“Not after what happened to your parents,” she continued. “Oh, Marie-Therese, it was so awful! Like something out of a nightmare! Your poor parents.” She stopped and took a few moments to compose herself. “I haven’t told you before because I was scared,” she whispered. “Scared that I would lose you, like I lost them. It took what little strength I had left to get you to safety. Oh, Chérie, I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, as well.” She started weeping softly.
“Hush,” Marie-Therese soothed. “Please don’t distress yourself. I don’t understand what you are saying, dear aunt.”
“My conscience demands that I tell you,” she continued, not listening. “Your dear father, the Vicomte, gave me a note, on the morning of his death. I did not know what it was for, he just whispered that it was the key to our eventual return and re-establishment in France. I held onto that note on our long journey out of France, and I have it still.” She turned her head to her dressing table.
“Over there, ma chérie,” she said. “In my jewellery box. There is a compartment at the back. Take it apart, and you will find the note.”
Marie-Therese was puzzled but did her aunt’s bidding. The compartment came away from the jewellery box cleanly, and inside was a yellowed piece of paper, curled up. It looked like it might break apart as soon as it was unraveled, it was so old. Marie-Therese picked it up carefully and returned it to her aunt.
“Open it,” Celine whispered.
Marie-Therese did so. A single line, in hurried blue ink, read: “Music makes us richer than kings.” It was written in French.
“What does it mean?” Marie-Therese looked at her aunt, more puzzled than ever.
“I do not know, chérie.” Her aunt answered, weakly. “Your father never explained it; he just said that it was the key to our wealth, but he couldn’t be more explicit as to where the wealth was hidden in the note. He was scared it would get into the wrong hands. We were running for our lives!”
Marie-Therese shook her head. “I still don’t understand.”
Celine reared up suddenly, imploring. “The gold and jewels, Marie-Therese! Our family’s wealth! It is hidden in our ancestral chateau, at Genlis. But this is all the information that I have as to where it is hidden.” She fell on the bed, exhausted. It took her a few moments to regain her breath.
Marie-Therese’s eyes widened in amazement. “We have hidden wealth?”
“Oui.” Her aunt weakly shook her head. “I haven’t told you before now, because I didn’t want to lose you. Oh, it is dangerous over there! But I am dying, and I thought you needed to know. Do with the information what you will, dearest. Ignore it, or seek it out, if you so desire.”
Celine suddenly clutched her chest, leaning forward. Then she collapsed back onto the pillows, her eyes frozen. Marie-Therese could not see the labored rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.
“Aunt Celine!” Marie-Therese screamed, shaking her aunt. But it was too late. Celine was dead.
Marie-Therese laid her aunt down, gently closing the eyelids. She kissed her wrinkled forehead.
“Au revoir, beloved aunt,” she whispered. “Thank you for everything you have done for me. I love you.”
She crossed herself, offering up a prayer for the repose of Celine’s soul. She looked at the statue of the Virgin Mary on her aunt’s dressing table as she did so. Mary was meditative, with her hands outstretched, dressed in a white gown with a long blue veil. It was the one thing that her aunt had managed to sneak out of France, all those years ago. The statue had always given her comfort.
She stared down at the note, sitting in her lap. She touched it gingerly as if it might suddenly explode into a million pieces on her lap.
Had her aunt given her a gift, or a curse? What was she to do with this information?
Chapter 12
A Dangerous
Journey
T he wind was blowing, whipping her hat off her head. Marie-Therese quickly retrieved it, securing her hair underneath.
She looked around, furtively. Good. It didn’t look like anyone had noticed. It would have given her away immediately. Shown that she was a woman, not the man that she had disguised herself as for the trip.
She had boarded the Charlotte Louisa two days ago, under the name of Pierre Deauchamps. The idea to disguise herself as a man had come to her suddenly when she had returned from Aunt Celine’s funeral in despair. She had locked herself in her room and taken out that enigmatic note her aunt had given her, just before she died.
Music makes us richer than kings. She re-read it, over and over, frowning. What did it mean? Her father had left her a clue, but it made no sense.
Was it even true? Had Francois Deauchamps managed to hide the family’s wealth safely? And even if he had, there was no guarantee it would still be there. Many years had passed; Napoleon had become Emperor of France, and the nobility was gone. It was dangerous to enter France as a noble. If she was going, she would need to do it in disguise.
If she was going? Did that mean she was seriously contemplating it?
It would probably be a fool’s errand, and she could very well die in the process. She had been brought up a lady of leisure, taught to swoon at the sight of a bare ankle. Her life had been cosseted and constrained. How on earth could she have the strength and wit to cross the channel into France, adventuring to her ancestral home in search of long-lost treasure?
But then she thought of her aunt, and how much strength she had to muster to cross that same channel to England, to keep them safe. If Celine could do it, so could she. It was her inheritance, and her right.
It wasn’t as if she had anything to stay for, anymore. Her beloved aunt was dead. The Duke was engaged, set to marry Lady Hawksbridge. What did it matter if she risked her life? There was nothing for her in England but more of the same: being companion to Minnie on the endless social circuit, each day the same as the last. If she succeeded in France, she would at least secure herself a better future, be exempt from the eternal quest to find a rich husband. It would bring her security, and choice. Freedom. And if she didn’t succeed? Well, she was certain there were few who would miss her.
She had stolen out of the house the next day, having pawned the last of her aunt’s rings to finance the trip. She had told sent a letter to Minnie at Eden Hall, explaining what she was doing and that she must not tell her parents. She had no choice but to be duplicitous, but it broke her heart just the same to wound such good people, who had been nothing but kind to her.
She had bought men’s clothes at the wharf and boarded the ship that very day, before her courage left her. It had been remarkably easy, but she wasn’t fooled. It would be a dangerous journey.
As Marie-Therese leaned against the ship’s railing, staring across the endless ocean, she felt her jacket pocket. The pocket knife was still there, insurance against attack. So was a small map of France, the route to Genlis marked in red ink. She had procured French coins as well.
She was as ready as she ever would be. She thought of the Duke, briefly. How tender he had been with her when she had twisted her ankle. The way he had looked at her on the balcony at the ball, just before he had announced his engagement. How his eyes had shone when she had said she was a solitary creature as if he had suddenly fully seen her as she was.
A single tear fell down her cheek. She wiped it away, viciously.
He had made his choice.
***
Marie-Therese gazed at her ancestral home. Almost there.
It had been a rough journey. She secured transport with a merchant travelling to Genlis, for a price. She had ridden beside him in his carriage through mud and over hills. They had slept on the side of the road, the merchant allowing Marie-Therese to sleep in the back of the carriage. For an extra price, of course. She had eaten at roadside inns, shocked at their coarseness.
This was France, her homeland. As soon as she had set foot off the ship, her heart had lifted to finally see it. But she was appalled at the mil
itaristic nature of the country.
“Napoleon is on his last legs,” whispered the merchant. “There will be a restoration, soon. Even now, there is talk they will bring the dead king’s brother to sit again on the throne of France.”
Could it be true? One day she might be able to return to France, with her title! The thought bolstered her energy, spurring her on.
The merchant had dropped her in the town, some miles from where her aunt had explained her family’s residence had been. After a few hours of solitary walking, not seeing a soul since leaving the proper bounds of the city, Marie-Therese saw the grounds of her family’s home come into view.
The chateau was magnificent, everything that her aunt had described to her since she was a little girl. But she could see the neglect that had tarnished the residence over the years; ivy roamed its walls unchecked, and some stones had crumbled. The grounds were wild and unkempt. Her heart constricted. This had been her family home. If history had been kinder, she might have grown up here, in the loving bosom of her family. Not as an impoverished orphan in a foreign country.
She was going over her plan in her mind when she heard the snapping of a twig. She turned.
A soldier, in the garb of Napoleon’s army, stood there, calmly surveying her.
“Well, well,” the man said, slowly. “And what have we here?”
Chapter 13
The Search
S he was dragged into the chateau and told to sit down before a general, her heart pounding.
“We found him in the scrub, surveying the grounds,” said the soldier who had seized her. He pushed her forward, roughly.
“Who are you? What is your intention?” The general looked her over, coldly.
“Sir, if you please, I am a poor farmer, come to join the great Napoleon’s army,” she answered.
She held her breath. Everything was dependent on whether she could convince these men of her story. She had been informed the place was being used, like many of the former homes of the nobility, as a military camp. She knew that the Grand Armee was reduced, and that Napoleon was conscripting ordinary men for his future battles. She was hoping they would accept her as a new conscript. She knew they needed all the manpower they could get.
The general looked at her, quietly assessing. “Good,” he said, eventually. “We are preparing for our next campaign.” He turned to the soldier. “Take him to the tents, get him a uniform.” He turned on his heel, striding out of the room.
Marie-Therese looked over the room as she was led out. The furniture seemed old, indicating it was the same as when her family had fled the chateau. Somewhere in here, was her family’s wealth. She would have to find a way to search, room by room. It was a daunting task. How would she manage to do it without being detected?
She thought again of the clue in the note. What could it be referring to?
There was no time to ponder it, now. She was led to the barracks, to take on the garb of the Emperor’s soldier.
***
She awaited her chance. There was time, in between drills, when the population was fluid in the chateau.
Room by room. One room a day. That was her goal.
Often she had to rush, her heart pounding as men entered the room. She would hide somewhere, in a wardrobe or under a bed, until they had passed through. She knew she was playing with fire. If anyone discovered her, she would be executed as a spy, without a trial.
It was all for nothing, anyway. There seemed to be nothing left of value; all her family’s heirlooms and treasures had either been smashed or stolen. Her heart almost broke when she entered what must have been her parent’s chambers and saw a single dress hanging in the grand closet. Almost rags, now, but still resplendent with the style and wealth of France from twenty years prior.
It had been her mother’s, she knew in her heart. Estelle had worn it, once, oblivious to her sad fate, thinking life would continue ever more in the custom she was used to.
She was turning the clue over in her mind, that night, as she ate her soldier’s rations. One of the men was talking of a concert he had attended, in Paris. An opera, written by a new composer.
She reminisced, in her mind, about the wonderful operas she had seen back in England, especially the last, when the Duke had grown suddenly cold towards her. Would she ever see him again? Or listen to another opera, the music swelling and soaring through the auditorium…
Music. She sat straighter, her spoon resting in her bowl.
There was a grand piano in the chateau, she was sure of it. Where had it been? Her mind went over the rooms. Yes, of course. In the main parlor which she had been led to the first day she had come here.
It had to be the answer to the clue. Music makes us richer than kings. Her father had been referring to the piano. She was so excited, it took all of her will to pick up the spoon again and continue eating. She wanted to tear into the chateau this instant, but she knew she had to wait until the morning, when she had time to search it.
She barely slept that night. All she could see, in her mind’s eye, was the grand piano, slumbering with its treasure.
***
The room was empty as she knew it would be at this time of the day.
Heart pounding, she walked to the piano. It was a beauty. She ran her hands over its contours, dreaming of what lay inside.
She opened the lid, searching quickly. And then underneath. Nothing.
She sat at the piano stool, staring at the keys, disappointment flooding through her.
“What are you doing?”
She jumped. The general she had met on her first day was standing there, looking at her.
“I know how to play, Sir,” she said. “I was just looking at it, thinking of my lessons.”
“A farmer, taught the piano?” He frowned, looking at her. “Interesting. Well, come on then! Play us a tune.” He laughed.
Marie-Therese frowned. What had she gotten herself into?
She spread her hands over the keys, flexing. She could feel her heart racing. Steady, she told herself. You are almost there. Play him a tune, so you can keep searching.
She launched into Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, her fingers racing over the keyboard. She was lost in the music, for a moment. Until her fingers hit an out-of-tune key.
She looked around; the general had wandered off. She stopped playing, hitting the key again.
She jiggled the edge of the white piano key with her thumb. It was loose. Careful not to make any noise, she forcefully jimmied it until she could remove it with her fingers. That’s when she saw it, hidden behind, a piece of white cloth, clearly not a part of the piano Excitedly, Marie-Therese moved down the keys on the piano, removing several as she had done the first, until she could reach inside.
She pulled it out: A white sack the size of a melon, bulging with unknown treasures.
Chapter 14
A Vicomtesse
Returns
T he wharf was teeming with people. There were men carrying goods onto ships and passengers waiting to board their vessels. And in amongst the crowd, a petite woman, dressed as a man, had finally made it back to England.
Marie-Therese had to pinch herself to believe all that she had been through these past weeks. She had fled the chateau the very night after her discovery, the white sack clutched to her chest. She had to be stealthy, knowing that if she were discovered with the jewels, her identity would have been revealed. But she had managed to escape and made the perilous return journey. In a Paris inn, she had carefully stitched the jewels and gold into her jacket. As soon as she could secure passage on a ship, still disguised as a man, she sailed back across the channel, suddenly a rich woman.
What was to become of her, now? The world had opened to her. But her heart was heavy. Even with all the wealth in the world, the one thing that her heart desired was forever denied her. The Duke.
She made her way to the dressmakers. It was time to shed the persona of Pierre Deauchamps and become Marie-Therese again
. She thought of the Blooms, probably sick with worry about her. She hoped that Minnie had kept her secret, but there was no guarantee.
As she handed over gold for a dress, bonnet and cape, she was amazed again that she had survived such an adventure. And proud.
She could almost see her parents and dear Aunt Celine, tears in their eyes at what she had accomplished. Because it wasn’t just about the wealth; it was about reclaiming her birthright, her true identity. She was no longer the orphan, living on the fringes of other people’s lives, subject to their will.
She could finally be who she had been born to be: a vicomtesse.
***
The Duke of Marlborough scanned the crowds closely on the wharf.
He had come here immediately when he had left the Blooms. He still couldn’t believe what had happened to Marie-Therese.
He had called upon them, wishing to see her again—no, needing to see her again. He had to talk to her, urgently. But he had been told that she had disappeared, straight after her aunt’s funeral. They did not know where she was. How could a well-brought-up lady, always so biddable, suddenly vanish without a trace? She must have become unhinged in her grief, or such was the Blooms’ opinion.
But the Duke could see that her cousin, Minnie, knew something. He had questioned her for days, and eventually she had blurted the whole story. Something about a note Celine had given to Marie-Therese just before her death, and a confession that Marie-Therese had traveled to France. On her own.
The news had made the Duke go cold. France was no place for a young lady to be traveling by herself. It was a military state—an unstable one at that—and Marie-Therese was a deposed noble. She would be killed if she were found out. How could she have been so reckless? His heart seized with fear for her.
He would travel immediately to France, on the first ship that would take him. He must find her.
Before it was too late.
***
Marie-Therese walked out of the dressmaker’s a lady again, with her future at her feet.
The Duke and the Vicomtesse: (Clean & Wholesome Regency Romance Book) Page 5