The French Affair (Endearing Young Charms Book 2)

by M C Beaton

  “Well, I got it from the knife boy what was down in the town …” Leaning nonchalantly against the sundial,

  Charlie proceeded to give a long and rambling account of the comte’s marvelous flying dive, how he had to do it to stop the crowd from stoning him, and how it had been discovered that Mrs. Bencastle had been going about saying the comte was a Bonapartist spy.

  “Did he have to go through with all these vulgar acrobatics?” demanded Delphine haughtily. “Would it not have been wiser to take flight?”

  “Wot good would that ha’ done,” said Charlie scornfully. “They would’ve followed him to the manor, that they would, and we would ha’ had another o’ them French revulsions.”

  “Thank you for your explanation,” said Delphine frostily. “Where is Mrs. Bencastle to be found?”

  “In the drawing room, miss … my lady.”

  Delphine marched across the wet grass and into the drawing room by way of the french windows.

  She stood glaring across the room at the squat, black-clothed figure of Maria Bencastle.

  Mrs. Bencastle looked up and quailed before the look of fury on Delphine’s face.

  Delphine began to speak in slow and measured tones. She took Maria Bencastle’s character apart, shred by shred; she berated her for a malicious gossip who had nearly caused the death of the comte, and she did not pause for breath for quite half an hour.

  Maria Bencastle began to cry. Gasping and babbling, she said she had only been trying to drive the comte away, because he was so obviously making Delphine unhappy. And he was so lazy! Never had anyone seen a man sleep so much!

  It had been maddening, sobbed Maria wretchedly, to see Delphine working so hard while her husband slept and slept. Maddening to see her poor angel, Delphine, become dowdy and wasted.

  “Dowdy!” exclaimed Delphine, her hands going to her face.

  “So ill-looking,” corrected Maria hastily.

  She, Maria Bencastle, had done wrong; that she freely admitted. But it had been for the best motives, the very best.

  On and on she went, begging and pleading, so unlike her usual grumpy self that Delphine was at last abashed. She insisted, however, that Mrs. Bencastle should make a full apology to the comte and promise to ride about the countryside and repair as much of the damage that she had already done as she could.

  And Mrs. Bencastle, who was in fact terrified at the idea of having to live alone, promised anything so long as she could stay at Marsham Manor.

  Delphine left her and decided to spend the rest of the day in the estates’ office, going over the books. Mr. Garnett and his assistant, Tom Bowyer, were out on one of the farms, so she knew she would be alone.

  But she found it increasingly hard to concentrate on the columns of figures as the day began to darken outside, as the evening shadows lengthened, and there was still no sign of her husband coming home.

  She sent word to the kitchens that dinner was to be put back until eight in the evening, an impossibly late hour even by London standards. Surely he would be home by then.

  At last, by seven, she became aware she was still in her riding dress and went abovestairs to change into an evening gown. It was of burgundy-colored silk, cut low on the bosom, with worked embroidery of dull gold, and it had a short train at the back.

  She fastened a collar of garnets around her neck and brushed and twisted her hair into an elaborate confection on top of her head. She had to admit the dark wine color became her. Her golden skin glowed against the richness of the material, and, with great daring, she slightly rouged her lips.

  She was just putting another pin into her hair to make sure the elaborate style was more secure when she heard her husband arriving home.

  She ran to the window and looked out.

  He swung down from his horse and stood talking to Charlie for a few moments. Then Charlie led his horse away in the direction of the stables, and the comte entered the house.

  She could hear him mounting the stairs and then his steps retreating along the passageway in the direction of his rooms.

  Delphine found that her hands were shaking slightly, and frowned severely at her reflection in the looking glass. She owed her husband an apology. But at the same time, he must be made to realize that conduct more befitting to his new station in life was expected of him.

  She went slowly down to the drawing room.

  After she had been waiting five minutes, he walked in lazily, putting up one long hand to stifle a yawn.

  His eyes widened slightly at her appearance. “You look extremely beautiful.” He smiled. “Such a transformation! One would never take you for the red-faced harridan that screamed at me so awfully in the middle of the town square.”

  Delphine bit back an angry retort and said instead in measured tones, “Pray take my arm, sir, and escort me in to dinner. It has been waiting this age.”

  “Do not trouble on my account,” he said amiably as they walked across the hall. “I dined at the Wheatsheaf. Cannot stomach the food here. It doesn’t matter how new it is or how long it’s been waiting. It always tastes as if it had been cooked last week in an overhot oven.”

  “I am sorry our food does not suit your pampered palate,” said Delphine, entering the dining room ahead of him and sitting in a high-backed chair at the end of the dining table. He sat at the other end and stifled another yawn.

  “It is obvious,” Delphine went on, “that we cannot hope to cope with the gastronomic delights of Soho.”

  “Oh, I don’t see why not. I cook very well myself,” he said. “I shall join you in some wine, nonetheless, and I admire your stamina in eating the dreadful stuff.”

  “I think you have had enough wine already,” said Delphine, noticing the glitter in his blue eyes.

  “Never enough,” he said lazily, filling his glass.

  Bradley and two footmen came in with the dishes.

  “Is Mrs. Bencastle not favoring us with her charming presence this evening?” asked the comte. Bradley stiffened and the footmen stood with faces like wood. All had heard of Mrs. Bencastle’s malice and the comte’s exploits in Littlejohn.

  “No, I believe she had a tray in her room,” said Delphine. “His lordship is not eating, Bradley. You need not trouble to serve him.”

  Delphine forced herself to talk of general things until the servants had retired.

  Finally, she looked straight at her husband and said, “Jules, I owe you an apology.”

  “My heart?”

  “Yes, I am sorry I berated you in public. I did not have the true facts of the case and thought you were entertaining the crowd because … because you did not know how to behave like a gentleman.”

  “It is a difficult apology to accept,” he said.

  “I mean,” Delphine went on desperately, “not that you do not know how to behave like a gentleman, it is just that, in the past, you were forced to earn your own living, and I thought you had forgotten that such things were not necessary anymore.”

  “By George!” he said. “I never thought of that. Best audience I ever had. Should have had Charlie there to take ‘round the hat.”

  “Jules!”

  “Apology accepted,” he said, filling his glass again. “I am monstrous tired.”

  “A great deal of wine makes anyone tired!” Delphine rose to her feet. “And now, if you will excuse me, my lord, I must retire.”

  He stood up, nodding to her vaguely, and ambled down the length of the room to where she was standing.

  He suddenly clipped her around the waist and drew her close against him. “Jules,” whispered Delphine, “you must not …”

  His mouth came down on her own, his lips moving slowly and sensually against hers. Her heart was beating wildly, and her whole body was trembling and shaking, buffeted by terrible physical wrenchings and longings.

  “I am sorry,” he said, suddenly freeing her and standing back. “The fact is, I am a trifle foxed. It will not happen again. Fie! What you must think of me. Fie, for s
hame!”

  “Very well, Jules,” said Delphine jerkily. “Simply let me retire.”

  “By all means, my heart.”

  He walked with her across the hall and up the stairs. “There is no need to come with me as far as my room Delphine began, when a door in the passageway opened and Maria Bencastle appeared. She was wearing a black nightdress and a black nightcap perched on top of a forest of curl papers. Delphine was used to Mrs. Bencastle’s eccentricity in dress—after all the woman had been wearing mourning for years—but the effect on the comte was startling.

  He let out a wild scream and backed down the passageway. “Oh, God,” he screamed, putting his hands in front of his face like Kean playing Macbeth in the banquet scene. “What hellish spirit is this! What dreadful apparition! Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”

  “It is Mrs. Bencastle,” said Delphine, wondering whether to laugh or cry. “Jules, please …”

  “No! No!” he wailed. “That horror is nothing human.

  That great ugly black mound of putrefaction. Those glaring eyes. Oh, horrors!”

  “Oh, fiddle!” snapped Maria Bencastle, red with fury. She went back into her room and slammed the door.

  “Goodness,” said the comte, passing a shaking hand across his brow. “Thank heavens that terrible apparition has gone. I have never been so frightened in my life.”

  “You have never been so infuriating in all your life,” said Delphine. “I did not know you had added high melodrama to your other talents.”

  “Ah, my sweeting,” said the comte mournfully. “When will you ever take me seriously?”

  “When will you ever take yourself seriously?” rejoined Delphine.

  But he only gave her a slight wave of his hand, turned the corner of the passageway, and was gone.

  “I shall never get him to behave,” thought Delphine. “Never!”

  Chapter Seven

  Delphine did not see her husband at the breakfast table the next morning and assumed he had gone back to his lethargic ways. It was with some surprise that she was to learn from Charlie that he had been up at dawn and gone off with Mr. Garnett, the steward.

  Delphine was annoyed. If Jules wished to take an interest in the estates, then he should have consulted her first.

  There was a noisy, blustery, restless wind blowing outside. The trees tossed their boughs up to the turbulent sky. The head gardener, MacGregor, was weeding a flowerbed; the maids and footmen were going about their chores. All at once, there seemed to be nothing to do.

  After another hour of idleness, Delphine welcomed the visit of Farmer Yardley and Farmer Stone. Even their crazy way of fighting, with her as referee, was better than doing nothing at all.

  She had Bradley put both men in the estates’ office and was making her way there when she met the large figure of her husband entering the hall.

  “Good morning, Jules,” she said demurely. “I will be with you presently. I have some business to attend to.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is dealing with two of my tenant farmers who refuse to speak to each other and ask me to relay their insults, since they will not talk to each other directly.”

  “And how long has this been going on?” asked the comte curiously.

  “Oh, forever.” Delphine shrugged. “It does not take very much of my time.”

  “I will see to them,” said the comte.

  “No,” Delphine said, laughing, “you cannot possibly handle …”

  “If I am to help you,” he said with unexpected firmness, “then you must trust me.”

  “Very well.” Delphine gave in with bad grace. “But I am coming with you.”

  Farmer Yardley and Farmer Stone rose to their feet at the couple’s entrance, looking taken aback at the sight of the comte.

  Jules Saint-Pierre was wearing a venerable riding coat, worn moleskin breeches, and high top boots. He had exchanged his usual snowy cravat in favor of a simple linen kerchief tied about his throat. His shirt was of coarse, unbleached linen.

  Delphine realized he owned very few clothes indeed.

  “Now,” said the comte pleasantly, sitting down behind the large cluttered desk which dominated the room and indicating that the two farmers should sit in chairs facing him. Delphine sat over by the window.

  Farmer Yardley placed his round hat on his knees and cleared his throat. “It’s like this, my lord. I want you to tell this scoundrel here that cow of his was not straying on my land but let in there deliberate-like so as to annoy me.”

  “Very well,” said the comte. He turned to Farmer Stone. “You are a scoundrel, sir,” he said suddenly and venomously, “and you put that cow on my land simply to enrage me!”

  Farmer Stone turned dark red. “Now look here, my lord,” he replied, “you just tell this long-nosed good-for-nothing that he sees ill in everyone’s innocent actions because that’s the way he thinks himself.”

  The comte rounded on Farmer Yardley. “See here, you long-nosed, useless milksop,” he said viciously, “how dare you judge my actions according to those of your own spite-filled, little mind.”

  It was Farmer Yardley’s turn to color beet red.

  “You tell him, my lord,” he mumbled, “that if he apologizes, we won’t say no more about the matter.”

  “Apologize, you dim-witted fool!” grated the comte.

  “I ain’t got nothing to apologize for,” bleated Farmer Stone nervously.

  “I’ve got nothing to apologize for, you brainless scum,” roared the comte.

  The two farmers sat and blinked at him like owls. Then there came a slow rumbling sound from deep inside Farmer Yardley. Delphine watched him nervously. The rumbling grew louder and suddenly exploded into a full-scale shout of laughter.

  A slow smile dawned on Farmer Stone’s face and then he began to laugh as well, until the two huge farmers were in danger of breaking the fragile chairs they sat on, they were shaking so much with laughter.

  At last Farmer Yardley took out a large belcher handkerchief and mopped his streaming eyes and turned to Farmer Stone.

  “Faith, Jimmy,” he said, addressing his rival by his Christian name for the first time in history, “his lordship do make me feel like the gurtest fool.”

  “Me, too,” said Farmer Stone with an unmanly giggle. “‘Stead of wasting his lordship’s time, let’s go down to the Wheatsheaf and talk this over like sensible men. A bowl of rum punch, and I shall be host.”

  “Gladly.” Both farmers rose to their feet. Farmer Yardley gave the comte and then Delphine an awkward bow. He glanced shyly at the comte and then burst out with, “I saw you yesterday, my lord. The way you flew down from that church steeple, well, I’ve never seen anything like it in all my born days.”

  “‘Twas wonderful,” chimed in Farmer Stone. “My heart was in my mouth.”

  “Spare my blushes.” The comte laughed. “Mr. Yardley, tell my wife I think she is beautiful.”

  Farmer Yardley and Farmer Stone began to laugh again. “Now, now, my lord,” said Farmer Yardley, waving an admonishing finger, “don’t go making game of us agin.”

  Still laughing, the two farmers left arm in arm.

  “Well, well,” said the comte cheerfully, “that was all very simple.”

  “It will not last,” said Delphine, who was angry at the ease with which he appeared to have resolved the situation.

  “Oh, I think so,” he replied. “They would feel utterly ridiculous doing the same thing again. Now, as to the matter of food in this residence. I feel it could be improved.”

  “Really?” said Delphine with a lift of the eyebrows. “We have been content with good English fare here.”

  “I have nothing against ‘good English fare,’” rejoined her husband amiably, “provided it is properly cooked.”

  “We prefer to keep things as they were when Sir George was alive.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “What a rude thing to say,” said the comte thoughtfully.

&nb
sp; Delphine flushed with embarrassment. “I meant that we are set in our ways. The servants are old and are still devoted to Sir George’s memory.”

  “It is the first time I have heard of the cuisine going into mourning.” The comte’s long, restless fingers began to play with a quill pen.

  “There are English traditions I feel it would be undiplomatic to change,” explained Delphine. “Some of the customs here have not changed much since Tudor times. Certain dishes belong to certain days. We have veal and a gammon of bacon and a tansy pudding on Easter day; a roast goose at Michaelmas; red herrings and salt fish with leeks, parsnips and pease pudding at Lent; at Martinmas, salt beef; at Midsummer, roast beef with butter and beans; at All Saints, pork and souse.”

  “It all sounds appetizing,” commented the comte plaintively. “It’s the production of which I complain.”

  The door opened as the butler entered. “Lady Gladstone,” he announced.

  Delphine looked flustered. “I have put her in the drawing room, my lord, my lady,” said Bradley. “I assume a bottle of the best wine should be served?”

  “Yes … oh, yes certainly, Bradley,” said Delphine.

  When the butler withdrew, the comte looked at her curiously. “You are all of a dither,” he said. “What is so wonderful about this Lady Gladstone paying a social call?”

  “She has never done so before. You see, she is a great figure in the county, almost as important as the Duke of Bedford. She disapproved of Sir George marrying me, and so she has never called before.”

  “She can’t eat us,” he said soothingly. “What woman could appear a dragon after meeting the redoubtable Mrs. Bencastle?”

  “As to Mrs. Bencastle,” said Delphine severely, “you behaved atrociously last night … screaming at the sight of her and calling her an apparition.”

  “Indeed, I must have been well to go.” He smiled. “Can’t remember a thing.”

  Lady Gladstone was examining the maker’s mark on the bottom of a figurine as they entered the drawing room. She was an attractive-looking elderly woman with a good complexion and a mass of snow white hair. Her friendly, genial appearance belied her character, which was carping, domineering, and acidulous.