All for Love

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘No.’ She sipped champagne delicately. ‘He does not share my passion for music, monsieur.’

  ‘Then I shall have to defer the pleasure of making his acquaintance. But, come, madame. We must visit Mrs. Broughton’s so-famous knot-garden. Let me relieve you of your plate and glass.’

  She was about to protest she had not finished, when Mrs. Broughton joined them momentarily. ‘My dear, you have eaten nothing. Not still fretting about that husband of yours, I hope?’

  ‘A little.’

  Tarot had seized the opportunity and handed her plate and glass to a servant. Now he held out his arm. ‘Mrs. Purchis has promised to show me your knot-garden, of which I have heard so much, madame.’

  Mrs. Broughton simpered. ‘You will have all the young ladies running mad with jealousy, my love. But, of course, you and Monsieur Tarot will have a million things to say to each other about France.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Tarot’s strong hand had Juliet on her feet. ‘I was telling Mrs. Purchis, just now, how much I had looked forward to meeting her — and her husband, of course.’

  ‘That wicked absentee husband of yours,’ Mrs. Broughton’s smile was not entirely without malice. ‘You must remember to tell him, my love, how well his place has been taken. You know, of course, that we are all quite wild about Monsieur Tarot.’

  ‘Really?’ Julia’s voice was cool as ice. ‘To tell truth, I had not so much as heard he was in town.’

  ‘Then you have been ruralising indeed, my poor child.’ But Mrs. Broughton had done with them, she was half turned away already to urge Mrs. Habersham to have another ice.

  ‘You do not wish an ice, I trust?’ Tarot’s voice suggested that she had better not. ‘They are hardly the novelty to you that they seem to be here.’

  ‘Yes.’ She was playing for time. ‘The first commercial shipment of ice only reached Savannah this February —’

  His harsh laugh interrupted her. ‘You talk like an almanac! Is this what life with one of these charming Savannah merchants has done to you, my poor ‘Phine? But, come, we waste time here.’ His arm was hard under hers.

  ‘Very well.’ But still she hung back, anxiously scanning the rooms for a man she knew well: Scarbrough, Jay, even Mr. Bolton or Mr. Richardson would have been good for a ‘chance’ encounter that might have put off this alarming tête-à-tête. But by this time all the men who had managed to escape the service of the ladies had no doubt retreated to Mrs. Broughton’s downstairs parlour, for the hot dishes and whisky punch that awaited them there.

  ‘Come then.’

  ‘But they will soon be striking up for the first dance! And…’ this was safe enough. ‘You know how I love to dance.’

  ‘I do indeed.’ Like everything else he said to her, this was charged with more meaning than she could cope with. She was almost tempted to plead illness, to pretend a faint, anything to avoid the threatened interview. But what was the use? No hope of getting in touch with Josephine before they met again. To postpone it would be merely to make him angrier than he already seemed.

  So, downstairs, she let him take her pelisse from a servant and drape it becomingly round her shoulders, then put her arm lightly on his to be led down the steps into the big corner lot, which was brilliant now with oriental lanterns. It was also full of other couples, pacing decorously among the mazy paths of Mrs. Broughton’s European garden, and Juliet hoped for a moment that here, too, it would be impossible to talk privately.

  But Tarot’s grip on her arm had tightened so that it hurt. ‘I am an old campaigner,’ he said. ‘As you well know. I took the precaution of reconnoitring the ground earlier in the evening.’

  He was leading her, as he spoke, at a brisk pace across the heavy-scented knot-garden towards a hedge that showed high and dark beyond it. One last lantern marked a black gap in the hedge. No other couple was near. He whisked her quickly through the gap. ‘The vegetable garden.’ His voice in her ear was amused now. ‘I expect some others will have had the same idea, but they will not wish to disturb us any more than we do them. So now, mon amour,’ he changed firmly to French, ‘what have you to say to me?’

  ‘To say?’ She too spoke French. After all, it was logical enough that as two French emigrés they should use their own language. ‘Why, what would you wish me to say?’

  ‘Or rather, what can you say?’

  Her arm would be bruised in the morning, where he was holding it. Part of her mind was busy trying to think how she would explain this — or a sudden predilection for long-sleeved dresses. Absurd to let her thoughts wander so, when she so badly needed all her wits about her. He was furiously angry with her, that was clear now, or rather, of course, with Josephine. And, back there, he had given her a clue. ‘An old campaigner,’ he had said. ‘As she well knew.’ Very well then, chance it. ‘My dear —’ Impossible to tell what term of endearment Josephine had used to him, if any. But after all, to her certain knowledge, they could not have met for over three years. This dangerous man, whose grip on her arm was hurting her so, must be part of that past of Josephine’s, before Waterloo, about which no one knew anything. So: no use waiting for help from Anne. She would know nothing of him either. She took a deep breath. Before Waterloo. ‘I thought you dead,’ she used the familiar French form of address. ‘One cannot mourn for ever.’

  ‘No! So it seems.’ His angry arm had been steering her, all this time, away from the gap where light showed through from the formal garden. A paved path ... the heavy scent of honeysuckle ... a corner of complete darkness where the hedge met the high wall of the lot. And there, suddenly, he swept her into his arms for a bruising kiss. It took her so completely by surprise that for a moment she was helpless, aware only of his hard lips, hard body, arms like iron round her. Then, as he moved his arms to embrace her more completely still, she was able to free her right hand, to bring it up, with all her strength, crack against the side of his face.

  ‘Merde!’ He let her go. And then, still in French, ‘So that’s how it is.’ He was breathing hard, the rage she had felt in him all evening exploding at last.

  ‘I’m a married woman.’

  ‘Why, so you are! How could I forget? And this is your welcome for one come back from the grave to you!’

  ‘What else can I do?’ But at least she had been right in assuming that Josephine had thought him dead.

  ‘What indeed! “A married woman”.’ His voice mocked hers. ‘And in love with your fine new husband? And just imagine that I actually asked myself if it was safe to come on you, plump, this evening. If you might not faint, or throw yourself into my arms, or something equally disastrous. I flattered myself, it seems.’

  ‘I am afraid you did.’ So this was what had been wrong, all the time, with Josephine’s marriage to Hyde. This was the shadow that had lain between them. Very likely, Josephine would have thrown herself into his arms, or, at least, have wanted to. Well, there was nothing she could do about that. Josephine would have to unravel this tangle for herself, when she returned. Or rather, best of all, for Hyde’s sake, Josephine must never know that the grave had opened to reveal this disastrous revenant.

  ‘How long did you mourn, I wonder? A week? Ten days? A whole fortnight perhaps? And then, along comes the rich American and, pouf! Adieu!’

  Now, suddenly, among all the turmoil of her own fears, she found time to be sorry for him. Raw feeling in his voice, that savage embrace ... He loved Josephine; had been sure of her; and now — this. ‘I’m sorry.’ The real sympathy in her voice silenced him for a moment. ‘But you must see how it is with me. Hyde saved me from disaster, back in France, after Waterloo. And you — where were you?’

  ‘You actually care to ask?’ Savage irony in his tone. ‘Well, ma belle, you shall hear. I was a prisoner of the Russians, taken at Waterloo. Oh, you were safe enough to think me dead. I might as well have been. While you were being rescued from “disaster” by this Monsieur Hyde who turns your voice to syrop, I was being dragged back to Russia by my captors. I w
as wounded, in case you are interested, half-conscious, delirious a good deal of the time, without the wits to demand an exchange, to declare myself, while we were still within the bounds of civilisation. When I recovered my senses, I was in St. Petersburg, treated like the common soldier I appeared. It has taken me three years to escape. But,’ again that extraordinary bitterness in his tone, ‘by what you tell me, three days would have been too long! So now, here we are, you and I and this “Mr. Purchis” whom you adore.’ He laughed, suddenly, harshly. ‘This scene does not play itself as I had expected. Do you know, ma mie, I had thought you and I would be planning, together, how we should make the most of our — well, shall we call it unusual situation? And now, I find myself planning alone.’

  ‘Planning what?’ If she had been frightened before, now she was terrified.

  ‘Revenge?’ He thought about it, for a moment, there in the dark, then she felt his shrug. ‘What’s the use? I have lost you, ma chère, and there’s an end of it. Tomorrow, when the bruise on my cheek begins to show, will be time enough to think of that. Tonight, let us think of what I have gained.’

  ‘And what is that?’ She shivered in the warm air.

  ‘What do you think, petite? One does not escape from Russia loaded with diamonds. Nor is there a livelihood, or even a welcome, waiting for Napoleon’s followers in France today. I was lucky. I escaped from Russia across the Baltic to Denmark. There was an American ship loading in Copenhagen.’ His hand was hard again on hers. ‘Have you happened to notice my callouses? I worked my way across the Atlantic, before the mast. They bled a good deal at first. Not that you would care. At least my earnings (and my winnings: you will be glad to hear that I have not lost my skill with the dice) were enough to set me up, when I landed in Charleston, as the gentleman I am. They will not last long. Was it not a fortunate thing for me that I chanced on an old copy of the Savannah Georgian with the news of your marriage to Mister-so-rich-Purchis, and, best of all, your return to Savannah. I was using it, if you must know (the newspaper) as a blanket. When I read that notice, I knew I need never be cold again. But I am desolate,’ he meant it, ‘that it is only your money that will warm me, not you.’

  ‘Never.’ If it had been half a question, she left no doubt about the answer. There was no doubt, either, about her position, or rather Josephine’s. Or, come to that, Hyde’s. All too clearly, Tarot could ruin Josephine, if he wanted to, and therefore Hyde. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you think? Since I cannot have you, the only woman I ever thought to love, by God, I will have everything else. What shall we say? A thousand dollars to begin with? That should keep me in shirts and cravats for a while.’

  ‘A thousand dollars?’

  ‘Picayune, you think? Perhaps you are right? I should have said a thousand pounds.’

  ‘Impossible.’ If only she knew what term of endearment Josephine would use towards him. ‘You must understand my position,’ she went on. ‘If I tell Hyde, all is lost. He is —’ she paused. Incredibly dangerous ground here. ‘He is a gentleman. He would ... I don’t like to think what he would do. But, pay he would not. So, if you want your “livelihood” you must keep your demands within what I can reasonably pay myself.’

  ‘Ah,’ It was, curiously, a sigh of satisfaction. ‘There’s my old. Josephine. You’re right, of course, ma mie. Since we understand each other so well on this, who knows what we may not achieve when this honeymoon of yours is over. In the meantime,’ he kissed the tips of her fingers lightly. ‘I am your slave, as I was the Russians’. You will decide how much you can afford to give me ... By the week. By the month ... By the day, if you like. I am not faithless, mon amour. All through those bitter Russian winters, it was the thought of you that kept me warm, kept me alive. It would make me happy to see you every day, if only to receive the pittance you will scrape for me out of Mr. Purchis’s millions.’ He laughed again, that harsh laugh that frightened her. ‘How dear do you think Mr. Purchis should purchase me?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Juliet had feared, Anne was no help at all. She had never heard of Monsieur Tarot, nor of anyone who answered to his description. ‘You’re right. It must have been that time before Waterloo, when Josephine went off by herself. When I saw her again, after the battle she looked — it’s hard to describe.’ Anne was not a woman given to fine phrases, but now she produced one. ‘She looked as if she had been down into hell. And,’ she was remembering, ‘she went out every day by herself, among the common soldiers. I was terrified for her.’

  ‘She was looking for him? Or for news of him? Poor Josephine. But why among the common soldiers, I wonder? He said something about that; something I did not understand. A spy, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, poor Josephine,’ Anne echoed her. ‘But she must be told.’

  ‘Yes.’ During the sleepless watches of the night, Juliet had come to the same conclusion. Whatever disaster it might mean, she had no right to keep the knowledge that Tarot was alive from her cousin. ‘I shall send to her today,’ she said. ‘Besides, the money she left me will not last long, I can see, under Tarot’s demands. Thank God, he knows nothing of the settlement Hyde made on Josephine. He thinks I have to squeeze the money out of him, cent by cent. He is prepared to wait, he says, but how long …’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘Write to Josephine in Legare Street and pray God she returns to Charleston soon and gets the letter. In the meantime, I shall develop expensive tastes. Think of the new gowns I’ll need to entertain President Monroe!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anne unanswerably, ‘but why should you not pay for them out of your own money?’

  ‘Peste!’ Juliet lapsed furiously into French. ‘You’re right! I cannot ask monsieur for money. Specially not when he was so generous before Christmas. Well —’ It had been at the back of her mind all along. ‘It will just have to be the jewels, that’s all.’

  ‘Madame’s jewels? She’ll never forgive you.’

  ‘I can’t help that. Whose fault is all this anyway? Besides, if I give them to Tarot one by one, as reluctantly as she would, it will be the most convincing proof that it is all I can give.’ She unlocked Josephine’s jewel box and looked in the compartment where she kept her money. It was characteristic of Josephine that she had never thought about her cousin’s finances when she rushed off first to Charleston and then to Norfolk. It was not, Juliet thought now, ruefully counting, that she had been particularly extravagant, but the small comforts she had bought for the servants at Winchelsea, the daily sweetmeats for the children, had mounted to a larger sum than she had realised.

  The incidental expenses of the party for Mr. Jay had swallowed up that life-saving present of Hyde’s. Her windfall of winnings from him had kept her solvent for a while, but now that she was back in Savannah there were all kinds of inevitable daily expenses. ‘I don’t think I dare give Tarot any of this,’ she decided, replacing her dwindled hoard in its hiding-place. ‘As it is, if Josephine does not return soon, I may find myself reduced to selling one of her pieces of jewellery, for my own expenses.’

  ‘There’s no way you could manage to draw on her account?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I do not add forgery to my other accomplishments.’ She looked down at her bruised right arm that was concealed, today, by an unseasonable, long-sleeved dress. ‘Suppose I was to hurt my hand?’

  ‘Mr. Purchis would insist on sending for the doctor.’

  ‘Yes, well: if the worst comes to the worst, I shall just have to hurt it. But, in the meantime, I must husband my resources, and fend Monsieur Tarot off with fair words and small jewels. Which do you think Josephine will least mind losing?’

  ‘God knows.’ Anne actually looked frightened.

  ‘Or, more important, which will Hyde not miss?’

  ‘The ones you’ve not been wearing,’ said Anne at once.

  ‘Yes,’ thoughtfully, ‘which I suspect are Josephine’s favourites. The big, striking ones. Hyde remarked, only the o
ther day, that it was a long time since I had worn the sapphires he bought me in Paris. These, I suppose.’ She opened the leather box and looked at the glittering parure with distaste. ‘Sapphires in gold. I cannot imagine how Josephine could have made such a mistake.’

  ‘You don’t know what she was like, then, in Paris. She was —’ Anne paused. ‘Hungry.’

  ‘Hungry enough to swallow this!’ Juliet put on the ornate necklace and looked at the effect without enthusiasm. She added the earrings, which were made in the shape of blue and gold flowers. ‘They’re not so bad. I’ll wear them tonight, and promise them to Tarot.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I shall tell him that I cannot give them to him until after our own party next week; that Hyde will expect me to wear them then. At least, that will give us some time.’

  ‘Will he be satisfied?’

  ‘We must hope so. By what he said, he is not entirely out of funds yet. He will not want to kill the goose that lays his sapphire eggs. Yes, I think he will be satisfied.’

  ‘Will he come to our party?’

  ‘I think I must ask him. No use making him angry unnecessarily.’

  ‘Then you will have to wear the complete parure.’

  ‘Mon dieu, so I shall! Alice!’

  Alice had been quietly busy about the room as they talked. She had noticed the bruise on Juliet’s right arm before she had herself, had exclaimed and been told the whole story. The long-sleeved muslin, fetched from the very back of the closet, had been her suggestion. Josephine had had it made, she had explained, when she first arrived in Savannah, for fear of sunburn. ‘You remember, ma’am, you forgot your parasol yesterday.’

  ‘Of course! What a fortunate thing. And I have a slight burn today.’ Juliet had looked ruefully at the bruises on her arm that told their tale only too clearly. No use to try and pretend they resulted from anything but a man’s furious grip. ‘It is going to have to last a long time, my burn.’