by Lisa Berne
She put a hand on his arm. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
He smiled at her. “I will.”
“All right then,” she said, and reluctantly took her hand away, then sipped again at her tankard. A small bench near them came empty, and they took it, each of them turned to face the entrance. It was comforting to sit so close to Christopher, with her leg pressed up against his, their shoulders touching, but as the minutes ticked by Gwendolyn felt her nerves tightening, recalling Helen’s blotchy note all over again:
I Have to Go—I MUST go.
People came in, people went out.
None of them anybody they knew.
She drank her ale, she fidgeted, jiggled her booted feet, plucked at her neckcloth, readjusted the tall black hat.
I Have to Go—I MUST go.
Finally, just when Gwendolyn’s restlessness, her fear, was getting to the point where she might just have gotten up to go blindly searching for them through the town, the bells of a church clock somewhere began to peal, and two familiar people came into the front room.
One was Helen, in her favorite green riding-dress with the long train looped up behind, and the other was Étienne de Montmorency in exquisitely tailored buff pantaloons and a dark jacket, his white neckcloth as crisp, as artfully formed, as if he had recently risen from his dressing-table. He had no hand at Helen’s elbow, forcing her inside, but her face was set and pale. On his face was a look of subtle satisfaction.
Gwendolyn registered all this in a flash, then jumped to her feet and went to meet them, with Christopher at her side. She watched as Helen’s vivid green eyes came to her. They went wide, wide, her jaw fell slack, and she choked out in her gruff little voice:
“Francis!”
And then she swayed on her feet, her eyes closed, and she went limp.
De Montmorency managed to grab her by the armpits before she hit the floor, and stood there looking both awkward and annoyed. As he made no move to do anything further, Christopher went to them and said:
“Can I help?”
Coolly de Montmorency replied, as if it was no surprise at all to encounter Christopher and herself in a Bournemouth inn quite a long way from London, “By all means, Mr. Beck, merci. My wife’s proportions, being noble, hinder me from lifting her wholesale.”
“Wife?” gasped Gwendolyn.
“Indeed yes, Mademoiselle Penhallow—for I perceive it is you, not one of your brothers—we have just this minute come from the church. Mr. Beck, may I suggest that you convey Madame de Montmorency to my private parlor? I fear we are too much a vulgar object of interest to the hoi polloi.”
Christopher lifted Helen into his arms and followed de Montmorency down a passageway leading from the front room. Gwendolyn, stunned, trailed behind them. They all went inside and carefully Christopher placed Helen onto a long bench near the fire. She was already coming round; her eyes fluttered open and she glanced in confusion at the three of them, her gaze coming to fix on Gwendolyn with something that looked like horror.
Coolly de Montmorency said, from the chair into which he had lowered himself and now sat with one leg elegantly crossed over the other:
“Not Francis, my dear Helen, but Mademoiselle Penhallow. Certainly a striking resemblance, n’est-ce pas?”
“Not—not Francis?” muttered Helen, struggling to sit up. “I thought—”
Quickly Gwendolyn went to her to help, but in a spasmodic gesture Helen pushed at her shoulder, with the very hand upon whose fourth finger glimmered a wide gold band. “Get away from me!”
Gwendolyn took several steps backwards, as much from the sudden hatred in Helen’s voice as from her roughness in pushing her away. As she did a waiter came into the room and bowed toward de Montmorency.
“Ready for your dinner, m’soo? And for four now, is it?”
“No, you had best put it off. You may instead bring us some brandy.”
“Certainly, m’soo,” said the waiter, and withdrew.
De Montmorency glanced at Gwendolyn and Christopher. “Deeply does it pain me to be inhospitable, but I do not believe that among the four of us it would be—shall we say—a convivial meal. Under no circumstances do I dine where there is discord. It is, vous voyez, repugnant to a true gastronome such as myself.”
Helen had by now sat up. To Gwendolyn she said, with a snarl in her voice, “What do you mean by dressing in that foul way? And what have you done to your hair? You look ghastly.”
“I believe,” intervened Monsieur de Montmorency in that same cool manner, “it seemed an expeditious strategy by which to pursue us. Is that not so, Mademoiselle Penhallow?”
“More or less,” she answered, rather blankly.
He nodded. “Do sit down,” he said to her and to Christopher, as civilly as might any host in his own drawing-room, and when they did, he went on, looking at Helen, “Am I correct in now assuming that you left behind a note?”
“Yes,” she answered sullenly, as might a recalcitrant child admit to wrongdoing.
“I could wish you had a trifle more diligently followed my instructions, my dear Helen, but it hardly matters now.”
De Montmorency reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and Gwendolyn tensed, afraid that he was reaching for that deadly little knife of his. But he only produced from the pocket a neatly folded, sealed paper which he set on the table next to his chair. “A letter for the Duchess. Perhaps the two of you might take it with you upon your return to London, and save me the trouble of posting it?”
Gwendolyn looked over at Christopher. His expression was entirely inscrutable; it was impossible to tell how he was taking the news of Helen’s marriage. He said calmly to de Montmorency:
“Yes. We can do that.”
“Thank you. Mademoiselle Penhallow, did you think I meant to do you or Mr. Beck violence just now?”
“What a perfectly splendid idea,” put in Helen, with a certain vicious enthusiasm, and de Montmorency said to her:
“How savage you are, my dear Helen, in your speech. I do hope that—in time—you will learn to refrain from issuing boorish remarks such as this.”
A silence descended. De Montmorency sat swinging one of his feet gently back and forth, his expression now rather amused; Helen, huddled into a corner of the bench, eyes downcast and her face very red, turned the gold ring on her finger round and round; Christopher, Gwendolyn saw, was looking at her, and finally, spurred on by a kind of righteous indignation on his behalf, she burst out:
“How did you persuade a vicar to marry you, and at this time of night? Is it even legal?”
“A lavish donation to the parish fund helped greatly to ease Mr. Biddlecombe’s natural reluctance at being roused so late,” said de Montmorency, “and as for the legality of our union, I had, of course, in my possession a special license.”
Gwendolyn was a little daunted, but stuck to her guns. “You certainly didn’t have the Duke’s permission.”
“If you will but search your memory a trifle, Mademoiselle Penhallow, you will thus recall that Helen is twenty-one, and requires no such permission in order to wed.”
He was right. All too right. Finally, clutching at straws, Gwendolyn said, “But I thought—I thought you had . . .”
De Montmorency laughed softly. “Carried Helen off against her will?”
“Well—yes.”
“Really, mademoiselle, I am almost—almost!—insulted that you would believe me capable of such crass methods. No, when last night I suggested to Helen that we might find it to our mutual benefit to join ourselves in marriage, and as soon as possible, she responded with what I can only describe as flattering agreement.”
“But the note!” Gwendolyn persisted. “Helen, you cried over it!”
At this Helen looked up and scowled. “I was crying about having to leave my horse behind. And those stupid grooms will give him more oats than is good for him!”
It was so plausible an explanation that Gwendolyn found herself wanting to crazily laugh
, but instead said, as steadily as she could, “I’ll—I’ll talk to them myself if you like.”
Helen only shrugged coldly.
“So, as you must have already concluded, my friends,” said de Montmorency, “your precipitous journey here was, alas, all for nothing. Ah! Here is our brandy. I would infinitely have preferred to call for champagne, so that you might join us in a toast to celebrate our newfound felicity, but a chivalrous impulse made brandy seem more suitable. It would hardly be appropriate to drink champagne in the aftermath of an hysterical collapse, however brief.”
But it was only de Montmorency who accepted from the waiter anything to drink, and when the waiter had again left the parlor, he sat very calmly sipping his brandy. Another silence fell, broken at last when he said in a meditative way:
“An inferior beverage, this, and very possibly doctored to produce the amber color that is, bien sûr, so desirable in a quality product. How pleasing it will be to return home and restock my cellars with true Armagnac brandy.”
She had been correct, Gwendolyn thought, that their destination was France. Well, it was impossible to deny that de Montmorency was right; their journey had been in vain. Resignedly she said, “When do you leave?”
“Let’s go now,” said Helen to de Montmorency. “I’m sick of this foul inn, and everyone in it.” She shot a malevolent look at Gwendolyn as she spoke.
“While I applaud your gratifying expeditiousness, I fear we cannot sail at this hour,” de Montmorency replied. “But you have, I think, made a worthwhile suggestion which would benefit us all. Mademoiselle Penhallow, as you obviously cannot return to London tonight, I propose that you take the room which Madame de Montmorency and I were to share. You will doubtless find no other accommodations in Bournemouth and I can, at least, assure you that the sheets will not be unduly damp. Furthermore, I consign to you and Mr. Beck our dinner. My wife and I shall immediately decamp to my yacht where we will find ourselves ensconced in the utmost comfort, and my chef shall prepare for us a meal which, I may say with confidence, will likely surpass your own. En fait, I wonder I didn’t think of it myself,” he went on, still in that thoughtful manner. “My yacht in all respects will be preferable. Still, one cannot, under these unusual circumstances, think of everything, so I will waste no time in foolish self-recrimination. And now, I shall bestir myself to find my man Pierre-Édouard, to alert him as to our change in plans.” Languidly he rose to his feet, pausing for a moment to look in a glass hung on one wall. “I observe that my neckcloth was disarranged as I attempted to catch you, my dear Helen. How very distressing. My appearance now smacks painfully of the uncouth. Tant pis, it cannot at the present moment be helped. If you will excuse me, s’il vous plaît, I shall very shortly return.”
Gwendolyn sat for a few seconds absorbing this masterly speech, then jumped up and hurried after de Montmorency, swiftly catching up to him in the corridor. She took hold of him by the arm and he swung around at once. They were nearly of a height, and very calmly did he look into her eyes.
“Why?” Gwendolyn said, low and fierce. “Why did you do it? I don’t believe she loves you, or that you love her.”
“Oh no,” he answered equably. “You are quite right, mademoiselle. To put it in the simplest of terms, I need money, and Helen—eh bien, Helen requires shelter from the storm. It seems to me a wonderfully benign transaction.”
“What storm? I don’t understand.”
With a tinge of cynical amusement in his voice, he said, “Is it possible, mademoiselle, that you have failed to observe the unhappiness that rages within her? And you draw no inference from her reaction upon thinking you to be your brother Francis?”
Gwendolyn drew in a sharp breath. “You mean it’s Francis she cares for? But he—why, he’s clearly not at all interested in her that way!”
“Exactement.”
“I thought—I thought she liked Christopher!”
“A stratagem, however clumsy and limited in scope, to evoke in Francis the response of a jealous lover. It failed, and spectacularly so, which is why she was not displeased to receive my proposal. Indeed, she welcomed it as her—if this is not too extravagant a word—salvation.”
“Be good to her, monsieur,” said Gwendolyn fiercely.
“I shall endeavor to do my best. I don’t dislike her, you know. And I believe that I understand her. Too, you may be pleased to learn that in my letter to the Duchess I have begged her permission to have Helen’s horse transported to my estate.”
“That’s something, at least.”
“These are faint, very faint words of praise, but nonetheless I welcome them in the spirit of amity. And may I extend to you my felicitations, mademoiselle?”
“Felicitations? What for?”
“On noticing the absence of both your pearl ring and the Earl himself, I have deduced that you and he are no longer betrothed.”
“That’s right. We’re not. I broke it off earlier today.”
“Hence my felicitations. It was my private opinion, at the very outset, that you were far too good for Julian, who is possessed of—how can I put it least offensively?—a pedestrian mind. You are, I believe, well shut of him, mademoiselle. Enfin, if you will kindly release from your surprisingly strong grip my poor arm—merci beaucoup—I shall be on my way.” He bowed slightly, pleasantly, and strolled away down the corridor.
Christopher sat in one chair, Gwendolyn, looking pensive, even downcast, in another. They had the private parlor to themselves now; after some rather awkward farewells, de Montmorency and Helen were gone, off to board his yacht, there to spend the night and leave at sunrise the next morning. The fire, crackling and popping cheerfully in the parlor’s hearth, was for some time the only sound in the room. Finally Gwendolyn said to him:
“Christopher, are you—are you dreadfully upset?”
“Am I upset that we didn’t arrive in time to stop the marriage? I don’t see how we could have, signorina. It seems clear that Helen wanted to marry de Montmorency.”
“No, I mean—” Gwendolyn swallowed and went on in a strained voice, “I mean because Helen married someone else.”
Christopher looked hard at her. “Why would that bother me? That is, I hope she’ll be happy, but . . .” He trailed off. Into his mind came rushing little, baffling memories from these past weeks.
Gwendolyn, at Vauxhall: Do you want to dance with Helen? And then, a little later: Should I feel guilty for taking you away from Helen?
At Hyde Park, discussing Lady Jersey’s evening-party later that day, Gwendolyn, with an odd, earnest look of resignation on her face: Shall I make sure Helen knows you’re going?
And the next day, when he had gone early to the Egremont townhouse, to tell Gwendolyn he was leaving for Nottingham, and after Helen barely lifted her head from her breakfast to say goodbye, Gwendolyn saying, with obvious distress: I’m so sorry about Helen.
Christopher said, “Good God, Gwennie, is it possible—do you think I’m in love with her?”
Her eyes wide, Gwendolyn answered quickly, “Well, yes! The way you look at her, Christopher! So—well—tenderly. And all the time, de Montmorency says, she was in love with Francis! Which means she was only using you.”
Christopher sat back in his chair, taking all this in. Helen, it seemed, had been doing her best to flirt with him, in a bid to get Francis’s attention. To which he, Christopher, laughably oblivious to her agenda, had responded with all the simple courtesy he could muster. Meanwhile, Gwendolyn had believed he cared for Helen and had—with kindness, with sweetness, with generosity—been doing her best to promote the match. Lord, what a tangle. And the sooner unraveled, the better. Slowly he said to Gwendolyn:
“I wasn’t in love with her. I never was. To own the truth, I felt sorry for her.”
“Sorry for her?” echoed Gwendolyn. “That’s what I saw in your face? Pity?”
“Yes. I sensed, perhaps, a little of her desperate struggle.”
“You’re not angry that she tr
ied to deceive you?”
He shook his head. “No harm done—to me at least.”
“Oh, Christopher, I’ve been so worried! All this time I thought Helen was going to break your heart!”
“She didn’t. She won’t.” There was more he could say on the subject of his heart, but not now. Not now. In this moment, he was happy to be here with Gwendolyn. Happy to see the burden she’d been carrying lift away, the strain disappear, and to see her smile at him—in that singularly bright, sweet smile of hers not a shadow of anxiety now, or strain, or fear.
“Well, thank goodness!” she exclaimed, joy in her voice. “I’m so glad you’re all right, ma sherry moo!” Then she leaned back comfortably in her own chair and stretched out her booted feet toward the fire. “Well! What a day this has been! Quite the longest day of my life, I think! What do we do now?”
He looked at her and smiled. “I think we should have dinner.”
“Oh, yes, let’s! I’m starving, aren’t you?”
“Ravenous, signorina,” he said, and went to get the waiter, and before too long he and Gwendolyn were sitting cozily at the table in what was now their very own private parlor, a veritable feast spread out between them, and so they ate, and drank, and talked, and laughed, well into the wee hours of the morning.
Chapter 18
With luxurious slowness Gwendolyn drifted up, up, into wakefulness, conscious of a wonderful feeling of well-being. Of being rested. Renewed. She had slept deeply and dreamlessly, without, she thought, stirring at all.
She turned onto her side and opened her eyes.
With a curious lack of surprise she saw Christopher. He lay three or four feet away in this large bed, still asleep, on his side as well and facing her. He was wearing his shirt from yesterday, open at the neck, revealing a little of the strong planes of his chest, and his long dark hair lay in gorgeous disarray about his face and on his pillow. Drowsily she admired the strong line of his jaw, a little shadowed with new beard, his dark lashes and brows, the sturdy column of his throat.
It was strange, but somehow she hadn’t quite noticed—hadn’t really appreciated—just how remarkably attractive he was. Uniquely distinguished, yes, and very good-looking, and definitely appealing, especially when she factored in his intelligence, his kindness, his honesty, his courage and his steadiness—but for some reason she hadn’t, before, quite put it all together.