“But you must have met many French families, too,” replied Corinna. “Do you find them hospitable?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve been invited to balls and evening parties and even to receptions at the Palais des Tuileries. There is to be another reception in a few days’ time, and I expect your party will be included, since Sir Richard Beresford is acquainted with Mr Langham, who is at the embassy.” She lowered her voice. “There are a few English people who won’t go there, you know, as they refuse to meet Napoleon. It is a great embarrassment to Lord Whitworth, the ambassador, but there’s nothing he can do.”
Corinna nodded, not greatly interested in this, and went on to press for a description of the Tuileries palace.
“Oh, I’m not the least little bit clever at describing places, Miss Haydon! But you’ll see it for yourself before long.” She hesitated. “You have a French gentleman in your own party. Is he perhaps one of the emigres whom you met in England?”
“No, he lives in Rouen.”
She proceeded to relate the circumstances of Landier’s friendship with John, while Miss Cheveley listened with sparkling eyes.
“How vastly romantic!” she exclaimed at the end of the account.
“Well,” replied Corinna doubtfully, “I’m not at all certain that it can be considered romantic, precisely, to be in danger of drowning.”
“No, not that, but the rescue and then the friendship which followed, you know. It is just like something from the pages of a romance, don’t you agree? Are you fond of reading romances, Miss Haydon, or do you consider them a waste of one’s time?”
“I hope I am not so prosy! No, I read a great deal, but little that would be considered improving, I fear. Who are your favourite authors, Miss Cheveley? Do you enjoy the novels of Mrs Radcliffe?”
This was the prelude to a long, animated discussion which was only terminated by a general move to the dining room. Corinna was seated at one side of the table between Patrice Landier and an English gentleman whom she had met for the first time that evening. Miss Cheveley sat opposite her, with Sir Richard as one of her neighbours. Although Corinna herself soon became involved in a lively interchange with Landier, she could not help noticing how well her new female friend was going on with Sir Richard. They never seemed to lack for conversation, while Miss Cheveley’s sparkling eyes and his smiles gave evidence that both were enjoying themselves.
As they drove back to the hotel, the evening was voted a great success by everyone except Laurence, who declared that affairs of the kind were too slow by half for his taste.
“But Cheveley and I have arranged an expedition of our own for tomorrow,” he added, in a brighter tone. “Something much more in my line — there’s to be chariot racing in the Champs de Mars.”
“Even that may seem a trifle flat after lobster racing,” remarked Sir Richard with a grin.
“What joy, to be spared your company for a whole day!” said Lydia, in a burst of sisterly candour. “I can only hope you’ll contrive to keep out of mischief, Laurie, but it’s more than I bargain for, I can tell you!”
The following day being fine, Sir Richard suggested that the rest of the party should go riding in the Bois de Boulogne. Landier was obliged to excuse himself as he had some business to transact in Paris, but the other three agreed readily to the scheme. A consultation with the landlord resulted in suitable mounts being supplied and they set off through the busy streets until they reached the quiet villages of Chaillot and Passy, surrounded by open fields and woods.
There were many other smartly dressed riders cantering along the bridle paths of the Bois de Boulogne, and frequently the party found themselves obliged to proceed in single file. Becoming impatient on one such occasion, Corinna headed her horse off the track into the trees, threading her way precariously among protruding roots and overhanging branches.
She soon heard a shout behind her. She reined in and looked back to see Sir Richard following. He drew level, and shook his head with an admonitory smile.
“I think not, don’t you agree? These poor hacks do best on a path, though God knows their best is pathetic enough. I never crossed a greater slug in my life than this beast of mine — how do you find yours?”
“Never mind that!” she answered tartly. “Why must you come after me as if I were the merest child? I am quite capable of looking after myself, I thank you!”
This boast was unfortunately disproved at that precise moment. In her irritation, she had tugged hard at the rein and the horse reared, almost unseating her.
Sir Richard quickly leaned sideways in the saddle to steady her with one arm. She was an excellent horsewoman and soon had her mount under control again, then she turned its head to lead it back to the path. In silence he accompanied her until they were once more riding side by side along the bridle path a short distance behind John and Lydia, who had turned briefly to make sure that the others were following.
Corinna, too, was silent for a time, then she looked at him challengingly.
“I suppose you will say I have to eat my words?”
“I hope I have more discretion,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve no wish to be left a mangled corpse in these woods.”
“Do you know, you have the most abominable way of being always right?” she said, struggling not to laugh.
“You mistake,” he answered ruefully. “I am seldom right where you’re concerned, Corinna. Indeed, I seem fated always to set you at odds with me.”
She flashed him one of her charming smiles, her golden eyes alight with mischief.
“Well, you know I have a quick temper. Besides, I must confess that I quite enjoy a little sparring match with you, now and then, just for the fun of seeing if I can get under your guard! But I never succeed,” she added, thoughtfully. “You are so very—”
She paused.
“So very what?” he prompted, after waiting for a minute.
She shrugged helplessly. “Oh, I don’t know! So very calm and unruffled — and when I’m in my high ropes, you counter it with cynicism, as if — as if — you didn’t think it worth the trouble of becoming vexed with me, treating me almost as a fractious child! It’s quite odious, I assure you!”
“I’m very sorry. Pray instruct me as to how you’d like me to go on, and I’ll endeavour to mend my ways.”
“Oh, if you don’t know!” she exclaimed, bursting into exasperated laughter.
He raised a mocking eyebrow. “Would you like me to get into a passion with you? Shall I seize one of these branches and beat you with it, for instance? Such antics are not at all in my style, but I’m willing to oblige.”
She laughed freely at that, diverted by the absurd images his words conjured up in her mind.
“Oh, Richard, you’re so very droll!”
He gave an ironical bow. “Take care, madam. There are several branches conveniently near.”
He joined in her laughter as they quickened the pace of their horses to come up with Lydia and John.
As Miss Cheveley had anticipated, Sir Richard’s friendship with one of the British ambassador’s entourage was sufficient to ensure an invitation for his party to a reception held a few days later at the Tuileries palace. As they made their way slowly up the grand staircase waiting to be received by the first consul and his lady, Corinna suffered a few tremors of awe. All about her were ladies resplendent in costly silks and muslins, many wearing brilliant jewels, and gentlemen either in correct evening attire or gold-braided military uniforms, with plumed helmets under their arms. It was a very mixed gathering, however, in spite of the seeming splendour; important embassy officials and ci-devant noblemen who had been given permission to return to France being ranged alongside Napoleon’s officers and humbler individuals such as lawyers, financiers, and merchants.
“I feel quite overcome,” whispered Corinna to her brother, who was standing beside her waiting for their turn to be announced.
“Pooh, at being presented to Boney?” scoffed Laurence.
“Hush! Pray lower your voice,” entreated his sister. “Only think if you should be overheard and someone took offense! There’s no saying what might occur!”
“D’ you think I care a rush for that?” he replied scornfully, though in a much lower tone.
“No, but I should, and so would the others, you — you addle-pate! Now don’t say another word, for it’s our turn next, after Lydia and John.”
As she made her curtsey, she raised her eyes in a swift appraisal of this man who held sway over a great nation without any benefit of royal blood. He was not as tall as she had supposed, and of stocky build; his complexion was sallow and his dark, piercing eyes gave him a sombre, brooding look. There was an impression of power, she thought, and perhaps of ruthlessness. Madame Bonaparte, in contrast, was all soft seductiveness. She was undoubtedly a handsome woman, but Corinna was surprised to observe that she wore quite noticeable make-up.
She mentioned this to Lydia as they passed down the room among the other visitors.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard that she purchases three thousand francs’ worth of rouge every year from Martin, the fashionable perfumier,” said Lydia. “Lady Cheveley told the story the other evening — did you not hear her? — of Napoleon’s asking a lady of his court why she was so pale, and was she recovering from a confinement? When she denied this, he recommended her to go and paint her face, like Madame Bonaparte.”
“Well!” exclaimed Corinna. “I trust he won’t address a similar remark to us!”
There seemed little likelihood of this, since the first consul was very sparing of his conversation, passing down the room among his guests with few pauses and those of only short duration.
“Is it not a regimented affair?” whispered Patrice Landier with a grimace to Corinna. “For myself, I prefer private parties or the balls at Frascati’s where one may relax a little. Do you like to dance, mademoiselle?”
“Indeed I do. At home, I attend all the assemblies.”
“Ah, fortunate gentlemen who have the pleasure of partnering you! But I shall not despair — we are all bidden to a ball at Milady Northcote’s, are we not? May I beg the honour, Mademoiselle Corinna, of a dance — perhaps, even, two? Now pray don’t refuse me, or I shall be obliged to put a period to my existence!”
She laughed, enjoying the gallant nonsense.
“Oh, you’re too absurd, monsieur!”
He assumed an expression of comical dismay.
“Alas, you mock at me! But I know that the English delight in absurdities, so I must take what comfort I can from that. And you will dance with me at the ball, will you not, mademoiselle? You cannot be so cruel as to refuse.”
She glanced away momentarily to where Sir Richard was standing close by in conversation with Mr and Mrs Langham; she saw that his eye was upon her and thought it registered disapproval.
She tilted her chin defiantly, placing her hand upon Landier’s arm and bestowing a brilliant smile upon him.
“Of course I will dance with you, nonsensical creature, but at present I would like some lemonade. Do you think we might move to the refreshment table?”
He responded with alacrity, steering her in that direction.
Sir Richard’s friends moved away from him presently and he was joined by his brother and Lydia.
“There, what did I tell you?” demanded Lydia, her glance following Landier and Corinna. “Those two are dealing splendidly together, just as I hoped.”
“Which two? Oh, you mean Corinna and Landier, I collect,” replied John. Then, turning to his brother with a chuckle: “Did you ever know females when they weren’t matchmaking? A man has only to do the civil, and they’re looking for the banns to be called.”
“Well, you may laugh, but I do think she’s showing more interest in your French friend than in any of her beaux in Tunbridge Wells,” said Lydia defensively.
“I dare say. They don’t possess his Gallic charm, my love, and she’s here to enjoy herself, ain’t she? But I’ll wager she doesn’t mean anything by it, no more than he does. Why, for all we know, he may already have fixed his interest with some little French miss.”
“Do you think so?” demanded Lydia, putting on a scandalised air. “Then he has no right to flirt with my sister in that abandoned way!”
“Well, I don’t wish to cavil, m’dear, but what would you say she’s doing?”
“She is not flirting!” Lydia was indignant. “Is she, Richard?”
Sir Richard raised his quizzing glass and inspected the couple under discussion with a solemn air. Corinna was laughing up into Landier’s face at that moment with an undoubtedly provocative gleam in her golden eyes.
He lowered the glass quickly.
“You must hold me excused,” he said languidly. “I fear I’m no judge. Would you care for some refreshment, too, Lydia? And after that, perhaps we should pay our respects to Lord Whitworth. I see he is over there with my friend Langham. It will not do to ignore our nation’s ambassador — one never knows when one may require his services.”
Lydia laughed. “You are always so provident, Richard! And guarded, too,” she added, giving him a curious look. “I wonder if anyone, even your own brother, ever knows what you really think?”
“Or cares?” he parried. “But naturally, I study to be interesting, my dear sister. When a man cannot lay claim to Gallic charm, he must manage to rub along with English phlegm — what d’you say, John?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Lord and Lady Northcote came from London and had hired a house in Paris similar to that of the Cheveleys. She was a dashing young matron who was very popular with the gentlemen; he was an amiable fop whose slow wits were an excellent foil for her tireless vivacity. They had been present at Lady Cheveley’s dinner party and, having been introduced to Sir Richard and his companions, had at once invited them all to attend their next ball.
Lady Northcote received them in a pale green muslin gown that was almost transparent, her auburn hair dressed in a tapering cone bound about with ribbons of an identical shade. She fluted a welcome, while her husband added an incoherent word or two in the same vein. As they passed on into the ballroom, which was already crowded, Sir Richard raised his quizzing glass, pausing to survey the scene.
“Dear me, quite an extravaganza,” he murmured to Corinna, who was standing beside him.
The walls were festooned with swathes of pink silk wherever there did not happen to be full-length mirrors ornamented with ormolu, and flowers were banked in profusion before the dais on which the musicians were stationed.
She chuckled. “Yes, isn’t it? Vastly different from the assemblies in Tunbridge Wells!”
“Well, after all, you came to Paris in order to enlarge your horizons,” he reminded her. “Perhaps we have admired for long enough, and should now move about the room a little.”
When they began to do so, they soon identified acquaintances among the crowd and were caught up in conversation. Although they had been scarcely a fortnight in Paris, already they knew several people; as Miss Cheveley had said, the Englishman abroad tended to gravitate towards his own countrymen.
Miss Cheveley herself had approached Corinna almost at once, isolating her from the rest of her party, who drifted onwards to converse with others.
“Now that we are in a fair way to becoming friends, Miss Haydon, I feel that I may perhaps indulge a little curiosity concerning one member of your party,” she said, after a few social trivialities had passed between them.
“By all means. Do you mean Monsieur Landier? But I’ve already explained his connection with us, have I not?”
“Yes, indeed you have, but I didn’t mean that gentleman,” answered Miss Cheveley, a slight flush colouring her creamy complexion. “Perhaps, however, I shouldn’t quiz you — you will think me a prying female, and in general I assure you I am not.”
“No, I don’t believe you are,” returned Corinna, “and you’ve no occasion to feel guilty, for I’m the most quizzing female in the w
orld, always curious about my neighbours,” confessed Corinna, somewhat overstating the case in a friendly urge to reassure her companion. “I should suppose that the person you have in mind is Sir Richard Beresford.”
Miss Cheveley shyly admitted the impeachment, still looking rather ashamed.
“You will already know that he is my sister’s husband’s elder brother — dear me, how clumsy and intricate that sounds!” Corinna laughed, easing the slight tension. “He has an estate in Sussex, Chyngton Manor, which he inherited a few years ago on his father’s death. His parents and mine were old friends, so we have known the two brothers all our lives.”
Miss Cheveley hesitated. “There is no Lady Beresford — the gentleman is not married?”
“Married? Richard? Oh, no!” declared Corinna emphatically, as if such an idea were unthinkable. “He’s not at all in the petticoat line — or perhaps I should say that so far he has never shown a particular interest in any one female, and we would certainly know of it, if he did, being so closely associated.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I must admit that it had never occurred to me before,” went on Corinna, wrinkling her brow, “but I should suppose that he must soon be turning his thoughts towards matrimony, for he is eight and twenty, you know. I only hope that when he does come round to it, he’ll choose a female whom my family can like, for my mother has always considered the Beresfords almost as blood relations.”
The conversation was interrupted at this point as the floor was being cleared for the dancing to begin. Corinna moved with her friend to join Lydia and Lady Cheveley in the seats provided at the sides of the room; as she did so, she thought over what had been said. It was clear that Frances Cheveley’s query had not been prompted by idle curiosity alone. She must, reflected Corinna, possess at least the first stirrings of an interest in Richard. Was there anything on his side? She had not noticed, but then she had not been watching for the symptoms. Nothing had been further from her mind, and now she wondered why. Richard was a personable gentleman of title and estate, and as such a highly eligible parti. There must have been plenty of females who had set their caps at him, and before long someone would succeed in fixing his interest. Perhaps it would indeed be Frances Cheveley.
The Intrepid Miss Haydon Page 4