The General's Mistress

by Jo Graham

  On the day Jan left for The Hague, I went to our banker, the man who handled all of the money I had brought to this marriage, and withdrew as much as I could “for shopping” without calling attention to myself. After all, even though the money was my dower, the moment the ring was on my finger everything I owned belonged to Jan. A woman was her husband’s, like his horse or his house. I could no more take my own dowry and divorce him than his carriage horses could.

  It was safer to travel as a man on a public coach. I reached Utrecht the next day. I took a room at the Hotel du Mail under the name of Charles van Aylde. No one noticed anything or commented. I gave orders I was not to be disturbed, went to my room, and slept the clock around.

  In the morning I got up, dressed and pretended to shave, and went down to enjoy a late breakfast in the sun on the terrace. It wasn’t much of a terrace, merely a fenced-in area between the dining room doors and the street. There were some low planters full of bulbs that hadn’t quite bloomed yet, though I could see they were going to be still more yellow tulips. I crossed my booted feet, ordered café au lait with bread and butter, and sat happily in the early-morning sunshine reading the newspaper and watching the passersby.

  If this was what life was like as a man, then I would be a man. To go where I wished and to be my own master was the sweetest taste imaginable.

  A Franconian officer was coming up the street, carefully stepping around the puddles and ruts from the mail coach. He glanced at me, glanced away, then stopped and stared. It was Meynier.

  I looked coolly back at him, then smiled.

  Meynier came over to the fence and looked me up and down, an expression of utter amazement on his face. “Can it be . . . ?”

  “It is,” I said, “Madame Ringeling. But don’t speak so loudly. Come join me for breakfast, if you will.”

  Meynier stepped over the planter and slid into the seat opposite mine. He leaned over the table. “I hardly recognized you in that. You certainly make a striking young man.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I thought it safer.”

  “Safer for what?”

  “I have left my husband,” I said, “and I am traveling to Paris alone.”

  Meynier’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Really? I wondered what a woman like you was doing with a little squirt like him.”

  “A what?” I chuckled, one hand curving around my coffee.

  “A little squirt. A man whose stream is as small as his organ.”

  I really did laugh out loud at that. I leaned forward conspiratorially. “It is, rather!”

  Meynier grinned. “I like you better like this. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “I need to hire a carriage,” I said. “Do you know where I can find a good one?”

  He thought for a moment. “Probably. I’ll see what I can do, Ma—What should I call you, anyway?”

  “Charles van Aylde,” I said.

  I spent that evening at the hotel, sipping a glass of port in the main room and reading a book. No one bothered me. No one seemed to see through my disguise. I supposed there was something to be said for very long legs. That night I slept quietly in my room.

  And I dreamed.

  I was climbing a mountain somewhere hot and dry. I heard a mew, and there ahead of me on the path was an orange and white cat. She was waiting, and I followed her.

  We came to an overlook, and I caught my breath. The cliff plunged down into desert that stretched as far as the eye could see. The sky arched blue above, and the sands moved in a thousand shades of light. On the far horizon there was a glitter. I could just make out the faint shapes of towers and gates of brass.

  The cat twined around my ankles.

  I reached down and touched her. She looked up into my eyes. Hers were sea-green and they knew everything. Her fur was warm under my hand.

  I woke.

  There was a gray tabby cat on the bed beside me, purring. It was just growing light.

  “How did you get in here?” I asked the cat.

  A foolish question, since I had left the window cracked. A nimble jumper could get into the second floor from the tree outside. The cat meowed. She turned, and I saw her swollen teats. A nursing mother, or a cat whose litter had been drowned. She butted against my hand.

  I petted her absently. Was it the cat that had woken me? I felt a strange urgency, as though someone had whispered in my ear. Something was wrong. I needed to be on the road.

  I sat up. I needed to be on the road. It was an irrational feeling, but what good had being rational ever done me? I must go.

  I dressed quickly and stowed everything away in my luggage. If Meynier had not found a carriage, I would have to do it myself. There was no time to waste. I had to leave now.

  As I came downstairs, I saw Meynier coming in. He grabbed my arm and steered me away from the landlord’s wife, who was grinding coffee beans with a hand crank. “Thank God I found you! Listen, you must go immediately. There was a man at the inn down the street by the camp this morning, asking after a golden-haired woman. A runaway wife from Amsterdam. Her mother is mad and her husband is hunting for her before she can do herself harm. The authorities are supposed to help, since the poor woman is a menace and needs to be taken quietly back to Amsterdam and a nice comfortable room.”

  I clutched his arm. “No.”

  Meynier nodded. “You’re no more mad than I am. But he’s going to lock you up. And he’s got the law on his side. Is your mother really mad?”

  “As a hatter,” I said grimly. “And everyone knows it. I imagine society has just been waiting for me to go round the bend.”

  “There’s no chance people won’t believe it?”

  “None,” I said. “I have to get out of here.”

  Meynier grinned. “Fill your saddlebags, van Aylde! I’ve got a couple of horses, if you can stick on astride. We’ll send your luggage on ahead and whisk you over the border on horseback. Once you’re in France, they’ll have to apply through official channels to get you.”

  “They will,” I said. “Or they may not wait. Possession is two-thirds of the law. If they take me back by force, will France protest? I have no friends there.”

  Meynier shook his head. “No, then. Not if you have no friends.”

  An idea struck me. I stood up straighter, my hand dropping to my side. Could I do it? I could do whatever I needed to do. “Where is General Moreau’s headquarters?”

  “Menin,” Meynier said. “So?”

  “We’re going to Menin,” I said. “Let me grab my saddlebags.”

  Meynier nodded. “I can go partway with you, at least. I’ll find some food for the road while you arrange with the landlord about your luggage.”

  In less than an hour, we were on the road. Meynier threw me an apple from the saddle, which I caught neatly left-handed. He laughed.

  “Madame Ringeling, you have a fine seat!” Meynier said. “And just what do you propose to do in Menin? Do you know General Moreau?”

  I looked ahead. The road seemed to meet the sky, a trick of perspective they taught nice girls in drawing classes. “Let’s see if I know him well enough.”

  We reached Menin the next day. Meynier insisted on coming all the way with me, even though it would make him a day late returning to his post.

  I had no idea what sort of impression I would make on Moreau wearing men’s clothes, but my own dress from the saddlebags was hopelessly crumpled, and my other clothes were following in my trunks. I smoothed my hair down and retied my queue.

  Meynier escorted me as far as the door to the headquarters, then wandered off to loiter and watch the groom seeing to the horses.

  One of the young sentries looked me up and down. I made no attempt to hide my sex, but rather had opened my shirt at the throat. My voice was quite steady. “Please tell General Moreau that Madame Ringeling is here to see him on a matter of some personal urgency.”

  “Of course, Madame.” He disappeared for a moment, then hastened out. “The genera
l will see you.”

  I preceded him inside.

  Moreau got up from his paper-strewn desk and crossed the room with his hands outstretched. “To what do I owe the pleasure? And you are most charmingly dressed.” His eyes raked me up and down, lingering just a moment on the tight legs of the breeches, the buttons on either side at the waist.

  I put my head to the side. “Does your offer stand?”

  “My offer?” His voice was even, but I saw the flash in his eyes.

  “Your offer to teach me better when I left my husband. I have left him.”

  Moreau laughed. He turned his back and crossed behind his desk. I stood stock-still and immobile.

  “I am not laughing at you, Madame,” he said. “I am laughing at myself for not anticipating such directness. Of course I should have expected you to be entirely singular in this.”

  “Does your offer stand?” I asked. “I will be your mistress if you will do one thing for me.”

  He turned around, and his face was keen. Victor Moreau was no fool. “What is the thing?”

  “My husband wants to return me to Amsterdam. He has sent men to seize me. If you will prevent this and arrange for me to stay in France, I will do what you desire.”

  “What I desire.” He came toward me again. “I must say, I prefer this charming defiance to your slavish submission to that lout. I assume he means to lock you up. I wonder why.”

  “Because the money is mine,” I said. “It’s my dower. Jan hasn’t a sou that’s not mine.” He had very dark eyes, and they lingered on my face, on my throat. I did not look away from him. “He has to control me to keep the money. My mother is mad. It’s easy to tell people that I am just like her.”

  “And that he is solicitously caring for an invalid. I see.” Moreau reached one hand out and traced the line of my jaw, sensuously and slowly. His fingers pinched down on my earlobe, and I gasped. “Is that the way it is? You do look charming in that ensemble. I wonder how you’d look bent over my desk?”

  “I keep my word,” I said. I felt a strange excitement rising in me, curling out from between my legs and crawling up my body. “Whatever you desire.”

  “Ah, but what do you desire?” he asked. “Do you even know yet? Playing the coquette for men with no imagination?”

  With some difficulty I stepped back. “Do we have a bargain?” I asked. “You will not see me over your desk or anywhere else until I have your word that you will offer me your protection and prevent me being returned to Holland.”

  He laughed. “You drive a bargain like a burgher, Madame. Very well. You have my word. I will protect you from your husband and guarantee you the protection of France. You are wasted on him, my dear. I think you will like this better.”

  “Then we have a bargain,” I said.

  I bade Colonel Meynier farewell with many thanks. He asked me at least ten times if I would be all right left in Menin.

  “I will be quite well, I assure you,” I said, clasping his hand warmly. “And I will always remember your kindness.” I watched him ride away, then returned to Moreau’s office. The day was ending and it was growing chilly despite the spring sun.

  Moreau looked up as I entered. “Well, Madame?”

  “The colonel is gone,” I said.

  He got up and walked around the desk to me. The door was closed, but there were two men in the outer office. I did not back up. I would not. I had made this bargain and meant to abide by it.

  “You will need a name,” he said. “My men know that you are here. If you wish to avoid any unfortunate encounters with your husband’s hirelings, then you need a name that is not your own.”

  I nodded. “St. Elme,” I said. “For the fire that illuminates everything and yet is nothing but illusion.”

  “Very poetic,” Moreau said. He stood just a little too close, but he did not touch me. “And perhaps Ida for a first name? It’s a common enough name to be believed to be your own, unlike Semiramis or any of the classical names that are all the rage for courtesans these days.”

  “Why not Lucréce?” I asked, more sharply than I had intended.

  “My dear, if rape were what I enjoyed, my profession would give me ample scope for my pleasures.” He smiled at me. “You sought me out and offered me this bargain. So there is no need to play the victim with me. Unless that’s what you like.”

  I glanced away. He was still standing too close. Sandalwood and orange, and the scent of his skin after a day of work. Dark hair curling close at the back of his neck, and fine hands.

  “Is it?” Victor asked. “The pretense of ravishment? All responsibility for your actions removed? A fairly common fantasy, in my experience, especially among whores who have not admitted it to themselves.”

  I lifted my hand to slap him, but he caught my wrist. He did not bend it, just held it a trifle too tightly for comfort. He could feel the pulse jumping, my heart beating faster, and I could not hide it.

  Victor smiled again, amused and indulgent both. “I don’t think so, my dear. I don’t particularly like being slapped.”

  I looked away from his dark eyes. I was too conscious of my body and his, of this heat I was ashamed of and could not control.

  He opened his grip and traced the veins in my wrist, circling around my thumb and opening my hand. “You have a fine sensibility, my dear. I saw that immediately. Like a delicate-mouthed mare who has never known anyone but an ironhanded lout. But you have no idea how to play the instrument you own.”

  “You are mixing metaphors,” I said. My heart was racing.

  Victor laughed and bent over my hand with a graceful gesture perfectly suited to the drawing room. “You’re clever as well. And of course you know you’re beautiful. Everyone must have told you that since you learned to walk.”

  “Not really,” I said.

  He raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps that accounts for your poor taste so far. So have you in fact slept with anyone besides your husband?”

  “I am not going to answer that,” I said. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business. And you can’t make me tell you.”

  “You will tell me,” he said. “Because you have just told me that you want me to make you. That bit of unnecessary defiance was very illuminating.” He crossed behind me and did not touch me, just stood close enough behind that I could feel the heat of his body, not quite against mine. “You want to be made to do things so that you don’t have to admit that you want them. So that you don’t have to accept your own deliciously carnal nature. Why else did you come here?”

  “I had nowhere else to go,” I said. I waited for him to touch me.

  “That’s not strictly true, is it, my dear? You could have gone on to Paris in disguise. You could have appealed to Meynier’s gallantry. You could have taken a ship to England. In actuality, you had many options.”

  He did not touch me. When was he going to touch me? He was just standing there at my back, so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek as he leaned forward.

  “You could have gone many other places besides here. ‘I had no other choice’ is an excuse for weak-willed fools. You sought your own ruin. You chased after it gladly.”

  Now at last I felt his arm go around my waist, felt his lean, muscled form against my back. His hand slid up and cupped my breast, stroking the nipple agonizingly slowly through the cloth of my shirt. I took a ragged breath.

  “You want me to take you. You want me to humiliate you utterly, to bring you absolute abasement. And for it all to be my fault. For it to be my perversion, not yours.”

  Abruptly his fingers snapped my nipple, pinching it painfully. I twisted and let out a moan. He released me. I staggered and almost fell.

  “I am not going to do that, my dear,” he said. His tone was conversational, but I could see the flush on his cheeks. “Not until you ask me for it. Not until you beg for it.”

  “That is worse,” I said.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” He smiled at me cheerfully, as though I were a ch
ild who had been clever. “You are going to anticipate everything. And you are going to tell me everything.”

  “No,” I said. But I did not move. I wanted him to come close again.

  “You are going to describe to me every minute sensation that you feel. You are going to tell me exactly how and where you’re becoming aroused. You are going to tell me exactly what filthy thoughts are passing through your mind. And you are going to ask me to do unspeakable things to you, only you are going to speak every word in the crudest possible language. And then, only then, will I do it.”

  “I do not . . .” I said.

  He crossed behind me again, his hip barely brushing mine, but it felt like thunder. He leaned close to my ear. “And when you come, I am going to feel every last shudder, and you are going to tell me exactly what you feel.”

  “I have never . . . with anyone else . . .” I stammered. I leaned back, and his lips almost brushed my shoulder.

  Victor laughed softly. “Only alone?”

  I nodded. My breasts were tight, and a wetness was starting between my thighs. My eyes were sparking with tears.

  He lifted one stray piece of hair away from my neck. “You see? That wasn’t so hard. Your first confession.”

  I almost sobbed.

  He stepped away. “You will dine with me tonight in my quarters. It does not matter what you wear. At eight o’clock. In the meantime, I will have my servant show you to a room where you can be comfortable.” Moreau crossed to the desk, picking up papers. “I will see you later.”

  I nodded. I must pull myself together. I must.

  He raised his voice and called for a servant. “Madame St. Elme will be staying. Please put her in the Blue Room and bring her whatever she requires.” He nodded at me. “Your servant, Madame.”

  I followed the man quickly. I was shaking as though I had just faced the most grueling fencing match of my life. At least I also scored a point, I thought. As he crossed to the desk, I had seen the bulge in his trousers, uncomfortable if he intended to wait several hours to satiate it. But then, perhaps denial was something he found stimulating.