Yolande’s pretty mouth hardened. “When that horrid man thought it would be most wounding. The day after tomorrow.”
Lifting a trembling hand to her throat, Josie said brokenly, “Oh, my dear God! Only two days before Christmas Eve!”
* * *
Jeremy Bolster came back to Town the following afternoon, and was soon ensconced in the Tyndales’ drawing room, full of news about his Mandy and the three little girls, and the state of the roads which were, he said, not too bad as yet. He appeared quite relaxed and at ease, and gave not the slightest indication that he had occupied himself during the long drive by composing a farewell letter to the wife he adored. Or that he was achingly aware he’d quite possibly never see the face of his eagerly awaited child.
The short winter afternoon was drawing to a close, and a footman was lighting the lamps and candles, when Guy Sanguinet was assisted up the steps. Hurrying into the hall to greet him, Craig’s welcome was cut short. “I have bring another guest,” said the Frenchman diffidently, “if it is permitted. A countryman of mine.”
Thus it was that Josie, admiring the gown her hostess meant to wear on Christmas Day, was summoned to attend her guardian. At once anxious, she hurried down the stairs to check and stand on the third step, breathlessly still.
The Chevalier de Galin, slender and distinguished in evening dress, stood all alone in that gracious hall, the candlelight gleaming on his silver hair, the dark eyes so shadowed with past sorrows fixed upon her. He bowed in his elegant way and, straightening, said in French, “Permit that I introduce myself, Mademoiselle de Galin. I am your uncle Émile.” And, as she did not respond, but stood staring at him as though rooted to the spot, he added, “I bring the very great joy from many members of your family who long to welcome you, most beloved lost one. And to beg you may, to a very small degree, allow me to be a part of your future.”
She went quickly to stand before him. And looking into those wistful eyes, gave a sudden happy cry and threw herself into two very eager arms.
Later, when they all were gathered in the drawing room before dinner, the Chevalier, glowing with happiness, and with Josie very close beside him, explained how it had come about. “It was the two gypsies of whom you spoke, Alain,” he said in his soft, courtly voice. “I have the friend high up in la Sûreté, who it transpires have a good friend among your Bow Street people. And this Bow Street gentleman, he have an assistant—oh, of the perception most acute, but cannot speak. And—”
“Daniel, by Jupiter!” exclaimed Harry Redmond.
“Then you’re speaking of Diccon!” cried his brother, no less excited. “How is the old fraud?”
Bewildered, the Chevalier said, “You have know Colonel Paisley, mes amis?”
There was a brief silence as five pairs of eyes exchanged laughing glances.
“Yes,” smiled Leith. “We know him. I didn’t know he’d been elevated to the rank of Colonel.” He wondered if the laconic and dedicated man who had paid so high a price for his years of service to his country was still with the Intelligence Branch. But one could not ask such things, so he requested merely that the Chevalier continue his tale.
“While I am in London,” de Galin went on, “Colonel Paisley hear my story and at once call in Daniel. I leave to return to Paris and confer with my man of affairs, also my dear mama, who is”—he turned to smile fondly at Josie—“so very eager to greet her granddaughter; and also I have to see the family of my late wife. So many things to be done, you comprehend. And—voilà!—to me have come this Daniel to say they have found Akim and your—alas, the other name leave my brain.”
“Benjo,” supplied Devenish, scowling.
“Ah oui. Merci. Benjo. They find, Daniel and his fine people, these two rogues, and from them they learn of a little girl in 1807 won over the dice from a soldier who steal her, thinking to ask for ransom, or sell her for—” He caught Devenish’s eye, glanced at Josie, and saw that she had become pale. He reached out to take her hand and hold it. “Suffice it to say, my friends, we have proven, beyond the shadow of doubt, that this lovely child belong to my family. Praise God! At last!”
He pressed her hand to his lips, then turned to Devenish. “To you, Monsieur,” he said earnestly, “there are no words. You save this so precious little lady from—the unthinkable. You give her the care, the kindness, the good life. How may I thank you?”
Devenish longed to tell him, but this was not the time, so he said instead how very much pleasure Josie had brought him in return, how much her bright presence had meant to him, down through the years. And continuing with much inner reluctance, he said, “It is beyond words wonderful that she has found her people. I—er, expect you will wish to take her to France, Monsieur le Chevalier.”
“You must call me Émile,” the Frenchman replied. “Since we are almost, you know, the relations.” He turned to Josie. “Ma fille, will you entrust yourself to me? You shall have the chaperon, certainement, but—will you allow me to take you to your family? They all wait with—oh, such an eagerness!”
It was so marvellous to have a name, a family; to have this gentle, kind, handsome gentleman wanting only to bring her happiness. But … in anguished indecision, she turned to Devenish.
His face expressionless, he said, “Of course she will go, Émile. I can imagine the anticipation your mama must feel, waiting to meet her.”
In a troubled little voice, Josie said, “But—Uncle Émile, could Dev come too? I would not—”
“No, no,” Devenish interpolated. “This is your time to be with your family my Elf. It belongs to you and the—and to Émile. I would not dream of intruding.”
“Ah,” the Chevalier said gratefully, “how generous you are, mon ami. But I shall not steal her for so long. And, perhaps—if it meet with your approval also, she can be married to her fine John in the Spring, eh?”
Several muffled exclamations were heard. Devenish gasped, and stared at the Frenchman. Josie gripped her hands and searched her uncle’s face.
“Ma foi!” exclaimed the Chevalier. “I am misinformed, perhaps? The rumour it reach my ears that you are all but betrothed to a fine young fellow by the name of John Drummond…?”
Devenish, who had occupied a chair opposite his love, now stood and, leaning on his cane, limped to stand directly before the Chevalier. “Sir, I had not intended to speak of this, but—”
“I comprehend. You prefer to be private. Très bien. Later, we may—”
“No, no, Monsieur. You have come to restore Josie to her family. These people are—my family. I have no secrets from them, and so I will tell you now, that—er…” He summoned his courage, clenched his fist, and blurted out, “It has been for some years my impudent presumption to—to love your niece.”
“This is very obvious, Monsieur. No man could have been a better father. Is it that this boy, you do not judge him suitable?”
Very red in the face, Devenish stammered, “It is that—I do not … love Miss—Mademoiselle de Galin as—as a father, Monsieur. But—”
Taken aback, the Chevalier gasped, “You—wish to … to marry her?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Chevalier. I love her with all my heart. I have loved her these—these four years and more.”
The Frenchman’s eyes shot to Josie. There was no need to ask her feelings in the matter; her whole attention was on Devenish, her face reflecting a mixture of pride and tenderness. His glance shifted to the other occupants of the room. Instead of politely engaging in low-voiced side conversations, or at least making an appearance of not noticing what transpired, they all were watching with deep concern, even as a true family might be concerned for one of their own. Beginning to comprehend something of what he had heard of these men, a twinkle crept into his dark eyes. Returning his attention to the man who stood before him, waiting so tensely, he said, “I think I do not escape this room alive if I fail to give my consent! And certainly, I can think of no man, my dear Devenish, upon whom I would more gladly bestow—”
“No, Dev!” cried Josie, springing up to catch his arm.
“Who will believe,” he went on, his hand closing over hers, but his eyes meeting the Chevalier’s unwaveringly, “that I have kept Josie hidden away in the country so that she would not be—be courted by other men. That I now, having discovered she is a considerable heiress, seek to acquire control of her fortune, by marriage.”
“Ah…” said the Chevalier very softly. He came to his feet. A small frown appeared on his forehead, and suddenly he looked dauntingly autocratic. “And is it not possible, Monsieur, that having, as you say, kept my niece—er, secluded on your isolated estate these many years, and now declaring your wish to make her your wife, people may think you also have perhaps taken advantage of this helpless girl?”
“It would be a filthy damned lie!” flashed Devenish.
Up went the Chevalier’s graceful hand, and the angry outburst from those gathered in the room quieted.
Leith, tall and impressive himself, was also on his feet, as were Bolster and Mitchell. “Monsieur le Chevalier,” Leith said in a voice of ice, “there was no need for Devenish to point out the possibility. He is one of the most honourable men I—”
“Pardon—I did not say it was what I believe, mon Colonel. But is it not what may be said by others? I will be very vulgar and go farther. If you have enemies, Alain, and alas I fear you have enemies of the most implacable, they will not stop at this suggestion. They will instead circulate the gossip that you offer for this sweet girl because it is most—ah, necessary, for the sake of her reputation!”
Josie’s voice rang out over the angry chorus. “It is not true! Uncle Émile, Dev has been so honest with you.” She laid a pleading hand upon the Chevalier’s immaculate sleeve. “I will be as honest, and admit I fell in love with him almost as soon as we met. Ever since he brought me here—a gawky, uneducated, plain”—she reached up to remove the hand Devenish had put across her lips—“and unwanted foundling, I prayed the same prayer—each night upon my knees. ‘Kind Jesus—make him love me, even if it is only a little bit. Make him want me for his mistress’—no, darling Dev, you must let me finish! ‘For his mistress, if he cannot want me for his wife.’ These last few years I have seen love for me peeping from his dear eyes. I have seen his yearning for me reflected in the window, or a mirror, when my back was turned and he thought I could not see. And I have teased, and flirted, and done all in my power to make this—this very gallant gentleman admit he loved me. Not until he thought he was dying would he tell me of that love. He had sent me off, breaking his heart for me, thinking he would never see me again. I only thank God I caught up with—with the wretched creature…” Her voice was shredding now, tears gemming her lashes, but she went on unsteadily, “If I must give up the—the name, and the family I have longed for all my life—so be it. But—dear sir, I would die sooner than give up this—this dearest and best of … men.”
She wept openly, and Devenish, his own eyes blurred, swept her to him and held her close, kissing her hair, his heart so full he could find no words.
“I perceive,” said Émile de Galin with a slow smile, “that my little niece, she have found the very finest kind of gentleman. The very greatest gift of love.”
Josie rummaged in Devenish’s pocket, dragged out his handkerchief, and dried her eyes. “Uncle Émile…? You mean…?”
“That you have my blessings, my dears.” But he shook his head to quiet Devenish’s ecstatic thanks, and halt Josie’s impetuous dart at him. “Provided,” he said gravely, “you agree to abide by my terms.”
“Of course, sir,” said Devenish. “Whatever you ask.”
“After my dearest love sits down, if you please, Uncle Émile,” interposed Josie determinedly.
And when they all were seated once more, and Devenish quite boldly holding his lady’s hand before all their fond and amused eyes, the Chevalier outlined his plans.
“I am very sure,” he began, “that Devenish, loving you so much, ma chérie, will not wish any breath of ugliness, any soupçon of scandal, to touch you. Monsieur Guy has told me of the burning of your home, Alain. You have, I imagine, put in train the plans to rebuild—no?”
“Er—well,” said Devenish haltingly.
Surprised, Bolster put in, “You have not, Dev? I’d thought—” He checked. “Oh. Didn’t think you’d be n-needing it, eh?”
“But I will certainly do so now,” said Devenish, scarcely able to tear his gaze from Josie’s face.
“Bon,” said the Chevalier. “It is good that you should be busy, mon cher, for I am going to take your sweet lady away. She will be feted and adored, I do not in the least doubt it. Ah—that frightens you, Alain? It is perhaps that you fear she will be snatched from you?”
Terror had indeed seized Devenish at his words. Émile meant to take her to Paris, of course. Natural enough. But these blasted Frenchmen were so skilled in the art of love, and he so dashed awkward. What if she found someone ardent and closer to her own age? What if—
“It will be the fine test of love and constancy, for both of you,” de Galin went on softly. “Besides which, it will silence all tongues, assurément. In May I will bring your lady to London, and your marriage announcement, it can be made, if your minds are the same then.” He paused, eyes twinkling as he saw the adoring exchange of glances; the tightened clasp of hands. “And in June, when all the world it sings and your house it will be ready to receive her, you can be wed with no smallest fear of scandal. This—I think it will serve, mes amis?”
“It seems…” Josie said in a very small voice, “a terribly long time. Over four months. Could not Dev come to France in—in March, Uncle Émile?”
“No, dearest,” said Devenish. “The Chevalier is right. We will do the thing properly. Besides, I must not be selfish. Your uncle Émile and your family have been denied the joy of watching you grow up—the happiness I have known these seven years. Now—it’s their turn.”
Her heart full of terror at the thought of parting, Josie sensed the grief behind his lightly uttered words, and in an effort to match his courage said, “Yes, of course. I must be grateful to have found my own family, and”—she touched his chin very gently—“to have you safe and well … Speaking of which, my love, you are looking very tired.” She glanced at Yolande, and caught that tender-hearted lady covertly wiping away a tear.
“Very true,” said Yolande, blinking, and turning to her husband. “Craig, will you do the honours?”
Tyndale had already come to his feet and offered a helping hand to his cousin. “Bed for you, old lad. We’ll have a tray of hot chocolate brought to your room. Help you sleep.” And he thought of the dawn, and wondered whether any of the rest of them would get one wink of sleep this night.
Sanguinet struggled up, and went out with them. “I have forget that I fetch correspondence for you, my dear Alain. Your people, you know, have all go home for their holidays, but Wolfe and the faithful Mrs. Robinson, now are back in Devencourt, and remain.”
Devenish thanked him, and at the door turned for one last look. Josie smiled, her heart in her eyes. He thought, ‘Nigh five months … my God!’
He was still shrinking from the prospect of that terrible separation after Hutchinson had settled him into bed and, with the firm reminder that his hot chocolate was on the table within easy reach, made his stately way from the room. Devencourt—without that bright presence, that merry laugh, the twinkling mischief in her eyes that always warned she was contemplating something outrageous. Five months almost, without her …
He caught himself up in disgust. He had been approved by her noble uncle, when, for a short while it had seemed he was to be sternly rejected. Besides, it would be good for Josie to see something of the world. De Galin, elegant, sophisticated, would show her Paris at its most enchanting. Likely he’d take her to Vienna als
o. Perhaps even to Italy, that warm land of warmhearted people that had always so lured the English from their cold little island. She would be loved and made much of by her family, and wherever she went, for with that glowing personality, that lovely, always cheerful face, how could they help but worship her? God bless her, she would have a lovely time.
But—suppose when she came home, she found Devencourt, however he tried to beautify it for her, dull and lonely after her glittering time with—
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” he muttered, irritated with himself, and reached for the pile of correspondence Guy had brought to Town for him.
He flicked through it idly. A bill from Rundell and Bridge—that would be for Josie’s Christmas present—or one of ’em, though he might never summon the nerve to hand her the other. A letter for Josie from Faith Bliss, that he would give her in the morning. Another, directed in the fine flowing hand that indelibly marked it as coming from Val Montclair, and that he would read first unless anything of prime impor— With a sudden tightening of the nerves, he took up the next neatly inscribed letter and peered at the seal. It was not a crest he knew, nor could he decipher the frank, but the sense of peril was strong, and he knew it too well to dismiss it lightly. He spread the page, and read:
Your cronies guard you well, Devenish, and I cannot break through the barriers they erect to keep me from naming you the lying, dishonourable thing you are. A thing that hides and shivers and lets his friends fight for him. Six of the fools—willing to die for you! Bolster is to be first. I doubt that will disturb you, and I do not mean to kill the dolt. I’ll teach him a lesson he will never forget, however.
As you enjoy your wassail, I wonder if the idiots who so stoically protect you will even tell you that I blinded him at sunrise on the 22nd, in Laburnum Field above Kensington Village.
Fontaine
“Now … by God!” whispered Alain Jonas Devenish.
Chapter 21
Monday, December 22, dawned bright and cold. The snow had stopped during the night, and the countryside was a fairytale place, blanketed in white, the rising sun drawing sparkles from the pristine purity of the meadows, and gleaming on mantled tree and hedgerow.
Give All to Love Page 33