“I am.”
He achieved a creditable bow which went oddly with his rough fisherman’s attire.
“I made the acquaintance — or so one could call it,” he said drily “— of a friend of yours last night, a young Englishman. I understand from him that you have come to England seeking some relatives.”
“You mean Miss Haydon’s brother, Laurence? How did it come about that you spoke with him?”
“He was so unwise as to follow me when I came visiting at this house. I soon detected him, and a confrontation followed.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” Some of the fear returned to her eyes. “You — you did not hurt him, I trust? He and his sister have been such good friends to me!”
He shrugged. “Be easy. There was a scuffle, and he most likely sustained a few bruises, but nothing worse. He is fortunate — those who attempt to spy upon us seldom live to tell the tale,” he added grimly.
A shudder ran through her.
“Monsieur, I do not know who you are, or what you want with me,” she said in a nervous tone.
“I am about to tell you that. I had your story from this youth, and it seems you and his family were transported from France by my agency. Now that I look at you closely, I recognise you. You came into the kitchen at Bonnet’s farmhouse, did you not? I never set eyes on the others, but such arrangements are a commonplace with me. I merely give the orders.”
He shrugged again, then looked at her keenly.
“This youth Haydon, mademoiselle — how close a friend of yours is he?”
She was puzzled by his tone, which was almost proprietorial.
“A very good friend, both he and his sister, but not, I think, the kind of friend you are supposing. He is just a boy, Laurie, voyez-vous! But, monsieur,” — her voice was diffident, for she did not wish to antagonise him — “I still do not see what it is you want with me.”
“Simply this — I have news of your relatives.”
Her face lit up. “You have? Oh, monsieur, that is wonderful! I have been almost in despair — we inquired for them in Brighton without success, and then I advertised — but tell me at once! Where are they?”
He turned a look of compassion on her; and when he spoke, it was in a gentler tone than she would ever have believed possible from that source.
“My poor child, I fear I am about to inflict a sad shock upon you.”
Her eyes widened as she waited for him to continue.
“Your aunt is no more,” he said quietly. “She died three years since and is interred in Eastbourne, where she had lived after quitting Brighton.”
She crossed herself. “God rest her. I cannot really remember her, for I was only seven when she left France, but somewhere in my mind an impression lingers of a lovely, gentle lady—”
“She was so,” he said harshly. “Torn from her own country and people, to try and make a life among strangers. She lived in tolerable conditions at first, but once she had sold all her jewels, her life became insupportable for one of her upbringing. Nothing but poverty and hardship! I know she was relieved to quit that miserable existence, her only regret being that she must leave her son to find a living as best he might.”
Madeleine’s eyes had filled with tears.
“My poor, poor aunt! How much misery was caused by the Revolution! But what of my cousin, Jacques-Philippe? Have you news, too, of him?”
“I am your cousin, mademoiselle.”
She started violently. “You? Is it possible? But you are—”
She broke off, afraid to finish.
“I am a smuggler, you would say? Yes, I admit it. What would you have? My mother and I needed money desperately, so when we were in Brighton I found casual employment among the fisherfolk. She did not like it, but there was nothing else open to me. In a few years, I chanced across a man who was involved in the smuggling trade in this area, and I managed to edge my way into the business. That was when I was obliged to remove my mother from Brighton to Eastbourne, to a poor hovel where she eked out her life. I began to do well in my chosen trade” — his voice was bitter — “but too late to benefit her. Now I am what you might call an organiser, quite an important man, I assure you, cousin!”
“But — but—” stammered Madeleine. “You are the Vicomte de Fougeray, since both our fathers are dead! It is not fitting that you should be involved with criminals!”
“The Vicomte de Fougeray,” he repeated, in tones of deep scorn. “Not even in the country of my birth is such a title permitted to exist! It means nothing to me. Here I am known as Jack, with no one to trouble about a surname. I have no lands, no money but what I can earn for myself. I must make a living as best I can.”
“But surely there must be other occupations open to you. More honourable than this!”
“Such as yours, for example? Do you consider it fitting that Mademoiselle de Fougeray should be an abigail?”
“I did what I must, for I could not accept the charity of my English friends,” she said defensively.
“Precisely. You did what you must, and so do I. It is fruitless to argue on this head. Let us consider instead what you mean to do now that my mother is no more, and you are therefore without a home in this country.”
She brooded in silence for a moment, then asked, “Are you married, Cousin Jacques?”
He gave a snort of laughter. “Not I! Oh, there have been females from time to time, you understand, but marriage, no.”
“I was thinking that perhaps if you were, I might make a home with you,” she said slowly.
“A home with a smuggler — mon Dieu, that would be something!” He laughed mirthlessly. “No, I have no settled home. I am a bird of passage, with a pied-à-terre here and also across the Channel, but I would not describe either place as a home.”
“Then there is nothing for me but to remain where I am,” she answered sadly.
“At Grenville’s house? No, that you shan’t do.” His tone was firm. “Have you no friends in France to whom you could return? There must be someone. I can offer you no protection here.”
She did not answer. He looked at her sharply, and saw a slow blush mounting to her cheeks.
“There is, I collect, a man in the case. You had better tell me.”
Haltingly, she told him of Patrice Landier. He heard her out in silence, watching her keenly all the while.
“I see you love this banker,” he said when she had finished. “Him I did meet at Bonnet’s farm, and judge him to be a man of decision and fair-dealing. I am not inexperienced in making quick assessments of men, for often my safety depends on it. He is of suitable age for you, too, and should be able to offer you a creditable establishment. Do you wish to return to him?”
“With all my heart,” she said simply.
“And he awaits only a word from you to bring him hotfoot to Bonnet’s farm to receive you. You will write that word at once, and somehow I’ll see it delivered. As for taking you to France, that is not so simple.” His brow furrowed. “This is not the time of year for shipping contraband — the nights are too light. We have other business, however, which cannot wait on convenience, and should such business crop up, that would be your chance.”
She wanted to ask what the other business might be, but held her tongue. She was content that he should tell her only what he wished her to know. The thought of being reunited with Landier filled her with a wild longing, and nothing else signified.
“It may take some time,” he continued, “and when the opportunity occurs, you’ll have little warning. But in the meantime, I’ll find you a lodging away from this house, though you may continue to work here if you insist. While you remain under this roof, however, have a care. Do not make the smallest attempt to pry into anything that goes on here, and keep to your room at night. Do you understand?”
He turned a fierce look upon her, and she nodded obediently.
“Now go, and write your letter. I will collect it from you later — never mind how, but carry it around with y
ou until I do.”
She rose to leave him, but paused at the door.
“My friends — I may tell them of this?”
“Very well, you may tell your friends, if you’re sure you may rely on their discretion.”
“Oh, yes, indeed I am.” She paused as another thought came into her head. “But I cannot be easy about you and this way of life, Cousin Jacques. Why do you not return with me to France? Monsieur Landier would find you some occupation more suitable.”
“Return to Napoleon’s France?” he asked scornfully. “Bah, what is there for such as I? It is but one degree better than the Revolution, and can never again be the France of our childhood.”
“That is what I said to Monsieur Landier. And he replied that it is for the people of France to build for themselves the nation they desire. I did not agree with him then, but now I think differently.”
He laughed tolerantly.
“But of course! Well, petite, we shall see, but I think your Landier is a very lucky fellow.”
He took her hand; and with some memories of a more cultured upbringing under his dead mother’s influence, carried it to his lips. In spite of his rough appearance, she did not find this incongruous, and responded with a low curtsey.
Meanwhile, Corinna had been impatiently awaiting Madeleine in the shrubbery at Friston House, eager to pass on the news she had received from Laurence. Since her friend had not put in an appearance on the preceding day, she was tolerably certain of seeing her; but as time wore on, her disappointment became intense.
Her impetuous disposition refused to entertain for a moment the thought of delaying her news until tomorrow. She would have dispatched Laurence with a note to leave in the summerhouse at Eastdean Place, had not the wretched boy ridden off with Sir Richard to Chyngton Manor. Since Laurence was not available, she must herself go to Eastdean Place. She had managed it once without the slightest difficulty, she told herself, so there was no occasion whatever for the qualms which beset her at the notion.
She hurried indoors to dash off a note for Madeleine, successfully evading her sister, who was chatting in the parlour with a visitor. As before, she managed to reach Eastdean Place without meeting anyone at all, and, conquering her misgivings, was soon inside the summerhouse.
This time, it was empty. She did not linger, but concealed her note in the cupboard and hastened out of the grounds. She had turned out of the lane into the road leading to the village when the sound of an approaching vehicle made her move over into the verge. She saw it was a curricle drawn by a pair of matched greys, and wondered that the driver should bring it along such a narrow, rough track. The next moment she recognised Grenville, evidently returning to the house.
He reined in his horses and saluted her.
“This is a pleasant surprise, Miss Haydon! I cannot hope that you’ve been calling on me, since you’re unaccompanied, so can only suppose you’ve been taking a solitary stroll. What a pity I didn’t know you were at liberty, or I would have begged the pleasure of taking you out for a drive. Are you returning home, ma’am? May I drive you there?”
She tried not to look self-conscious as she declined his offer, saying that she had come out for the exercise. He would not hear of her continuing on foot, however, so presently she allowed him to assist her into the vehicle.
“Do you often walk this way?” he asked as he took the vehicle back to the lane so that he could turn it.
“Oh, no, but” — an inspiration occurred to her — “I’ve heard some mention of Birling Gap, and thought I would walk down there to see it.”
“You must be an intrepid walker,” he said admiringly. “There and back from your sister’s house would be about three miles, a distance to deter most ladies. But there is nothing whatever there to reward such effort, only a steep descent to a strip of pebbly beach. Moreover, the track deteriorates as one proceeds, and would be very rough for a lady’s footwear.”
“I am regardless of obstacles when I have an objective,” she said, laughing.
“That is what I so much admire in you — yet it is only one of many attributes which make you quite the most fascinating lady of my acquaintance,” he replied, giving her an ardent look from his fine hazel eyes.
“Fie, you say pretty things to all the females, I don’t doubt. It’s of no use to try and gammon me, sir, for I’ve seen you often enough paying attentions to others.”
He said nothing for a moment, and she knew the shaft had gone home.
“I will not pretend to misunderstand you,” he said, in a serious tone. “To my shame, I admit that in the past I have been forced — yes, it’s not too strong a word — to pay court to females for whom I had no deep, sincere feelings. But if only you could understand my situation — if only you could know the agony of mind of a man who must attempt to please and flatter one female, while his whole heart is set upon another!”
Her pulses leapt and she found difficulty in breathing. He was confessing what she had so often urged to herself in extenuation of his conduct. Was it then true? Was she indeed the one he truly loved, as she had always tried to believe? She could not speak for emotion, but turned expressive eyes on his face.
He gathered the reins in one hand and leaned towards her to place his free hand over hers.
“Miss Haydon — Corinna!”
He broke off suddenly with an exclamation of annoyance. They had reached the gates of Friston House simultaneously with another vehicle which had swept into view from the opposite direction.
Sir Richard was driving this, with Laurence a passenger. Both noticed at once the intimate gesture which now Grenville quickly corrected.
The greetings which passed were cool on the part of the gentlemen, while Corinna managed only a confused mumble. The two carriages went in procession along the drive, with Grenville’s leading. When they reached the entrance to the house, he leapt down and assisted Corinna to alight.
“Will you come in, sir?” she asked in a formal tone.
He shook his head. “Not now. Some other time I would like to continue our conversation, though, when there is some possibility of privacy. Dare I hope — perhaps tomorrow? May I take you for a drive in the afternoon?”
She found it difficult to resist the pleading in his eyes when her own emotions were in so much confusion. She hardened her heart, however, for two reasons. One was that she had already promised in her note to meet Madeleine tomorrow afternoon; the other, that she had too much pride to allow him to suppose her an easy conquest.
He showed some chagrin at her refusal, made on the score of a previous engagement, and pressed her to name another time. But at that moment her brother and Sir Richard returned from stabling the latter’s curricle, and she would not remain with him any longer. He drove off and she entered the house with the others.
“Turning you up sweet, Grenville, ain’t he?” remarked Laurence with a laugh. “What a complete hand that fellow is — remember how he was dangling after that vulgar widow in Paris? You must feel flattered, sis, to be following such a one!”
Corinna’s face flamed; but before she could think of a sufficiently cutting reply, Sir Richard intervened, recommending his young friend to take a damper. By this time, they had been admitted to the house, and Corinna ran thankfully upstairs to her own room.
Tossing her bonnet heedlessly on the bed, she sank into an easy chair to give herself up to her thoughts. If she could credit what Fabian Grenville had implied that afternoon, she had been all along the real object of his affections. Circumstances had compelled him in the past to seek out a wealthy wife, but now in some way the situation was changed, and he was free at last to follow the dictates of his heart. It was what she had always tried to believe.
Tried? She caught at the word, frowning. Often enough she had insisted to Lydia that she did believe it; but now she realised that this had been self-deception. There had always been a doubt. Was that doubt now removed? She flinched away from the question.
It was replaced b
y another, even more disturbing. Mr Grenville still had some power to stir her emotions, but did she truly love him?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Madeleine found both Corinna and Laurence awaiting her in the shrubbery on the following afternoon, and it was not long before she had given them her astounding news.
“Well, I for one am not so very surprised to learn that this smuggler is your cousin,” said Laurence, after they had discussed the matter thoroughly. “Fact is, I had it from one of those fishermen in Brighton that he’d become involved in that business. I’ve been trying all along to get on the track of the smugglers, hoping it would lead me to him.”
“You have been so good!” exclaimed Madeleine penitently. “And look how you’ve suffered as a result! I cannot tell you, Laurie, how sorry I am, and how prodigiously grateful!”
“Oh, fustian, my dear girl — I don’t mind a bit of a mill now and then, especially in a good cause,” he replied casually. “Come to think of it, I’m more than half sorry it’s all over, for it was rare sport. Be a bit tame, now, unless—”
His voice tailed off, and he looked thoughtful.
“Unless what?” demanded Corinna sharply.
“Never you mind. So you’re returning to France, Madeleine? Don’t say it isn’t your most sensible course, but we’ll miss you.”
“And indeed I shall miss you, my dear, faithful friends,” she replied sadly. “But it may not be for some weeks yet, since my cousin says he must wait on circumstances.” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know what he means, but it was plain that he didn’t wish to tell me, so I refrained from questions.”
Both Laurence and, to a lesser degree, Corinna would have liked to know more about the activities of Jacques Fougeray; but both tactfully refrained from open speculation. Later, however, when Laurence was repeating the story to Sir Richard, he voiced his doubts.
“Know what I said to you about Grenville? Well, it looks as though I’d hit the nail on the head, eh? Why else should this smuggler fellow go there to see him secretly by night? And what of these others who’ve been there, too? All in the same game, if you ask me.”
The Intrepid Miss Haydon Page 16