French Jade: A dazzling Regency love story

by Janet Louise Roberts

  And she turned to Mary, and said, “Is the dirt out of the gown? I should send in my maid to do this.”

  “Oh, thank you, Lady Blanche,” said Mary quickly, a flush high on her cheekbones. “I think I have it out. The dirt was quite loose, and dry.”

  “You are a good, fine girl, and I am sure I thank you,” said Lady Blanche. “We are putting on a charity raffle in two weeks, I have been meaning to ask you to be one of my hostesses. It is on May the sixth — do you have time to do this?”

  It was a gracious gesture to Mary, for the hostesses were much envied. And it was a cut direct to Astrid, who had coveted the position. Astrid went an unbecoming red, and flounced from the room.

  Mary accepted, with a stammer, and Lady Blanche turned to Minerva with a smile.

  “I would ask you, Madame Dubois, but as you are a widow, you are not eligible. I only hope your young cousin will recover in time to be one of our hostesses. How is she?”

  “She is slow in recovering,” said “Gabrielle,” feeling rather abashed at the lady’s graciousness. “You are kind to ask after her. She will be comforted by your thoughtfulness.”

  “Pray, take her some of the little cakes, if you think she would enjoy them. I will have a basket prepared for her.” And the lady swept from the room.

  “Dear me, she is so very kind,” said Mary. “I wonder if she really wants me —”

  “She asked you, she means it,” said Betsy Redmond firmly. “Now, pray, let us return to the ballroom. Gabrielle, my dear, who takes you in to supper? Shall we ask Percy?”

  “No, Oliver Seymour has asked me,” she said, with a blush she could not control.

  “He cannot keep his gaze from you,” murmured Mary, with a smile and a significant look.

  “You are too kind and you exaggerate,” protested Minerva, but she put her arm in Mary’s and walked with her back to the ballroom.

  She had always liked Mary, and it did not displease her that Astrid Faversham had had a sharp set down. Altogether a splendid evening, she thought, as Oliver hastened to her, and offered her his arm.

  “You will take us both in to supper,” she told him gaily, indicating Mary with a smile.

  He showed his good manners by being gallant, and bringing plates and wine to them both. Mary talked up in a spirited manner, and showed her intelligence and sense of humour. They all had a lovely time until the dancing began again. Then Oliver managed to get a gentleman to take Mary into the next set, while he repossessed himself of Minerva’s hand.

  “I could wish you were less kind,” he whispered to her. “But I confess I like this side of you! So many lovely ladies have too much cat in them!”

  “I think so also!” she said in such a decided way that he gazed down at her in surprise.

  Then he put his arm about her, to dance, and they both forgot everyone else in the world.

  CHAPTER 6

  On Thursday morning, Minerva forced herself to rise early; she must go to the dressmaker’s for another fitting. She wanted to lie abed and dream of her conquest!

  Oliver Seymour — how handsome and charming, though he had such a wicked tongue. Oh, how she looked forward to having him at her feet! She yawned and stretched in the wide bed, and smiled to herself, thinking of those minutes in the conservatory. How he kissed! How he held her!

  “Now, Miss Minerva, it is more than time to rise,” said Jessie, observing her shrewdly. “You smile like a cat this morning!”

  “Oh, not like a cat, pray!” objected Minerva, stretching. “I have formed an aversion to cats!”

  She finally rose, washed, and dressed in Gabrielle’s old rose gown, which was such a contrast to her bright red hair. About ten o’clock, after their chocolate, she and her mother and Percy set out for Miss Clothilde’s.

  They were not the first ones there. The Lavery carriage sat in front of the dressmaker’s, and inside they found Denise, Mary and their mother.

  Denise was cool and formal, her violet eyes veiled. Mary was warmly cordial, greeting “Gabrielle” like a long-lost relative. Their mother was calm, enjoying the morning, she said, and had not the ball been a delight?

  Betsy Redmond agreed with her, and the two matrons settled down for a coze.

  “And what gowns will you have made?” asked Mary, with unabashed curiosity, of “Gabrielle.” “I thought your green jade gown was so beautiful!”

  “Thank you, my dear!” Minerva felt years older in her role as the delightful widow Dubois. “You are so kind! Today, I hope several gowns will be finished — a daffodil yellow — a gold silk —”

  Mary went with her to see the gowns, and admire as she tried them on. Denise turned her shoulder to the unhappy Percy, and fingered lengths of silk.

  “That would be charming on you,” said Percy, hopefully, as she picked up a pale violet.

  She dropped it, as Minerva watched in the mirror. “Too pale,” she said coldly. “It is insipid!”

  Percy looked hunted, and retreated to a corner. He was not at his best in the dressmaker’s, anyway. Minerva felt furious for him.

  “Percy, darling,” said Minerva. “Do come and tell me how you like zis dress!” She had put on the gold tissue silk, and it clung all the way down her rounded form.

  He came obediently, then his eyes opened wide at sight of his sister in such a dress. “My God, you aren’t going to wear that in public?” he asked, startled. “It looks like something from your boudoir!”

  Denise jumped visibly. Pleased, Minerva, tapping his cheek, replied, “Now, Percy! That is very naughty of you! Of course, I wear zis in public! It is a ball gown, of the newest French design! Everybody in Paris wears zis style now!”

  She did not know it, but they did not either; she felt quite safe. Miss Clothilde looked a bit peculiar, but her mouth was full of pins, and she said nothing. Only her black eyebrows were raised until they were almost caught in her thick greying black hair.

  “I want one like that, Mother,” said Denise defiantly.

  “Of course not, dear,” said practical Charlotte Lavery briskly. “Not until you have been married at least five years!” She and Betsy Redmond exchanged an indulgent look.

  “And then I would think your husband would have something to say about that,” blurted out Percy. “I think the dress is — is indecent. It shows everything!”

  Denise gasped, her eyes huge. She looked up and down Minerva speculatively. “But it does not, Percy!” she said, forgetting her quarrel with him. “She is quite covered!”

  “I mean the lines of it,” he said. “You can see every line of her — I mean —”

  “But it is not nearly so revealing as the gowns we used to wear,” cooed Minerva. “Do you remember, Tante? When the muslin gowns were dampened with water, to show — all? How everybody stared when we went to balls with those gowns! That style was so stunning!”

  “And so conducive to pneumonia,” said her mother sharply. “I cannot but be happy that the style is no longer in fashion! It was very foolish!”

  “Many styles are foolish,” said Minerva with new wisdom. “But if they attract ze men, they do ze purpose, n’est-ce pas? A woman dressed to attract ze man she likes, and zat is all ze total of her planning, eh?” And she turned back to the mirror. “Do you zink the neck should be lower, Mademoiselle Clothilde?”

  Miss Clothilde gave Betsy Redmond a quick look, and shook her head decidedly, without removing the pins from her mouth. She worked earnestly on the hem. Minerva had a shrewd suspicion that the dressmaker was not fooled by her masquerade. The woman had measured her carefully, and blinked when she found that “Madame Dubois” had the exact measurements of Minerva Redmond. But she had said nothing, as usual.

  Percy was hanging about his sister anxiously. In a low tone, he said, “I wish you would not buy this gown!”

  “Now, Percy,” she said gaily, “if you had your way, I would wear a demure black or grey! But I am no longer in mourning!”

  “Of course you are not,” he said, forgetting
himself. Then he scowled. “I mean — you can wear bright colours, but not — not so daring — I beg you!”

  Denise was taking this all in, as were Mary and her mother.

  Minerva laughed softly, and kissed his cheek. “Dear Percy, how you worry about me! But you must not — I shall manage quite well! And I do love bright colours and new styles!”

  He groaned, pushed his hand through his red hair, and went to stand in the window with his back to them all. Denise tightened her mouth, and absently picked up a pallid blue length.

  Minerva decided to give the girl another little push. She could see she was jealous and hurt. Well, she should learn to appreciate Percy, and not scorn him.

  “That colour would be fine for you, Miss Lavery!” she said brightly, carelessly over her shoulder, as she continued to admire herself in the tight golden silk. “The colour is pale and demure, just suited to a young girl. This is your first season, yes?”

  “My second!” said Denise, in a fierce, smothered tone, and dropped the length. “Mother, I see nothing I like today. Let us depart!”

  Denise headed for the door, her mother rising to follow her. Minerva caught Mary’s arm as she would have followed.

  In a sharp whisper she hissed, “See to it that she does not forget Percy today! I mean to make them a match! But both are stubborn!” And she gave the startled older sister a wink.

  “Oh — oh, yes!” gasped Mary, and squeezed Minerva’s arm. “I — I shall!”

  “And see she comes back and buys some bright, pretty gowns — bright blue — and deep rose — and maybe a red. Percy loves the colour of red!”

  “I’ll do it! You are a dear, Madame Dubois!” And Mary dared to kiss her cheek before she ran after her sister and mother.

  Betsy Redmond came closer. “What are you up to?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Buying gowns, Mother dearest!” whispered Minerva, then glanced guiltily down at Miss Clothilde at her feet, but the dressmaker pretended not to hear.

  They finished the fittings, and Minna went home to lunch, quite satisfied with the day’s work in spite of Percy’s deep gloom. When men set out to court, they could certainly mess it up, she thought, with new insight.

  She coaxed Percy to take her the following morning to the new exhibit of paintings of ocean scenes she wished to see. It was in a gallery near Oliver Seymour’s home, and she did not admit even to herself that she hoped to see him.

  The silver-grey-and-green stripe had been delivered, and she wore that with a green bonnet set on her flowing red curls.

  They wandered from painting to painting. Minerva was so delighted with the beautiful art that she almost forgot her other objective. “Oh, Percy, do admire this one,” she said, pausing before a scene of a ship in full sail. “Look at this! How splendid! How I should like to sail away on her!”

  “Away from us, dear Gabrielle?” asked a deep voice at her shoulder.

  She started and turned about to see Oliver Seymour smiling down at her, a deep glow in his dark grey eyes. His dark curly hair was dressed carefully à la Byron again today. How handsome he looked! How stunning in his grey silk suit with the flowing golden tie! He wore jade-green jewels on his tie, and rings on his hands.

  “Good morning, monsieur,” she said demurely, when she had caught her breath. “Do you also admire this type of art?”

  “Immensely,” he said, and turned to gaze at the painting. “It reminds me of the ships on which we sailed to the Peninsula.”

  For some reason, she felt pained at the reminder of the dangers he had endured in the late wars. He had been in some of the worst of the fighting under Wellington, and then later the terrible Battle of Waterloo.

  Percy had returned to them, and hovered anxiously. For some reason, he seemed to feel that Minerva did a bad job of masquerading as Gabrielle, and she might be unmasked and denounced at any moment. He glared at Oliver Seymour, who smiled and held out his big, well-formed hand.

  “How do you do, Redmond? A splendid morning!”

  “Yes, yes, splendid. How do you do?” mumbled Percy, and clasped his hand.

  “So you feel able to leave your estates for a time? How fine,” said Oliver, who seemed to have some dark motive for speaking so. “I had thought you were absorbed in the spring ploughing?”

  “I am,” said Percy, between his teeth. “But when I heard about Minerva — I mean — and that my cousin had come —”

  “Oh, yes, Minerva. How is she? Still feverish?”

  “Oh, quite feverish,” said “Gabrielle” gaily, then realized her tone was not at all suitable for the illness of a beloved cousin. “I mean — one worries about her, but she is beginning to recover!”

  “Oh, splendid. Then may one call upon her?” asked Oliver.

  “Oh, no, not now! It is still contagious!” gasped “Gabrielle” and nudged Percy. “Percy was quite worried about her, that is why he came to London!”

  “Your devotion does you much credit,” said Oliver smoothly. “But you are very close to your sister, I believe.”

  “Very close,” said Percy tautly. “But of course, sometimes she does some foolish stunts, and one is furious with her —”

  Oliver looked his question. “Really? Minerva? I thought she was a good, sensible child!”

  Minerva punched her brother in his ribs, and he winced. “I mean — getting sick,” Percy mumbled.

  “How is getting sick a foolish stunt?” asked Oliver, persistent as a mosquito.

  Percy began to look haunted. What had begun as a veiled rebuke to his sister was turning into a problem. “She was out, looking after some — ah — poor children — yes, children in the slums,” he improvised wildly. “And she caught this fever — really too bad of her —”

  “This is most interesting. I had not realized that Minerva was doing charity work in the slums. I am surprised her mother permits it, and she an unmarried female of tender years. Do the sights not shock her?” Oliver was leaning on his stick, as though fixed to the spot and too fascinated by the story to move on. Minerva could have shaken him, and her brother also.

  “First time,” gasped Percy, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. “Never again! I assure you!”

  Minerva decided to take a firm hand. In gathering horror, she had listened to Percy making up one story after another. She had not realized he had such an imagination! Maybe it ran in the family!

  “Of course she will not go again,” said Minerva. “It is over and done with, and I am sure she is very sorry she ventured against her mother’s wishes. Now, do let us look at the paintings, or the crowds will come in and we shall see nothing!”

  She dragged Percy away with her, her fingers pinching his arm violently. To his credit, he did not yelp. He knew he had done wrong! She pointed to the next picture.

  “What marvellous use of colour!” she said, and nudged Percy.

  “Yes, yes, great colours,” he said, his gaze fixed on the violent use of reds and scarlet. “What is it?”

  “A fire at sea, I should say,” said Oliver, strolling after them, and peering at the painting over Minerva’s shoulder. She could feel his breath on her cheek, and his warmth just behind her. She edged away; he promptly followed, on pretext of studying the painting more closely.

  “I say, look at this one,” said Percy anxiously, trying to tug his sister with him.

  Oliver by now had her other arm in his, and she felt like a cow at the fair being yanked in two directions. “Look at the fire starting in the hold — I say, that is an explosion of the ammunition,” Oliver said, with more genuine interest. “I recall, we had just such a fire at sea, caused by an explosion in the hold where the ammunition was stored. All had to take to small boats —”

  Minerva was now torn also between wishing to hear his story, and anxiety over her brother’s wish to be gone. Every time Oliver began his few stories of the Peninsular War, she was overcome by some strange and unfamiliar emotions. She felt so — so weak for him, so feverish with anxiety that he
had undergone such trials, though they were now over. Whenever she thought of the ordeals of his war experiences, she felt quite cold and shivery, yet hot with fever.

  “You had such a bad time of it,” she said, in an unaccustomed tender tone. “I had no idea how bad it was — war is truly terrible.”

  “Ah, but you lived in the midst of it in France, my dear Madame Dubois,” he said, looking down at her oddly. “Was this not even more dreadful?”

  She recalled that she was Gabrielle. “Oh, yes, it was bad. But in the worst of it, I was here in England, with ma chère tante and her family,” she evaded. “And it was not like being in a battle!”

  Percy had deserted her, dropping her arm and going off to see some friend of his at the other side of the room. Oliver said softly, “I like your worry about me. Though of course there is no cause any longer. If only I had known you then — that I might have known the warmth of your anxiety, had the comfort of your letters —”

  Someone came behind them to admire the fire at sea. Minerva automatically moved on to the next painting, and gazed at the light sky and billowy clouds behind the headland. “I am sure — you had many letters from ladies to — comfort you,” she murmured. “A man — attractive as you are —”

  “My mother wrote, and my sister,” he said bluntly. “But few ladies cared to try a correspondence which meant long periods of waiting, lost letters, tales of weariness and fatigue, coldness and damp nights. War is mostly waiting miserably for something to happen, and then when it happens it is very bitter. It is not a topic for polite letters. It matters only to those who care deeply.”

  She gazed up into his eyes, and forgot to be Gabrielle. “I would have cared — deeply,” she said. “I could not have been able to help myself.”

  A light flared in his eyes, he moved more closely, and for a moment she thought he would kiss her lips. “You — would,” he whispered. “I thought — so. You have a tender heart, for all your smart appearance, and gay manner. You are a most unusual woman, Madame Dubois!”