French Jade: A dazzling Regency love story

by Janet Louise Roberts

  She thought dimly of her mother’s lectures, demurely delivered, on the subject of Men and Marriage. Oh, dear, but she was not Married! Yet — here was a Man. Very much a Man. Very masculine, and demanding — and the lectures — what had her mother said? It was hard to remember.

  Something about — when one’s husband demanded, one submitted. A female was made to surrender and do as her husband wished. But what happened when he demanded — and he was not her husband?

  Minerva groaned a little in her throat, he was pressing her so tightly to his body, her back was bent, and she could not stand upright.

  “I must — have you,” he muttered. “I must — oh, God —”

  He was swearing again, his mother would not approve — Oh, his mother! And her mother! Minerva pressed back against the tree trunk, and tried to push his hard shoulders.

  “Oliver — please — I pray you — Oliver!” She evaded, and twisted and squirmed, but it seemed to make him the more ardent. Something hot boiled in her, and made her weak and trembling. He was shaking against her, she felt him tremble — what was the matter with him?

  “Oliver — I pray you —” She tried again when his mouth moved to her white shoulder, and down again to the bared breast. “Oliver — stop! Stop!”

  He finally lifted his head, and stared down at her in the darkness. She was shaking, her eyes huge in the dim light. “Oh, God, what am I doing?” he muttered.

  “You must — stop — we must — go back — your mother, Oliver!” She faltered, trying to think of words to persuade him.

  “You are so sweet! Kiss me again!”

  He pulled her tight again, but she had managed to get one arm between them. “Please — you are hurting me!”

  At the little cry, he paused again. He groaned. “I am — hurting you — truly?”

  “Yes — my arm — pray, Oliver, you must — s-stop!”

  He bent his head, and put his face against her throat. She thought he would tear at her again, and kiss her all over, then she realized he was standing very still, breathing deeply. Finally he lifted his head.

  “Yes — I am sorry —” he said hoarsely, in an unnatural voice. “We must — go back — yes, of course —” He drew back, and looked down at her, then his hands left her back, and he put them on the little buttons, and began to fasten them slowly.

  She stood still, and let him fasten them all up again, right to her throat. She was breathing unsteadily, her mouth was on fire, her body was so hot she felt as though she had a violent fever, in spite of the cool breeze sweeping through the Gardens from the river.

  And she had wanted him to go on kissing her! What was wrong with her?

  He took her arm, and they began to stroll back to the main section where their box was. They could hear the orchestra tuning up; it was time for the next part. She knew her hair was mussed wildly; she tried to pat back some of the curls.

  “May I call upon you tomorrow?” he asked, as they came near the box. His voice was thick.

  “Yes —” she whispered. “Oh — not in the morning. Mama will sleep late —”

  She did not even know what she said. He did not seem to notice either.

  “Then in the afternoon — about three o’clock?”

  Was he going to propose? Her heart was beating in great uneven thumps. Oh, how she wanted him to propose! She would say yes — she was madly in love with him — he was so exciting, so fine, so handsome, so marvellous — But first …

  First, she would unmask, and declaim how stupid he had been to think her dull and dowdy. He must grovel at her feet. She must have her revenge, she must!

  And tomorrow would be the day!

  “Tomorrow — at three —” she whispered, and he helped her up into the box. She sat down at the table.

  The others looked at them curiously.

  “You were gone a long time,” said Mrs Redmond, in a rather chilly manner. “Did you get lost?”

  “I am sorry, yes,” said Oliver. “The paths are rather a maze, didn’t you find them so?”

  “No, I had no trouble,” said Percy, definitely. “But of course I was with my mother and Mrs Seymour!”

  Poor Oliver looked discomposed for once! Minerva hastened to his rescue.

  “We were not gone long,” she said quickly. “Look, the next part is just starting. There goes the curtain — oh, I do hope the lady will sing again!”

  She did sing again, to Minerva’s relief. The sweet singing, the bright costumes all distracted them, and left a pleasant taste. Then the conclusion was a marvellous brilliant display of fireworks, which popped and boomed and shot into the air in a most satisfactory manner.

  In the thrilling finale, Oliver sought Minerva’s hand, and held it in his under the table, and squeezed her fingers so hard it hurt. But she did not mind, it was part of the purple night, the starry fireworks, the laughter and singing and joy. And he loved her, she was sure of it. And tomorrow — tomorrow — the masks would come off, and she would have her revenge — and then accept him!

  Oh, life was marvellous! She smiled up at the last gaudy lights, the flags and stars and spangles lighting up the skies over London. And she pressed Oliver’s fingers secretly, to encourage him. Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!

  CHAPTER 9

  Minerva could scarcely sleep that night. Her heart thumped; she kept waking, to stare into the darkness, and remember the way Oliver had held her, kissed her, run his hands over her.

  Oh, how she shivered at the remembrance!

  Perhaps tomorrow night they would be engaged! And he would have the right to kiss her, and hold her — and one day soon they would marry — and then — oh!

  She squirmed in the wide bed, and smiled at nothing. Marriage, the unknown mystery — she knew little about it, because people did not talk much. But women whispered, and maids giggled, and she knew married people shared a bedroom, and pretty soon the woman had a child, a baby —

  Oliver’s child! It would be delightful. He was nice with children; he had spoken affectionately last night about his sister’s brood. He would make a fine father! And oh, she longed to be a married lady, with a husband like Oliver to be attentive, and helpful — and to hold her the way he had, only closer!

  She liked his townhouse, it was large and splendid, but even more it was warm and comfortable. It spoke of quiet good taste, excellent furniture, carpets, porcelain. And Oliver’s jade collection! And Oliver — teasing, loving, possessive, his grey eyes alight! He would be fun to be married to, she thought contentedly.

  The estates in the country — they would be near her own family in Kent. They would visit back and forth, and not be strangers. She looked forward to coming to know his sister Eleanor and her family better.

  She slept, wakened, slept again. Jessie did not come to her to snap open the curtains and speak in a cheerful, brutal manner about how late she was. Nobody came.

  Minerva blinked at the grey light in the room. Finally she rose and opened the curtains, then, barefoot, crossed to the door and opened it. She listened. Had she heard a carriage? What time was it? What was going on?

  Then she heard a laugh, and her blood went cold. Literally. She turned chill, and shivered there in the hallway, in her night-rail, one foot over the other against the cold of the hall floor. That laugh!

  She had heard it often as a teenager, peering down the stairs to watch the older people as they came for an evening to which she was not invited. It echoed from the drawing room as the others entertained at tea. It mocked her as she blushed redly from mingled shyness and fury. That laugh!

  Jessie came along the hallway carrying a pitcher of hot water. “Awake, are ye?” she asked grimly.

  “Is — Gabrielle — here? In London? Here, in the house?”

  “Aye, that she is! Come along now, you’re late. You’ll wash and dress and come down to breakfast.”

  Minerva walked slowly back into her bedroom, her heart down in her bare feet. She submitted to washing and dressing.

&n
bsp; “When — did she come?”

  “On the night ship, then the train from Dover this morning. Come with a beau, she did. He looks like a monkey. He’s a lawyer, but smart enough, I’ll warrant! She looks about ten years older than you, and she always was twenty years smarter. You’ll have to look to yourself, Miss Minerva!” said Jessie, ominously.

  Minerva knew that. Dully, she knew that. Gabrielle had come, and it would ruin everything.

  “But why — why now?”

  “Your mother sent for her,” said Jessie, bluntly. And Minerva thought her heart would break in two.

  “Mother did?” It was betrayal, it was bitter gall.

  “Aye. Wanted to put an end to your masquerade, and I don’t blame her. A fine pickle you are in, to be sure!”

  “It would have been all right —” Today, it would have ended, she thought, as she slipped into the blue muslin gown that Jessie held for her.

  “This dress?” asked Minerva as the maid began to fasten it. “I thought to wear my yellow silk —”

  “You’ll be going back to being Miss Minerva again, I’ll warrant!”

  “But I love my new gowns —”

  “There can’t be two Madame Duboises in the house!”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  “And your mother sent a note to Mr Oliver, saying not to come today, as you have a guest from France.”

  Minerva jerked. “Oh, she cannot!” she gasped. “Oliver comes to see me — and he would guess — oh, she cannot —”

  “Yes, she can. Got to straighten out matters with your cousin, and get it all set, before Mr Oliver comes again. And the guest from France, that’s Madame Dubois’s beau, Mr Claudel.”

  Minerva’s life had shattered into small pieces, quite incapable of mending. Dully she went down to breakfast in the smaller dining room, to find her French cousin chattering gaily.

  A strange man sprang up, but Minerva scarcely noted him at first. Her gaze was on her cousin. Madame Gabrielle Mably Dubois, herself, to the life. One inch taller, of Minerva’s build, but slightly larger in the bust and thighs. Rounded, mature, wise, her green eyes keen and shrewd.

  “Chère Minerva!” cried Gabrielle, embracing her, and pressing a perfumed kiss on either cheek. “Just the same as ever!”

  It was a blow below Minna’s waist, and she flinched, and held out her hand to the man.

  He was a surprise. She had thought he would be a smart French dandy, tall and uniformed, perhaps. Instead, her gaze met that of a slightly built man, of some thirty-five years. His face was lined and wrinkled like that of a clever monkey, and his cheeks were scarred. He wore a neat grey suit, and a ruffled white shirt. But he sagged in it, his shoulders were bent, as though from years of hardship. And his brown eyes were sadly wise, like those of a monkey in the zoological gardens Minerva had seen as a child.

  “François Claudel,” Gabrielle introduced him. “My lawyer. And dearest best friend.” And she patted his slim arm.

  “So happy to meet you,” he murmured in accented English. He bowed from the waist, and brought Minerva’s hand just to his lips, but did not touch them. He straightened, and looked at her keenly, as though through her.

  “They were just telling us about the war,” said Percy excitedly, as all were seated again. “They lived through the most awful times!”

  “But, Gabrielle, you were with us in Kent!” protested Minerva, looking right at her cousin. Was she going to tell some of her exaggerated stories again?

  “But chérie, when I went back, it was almost as bad as in the war,” Gabrielle smilingly protested, with a flutter of her white hands. She did it so beautifully that Minerva, who had been copying the gesture, felt like a very stupid amateur actress in the presence of a stage queen. “Poverty, hunger, bands of starving soldiers roaming the countryside — ready to attack one! Oh, I fair shivered! And then I married — it was well for a time. My dearest Gaspar protected me.” Complacently, she bit into a muffin, and sighed. “Food like this — ah, sheer heaven! I remembered it in our worst times!”

  Betsy Redmond poured more tea, added cream and sugar, and handed it across to Minerva. Minerva drank, but she could not eat. She felt sick. Her revenge, shattered! Her plans, shot!

  And her mother had done this to her. Reproachfully, Minerva stared at her mother, but Betsy refused to meet her daughter’s gaze.

  “Well, it was good of you to come, dear Gabrielle,” said Mrs Redmond. “You just dropped everything and came. I shall not forget it!”

  Nor shall I, thought Minerva, resentfully. Betrayal! And at the hand of her mother!

  “But I was ver’ ’appy to come to you!” exclaimed Gabrielle with that bell-like, clear laugh that Minerva remembered so vividly. “I live in a little poor flat, with only memories about me! How delicious to come to dear London, to stay with mes chers relatives and my dearest friends again! Do we go to Kent soon?”

  “Not soon.” Betsy Redmond smiled. “But that will be a story for later today. I have called off all appointments so we may visit en famille!”

  Oh, dear, her mother was going all out, starting to speak French again, thought Minna mournfully. There was something about Gabrielle that made one want to imitate her, that made one catch her accent, listen with fascination to her drawl, observe her gestures, and wish to be as French as she!

  She was fascinating as ever, though older. She must be only twenty-three by now, three years older than Minna, but she looked a matron, with wise green eyes and a knowing look to her. She had always been older than her years, and now it showed. Wrinkles around her eyes, just slight ones, perhaps from the night journey. Makeup skilfully around her mouth, but some lines there also.

  “Gabrielle had a bad time of it with her husband,” spoke François Claudel. “She will not admit it, but he was a brute!”

  Minna gasped. Percy spoke up manfully.

  “Oh, I say, you should have sent for me! I should have set him right!”

  Gabrielle smiled brilliantly at Percy. “You are so kind,” she purred, in that oh-so-familiar way. She had had men dropping at her feet like flies, as Minna remembered bitterly. All she had to do was purr! “But when one is mariée — one must do as one’s husband wishes! Gaspar lived accordingly as a Frenchman does —”

  “That is rank slander,” said François Claudel ruefully. “I would never lock you in a tower!”

  They all stared at Gabrielle, even the maid serving them, in spite of her training unable to refrain.

  “Locked in a tower!” gasped Minna, enthralled again, as always with Gabrielle. “He didn’t!”

  “Yes, several times.” Gabrielle shrugged, her shoulders moving in a slight shudder. “The worst was the rats! And he fed me on bread and water.”

  Was she story-telling again? It was hard to know. Gabrielle could get away with the most outrageous lies. But, again, things had a way of happening to her! Minerva had always had difficulty figuring out whether Gabrielle was telling the truth. Just when she thought she had caught her in a lie, Gabrielle would pull the truth out of her bonnet, with dazzling smile, and proof.

  “But why would he do that?” puzzled Betsy Redmond. “Was he ill, mentally deranged?”

  “Oh, yes, at the last,” agreed Gabrielle. “But he was always jealous of me. He thought I met men secretly, and he raged at me to tell him their names. He did not believe that I met nobody. I was faithful to him all our marriage,” she said simply.

  “And he did not believe you?”

  “Not after his son turned him against me,” she said. “He has a son, older than I, who lied about me. After Gaspar died, and the will was read, I realized why. Gaspar left me only the smallest of incomes. All else was left to his son, my stepson, who promptly turned me out of the house, and said ‘go’!”

  And she pointed dramatically to the nearest window, her black lace sleeve falling back from her white, beautifully formed arm.

  “With no carriage, no trunks, no footmen,” confirmed François Claudel, his strong teeth b
iting into toast.

  “What did you do? The brute!” gasped Percy.

  Gabrielle smiled. “I went to the neighbour, the most gossiping woman in the village,” she said complacently.

  Betsy Redmond laughed. Minna still gasped at her. “Oh, Gabrielle, you clever girl!” she said admiringly.

  “Of course, it was all I could do. I had planned it, I had guessed, for his wife was so spiteful to me. As Gaspar lay dying, they moved into the château, and she began to rearrange the furniture. So I knew.” And she nodded, her green eyes sad and wise.

  “Because she rearranged the furniture?” asked Percy, his mouth hanging open, his body half across the table in his anxiety not to miss a word from this fascinating woman.

  “Oh, yes. When a woman feels secure, she begins to take possession. Then she sets about making things the way she wishes them to be. Gaspar in the bedroom upstairs, where his father and grandfather and great-grandfather had died, and that bitch in the drawing room, pushing my chaise longue further from the fire, and her embroidery chair nearer to the fire screen! I knew then.”

  “And then as soon as he had died, and was buried, out she went,” said François Claudel, his brown eyes more mournful. “I must say, this is excellent bacon! Even better than in France!”

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Claudel,” said Betsy Redmond demurely. “Allow me to ring for more. You must be starved, all that long journey.”

  He did not protest, she rang, the maids came with more bacon, muffins, hot tea, thick Devon cream, chunks of sugar.

  “So,” continued Gabrielle, after a long satisfying sip of fresh hot tea, “I remained with the gossip until my stepson could endure the talk no longer. He allowed me to return with my friend, my lawyer, Monsieur Claudel,” and she sent a dazzling smile to the man across the table from her. He half-rose, bowed, and seated himself again.

  “You returned to the château to live?” asked Minerva. She could not imagine returning so to the scene of such humiliation.