Salt Bride

by Lucinda Brant

  “Where she can do no harm. And yes, she will be well cared for and all her needs accommodated,” he assured Jane with a smile and a chuff under the chin. “But she will be pressed for company. I won’t tell you the precise location in the Welsh mountains, but the views from the castle keep, so I am told, are spectacular.” He saw Jane’s glance of concern at Willis, who was issuing last minute instructions to the four burly footmen who would accompany the coach as outriders. “Rufus is coming to live with us in Wiltshire. He is the new steward of Salt Hall. He will marry Anne and settle in the gatehouse lodge where they will no doubt produce half a dozen brats, some of whom will make up the Salt Hall cricket team.” He grinned. “The rest of the team I have promised to supply.”

  Jane gasped and took her gaze from the under-butler, blushing furiously. “Magnus! You made no such promise to Willis!”

  “Didn’t I? I gave the man my word. Now come along, wife,” he added, effortlessly scooping Jane up into his arms and striding out of the pretty sitting room without looking back. “You too, Tom. I’m really rather ravenous.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Tom added in the servant passage. “It’s not every day the Earl of Salt Hendon is beaten at his own game.”

  Jane struggled to sit up in her husband’s arms, blue eyes wide with disbelief. “Tom beat you at tennis! Magnus?”

  The Earl refused to look at either of them. He stretched his neck in its intricately tied cravat. “I’m not entirely infallible.”

  “Thus spoke the noble nostrils,” Tom muttered disrespectfully.

  “I beg your pardon, Tom Allenby?”

  Jane sighed and pretended to be exasperated. “It’s that dreaded pedestal, again. It comes with the nostrils, I’m afraid.”

  Salt stopped at the base of the stairs that led up to the nursery and let Jane stand on her own feet.

  “The pedestal has been consigned to the fire,” he murmured, brushing the tip of his nose against hers, then looking over her head at Tom, who was grinning like a sentimental idiot. He raised his eyebrows in mock hauteur. “But, if you don’t mind, I shall keep my noble nostrils. They are useful for quelling recalcitrant servants and very small children and self-satisfied brothers-in-law.”

  Jane giggled and then was suddenly shy. She glanced at Tom, who understood at once that he should make himself scarce and with a smile excused himself. Salt watched him go up to the nursery two steps at a time. Not a minute later a door banged against a wall above their heads and Tom’s voice could be heard booming out a boisterous welcome to which there was a crescendo of footfall followed by squeals of delight before the door closed on the playful cacophony.

  “I like your brother. He’s a good man.”

  “Yes. Will you confide in him about Caroline? They are first cousins after all.”

  “I suspect he may already know…”

  “That bothers you?”

  Salt shook his head and smiled down at her. “What bothered me was Caroline marrying Tony and seeing them with a brood of brats with no prospect of my good self becoming a father.” He grinned. “Mind you, not from want of trying.”

  Jane laughed. “Magnus! You voice most shocking thoughts.”

  “I’ve had a surfeit of Magnuses today. Dear me, my lady. Stop or I shall come to expect to hear my Christian name on your beautiful lips out from under the bedsheets.”

  “Well, you can banish thoughts of the wrong order of things,” she said quietly, smoothing down an imaginary crease in the lapel of his velvet frockcoat. “You’ve no need to fear Antony becoming a father before you.”

  Salt tried to keep his features perfectly composed, despite the boyish excitement welling up within him. In exposing Diana St. John’s unforgiveable wickedness, Rufus Willis had been forced to confide what his betrothed Anne had revealed to him: that the Countess was three months with child. It was such badly wanted news; confirmation of what Jane had always believed, that they were capable of having a family. He dared not accept the happy reality until he heard it from his wife. Thus he found it hard to contain his enthusiasm and joy, despite his best efforts to look suitably grave.

  “Why need I not fear Tony beating me to fatherhood, Lady Salt?” he asked gently and made her look up at him.

  “Tell me first that you truly do want to rusticate. What of your ambitions and dreams to make this little kingdom an empire to be reckoned with; your promise to the nation that the mistakes of the war will not be repeated? You cannot make me believe you will be wholly satisfied farming sheep in Wiltshire.”

  He pinched her chin. “So you have been following my Parliamentary proclamations from the newssheets.”

  “I may not know the first thing about politics, nor what constitutes good government, but I do know you,” Jane stated with quiet dignity. “I cannot imagine you could walk away from your duty to your country nor from those people who rely on your patronage for their livelihoods, anymore than Tom could abandon his factory workers for a life of leisure as a country squire.”

  “My dear Lady Salt, your husband is looking forward to farming sheep, albeit from the comfort of the grand pile of Jacobean stone and within the bosom of his family, for the foreseeable future. But who knows what the next couple of years will bring? Ministries come and go. But while I rusticate in style, no one will go hungry; no one will lose his post. I will still maintain an interest and influence in what goes on in the capital, but from a distance. I will just have to develop very long arms of influence, that’s all.

  “Well, at least you won’t have any trouble focusing at a distance,” Jane quipped.

  He gave a shout of laughter. “If it will make you happy, I shall abandon my ridiculous vanity and wear those wretched eyeglasses at the breakfast table. But be warned: A bespectacled Lord Salt perusing the newssheets is a sight almost as quelling as a flare of the noble nostrils.”

  Jane smiled cheekily. “What an irresistible combination. My knees are trembling with anticipation already!”

  “Baggage!” He brushed a stray wisp of hair from her flushed cheek and smiled down at her lovingly. “You have yet to quell my fears…”

  She placed the palm of his large hand on the delicately embroidered hem of her satin bodice where it covered her belly and smiled up at him. “My dear Lord Salt, you are to become a father. Our baby is due with the fall of the first autumn leaves.” When he visibly gulped all her shyness evaporated and she laughed and touched his cheek. “I did warn you I had a surprise for you and that you should have it sitting down. But, somehow, telling you about our baby on the nursery stairs is more fitting, isn’t it?”

  He stared down into her radiantly beautiful face. “Yes, much more fitting… Have I told you how much I love you, Lady Salt?”

  Jane dimpled. “You did admit to it on the tennis court. And you told me you loved me when we were naked in the carriage coming home from the Richmond Ball. But I would dearly love to hear you say it, here, in the mundane surroundings of a narrow stairwell.”

  “I love you, Jane,” he stated. “I have loved you since you were seventeen years old. There was a time, those few glorious hours we spent alone in the summerhouse, when I, too, believed anything was possible, even miracles. The past four years without you have felt like fifty. Events, people, both conspired to keep us apart, but never again… Never, Jane.” He grinned. “Later, when we are out of these wretched clothes, I will show you just how much I love you.”

  Jane peered through her dark lashes as she went up on tiptoe to put her arms about his strong neck to the riband that secured his hair. “Oh, if you are going to show me how much, then I will need a great deal of convincing.”

  He bent to kiss her mouth. “Oh, yes,” he murmured huskily, “a very great deal of convincing.”

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  The Comte de Salvan stood at the end of the canopied bed in red high heels and pacified his offended nostrils with a lace handkerchief scented with bergamo
t. He was dressed to attend a music recital in stiff gold frock, close-fitting silk breeches with diamond knee buckles, and a cascade of fine white lace at his wrists that covered soft hands with their rings of precious stones. His face was painted, patched and devoid of the disgust and discomfort his quivering nostrils dared display at the stench of the ill, and the smell that came from the latrines that flowed just beyond the closed door to this small apartment below the tiles of the palace of Versailles.

  Its occupant, one Chevalier de Charmond, gentleman usher to the King, languished amongst feather pillows, his shaved head without its wig and in its place a Chinese cap. He was suffering from la grippe, but being a committed hypochondriac was convinced he had inflammation of the lungs. His physician could not tell him otherwise. He blew his nose constantly and coughed up phlegm into a bowl his long-suffering manservant emptied at irregular intervals. He had been bled twice that day but nothing relieved his discomfort. The presence of the Comte de Salvan promised a relapse.

  The Comte listened to the Chevalier’s platitudes without a smile and waved aside the man’s apologies with a weary hand. “Yes it is a great honor I do you to descend into this stinking hole. How can you bear it? I am glad it is you and not I who must exist like a sewer rat. No wonder you are unwell. If you left that bed and went about your duties you would feel better in an instant. But it is your lot,” Salvan said in his peculiar nasal voice. He shrugged. “It is most inconvenient of you to take to your bed when a certain matter of great importance to me is left unfinished. If I thought you incapable of carrying out my wishes…”

  “M’sieur le Comte! I—”

  “To the benefit of us both, remember, dear Charmond, to the benefit of us both. I could have given Arnaud or Paul-René the privilege of doing this small favor for me. Indeed, does not Arnaud owe his alliance with the de Rohan family all because I made the effort to whisper in l’Majesty’s ear? One cannot have one’s relatives, however removed, married to inferior objects.” He proceeded to take snuff up one thin nostril. “And Paul-René would still be scraping dung off Monsieur’s boots if I had not put in a good word on his behalf to have him promoted from the kennels to the Petite Écuries. And now you dare lie there when you are well aware my dearest wish must be fulfilled forthwith. I will certainly go mad if something is not done soon!”

  The Chevalier attempted to sit up and look all concern with the first rise in the Comte’s voice. He schooled his features into an expression of sympathy and shook his head solemnly. “You cannot know what agonies, what nightmares, I have suffered on your behalf, M’sieur le Comte. Every night I have lain here not sleeping, my head pounding with the megrim, unable to breath, and I have thought of you, my dearest Comte, and only you. How best to serve you. How to successfully bring about a resolution to your torments. It has been a constant worry for poor Charmond.”

  “Then why can you not do this small thing for me?” screeched the Comte. “Do you believe you are the only one I can trust? Do you? You promised me three days at the most and I have waited seven. And time is even more important now because the old General is dying; of a surety this time. And nothing is signed. Nothing is in writing. Nothing is fixed until you get me what I want! I must have what I want and I will. I will! Whether you get it for me or I go elsewhere—Why do you smile, eh?”

  The Chevalier blew his nose and tossed the soiled handkerchief to the floor. “I offer my humble apologies, M’sieur le Comte, if you thought I smiled at you,” he said quietly. “I was not smiling at you but for you. I have a picture of the beautiful mademoiselle in my mind’s eye and I am indeed happy for you. I congratulate you on your good fortune. It is not every day a man comes across one as she. You are a lucky man, M’sieur le Comte.”

  The anger left Salvan’s eyes and he smiled crookedly, a picture of the girl in his mind’s eye. Some of the heat cooled in his rouged cheeks and he swaggered. Another pinch of snuff was inhaled, leisurely and long. “She is a beauty, is she not, eh, Charmond? Such round, firm breasts. A rosebud for a mouth. Hair shot with gold and eyes that slant ever so slightly, like a cat’s. Most unusual. And to think her delights are all untouched. Ah, it makes me hard just thinking about her! But I tell you, Charmond, I do her a great honor, a great honor indeed. I am lucky, yes, but she doubly so to even have a second look from Jean-Honoré Gabriel de Salvan. When she learns of the honor done her she will surely embrace me all the more sincerely and devotedly. Oh, Charmond, I cannot wait until she—”

  “—becomes your son’s wife?” interrupted the Chevalier smoothly, which brought the color flooding back into the Comte’s face and caused his eyes to narrow to slits. “What a joyous day for the house of Salvan!” declared the Chevalier. “But an even more joyous day for the beautiful mademoiselle. Who would have thought the old Jacobite General’s granddaughter would be done such a great honor? Not she, I wager. She cannot but be grateful to you, my dear Salvan. She will embrace you! And show her gratitude? Of a certainty. She will repay you the way you desire her to do so.”

  “I do not doubt that but…”

  “But?” The Chevalier shrugged expressively. “What can go wrong?”

  “Idiot!” snarled the Comte. “If you do not get me that lettre de cachet my plans, they will be ruined!”

  The Chevalier threw the last of his handkerchiefs on the floor and rang the small hand-bell at his bedside for a lackey. “I am doing all I can to do just that, my dear good Comte. Even as we speak I am certain it is being attended to. Poor Charmond may be bedridden, on the point of pneumonia, but still he thinks only of you, my dear M’sieur le Comte, and your ever so desperate predicament. Poor Charmond only hopes, humbly hopes, M’sieur le Comte has not forgotten his own—not quite so desperate—predicament? After all, and I beg your pardon for even mentioning it to you because I know you would not disappoint me, a favor for a favor is what you promised.”

  The lackey came into the room with clean handkerchiefs and the Chevalier boxed his ears and felt better for having done so. He settled back on the pillows and pretended to show an interest in his hands, but he was watching Salvan and he trembled inwardly at the black look on the man’s hideously painted face; the lead paint thick and white to cover pitted cheeks and chin. He thanked God he had never had the smallpox to such a disfiguring degree. He cleared his throat and the Comte looked at him.

  “Forgive me for recalling to your memory our agreement, M’sieur le Comte,” said the Chevalier. “You shall have your lettre de cachet. I hope it brings your son into line. Why he does not want to wed a beautiful virgin is not for me to understand. He must be a little mad, eh, Salvan?” When the Comte did not laugh he dropped the smile into a frown. “Should he still not do as you wish once the letter de cachet is waved under his nose, and you clap him up in the Bastille or Bicêtre until he sees reason, you still owe Charmond his favor. I hope M’sieur le Comte intends to honor his bargain.”

  “Honor it?” shouted Salvan. He went up to the bed, causing the Chevalier to cower, and lowered his voice, for he knew the walls between the apartments to be thin. “How dare you question my honor!” he hissed. “A Salvan’s word is never in question! You tell me I will have my lettre de cachet, and so I tell you I am doing all I can to steer Roxton away from Madame de La Tournelle’s orbit! Your task is the infinitely easier one, Charmond. Have you any suggestions on how to oust a consummate lover from an eager woman’s bed? Have you? No! I thought as much. And do not spout drivel at me that it is you who wants this favor. It is Richelieu who directs you, is it not?”

  “M’sieur le Duc de Richelieu?” blinked the Chevalier.

  “Very well! Play out your game!” spat the Comte. “I know you have little interest in the de la Tournelle. Or to put it correctly she is not the sort of female to interest herself with an insignificant worm such as your—”

  “M’sieur le Comte! I object most strongly to your tone. Have I been of insignificance to you? No! Charmond he has been most valuable to M’sieur le Comte!” The Chevalier b
lew his nose vigorously and looked offended.

  The Comte sighed. “As you wish, Charmond.” He went to the looking glass in the corner and critically surveyed himself from powdered campaign wig to the sparkle of his oversized diamond shoe-buckles. Ever the conceited nobleman, he was well-pleased with himself and this improved his mood, as did the thought of seeing the beautiful mademoiselle at the recital. “I grant you have been helpful to me. But do not tell me you are interested in Marie-Anne de Mailly de La Tournelle. That I will not believe! It is Richelieu who wants her, or wants her for the King, and hopes to rule Louis through her. So he thinks. Whatever! His gyrations do not interest me.” He glanced at the Chevalier. “I will tell you why you want Roxton tumbled out of Marie-Anne’s bed: jealousy.”

  “Jealous-y?” It was the Chevalier’s turn to screech. Instead he coughed and wheezed until his face turned the color of blood. When he could speak again he said, “How can you say so? What do I care for Roxton’s conquests? I admit, my dear Salvan, I find it unbelievable that such a one as he is so sought after in the bedchambers of Versailles and Paris. Yet, he is! His reputation equals Richelieu’s. Some say it surpasses his conquests. What female has not thrown back the covers for M’sieur le Duc de Roxton? And which ones does he disdain from favoring? Only the ugly and the virtuous. And as they are one and the same, my dear Comte, the number is small indeed!”

  The Chevalier pulled a face of loathing and thumped his fist into the coverlet. “Why? Why do our women receive this Englishman with open arms who dares wear his own hair down his back like some Viking conqueror? He has a great beak for a nose, shoulders that are too broad and legs as thick as tree trunks! And as if to goad us all beyond permission, what does he do?” he continued in a thin voice. “He does not keep beagles or wolf-hounds or greyhounds. No! He-he keeps whippets. A woman’s toy! He could very well parade about with two kittens in diamond collars as have those ill-looking animals at his heels. Ugh! I will say no more.” He collapsed against the pillows and wiped sweat from his florid face. “You must excuse me, M’sieur le Comte. I must be bled…”