by Carola Dunn
The toplofty lord did indeed have sufficient sense to pull into the yard of the Auberge du Chapeau-rouge, a low, whitewashed building that appeared to be deserted. As Miriam opened the carriage door, Lord Felix swung down from the box and a vacuous-faced ostler slouched out of the stables, chewing a straw.
“Catter newvo chevalls,” called his lordship.
The ostler gaped at him, the straw falling unnoticed from his gap-toothed mouth.
Light dawned on Miriam. “Four new horses--quatre nouveaux chevaux! I must go and interpret for him.”
“Nay, child, let the men work it out for themselves, God willing. They’re fools, to be sure, but best indulge them unless they’re in such a pickle they can’t find their own way out.”
In fact, Isaac had joined Felix and in his painstaking, accented French was instructing the ostler to provide a fresh team. Felix was obviously disgruntled by his intervention, especially when it proved successful.
The man nodded and said wisely, “Ah, you’ll be foreigners, without doubt.”
“Swiss,” Isaac confirmed.
“But why did monsieur expect me to understand German?” He shrugged and, not waiting for an answer, turned away to call another ostler to help.
Miriam could tell that Isaac was trying to suppress a grin. Hoping to preserve the peace she stepped forward, too late.
Isaac’s grin escaped. “The fellow thought you were speaking German.”
Felix cast him a furious glance and stalked off to watch the change of horses.
Chuckling, Miriam tugged Hannah round behind the carriage. “What a set-down for his lordship! But oh dear, how are we going to manage with one member of our party speaking schoolboy French, another who might as well not speak it at all, and the two of them at daggers drawn?”
“It’s all in God’s hands, Miss Miriam. If he wills it, all will go well.”
“We could wait for the next diligence to take us back to Paris. I wish I had refused Herr Rothschild as soon as I heard his proposal. Once I had agreed, he made it impossible to change my mind.”
“It’s too late now. There’s the whole British army waiting for their pay.”
“And goodness knows what sort of bumble-broth those two would fall into without me. At least I can attempt to stop them slitting each other’s throats,” she said, resigned. “We’d better go back and see how they are getting on.”
Isaac had disappeared. Felix, seething with frustration, had taken off his gloves and was feeling the foreleg of one of the horses the ostler had led out. He saw Miriam and hurried across to her.
“That horse is throwing out a splint. Tell them he’ll be lame in a mile or two.” The peremptory order made her look at him askance. “Please,” he added grudgingly.
She obliged. After some argument, the ostler took the horse back into the stables. “There isn’t much to choose from,” Miriam explained. “The army takes all the best horses.”
“I daresay he’ll find something quick enough if you give him this.” He took a coin from his coat pocket and handed it to her.
“An écu d’or! That is far too much.”
His nostrils flared in disdain. “We’ll never reach Wellington if you mean to haggle like a Jew over ha’pennies.”
“We’ll never reach Wellington if you mean to cause talk and raise suspicions by flinging gold about,” she pointed out coldly.
He had the grace to look abashed. “How much?”
“Five sous will be plenty.” Noting the strength of his square, well-kept hand, she selected a coin from the handful of change he held out to her and turned to follow the ostler.
“I’ll come and pick the one I want,” he said, falling into step beside her.
Miriam was annoyed to find herself very much aware of his muscular figure and vigorous stride. Stealing a glance at his handsome, arrogant profile, she wondered what he would look like if he smiled, and whether he ever did. It was the outside of enough to find herself condemned to weeks of intimacy with a Nonpareil who held her in contempt! At least she had already taught him that she was not easily intimidated.
An acceptable horse chosen, they returned to the carriage. Isaac had obtained some bread and cheese. He was giving a share to Hannah, laughing at something she said. His white teeth gleamed against the healthy glow of his olive skin and his eyes crinkled at the corners in the most attractive way.
Then he caught sight of Miriam and Felix. His face closed like a slammed door.
To the devil with both of them! Miriam thought, refusing to make use of the arm Isaac offered to help her into the carriage. For England’s sake she would do what she could to smooth their path to Spain but she’d die before she tried to make friends with them.
Isaac, his amour-propre bolstered by his minor triumph over Roworth, had caught the momentary flash of hurt in her eyes. He felt a pang of remorse. For the first time he questioned whether it was fair to blame a woman of seven-and-twenty for the deeds of a heedless girl of eighteen. No doubt she had changed since that dreadful day in 1802. He certainly had.
It dawned on him that if she didn’t realize who he was, she must be thoroughly puzzled by his antagonism.
His musing was interrupted by Roworth’s sarcastic “Coming?” The last horse had been harnessed and it was time for him to try his hand at driving a team of four. He’d never noticed before how large the horses were.
The offside wheeler, a black-maned sorrel, rolled its eye at him with a derisive snort. He frowned at it sternly and moved to join Roworth on the box.
“Stop! Take the reins before you come up, so that you have control at all times, and mind you don’t tug on them, or the team will start off without you. No, dammit, that’s not how to hold them. Did you not observe how I do it? The first and second fingers of your left hand go between the reins, with the left rein lying over the knuckle of your forefinger.”
The stream of scornful instructions continued until at last Isaac had the proper grasp. Gingerly he stepped up to the box, careful not to pull the reins taut, and sat down, his legs stretched out with his feet against the dashboard.
“You are sitting quite wrong. Your feet should be a little farther back than your knees. What the devil are you doing with the whip? Clutch it like that and you’ll have to drop it when you need to use your right hand on the reins.”
His left arm was positioned wrong, his wrist bent at the wrong angle. How he managed to drive out from the yard onto the highway he had no idea. He thanked God for a miracle.
Unfortunately the world seemed to have woken up from its noonday rest. Carts and wagons, private carriages, riders and pedestrians thronged the road. Well, Isaac had to admit that it wasn’t exactly crowded, but there was a great deal too much traffic for his liking. He was glad that his mentor didn’t appear to trust him to drive at a trot.
The reprieve was temporary. After a quarter of a mile, Roworth said, “They are working together as a team now. You can pick up the pace, gradually.”
Somewhat to Isaac’s surprise, the horses obeyed his directions--even the insolent sorrel. Soon they were rolling along the road at a fine pace. He was beginning to feel almost competent when they rounded a bend and found themselves stuck behind a lumbering diligence.
The leaders and the near-side wheeler automatically slowed, but the sorrel decided to overtake. Isaac hadn’t the least notion what to do.
“Good gad, do you want them stepping over the traces?” Roworth leaned across and pulled on one of the reins, looking smugly superior as the sorrel fell back into line. “We must overtake,” he added impatiently. “We shall never reach Spain if we get stuck behind every slow-moving vehicle. I’d best take over.”
“No, I can do it,” said Isaac with grim determination. “We’ll never reach Spain if you have to drive all the way. Just tell me what to do.”
“For a start, wait until that carriage coming the other way is past.”
His condescension was infuriating. Keeping a tight rein on his own temper, I
saac listened carefully to the instructions. When the road was clear, Roworth repeated each step at the appropriate moment. A dozen times during the manoeuvre Isaac wanted to close his eyes and pray but he resisted the temptation and drove on.
As the leaders drew up neck-and-neck with the diligence’s team, he saw from the corner of his eye its driver saluting with his whip. He didn’t dare respond. And then the diligence was falling behind, the sorrel’s rump was level with the others’ noses, they were past.
“Don’t pull in too sharply,” snapped Roworth.
Confused, Isaac overcorrected. The offside wheel came perilously close to the ditch before the berline was once more rolling smoothly down the highway.
Close behind him something clicked. He glanced round to see that a small panel in the front of the body had opened.
“Watch the road!” came Roworth’s anguished cry.
As Isaac quickly turned his attention back to the road, he heard Miriam’s dry voice, “Can we let go the straps and breathe again?”
“Until we come to the next obstacle,” Roworth said forebodingly, but a few minutes later, when they reached a straight stretch, he had enough confidence to start munching on bread and cheese.
Tooling the coach along, Isaac was on the whole quite pleased with himself. At least his driving was better than his lordship’s French.
For practice, he drove all but one stage until at dusk they decided to stop for the night in the next village. By the time he turned into the yard of a sizeable inn by the name of Le Grand Cerf, he was exhausted, his arms heavy as lead and his eyes burning from constant concentration. He blinked round in dismay at a half-dozen carriages already standing in the yard. He simply couldn’t go any farther.
Miriam took one look at him as he stumbled down from the box and declared, “I shall make arrangements for our accommodation. Do you wait here while I make sure that there are chambers available.”
She and her abigail went into the inn. Isaac slumped down onto the berline’s step while Roworth waved away the ostlers and paced up and down for a minute or two. Then he came to lean against the carriage, gazing into the distance with his hands in his pockets.
After a moment, he said abruptly, “Even the best of professional stagecoach drivers rarely drive more than three or four stages at a time. It’s hard work.” As if ashamed of this admission, he strolled away again before Isaac could react.
Miriam came out of the Grand Cerf and told the ostlers to unhitch the horses. An inn servant began to unload luggage from the berline. Felix returned.
“I have reserved two chambers,” Miriam said in a lowered voice, switching to English. “The private parlours are all taken, though. They are busy with travellers going to Paris to pay their respects on the birth of the emperor’s heir. We’ll have to dine in the public salle-à-manger, and Felix will just have to hold his tongue all evening.”
“I’ve no desire for conversation,” his lordship grunted. “Nor have I any desire to share a chamber. Ask for a third.”
She regarded him with a faint, mocking smile. “I fear all are occupied or reserved. Jewishness is not contagious, you know.”
Roworth was disconcerted. Isaac grinned. Changed or no, Miss Miriam Jacobson was still outspoken to a fault.
“I have ordered dinner an hour from now,” she continued, “and hot water to be taken up to our chambers at once. I trust you have no objection, Lord Felix?”
“Only to that mode of address, Miss Jacobson. I am the eldest son of an earl and my correct style is Lord Roworth.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Miriam said ironically. “Herr Rothschild must have introduced you incorrectly.”
His lips curled in scorn. “A Jewish moneychanger from Germany cannot be expected to understand English titles.”
“Stop this nonsense,” Isaac commanded. “While we are travelling among enemies, we are Miriam, Felix and Isaac. And Isaac, for one, will be glad of a meal and any place to sleep.” He hoisted himself to his feet.
Miriam led the way into the inn. Pausing in the busy front hall, where waiters and barmaids scurried back and forth, she turned to address Isaac in Yiddish. “Pray remind Felix that he is now a Swiss bourgeois. If he comes down to dine in full evening dress everyone will stare. I shall see you both later; I’m going up to change now.”
“Not, I trust, into full evening dress.”
She shook her head with a rueful smile. “It is many years since I owned a gown that London Society would consider fit to wear to dinner. Come, Hannah.”
Ascending the stairs, Miriam wondered whether Isaac was beginning to thaw towards her. No, more likely he was just grateful for an excuse to needle Felix, she decided regretfully. She weighed the miserably few coins in the purse in the pocket of her cloak. By the morning she must decide whether to continue to bear-lead this most unsatisfactory expedition. If she went any farther, she wouldn’t be able to afford the diligence back to Paris.
She and Hannah would be utterly dependent on Felix, Lord Roworth, and Mr. Isaac Cohen.
Chapter 5
A chambermaid showed Miriam and her abigail to their chamber, a large but sparsely furnished room, and a few minutes later their boxes and hot water arrived.
While Miriam washed, Hannah unpacked her sole evening gown. Miriam herself had added the only ornament to the forest-green satin: amber silk embroidery on the bodice and around the hem, matching the amber ribbon around the high waistline. Whatever the weather, she always wore a shawl with it, carried low over her elbows to hide the worn seat. She still possessed one of the shawls she had brought from England, of pale green cashmere with a fringe.
After years of experience, Hannah was an expert packer, but inevitably the gown was somewhat creased.
“I’ll just take it down and iron it,” she announced. She had long since perfected the use of sign language to explain what she needed. “You’ll be wanting to look your best tonight.”
“Will I?”
“Of course you will, dining with two handsome gentlemen, even if they are in the sulks like a pair of schoolboys. I’ll have to eat in the coffee room with you, Miss Miriam, being as how I’m your only chaperon, but I daresay they’ll let me sit at a separate table.”
“Fustian. I’m sure Isaac won’t mind you joining us.”
“But his lordship--God forbid I should take the liberty of sitting down to dinner with a lord.”
“Just let Felix dare to object!”
Hannah shook her greying head in exasperated admiration. “You’ll come to grief one of these days, acting so saucy, mark my words. That’s not how they taught you to behave in that fancy goy school.”
“No,” Miriam agreed, laughing and hugging her maid, “and a fine life we’d have had of it if they had succeeded in turning me into a milk-and-water miss.”
“Aye,” Hannah muttered as she headed for the door, “a fine life, married and settled with your children about you.” Her hand on the door handle she turned. “And I don’t like you calling them by their given names, neither. It’s not proper.”
“But it’s necessary. Neither of them is the least likely to consider it an invitation to improper advances!”
Hannah sighed and departed.
Miriam opened Hannah’s box and dug out a much prized, therefore rarely worn, therefore still smart black bombazine dress. There were, after all, two gentlemen to impress. Unconsciously echoing Hannah’s sigh, she acknowledged that her green satin was no more likely than the use of first names to invite improper advances, alas.
Not, of course, that she had any desire to attract such churlish gentlemen as Isaac and Felix, however handsome. What she longed for was a loving husband. Surely it wasn’t too late to hope one day to be “married and settled with your children about you.” From your mouth to God’s ears, she thought, making use of one of Hannah’s favourite phrases.
Unpinning her braids, she vigorously brushed her hair until it fell in a rippling russet cloak about her shoulders. Ringlets
tonight? No, too much trouble for those odious, unappreciative wretches.
Just a few careless curls falling across her white brow and wisping about her ears.
Hannah returned with the green gown and, after some persuasion, donned her black bombazine. Together they headed for the coffee room. Miriam had just set foot on the bottom step when she noticed a slight figure in a top hat entering the hall. He took off his hat, revealing hair as red as her own.
“Herr Rothschild!” Hannah exclaimed.
“Hush, he may not want his name known.”
“What’s he doing here? Something’s gone wrong, I feel it in my bones. May God save us from misfortune!”
Jakob Rothschild had seen them. A look of vexation crossed his youthful face, so brief that Miriam wondered whether she had imagined it. He came to meet them, bowed, and said blandly, “Good evening, Fräulein.”
“Good evening, sir. I did not expect to encounter you here. Is something amiss?” She gathered an impression that his mind was working swiftly.
“I hope not. I followed to make sure that all goes well.”
“That depends on what you mean by well.” Now was the moment to tell him she wanted nothing more to do with his scheme.
“I fear you were given little opportunity to consider. Perhaps the venture is too difficult, or you cannot reach an accord with your companions?”
Miriam guessed that he was deliberately challenging her. She was sure of it, yet she couldn’t resist the challenge. “Do not trouble yourself, mein Herr. I am quite capable of accomplishing what you ask of me.”
Hannah moaned.
Jakob inclined his head. “I am glad to have my judgement of you confirmed, gnädige Fräulein.”
With a reckless feeling that she had burned her boats, Miriam asked gaily, “Will you dine with us?”
“Thank you, I have already dined. Do not let me keep you from your dinner. It remains only for me to wish you bon voyage, and my most hearty thanks.” He bowed over her hand and stood aside.