Yvonne Goes to York

by M C Beaton

  ‘Yes, Hannah,’ whispered Yvonne, neither woman bothering with the formality of surnames at such a time.

  ‘I will come with you,’ said Monsieur Grenier softly.

  They crouched down in some bushes and peered through. They could not see the marquis, Benjamin, or Sir George.

  Mr Ashton was first off the boat, a small cigar between his teeth and a gun at his hip. Behind him came Petit, but unarmed. Two burly-looking men followed them. ‘You can leave your weapons in the boat,’ Yvonne heard Monsieur Petit say in English. ‘Our little trussed pigeons will not be putting up any resistance.’

  ‘I say, Petit,’ drawled Ashton in English. ‘That Yvonne Grenier is a pretty piece. What say I have a bit of fun with her first?’

  ‘When she is on board the ship, you may have all the fun you please,’ replied Monsieur Petit, and beside her in the bushes, Hannah felt Yvonne tremble, and whispered, ‘Courage!’

  Ashton and Petit and their henchmen strolled up to the hut. Hannah waited, trying to control her suddenly rapid breathing.

  Monsieur Petit and Mr Ashton went into the hut and in the next second, the marquis, Benjamin, and Sir George hurtled towards the two men who were waiting outside. While the marquis and Benjamin tackled the two men, Sir George slammed the door of the hut shut, bolted it, and lay against it, panting.

  Hannah, Yvonne, and her father came out of the shelter of the bushes and watched anxiously.

  Benjamin was grinning as he danced round one of the men. ‘Up with your dukes, monsoor,’ he crowed.

  But the Marquis of Ware was not going to waste time playing the sportsman. He kicked his assailant in the stomach and when the man doubled over, brought him down with a vicious punch to the back of the neck.

  Hannah gave an exclamation and ran headlong for the boat, where she seized one of the guns and ran back – just in time, for Benjamin’s adversary had drawn a wicked-looking knife. Hannah rammed the gun into the Frenchman’s neck and said, ‘Don’t move.’ He did not understand what she said but he did understand what the pressure of the cold muzzle against his neck meant.

  The marquis came up and took the gun from Hannah just as the Frenchman dropped his knife. Then the marquis brought the butt end of the gun down on his head and he sank unconscious on the grass. ‘The door,’ shouted the marquis, wheeling about as a gunshot sounded from inside the hut. ‘We forgot the door.’ He and Benjamin ran round to where the saplings and tree trunks were stacked and began to carry them round and pile them up against the door and then the window.

  ‘Now help me tie these two here up,’ said the marquis. ‘What have we got?’

  In the end, Hannah and Yvonne had to sacrifice the flounces from their gowns.

  And just as they had finished and were standing beaming at each other, glad that the misery and fear were over, a posse of militia came crashing through the woods headed by John Hughes, Mrs Clarence’s ex-footman.

  ‘Thank God it’s all over,’ said Hannah, and the normally resolute Miss Pym buried her face in Sir George Clarence’s shirt front and cried her eyes out.

  8

  She hugg’d the offender, and forgave the offence: Sex to the last.

  John Dryden

  That evening Hannah thought that they would all never be done with answering questions and giving statements to the magistrates. Ashton, Petit, and their two French henchmen were all in prison. The crew of the French boat, which had been lurking off Scarborough to take the Greniers to France, had all been arrested.

  It was the marquis who, after a look at the strained whiteness of Yvonne’s face, brought the interrogation to a close. He pointed out that the ladies were tired, and if necessary, they could he brought back on the following day.

  As they stood outside the courtroom in York, the marquis said, ‘I feel sure none of us wants to return to Bradfield Park.’

  John Hughes spoke up. ‘Lucy will want to see Miss Pym and Sir George,’ he said. ‘With my boys being away, we have plenty of room for you all at the farm.’

  To Hannah’s delight, everyone accepted the invitation, even Sir George. She had been afraid that Sir George might opt to return to his room at the inn. Benjamin volunteered to go to Bradfield Park and collect their luggage after picking up Sir George’s trunk from the Bull, and so they all set out in a large hired carriage for Rosewood Farm. Yvonne felt suddenly shy of all these English people. She felt she and her father had been forgotten. The marquis was making arrangements to call on Sir George at Thornton Hall when they returned to London, and Hannah was remarking that she was determined to have no more adventures. The only outing she wanted in the near future was a walk under the trees in Hyde Park. Sir George said gallantly that he would be delighted to escort her and Hannah’s eyes gleamed with happiness.

  But as they drew nearer to the farm, Hannah began to wonder how Mrs Clarence would receive her. Mrs Clarence had been her mistress. She might disapprove of an ex-servant’s being on such familiar terms with her brother-in-law, although, Hannah reminded herself, Mrs Clarence had run off with a footman, so had no reason to be high in the instep.

  Benjamin had gone ahead of them with a trap to Bradfield Park and he arrived in the farmyard at the same time as they did.

  For Hannah, the years rolled back as she saw the elegant figure of Mrs Clarence standing on the steps of the farm. She felt suddenly shy and gauche, very much like the little scullery maid she had once been when the seventeen-year-old Mrs Clarence had arrived to be mistress of Thornton Hall.

  Sir George helped Hannah down from the carriage and Hannah sank into a low curtsy, but Mrs Clarence ran forward and seized her hands, drew her to her feet, and gave her a fierce hug, and, as she had done in the past, found exactly the right words to say. ‘Why, Hannah Pym, what a great lady you have become. And how very stylish!’

  Hannah was only thankful she was not wearing one of Mrs Clarence’s old gowns, for Mrs Clarence had run away leaving all her clothes behind and Sir George had told Hannah after his brother’s death she might have as many of the dresses, hats, and pelisses as she wanted to augment her meagre wardrobe.

  She introduced Yvonne and her father and then the marquis. Mrs Clarence looked sympathetically at Yvonne. ‘You poor little thing. How exhausted you must be! And how lost you must feel, with us all babbling away in English.’ Mrs Clarence switched to fluent French. ‘So, come with me. You are to share a bedchamber with Miss Pym. I do not think you should sit up talking. A good night’s sleep is what you need.’

  The rest followed them in. The marquis was disappointed. He had hoped Yvonne would not go straight to bed, had hoped to study her for some signs of warmth and affection. The marquis knew he should now ask her father’s permission before making any advance to her. ‘How frightful,’ sneered an arrogant voice in his head, ‘if you ask some French carpenter’s daughter to marry you and she turns you down flat!’ He immediately thought he was being pompous and ridiculous, and yet, in a way, could not bring himself to admit that he could not face the pain a rejection by her would give him.

  He could only wonder at the resilience of Hannah Pym, who sat in the farm parlour with Benjamin behind her chair, talking and laughing, her eyes changing colour to suit her moods, looking as if nothing at all out of the way had happened to her during the day. Monsieur Grenier excused himself, saying he would like to speak to his daughter before she went to sleep.

  The marquis watched him go. Would Yvonne tell him about that kiss?

  Monsieur Grenier found his daughter climbing into bed. She smiled wearily at him and said softly, ‘It is hard to believe we are safe at last.’

  He sat down beside the bed and waited until she had settled herself against the pillows. ‘Tell me about this English marquis?’ he asked.

  Yvonne said in a neutral voice, ‘There is nothing much to tell. He came on the coach expressly to follow Monsieur Petit. He was … very kind. He paid for our accommodation on the road and in York. I … I need to repay him, Papa, for I accepted his generosity
only as a loan.’

  ‘I had almost forgotten how beautiful you are, my child.’ Monsieur Grenier studied her face anxiously. ‘You have been moving in exalted company and I hope it has not turned your pretty head. These English aristocrats are very easy in their manner to all. They do not, however, marry below their rank.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Yvonne wearily.

  ‘You have been much in his company under unusual and frightening circumstances. Did he make any advances to you?’

  ‘You forget, Papa, from the moment I left London, I was chaperoned by Miss Pym.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Miss Pym. Such a forceful lady, but with such a youthful heart. I admire her immensely. We shall find a little place to live in York, and then write to her, giving her our address.’

  ‘I would like that.’ Yvonne plucked at the coverlet. ‘It is doubtful, however, if we shall ever see any of them again.’

  He looked surprised. ‘But Mrs Clarence is to help us find a place to live. And listen! She says we may stay here for a few days to recuperate. Like Miss Pym, she is an excellent lady. How did you come to meet her?’

  In a soft, tired voice, Yvonne told him of Hannah’s mistress who had run away with the footman. ‘I understand they are to be married next week.’

  ‘To find you under such a roof would normally shock me,’ said Monsieur Grenier, ‘but having met Mrs Clarence, I cannot find her other than kind and beautiful. Now I will leave you to sleep.’ He rose and stood for a moment looking down at her. ‘You have been through much, Yvonne. I shall return to my old work at the carpentry shop. I am very good at it and they will be glad to have me back. Soon, I shall be able to give you a small dowry. There are many fine young men in the town among our compatriots.’

  He bent and kissed her cheek and then straightened up in surprise. ‘Tears, Yvonne? What is amiss?’

  Yvonne turned her face away. ‘I am tired, Papa. Leave me now. All I need is a good night’s sleep.’

  Monsieur Grenier made his way downstairs feeling uneasy. He hoped that Yvonne would settle down with him in York and find a husband. He stood for a moment on the threshold of the parlour, noticing for the first time how very handsome and virile a man the Marquis of Ware was. He was teasing Hannah about her adventures and his eyes glinted with mischief. What woman could resist such a man, thought Monsieur Grenier. He hoped the marquis had no plans to linger in York now that his work was finished. He remembered Yvonne’s distress at the break-up of her engagement, a distress she had tried so hard to conceal from him. He would not like to see her hurt again.

  And yet, as he moved into the room and sat down quietly, he could not help thinking that such a democratic gathering could never have existed in the France of his youth. Benjamin was being urged to take a chair and join the company and tell them his stories, which the footman gleefully did, at first in a rather strained, refined accent, and then lapsing into broad cockney, which Monsieur Grenier could barely understand.

  At last everyone decided to retire for the night. Hannah went upstairs to the room she shared with Yvonne. Despite all her outward merriment, her sharp eyes had missed nothing. She had noticed the way Monsieur Grenier had studied the marquis on his return from saying good night to his daughter.

  And then she noticed a familiar box on a table at her side of the bed. Wondering, she picked it up and opened it. On top was a note. ‘I took these back. I diddent think you wuld want to Lose them. Yr. Benjamin.’

  ‘Oh, you wonderful, silly boy,’ breathed Hannah, looking down at the presents Sir George had given her, along with that spoon from Gunter’s and one worn kid glove.

  For a brief moment, as she clutched her box of recovered treasures, she had a picture of an ancient Hannah Pym sitting in a cottage, turning over these mementoes and remembering when life had once been full of hope and colour. She gave herself a mental shake. Sir George was here, under Mrs Clarence’s roof. She would see him in the morning. Spinster and ex-servant that she was, she must enjoy his company while she had it, one moment at a time, and try not to think of the future.

  Yvonne awoke at dawn. Beside her, Hannah slept tranquilly, her head a veritable forest of curl-papers. Yvonne tried to go back to sleep, but the birds were singing noisily and sunlight was shining through a chink in the curtains.

  She decided to get up and go for a walk so as to compose her thoughts before she met the others again. She looked ruefully at her small stock of clothes and chose the least worn, a gown of green jaconet with only one flounce at the hem and a high neckline with a little ruff in the Elizabethan manner. It had been given her in lieu of payment by one of the ladies to whom she taught French. She pulled on a pair of half-boots, for the grass would be wet with the morning dew, and drew a large sage-green knitted woollen shawl about her shoulders.

  It was Sunday morning and no one in the house was stirring. As she stepped out into the glory of the morning, she could hear the church bells of York sounding faintly across the fields. At least there was no tolling death bell. People in England were hanged on a Friday so that their souls might reach heaven by Sunday morning, the English, for all their occasional cruelty, believing that a merciful God would forgive even the worst murderer and allow him into Paradise.

  She walked around the farmhouse and found a delightful garden at the back, knowing immediately it must have been planned by Mrs Clarence. Red and white roses tumbled in breath-taking beauty from trellises set against the wall. At the foot of the garden ran a river, no doubt the same one which ran through Bradfield Park, thought Yvonne. It was bordered by willows, their leaves trailing in the slowly-moving glassiness of the water, which mirrored the puffy white clouds sailing high above in a sky of pure cerulean. The sun was already warm on her head. There was a rustic seat by the river. She sat down on it and watched the moving water and leaves, in that moment happy and content.

  Yvonne heard a soft step on the grass behind her and reluctantly turned her head, shading her eyes against the sun, to see who it was.

  The Marquis of Ware stood there. He was impeccably dressed in ruffled shirt, blue coat, breeches, and boots, his hat set at a rakish angle on his head. She felt a sudden pang and asked quickly, ‘Are you leaving us?’

  ‘Only to go to York,’ he said, sitting down beside her. ‘I will see if I can give them all the facts they want so that they will leave all of you to enjoy your day in peace. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes, I thank you.’

  ‘You are a symphony in green,’ he said, his voice light and mocking. ‘Green grass, green trees, and a green girl.’

  ‘I did not expect company, milord,’ said Yvonne stiffly.

  ‘So what are your plans for the future now that you are reunited with your father?’

  ‘We talked about it last night. He will return to his job at the carpentry shop. Mrs Clarence says we may stay with her until we find somewhere to live. The room above the greengrocer’s is not suitable for both of us.’

  ‘And what will you do?’

  ‘I will find employ as a French teacher and seamstress and work at building up a dowry. Then Papa will no doubt find me a suitable husband among the ranks of our own countrymen. And what of you, milord?’

  ‘Return to my house in the country, after a few weeks in London, to my estates.’

  ‘But not by stage-coach?’

  ‘No, my chuck, definitely not by stage-coach. I will leave that mode of travel to such as Miss Pym.’

  ‘Sir George does not appear to have taken offence over the scandal,’ said Yvonne.

  ‘I suppose it would be so absolutely ridiculous if he did,’ commented the marquis. ‘I mean, Miss Pym the mistress of anybody or, for that matter, anybody’s wife!’

  ‘How stupid you are,’ said Yvonne, reverting to French in her anger. ‘How stupid and unseeing.’

  ‘You amaze me,’ he retorted in the same language. ‘I believe you have romantical notions of making a match of it with Miss Pym and Sir George – a practical Frenchwoman such as yourse
lf who plans to stitch and sew and teach dull ladies French, all in order to buy herself a husband. You had better make sure your dowry is up to his expectations or he may run off like your last love.’

  He then sat there stunned at his own cruelty, for her face flamed, tears started to her eyes, and she jumped to her feet.

  He got up quickly as well and caught her arm as she would have run from him, crying, ‘Forgive me, Miss Grenier … Yvonne … please stay.’

  She tried to pull free and all his ease of manner deserted him and the Marquis of Ware blurted out like a schoolboy, ‘I want you for myself.’

  She stood very still, the sun in her hair. She heard the chuckle of the river and the song of the birds.

  ‘You want me as your chère-amie,’ she said flatly.

  ‘No. I should have spoken to your father first. But I looked out of my window and saw you in the garden and … and … oh, Yvonne Grenier, I want you as my wife.’

  He released her arm. He took off his hat and stood humbly before her, watching the rapid changing emotions fleeting across her expressive face.

  Her eyes began to glow and she said softly, ‘But you cannot marry a carpenter’s daughter.’

  ‘Your father will no longer have to work.’

  She peeped up at him shyly. ‘Are … are you sure? Are you really sure you want to marry me?’

  He tossed away his hat. He swept her into his arms and bent his mouth to hers, lost as he had been before in the taste of her lips and the feel of her pliant body against his own. The world began to spin around them, slowly turning in whirling darkness with them at its axis, as he kissed her lips, her nose, her cheeks, and her lips again, trying to rein his mounting passion, but all the time feeling it fuelled by the passion in the slight body he held so tightly against him.

  Above them, Hannah Pym leaned her elbows on the sun-warmed windowsill and watched them with interest. Then she ducked back inside and went downstairs to make sure no one wandered out to disturb the passionate lovers in the garden.