The Rake and Miss Asherwood

by Amy Lake

  “You cannot expect the St. Juste boy to keep you company forever, you know,” remarked her mother, after Marguerite had complained of nearly a whole week indoors.

  “Why not?” asked Marguerite. “Where would he go?”

  Alice du Merveille laughed, and stroked her daughter’s hair fondly. Marguerite had lovely hair, falling in soft curls to her waist, and the comtesse could not bring herself to suggest, yet, that she wear it up.

  “I don’t imagine Armand will go anywhere,” said Alice. “But you will be married, someday, and before that happens, don’t you think you should meet a few boys?”

  “Armand is a boy.”

  Her mother sighed. “He isn’t the right kind of boy, Marguerite—you know that.”

  “I do not,” said Marguerite, the comtesse sighed again, and the conversation ended there.

  “So, what do we do now?” asked Armand.

  “You haven’t told your parents that you were looking for me, have you?”

  Marguerite had no reason to distrust Monsieur and Madame St. Juste, but she felt instinctively that it was best if her current location was known to as few people as possible.

  “No,” said the boy. “ ‘Course not.”

  “I think,” said Marguerite, “that I need to get to Calais.”

  Armand’s eyes shone with the idea of adventure. “I’ll come with!” he said immediately.

  She thought about this for a moment. There was nothing Marguerite would have liked better, in fact, but it seemed unwise.

  “You’re parents will worry,” she reminded him. “They’ll look for you. Besides, what will your papa do? You have chores.”

  Armand frowned. “That is true,” he said. “But Philippe can help papa. And I could tell them I’ve gone to look for work.”

  Marguerite nodded. Fourteen years of age—and Armand was nearing fifteen—was not too young for a gardener’s son to find employment, and everyone knew that the boy’s dream was to become a stablehand, or even a head groom someday. If the comtesse’s own stables had been larger he could have settled in there, but a few old drays and one saddle mare were all Beauvoir could boast.

  “D’accord,” she said. “All right. But we are going to need a map.”

  * * *

  Chapter 39

  A Final Meeting

  Miss Perrin’s reaction to the news that Elizabeth’s engagement had now become fact was subdued. She could not truly rejoice with Miss Asherwood, since Miss Asherwood was not rejoicing herself. But she could hardly commiserate with her friend, either. If Lizzie was to be married to Lord Winthrop then she might as well make the best of it, decided Penny, and kept any of her bleaker thoughts about the event to herself.

  “How soon?” was Penelope’s one question, and to that Elizabeth only shrugged.

  “I’m not sure.”

  * * * *

  Lord Blakeley refused to discuss the matter of Miss Asherwood’s engagement with Adelaide Caldwell. He wished to see Elizabeth again, but—on the other hand—he did not wish to see her.

  It was Anthony Dewhurst who pointed out the obvious, that Peregrine would be required to call upon the young lady in the near future. For official purposes, as it were.

  “About time to send that reply from Monsieur Rabaillat,” said Dewhurst one morning, a few days after the engagement had been formally announced.

  “Gods,” Peregrine groaned. Time had passed quickly, and he’d nearly forgotten the fictional Jacques Rabaillat. “You write it, can’t you old man?”

  “Absolutely. But you’d better deliver the thing yourself. She thinks I’m the butler.”

  “Let Thomas do it. Or one of the other footmen.”

  “No . . . I think you should speak with the girl personally. For one thing, has the sister turned up?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We should find out.”

  Peregrine was forced to agree.

  “I don’t think Elizabeth Asherwood is a spy for the French any more than you do,” added Dewhurst. “But the situation should still be followed.”

  They spent some time on the composition of Monsieur Rabaillat’s letter. Anthony’s first idea was to lie outright, to inform Miss Asherwood that he, Rabaillat, had made inquiries of Marguerite and ascertained that she was fine.

  “And if she isn’t?” said Peregrine, who was feeling uneasy. He should have asked Elizabeth about her sister instead of being distracted by ridiculous thoughts of love. Relationships complicated everything, and he vowed never to attempt one again.

  “She’s fifteen. In the middle of Picardy. What’s the worst that could have happened?”

  They settled on a noncommittal note, in which Monsieur Rabaillat assured Miss Asherwood that there had been little activity by the révolutionnaires in the region, and he had heard nothing to make him suspect that her sister—whom he did not know personally, he was sorry to say—was in any danger.

  “Is that true?” wondered Peregrine out loud.

  “About the révolutionnaires? We’ve had reports of the occasional irregular out on country roads, supposedly on patrol. They’re probably locals out to make a bit on the side, stealing from the nobs.”

  “Hmm.” Lord Blakeley thought about this, his uneasiness increasing. “But . . . I think we might include a warning about the Calais-Paris road. At least the section from Ardres to the Channel.”

  “True. That would be the one place the girl could run into trouble.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You write the thing,” said Anthony. “Your hand is better.”

  * * * *

  Miss Asherwood expected to receive news any day that Marguerite was in Dover; she had explained everything to Pivens and Mrs. Talliaferro, and the entire house was already preparing to receive their visitor.

  The servants dusted and aired out all of the guest rooms (“She’ll only need one,” said Lizzie), and the housekeeper ordered a small mountain of new pillows for the bed. The only person who wasn’t completely delighted with the news that Miss Asherwood’s sister was soon to arrive was Cook, who worried—no matter how many times Elizabeth tried to reassure her—that mademoiselle du Merveille would not like any of the English food that she was accustomed to prepare.

  “What if the young miss wants summat fancy?” she asked, for the tenth time.

  “I’m sure she will be perfectly happy with our usual meals,” Miss Asherwood replied.

  “But—”

  “Make her your cinnamon scones, Cook,” said Elizabeth. “Everyone loves your cinnamon scones.”

  Cook nodded. That was true.

  But by now the hustle and bustle around the house was settling down, and a sennight had gone by since the day her sister’s letter had arrived. Miss Asherwood, who preferred to spend as little time as possible thinking about weddings or marriage, began to focus on mademoiselle du Merveille, and to worry. She assumed that Marguerite would have left at once for Calais. But perhaps the comtesse had expected a reply before sending her daughter out on the road. Perhaps they were waiting, even now, to hear from Elizabeth.

  What should she do?

  Miss Asherwood decided that another letter must be written, and was sitting down at the library desk when the butler entered, his manner unusually stiff, and his chin set at an unprecedented height.

  Good heavens, thought Lizzie. He’s upset. Has William been feeding Mr. Peppers brandy again?

  “Yes, Pivens?” she enquired.

  The butler sniffed. “A Lord Blakeley to see you, miss.”

  Elizabeth froze.

  “Shall I send him away, miss?”

  “Ah . . . no. That’s fine, Pivens, send him in.”

  She rose, smoothing her skirt, her mind blank except for one question. Why was he here? She had not seen Lord Blakeley since the night of the Pembertons’ ball, when she had lied to him and claimed to be engaged.

  But now she was.

  The library door opened and Blakeley entered. Miss Asherwood curtseyed in response t
o his bow.

  “Miss Asherwood.”

  “Lord Blakeley.”

  A long silence. She stared frankly at his face, wanting to memorize its lines.

  “I hear I am indeed to wish you happy,” he said.

  An accusing glare would have left her untouched. But these quiet words, spoken with evident good will and no hint of blame, almost undid Elizabeth. She fought back tears.

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  Another short pause.

  “I’ve received a reply from Monsieur Rabaillat,” said Lord Blakeley.

  Elizabeth’s mind was elsewhere, and for a moment she had no idea what he was talking about. “Oh!” she said finally, remembering. “Of course, thank you.”

  He gave her the letter. She took it from him, their hands so close together that with the smallest movement she could have touched him. She turned the envelope over in her hands, noting the beautiful writing on the cover, the smudged, unreadable markings of the French post. Miss Asherwood knew she should open it at once, as Lord Blakeley had gone to some trouble to obtain Monsieur Rabaillat’s assistance, but she was embarrassed to be now caught in a lie.

  She could not read it. Oh, dear, why hadn’t she thought of this earlier? Now he would know that she was unable to speak French, and had not told him but had pretended that she could, and she hadn’t written her own letter, and—

  I must open it, thought Lizzie. And I will have to tell Lord Blakeley the truth. Anything else would be terribly rude.

  But her hesitation had taken too long; she looked up in dismay, as he stepped back. She saw a flash of some expression on his face, something she could not identify.

  “Miss Asherwood,” said Lord Blakeley, and he turned on his heels. And left.

  * * *

  Chapter 40

  Back to the Chateau

  In the end, the best place for Marguerite to hide was back at Beauvoir. The chateau, said Armand, was deserted, and the strange men were gone.

  “But what about the cook? And Mrs. Bonnet?”

  “I don’t know,” said Armand.

  Beauvoir had few servants in recent years, as the comtesse lived simply, and left most of the rooms closed. The cook and the housekeeper were both older women, with families in the village. Marguerite felt sad that they had simply left, and the thought of finding her home now empty and dark was frightening.

  She did not want to go back. She did not want to remember. But the chateau was also the only place either of them could think of to find a map.

  “I suppose . . . in the library,” said Marguerite, who had always known how to get to every place in the world that mattered to her. The only exception was London, where she knew her father had lived, and now Elizabeth. But London, like Calais, was in the direction of the old oak tree, and until now that had been sufficient.

  “I asked Yves. There is a road to Calais.”

  Yves was Armand’s older brother.

  “You didn’t tell him—”

  “No,” said Armand, shaking his head in vigorous denial. “Don’t worry, Margot. It’s just us.”

  “You’re sure those men left?”

  “Old Baston chased them away with his gun.”

  Old Monsieur Baston was a community fixture, the cantankerous septuagenarian with definite ideas about how his neighbors should run their lives. He had no truck with strangers, and when rumors of a problem at Beauvoir had reached his ears that next morning he loaded up his ancient flintlock musket and went.

  This musket was well-known in the area, and was an object of considerable fear, since it—like Baston—was old and badly preserved, and if its owner had ever used the thing no-one was quite sure in what direction the shot might fly. Marguerite had not seen Baston that day, but if she had been able to watch the chaos of several grown men running in fear from a gun that was just as likely to kill its owner as themselves, she might have felt a little better.

  “Then I will stay in . . . in the kitchen,” said Marguerite. The kitchen had always been a place of comfort and warmth. “I can bring down a blanket to sleep on.”

  “I will find rucksacks,” said Armand, “and food.”

  “What about Madame le Cochon?” she asked him, suddenly. “And the hens?” No matter what the situation, the animals should not go hungry.

  Armand shook his head. “Don’t worry. Monsieur Aguillard took the sow, and Monsieur Paret the hens and the calf, and I let the horses out into pasture. They’re fine for now.”

  “Oh,” she said. She should have known. “Thank you.”

  They dared not approach the chateau in daylight, but the dark brought its own problems. Fortunately, the kitchens were on the ground level, toward the back, and the kitchen door and windows faced into a woods where no-one was likely to be. So Armand and Marguerite felt it would be safe to light a few candles, as she did not think she could bear staying at the chateau in the absolute black of a cloudy night.

  As they waited, Marguerite asked Armand if anyone knew what the men wanted. The boy, who did not really know, thought carefully before he answered.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “they might have wanted . . . money.”

  “Money!”

  The people of rural Picardy, including the comtesse, did not rely on sous and deniers, and the chateau had no particular store of coin. No-one in the area would have thought to rob Beauvoir and expect to find money.

  Armand knew this. “Well, not money, exactly,” he amended. “Maybe—things you could sell.”

  Marguerite nodded, and let the subject drop. The things she had heard from her hiding place behind the wardrobe did not suggest that the men were thieves. The ormolu mirror they smashed was worth something, she was sure.

  And why would they take her body—

  Marguerite had heard the comtesse scream, once. And when she finally left her hiding place there was no sign of her mother, but a great deal of blood—in the girl’s mind a sea of it, sticky and black—in the hallway outside the comtesse’s bedroom, together with an old sword on the stone floor.

  But at the thought of the sword, Marguerite’s mind rebelled, and would not allow her to remember further.

  It was nearly dark.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked Armand. “I am.”

  The boy nodded. “Let’s have a picnic,” he said.

  They took a round-about way to the back of the chateau, in the deepening twilight, with the hooting of owls and soft rush of the evening breeze the only sounds. The dark caused no problems to either Marguerite or Armand; both of them knew every square meter of the neighborhood, and could have found Beauvoir even on a moonless night.

  The kitchen door was closed, and locked.

  “I’ll climb in,” said Armand. He was over the sill into the stillroom, and at the door within moments. Everyone in the neighborhood knew this route; if a child was hungry, neither the comtesse nor the cook were inclined to make it too difficult for them.

  Armand had brought the stub of an old tallow candle. He used the kitchen flint and tinder box to light it, and once they had a flame Marguerite searched for a beeswax taper. The room was cheerier in the familiar light, and they quietly went about the business of searching out food. Cheese would be no problem, unless the men had taken it all, and as it happened they had not; Armand found a round of maroilles, and with the baguette in his rucksack and a dipper of cool water they settled down to dinner.

  “We should find the map,” said Armand.

  Marguerite frowned. “You probably need to get home, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “Soon.”

  “I will go upstairs at dawn, tomorrow, and look.”

  “Be careful,” said Armand St. Juste.

  But before he left, Armand helped Marguerite drag a heavy rug down from the salon, and he went, by himself, to the upper floor to bring an armful of blankets from one of the bedrooms. It was summer, but the nights were chill in the lower floors of an old stone chateau. They set candles in the fireplace and Margue
rite bedded down in front. She was so exhausted, and the smells of the kitchen were so comforting, that she cried for a while and then fell asleep. Armand let himself out through the stillroom window, first making sure that the kitchen door was locked.

  * * *

  Chapter 41

  A Previous Engagement

  Miss Asherwood sat at the library desk, looking at nothing, the unopened letter still in her hand. She might have continued sitting there for some time had she not so dearly wished to know what Monsieur Rabaillat had written about the comtesse and Marguerite.

  She cared about her sister. Nothing else seemed to matter.

  She opened the envelope, finally, to find a short note. Chère mademoiselle she understood, but nothing else. She stood up and went out into the hallway. The morning post had been delivered not long before and there were, as always, several letters addressed to Miss Cavendish. Lizzie had often marveled at the amount of correspondence her aunt maintained. She picked up these letters now, ignoring the other envelopes, invitations no doubt, none of which interested her at the moment.

  She climbed the stairs slowly, turning around halfway up to look back at the front door. Mr. Peppers was pacing back and forth in front of it, meowing. Lord Blakeley had walked through that door not one half hour ago. Walked through that hall and into the library. She wondered—if she stood very still and closed her eyes, would he still be there?

  No. He was gone.

  Elizabeth continued on to Aunt Philippa’s room. She had long ago stopped bringing Miss Cavendish her mail, since that lady had made it clear that she preferred as little conversation as possible, and would happily wait for one of the maids to set the envelopes to one side of the door.

  But the letter from Monsieur Rabaillat must be translated, and it could not wait for Penny.

  “Aunt?” Elizabeth knocked softly on the door.

  “Mmm, yes?” she heard, in reply.

  She opened the door a few inches. Miss Cavendish was sitting at a large writing desk placed directly beneath one of the windows. Elizabeth did not recall ever seeing that particular piece of furniture before, but later remembered that it was one of her father’s; the desk was covered with neat stacks of envelopes and paper, with pens and ink and blotting paper interspersed.