by M C Beaton
Chapter Six
No one at Marsham Manor welcomed the arrival of the new master. It seemed as if even the weather were in mourning. Since the comte’s arrival, it had rained steadily, soaking, depressing, gray rain, a relentless downpour which chuckled in the lead gutters and spread pools on the lawns and made everything indoors damp to the touch.
With the exception of Maria Bencastle, no one had actually voiced any disapproval. But it was there, in the scowls of the servants, in the careful courtesy of her new steward, in the sidelong looks Delphine received in the marketplace.
Delphine would have culled some bitter enjoyment from the situation had her husband seemed in the slightest way aware of it. But true to his word, he slept and slept, arriving downstairs only for meals.
In order to bring him to some guilty awareness of his sloth, Delphine began to work harder than she had ever done before she had a steward. Mr. Garnett confided to his assistant that her ladyship was making work, but to the uninitiated of the county, it made Delphine look like a martyr. Feelings already ran high against foreigners in general and the French in particular, and now the whole weight of xenophobia was centered on the uncaring shoulders of the Comte Saint-Pierre.
The servants at Marsham Manor could barely conceal their dislike. And everywhere about the local countryside went Maria Bencastle, scandalizing and tattling about how Delphine had been tricked into marrying a penniless nobody. “Every one of the Frenchies,” said Maria wisely, “says they’re a prince or a count, but they were probably plain Mr. Jones back in their own country.”
Jules Saint-Pierre hardly spoke to his wife on the rare occasions he saw her. When not downstairs eating, he was upstairs in his rooms with his head on a pillow and his eyes on a book.
He read and slept, and slept and read, and the rain continued to drum on the roof and run in greasy tears down the windows.
And then abruptly one morning, the rain stopped, the sun shone, and a family of blackbirds pulled fat worms out of the sodden grass in front of the drawing room windows.
Delphine slept late, not going downstairs until ten o’clock in the morning. The butler, Bradley, silently indicated a folded note lying next to her breakfast plate.
Delphine opened it, saw it was from her husband, folded it again, and proceeded to eat her breakfast, much to Bradley’s disappointment. The butler lingered as long as he could, but when her ladyship showed no signs of reading the note, he took himself off to the kitchens.
As soon as the door had closed behind him, Delphine snatched up the note. “‘Dear Heart,’” she read,
“‘I am gone to see what the countryside looks like and hope to have the pleasure of your company at dinner, Jules.’“
“If he behaves in his usual manner,” thought Delphine with not very commendable malice, “then he is going to find out just how unpopular the French are around here!”
Maria Bencastle came striding in, dressed as usual in black from head to foot. Delphine crumpled the note.
“Where is your … er … husband?” demanded Mrs. Bencastle, eyeing the crumpled paper.
“He has gone out to see the countryside,” said Delphine.
“Then he is in for a great shock,” said Maria Bencastle with satisfaction. “I hear that folks hereabouts think he’s a Bonapartist spy.”
“What?” Delphine stared at Mrs. Bencastle in alarm, and then her eyes narrowed. “I wonder, Maria,” she said, “I just wonder who on earth gave them that impression.”
Mrs. Bencastle turned a dull red. “Well, stands to reason,” she blustered. “What with Boney and all his troops marching towards Belgium, feelings are running high, and no one wanted the comte to come here anyway.”
Only a brief moment before, Delphine had been relishing the idea of her husband’s possible mortification. Now she was frightened and worried. In her mind’s eye, she could see the angry mob stoning Jules in the Littlejohn market square.
“I had better ride out and look for him,” she said. “Did he take his tiger?”
“If you mean that cheeky jackanapes … no. Master Charlie is lounging in front of the kitchen fire.”
Delphine became more and more worried. She rushed upstairs to change into her riding dress. For all her worry, she did not don her old Joseph but a green and gold riding habit. Somehow, she felt sure she would find Jules in Littlejohn. He seemed such a creature of the streets and buildings. Impossible to imagine him roaming the countryside.
Jules Saint-Pierre was, in fact, riding into Littlejohn. But he had spent over two hours riding along pleasant country lanes, admiring the view and listening to birdsong. He had many opportunities to reflect on the amazing surliness of the English peasant.
All his cheerful “Good days” were met with sullen silence and glowering looks. He had heard that the English agricultural laborer was more independent than his old French counterpart. He had not expected servility. He had, however, expected a modicum of respect towards the new lord of the manor.
Perhaps he was not suited for the country after all, he thought as he rode into town. Perhaps he would meet with more civility in Littlejohn.
He swung down from his horse in the market square. The animosity towards him was almost tangible. There was a great crowd gathered for some event. Then he began to make out mutterings of “French spy,” low at first but growing in volume.
Just as he was debating whether to beat an ignominious retreat before he was stoned or torn to pieces, there came a welcome diversion, and all eyes turned away from him to the church steeple. The comte, who was a good head and shoulders above the crowd, watched with interest.
A stout rope had been stretched from the bell tower down to a ring and bolt in the center of the square. From the talk about him, he was able to gather what was about to happen.
The “Flying Man” had been a great event in the last century and still lingered on in the second decade of the nineteenth. It involved “flying” or sliding at great speed down a taut rope from as great a height as possible.
It had largely gone out of favor because of the great number of deaths. Only too often had the performer ended up dashing himself to his death on the cobbles.
The comte craned his neck. The steeple seemed to swing against the great white clouds, which were flying across the windy, blue sky,
A small figure, foreshortened by the distance, appeared at the window of the bell tower. A great cheer went up from the crowd.
Then there was a breathless silence. All eyes were riveted on the figure of the performer.
And then he began to descend … very slowly, very cautiously, hand over hand.
The crowd watched in increasing disappointment until he finally reached the ground. And then a great jeer of contempt broke from every throat.
Forgetting his rank and his new position in society, the comte remarked as one street performer to another, “Not a very good show.”
“Oh, it ain’t, eh?” said a burly man. “Think you can do better than an Englishman, you French spy!”
“Yes, come along, let’s see if monsoor can do better,” screeched an elderly harridan.
The mood of the crowd grew ugly. Out of the corner of his eye, Jules Saint-Pierre saw a man bend and prise loose a cobble.
“If I prove I can do better,” he said in his light, easy voice, which carried well across the crowd, “then you will tell me how this slander of my being a spy came about. Now, make way for the expert,” he said with a sunny grin.
Muttering and uneasy and nonplussed, the crowd fell back.
“He’ll never do it,” shouted one. “He’s going to escape.”
“Not I!” the comte shouted back over his shoulder as he strode in the direction of the church.
“He be ever so handsome,” said a country girl, sighing. “He don’t look like a Frenchie at all.”
Several men had shouldered their way into the church after the comte. They did not think for a minute he meant to go through with it. Only look at his clothes
! That alone showed the man to be dishonest. Even Mr. Bryce-Connell had never looked so fine.
The comte was wearing the clothes he had bought from his gambling friend. His bottle-green morning coat was stretched across his shoulders without a wrinkle, his new Hessian boots were polished to perfection, his cravat was a sculptured miracle.
But the comte went over to the stairs to the belfry and began to climb.
Outside the crowd was frantically discussing how the rumors about the new lord of Marsham Manor had started.
No one could quite think of where they had heard that the Comte Saint-Pierre was a spy, except that “someone had said it.”
It was Mr. Partington who suddenly shouted shrilly, “It was Mrs. Bencastle who told me.” There was a silence while everyone turned and looked at the owner of the haberdashery store. “Well, it was,” continued Mr. Partington, delighted to be the center of attention. “She used to tell me that Lady Charteris had entrapped poor Sir George as well, but I never did pay heed to that, either. Mrs. Bencastle never has a good word for anyone. She said I sold shoddy goods….”
“So you do,” shouted Mr. Cutler, the red-faced butcher.
“She said you sold horses meat and called it beef,” shrieked Mr. Partington. “Yes. Yes. And … and she said Widow Giles was no widow and had never been married. And … and … she said vicar was too friendly with his housekeeper and …”
“Enough,” growled a farmer. “We all know Mrs. Bencastle’s an evil gossip.”
“But you don’t, do you?” said Mr. Partington wildly. “You believed her about the comte, didn’t you? And you were nigh to killing him, weren’t you? And now he’ll probably die anyway, and it’ll all be your fault!” And with that, the much overwrought haberdasher burst into noisy tears.
What had been a wild and murderous mob such a short time before was now a collection of shamefaced, worried country people.
“There he is!” cried a boy, and with a terrible sort of dread, leaning together, bunching together, as if to ease their guilt by sharing it; people huddled close, shoulder to shoulder, gazing anxiously up at the church.
“Run and tell them it’s all a mistake,” the farmer who had spoken before said to a small boy. “Run up there and stop him before it’s too late.”
“It is too late!” said a hollow voice behind him.
Up at the belfry tower, the comte edged to the very edge of the belfry window.
“Don’t!” screamed a woman.
And then they all held their breath.
Suddenly, the comte seemed to fall forward onto the rope and then he started to hurtle towards them, face down on the rope, his hands outspread.
His booted legs were firmly wrapped around the rope at the back, but to the watching crowd it appeared that he was flying down towards them at a tremendous rate, any second to be dashed against the cobbles.
There rose a great wail of despair when he showed no signs of being able to stop. People tried to wrench their eyes away but found them glued to the flying figure, hurtling down from above.
It seemed he was but a few inches from certain death when he suddenly and magically slowed and, with a tremendous somersault, he landed on his feet in front of them as lightly as a cat, the sun shining on his golden curls, and his merry blue eyes raking over the crowd.
They cheered and cheered and fought with each other for the honor of shaking his hand.
“I want to make a speech!” called the comte at last.
A stool was produced, and the comte jumped up on it and faced the crowd.
“Now,” he said, “who has been calling me a spy? I have not been back to France since my parents were killed in the Terror. I am a Royalist. Why should I work for Napoleon Bonaparte?”
“It was Mrs. Bencastle,” shouted Mr. Partington. “She told us. She said all sorts of things. I didn’t listen to her. Not I.”
“I wondered how you all recognized me enough to hate me,” said the comte mildly. “Mrs. Bencastle must have described my appearance also.”
There were vigorous nods.
“Well, I do not want my wife distressed by all this,” the comte went on. He leaned forward and addressed a fascinated urchin at the edge of the crowd. “Do you know what happens to people who gossip?” he asked.
The boy shook his head dumbly.
The comte leaned further forward. “I’ll tell you. They end up with heads full of cotton.” And in front of the amazed crowd he appeared to pull a long length of cambric handkerchief from the child’s ear.
More children pushed to the front. “Oh, milord,” squeaked a tiny, grubby girl. “Do some more.”
The comte smiled at the children. He felt the sun on his back, felt the warmth towards him emanating from the now adoring crowd, saw the wide eyes of the little children, and forgot that he was now an English aristocrat with lands and people under him. Once again, he was Monsoor Jules of the street fairs. A mocking, teasing smile curled his lips. His hand went to the pocket in the pleats of his coat; out came six silver balls, which he proceeded to juggle while the crowd cheered and roared.
And that was how Delphine found her husband.
She had ridden desperately to Littlejohn, her worry rising by the minute. She was frantic with anxiety by the time she gained the town square and heard the roar of the crowd.
She fully expected to see Jules Saint-Pierre swinging from a lamppost.
But there he was, debonair and laughing, juggling balls in front of a cheering crowd.
She swung down from her horse and pushed her way through to the front of the crowd, her face flaming with anger.
A nightmare had come true. Instead of behaving with dignity, like Sir George, the comte was carrying on as if he had never left the poverty of the street fairs of London.
Before she reached him, Delphine saw Harriet Bryce-Connell and her brother standing up in their open carriage on the far side of the square. Harriet was laughing and applauding, and even her brother looked amused.
Delphine felt her humiliation was complete. Too angry to realize she would make matters more disgraceful by creating a scene, she elbowed and pushed her way until she was standing under him.
“Stop it this minute!” she snapped.
The comte deftly caught the balls and returned them to his pocket.
“The show is over, my children,” he said with a kind smile.
“You fool!” hissed Delphine. “Must you always disgrace me? Must you behave like a ragamuffin?”
“So many questions,” he murmured, jumping lightly down.
He started to walk with her through the crowd. People parted at their approach. The women dropped low curtsies to Delphine, and the men bowed low.
“Where is your horse, sirrah?” demanded Delphine.
“By some fortuitous chance, my sweeting,” he said, “my horse is tethered next to yours.”
“Then mount and ride. I am taking you home. You must be taught how to behave yourself!”
By this time, Delphine was holding his arm in a firm clasp.
He stopped and took her hand from his arm and bent his head and kissed it.
“But I am not ready to go home yet.” He smiled. “I am extremely thirsty and I see a hostelry over there.”
“Have you no shame?” yelled Delphine, stamping her foot.
“I think I would certainly be ashamed if I were found behaving like a fishwife, ranting and raving in public,” he said. “But since that is not the case, I feel remarkably free from guilt. Do you care to share a glass of wine with me?”
“Be damned to you,” hissed Delphine, scarlet with embarrassment and now all too aware of the multitude of listening ears.
She turned on her heel and marched away.
The comte proceeded at a leisurely pace towards the Wheatsheaf. He espied the thin, nervous figure of the haberdasher, Mr. Partington, who was bowing so low his nose nearly touched the cobbles.
The comte stopped and raised his quizzing glass. “Ah, the gentleman who so
kindly identified the name of the gossip,” he said.
“Mr. William Partington, haberdasher, at your service, milord,” said Mr. Partington as best as he could, for he was still doubled over in a deep bow.
“Then perhaps, Mr. Partington, you would care to join me in a bottle of wine?” said the comte. Mr. Partington straightened up, his mouth hanging open in amazement. The comte smiled at him gently and tucked Mr. Partington’s arm into his own and proceeded on his way.
Mr. Partington held his head high, tears of pride starting out of his eyes. Mrs. Partington was not present on this momentous occasion, but she was to hear about “The Day I Took Wine with the Comte Saint-Pierre” for the rest of her days, so it was probably just as well that the poor woman was to be spared this agony for a little longer.
Delphine walked up and down in front of Marsham Manor, the long skirt of her riding dress swishing across the grass. She was furious with Jules and furious with herself, although she felt she had somehow been tricked into making a disgraceful public scene. What on earth had happened to her? She, who had never been known to raise her voice.
How could he behave so?
After some time, she became aware of a figure flitting silently through the trees at the edge of the lawn, a figure that seemed to be keeping pace with her.
She stopped abruptly and called out, “Who are you? Who’s there?”
“It’s me, missus.” The tiger, Charlie, poked his head around a tree trunk and surveyed her.
“Come here!” commanded Delphine.
The tiger sidled towards her across the grass with an ingratiating smile on his face.
“Why are you watching me?” demanded Delphine. “And in future, address me as ‘my lady’ when you speak to me.”
“Yes, missus,” said the reprehensible Charlie, giving her a servile smirk, infuriating in its hypocrisy.
“Well, I am waiting,” said Delphine. “Why were you watching me?”
“I was waiting for you to calm down, like,” said the tiger, “so’s I could tell you what really ‘appened.”
“Explain yourself!”