by Wendy Bayne
Meg and I found our way into the garden and sat down by a fountain. To distract my thoughts, I decided to spend some time trying to help Meg improve her French. Robert had planned to take her for a stroll in the gardens of the Tuileries and while he was very proficient in his French being a polyglot…meaning that he learned languages quickly…Meg didn’t want to rely solely on his ability alone. However, neither of us had our heart in it, every noise that emanated from the Embassy had us stopping to stare back towards the garden doors. Finally, it was time for luncheon and as we entered the hallway leading to the dining room my father and uncle came down the main staircase. I ran to meet them and threw my arms around my father’s neck, kissing him and then my uncle. “Where have you been?!” I asked anxiously. I stepped back and gave them both a long hard look. They were obviously exhausted and haggard. “Father, what’s wrong? Is Mr Johnson—did you find him?”
He smiled at me and nodded. “Yes, we found him, Lissa. But he’s extremely ill. He was treated abominably in prison and we’ve had him removed to a private estate that we’ve rented. We’ll be joining him there as soon as we can pack. I warn you it will be sometime before he can return home, but we’ll not leave him alone. So, my dear, your French is about to be put to the test.” He smiled at my bemused expression. “None of the servants as far as we know speak a word of English.”
I gasped. “Oh my, can they be trusted then? I mean the French were our enemies once and not that long ago.”
Uncle Samuel chuckled. “Come along, brat, let us eat first then we can discuss what has happened and where we go from here.” My father drew back frowning at my uncle.
Then he turned back to me to say with a troubled expression, “I suppose you might as well know what’s happened, you’ll find out soon enough one way or another.”
Luncheon was a not exactly a jovial meal, but Lord Granville was heartened by the news that Mr Johnson had been found and freed. He was equally relieved to learn of our intent to depart the Embassy, thereby relinquishing the guest quarters.
We hastily packed our belongings leaving the Embassy to take up residence in a glorious country chateau. It was situated within a walled property of considerable acreage on the outskirts of Paris. The sweeping drive brought us past flawless lawns and a beautiful ornamental lake which reflected a mirror image of the château, a magnificent two storey building constructed from pink limestone with twin fairy-tale towers and huge sash windows. When we stopped under the portico, Emilie was the first to alight and practically run through the open door. Coming in behind her, she stood transfixed in the middle of the entryway speechless. Inside there were magnificent crystal chandeliers and beautiful parquet floors adorned with Turkish carpets. When she turned towards us there were tears streaming down her face. She ran to my uncle, hugging him and while still crying, she turned to us. “Welcome to my family’s home. Samuel, how did you do this?”
My uncle blushed. “Mr Johnson filed the paperwork to start the process for your claim of compensation or restoration…he even managed to procure a lease for the property until your case can be reviewed. The additional information about your parents that he was able to gather should be helpful in moving your claim forward with the government.”
Just then a very nervous looking elderly man came forward introducing himself as the concierge Monsieur Bollard. I assumed that he was the equivalent of our Butler in London. Then suddenly to my great surprise there was Mr Allan coming down the stairs smiling and welcoming us all to the chateau. Mother squealed with delight. “How on earth did you get here, Allan?”
“Mr Johnson’s letter, ma’am.” She looked perplexed as were we all. “He sent me a letter and said that if you all picked up and left for Paris at any time I was to come here and make this house ready.” Then he stopped smiling. “Mr Johnson is in the room at the head of the stairs on your right, Dr Jefferson. He is in desperate need of your care.”
Dr Jefferson detached himself from our group and Murphy passed him his medical bag then he raced up the steps two at a time yelling, “If Johnson keeps up this reckless behaviour and ever pays me for my services, I will retire a wealthy man.”
Mr Allan watched the doctor retreat with a half-smile, saying under his breath, “Mr Johnson expressed the exact same sentiment.” He caught me looking at him then cleared his throat. “Excuse me, now, if you will follow me,” he gestured towards the staircase leaving a disgruntled Monsieur Bollard standing in the hallway.
Our rooms were huge and luxurious. The people who had cared for the property after Emilie’s parents had been imprisoned did so with a loving hand. As far as Emilie could tell nothing appeared to have been damaged. Mr Allan informed us as to why this was the case when so many properties of the aristocracy had been looted and decimated. “Madame Hughes’s family had been well-liked in the neighbourhood despite the revolution. So, when they were taken away the locals took it upon themselves to hide everything of value that they could from Napoleon’s governors and tax collectors. It was claimed by one of Napoleon’s confidantes during the worst times and therefore was protected until his demise. The intent now is for the current government to make a profit from the homes of the former aristocracy.”
Emilie gasped. “Anais?” and looked hopefully at Mr Allan and he gave a sympathetic sigh but shook his head. “As to those servants from that time, none of them remain. You will find the current staff polite but subdued. Only the laundress is actually friendly and conversant in English.”
He was correct that even when you came upon the staff unawares they were never smiling or humming, it was rather sad and unsettling. Meg and Beth had little to do with them, because of their status as lady’s maids they had been assigned the vacant housekeepers retreat for their dining room and lounge, while Dalton and Robert dined with Mr Allan in the Butler’s pantry. Mr Allan had insisted that he would not usurp Monsieur Bollard at the head of the servants table as much as he may like to. Mr Allan only worked with Monsieur Bollard to assure that our needs were being met since he found the man to be distasteful and untrustworthy. Lettie stayed in the nursery and when she could leave she ate with Beth and Meg. That left Murphy, Jacob and Michael eating in the staff dining hall. The food was good but according to Murphy the company was terrible. Monsieur Bollard apparently was not well-liked, and he kept the staff in a constant state of fear and subjugation. Beth and Meg began to feel the strain of meeting the needs of the ladies in our party especially with the invitations that kept coming in. I was eighteen now and was included in the all entertainments even though I had not had my first season in London. At breakfast, it was decided that our priority should be to find lady’s maids for Aunt Mary and Emilie that would be willing to return to England with us. Lettie was asked if she would like the position but declined saying she preferred being the nanny and was not inclined to give it up. It was our nearest neighbour who by providence solved our problem.
Madame Baxter was the widow of a retired British Major who had once been a part of the army of occupation. They had stayed in France after he sold his commission because they fell in love with the country and the people. His intent had been to retire here with his family and enjoy the small estate he had purchased, restoring it to its previous grandeur. Once he had achieved all that he promptly caught a fever and died, leaving his wife and ten-year-old son the owners of a very successful dairy farm. It was now run by her widowed father who had come over from England to help when her husband had passed away.
I tried to get out of visiting Madam Baxter, but my mother insisted, I wanted to be close to Mr Johnson in case he asked for me but so far, the men were the only ones allowed to see him and all they told us was that he was improving. But it had been two months. Even when I sat outside his sick room waiting for Dr Jefferson to come out, he would only tell me that he was getting better slowly. Mr Johnson’s father had written asking for Miles to be sent home, but my father assured him that he was being well cared for and couldn’t leave the country yet with the mu
rder charges still pending.
Madame Baxter thankfully recommended two village girls as lady’s maids. They were the daughters of the former school master who had passed away a few years ago, the eldest had been a lady’s maid in Paris but her mistress had recently died so she had returned to the village to live in gentile poverty with her younger sister. We were told that they both spoke some English, so it was arranged that she would bring them to the chateau to be interviewed.
Mrs Baxter’s son Patrick turned out to be an entertaining child. He offered to take me on what turned out to be an exuberant tour of their farm, bouncing between French to English with ease. It was the first time since leaving Northumberland that I wasn’t chaperoned, and the freedom was rather exhilarating. Patrick and I made our way into the orchard which adjoined our properties. He showed me his special tree where he had constructed a crude platform up in the branches. Even with my skirts I managed to climb up beside him to survey his domain. The platform gave us a clear view of the second-floor windows of the chateau. And as I scanned them I saw a man framed in the window of what I was sure was Mr Johnson’s room. The man’s hair was dark and long as he was wont to wear his, but something was wrong, it was not until he turned to leave the window that I saw the contrast of the bandage against the darkness of his hair, it covered his eyes. What was wrong with his eyes? I immediately felt ill and said as much to my companion. Patrick quickly scrambled down out of the tree guiding me back to the house where I pled a sick stomach, so I could return to the chateau. Patrick suggested to the company that the cause of my sudden illness may have been from eating a green apple…which I hadn’t. He was a sharp lad and when I caught his eye I mouthed a ‘thank you’ for bolstering my excuse for leaving.
Madame Baxter was all concern and suggested a local tonic that even our doctor would approve of. Then she promised to send the young ladies to us soon. We said our goodbyes after extending a dinner invitation to her, Patrick and her father which was happily accepted since English company was a rare treat for them.
The journey home felt like it took forever. When we reached the entry hall I escaped to my room. Once there I dismissed Meg in a fit of temper after refusing any administrations from her, my parents, aunts, uncles and finally Dr Jefferson. I thought they’d never leave me alone. I knew that I had to see Miles, the picture in my mind of him at the window screamed at me to go to him or I may never have another chance. I don’t know when I had stopped thinking of him as Mr Johnson but lately he was only Miles in my thoughts. I had taken to keeping his locket with me always wearing it when I could, keeping it in my pocket when I couldn’t and under my pillow at night. When I listened with my heart as the inscription suggested it was his voice that I heard first and foremost. He was the one who always understood my pain when no one else could see it. In fact, I believe, he understood me better than anyone and I had come to have some very strong undefined feelings for him. I waited until I knew that everyone would be getting ready for dinner then made my way to Miles’ room. I didn’t knock before entering the room, I just opened the door. It was dark inside, the only light was coming from the fire in the hearth. He was not in bed but was sitting by the fire fully dressed, his face in profile. “If that’s you, Dalton, go away. I told you that I wasn’t hungry.”
I felt a tear slide down my cheek and before I could stop myself and retreat, “I’m not hungry either.”
He sat up straighter. It was then that I noticed the firelight bounce off the glass that he had held down by his side, it was half full of some deep gold liquid. He didn’t turn towards me but hastily fumbled with the glass to set it on the table, spilling most of its contents in the process. “Miss Turner, you should not be here.”
I stepped further into the room and closed the door. “Why?”
He was flustered, “It’s…unseemly for a young lady to visit a gentleman’s bedchamber.”
I took another step forward, my hands nervously clasped in front of me. “I thought we were friends, Miles?”
He sighed then rose from his seat, but he didn’t turn towards me. “Regardless you should not be here.” He spoke sharply then his shoulders slumped, and his head fell forward. “But now that you’re here I would dearly love to have your company.” He waved his hand in front of him and ventured to take a step, bumping the table on which his glass stood.
I quickly went to his side, taking his hand and he gripped mine tightly as if not wanting to let it go. “Sit, Miles, please. I will take the seat straight across from you.” We both sat down leaning forward, neither one of us anxious to let go of the other’s hand. “How—I mean, do you want to tell me about what happened?”
“NO!” I flinched at the pain in his voice as he quickly dropped my hand. “Perhaps you should leave, after all. I’m not fit company for anyone.”
I sighed looking for any signs of trauma other than the bandage over his eyes but there was nothing obvious. I felt another tear slide down my cheek. “No, thank you. I think I shall stay.” I reached out and rested my hand on top of his, but he made no attempt to take it and I swallowed my disappointment. “I never got to thank you in person for the lovely Christmas present you sent me. It’s so beautiful and far too expensive. Mother thinks it’s too fine for me to wear all the time, but I want you to know that I keep it with me all the time regardless of what she thinks.”
He smiled at that then he stiffened. “Are you sure she didn’t tell you that it was an inappropriate gift?”
I smiled taking his hand in mine and writing in his palm the inscription as I whispered, ‘Listen with your Heart’. He gave me a half smile. “I do, Miles, and my heart tells me that you are more than just my friend. I want to discover what that means.” My words seemed inadequate, how could I say this without scaring him. “I mean that I want us to be more than just friends.”
He sighed deeply, his hand lay still in mine, but the fingers of his other hand were clenched into a fist. “I doubt your parents would approve.”
I was hurt that he would think that… so I challenged him. “Why? I don’t see why they should object.”
His head was bowed, and his shoulders rounded as he sat forward…as if he had given up. “Can’t you? Do you think the matter of my birth would be of no significance to them? What about your uncle and Mrs Spencer, what would they say?”
I slid off my chair and knelt before him. I wanted to reach out and touch his face to make him raise his head to me but instead I continued to hold his hand. “Miles, my parents and family only want my happiness.”
He removed his hand from mine to touch my cheek then pulled back like he’d been scorched. “But we can’t, you would be shunned and lose your place in society, a place that is yours by birth.”
I reached out placing his hand back on my cheek and held it there. “Miles, I have known no society that I care to be in but that of yours and my family. I would rather live my life with you in Dorset with the Dawsons and the gypsies than in the finest home in London.” He sighed, shaking his head. I waited for him to respond but he didn’t, so I left off my attack for the moment. “Now, are you going to tell me what happened?”
I laid my head on his knee and he placed his hand on my hair, gently stroking it as he told me about his incarceration and torture. The chief instigator had been Browne’s younger brother Julian, apparently at the urging of his father. It was he who had laid the complaint with the Paris police using Randall’s association with the French diplomatic mission as justification to seize Miles as a political prisoner. He had already bribed the police to confiscate Miles’ travel papers and throw him into prison under another name where he was starved and beaten. Finally, when he couldn’t take any more and in a fit of rage, Miles had killed one of the guards by snapping his neck. The other guard had thrown his lamp at him, splashing hot oil in his eyes. Then he was beaten again and left for dead without any care for his wounds. It took three days for my father and uncle to unravel the mess created by Lord Burley. And now with Miles having b
een charged with the killing of the guard it was a diplomatic nightmare since Miles was the son of an English peer. Dr Jefferson had done all that he could for his eyes, but he had no idea if Miles would regain his sight, all he could tell him was that time would tell.
As I sat on the floor with my head on his knee and his hand on my head I noticed the liquid that had spilled from the glass now sitting on the table. Being this close I caught the cloying smell of Laudanum. I recognized the smell from the Abbey still room, it was a preparation that my mother made sure was always available for the General after he had returned from India. “Miles, are you in pain?” He stopped stroking my hair but didn’t answer. “Miles, I know laudanum when I smell it.”
He sighed then shifted so that I sat up looking up at him. He had removed his bandages and opened his eyes looking straight ahead. “Can you live with this? Because I don’t think I can.”
I reached out and touched the scars that had formed around the edges of his eyes they were reddened but not disfiguring, his eyes were blood shot but otherwise looked normal. “Miles, your eyes look fine. Your skin and eyelids are inflamed but they’ll heal. There are no deep burns and it’s likely that there will be minimally scaring that will fade with time.”
Leaning his head back against the chair, he said, “Don’t lie to me, Lissa, please! I’m blind and I know what blindness from burning oil looks like! I’ve seen it!”
I reached out touching his face, but he grabbed my hand at the wrist pulling it away from his face. “I’m not lying, Miles. Your eyes are still a beautiful dove grey, they’re not scarred.” He moved his hands towards his face and dropped them just as someone entered the room behind us.
Chapter 23
It’s All in the Eyes