The Cornish Heiress

by Roberta Gellis

  The morning Philip had spent in the First Consul’s company was proof enough that he did not inspire nor wish to inspire, a generalized and unreasoning terror. Philip did not doubt that the man could be terrible enough when he wished, but that would be to a particular person or group for a particular reason—and the reason would be made clear to all. No, what Bonaparte had offered France was exactly the opposite of what Robespierre had inflicted on the country. Frenchmen did not walk in fear. Possibly personal enemies of the First consul would not receive justice, but the ordinary man, the lower levels of officials, felt secure and worked hard out of patriotism and enthusiasm.

  Once again Philip wondered whether he was imagining the sensation of being followed. When he came to the quieter street on which the harbor master lived, he quickened his pace, like a man who was eager to arrive at his destination. He had hoped that he would be able to identify who was following him, but when he stopped suddenly again and looked back, this time without pretense, there was no one among the few passersby that he could associate with his uneasy feeling.

  Naturally enough Philip said nothing about being watched or followed to Monsieur Fresnoy or his daughter, and the experience benefitted him in that it filled his mind to the exclusion of any animosity he might feel toward Bonaparte on his country’s behalf. The things he had planned to say flowed easily enough from his tongue, and after that he found to his relief that his host was very willing to move to other subjects. Before long the beauties of the Pas de Calais countryside had been introduced into the conversation by Désirée. It was an unexceptional subject, one where total ignorance on Philip’s part was perfectly reasonable.

  There was no need for Philip to do any more than listen and agree that “it must be lovely”. He could safely voice a formal and rather insincere regret that the brief time remaining to him before he must return to his duties would not permit him to see more.

  “But why not?” Désirée asked. “Did you not tell Papa that you would remain in Boulogne a week? The town itself is not so pleasant now that it is overrun with soldiers and sailors. You would do better to go out into the countryside.”

  Because he was preoccupied with hiding his irritation at Désirée’s too-accurate memory—Philip had hoped to be able sometime that evening to say his farewells and announce he was leaving—he fell right into the neat little trap she had laid, although at the time he did not know it was a trap.

  “It is not very interesting to go sightseeing by oneself,” he remarked with pretended regret. “And it is rather cold to ride about on horseback for pleasure.”

  “That is true,” Monsieur Fresnoy replied. “It is necessary to share such pleasures and, of course, November is not the time of year in which the country looks its best.”

  “No, Papa, but for some things it really is better when the leaves are gone from the trees. The views from the hills are seen much more clearly. Indeed, in summer it is often impossible to see anything because of the trees.”

  “That, too, is true, my love,” Monsieur Fresnoy said indulgently, smiling at his daughter. “Why do you not take Monsieur Saintaire for a drive in the carriage to your favorite spot in the hills?”

  “What a good idea, Father,” Désirée said with innocent enthusiasm. “May I take Jeannine along also? We could then go to her aunt’s house near Ambleteuse. And the moon will be full. You would not object if we drove back after dinner, would you? You will not be lonely dining by yourself?”

  “Not at all, my love. In fact I will not be dining by myself. Monsieur Champagny has asked me several times to join him, but I put him off because it is not a proper house for you to go to—his sons so coarse and wild and no other woman. I am sure I can arrange something. By all means, go to Madame Miallis if you will not cause her any inconvenience.”

  At the beginning of this conversation Philip had opened his mouth several times to protest, but there was really no opportunity and, on second thought, he was very glad neither father nor daughter had noticed. After all, what, could he say to excuse his refusal? And, in fact, it was far better for him to go. What could be more innocent than an excursion into the countryside with two young girls? No one in his right mind could consider them conspirators, and it was ridiculous that a spy or saboteur or whatever else he was suspected of should waste his time in such a frivolous manner. Certainly it was a more sensible thing to do than to leave Boulogne abruptly.

  Thus Philip accepted with becoming gratitude. Actually his pleasure was not all assumed. He had found Désirée and Jeannine good, if somewhat silly, company on the way to the shipyards. The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. Philip spoke of his work in Paris and Monsieur Fresnoy of his. Désirée played and sang to them. At ten Philip rose and said his adieux. Monsieur Fresnoy, however, said he would send a servant with him to the main thoroughfare. With all the soldiers and sailors in town there had been robberies, especially in the quiet, richer residential sections. Philip accepted with alacrity. The last thing he wanted was to kill or injure someone in self-defense and come under the close scrutiny of the police.

  The servant left him at the corner of the boulevard, where there was little chance of any attack so early. Although not so full of people as when he had gone to the harbor master’s house, there were a sufficient number to warn off thieves, and the moon was bright. As he walked along Philip wondered whether a full day and evening of Désirée and Jeannine would be endurable. They were rather silly, but one could never tell. Of course, Meg had never been silly—at least, not silly in a boring sense, although she could act silly enough when she wanted to make him laugh.

  The thought of his Cornish beauty wakened a desire to see her and was so compelling that Philip forgot completely about whether or not he was being followed. Thoughts of Meg also aroused other desires. Philip had been celibate far longer than was usual for him, not so much out of fidelity to Meg—naturally he would not consider a brief connection with a prostitute as being unfaithful—as from lack of opportunity. He had been too busy, too intent on his purpose. Now he thought about seeking out a whore, but he did not know Boulogne well enough to find a house that kept women of the better sort and he had no intention of exposing himself to the danger of trying the dirty and disease-ridden trulls who roamed the streets.

  As he entered the inn Philip wondered whether he could ask the landlord about where to find a suitable companion. Often innkeepers had girls on call for their guests. However, Philip had deliberately chosen a very respectable establishment, and he was aware that Bonaparte, although not exactly perfect himself, frowned on the immorality of others. It would not be wise to take the chance of bringing himself to the notice of the landlord for such a thing. Since he had hesitated a trifle, he ordered a bottle of wine and when it had been carried to his room, he filled a glass and sank into a chair by the fireplace.

  Deliberately fixing his mind on trifles, Philip pulled off his boots and sighed. To someone accustomed to having his boots cut and fit exactly to his feet with the care and passion Cellini must have put into his pure gold salters and cups, the items he now wore were a sore trial. They were not too small or tight, but they caught his toes and heels in unaccustomed places. To Philip’s mind they had the even greater disadvantage that they fitted his calves far too tightly to hold either the long barrel of a pistol or a knife. He could wear the knife in an arm sheath, but the pistols had to go into his pockets, which made for a slow draw.

  Philip sipped his wine and looked into the fire, trying to think of a logical excuse for leaving Boulogne before the week was out without raising suspicions in anyone. But the dark red glow of the embers where the fire was cooling put him in mind of Meg’s hair, and the ache in his loins when he thought of her made it hard to think of anything at all, much less specious excuses that would convince the cordial Monsieur Fresnoy. Cordial. Philip fixed on the word. Was Monsieur Fresnoy too cordial? Was it his men who were following… Nonsense! Philip had been going to Fresnoy’s house. Only a luna
tic has a man followed to his own home. And Pierre said that Monsieur Fresnoy was honest.

  Then suddenly Philip remembered what else Pierre had said—that Monsieur Fresnoy might want a temporary amusement for Désirée. That fitted the harbor master’s cordiality, and Philip remembered something else—the flickering hot glances cast at him by the modest maiden herself the first evening he had been at Fresnoy’s house. He had not caught her at it, and he could not remember anything like that tonight—or did be? Had some of Désirée’s glances while she was playing and singing been a little more—more interested than they should have been on so brief an acquaintance? It had been she who suggested guiding him on the tour of the shipyard. But it had been Monsieur Fresnoy who suggested the sightseeing in the country.

  Irritated, Philip tossed down his wine, undressed, and went to bed. It took him a long time to fall asleep, and he had some peculiar dreams when he did. One in particular was so frightening that it woke him, but when he recalled what he had been dreaming he laughed aloud. Désirée had been following him, invisibly stalking him through the streets. He knew it was she, although he could never catch even a glimpse of her, and a sense of horror had grown in him. It was particularly weird because he had no feeling that harm was intended—at least not the kind of harm that comes from knives or guns. It had been—it had been as if she intended to—to eat him. Philip shook with mirth.

  The laughter lightened his mood and he slept more soundly, but by then there was little left of the night and he woke late and needed to hurry over his washing and shaving. He cut himself, too, cursing the French razors that Pierre had given him to replace his own fine English pair. He had some trouble stopping the bleeding and could only be thankful that the cut was under his chin and would not show. Still, he grumbled to himself that if Bonaparte could use English razors, as it was rumored he did, there must be a supply of them in the country. By the time Philip had cleaned himself up and changed his shirt he was dreadfully late. He did not stop for breakfast, rushing along the streets as fast as he could walk. He never gave a thought to whether or not he was followed, and could concentrate on nothing but how late he was.

  His breathless and apologetic arrival dispersed the gloom on the faces of the two young ladies as soon as he assured them the delay was only owing to having overslept. “I am so sorry,” he repeated. “It was foolish of me not to tell the landlord to have me called, but I went to bed so early it did not occur to me that I would not be awake at dawn. I—I did not sleep well.” At that point Philip stopped abruptly, realizing be could not explain why he had not slept.

  “It does not matter at all,” Désirée said, “as long as you are here now.”

  She smiled at him, and Philip swallowed. It was obvious that there was no need at all for him to explain why he had not slept. Monsieur Fresnoy’s “innocent” daughter had leapt to the right conclusion, and in her father’s absence did not try to hide her knowledge. The only thing she had not understood was who had generated Philip’s discomfort. But thoughts of Meg had not caused all his discomfort; the look that accompanied Désirée’s innocuous words reminded Philip very acutely of the predatory follower in his dreams. Of course, separated from the association with the unfeminine and doubtless unsexual follower in the street the previous evening, the impression Philip received this time was far from horrifying.

  The drive was rather long, but it was enlivened in several ways. Désirée insisted on sitting forward, although Philip protested vehemently if briefly before accepting the arrangement. He might have been impatient about verbal polite prevarication when he was younger but he had always been protective of women. The forward seat of a carriage was far less comfortable. The movement of the horses and the bumping over rutted roads tended to jolt anyone seated there toward the rear seat. Depending on the condition of the road, it might take considerable strength to maintain one’s position.

  At first Philip did not understand why Désirée would hear no argument against her taking that uncomfortable position. Politeness would not permit her to allow her friends to sit there, but it was common for any male, even a guest, to sit forward when the other occupants of the carriage were female. However, Désirée was adamant and Philip yielded, thinking it was more reasonable to change position with her when she became uncomfortable than to argue. Before that, having seen a servant carry a picnic basket into the carriage, Philip confessed he had had no breakfast. It would be easier to eat, he thought, when he did not need to hold on with one hand or brace himself against being flung into the arms of the girls opposite.

  That idea passed through his mind without his realization that Désirée intended to fall into his lap—which would have proved a sad lack of deviousness in Philip’s thinking processes if Désirée had known of it. She, however, accepted his protest as polite rather than meaningful and smiled on him while he ate, thinking that it was delightful to have met a young man who understood her without explanation. This lack of comprehension of each other’s intentions might have led to an awkwardness had not the terrible condition of the road leading to Ambleteuse provided a clarification.

  The first bumps precipitated Désirée into Philip’s lap. He clutched her instinctively; she clutched him back. Philip was aware of soft, plump breasts and well-padded hips. Without letting go he inquired anxiously whether she was hurt—but he was not such a fool as to offer to exchange seats. After a moment he restored Désirée to her position. Jeannine, gazing fixedly out of the window, recommended that he look to the left where a few hundred yards from the road the cliff fell away into the sea. It was a magnificent view. Philip had just enough time to remark upon it before Désirée was bounced into his arms again.

  As Jeannine had not turned her head and was commenting quite loudly about how she could never tear her eyes from this breathtaking prospect, Philip took advantage of his own “breathtaking” opportunity and kissed Désirée before replacing her on the forward seat. Far from protesting at the “outrage” done her, Désirée looked, rather hurt at the briefness of Philip’s “insult”. Therefore, the next time opportunity knocked, Philip no longer hesitated about flinging wide the door. He swung his legs aside, took the lady into his lap, and kissed her at leisure. She responded with an enthusiasm but with a lack of finesse that left Philip still unsure of how far he would be able to go.

  Under the circumstances Philip was stunned for a few minutes after they got down from the carriage. There was nothing immediately wrong. The house and grounds were typical of the haute bourgeoisie, well cared for, spacious, and dignified. However, the “aunt” who met them in the parlor after they had been admitted by a servant was the kind of aunt Philip knew very well indeed. In fact she was no more nor less than a high-class procuress. French or English, the speech and manner were unmistakable.

  Involuntarily Philip stiffened. However naughty Désirée and Jeannine might be, this was no place for them. Girls of decent family simply did not… But before the thought could finish, a young man, also in uniform, had rushed past Jeannine’s “aunt” and caught Désirée’s friend in his arms. It was immediately apparent why Jeannine had been so obliging in the carriage, but Philip still suspected that neither girl understood to what kind of a house they had come.

  The question that flicked through Philip’s mind was whether it would be worse to tell them or to leave them in ignorance. In the next moment that answered itself. This was not the first time the girls had been here. Jeannine, at least, was very much at home. Her relationship with the young man who had greeted her so passionately seemed well established, and soon Philip realized she did know where she was. That reduced his responsibility to explaining to Désirée as soon as they were alone. This was not long delayed. Jeannine and her Georges disappeared even more promptly than a hired whore and her client. Philip was shocked. He was about to protest, when the “aunt” returned and invited them to accompany her, but Désirée rose so eagerly that he had no chance. On second thought, it was a better idea. Closed into priv
acy he could explain without fear of interruption or denial.

  The first check to Philip’s noble intentions was his surprise at the size and elegance of the suite of rooms. The second was the avidity with which Désirée flung herself into his arms. It would have taken cruel force to thrust her away. Philip had to kiss her, and he was distracted by his own unsatisfied appetite. She was a very pleasant armful. Eventually realizing that he must explain at once or it would be too late, Philip detached himself.

  “Désirée,” he said, after clearing his throat, “your friend has misled you, I fear. The woman who lives here cannot be her aunt—at least…

  “No, of course not,” Désirée replied. “I know this is not her aunt’s house. It is Georges’s doing, and it is not really wrong. They are married, Georges and Jeannine. It is—their parents would not hear of the match, so they had a civil marriage. It was some stupid quarrel from many years ago. Of course, if Jeannine gets with child, the old people will have to give in. But to get with child, she must find a time and place to be with Georges.”

  “I see. But Désirée—”

  “Do not tell me it is wrong for me to come here. I thought you understood. I desire the same pleasure Jeannine has.”

  “Your husband will give you that, Désirée,” Philip said, choking down both disappointment and a desire to laugh.

  “I have no intention of having a husband,” Désirée said coldly. “Do you think I am such a fool I do not know when I am well off? With Papa I can do as I like—always. Why should I give myself to a man who will think he has the right to tell me what to do, use my property as his own, tell me what I can spend of my own money—and everything else, including how often to breathe.”