by Mary Nichols
She dismounted and walked her horse forward. 'Do you know Lieutenant Veillard?'
`Pierre Veillard? Oui, mamselle. 'E 'as been 'elping with the 'arvest at the farm of Monsieur Golightly.'
She thanked him and rode on. So Pierre was working on Anne's father's farm on the other side of the estate. It was too late to go there today, but tomorrow she would set off in that direction. She could pretend she had come to see Mrs Golightly and then contrive to waylay the French lieutenant. She turned for home.
The ride had brought the colour back to her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes and the prospect of a little adventure, to take her mind off a bridegroom-to-be for whom she had no affinity, and another man whose handsome features and soft voice were forever etched on her brain and heart, served to enliven her so that her mama commented that the country air had indeed effected a cure and she was pleased to see she had thrown off her Friday face.
`Oh, it is so good to be home,' Juliette said, to which her mama responded by saying, 'Quite', a single word that spoke volumes. Juliette understood it to mean her mother was thankful she did not have to repeat her arguments in favour of James, that she was glad Juliette had understood at last and she hoped there would be no more dissension.
Because the ride had so obviously been beneficial, neither of her parents raised any objection to it being repeated and the next afternoon found Juliette trotting towards the Golightly farm, her hands not quite steady on the reins and her heart pounding.
She rode along the lane that bordered the harvest field, glancing over the hedge as she did so, pretending not to be searching out a particular figure. There were several prisoners working alongside the local men; their mutilated uniforms were easy to pick out from the smocks of the locals and the fact that they, being soldiers, did not have the same grace of movement when swinging a scythe. She spotted him as he straightened up to wipe his brow with the back of his forearm. He saw her and strolled over to speak to her from the other side of the hedge.
`Mam'selle Martindale. You are well?'
`Yes, yes, I am well. How are you?'
`Well enough for a prisoner, many miles from his 'omeland and made to work like a peasant.'
`I am sorry about that, indeed, I am.'
`It is not your fault.' He waited, knowing she had not come simply to pass the time. She remained silent, unable to frame the words to ask her question. Her horse moved restlessly and she dismounted and led it towards a gap in the hedge. Pierre slipped through it into the lane and came towards her. 'Mam'selle, is there something I can do for you?'
She had almost forgotten what he looked like. He was young, his features beautiful rather than handsome, a colt rather than a stallion, a comparison that reminded her forcefully of Philip Devonshire. Now, there was a stallion; dark, powerful and independent. She really must try to put him from her mind, but oh, how very difficult it was!
`I have been away,' she began.
`I know. It was because of that portrait, yes? I am sorry it displeased your maman.'
`But why did you paint me like that? It is so alien to me.'
`Au contraire, ma chèrie, it is exactly like you. In another life, you must have been une française.'
She gave an embarrassed little laugh. 'I am more concerned with this life and why the portrait upset Mama so much. Do you know why?'
`No, mam'selle, I do not. Your parents wished to know why I painted you with all the jewels. They asked where I 'ad seen them before.'
`The jewels? Not me or my gown?'
`No, ma chèrie, the jewels. 'Ave you never seen jewels like that, Juliette?' He pronounced her Christian name in the French way.
`Indeed, no. Where had you seen them before?'
`I do not know. They are so unusual that I think I must 'ave seen them and not imagined them, but where...' He shrugged. 'It must lave been long ago in France.'
`I do not think Mama has ever been to France,' she said thoughtfully. 'Perhaps Papa has. Oh, I wish you could remember where you saw them! I do so hate mysteries, especially ones that make people unhappy. And Mama is very unhappy.'
`I will try to remember, but I 'ave not the portrait. It is difficile to recall exactement...'
`I believe it has been put up in the attic. Mama said she never wanted to see it again.'
`Such a waste! It is the best I 'ave ever done. I was aided by a most beautiful subject.' He looked earnestly at her. 'If I 'ad it to look at, I could perhaps remember...'
`Then I shall bring it to you.'
`Do not bring it 'ere. I will meet you. In the little house in your garden.'
`The summerhouse where we...' She stopped, blushing at the remembrance of a kiss that had meant so little. It had not repelled her as James's betrothal kiss had done, when he had forced his tongue into her mouth and bruised her lips, nor turned her limbs to a quiver of longing, which was what had happened when Philip Devonshire had kissed her. Pierre's inexpert embrace had left her unmoved and yet it had been the beginning of her troubles. He had asked to paint her. If he had not done that, there would have been no portrait, no mystery, no journey to London, no betrothal to a man she could not even begin to like, and no meeting with Philip Devonshire. If she had never met him, she would not now be longing for him with every fibre of mind and body. `If Papa or Mama were to see you, there would be a dreadful fuss.'
`Come at night, when everyone is asleep.'
`Do you not have to go back to camp at night?'
`Oh, it is easy to slip out. The guards are not very efficient.'
`When?' Already the prospect of doing something positive was making her eyes bright. Not for a moment did she consider she was playing with fire.
`Tomorrow.' He laughed, holding his cupped hands to help her mount. 'At midnight.'
`Very well.' She pulled the horse round and rode off down the lane, remembering to call on Mrs Golightly and enquire about her rheumatics before returning home.
She smiled to herself as she scrambled out of bed a little after eleven-thirty and dressed by the light of the moon coming through her window. She would not risk taking another chill and made sure she was warmly clad. Then, throwing her burnous over her shoulders, she crept along the corridor to the narrow stairs that led to the attics, found the painting standing with its face to the wall, picked it up and crept noiselessly down to the first floor again.
Here, instead of going down the main staircase, she descended the back stairs, used by the servants, and out past the butler's pantry to a small door beside the kitchen. There was no one about. She darted across the cobbled yard into the kitchen garden and from there, by a roundabout route that kept her out of sight of the house, to the flower garden and the rose arbour.
`Lieutenant,' she whispered breathlessly, as she approached the summerhouse.
''Ere, ma chèrie.' He was standing leaning nonchalantly against the door jamb, smiling. ''Ave you brought it?'
`Yes.' She thrust the painting at him. 'But we cannot see it properly in the dark.'
`I shall take it back with me and look at it later. My comrades, they can per'aps throw light upon the mystery, n'est-ce pas?'
'Y... yes,' she said doubtfully. She hadn't considered that he might want to take it away. But then Mama had said she never wanted to see it again, so she would hardly go looking for it. 'But you will bring it back?'
`I do not see why I should. I 'ave not been paid for it.'
`Oh, you cheated me into bringing it!' she cried, trying to snatch it back. 'I did not think you were so mercenary...'
'No, no, ma petite, I was only 'aving what you say, a tease.' He took the picture from her and leant it against the wall before taking both her hands in his. 'Do not be upset. I will bring it back. I should not like to think of my beautiful Juliette being punished for removing it. I shall make a leetle copy, one for my pocket. 'Ow is that?'
`Oh, that is a good idea. How long will it take?'
`Two days, three per'aps.' He paused, smiling down at her. 'Then you will 'ave
to meet me again, and of all things that will be the most pleasant.'
`You must not flirt with me.'
`Why not? There is no 'arm in it. And I like you very much. If you were française...' He sighed dramatically.
`But I am not and I am betrothed.'
He was not in the least put out. 'Then I must offer my felicitations, no? I envy 'im.'
`I must go.' It sounded weak, when she ought to have been strong, but the moonlight and the strange quality of the air, coupled with the clandestine nature of the meeting, seemed to have acted like a drug. She could not think decisively.
`Go, ma petite,' he said, releasing her hands. 'I will see you here two nights from, now.'
Two nights later he told her the copy was not yet ready and he needed more time. She suspected he was using it as an excuse to continue to see her. She knew she ought not to agree to meet him again, but she had to retrieve the portrait before it was missed and there was no other way.
`Tomorrow,' he murmured. 'And per'aps I shall 'ave the answer to the mystery too.'
`You will? What is it? What have you found out?'
He laid a finger on her lips and laughed. 'Do not be impatient, ma petite. Tomorrow, eh?' And then he was gone, melting away into the shadows, leaving her with a feeling of frustration that made the next twenty-four hours a trial of patience in which she tried to behave as if nothing at all was happening and made Anne absolutely sure she was sickening again.
He was late for the rendezvous and Juliette was kept waiting nearly half an hour before she heard his stealthy step on the gravel of the path and he came into view, carrying the painting wrapped in a piece of cloth. He put it down to take her into his arms.
`Ah, ma petite comtesse.' He held her at arm's length to study her face. 'Yes, yes, I do see it.'
`See what?' she demanded, pulling herself away from him. 'And you are late. I was on the point of leaving.'
`Ah, then you would not have learned what you above all wish to know.'
`And what is that?'
`Who you are.'
`Who I am? Do not be silly, Lieutenant. You know I am Juliette Martindale, daughter of Viscount and Viscountess Martindale of Hartlea.'
`No, ma petite, you are not.'
`Oh, I have no time for your silly jests,' she said, exasperated by his superior air.
`So, you do not wish to know why your lady mother is afraid that I 'ave uncovered the truth and am about to tell it to the world.' He laughed; it was a brittle sound that made her shiver. He pulled the cloth from the picture and jabbed a finger at the necklace. 'Do you know where I saw that before?'
`You said that you could not remember.'
`Ah, but now I 'ave. Those jewels belonged to the dowager Comtesse de Caronne in the days before the Terror, naturellement. There was once a famous portrait of her as a young girl, which I saw hanging in the Louvre when I was very young and learning to be an artist. My mind must 'ave stored the details, but more than that, it stored the likeness of the lady, so exactement like you. The same light eyes and silver hair, the same small mouth and eyebrows arching, so.' He smoothed a finger along one of her brows, making a shiver pass through her. 'The same way of 'olding your 'ead.'
`So?' She was intrigued, in spite of herself.
`I 'ave a friend in the camp,' he went on. 'And 'e told me a story about the Caronne family which is tres interessant. They were all guillotined, except one, a baby girl. She escaped. 'Ow no one knows. She would be, let me see, nineteen years now. It is a strange story, n'est-ce pas?'
`What are you trying to say?' She was bewildered. It sounded as if... She shook her head. 'No, it cannot be true.'
`It is true, chèrie. What we cannot be sure of is whether you are the only surviving Caronne. If you are, you would be an heiress. The estate is very large.'
`No, it is not possible,' she cried. 'There has to be another explanation. I have lived here all my life with Mama and Papa. I am English and I've never heard of the Comte de Caronne.'
''Ave you no early memories?' he asked, watching the changing expressions on her face, incredulity, dismay, even a glimmer of doubt. 'Little things, favourite toys, names of people and places, things that 'ave been said...'
`Yes, but they are all of Hartlea. I have known no other home. We have a town house, of course, and I've stayed there and we've been to Scotland, which is Mama's home. There is nothing unusual about me, Lieutenant, nothing out of the ordinary at all.'
She desperately wanted to believe that, but her heart was thumping and her limbs were shaking and all she could think of was her mother's strange reaction when she had seen the portrait. Something had caused that.
He could see that the story had taken a hold on her imagination and took her face in his hands so that he could look into her eyes. 'You 'ave been cruelly deceived, ma petite. The people who call themselves your mama and papa are not your parents. They rescued you or stole you, I am not sure which, but they are using you.'
`I do not understand.' It was all too much to take in and she felt confused and light-headed, as if she had drunk too much wine. 'I love them both. They are my dear mama and papa. Why would they use me?'
`To keep 'Artlea. Lady Martindale 'as no children of her own and by marrying you to the heir...'
`How do you know that?' she cried. That part was only too painfully true.
`It is known.'
She was silent. There were a thousand questions on her tongue, but none she could voice. If he had told her the story before her mother had seen the portrait, she would have angrily refuted it, but she could not help remembering her parents' strange reaction to the painting and her conviction at the time that there was something havey-cavey going on.
She recalled the conversation she had overheard between her mother and father and her mother's reference to 'the truth', as if there were something to hide. Supposing the lieutenant were right? Was she living at her beloved Hartlea under false pretences?
If his lordship had saved a little French aristo from the guillotine, why had he passed her off as his own? Should she feel love and gratitude or anger and resentment? Strange, she felt nothing at all. She was numb.
'Try and find some proof,' he went on, gently. 'There must be papers, even jewels. It is better to know than to go on living a lie.'
`I am not living a lie!' she cried, stepping back and facing him, her chest heaving. 'And you are abominable to confuse me so. Why did you have to tell me?'
`You wanted to know and the truth is often unpalatable.'
`I do not believe it is the truth. I shall ask Mama. She will tell me.'
`You will tell 'er ladyship that you 'ave been meeting me secretly in the garden?'
`No.'
`Then 'ow will you explain where you learned the story?'
`I'll think of something.'
`You would do better, ma chère comtesse, to look for proof. If you are Juliette Caronne, you are a French aristocrat, even more lofty than Viscount Martindale. Think about that. Think about un grand chateau and a thousand 'ectares of vineyards in Hautvigne and jewels like that.' And again he stabbed at the canvas.
'They are your in'eritance. And I have heard there are other treasures hidden about the chateau and they all belong to you, being the only direct descendant of the Comte.'
`Oh, you are despicable!' she said and turned on her heel to escape him, though escape her whirring thoughts she could not.
`I shall come again tomorrow night,' he called after her. 'You may 'ave need of me.'
The remainder of the night was a waking nightmare. Pierre's words went round and round in her brain, until she thought she would lose her sanity. How could she go on living at Hartlea, when, if Pierre were correct, she had no right to be there, that not only the estate but all the money set aside for her dowry rightfully belonged to James? And James was being deceived too. How could they do it to him? How could they have hidden from her every detail of her birth, never even hinted, never let slip with the tiniest word, that al
l was not as it seemed? Of course, they could not. It was all a lie, a figment of Pierre's imagination. But why did she not take after her parents? Why was her hair so fair and her mother's so dark, why was her complexion pale when Lady Martindale was olive-skinned? Why had that portrait upset her parents so much if they had nothing to hide? Apart from her parents, did anyone else know the truth? James's late father, for instance. It would be enough to cause a quarrel between brothers.
She had hardly begun to doze when Anne woke her. `Come, time to rise, my little one. It is a lovely day. Are you going to ride again?'
`No, I do not think so,' she said lethargically. 'Where is Mama?'
`She took the carriage into Peterborough. Some shopping, I believe.'
`And Papa?'
`He is in the library. I believe he is expecting a visitor, so do not go disturbing him.'
`I won't. I think I shall look round the attics. There might be something up there, a desk perhaps, that James would like to have in his room when he comes.'
But it was not James she was thinking of as she searched the attics later that day; she was following Pierre's advice and looking for proof of her identity. She didn't want to be a little French aristo, a little orphan, an emigrèe brought home to England because his lordship felt sorry for her. Was that how it had been? No! No! She wanted to be Juliette, her papa's beloved daughter. And how could that be proved? Not by rooting around in the dust of the attics, turning out old drawers, pulling old clothes, bonnets and boots out of cupboards, shaking out the pages of musty-smelling books. She made her way downstairs, wondering where to look next.
`Look for the jewellery,' Pierre had said. And where would that be kept?
She turned along the first-floor corridor and made for her mother's boudoir. Pausing outside to make sure there were no servants nearby, she passed inside and shut the door behind her. She crossed the room and opened the drawer of the chest where her mother kept her jewels but the padded box which lay inside it was locked. Where was the key? Last time she had seen it, it had been on her mother's chatelaine.