THAT SCOUNDREL ÉMILE DUBOIS
OR
THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS*
BY
LUCINDA ELLIOT
I would like to thank my family and friends for all their generous help and support. Particularly, I would like to thank the outstanding writer Jo Danilo for her invaluable support and advice and for those brilliant suggestions on rewrites – not to mention the book cover and her delight in my characters. I would like to thank Liese Szwann for her help and advice, Jayne Cooke for her unshakeable belief in my writing, Lisa Edwardes for her support, Tara of Cornerstones Literary Consultants for her encouraging professional critique and many other writer friends for their enthusiasm for my book, too.
Finally, I would like to express my thanks to Jonathon Ferguson, the Firearms Curator of Leeds Armoury Museum for giving me the benefit of his expert knowledge on flintlock pistols.
Prologue
North Wales
February 1795
In the uncertain light from the candle guttering on the mantelpiece, the clock read four. Sophie got up, drew the amulet out from under the pillow and took it with her through her dressing room and Émile’s to his bedroom. Here, the lingering smell of his and Georges’ cigars was strong to her and she had to fight back nausea.
In the dim glow of the embers she saw Émile, face down on the bed. He was stripped to the waist, but still in his breeches. He slept heavily though the room was chill. Even now, the sight of the fine muscular definition of his back, arms and shoulders sent a tingle through her. This equalled the thrill of her nerves as she stole up to him, in terror that her approach must surely rouse him.
He seemed to sleep on.
As she bent to slip the amulet under the pillow, his hand shot out, seizing her arm.
He was glaring at her, fully awake in an instant. “What are you about now, my girl?” Anyone would think she devoted her life to annoying him.
They both looked at the amulet. Sophie felt as she had at eight, when her older cousin caught her ‘borrowing’ some of her rose water.
He snatched the amulet from her. “Superstitious artefacts!” He jumped up.
Sophie thought her voice sounded whining as she pleaded, “If it be so, Émile, then could you not humour me and endure it?”
“You officious little human! This thing stings me even now.” He tried to tear it between his talons. Sharp as they were, he failed. He loped to the fire and threw it on, snatching up the poker and thrusting it down amongst the glowing coals. Flames shot up, and an acrid smell brought tears to Sophie’s eyes even before they welled up through her disappointment. She blinked them back.
Then a dart of jealousy stabbed into her as the sudden blaze illuminated the skin near his upper ribs and she saw scratches.
He threw a log on the fire and turned about, managing to look self-righteous. “I suppose I may thank ma petite Katarina for this latest attempt.”
She managed to say, “We only do it because we love you, Émile.”
“No, you do not love what I am become, whatever your protestations. Hours since, you and Agnes berated me for trying to make you truly mine by force and attacked me with your poison, yet now you use sneaking methods to change me back to a human. What difference is there between my use of force and yours?”
Her nausea from the cigar smoke tormented Sophie as much as her anguish. She swallowed. “This, Émile; as your real self – whom we dreaded that we must lose – you desperately wished to stay human.”
“I will see about asserting some control over you women later.” Émile said haughtily, getting back down on the bed and stretching out again. “Do try and refrain, Madame, from another attempt. Trying to surprise me is a waste of time. I must take some rest in order to go and submit to Kenrick’s orders so as to protect you human ingrates.” He shut his eyes, and she found the closing off of their strange glitter a relief.
You submit to the orders of Mistress Kenrick too! Sophie forced back a sob.
This time, the woman had only marked him in a place not generally noticeable, high up on his right ribs. Sophie never scratched him herself; if her pleasure became too great, she chewed the pillow.
Chapter One
Château des Oliviers
Near Avignon
Provence
August 1789
Monsieur Dubois stopped himself from boxing his oldest son’s ears. At nineteen and now six inches taller than his father, Émile was too old for that or to be sent for a whipping. Monsieur Dubois showed his outrage in his tone.
“I do not take orders from my son. It would be absurd to send the youngsters away.” Seeing the anguish in those normally veiled light green eyes, he burst out, “Why, you are afraid!”
Contemptuous, he went and stood staring out to where the breeze sighed through the olive groves.
Émile said softly, “Bien sûr, you say rightly. I do fear for them, Monsieur.”
Monsieur Dubois snorted a while. “This is hardly the first time the peasants have been restive.” He turned, laughing sourly. “All will be well; après tout, your mother is with the cleric even now, praying for them to be brought to a better state of mind.”
Émile – though far from devout himself – didn’t laugh. Perhaps he resented the jeer at his mother’s expense. “This is different.”
Something moved in Monsieur Dubois’ eyes. “They are safer here than elsewhere. Why must needs you come poste haste from the university with your tales of alarm? I hope you do not think to prate again on the sorrows of the peasants? I do not forget the failure of the olive crop; we suffered from it too. That is my last word on the matter.”
As Émile went on arguing, he made a dismissive waving movement. Émile bowed and stalked across the great room. He said to the footman who flung open the door, “Please see if you can find Georges and send him to me.”
Upstairs, the Nurse, stout and elderly, got up to curtsey, but Émile kissed her. Nine-year-old Marguerite, slight and brown haired, was standing at the great window of the inner chamber, staring down at the olive groves as Émile had done, while singing some ditty and swinging a wooden doll. Hearing Émile, she jumped down and rushed to him.
He swung her through the air. “Have you been keeping Bernard and Charlotte in order?”
As they chatted, she began to look disappointed. “Have you brought sweetmeats?”
“Forgive your remiss servant, Mademoiselle. I shall seek to remedy matters by braving the dragon and swimming the moat to procure you some.” The nurse was clicking her tongue at Marguerite. Émile turned to her, rubbing the bridge of his freckled nose. “I think I must stay here a while.”
Émile found his other sister Charlotte and his younger brother Bernard playing chess together in the gloomy panelled library. Their appearances contrasted; Charlotte was tall and fair, like Émile and their mother, Bernard stocky and dark, like their father. Their being together at this time of day was unusual.
Charlotte jumped up to greet him, while Bernard wanted to know, “Have you been sent down at last?”
“No, I return expressly to ensure your game improves. How go matters here?”
Bernard shrugged. “You picked a poor time. The feeling between Madame and Monsieur is worse than usual. He has a new mistress.”
Charlotte shook her head, but Bernard snorted. “Why pretend?”
“Then we shall have a happy dinner.” Émile stood looking at the chess game a while. Finally, he spoke casually. “I wouldn’t have you worry too greatly, but there may be some unpleasantness over the next few weeks. It is scarce to be wondered at; things have gone hard with the people.”
“There’s been unpleasantness already,” Charlotte picked up her bishop.
“Someone in the fields threw a stone at Monsieur Notre Père’s carriage, and cracked the window.”
Bernard laughed. “He was furious, railing of what our forebears would have done.”
Émile was still there days later, though his father called him a fool. He and his valet slept on couches in an ante room leading off from the passageway leading to Charlotte’s bedroom, which was only two corridors from the nursery.
If Monsieur Dubois knew where Émile and his valet Georges spent their nights or that they had pistols and swords with them, he said nothing. He and his wife continued to pay calls and to keep up appearances.
Georges was muscular with curly hair, flashing dark eyes and a devastating profile. During those nights in the ante room, Émile shared cigars with him and their conversation was light.
Georges lay back on his couch, his cigar glowing in the dark. “Young Bernard was after the wench too, but he couldn’t prevail against me. I stole out to sing at her window every night.”
Even in the uncertain light he could see the twinkle in Émile’s eyes and added, “With your voice, such an approach must lead to a dousing in cold water.”
Émile laughed, then for the first time, spoke seriously. “This is good in you, Georges.”
Georges snorted. “I am ever game for a little excitement.”
The tapestries, dry with age, were catching light one after another, collapsing and hurling flames across the passages. Already, the smoke felt unbearable and the noises were terrifying, while the heat increased each minute.
Georges hauled Charlotte along while she coughed; he swore at Bernard, who tottered ahead, seemingly about to fall. They were only steps from the open window. Through it they could hear the shouts of the rioters; once, a head poked through to be jerked back at once, as though startled at the inferno inside.
Émile came out of the corridor leading off, his youngest sister Marguerite over one shoulder, dragging along their old Nurse. Even through the smoke, Georges noted her livid colour. He felt no surprise when she dropped. As Émile stooped over her, another tapestry fell just behind them, the flames darting forwards. Marguerite’s squeals sounded over the other noises.
“Leave her–” Georges was coughing too much to go on, eyes streaming so he could hardly see.
Émile turned her head, made out the glazed eyes through the smog and staggered up.
“Cover your face!” he spluttered to Marguerite, starting forwards again, bent double to breathe the better air near the floor. As he jerked up his head, trying to see how far it was to the window, his pupils dilated.
An older version of himself was materialising in front of him.
This Émile – a man rather than a youth who thought of himself as a man – seemed to be straining to reach out to them, mouth open as he shouted, yet no sound came.
Georges and Charlotte saw the apparition too, even pausing a moment, streaming eyes dilated.
The figure was gone as suddenly as it came.
The younger Émile started, then, choking, stumbled on through the smoke to the window, where Georges was bundling out Charlotte. Émile thrust the struggling Marguerite after her and she landed on Bernard as he lay in a heap on the leads.
Émile and Georges hid the others in an outhouse while outside the din of the riot and the blazing Château raged on. Émile explained how he and Georges must go for horses. For Charlotte, the terrors of the night coalesced in that inexplicable visit from the wraith like form of her older brother. She hung on to him with one arm as she held Marguerite with the other and begged him between coughs, “Saw you that spectre? It boded ill.”
“Calm yourself, Lottie. It was some illusion merely. We will be back betimes. Come, Georges.”
Chester*
Six months later – February 1790
“Monsieur Émile showed himself to be a resourceful young devil from what poor Mademoiselle Charlotte – you may imagine how distraught she is – has been able to tell My Honoured Correspondent. Perforce they journeyed further and further north to evade capture. On their way to Calais they had many narrow escapes, during which Monsieur Émile bribed peasants and outwitted officials. Poor Mademoiselle Charlotte is now safely in England and their noble cousin, His Lordship the young Count of Ruthin – another relative of ours, as you know, Harriet dear – at once travelled down from Wales to see Mademoiselle Charlotte to try and bring her comfort.”
John de Courcy wandered about the drawing room, clutching the letter from the grand and distant relative who shared their name. Sophie guessed it would be shown all about his whist circle.
Harriet, his fiancée, smiled. “I gather that is typical; Lord Ynyr seems altogether so charming and thoughtful a young man.” She giggled. “And near as handsome as you, dear.”
John de Courcy smiled too, while pretending not to notice the compliment. He turned to his sister. “What ails you, Sophie, you are flushed?”
Sophie looked up from the bonnet she was making up for Harriet’s trousseau. “I am merely warm. So now they are in England?”
John smiled. “Mademoiselle Charlotte is safe in England. Seemingly, their adventures culminated in an unseemly fight at Calais involving cutlasses between Monsieur Émile, his man and a group of treacherous sailors who threatened to go to the authorities. Monsieur Émile emerged victorious, if cut, to hand his sister over to a woman confidante. But he would go back to find their Honoured Parents, his servant, one Georges, with him. Entirely proper, if rash, given the dangers.”
Sophie bit her lip. John paced again. “Yes, it is distressing enough. That the outhouse roof should collapse after they escaped from the Château! But Monsieur Émile is in God’s hands now, while their young siblings are in Heaven. Sure someone must have turned those peasants’ weak heads for them to dare to torch the Châteaux! Riotous, illiterate masses must comprise the greatest threat to civilisation.”
He paused, impressed at his own eloquence. “I think I must write to the papers on those lines. Harriet, dear, I do not like my pen, and nobody mends them like you.”
Harriet jumped up. “I’ll about it at once, John.”
Sophie murmured, “I do wish Monsieur Émile was safe.”
Harriet clicked her tongue. “So do we all, Sophie dear! Are your eyes tired, for you have not taken a stitch these five minutes?”
“No, they are quite rested.” Sophie went back to working on the bonnet, worried about how things might be when Harriet took over as mistress of the house. When she and John were first engaged, Harriet made pretty speeches about how happy they all would be together. Since then her tone had changed. Sophie knew Harriet to be economical, and with John’s income being so limited, she began to fear Harriet might find her a burden.
Plas Uchaf*
Famau Mountain*
North Wales
Over four years later – June 1794
The girl who showed Sophie up to her room at Plas Uchaf (Highest Hall) had bold brown eyes and a confident air. Sophie, tired by the journey and overwhelmed by the grandeur of the Manor, found it difficult not to return her smiles. Still, she heard Harriet’s voice: ‘No servant will respect you if you allow familiarity.’
Sophie wasn’t confident they would respect her anyway. Still, she made an effort and pulled a prissy face as the maid said, “I’m Agnes, Miss. I am to be your maid. You will like it here. They are very nice, generally.”
When the girl opened the door to her room, Sophie stared about, amazed. Instead of a room under the lofts, fireless and cramped, the Dowager Countess had given her one of the guest suites, complete with dressing room off. There was a wonderful bed with gold brocade hangings, a walnut writing desk in the window alcove, a blazing fire (it was a wet, chill evening) and tapestries on the walls.
Sophie stared wordlessly, unable to take in the girl’s words. How could she have a maid of her own?
The girl smiled again. She was pretty; her mob cap set upon thick glossy brown hair serving almost as a decoration. “I hope you will for
give my familiarity, Miss, but you and I are going to be friends, despite differences in rank. My cards say so, and they are Never Wrong. I knew you would have fair hair. You came up as the Page of Coins, too young to be a Queen, an earth type, kind and fond of babies and animals. Some say the Coins people is dark, but I say otherwise.”
“Cards?” Sophie was lost.
“Tarot cards, Miss Sophie. My Nain (Grandmother) showed me how. I read them last night. It’s so exciting, what they say. Begging your pardon, Miss, I must tell you. There are two young men coming from across the water and the dark one is for me, the fair one is for you. You must watch out for a dark woman with bad intentions, though, and – I hope you will not be shocked by this – dark forces unleashed by a man who has suffered a loss.” The girl’s eyes were sparkling.
Sophie fought back laughter. Here was an example of what happened if you listened to too many Gothic tales. She put on the prim tone Harriet used when scolding a maid. “Really, Agnes, this is shocking. Reading Tarot cards is unChristian.”
The girl dimpled. “Maybe, Miss, but as I say, my Tarot cards is Never Wrong, which is more than you can say for the Vicar, saying as we would have a good harvest if we prayed more and then we had the wettest summer in years.”
Sophie felt her lips twitch. “Gracious, Agnes, such a tale you have concocted! Regrettably, the most exciting thing likely to happen to me will be to tea with the curate if I am lucky. Now, I must dress, for it would never do for me to be late to dinner on my first evening.”
Dinner was served by many footmen in what was known as ‘The Little Dining Room’. This was at least four times the size of the drawing room that was John’s pride back in Chester.
Lord Ynyr, the young Count of Ruthin, was affable, just as John and Harriet said.
Sophie saw his mother the Countess tried to unbend, but her manners being so stiff, it was difficult. Sophie had been told how the late Count’s widow wished to be addressed already as ‘The Dowager Countess’, though the young Count wasn’t yet married. This had made her seem the more forbidding a prospect to her future companion, yet now Sophie thought her eyes kind.
That Scoundrel Émile Dubois Page 1