’s army-pay ran out, she’d end up paying the rent herself – or rather Hugo would. So she said, ‘Five livres? For an attic? Surely you’re joking. Not a sou more than three.’
Pauline decided that things were moving too fast for her liking. She said, ‘Pardon me, Madame – but before we go any further, I’d like to know who my prospective tenant might be. I assume it’s not yourself?’
‘Well, of course it’s not me! Do I look the sort to live in a horrid attic for three livres a month?’
‘Five,’ corrected Pauline smoothly. ‘No, Madame. You don’t. So who is it?’
Celia drew an impatient breath and said brusquely, ‘My brother and his friend. And their servant, of course.’
Pauline’s heart sank. Men. Three of them.
She said carefully, ‘I’m sorry, Madame. I’m not sure that will suit. I share the house with a young woman --’
‘Yes, yes. I know. But I don’t see why that should be a problem.’ Celia raised supercilious brows and added, ‘My brother is a gentleman.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ agreed Pauline. And thought, But he’s still a man. Worse still, he’s English – and everybody knows what a barbarous lot they are.
Sensing that the interview wasn’t going according to plan, Celia adopted a friendlier tone and said, ‘Look, my dear. My brother is a Viscount. He’s acquainted with the widowed Queen and her son, King Charles. But he’s hard-pressed for money just at present and his current lodgings are both damp and stupidly expensive.’ She saw no need to mention the fact that, since the Colonel’s pay wouldn’t stretch to cover the arrears of rent, he and Francis were on the brink of eviction. Smiling into the unresponsive face, she said persuasively, ‘Won’t you at least consider it? Better still, let me send my brother to see you so that you may judge for yourself.’
Pauline would have liked to refuse but was aware that, if she did so, the attic might remain permanently unoccupied. With unconcealed reluctance, she said, ‘Very well, Madame. I make no promises … but you may tell your brother to call at number sixteen, Rue des Rosiers tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock.’
‘Excellent.’ Celia beamed at her. ‘And the rent? Shall we say four livres a month?’
‘Five,’ returned Pauline stubbornly. ‘Since there are three of them.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
SEVEN
Francis considered tossing Celia’s note on the fire unread and then thought better of it. There was just a chance she’d decided to apologise and show some regret for their late parent – though he doubted it. The hurriedly written missive contained only the time, place and reason for his appointment that afternoon – along with instructions to put on a decent coat and at least try to be charming.
His mouth curled derisively. She was hoping to get around him, of course. But the lure of better lodgings for which, for a time at least, Celia could pay wasn’t something to be resisted. Scanning the note again, he decided that a fragment or two of additional information might not have gone amiss. Then, because Ashley had gone off to see Marshall Turenne and taken Jem with him, he resigned himself to polishing his own boots and brushing the less shabby of his two coats in the hope of making a good impression.
At precisely three o’clock, Francis trod up the steps of number sixteen, Rue des Rosiers and plied the gleaming brass knocker. Then the door opened and he found himself face to face with the woman he’d last seen in the Green Room of the Théâtre du Marais.
The surprise was mutual. Pauline said abruptly, ‘You’re Milady Verney’s brother?’ And absorbing the resemblance, ‘But of course you are.’
Removing his hat and summoning a rueful smile, he said, ‘I fear so. Francis Langley, if you recall.’
‘I do, as it happens. You’d better come in.’
He bowed and stepped into the immaculate hall.
‘You must think me immensely slow-witted. I had no idea, you see, whom I was to have the pleasure of meeting this afternoon. My sister even neglected to tell me your name.’
‘Pauline Fleury,’ came the brusque reply. ‘Madame, to you. And, as for being dense, I hadn’t realised you were English. You speak extremely good French – as, I seem to recall, does your friend. I understand he wants to live here, too?’
‘Yes.’ Something in her tone suggested to Francis that he’d better clear away any misconceptions. ‘We are constrained by the emptiness of our pockets into sharing a lodging. But we’re neither joined at the hip nor in love with each other – in case you were wondering.’
For the first time, the ghost of a smile appeared.
‘The thought had occurred to me. Did he stay behind just to prove your point? Or did you think I might be overwhelmed by the pair of you?’
‘I rather suspect,’ said Francis smoothly, ‘that there’s very little that would overwhelm you, Madame. But no. Colonel Peverell isn’t here because he went to St. Germain yesterday and hasn’t yet returned.’
‘Hm.’ Pauline’s brows rose. ‘Move in lofty circles, don’t you? No – don’t answer that. I might not find it quite the recommendation you’d expect. On the other hand, I can see that I ought to offer you a chair so you’d better come in to the parlour.’
The room into which she led him had a sparse sort of elegance which he rather liked. In fact, if one looked beyond the white line of the scar which marred her left cheek, Madame Fleury herself was not without a certain style. She dressed well and her figure was good. The hazel eyes, too, were remarkably fine, if a trifle sharp … and the neatly-arranged brown hair was thick and glossy. All in all, thought Francis, she was still an attractive woman and was probably no older than he was himself.
He said suddenly, ‘I am an idiot. You’re Pauline Fleury.’
‘So I have said.’
‘No – no. You’re Pauline Fleury, the actress. I saw you play Mary in L’Ecossaise. It would have been early in ’46, I think.’
She nodded but her expression remained unchanged. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Yes – though I thought the play mediocre. You, on the other hand, were extremely convincing.’ He smiled. ‘By the end of it, I was more than half in love with you.’
‘I’m flattered.’ A pause. ‘It was the last role I ever played.’
Taken unawares, Francis narrowly avoided the obvious pitfall. Instead, his tone as matter-of-fact as hers, he said, ‘Then I’m doubly glad I saw it.’
Another faint smile dawned.
‘Very good, Monsieur Langley. You have passed the test and may now sit down.’ Then, when he had done so, ‘The first thing I want to make clear is that I’d have preferred a female tenant. Consequently, I’m not overjoyed at the prospect of having one man stamping about over our heads – let alone three.’
‘That’s understandable. For my own part, however, I can only hope you’ll consider giving the Colonel and me a chance to prove that we … er … don’t stamp.’
‘You haven’t seen the rooms yet.’
‘I’ve seen enough to know that I needn’t worry about cockroaches and lice.’
If the compliment
pleased her, it didn’t show. She said, ‘Why are you really quitting your present lodgings?’
‘Because, squalid as they are, the unpleasant gentleman who owns them insists on eight livres a month – and we’ve reached the point of having to choose between paying the rent and eating.’
The lack of self-pity coupled with the fact that he hadn’t tried to lie to her, roused Pauline’s approval. She said, ‘You don’t give the impression of somebody who’s spent their life scrimping and scraping. Rather the reverse. Don’t you get an income from England?’
‘No. My family’s lands were sequestered years ago and Colonel Peverell’s brother chose the winning side.’ He smiled wryly. ‘We’re a pair of out-of-work soldiers, living on our wits – and, just at present, not making a very good job of it.’
‘You’re certainly not making a very good job of sounding like ideal tenants.’
‘No. I could try telling you than I’m a Viscount and that I spent my younger days at the late King’s court, writing quantities of largely indifferent poetry. But where’s the use in that? Times have changed.’
There was a long silence while Pauline wrestled with her instincts. Then, giving way to them, she said, ‘You’d better look at the rooms.’
Unprepared for it, Francis remained glued to his chair.
‘Willingly. Does that mean that you --’
‘It means I’ll give you a month’s trial. But if you don’t pay the rent, you’re out on your ear,’ she warned him flatly. ‘And another thing. I share this house with Mademoiselle de Galzain – and her father as well, worst luck. Him, you’d be wise to steer clear of – but that’s up to you. However, if either of you tries laying a finger on Athenais, I’ll have your balls in a pie. Clear?’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Francis. And thought, Oh my God. It’s going to be like staying sober in a wine-cellar. Aloud, he added, ‘You have my word that Mademoiselle will always be treated with the utmost respect.’
‘She’d better be,’ retorted Pauline. And then, ‘Well? Are you coming? It’s three flights up.’
* * *
Pauline waited until after the evening’s performance before breaking the news to Athenais. Since, however, she didn’t immediately reveal who the lodgers were to be, Archie slumped gloomily into his chair and muttered bitterly, ‘Anuvver sodding female in the ’ouse. It’s enough to make man cut ’is own throat.’
Struggling not to laugh, Athenais told him to speak French or hold his tongue. And, to Pauline, ‘That’s wonderful. When will she move in?’
‘At the end of the week. And it’s not a she.’
Athenais’s brows soared. ‘A man?’
‘Two, actually.’ With irritation, Pauline watched Archie’s expression change from despondency to something akin to glee. ‘And their servant. It’s not what we wanted – but it’s better than leaving the rooms empty.’
‘It’s a flaming miracle,’ breathed Archie.
Athenais ignored him. His determination to speak English because Pauline couldn’t was driving her demented. She said, ‘Of course it’s better. We needn’t see much of them, after all.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Archie. ‘I plans to make ’em very welcome. Very welcome indeed.’
His daughter impaled him on a severe gaze and, still in French, said, ‘You’re not to plague them. And you’re not to touch them for money. Not ever. Do you hear me?’
Archie shrugged and grinned into his ale.
Fixing her eyes on a point several inches above his head, Pauline remarked that it wouldn’t do him any good if he did try borrowing money from the tenants, since they had none to spare.
Archie looked up, frowning. Then, because he knew it was the only way to get an answer out of the old cat, he made the ultimate sacrifice and switched to French. ‘What do you mean – none to spare? How do you know?’
‘Because they’re exiled Royalists,’ came the sour reply. ‘With empty pockets.’
Archie surged to his feet.
‘They’re English? You’re saying they’re bloody English?’
‘Yes. Are you deaf as well as stupid?’
He only heard the first word. The rest was lost in a shout of delight. Pauline eyed him with acute disfavour. Then, becoming aware that Athenais was staring at her in stony silence, she said, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘No. A minute ago you didn’t care who lived upstairs.’
‘Two – or is it three? – Englishmen are a different matter. Father’s going to talk non-stop. He’s going to tell them all about himself and all about me and he’s going to call me Agnes. So they’ll call me Agnes. And in no time at all, half of Paris will be calling me bloody Agnes – and knowing I’m a bastard and probably the colour of my garters, as well!’
Pauline reluctantly recognised the truth of this. Sober, Archie might be reasonably discreet; drunk, there was no telling what he might say.
‘Then we’ll have a quiet word with the lodgers. They’re gentlemen and I suspect they know how to keep their mouths shut. Also, you know them.’
‘I don’t. The only Englishman I know is him.’
‘Not quite,’ replied Pauline. And, as briefly as possible, explained.
At some point while she was talking, the annoyance in Athenais’s face was gradually replaced by an expression which Pauline couldn’t interpret. Consequently, when she stopped talking and the girl still remained silent, she said, ‘What’s the matter? You remember them, don’t you? One dark, one fair; both tall and a bit thread-bare but equally spectacular?’
To disguise the fact that a strange sensation was gripping her insides, Athenais rose and walked to the fire. Then, kneeling on the hearth, she said distantly, ‘I remember. And you think they can be trusted?’
‘As much as any other man,’ responded Pauline cynically. ‘I’ve already threatened dire reprisals if they bother you. And as I said, they’re gentlemen. One of them is even a Viscount, for God’s sake. So they follow the rules or they go. It’s as simple as that.’
Athenais didn’t think it was going to be simple at all. Of all the men in the world, he was going to be living in the same house. They might pass on the stairs or in the hall or meet in the kitchen. He might brush her hand in passing or smile at her with those extraordinary eyes. And since her insides were already tied in knots at the mere thought, she didn’t know how on earth she was going to manage the reality.
Drawing a long breath, she summoned up her craft and said indifferently, ‘Oh well. If you say so.’ Then, half-turning and managing a flippant smile, ‘And I suppose having two gallants upstairs could come in useful. At need, they might even frighten off the Marquis d’Auxerre.’
* * *
After taking formal leave of Marshall Turenne, Ashley returned to Paris and went directly to see the King – now once more inhabiting the Louvre. Charles received him in a vast, dilapidated salon where one small fire fought a losing battle with the damp and the draughts. Ashley bowed and then said bitterly, ‘My God, Sir – do you have to live in this mausoleum?’
‘Awful, isn’t it?’ grinned Charles. ‘There’s moth in the hangings, worm in the furniture and rot in the floorboards. Father would have had a fit.’
‘And Her Majesty, your mother?’
‘Has them constantly.’ And, waving the Colonel into a chair near the pitiful fire, ‘What’s on your mind? I don’t suppose you’re here just to cheer me up.’
‘As it happens, I was rather hoping to cheer us both up.’
‘Ah.’ Dropping into the other chair and hooking one long leg over its arm, Charles regarded his visitor with mild foreboding. ‘You want to talk me into sanctioning something no one else will sanction. Yes?’
A smile touched the green eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘I thought so. You don’t change much, do you?’
‘I change more than you think, Sir. And I’m not the only one.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning that we�
�ve been licking our wounds for nearly a year and that if we want to salvage anything from the wreckage, we ought to be doing so before it’s too late. Think about it, Sir. Ireland surrendered to Cromwell three months ago and Scotland’s likely to go the same way very soon. Your friends in England have been left to try and make the best of a bad job. Given long enough, they’ll succeed. As to your friends here, they’re living hand-to-mouth, without either purpose or hope. Another year like the last and they’ll either be so dissolute or disillusioned that they’ll be useless to you.’ Ashley paused. ‘I know our resources are limited – but we ought at least to be trying. If we don’t, the day will come when we won’t have a man left worth counting on.’
‘Including yourself?’
‘Perhaps. Sir, I could name you at least three fellows who’ve taken to the bottle and a couple of others who spend their time picking fights. Major Langley is turning into a confirmed gamester – which, given the company he’s keeping, is likely to result in someone sticking a knife in his back one dark night. I call that a damned waste.’
The dark brows rose and Charles said, ‘So what are you suggesting? That I start a hare purely for the purpose of giving the out-of-work soldiery employment?’
‘No, Sir.’ Ashley battened down a flicker of irritation and his voice, though cool, was perfectly level. ‘But I do think that – after the years of service these men have given to your father and yourself – they deserve some consideration.’
Flushing slightly, Charles left his chair and paced off across the room. Over his shoulder, he said curtly, ‘Do you think I don’t know that? But I’m not my own master. I’m just a piece on a chessboard. All my moves are dictated by knights and bishops and queens, in a stream of never-ending advice. God! I can’t even sneeze without weighing the consequences.’ He swung round to face the Colonel and added explosively, ‘Do you think I’m not sick of it, too? But when you don’t even own the clothes on your back, it’s a bit difficult to formulate any grand plans.’
