by M C Beaton
The marquis took a seat opposite Yvonne. The candle-light gleamed in his thick chestnut hair and his silvery eyes scrutinized her. ‘Tell me, Miss Grenier, why you trust your father?’
‘He is a good man. He risked his life saving many from the guillotine. He never thought the Revolution would turn into such a cauchemar.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Over two years ago. He smuggled me out of France and gave me letters to friends in London. I quickly found work.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘England may be at war with France, but all the English ladies want is to learn French.’
He studied her for a few moments, noticing the haunted expression in her large hazel eyes. ‘But surely the parade to the guillotine has ceased.’
‘They are no longer dragged there daily in their hundreds,’ commented Yvonne dryly, ‘but Madame La Guillotine is still kept tolerably busy.’
There was a long silence. Yvonne wondered what this marquis was thinking. His next question startled her. ‘Do you have a beau in London?’
‘Moi? Tiens! I teach French and mend the gowns of the ladies I teach for a little extra money. Who would court such as I?’
‘Strange. I would have thought you would have many admirers.’
‘Ah, that is different. There are young men in some of the households I visit and they can become a trifle tiresome. But what of you, milord? You ask so many questions and give nothing in return.’ Her large eyes sparkled. ‘What of your amours?’
‘Englishmen never talk of such, Miss Grenier.’
‘Oh no? Unless they are in their cups and with other gentlemen and then they talk and talk and talk. Par example, I was in the house of Lady Jedder, non? She has some sewing for me, what she calls “a little present”, which means she is paying me over and above the price of the French lessons but less than she would give a seamstress. Lord Jedder is talking to his friends and they walk into the library. They see me, or don’t see me, for I am of the rank of servant and such do not exist, non? So they talk freely, Lord Jedder has had his way the night before with a certain lady, a widow, but of good ton. He not only tells his friends this but describes the how, the why, and the wherefore in great detail. So after that, there was a certain milord in another house who wished to steal a kiss from me. He was very attractive and I had never been kissed, vous voyez. But I immediately thought how he would gossip and so I ran away.’
‘And so are you still kissless?’ asked the marquis, like any true aristocrat dismissing the rest of her discourse and retaining the one bit that interested him.
‘Yes.’
‘And when and how do you plan to lose your … er … lips?’
‘When I marry – if I marry.’
‘Oh, I am sure you will.’
Yvonne wrinkled her brow. ‘It is not so easy. I will, if I marry, choose one of my own countrymen. But I have only saved such a little bit of money, and without a dot – a dowry – such things are difficult.’
‘Had you known Miss Pym before?’
‘No. I met her for the first time on the stage-coach. I decided to confide in her because she appears so courageous. Now I feel I might have made a mistake.’
‘How so?’
‘Eh bien, I was dismayed when she insisted on enlisting your help, milord.’
‘A very sensible thing to do. Have I not said I will arrange your flight?’
‘Y-yes,’ she said doubtfully. ‘But it all seems to you like a game, and to me it is a matter of life or death.’
‘Here comes our Miss Pym. Do not trouble, Miss Grenier. We shall soon leave your villains far behind. I will tell the waiter to call you at four-thirty. We leave at five.’
Hannah entered with Benjamin at her heels and he repeated the arrangements before bowing himself out.
‘I am worried,’ said Yvonne as soon as the door had closed behind the marquis. ‘What if this marquis is working for the French? He says he is short of money.’
‘I think that was a hum,’ said Hannah.
‘But this Mr Ashton, he is with Monsieur Petit and he is English.’
‘But Ashton’s a loose fish,’ commented Benjamin.
‘He means that Mr Ashton is the type to gravitate to any sort of unsavoury company for money,’ explained Hannah. ‘You will find that Lord Ware is highly respectable.’
Yvonne sighed. ‘But so frivolous. Here I am in fear of my life and my father’s life and all he can do is ask me if I have any beaux.’
‘How interesting,’ said Miss Hannah Pym. ‘How very interesting.’
When they all assembled at the coach at five in the morning, having had a mere half hour to wash and scramble into their clothes, Hannah expected some sort of protest from the coachman, but he and his guard were all smiles and bows. The marquis must have paid them heavily, thought Hannah.
They had gone a little way up the Great North Road when they came to a steep hill and, as was customary, the marquis and Benjamin got out to walk to lighten the load. Benjamin kept looking anxiously over his shoulder. Their pace was so slow, he feared that the Frenchman and his friend would soon catch up with them. At this pace and having only gone this short distance from the inn, Monsieur Petit had only to run to catch them up.
The marquis, wrapped in a greatcoat with many capes and with a wide brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes, appeared lost in thought.
He suddenly called up to the coachman. ‘Is Hadley Hall not near here?’
‘Lord Trant’s place?’ called down the coachman. ‘’Bout a mile up the road.’
‘I have changed my mind,’ said the marquis. ‘Take us there and then you will still be in time to return to the inn for that couple we left behind and any other passengers.’
‘But that’s not what you paid me for,’ cried the coachman, fearful that the marquis would ask for his money back.
‘You may keep what I paid you,’ said the marquis, ‘only do not breathe a word to anyone of where we have gone.’
The coachman gave him a broad wink, and as the coach had reached the top of the hill, he told the marquis and Benjamin to ‘’op inside.’ The coachman was sure the marquis and Yvonne were eloping.
‘Now,’ said the marquis, once he was seated inside the coach, ‘there is a change of plan. Lord Trant, who is an acquaintance of mine, has a seat near here. I suggest we go there and stay today and tonight and set out for York in the morning. By that time, our pursuers will not know where to look. There is one problem. Did your father mean to meet the coach, Miss Grenier?’
Yvonne shook her head. ‘He sent me directions to his home. It is within walking distance of the Bell, where the York coach was to set us down.’
‘Nonetheless,’ said the marquis, ‘I feel you should write him a letter and give it to me. I will send one of Trant’s servants to Grantham with it to catch the mail.’
Yvonne looked doubtful.
‘Come, you are wondering whether to trust me with your father’s address. Give the letter to the servant yourself.’
‘But are you sure Lord Trant is in residence and will welcome us?’
The marquis smiled. ‘He has two marriageable daughters. I shall be very welcome.’
‘Then how are you going to explain our presence?’
‘I have French relatives. Miss Grenier is my cousin and you, Miss Pym, are an English friend of the family.’
Hannah was too gratified to protest. ‘Friend of the family’ pleased her immensely. She would have been cast down if he had planned to describe her as a family servant or even chaperone.
Yvonne’s face was white. She was tired and longed to see her father. She dreaded having to stay for even a short time in a household of strangers.
‘You can sleep all day,’ said the marquis, as if reading her thoughts. ‘You do not even have to leave your room if you do not wish to do so.’
The coach lurched to a stop. Hannah could hear the coachman calling out to a lodge-keeper and the lodge-keeper replying in a sleepy voice. Then there came
the grating sound of iron gates being opened and the coach moved forward.
The estates appeared to be large because it was some time later before the coach stopped again, this time in front of a huge sprawling mansion.
The passengers climbed stiffly down, Yvonne and Hannah feeling as if they had been miles on the road instead of travelling only a short distance.
An efficient butler answered the door, as majestic in his night-gown as he probably looked in his livery. Not by one flicker did he betray that he thought it extremely odd of the Marquis of Ware to arrive in a stage-coach at dawn, saying he had come on a short visit.
The butler led them through a large square hall and into a saloon on the ground floor where they drank coffee and admired the peacocks strutting on the terrace outside in the dawn light while the butler went to rouse the housekeeper and get their rooms prepared.
‘Is he not going to tell Lord Trant we are here?’ asked Yvonne nervously.
‘No need,’ said the marquis laconically. ‘I am always welcome. One of the benefits of being a bachelor with a title.’
So much for my matchmaking dreams, thought Hannah. This handsome lord is too far above Yvonne – and too much in demand!
4
Once a woman has given you her heart you can never get rid of the rest of her.
Sir John Vanbrugh
Hannah lay in bed awake and listened to the early-morning silence of Hadley Hall. She had been so sure that sleep would come immediately that she had eagerly fallen in with the marquis’s suggestion that she and Yvonne should retire to bed, after Yvonne had written that letter to her father.
Yvonne herself had handed it to a servant, concealing the address from the marquis as she did so, which Hannah now restlessly thought was rather silly, considering that the marquis had only to ask the servant when he returned what it was.
During her years as a servant Hannah had been used to rising very early in the morning and it was a habit she could not break. She secretly felt her inability to sleep late was a common trait and had been sure that her new status of gentlewoman would soon permeate her whole body. But she was wide awake with her thoughts. Yvonne had said she would probably keep to her room all day, but Hannah had no intention of letting her do so. That young lady should spend as much time in the company of the Marquis of Ware as possible. Hannah herself had every intention of presenting herself to their hosts.
And then she was in the drawing-room and Sir George Clarence was there. Hannah gave a glad cry and moved to join him, but he raised his quizzing-glass and stared at her appalled. ‘Who is this creature?’ he cried. And from behind Hannah came Yvonne’s anguished voice, ‘Miss Pym! You have forgot to put on your gown.’ Hannah looked down, and sure enough, she was clad only in her petticoat. She let out a cry of dismay and sat up in bed, unable for the first few horrified moments to believe it a dream. Although her dream or nightmare appeared to her to have been of short and horrifying duration, the sun was now high in the sky. Hannah climbed down from the high bed, feeling superstitiously that God had sent that dream to warn one ex-housekeeper who was getting socially above herself.
She pulled the curtains, which had been open only a little, fully back, opened the casement window and leaned out. The air was warm and sweet and fresh. Down below was a terrace with scarlet and white roses tumbling down from ornamental stone urns. A table with a white cloth had been set on the stone flags of the terrace, and at the table were seated a group of people: a silly-looking lady with a vapid face, two younger ladies – her daughters? – and a plump red-faced man.
The door opened behind Hannah and Yvonne walked in. She joined Hannah at the window.
The older lady’s voice carried up to them. ‘Well, Trant, I roused our gels as soon as I heard he was here.’
The group then was obviously comprised of Lord and Lady Trant and their two daughters.
‘After all,’ went on Lady Trant, ‘there is no denying Ware is a splendid catch. Why has he not married? He must be in his thirties.’
‘Amuses himself too much,’ wheezed Lord Trant. ‘Opera dancers and the like.’
‘Remember the delicate ears of our daughters, Trant!’
‘Sorry. But Ware is as rich as Croesus, so it stands to reason he don’t need to marry until he feels like it.’
Yvonne put a hand on Hannah’s arm. ‘He said he was poor,’ she hissed.
‘I never really believed that, you know,’ replied Hannah, ‘and I’m sure you didn’t either.’
‘Then why was he really travelling on the stage?’
Hannah was sure now that the marquis had been doing it merely for a wager or for some other equally frivolous reason. She was wondering how to reply to Yvonne without lowering the marquis in that young lady’s esteem when, down below, Lady Trant spoke again.
‘He is not alone, I gather. He has people with him, and both female. What are they like? Chubb is not good at descriptions.’
‘How can I tell?’ demanded his lordship testily. ‘I ain’t seen ’em yet.’
‘What are their names?’
‘Ware gave his card and a servant could hardly demand to know the names, lineage, and background of the women. Ware merely said something about the young one being a cousin and t’other a friend of the family, that’s all. Chubb says they all arrived on a stage-coach, but that butler of ours gets older and deafer and dafter by the day.’
One of the daughters gave voice for the first time. Hannah could see little of her, for she was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. ‘He didn’t even look at Clarrie and me in London.’ The voice was high and petulant. ‘If you ask me, he’s merely using our home as a hotel.’
‘Well, I ain’t so high and mighty as you, Letty,’ said the one called Clarrie in a surprisingly deep voice. ‘I say, let’s have a go at him now we’ve got him under our roof.’
‘And how can you “have a go at him”, as you so vulgarly phrase it, sister dear?’ demanded Letty sweetly. ‘I have a folio of water-colours to show him, not to mention entertaining him by playing the harp. What have you to offer?’
‘Show him the gardens,’ said Clarrie. ‘All gentlemen like gardens.’
Hannah drew back from the window. ‘I confess to finding myself a trifle hungry, Miss Grenier,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should descend.’
‘I will have something sent up on a tray to my room,’ said Yvonne.
Hannah thought quickly. ‘That will not do, you know. Your hosts would find it most odd if you did not put in an appearance.’
‘I will say I have the headache.’ Yvonne looked stubborn.
‘And what a waste of time that will be on this fine day,’ said Hannah bracingly. ‘And you in that old carriage gown. Do you not have a pretty muslin? The day is warm.’
‘I have a sprig.’
‘Then put it on! I can lend you a fine shawl. Come, Miss Grenier. It is necessary for both of us to talk to the marquis further and find out what plans he has made for conveying us to York.’
At last Yvonne reluctantly agreed and soon she and Hannah were descending the main staircase. A footman met them in the hall and led them through a saloon and out onto the terrace where the Trant family, now joined by the marquis, were seated at table.
The marquis rose and made the introductions. At first Lady Trant and her daughters only had eyes for Yvonne. Hannah thought Yvonne was looking very pretty and appealing and hoped the marquis thought so too. Yvonne was wearing a white muslin gown embroidered with little pink sprigs. It had a low neckline and puffed sleeves. Over it, she wore the brightly coloured shawl Hannah had lent her. Around her white neck was a simple necklace of seed pearls. Her hair was dark brown with little gold lights shining in it and dressed in a clever style; a knot of curls on top of her small head. Hannah noticed that Yvonne’s hair, although it was free of pomatum, shone with a silky light, and made a mental note to ask her what she put on it.
‘We are but recently come from London,’ Lady Trant was saying. She began to talk of
various notables while Hannah accepted tea and a plate of ham and kidneys. Yvonne listened dreamily to the rise and fall of voices while she gazed out over the sweep of the lawn. The soft air smelt of roses, newly cut grass, tea, and ham. She was unaware of the curious looks being cast on her face and gown by Clarrie and Letty. Both Clarrie and Letty were wondering whether to further their suit with the marquis by being pleasant to her, or whether to regard her as a rival. What sort of cousin? A first one, which put marriage out of the question, or a distant one, which made her dangerous?
Lady Trant had been discoursing on the merits of the latest play she had seen when she suddenly stopped and stared full at Hannah. Her rather vacant face appeared to harden and grow lines under the shadow of the enormous cap she wore on her head. ‘Miss Pym,’ she said slowly. ‘Miss Hannah Pym. Of South Audley Street?’
Hannah inclined her head in assent.
‘Are you acquainted with Sir George Clarence?’
Benjamin had just appeared and taken up his position behind Hannah’s chair. He gripped the back of the chair hard.
‘Why, yes,’ said Hannah with a pleased smile.
Lady Trant cast a look of horror at the marquis. ‘Lord Ware,’ she said stiffly, ‘much as we are pleased to entertain you in our home, we have our daughters to protect, and causing themselves to be brought into contact with a member of the demi-monde is beyond the pale!’
‘What’s this?’ goggled Lord Trant.
‘I fear your wife has been listening to malicious and unfounded gossip,’ said the marquis coldly.
Hannah found her hands were trembling and clasped them firmly on her lap. She fixed Lady Trant with a baleful look and said in a level voice, ‘Explain yourself, my lady.’
‘You ask me to explain myself!’
‘This could go on forever,’ said the marquis with a sigh. ‘Miss Pym, I heard the rumour and did not believe a word of it. The gossips are saying that you are the mistress of Sir George.’
Hannah’s sallow skin turned a muddy colour. ‘But there is no foundation for such a rumour. None! It is spite and envy. Sir George is a courteous and … and … kind gentleman. I am outraged.’
