Milady in Love (The Changing Fortunes Series, Vol. 5)

by M C Beaton

  “You may call me Yvonne.”

  “Thank you. Yvonne.”

  “No, I am not exhausted,” said the frivolous creature, untying the ribbons of her hat and taking it from her head. “But I am so hungry. Ma foi! The food on board ship was disgusting.”

  “Did you suffer from seasickness?”

  “Please?”

  “Mal de mer.”

  “Not I. When do we go home?”

  “In the morning. Why are you not wearing mourning, Yvonne?”

  “Papa did not like mourning. Women wear so much black in Portugal, he said he did not want me to go around like a crow as well, even after his death. He mentioned that fact in his will. I have some pretty gowns, no? I had them made by the best dressmaker in Lisbon, and when Papa could not pay her, I sold my pearls to settle the account. One must always pay one’s dressmaker, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I believe in settling all my debts promptly,” said the viscount stiffly. “I suggest you do not talk until after we have eaten. I have the headache.”

  Yvonne gurgled with laughter. “Ah, I see, in England it is the gentlemen who have the headache. Is it that you have the vapors as well?”

  “That is quite enough.”

  Yvonne began to eat, at first with a hearty appetite, but then she appeared to lose interest.

  “I would have thought you would have been hungrier,” said the viscount.

  “I was hungry,” said Yvonne, pushing her plate away. “But such disgusting food ruins the appetite. I cannot relish it. The meat is half raw, and the vegetables are not boiled enough to make them soft. This wine is miserable. How much a bottle?”

  “Four shillings and sixpence.”

  “A bottle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Robbery!” said Yvonne, much shocked.

  “Did no one ever tell you it is very bad manners to criticize your host’s table?”

  “Of course. I should not dream of doing such a thing were it your table. But this is a common inn. Very common.”

  The viscount surveyed her with displeasure and irritation. She had not said one word of gratitude. Instead, she was going on in a very high-handed manner.

  He gave a sigh. Thank goodness for Miss Cottingham.

  Yvonne flashed him a look of quick sympathy. “Ah, I am behaving badly, and you are wondering why you should be plagued with such a charge. I am irritable. I feel very foreign. But I am grateful to you, milord viscount. Very.”

  “I do not expect any show of gratitude, I assure you,” he said stiffly.

  “Oh, yes, you do. This cheese now is good, and the butter excellent. This abominable fare does not appear to affect your appetite. No doubt you were in the army.”

  “I was. But I am never overnice in my tastes when staying at, as you put it, a common inn.”

  “Then you should be,” said Yvonne, raising delicate arched eyebrows. “How can they improve the cuisine if every guest is as stoic about it as you are yourself?”

  “Yvonne, you force me to point out that I am your guardian, I am considerably older than you, and it would be more becoming if you showed a modicum of respect.”

  Yvonne spread her fingers in a Gallic gesture. “I am all respect, milord. You say you are considerably older than I. You wear well.”

  “Thank you.” Her enormous black eyes were fixed on his face, and the viscount began to feel overwarm.

  “I have employed a governess-companion for you,” he said.

  “A companion would be pleasant,” said Yvonne, “but I am not in need of a governess.”

  “You being so well educated,” mocked the viscount.

  “Me being so well educated,” agreed Yvonne placidly. “I speak English very well, French is my native tongue, and I also speak Spanish and Portuguese like a native.”

  “A facility in languages is admirable, but a lady must be cognizant with the gentler arts, such as… such as sewing, watercolor painting, playing the pianoforte, curtsying.…”

  “I curtsy to perfection.” Yvonne darted lightly from the table and sank into a court curtsy, looking up at him in a teasing way from under her lashes.

  “Sit down!” he barked.

  Yvonne gave a little shrug and resumed her place at the table.

  The viscount summoned up his sternest tones. “We shall remain silent for the rest of the meal.”

  Yvonne bowed her head meekly over her plate. From the occasional shaking of her shoulders, he knew she was trying to stifle a fit of the giggles.

  When the landlord and his maids came in to clear the dishes, the viscount hailed him with relief. Yvonne was ordered to bed and told that they would set out for Trewent Castle at seven the next morning.

  He almost expected her to stay to argue about the earliness of the hour of departure, but to his relief, she curtsied and left.

  Yvonne lay awake for a long time, listening to the tremendous noise and bustle in the inn. Doors kept opening and shutting and bells ringing. Voices cried to the waiter from every corner, while he cried back, “Coming!” while going on to serve someone else. Everybody was in a hurry, preparing for embarkation on one of the packets or just arriving, and impatient to be on the homeward road. Every now and then a carriage would rattle up to the door at a tremendous speed, making the whole inn shake. The man who cleaned the boots was running in one direction, and the barber with his powder bag in the other, while the din of porters and sailors taking in luggage or taking it out rose up from the hall. A horn blew, announcing the arrival of the post, and then, later, another blast, signaling its departure.

  “This is better than I thought,” mused Yvonne, lying in bed with her hands clasped behind her head. A picture of the viscount’s face rose before her eyes.

  “Much better!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Yvonne had breakfasted and dressed and was waiting outside the inn by seven in the morning. She had a pleasurable feeling of anticipation. In front of her lay a drive through the English countryside with the viscount at her side.

  To her fury, the footman who had met her at the customs house the day before appeared to say that his lordship had gone ahead in a post chaise to prepare for her ladyship’s arrival.

  The fact was that the viscount had decided he could not bear Yvonne’s pert and upsetting company on the road home. By the time she arrived, Miss Cottingham would be there and he would not have to trouble very much about Yvonne again.

  Yvonne felt the snub keenly and retaliated by insisting Gustave travel inside the carriage with her.

  The disapproving footman shut the carriage door on the pair of them, listening with even more disapproval to the stream of voluble French coming from inside.

  At last Yvonne finished complaining to Gustave about the viscount’s ungentlemanly treatment and settled back to enjoy the journey. Unlike Portuguese coaches, this one was not closed in by curtains but had glass on either side, which afforded a good view of the countryside.

  Although it was late April, there was only a faint tinge of green on the trees. Everything had a cold and coarse appearance, and the hedge plants looked mean and insignificant—nettles, thistles, and thorns—to eyes accustomed to the aloe, acanthus, arbitus, and vine. Dreary stretches lay on either side, and black clouds with trailing fingers of rain moved across the sullen scene.

  It was very cold. Yvonne’s spirits took a plunge.

  Gustave appeared sunk in gloom.

  “What is to become of me, milady?” he asked at last. “That serviteur said there was no place in milord’s household for me.”

  “Your place is as my servant,” snapped Yvonne. “Do not be stupid, Gustave. If they do not let you stay, then I shall run off with you and we shall live as the gypsies.”

  Gustave shivered and cracked his bony knuckles. “I would not make a good gypsy, milady. I am old and used to sleeping in a house.”

  “Well, do not trouble yourself. You stay with me.”

  Yvonne gradually dropped off to sleep, lulled by the rocking of
the carriage and the monotony of the landscape.

  Gustave finally awoke her. “I think,” he said in tones of deepest foreboding, “that we are nearly at our destination.”

  Yvonne looked out of the window. “Oh, dear,” she said.

  Yellow, hideous, and sinister, Trewent Castle loomed up on the edge of the cliffs, overlooking the sea. They drove through an archway cut into high walls topped with iron spikes.

  Yvonne clutched Gustave. “He cannot live here,” she gasped. “He is putting us in prison.”

  “Those are liveried servants moving about the grounds, not jailors,” said Gustave.

  The carriage came to a halt outside a massive iron-studded door.

  The carriage steps were let down, and Yvonne alighted and gazed up in awe at the grim castle. There was not even any ivy on the walls to soften its uncompromising outline.

  She could hear the pounding of the sea, and above her head a seagull let out a melancholy scream.

  The footman rang the bell beside the door. It was a huge black iron bell on a rope. Yvonne put her hands over her ears to shut out its yammering, clanging sound.

  The great double doors slowly opened, revealing a black hall like a cavern.

  The elderly butler, Fairbairn, bowed before them. “My lord is in the library,” he said.

  Yvonne’s spirits rose again. Soon she would be seated in front of a roaring fire, chatting with her handsome guardian.

  The viscount was standing by one of the library windows, talking to a tall, elegant lady.

  “Miss Cottingham,” he said, “may I present your charge, Yvonne de la Falaise. Yvonne, Miss Cottingham. Make your curtsy.”

  Yvonne’s lip curled in disdain. “If this Miss Cottingham is my governess, then she should curtsy to me. Furthermore, I prefer to be addressed by my title and treated with the courtesy due to my rank.”

  “While I am your guardian,” said the viscount, “you will be treated exactly as I see fit. When, and if, we entertain company, your rank will be honored. Here you are Yvonne to Miss Cottingham and me.”

  Miss Cottingham came forward with a smile of welcome. “Since we are not to stand on ceremony,” she said, “you may call me Patricia.”

  She held out her hand. Yvonne looked at it mulishly for a few seconds and then decided she was being churlish. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Patricia,” she said demurely.

  Tea was brought in and placed on a small table. Footmen carried chairs forward, and the viscount, the governess, and Yvonne arranged themselves about the tea tray. Most of the heat from an enormous fire in the huge hearth went straight up the chimney, leaving the room feeling cold and damp.

  Miss Cottingham and the viscount talked about local people and local matters. It seemed, Yvonne reflected, that this Patricia had made it her business to find out much about the viscount’s estates.

  Still, she appeared a pleasant, friendly lady. Yvonne fought down a half-formed, half-understood wish that she might have the viscount all to herself and tried several times to join in the conversation. But they listened to her politely before returning eagerly to the subject they had been discussing before her interruption.

  Yvonne grew more and more uneasy. Was this viscount married? He seemed to look with too much warmth and approval on this governess. She was only a servant, thought Yvonne huffily, as she helped herself to another cake and studied Patricia from under her lashes.

  Patricia, it appeared, had arrived a bare half hour before Yvonne.

  A housekeeper came in to say the ladies’ rooms were ready. Patricia and Yvonne curtsied to the viscount and followed her out.

  To Yvonne’s amazement, Patricia’s suite was on the same floor as her own and of the same size. Each had a bedroom, sitting room, and dressing room.

  Patricia came to supervise the unpacking of Yvonne’s many trunks. “Is his lordship married?” asked Yvonne.

  “No, he is not,” said Patricia. She turned to the maid. “You must find another wardrobe for her ladyship’s room. She has so many clothes.”

  “Are you married yourself?” asked Yvonne hopefully.

  “No, I have never married. I could not act as your governess were I married.”

  “And how did you come by this post?”

  “Lord Anselm put an advertisement in the local paper and I replied to it.”

  “Do you know why Lord Anselm comes to be my guardian?”

  “Yes, he told me all about you before you arrived.”

  “His lordship seems to have formed a high opinion of you in a very short time. Did he tell you he was pleased to become my guardian?”

  “He said he was legally entitled to refuse and might have considered doing so had he not found me to take care of you.”

  “No doubt you come with excellent references,” said Yvonne in a thin little voice.

  “Yes, I do have excellent references, but his lordship did not even trouble to read them,” said Patricia with what Yvonne sharply and uncharitably thought was a trace of smugness.

  Yvonne wanted to be alone. “See to your own unpacking, Patricia,” she said. “I shall do very well now. Thank you,” she added with an obvious effort.

  Patricia left and Yvonne crossed to the window and looked out at the sea. The bedroom was very cold. Although it had obviously been painted very recently, there were already traces of damp up by the cornice.

  “It is very damp,” she said to one of the housemaids who was passing with her arms full of clothes.

  “Yes, my lady,” said the girl. “They say the sea comes right up in under the castle where the old dungeons used to be.”

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Pardoe, appeared in the doorway.

  “Beg pardon, my lady, but his lordship would like to see you and Miss Cottingham in the library again.”

  “Thank you,” said Yvonne, thinking quickly. “Do not trouble to inform Miss Cottingham. I shall tell her myself.”

  Delighted at the thought that she had engineered a way to see the viscount alone, Yvonne brushed her black curls and then ran lightly down the stairs to the library.

  “Sit down, Yvonne,” said the viscount. “We shall await Miss Cottingham.”

  “But in the meantime,” said Yvonne, “you may as well tell me why you want to see me.”

  “It concerns your servant, Gustave.”

  “Gustave? Then it is my concern what becomes of him and mine alone. It has nothing to do with Miss Cottingham.”

  “I rely on her calm good sense,” said the viscount repressively. “The problem is I have no need of an extra servant, and Gustave has not been trained in the ways of an English household.”

  Now, the viscount had often been subjected to emotional blackmail, but never before had he faced such an expert as Yvonne.

  She sank to her knees in front of him and clasped her hands. Her large eyes, lifted to his, swam with tears.

  “Oh, my Gustave,” she said in a choked voice. “So brave and so loyal, to be thrown out to fend for himself in a foreign land.”

  “Please rise,” said the viscount, thoroughly alarmed. But Yvonne remained kneeling, a picture of wretched misery.

  “There is much he could do. He could be my groom. I like riding.”

  The viscount’s face cleared. “That would serve very well,” he said. “Is he good with horses?”

  “Oh, very good,” lied Yvonne. She knew that Gustave was afraid of horses and could barely tell one end of the animal from the other.

  Anselm leaned down and took her hands in a firm clasp and raised her to her feet. She staggered slightly and fell against his chest so that her black curls tickled his nose as he looked down at her. She raised glowing eyes to his face. “Thank you,” she breathed. Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Your gratitude is excessive,” said the viscount, backing away as if he had been stung.

  The door opened and Patricia Cottingham walked in.

  “Mrs. Pardoe, the housekeeper, informed me you wished to see
me, my lord. She had already spoken to Yvonne, but Yvonne said she would inform me herself, and did not.”

  “La!” Yvonne laughed. “I forgot.”

  “Please leave us,” said the viscount, and Yvonne looked hopefully at Patricia.

  “No, I mean you, Yvonne. There is something I wish to say to Miss Cottingham.”