by Ruth Axtell
She murmured sympathetically. “And Madame Royale, I trust she is well?” she asked, referring to the Comte’s niece, the only remaining offspring of the beheaded Louis XVI.
“She is very well. You shall see her for yourself.” He made a motion toward the room. “And the Duc d’Angoulême is here from London. We are all, as you can imagine, looking forward to our return to France.”
“You think it will be so soon?”
“No one can say, but our hopes are quite high now that the Corsican has suffered such reverses on the Russian front.”
After chatting with him a few more minutes, Céline paid her respects to the other members of the royal household. Her mother appeared and took her to greet a few more of her old acquaintances.
A weak tea was served. Céline looked forward to several days of tedium. She doubted she would discover much news of value in this environment where everything was steeped in the past.
After greeting the only people who interested her, she made her way out to the terrace, feeling stifled inside. The gardens, despite signs of neglect, still displayed an air of elegance.
Perhaps she could enjoy some good rides and walks if the weather held. Though it was hard to ride unaccompanied at Hartwell. The ladies usually rode or drove in groups. Since her widowhood, Céline was no longer used to such a formal way of life, where every activity was regulated and overseen.
The memories she rarely indulged in London always thrust themselves into her thoughts when she came to Hartwell. She could never forget her mother’s role in breaking up the one and only love she had experienced in her twenty-eight years. Stéphane Delacroix.
Céline had met the young French cadet during the brief peace, when she and her mother had returned to Paris, her mother hoping to regain some of the family’s wealth lost during the Revolution.
Céline believed her mother’s hatred of Bonaparte had as much to do with his government’s unwillingness to return her husband’s ancestral home as for political reasons.
Céline had been introduced to the handsome cadet at the home of one of her mother’s friends. Possessing neither the title nor wealth to satisfy her mother’s ambitions, Stéphane had been rejected out of hand as a suitor. With Valentine’s help, however, Céline continued to meet Stéphane in secret. When her mother discovered it, she cut short their stay and brought Céline back to London posthaste, unmindful of Céline’s threats, hysteria, or sullen silence.
Hostilities between the two countries had soon resumed. Once back in London, her mother had used every penny she had for Céline’s coming out, impressing upon her the need to make a brilliant match.
“You have looks and charm, chérie. Use them to advantage, if you don’t want us both to spend the rest of our days eking out an existence in some milliner’s back shop.”
As the season advanced and no suitable young gentleman proposed, her mother had paced the floor, wringing her hands. “You must do more to encourage them. You cannot stand looking such a tragic figure, as if you are already in decline. You must put yourself out.”
But Céline found it impossible to behave lively like the other debutantes that season, when her heart was broken.
The memory of her emotional state at seventeen only drew a shudder of distaste from her vantage of eight-and-twenty. Older and wiser, she could only feel pity for that green girl who had shed so many useless tears.
Valentine had been her lifesaver, the one who arranged a secret correspondence for her and Stéphane.
But her mother had not given up. With no young men coming up to scratch, she had fixed her sights on an older man, someone for whom her daughter’s youth and beauty would outweigh her lack of dowry sufficiently to extract a proposal of marriage.
After carefully taking stock of the wealthy bachelors past their prime, her mother had selected the Earl of Wexham, a widower with a vast fortune. It mattered little that he was three times Céline’s age.
When Céline balked at having to entertain the old earl, her mother’s anger had given way to palpitations and swoons. She had taken to her bed, crying out that Céline would be responsible for her death and blaming her for their precipitous return to England before she could regain their family’s wealth and ancestral home. Céline had countered that she’d rather do anything than sell herself to a man she found repugnant.
Things had been at a stalemate, her mother refusing all food, when Céline had received news of Stéphane’s death. It was Roland who had written to Céline. Stéphane had fallen at the Battle of Ulm in Bavaria, a national triumph for Napoleon, a personal tragedy for her.
Valentine had held her in her arms as Céline sobbed, her dreams and hopes shattered by one simple sentence. Fallen in battle, a hero’s death, but he is no more . . .
Valentine had been her only confidante. She was the one who’d made her get up in the morning; dressed her in the finery her mother insisted she wear, when all she wanted was to wear black; lectured her that she must smile and go on no matter what she was feeling inside.
“You must think not only of your own survival but of your mother’s. What will become of her if you should succumb to self-pity? You will find yourselves on the street,” she spat, her eyes filled with a venomous light as if she had firsthand experience. “You think you are the first girl to fall in love and lose her young man? Bah! You will survive a broken heart—but you may not survive the streets, ma chérie. In a few years your body will be broken—and then you will wish for a wealthy man to offer you his hand—but you will find only those who will take from you without a wedding ceremony!”
In the end, Céline accepted the earl’s marriage proposal. There seemed little choice. Only later did she discover the hard bargain her mother had driven, extracting a generous marriage settlement for her only child.
Old enough to be her father—even older than her own father would have been—the earl had been, nevertheless, unfailingly attentive and kind to her during his courtship.
Innocent that she was at the time, she was lulled into believing that a paternal figure like the earl would make no demands on her as wife.
How naïve she’d been.
At first she had tried to love him, doing her best to hide any distaste or failure to reciprocate his feelings.
But in the end, it had mattered not. When after a year, then two, she had failed to produce an heir, his own devotion had cooled until all that was left was a cold disdain in private and a brittle politeness when the two were in public. He had occupied his time in the House of Lords and on his country estate, hunting with his cronies.
It was only by chance that she heard of his mistress, the first of a string of actresses or dancers. Céline could be sure that some well-intentioned friend would make sure she knew the latest gossip. She’d felt relief, believing he would leave her alone, but to her chagrin, the earl continued making demands on her at regular intervals though with no success. She continued barren, and he railed against having been fooled by her and her mother.
For seven long years, she had endured her existence, going about society as if everything was well, though she knew from the looks in people’s eyes that they were assessing her. Where was the heir? It was no secret that the earl had married because he needed a son. His first marriage had produced no children.
No one would fault him. It was the bride’s duty to increase.
Then she’d had to ignore the rumors about her own life, whenever she seemed to give her attention to some gentleman over another. Being French, naturally she was assumed to have a string of paramours. After a while she became indifferent to the gossip and learned to ignore the murmurs behind her back, laughing and shining in society as a leader of fashion as her dreams died and her soul dried up within her.
But her mother had been well provided for, moving out to live at Hartwell House with the cream of the émigré society, while Céline spent her days in town, preferring to cultivate the British ton.
When the earl had dropped dead of a heart at
tack during a hunt, at first Céline had felt nothing but shock, followed by numbness. The relief had not come until later as she realized what widowhood with wealth could bring—not happiness but independence.
Gradually, she began to enjoy that independence. The only thing marring it was the earl’s sister coming to live with her.
Agatha had been a thorn in the flesh since then—albeit a minor one.
In compensation, Céline was left a sizeable fortune. The bulk of the estate had been entailed, passing on to his nearest male relation, a nephew, the new Earl of Wexham. But Céline had been given life use of a townhouse, as well as a generous jointure.
Suffering the vapors and prone to hysterics, Madame de Beaumont had proven herself a tough negotiator when agreeing to Céline’s betrothal.
But all that was in the past. Céline shook off the recollections, a conscious effort she had to undergo each time she came out to Hartwell.
“You have come from town?” a pleasant, masculine voice spoke over her shoulder.
She turned from her contemplation of the gardens to face another habitué of Hartwell House, Monsieur de la Roche. He was one of the close circle surrounding the would-be king. “Yes, to visit my mother.”
“Of course,” he murmured. “Such a devoted daughter.”
“And you are still at Hartwell?” she asked, eyeing him. She’d never felt comfortable around de la Roche. He was perhaps in his sixties, slim and of medium height. He had thin, gray hair, and his skin seemed to stretch too tightly over what had once been a handsome face.
His eyes of indeterminate color, a washed-out blue or green or gray with flecks of yellow, gazed back at her. “Yes. Serving our future king.”
Her gaze went to the old Comte. “Do you think his return is imminent?”
“Perhaps by the end of the year or early the next.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So soon?”
“Soon? I would say he has waited too long.”
“Yes, when measured by the years of his exile. But when one reads news from the Continent, it seems Napoleon is still unchallenged.”
“But that is changing.”
“Since his invasion of Russia, yes . . . it does appear so.” She smiled. “If you will excuse me, monsieur, there is someone I must greet.”
He bowed over her hand. “Of course, my lady.”
She probably should have stayed to ferret out more information from de la Roche, but something about him made her nervous. It was as if everything he said had a double meaning. With so many residents at Hartwell, it should be easy to avoid him during her stay.
By the time the long dinner was over, Céline was exhausted from making small talk and not being truly honest in anything she said —especially when it pertained to events in France, around which the bulk of the émigrés’ conversation revolved.
Valentine was waiting for her and rose as soon as Céline entered her room.
“You look tired, madame.”
“If I do, it is because I am,” she said, dropping into a chair with a weary sigh.
“Non, non,” Valentine scolded. “Come, let me help you off with your dress first. You will feel better in a dressing gown.”
“Very well.”
As Valentine helped her undress, Céline asked her, “Are the servants all settled in?”
“Yes. They have their usual rooms.”
“Is Mr. MacKinnon finding his way?” She realized she hadn’t had a moment to look for him nor had she seen him at dinner.
Valentine sniffed as she began to let down Céline’s coiffure. “That one seems to blend in wherever he’s placed.”
“I did not notice him waiting at table during dinner, so I wondered where he might have got to.”
“They put him to work in the kitchens overseeing the serving dishes.” She yanked at Céline’s hair. “Why have you allowed that man to come with us here?”
She was too tired to argue with her abigail. “I thought it best.”
“Hah!”
“Ouch!” Céline brought a hand up to her hair where Valentine pulled at it again with the hairbrush.
It was probably too late to send for MacKinnon now. First thing in the morning. She met Valentine’s gaze in the mirror. “Please have him come to me in the morning.”
Valentine’s lips tightened into a line of displeasure, but she said nothing more.
Afterward, as Céline lay in bed, her thoughts returned to MacKinnon. The man had certainly acquitted himself on horseback on the trip out to Hartwell. She couldn’t help but notice the fine figure he cut on her roan mare as he and Tom accompanied the carriages. She could see he was an accomplished horseman. At the posting houses, he had been attentive, coming up to her coach before the inn servants to ask her if she cared for refreshment. Was Valentine right and it had been a mistake to bring him out to Hartwell? Was she only giving him more opportunity to catch her in her spying activities and turn her in?
Céline turned in her bed, seeking a comfortable position on the strange mattress. She would have to alert Roland to put an escape plan in place should the worst happen.
She sighed, too weary to think of that now. Once again her mother had lost a sizeable amount at cards after dinner. If only she could keep an eye on her mother in the card room. From the woman who’d been so strong and domineering in her life, her mother had become increasingly childish and dependent. It was as if she’d deliberately misbehaved this evening after Céline’s remonstrances against wagering such large sums.
She gazed into the darkness, wondering what to do. Sometimes the weight of responsibility became too much . . .
Late the next morning, when Lady Wexham descended for breakfast, Rees was waiting for her outside the morning room.
“You wished to see me, my lady?”
As usual she looked as if she had just stepped off a fashion plate from the kinds of lady’s magazines his sister was fond of. This morning, she wore a pretty gown of pink and green sprigged muslin with a light green sash tied high above her waist.
She smiled at him. “Yes.” Motioning a little ways down the corridor, she led him out of the way of the servants carrying in replenishments of food, to a small alcove overlooking the side lawn. “I didn’t have a chance to see you yesterday and wished to ask how you were getting on.”
Once again she had surprised him. Since arriving at this French enclave, he had been astounded at both its size and the number of servants and retainers. Yet, she had remembered him. “Fine, my lady, I thank you.”
“Is the staff treating you well? I apologize that they are all French. I do hope it’s not too inconvenient.” Her honey-hued eyes showed genuine concern.
“No, my lady. We . . . make each other understood.”
“That’s good.” She stood regarding him a moment longer until he had the sense there was more she wished to say to him.
“I wanted to tell you that you may make use of the grounds as if you were a guest. They are quite extensive with many walking trails through the forests. Tom can show you about.”
He felt a surge of disappointment that that was all it had been. He inclined his head. “Thank you for your kindness, my lady.”
“And of course, you may ride. I see that you are an accomplished horseman. Did you ever work in the stables at Telford?”
He thought quickly. “Yes, when I was quite young.”
“Well, as you will soon see, apart from helping to serve at mealtimes, your time is pretty much your own.”
“Thank you.” Had she really taken the time to think of his free time? He thought of Oglethorpe and wondered if the young dandy ever thought about how Rees spent his Sundays.
They each paused. She looked ready to dismiss him when he spoke. “If I may ask you something.”
She blinked her pretty eyes. “Of course.”
“I noticed some creeks on our way here. Would I be permitted to fish?”
She pursed her fine lips. “I do not see why not. I shall inquire, but in the me
antime, you have my leave.”
He inclined his head once again. “Thank you, my lady.”
“You are welcome.”
Before he could move away, she held up a finger. He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t do so right away.
She moistened her lips, and he noticed a slight flush of color on her cheeks. “I have another request.”
Sensing it was something she was having trouble articulating, he waited.
“It is my mother.”
He blinked, not having expected that. “What is it you wish me to do?” he asked softly, wondering why she hesitated.
“She enjoys playing cards.”
He lifted his brows. “That is usual, is it not, for someone of her station?”
“Oh yes.” Her lips twisted. “Unfortunately, unlike the English, the passion for betting among the French is shared equally between men and women.”
He wondered why she would be telling him this.
“She plays very deep.”
Understanding filled him. Was she worried about how much her mother was losing? “How may I help?”
She smiled ruefully. “I’m not sure. She spends her evenings in the game room.”
He pondered. “You wish her to refrain from the table?”
“That would be impossible. What I wish is . . .” Again she moistened her lips, and he felt a burst of compassion for the trouble she was having in making her request. She drew in a breath. “What I wish is for someone to distract her . . . or . . . or warn me when she is losing more than she can afford. Perhaps you could station yourself beside her table in the evenings and come to me if you see her going beyond a certain amount?” She hastened on, “It is not that I wish to curtail her pleasure, but she—”
He bowed his head, not obliging her to finish. “I shall do as you request.”
“Thank you.” The words were uttered on a breath of relief.
He wished he could offer more. “If there is nothing else?”
She started, as if realizing she had been staring into his eyes. “No, nothing else.” With a nod, she dismissed him.
