Chapter Sixteen
William took one of the newspapers a servant had recently ironed - it wouldn’t do for the ink to rub off on a family member’s hands - and pretended to read to escape the conversation around the breakfast table. In spite of having lived in Paris with his uncle’s family for the last three years, he still found the discussions which invariably raged at breakfast a little too early in the day to be enjoyable. He knew Pierre and Marcel liked to bedevil their father, who was of the old school, with their radical ideas, and sometimes felt he would like to point out to his uncle that the two young men were only baiting him - it would certainly make for quieter mealtimes - but as this would spoil his cousins’ fun he kept silent.
He raised a hand and immediately a liveried servant poured more coffee into his cup. There were thirty servants in all looking after the family of four and any guests his uncle had to stay in his town house, some of whom travelled with the family when they visited their château in the French countryside. On those occasions, though, William and his cousins often stayed in Paris where the night life excelled any other city’s and hedonism was the order of the day.
His first lover there had been the young wife of an ageing count, and perhaps because Jeanette had been the first he remembered her more clearly than all the others who had followed although her face was now a blur in his mind. Strange, when you thought about it, that it was the one girl he hadn’t had, the one who had only allowed him to hold her hand, whose face was crystal clear whenever he shut his eyes at night. He forgot the others as soon as he left their presence and yet every detail of his time with Daisy was imprinted on his memory. He felt the familiar twisting in his guts and changed the direction of his thoughts ruthlessly.
His aunt and uncle were thinking of visiting their château for a few weeks and he might go with them this time. It would give Hildegarde time to cool down and accept that their affair was over.
As though his thoughts had conjured it up William became conscious of a footman at his elbow, holding out a silver plate on which reposed a pink-flushed envelope. He recognised both the paper and the bold black script of the writer and, sighing inwardly, took the envelope with a nod of thanks. Another of Hildegarde’s faintly hysterical demands that he visit her, no doubt. She had caused quite a fuss at the Rothwells’ musical soiree last night, even going so far as to hold on to his arm when he had tried to walk away after she’d cornered him in a recess of the drawing room. The woman was shameless, but then hadn’t that been what had attracted him to her in the first place? She had wanted him and she’d made no bones about it, but that hadn’t mattered so much when her husband had been abroad. Now Rudolf von Spee was back, and as German Ambassador to the French government he was not a man to mess with, being both important and influential. He was also a nasty piece of work.
William slit open the envelope, his eyes scanning the lines of writing. He read the letter twice before leaning back in his seat. The woman was deranged, she had to be to threaten she would tell her husband everything if he didn’t resume their affair. What had he got himself into here? This could turn into the mother and father of a scandal.
He thought quickly. His uncle’s château was not far enough away with Hildegarde in this frame of mind. Perhaps England would be better? It was the second week of September. That meant the King had spent a week or two at the Palace after his usual month’s cure at Marienbad and would now be going up to Balmoral for the grouse and deer. Scotland would be the accepted place to be; no one would think it overly strange if he renewed his acquaintance with one or two university friends whose families had estates up there. It was time to show his face for a while anyway, it had been nine months since he had spent some time in England and eighteen since he had visited Greyfriar Hall, and that had only been a brief stay. Of course Daisy must be married by now, he could easily take up residence at Greyfriar again, but somehow the thought of seeing her on Hector Lyndon’s arm was still as raw as the last time he had observed them together.
He rose from the table, and as he did so his eldest cousin, Marcel, glanced up and followed him out of the room, leaving Pierre and Claude still arguing. Marcel inclined his head at the envelope in William’s hand. He, too, recognised the pink paper. ‘Trouble?’ he asked softly.
William handed his cousin the letter in reply, and after Marcel had read the contents he pursed his lips, his fair brows drawing together. ‘Tread carefully with this one, Will. Hildegarde is just a silly woman but her husband is a powerful man with many friends, some respectable and some not so respectable. You know?’
Yes, he knew. William nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking it’s about time I paid a visit to the land of my fathers,’ he said with a touch of self-mockery.
Marcel smiled. ‘I think that would be a good idea.’ He hesitated before saying, ‘Particularly so if the news I heard is true. It appears Francis is in Paris again.’
‘He wouldn’t dare show his face here, not after the last time.’
It had been two years ago, twelve months after he had left England, that Francis had turned up on the doorstep of Claude’s town house asking to see William. He had given his uncle a chilly reception which had turned to frost when Francis had had the audacity to suggest his nephew act as intermediary in a reconcilation between Augustus and himself. He had been short of cash and heavily in debt - again. William had all but thrown him out of the house.
‘Do not be so sure, cousin,’ Marcel said drily. ‘When the devil is pulling the strings . . .’ He raised his eyebrows before adding, ‘Hildegarde? Were you indiscreet at all?’
‘Indiscreet?’ William thought for a moment. ‘No, I don’t think so. There were no letters or anything of that nature.’
‘Good.’ Marcel then slapped him on the back, saying, ‘I am late for my fencing lesson. I will see you later, Will.’
William watched his cousin stride away but did not move for some moments. Then, slowly, he began to make his way to his bedroom on the second floor of the house. At some point this morning it had dawned on him that his present life had soured on him. He was tired of playing the man about town, he had been tired of it for some months but it had been easier not to face the fact that at times he was sickened by the sight of his own face in the shaving mirror. He decided he had made a cuckold of a man for the last time. The next woman he took to his bed would be free to bestow her affection where she would.
He paused on the second landing, leaning with his hands outstretched on the polished gallery rail as he stared into the richly decorated hall far below. His aunt always insisted on the best and employed the finest designers to furnish the homes of her French husband. They had been good to him, his aunt and uncle, and more like parents than his own had ever been. It was hard to believe at times that his aunt was his mother’s sister.
Once in his bedroom he flung himself down into one of the two leather armchairs placed in the bay of the window, leaning forward and clasping his hands.
He was twenty-six years old, and what had he to show for his life? Was his present existence what Daisy had risked her own life for?
His posture altered as William raised his head, flexing his shoulders and straightening his back. He had come here originally because he had not been man enough to stay in England and watch her marry someone else. That was it in a nutshell. But enough was enough. He was going to take control of his life again and begin afresh. The army maybe? The Fraser clan had long-established military connections, half his forebears had been Colonels or Brigadiers. Whatever, he was done with Paris. It had been good to taste what real family life was like with his aunt and uncle and cousins, and he’d always be grateful to them, but it was time to leave. To carve out his own future.
A dart of excitement, the first he had felt in a long, long time, brought him out of the chair and over to the walnut writing desk in a recess of the room. He needed to start making plans.
Later that same morning William found himself alone in the house. His aunt had persuade
d her husband to drive to the Bois de Boulogne, one of the two grand parks Baron Haussmann had built four decades ago when the French Prefect embarked on his rebuilding of Paris. It was still the place to see and be seen, and Lydia had wanted to show off the new carriage and pair her husband had bought her for an anniversary gift the week before. Pierre, who had his eye on a certain young lady who might also be taking the air, had gone with his parents, and William was in the middle of writing a letter to the friend he hoped to stay with in Scotland when a maid knocked on his door to say, Francis had called.
As William entered the drawing room he saw his uncle standing by the open french windows, looking out over the rows of neat flowerbeds. He turned immediately to say, ‘M’boy, m’boy,’ arms outstretched as though William was the dearest soul on earth to him.
William walked fully into the room before he replied, and then indicated a chair to one side of the magnificent fireplace. ‘Please be seated, Uncle.’ It was coldly said. ‘You wish to speak to me?’
The smile remained fixed on Francis’s puffy face as he sat down, shuffling his fleshy buttocks deep into the seat. ‘Indeed I do, m’boy. Indeed I do. And just between ourselves, if you get my meaning? No need to air the family’s dirty laundry in public after all, or let word get back to the old pater, eh?’
William stared into the flabby, perspiring face. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow you.’
So that was the way the arrogant young pup was going to play it? Well, he didn’t mind spelling it out. In fact, he’d get pleasure from it. Francis placed his hands on his knees, leaning forward slightly as he said in a low voice, ‘I’m referring to your little . . . indiscretion with the German fellow’s wife, m’boy. I hear von Spee is hopping mad.’
If Francis called him ‘m’boy’ once more he’d wipe the smile off his uncle’s face with the back of his hand. William walked over to the door, opening it and standing straight and stiff as he said, ‘Good day, Uncle.’
‘What?’ This wasn’t what Francis had expected at all. ‘Now look, laddie, I’ve come here to try and help, that’s all. Family is family, what?’
‘I don’t need your help.’
Francis found himself momentarily at a loss and fought back with a short bark of laughter before he said, ‘Don’t be so sure about that. I just came to advise you to get out of Paris for a while. I know a few people--’
‘I’m sure you do.’ William cut across his uncle’s voice. ‘As it happens I am leaving for Scotland in the next day or two so you need concern yourself no further. Now, if there’s nothing else?’
Francis’s jaw tightened, and his next words came from between his teeth as he got up to leave. ‘You’ll regret crossing me one day, boy.’
‘I doubt that.’
As his uncle passed him they exchanged one last glance of mutual enmity and then Francis stalked off down the hall, pushing the servant who had opened the door for him roughly aside and disappearing into the busy Paris street beyond.
By the time Francis reached the end of the road he was sweating profusely but he didn’t stop walking until he was out of sight of the house, and then he leant against the iron railings which bordered a small front garden, his hand to his chest as he tried to catch his breath. If ever anyone deserved what was coming to them that little pipsqueak did. He fished his silk handkerchief out of his top pocket and mopped his damp face. But he had got the information von Spee had paid him for and that was the main thing. If all went according to plan, at the end of this little lot he’d be sitting pretty. With William disposed of he was the next in line to inherit after all.
He stood for a moment longer, straightening his hat and adjusting the lapels of his coat after he’d returned the handkerchief to his pocket. And then he began to stroll along the pavement, one hand sliding into the inner pocket of his coat and his fingers caressing the thick bundle of notes resting against his heart.
Two days later William’s trunk and portmanteau had already been placed in the coach which was to take him to the port at Calais, a journey of one hundred and fifty miles, and now he was making his goodbyes to the family. He was touched to see both his aunt and uncle had moist eyes, and his cousins were trying to extract a promise he would return in the near future.
‘You will be breaking a hundred ladies’ hearts if you stay away, cousin. You know it, don’t you?’ This from Pierre and said with a twinkle in his eye.
‘Come back for the New Year. You know how you enjoy the celebrations in gay Paree,’ said Marcel.
‘The New Year can be gay anywhere.’ William smiled, but he hadn’t realised just how much of a wrench it would be to leave them all. However, his mind was made up. First Scotland, and then he would inform his family he was joining the army.
The farewells over at last, he took his seat in the coach and nodded at the other occupants, hearing Marcel promise, ‘I will join you in Scotland for a spot of shooting in a couple of weeks,’ over the sound of the horses’ hooves as they got underway.
‘Au revoir.’ He hung out of the window, waving, before settling back in his seat again, the middle-aged gentleman and young couple who comprised the rest of the passengers smiling briefly, before the gentleman made himself comfortable and shut his eyes, and the young couple began conversing quietly.
William followed the gentleman’s example. He hadn’t slept too well the last few nights with all he’d had to think about and he was tired. He dozed for most of the journey, and by the time the coach lurched into the courtyard of an inn at Abbeville its lamps had been lit for some time.
The gentleman was only travelling as far as Abbeville, and when the young couple asked William to join them at the evening meal the inn provided, he accepted gratefully. He had never felt so alone in all his life as during the last hours.
The young couple turned out to be a Monsieur and Madame De Quéré, a French couple who spoke excellent English and who were travelling to Calais to see Madame De Quéré’s sister who lived close to the port. After a somewhat mediocre meal, only made enjoyable by the company and several glasses of very good wine, William went up to his room. He was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow despite the hardness of the flock mattress.
A grey dawn was only just beginning to break through the darkness when he joined Monsieur and Madame De Quéré in the coach after a hearty breakfast, and for the rest of the journey it was just the three of them which made for pleasant conversation.
Calais looked and smelt like any big port as the wheels of the coach bumped over the cobbled quay, the universal smells of the waterfront vying with the odd whiff of eau de Cologne now and again from the fine lace handkerchiefs elegant ladies held pressed to their delicate noses.
A steady rain had been drumming against the windows of the coach for the last hour or two, and as William waited for Monsieur De Quéré to help his wife out of the vehicle before alighting himself, a clap of thunder rolled across the sky. It was a thoroughly miserable day.
William’s uncle had tipped the driver of the coach handsomely to see his nephew’s trunk and bags safely deposited aboard the Mauretania and, his goodbyes to his new friends having been said some moments before, William climbed down from the coach intending to make his way to the ship which he could see some distance along the quay. It was then he noticed that Madame De Quéré seemed to be in some distress. He caught her husband’s eye as the man glanced about him in agitation, and William felt he could do no other than step forward and say quietly, ‘May I be of some assistance, Monsieur?’
‘My wife . . . I’m sorry. It seems she is not well.’ As he spoke the woman leaning against his chest moaned softly and then appeared to swoon right away, her head lolling alarmingly as her husband struggled to take her full weight.
William had reached out to support her too when it had seemed Monsieur De Quéré couldn’t hold her, and now he said to the slightly built man, ‘I have her, Monsieur, don’t worry. Perhaps if you could lead the way to the nearest physician’s establishment?�
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‘No need for that. She . . . well, she is in a delicate condition, you know? And it is early days. Apparently it is not unusual for this to occur at such a time.’
‘I see.’ William glanced about him. ‘Well, let’s get her out of the rain at least, shall we?’
‘I cannot impose on you, Monsieur Fraser.’
‘Of course you can.’ William smiled encouragingly at the poor man and tried to ignore the fact he could feel water beginning to drip down his neck. ‘The driver is seeing to my bags and it is at least another two hours before I need go aboard. Let me help you get her to shelter and then perhaps a glass of water will revive her?’
‘You are very kind.’ There was the slightest of hesitations. ‘If you are really sure you have the time my sister-in-law’s house is only just round the corner. A minute’s walk, that is all. It would be less distressing for my wife if we took her there, I think.’
William nodded. The woman was coming to but still clearly feeling unwell. Obviously she would welcome being with her sister. Monsieur De Quéré seemed quite happy to relinquish his burden to William and walked ahead, carefully picking his way over the wet cobbles towards a narrow path which ran directly in front of warehouses and other buildings and then into an alleyway. The end of this opened up into a street which seemed to incorporate more warehouses intermingled with houses. Compared to the dock itself which had been a hive of activity this area was quieter, and now that the alleged minute’s walk had lengthened into several William became aware of a prickle of disquiet. He was just about to ask how much further the house was when Monsieur De Quéré said, ‘Just down here, Monsieur Fraser, and we are there. I cannot tell you how much we appreciate your help.’
Candles in the Storm Page 25