The duc gathered together the papers he had been working on. He had had too much for one day. It was time for his walk, time to bow to Monsieur in his carriage as he returned from his visit to Madame de Polastron, and perhaps time to encounter Monsieur’s son, the Due de Berri, as he made his way to dine at his father’s house. The regularity of the Comte d’Artois’ existence made it possible for all of them, not just his son, who could count on his returning home for dinner from Louise de Polastron’s at precisely the same time each day, to feel as though some semblance of order and of the French court still remained in this barbaric land.
While her father was doing his best to ignore thoughts of his son, Isobel was doing nothing of the kind. In the kitchen Marthe produced from the pocket of her apron, a grimy, creased letter that looked as though it had passed through many hands and been secreted in many a pocket. “Jacques, Monsieur’s coachman, brought this for you. He said it had been given to him by a man who came from the Continent to visit Monsieur.”
“Thank you.” Taking the letter, Isobel dragged a stool underneath one of the two windows, at the far end of the kitchen and sat down. She smoothed the letter in her lap and began to read aloud while Marthe peeled potatoes and chopped onions, sighing gustily all the while.
“Ma chere soeur,” it began. “Je t’embrasse...” By the time she had finished reading, Isobel too was sighing and blinking rapidly.
Marthe wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Mon pauvre petit, mon brave.” She sighed again. “What will become of him, off fighting wars for that, that...”
“But, Marthe, when Monsieur Bonaparte became first consul and granted amnesty to some of us, Auguste and the Comte de Neuilly and the others had to return to France to see what they could do to reclaim some of our property. Auguste is not your petit garçon anymore. He is not even a young man any longer, but someone in the prime of his life. It has been years since you last saw him. This letter speaks of the army being at Chateau Thierry, so at least he is now back in France and no longer in the Peninsula.”
“But to be forced into the army when all he wished to do was to claim his birthright—it is too terrible,” Marthe moaned.
“Calm yourself. He would have been in the army even if there had not been a revolution in France. After all, Papa was in the army.”
“But Monsieur le duc was an officer in the king’s army.”
“True, but war is war, and a dangerous proposition no matter whose army one is in. Until now, the only difference between being in Monsieur Bonaparte’s army and being in the king’s army is that Auguste was less likely to be killed under Monsieur Bonaparte who has, until recently, been far more successful than the king’s armies have been.”
Marthe shook her head and sighed again lugubriously. “It is only because that Corsican monster signed a pact with the devil that he was able to conquer so much of Europe, but you see, le bon Dieu is on our side and Bonaparte is losing now. But to think of my poor Auguste in his clutches and risking his life for a man who is not even of noble blood, that... that...” It was too much. Marthe pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose fiercely.
Isobel laid a comforting hand on her loyal servant’s shoulder. No one could have been more devoted to the de Montargises than Marthe who had been her nursemaid when the revolution broke out. Of all the servants, Marthe had stuck by the family the longest as they wandered across Europe seeking out a safe haven. At first she had been solely responsible for looking after the baby Isobel, but as time went by she took on a variety of tasks, acting as lady’s maid to the duchesse and nursing her in her final illness. Now she was cook, housekeeper, confidante, and surrogate mother to her former charge.
Even though Isobel had been her duty, Auguste was her pride. To her, he was the embodiment of all the noble characteristics of the de Montargises, with his burning love for France and his devotion to the chivalric ideals that were his heritage. Ever since he had been a child he had played at being a soldier, making wooden swords and strutting grandly around the chateau giving orders to imaginary armies. He had been an impressionable ten-year-old when they had escaped from France, old enough to have some idea of the state of affairs and young enough to believe that if he had been but a few years older he could have put himself at the head of a group of loyalists from the surrounding countryside and rescued Paris from the bloodthirsty mob.
After their arrival in England, Auguste had begged his parents to let him attend the school in Kensington run by the son of the Marshal Duc de Broglie, where the pupils sported military-looking blue tunics with gilded buttons, but the fee was beyond the resources of the de Montargises and he was sent instead to Stonyhurst in Lancashire, where he and his friend, the Vicomte Walsh de Senant, resigned themselves to accepting their education at the hands of Jesuits from Liege instead of the military training for which they longed.
Burning to avenge the wrongs of his family, Auguste had begged to be allowed to join the Prince de Conde and his army in Europe and had objected strongly to reading Roman law under Monsieur de Barentin, but his father had been insistent. Since what little remained of the Conde’s army was dwindling rapidly and as Walsh was to be a fellow pupil at Monsieur de Barentin’s, he had accepted the inevitable.
While Napoleon’s seizure of power and his subsequent military successes effectively spelled the end of Auguste’s hopes to prove himself in the Conde’s army, it had eventually offered him the opportunity to prove himself in another way by risking the return to France after peace was declared in order to try to win back some of the de Montargis property. As a would-be soldier, Auguste could not but be impressed on his arrival in France by the First Consul’s military genius in spite of his loyalty to his family and friends and his dedication to the royalist cause. However, no sooner had Auguste arrived than he had been identified as an educated and able young man and had been forced to join Napoleon’s army, for there was a pressing need for men who could lead the swelling groups of raw recruits from the country.
At first he and the other recently returned émigrés had held themselves aloof from their fellow officers, but gradually, when faced by fire from an opposing army, even though that army was ostensibly supporting the royalist cause, he had been forced to depend on the men in his company for his own safety. From that dependency had come a grudging respect which he had communicated to his sister in his letters. These men, some of them from the most humble of backgrounds, have worked diligently to become what they are and one cannot but be impressed by their energy and ambition. I cannot help but wonder if more of us had demonstrated the same energy and ambition instead of bemoaning our fate while sitting safely in England whether we might have prevailed against the revolutionaries. If we had, at least we should have been free from the scorn of the rest of the world.
Isobel could still remember the terrible day they had received this letter. She had trembled as she had read it out loud to her father. His pale face had grown red with fury and he had gasped for breath. “He forgets himself in all his glorious adventures.” The duc had choked on his words. “That a son of France should mingle with those ... those ... sans culottes. It is execrable. He betrays his heritage, the memory of his past, the king himself, by serving with them.”
“But, Papa, he had no choice. He was made to join the army.”
“Then he should have refused.”
“But they would have executed him as a traitor; surely you would not have wanted that.”
“Better death than dishonor. It is the way of the de Montargises,” the old man had replied with haughty grandeur.
His daughter had remained silent. It was not the moment to point out that he himself was alive while many of his fellow émigrés who had gone off to fight had lost their lives at Valmy or during the disastrous Quiberon expedition.
When the next letter arrived many months later the duc had declared that unless it contained news of Auguste’s return to what remained of the French court in England or of his death then he did not
wish to hear it, nor did he ever wish to see his son again except as a member of the French court or an officer in one of the armies of the Allies. Isobel had obeyed her father’s injunctions and there was no more reading aloud of letters from Auguste. In fact, she and Marthe had agreed that it was best for the health of Isobel’s father and the pace of the household if all further communications from his son were kept secret, hence the sharing of the latest news in the kitchen.
There were parts of the letter that Isobel kept even from Marthe for she, loyal though she was to Auguste, would not have understood some of the sentiments expressed. It is incredible to me, dear sister, how for so many years I could have believed that birth alone made me superior to my fellow man. How foolish and dangerous a notion that is, for it allows one to become complacent and weak and it deprives one of the companionship of some incredible fellows. What Napoleon has done to restore the glory of France by using the talents of men from all stations in life is nothing short of brilliant. I could not be a loyal Frenchman and not admire his enormous contributions. You say that Papa calls me a traitor to my country, but what is my country? Is it an aging king and a foolish court who impoverished it for so many years before the revolution and have learned nothing from all this upheaval? Or, is it the land where I was born, the people who defend it, the artisans and lawyers, the merchants and farmers who are all working to restore it to its former glory?
Isobel smiled secretly as she folded the letter and tucked it into the pocket of her dress. Auguste might sound dangerously Republican, but he was still the Auguste she remembered from her childhood: passionate, idealistic, and fiery in his devotion to his country. She lifted her apron from its hook and put it on, thinking as she did so, how long it had been since she had last seen her brother and how much she missed him.
Chapter 4
The Duke of Warminster, seated in his imposing mahogany library listening to his own brother’s account of his experiences in the Peninsula, was thinking much the same thing—a long time had passed since he had last seen Christian and the intervening years had changed him, or had they?
There were lines of maturity, etched by hardship, in the tan face, and from time to time there was a hint of sorrow in the eyes that were set deep under dark brows. His expression was one of gravity that almost seemed to border on sadness, but it was the same old Christian who spoke, passionate to a fault and no more responsible, it seemed. “No, Albert, I have not come to my senses and sold out, nor will I, as I told Scunthorpe two years ago when you sent the poor devil all the way to Salamanca to remonstrate with me. I understand that Lavinia cannot bear any more children, but I do not understand that this situation makes it imperative for me to quit the army. Should something happen to me there is always Cedric. He would make just as good a duke as I would and I do not feel that it is my duty to save my own skin and desert my fellow officers to kick my heels in the drawing rooms of London on the unlikely possibility that you might stick your spoon in the wall.”
“Cedric!” Albert snorted. “Really, Christian, have you no sense of family pride? Cedric is not a pure Hatherleigh. Surely you would not have someone who is not a pure Hatherleigh as head of the family. You cannot be serious.”
“Never more serious in my life, old fellow. Ceddie would make an admirable duke. Why he is almost as much of a stiff-rump as you are.”
“Is there nothing that you do not consider a fit subject for levity? One would think that a war and very nearly getting yourself killed at Vitoria could have instilled some sense of honor in you, some ...”
“Contrary to what you seem to believe, Albert, there is a great deal that I take very seriously—duty to my country, responsibility to my companions-in-arms. What I refuse to take seriously is the absurd notion that I should spend my life as understudy to a man who is the picture of health simply because the blood runs purer in my veins than in those of someone who is far more suited to the position than I.”
Albert stared at his brother aghast. Since boyhood Christian had been an irreverent scapegrace and completely devoid of any respect for family or tradition. A certain amount of irresponsibility was expected in a younger son, but it was also expected that after a period of sowing wild oats that the younger son would either see the error of his ways and return to the path of respectability and decorum or completely disgrace himself and fade from polite society altogether. Christian had done neither. Instead he had taken it into his head to defend Europe against the depredations of that little Corsican upstart, leaving Albert in the uncomfortable position of being unable to approve of him and equally unable to disapprove.
“Hmph. Well, that is all very well for you to say, but some of us are not allowed the luxury of choice in our actions, being born to a role of responsibility and a sacred trust, and ...”
“And no one could be better suited to it than you, Albert.” Christian smiled disarmingly.
Caught entirely off guard, the duke shot a suspicious glance at his brother, who returned his gaze ingenuously. That was the worst of it; just when one was thoroughly annoyed with Christian’s contrary nature, he would suddenly do an about-face, completely depriving one of the luxury of righteous indignation.
“But I have taken up too much of your valuable time, brother, I must go pay my respects to Lavinia.” And flashing another impish grin, Christian was gone, leaving the duke to fume silently.
Damn him, why did his younger brother always make it seem as though he, Albert, was somehow being unreasonable when it was Christian who was always flying in the face of convention. Albert sighed heavily and returned to the mountain of correspondence on his desk. While he was glad that the heir to the dukedom was home safe and sound, he did find it personally more trying to be in close contact with his insouciant younger brother than it was having him an ocean away.
Though the Duke of Warminster might view Lord Christian’s return with mixed emotions, the duchess suffered no such qualms. She greeted her brother-in-law with delight when he was ushered into the drawing room. “Christian!” She held out her hands to him. “I could hardly credit my ears when Sophia and Augusta told me you were here.” She peered at him anxiously. “And your wound? Are you completely recovered then?”
“Completely. It was only a ball in the shoulder. It went right through, a clean shot and quickly mended.”
Indeed, a closer look at his tanned face and powerful shoulders assured her that he appeared to be in prime twig. “I am so glad. One hears such dreadful things of the conditions over there. Adrian Wargrave’s mama says that he is still much weakened from the fever he contracted there and it has been an age since he was treated for a saber cut.”
“It is true that the cure can sometimes be more fatal than the injury. But you are looking well and very modish, if I may say so.”
“The war has not rid you of your flattering ways, I see.” Lavinia sank gracefully on the canary-colored damask sofa and patted a space next to her invitingly. “Come tell me everything. You know the young women will flock around you the moment you appear. Heroes are all the rage right now.” And it was a rare hero who was more attractive than her brother-in-law, Lavinia thought as she smiled up at him. La, but he was handsome with those penetrating gray-green eyes, the mobile mouth, and high cheekbones. Why, if she were not a married woman he could easily make her pulses quicken, and as it was, she was extremely conscious of what a fine-looking man he was.
Christian grinned. “Nor have you lost yours, Lavvy. But I am just a rough old soldier and I hear that young women these days demand nothing less than perfection, a veritable tulip of the ton, someone with a distinct air of fashion.”
“Pooh. And you are not? You cannot fool me, Christian, for all your talk of rough soldiers. I’ll wager your coat was made by Stultz himself.”
“Naturally.” He chuckled. “You cannot think that Wellington would have any of his officers dressed by an inferior tailor, but you still would never confuse me with one of the dandy set.”
Lavinia sho
ok her head, smiling. “No, there will be no mistaking you for that.” No one who saw those broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs, and the athletic grace with which he moved would ever think that Lord Christian Hatherleigh was anything but what he was, a man in peak condition, up to any physical challenge and a horseman of incredible skill. And therein lay his charm. He was so different from most of the men who filled London’s ballrooms and drawing rooms. There was an energy, a forcefulness about him that set him apart and made him quite irresistible to the fairer sex. “But mark my words, you will be all the rage.”
“Anything or anyone new is all the rage. Even I have not been away from the ton so long that I do not remember that. But any interest will be over in a fortnight or less when it is realized that not only am I a younger son, I am also not hanging out for a wife.”
“Are you not, Christian, not even now after all the years of camp life? Surely you must long for someone to make you a comfortable home.”
“I have Digby for that.”
“Your batman? Come now, let us be serious for a moment.”
“I am being serious. He made me extremely comfortable in the worst conditions with next to nothing. Think of what he could do with Farwell Abbey. With a little help from Hickling he should do very well indeed.”
My Lady Nightingale Page 3