by Regan Walker
“As you wish, Monsieur. I am at your service.” Lefèvre bowed again and disappeared through the doorway.
Jean escorted Joanna to a chair as Sophie returned with a tray of wine, bread, cheese and fruit. After they were served, Madame Travere asked the maid to show Gabrielle to the room for Joanna and to make ready the rooms for the other guests. “Sophie can show you the servants’ quarters as well,” she said to Gabrielle.
With a nod from Joanna, Gabrielle followed Sophie out of the room.
Donet, M’sieur Bequel and Joanna sat in chairs facing the housekeeper. Little Zoé chose to stand next to Donet, a gesture Joanna found endearing. Obviously, the girl had loved her papa very much and now that his equal was here, she was not letting him out of her sight.
Zoé could have passed for Donet’s child, a pretty little thing with hair almost as dark as the comte’s, but she had lighter eyes.
Jean looked into the face of the housekeeper he had known as a youth, thankful for her presence at this difficult time. Though older and her face lined from the years, she remained the stalwart soul she had always been, a safe harbor in a storm. Even when his father had cast him out, she had been sympathetic. “Marguerite, what can you tell me about the death of my father and brother?”
The housekeeper glanced first at his niece, but Jean could see no reason to hide the facts from her.
“Where the accident occurred is not far from the château,” she said. “The day was warm, the sun strong. Since the sky was clear, the comte had asked the carriage top be left down. He and the driver had exchanged words that morning over one of the horses, but ’twas not unusual for them to do so.”
Marguerite looked again at the girl, but Donet said, “Go on.”
“When the accident was discovered, Monsieur Giroud had the carriage brought back to the château. It is the one your father kept for his trips through the vineyards. From what Giroud said, the carriage upset going around that curve where the road dips. It ended up in the ditch. Your father was thrown out and killed, but your brother lingered awhile.”
“I thought Papa was sick,” Zoé put in, her eyes brimming with tears. “But he didn’t get well. I know he is gone, but sometimes I pretend he did not die.”
Jean put his arm around his niece and drew her close. “You are not alone any longer, ma petite.”
Sitting beside him, Lady Joanna gave Zoé a look of empathy. Understanding came to him as he recalled Cornelia telling him that years after Torrington lost his father, he lost his mother and then his older brother. Lady Joanna knew what it was to lose close family.
“What became of the driver?” Jean asked, curious.
The housekeeper shook her head. “We don’t know. He must have leapt to safety and, seeing the comte was dead, ran away for fear of what might happen to him. We have not heard from him since.”
“And the funeral?”
“The funeral was attended by a few friends, some neighboring landowners, the servants and the priest, of course. It was a solemn affair. Since then, we have tried to keep the estate running.”
“Is there a lack of funds?”
“Non, Monsieur. The lawyer has made funds available, but the workers who tend the vines do so halfheartedly. Your brother was well liked by them. And others are angry at their circumstances, which concerns Monsieur Giroud.”
“I will have a talk with him and see what can be done.” Jean looked to his quartermaster, glad he had decided to come. Above Émile’s deep-set dark eyes, his heavy brows drew together. Before they left Saintonge, they must set the estate to rights.
When they had finished the small repast, Jean got to his feet. “Zoé, would you show my friend Lady Joanna to her room? I will join you both for dinner.”
Though he knew she was reluctant to leave him, his niece nodded and took the lady’s hand. “I will show you upstairs, Mademoiselle.”
Lady Joanna smiled at Jean. “It seems I have a guide.” The two of them left the room hand in hand. When they were gone, he said to Émile, “Let us have a look at that carriage.”
“Before you go, Monsieur,” said Marguerite, “I have something for you.” She walked to the side table and pulled out a drawer. Reaching inside, she drew out a small box and removed something from it. Grasping it in her hand, she came back to him. “This is yours by right, now.” Into his open palm, she placed his father’s heavy silver ring with the Saintonge crest, three fleurs-de-lis and a bishop’s hat for Saint Eutrope, first Bishop of Saintes.
He slid the ring on his finger, wondering if he would leave it there. So much went with it he did not want. “Thank you, Marguerite.”
“I never thought to see it on your hand, Monsieur, but now that it is there, I see God’s hand in it all along. The younger son, scorned by his father, has returned to command all.” She crossed herself. “By His hand, ’twas meant to be.”
Jean waited until the housekeeper had gone and, with a heavy sigh, looked to Émile and jerked his head toward the door.
The room to which Zoé brought Joanna was in the east wing of the château. Greater in size than her bedchamber at The Harrows, it contained not only a four-poster and dressing table, but a wash stand and a sitting area with a settee and a small table and two chairs set in front of the gilded fireplace. The walls were painted a robin’s egg blue, the raised panels gilded like the fireplace.
On the parquet floors lay a carpet in the same blue but with elaborate gold scrollwork throughout. In one corner of the room, near a window, sat a small gilded writing desk, inlaid with white enamel painted with flowers.
The bed cover and bed curtains were a lovely shade of blue, paler than the walls.
She turned in a circle, astounded at the opulence of it all. A lady’s room. Perhaps it had once been the bedchamber of Donet’s mother, the comtesse de Saintonge. Funny, she had never thought of him as having a mother but, of course, he had. What must she have been like?
Joanna took off her hat and gloves and set them on the bed.
“After ma mère died,” said Zoé, “Grand-père reserved this chamber for special guests. It is my favorite of all the bedchambers.”
“And why is that?” Joanna asked with a smile, for the girl was enchanting.
Zoé ran to the large paned windows and placed her palms on the glass, looking out. “From here, you can see le jardin—’tis the most marvelous garden!”
Joanna walked to the windows and gazed below at the pink and white roses, lavender just starting to bloom and boxed topiary, all circled by well-trimmed boxwood hedges. Beyond the sculpted gardens was a small field of wildflowers and beyond that, hedges and trees. Someone had tended it all with great care. “I see why you love it so. Is the gardener still here, then?”
“Oui, Old François would never leave. He thinks the plants are his children. He even talks to them!”
“We have one like that at my home in England. I dearly love him.” Casting her gaze to the left of the gardens, Joanna glimpsed Donet and his quartermaster rounding a building. Throwing open the wide wooden doors, the two men went inside. “Whatever are they doing?” she muttered.
Zoé narrowed her eyes as she looked out the window. “Oh, that is where they took the broken carriage. I don’t like to go there.”
Joanna laid her arm across Zoé’s shoulder. “I would feel the same if I had lost my father that way. Mine died on the battlefield.”
With a worried glance, the girl looked up at Joanna. “Will my uncle take care of me now?”
Joanna smiled down at the pretty child. “I am certain he will. Monsieur Donet treats his daughter very well. Did you know you have a cousin named Claire?”
“Oui, my father once told me of her, but we have never met. Does she look like me?”
“She is very beautiful, just as you will be when you grow up. Like you, she has very dark hair, but her eyes are blue where yours are a lovely gray.”
Zoé smiled broadly, making Joanna think this young girl had missed the encouragement of a moth
er. At least Joanna’s mother had been alive as she was growing into womanhood. But Zoé’s mother had not been there and the governess had not seen fit to fill the role.
“You would like Claire,” she told the girl. “Her husband is a ship’s captain like your uncle.” Well, maybe not exactly like Donet, Joanna thought. As far as she knew, Simon Powell had never been a smuggler or a pirate.
Chapter 18
Jean walked around the remains of the carriage, studying the damage. The conveyance lay on its side. “It must have rolled as it left the road.” The top was crushed on one side, a door was torn off and a wheel had come loose.
“Does look like it was pulled from a ditch,” observed Émile, who stood to one side, his arms crossed over his chest.
“It bears enough mud to suggest that,” Jean replied, examining the axle.
“What are ye looking for, Capitaine?”
“Something out of the ordinary, something that should not be here. I only thought to examine the carriage more closely when Marguerite mentioned the driver had argued with my father and has not been seen since the accident.”
He stood and faced Émile. “You had to know him, mon ami, to understand. The late comte de Saintonge was a difficult man. Smart and clever, certainement, but, at times, he could be cruel. Coupled with the Donet temper, he was formidable. I don’t doubt he treated the driver harshly. How Henri endured him all those years, I have no idea.”
Crouching again beside the axle, Jean ran his fingers over the wood.
“Sounds like ye were well off to have been dismissed as ye were.”
“I have thought the same thing many times.” Jean reached out to touch the break in the wooden axle. “The driver could have been angry and taking the road too fast. Accidents sometimes happen that way.” He paused, encountering something he had not expected. The splintered wood would be common in an axle break but not the sharp cut his finger touched just before the break. “Or, this could be the result not of an accident, but of something more foul.”
“What? Show me.” Émile bent his head to look.
“See here.” Jean pointed to the cut. “The wood has been partially sawed through, weakening the axle and allowing it to break more easily.” Rising from his crouch, he faced a somber Émile. “This was no accident, mon ami, but murder.”
“Sacrebleu! What beast would do such a thing?”
“I do not know, but I intend to find out. If there are those who wanted the former comte dead, when they discover there is a new one, they may want me dead as well.” He thought about what he should do in light of that possibility. “While I seek the answers, Émile, I do not wish to advertise my presence.”
His quartermaster’s forehead creased in a harsh frown. “Ye’ll need to be watchful.”
“My father would have kept a town carriage in addition to this one he used when inspecting the vineyard. But that one will have the family crest. For the time being, I would rather ride in an unmarked one when not on horseback. See if our driver is willing to serve me for a while longer. I will pay him well.”
“It shall be as ye wish, Capitaine.”
Because the air was quite warm in the château, Joanna dressed for supper in a white chemise à la reine. Madame Provot had told her the style of gown was a favorite of the queen and very popular at the French Court. It was made very simply, the fabric the lightest of muslin. It felt like something she would wear under a gown. Its only decoration was a wide pink sash at the waist and a bit of lace at the cuffs.
The brim of the straw hat, circled by a pink ribbon, made her think of Tillie. How her sister would have teased her to see Joanna wearing the color Tillie had claimed as her own.
As Gabrielle dressed her hair, Joanna thought of her siblings in England. She didn’t worry for Tillie, enjoying her first Season, or Richard, consumed with the business of the Lords, but she did worry about Freddie, alone at The Harrows with only Zack and servants for company.
Had he yet received her letter telling him she was safe with the French comte? And what would he make of that? Since Freddie was master of The Harrows for the summer, he would have much to occupy his time. Perhaps he would not worry about her. She could only hope he and Zack did not pursue another smuggling run. With Commander Ellis angry for losing one smuggler’s ship, he would be eager to seize another. The smugglers on the beach would also be in danger.
She thought of Polly Ackerman and her children and worried for their situation. But at those times, she reminded herself Zack and Freddie could be trusted to watch over them.
“You look lovely, Mademoiselle,” said Gabrielle, “and so French.”
“All due to your talent. I do hope you are enjoying your position as my maid.”
“Oh yes, Mademoiselle, beaucoup.”
Pleased, Joanna smiled at the girl and picked up her straw hat, carrying it with her as she left her chamber. She reached the bottom of the stairs and saw the butler standing to one side of the entry.
“Mademoiselle,” Lefèvre said, inclining his head. With a sweep of his arm, he gestured her toward a large dining room. “Monsieur le comte is waiting for you.”
She nodded and entered a room as grand as the parlor. Its large crystal chandelier hung above a long and highly polished walnut table. A sideboard of the same wood held a silver tea set. On the table were several branched candlesticks, their flames flickering.
Donet rose from where he was sitting adjacent to his niece. “Lady Joanna, won’t you join us?”
“Thank you, I would love to.” She set her hat on one of the side chairs and took the seat he held out for her.
Zoé appeared in a good mood, her face brighter than when Joanna had last seen it. “I hope you are hungry, my lady.”
The quartermaster came into the room then, shared a meaningful glance with Donet, and took a seat next to the girl.
The meal of veal, turkey, artichokes and a salad was welcome after the long day of travel. Donet’s quartermaster, who ate much, kept them entertained with tales. Zoé seemed delighted and encouraged M’sieur Bequel to tell her more.
Joanna stole glances at Donet, who appeared preoccupied as he sliced his turkey. He ate little, brooding over his meal, and said even less.
“Did you really sail an English ship to Dover and hide in the fog?” asked Zoé, her gray eyes huge in her young face.
“Oui.” The quartermaster puffed out his large chest and waved his fork in the air. “And them Jack-tars were none the wiser till we slid over the side of their ship.”
Joanna cleared her throat.
The quartermaster, apparently remembering she was English, gave her a sheepish look. “Pardonnez-moi.”
She smiled, shaking her head. “I suppose I should be flattered you have forgotten I am not French, Monsieur.”
After dinner, Joanna savored one of the fresh plums served for dessert, a bit of the cheese and a fine Bordeaux wine Donet told her had come from vineyards south of Saintonge.
Once she had finished the plum, he leaned in. “Mademoiselle, forgive me. I have been a terrible host. Would you like to take your tea in the garden? We might as well take advantage of the long June day.”
Remembering the garden she had glimpsed from her room and hoping she might learn what troubled him, she gladly accepted. “I would.”
“And you, Zoé?” he asked his niece.
“I want to hear more of M’sieur Bequel’s stories. But I will come after that.” Then looking up at Donet, she added, “If it’s all right with you, Oncle Jean.”
Donet shook his head, smiling at his niece and his quartermaster. “You two are like old salts sharing tales, half of which bear no resemblance to the truth, but since you are enjoying yourself, bien sûr, you may stay, Zoé.” He then asked Sophie, who stood in one corner, to serve tea in the garden terrace.
“Oui, Monsieur.” She dipped her head and left the room. To Joanna, the girl appeared to be enamored of her master. Perhaps it was his likeness to the older brother. But surely t
he maid would notice a difference. The air of confidence he had gained in a score of years at sea would set him apart from most aristocrats, even one who looked very much like him.
Joanna took her straw hat from the side chair where she had left it and set it on her head. “I am ready.”
Donet held out his arm and she took it. It seemed so natural to be with him, to follow him to the gardens. There was so much she loved about this man, no matter he was a French Catholic and a former pirate. He exuded a strength that made her feel safe. He was charming and he could make her laugh.
They did not sit to take tea when it was served. At Donet’s suggestion, they picked up their cups and followed the line of rose bushes. Every now and then, they would pause to take a sip from their cups, admiring some flower.
Seeing a large pink rose, Joanna bent to smell the heady fragrance.
“Dressed as you are, Mademoiselle, you grace the roses.”
She turned to see him smiling. “I grant you, Monsieur, breeches are more comfortable, but I have had enough of those for a while.”
He laughed. “I shall always remember you as you were when I first saw you. It took but a moment of careful perusal to realize you were no lad.”
“I suppose I should take that as a compliment.” She did not tell him she had thought him the devil himself the first night she’d seen him.
They walked along companionably for a time, sipping their tea and meandering among the roses.
Seeing no one about, she asked, “Something has been weighing on you, Monsieur. Might you confide in me?”
His expression turned serious. “I expect you will know soon enough. The accident that took the lives of my father and brother was no accident. Someone tampered with the axle.”
For a moment, she just stared, shocked. “But who would have done such a horrible thing—and why?”
“’Tis hard to say. Even when I was living here, my father was not popular with the people of Saintonge, especially his own workers. Add to that the unhappy state of the French people and you can see how it might have happened. So far as I know, there have been no riots in Saintonge, but there is always the possibility.”