Lord Baseheart and his sister had disappeared. Only Beth stood waving under the looming ramparts of the castle.
Elvira waved back until the trees engulfed the cart and nothing was to be seen but the tracks of the wheels on the white road.
She turned to regard her silent husband. She could not help but remember how his features had softened when he kissed her at the altar. If only that tenderness had been truly meant for her.
His profile in the icy moonlight was sharply etched. She had to admit to herself that, although he was not wearing a velvet jacket and white gloves, he was certainly a handsome man.
Indeed, now she thought about it, he was every bit as handsome as the Prince. In fact, compared to Serge, the Prince was nothing.
How could she have missed this all along?
She pulled her cloak around her neck with a suppressed sigh. What did it matter if she had at last discovered Serge’s attractions? He was in love with Delphine, not her, and he had married her for a bag of gold and no other reason.
The gatekeeper roused by the sound of the cart hurried out to open the gates. Serge drew out a coin from the pouch at his belt and flung it to him and he caught it in disbelief.
Elvira was astounded. Serge had given away a whole gold coin.
He had married her for that money and now he was flinging it aside as if it meant little to him.
Was he mad? Did she have no value for him at all?
As the cart rolled through the gates she suddenly realised that she had no idea of their destination, no idea of what Serge planned for their future.
“W-where are going?” she ventured timidly.
“France,” he replied shortly.
France!
Elvira’s mind whirled.
“Where in France?”
“The Palace of Courel.”
Elvira’s heart sank. Of course. That was surely where the Prince and his new wife Delphine would eventually return. Where else should Serge go but to his Master’s house where he might gaze on the woman he really loved, even though she was married to another?
Whilst she, Elvira, unloved and neglected, would be left to polish shoes or plant potatoes or whatever other duties someone of her reduced status performed!
A sob rose in her throat as she realised the role in life that lay ahead for her.
Madame Lacombe, the valet’s wife.
*
Towards midnight they stopped at an inn on the London road. Serge’s plan was to travel beyond the Capital and take ship at Tilbury docks.
They were led through a series of low-beamed, smoky corridors and up a narrow stairway to a room under the eaves.
Serge left Elvira to unpack her carpet bag while he went down to attend to the skinny nag that had drawn them so valiantly thus far.
Elvira threw off her cloak and gazed about her.
Her eyes alighted on the large mattress on the iron bedstead and she felt suddenly weak with dread. Serge had bought her and married her, fair and square.
Whatever he felt for Delphine, he would no doubt insist on his conjugal rights.
Trembling at the thought of what lay in store, she knelt down and opened the carpet bag.
The first item she drew out was a white silk nightgown. It was not hers and she guessed at once that Beth had taken it from Delphine’s closet. She held it up tremulously and in the moonlight it looked as flimsy as a cobweb.
What would Serge think to see her in it? He would surely know that it was too luxurious an article to be hers.
She undid her bodice and held the gown to her breast. It felt like gossamer against her skin.
‘I will wear it,’ she decided. ‘It is my wedding night, after all.’
She undressed hastily, not knowing when Serge would reappear. He would certainly not delay by ordering supper for Beth’s provisions had already served them well.
She washed at a little stand which held a pitcher and bowl. She towelled herself dry and then she slipped the nightgown over her head.
It fluttered down over her body, soft as moth wings.
She turned back the bed quilt and slithered down between the sheets. They were rough to the touch, but were clean and smelt of lavender.
Head on the pillow and encased in her sheath of silk, Elvira awaited the caresses of her husband.
He did not come.
Some distant steeple bell rang out one o’clock and then two. The inn was so silent that every creak of floorboard, every whine of a dog, came clearly to Elvira’s ear. But she did not hear Serge’s footstep in the corridor outside.
At last she realised the bitter truth. Not only did her husband not love her, he did not even desire her!
Though no longer infatuated with the Prince, Elvira could not help but compare her own sorry state to that of Delphine – so ardently desired that her fiancé could not wait even four months to possess her.
Whilst Serge could not even bring himself to bid her goodnight.
‘No doubt he is downstairs clutching his gold to his bosom rather than his wife,’ she thought bitterly.
The Prince Charles de Courel was a cad and a blackguard, but at least he was a man of passion!
She fell into a fitful sleep, tears of loneliness shining on her cheeks.
Some time later she half woke to the sound of a footfall, drowsily murmured a name as someone drew the quilt about her shoulders.
The name she murmured, for it was the name on her lips as she fell asleep, was Charles.
The figure by her bed froze, turned and departed. Elvira barely heard the door close softly on its hinge.
She did not wake again until dawn. Hearing the sound of wheels in the cobbled forecourt, she jumped out of bed and ran to the window. She would not have put it past Serge to abandon her, now that he had his gold!
But it was only a milk cart arriving in the yard below.
Hurrying to the washstand, she poured water into the bowl and splashed her face. Then she began to brush her hair, the thin left strap of her nightgown falling from her shoulder as she did so.
She heard the door open behind her and turned.
Serge stood on the threshold, arrested in his tracks at the sight of Elvira, brush in hand, hair tumbling in a rich mass over her shoulders.
The silk nightgown clung to her lithe form, rendering every contour visible beneath the delicate weave. She blushed as Serge’s gaze slowly travelled her body. His eyes met hers, held, and she saw that he too had coloured.
He came forward and raised his hand. She flinched as the wild thought that he was about to strike her raced through her mind. But all he did was catch the fallen strap of her gown under his finger and draw it up. Then he turned away.
“Breakfast is served. We shall depart at eight. I have hired a new horse.”
He walked to the door.
“S-Serge,” began Elvira.
“Madam?”
She wanted to ask why he had not come to his wedding bed and why he had not taken her as he was entitled to. She wanted to ask if this was to be the pattern of their life together.
Was she to be a wife in name only, until such time as he found someone he might love as much as he loved Delphine, when he would then abandon her to her fate?
All these thoughts mingled in her brain, but she could not utter them.
“I – shall be down in ten minutes.”
He gave a nod and was gone.
When she finally descended to the parlour she found that Serge had already eaten. She enjoyed fresh rolls and gooseberry jam alone.
A boy then brought down her carpet bag and she was ready to leave.
The cart and a new horse stood waiting, Serge leaning against the wheel. He handed her in, hoisted up the carpet bag and then leapt aboard.
“Sir!”
A serving wench, the very one who had brought breakfast to Elvira, came running from the inn. She was plump and pink with untidy golden locks.
“God bless you, sir, God bless you.”
Op
ening her clenched fist, she revealed the origin of her gratitude.
A whole gold coin!
Elvira bit her lip. She wondered what service the wench had rendered him that she should be so lavishly rewarded.
Had Serge spent the night in the wench’s bed rather than with his own wife?
She tried to thrust the suspicion from her as after all, Serge had been equally profligate with the gatekeeper at Baseheart.
She concentrated instead on the journey before her. It would take three days and nights to reach Tilbury.
Surely Serge would come to her before then?
*
Four days later, standing on the deck of the Salty Lord as it approached the coast of France, Elvira was still a maiden.
En route, Serge had slept in a stable, a hayloft or an outhouse. Anything but share Elvira’s bed.
Yet he was not, during the day, cold or careless of her welfare. In one town he stopped to purchase gloves and warm boots for her and he insisted she eat the meals he ordered.
He had presented her with unexpected gifts after half a day in London of soap, perfume, velvet hand towels.
‘Items that hardly befit the wife of a mere valet,’ she thought, although delighted to receive them.
He even asked her if she would like to make a detour and visit Aunt Willis, but she declined. No doubt Lord Baseheart had informed his sister-in-law of her marriage and no doubt he had painted her in dark colours. What good would it do to try to clear her name to her aunt?
Better to consider her childhood as decidedly past as her life at Baseheart Castle.
Despite her inner turmoil, a few days of good food at wayside inns had restored her strength.
As the ship docked, she was able to look around her with great curiosity.
The bustling docks, the vendors calling in their beautiful language, the panniers of long loaves in baskets, all made her senses reel.
‘This land is to be my home now,’ she told herself almost dreamily.
Serge hired a carriage with driver in Calais, so at least they could now travel in greater comfort.
That first evening in France, Serge arranged rooms at a small hotel on the road to Beauvais. Holly decorated the doors and Elvira remembered it would soon be Christmas.
In the parlour, Serge wrote a letter, which he then sealed and handed to a servant to post. Elvira supposed he was sending news of his impending return to the housekeeper at Courel. Perhaps the Prince and Delphine had reached the Palace by now?
‘I will have to address my cousin as Princess,’ Elvira reminded herself mournfully.
The letter dealt with, Serge and Elvira went to supper. She was wearing the gown that Delphine had given her and which Beth had thoughtfully packed.
Although it was December, the weather in France was mild and the doors of the dining room were open onto the garden. Outside, a group of gypsies had taken it upon themselves to serenade the guests.
Serge ordered veal and a bottle of wine. Sipping from her glass, Elvira’s thoughts wandered to the evening of the ball, when Serge had discovered her dancing alone on the terrace.
Why, she had been wearing this very dress!
As if reading her thoughts, Serge rose and gently drew her to her feet.
“Let’s dance,” he murmured.
Pressed to his bosom, Elvira suddenly found herself much happier.
The lovely melody, the scent of the fire and the beams of the other guests as their eyes followed them about the floor, all contributed to her sense of well-being. One or two of the guests called out and Elvira raised her head questioningly to her husband.
“W-what are they saying?”
“They are saying that we make a beautiful couple.”
Elvira’s heart swelled, her blood began to race. A beautiful couple. Why, so they were.
She could see their reflection in the gilt mirror on the wall of the dining room. Her face was flushed a delicate rose colour and Serge, well – he looked so – so noble.
Suddenly she longed for his touch, longed for his lips on hers. She longed to be enveloped by him and to yield to his ardent embrace.
Thinking like this, she could not resist uttering a heartfelt sigh.
Serge stiffened. He stopped dancing and held her at full arm’s length, his expression cold.
“Tell me, madam, is it that you would rather be with the Prince?”
Stung at his misreading of her present mood, Elvira answered with equal coldness,
“Tell me, sir, is it that you would rather be with your gold?”
Serge gave an icy laugh and relinquished his hold.
“I gave all the gold away at the first inn we stopped at, dear wife.”
Elvira saw once again the serving wench opening her fist to reveal the gold coin. Had that coin merely been one of a whole hoard the wench had received?
“Was a night with a serving girl worth that much then?” she asked with undisguised bitterness.
Serge’s features darkened. Reaching forward, he gripped her arm so tightly that she gave a little cry.
“How could you possibly think that of me?” he demanded through gritted teeth.
“What must I think?” she cried, “when you do not come to your wife’s bed?”
They stared at each other wildly. The music had stopped and the other guests were staring, perplexed at their unexpected change of mood.
“I will come to my wife’s bed,” grated Serge in a low angry voice, “when she is happy to be embraced by a commoner rather than a Prince.”
Elvira was too enraged to reveal the truth – that she had long ago ceased to care for the Prince and that her heart was there for the taking.
“You were a brute and an oaf when you kissed me at Baseheart,” she parried haughtily, “and you are a brute and an oaf still.”
She turned on her heel and ran to her room and turned the key in the lock.
That Serge had pursued her was apparent a moment later, when his fists pounded the door.
“Let me in, Elvira. This instant! I am your husband. Let me explain.”
“Never,” retorted Elvira, head high. “Even if you changed your mind and begged me to be yours, Serge Lacombe, I swear I would never yield now. Never.”
There was silence beyond the door and next the sound of footsteps retreating.
Elvira sank onto the bed, trembling in every limb.
She had almost begun to love Serge, but that was gone. Now she hated him, hated him with each and every fibre of her being!
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning Serge handed her into the carriage without a word. He made sure the bags were secure and climbed in beside her.
After a few moments of stony silence Serge turned to Elvira with a sigh.
“Do you now wish to discuss our disagreement last night?”
Elvira turned her head to the window.
“We have a whole lifetime to do so,” she replied bitterly, staring out at the larches that lined the road.
Serge drew in his breath but said no more.
Mere cool pleasantries were all they exchanged for the rest of that day.
Elvira occupied herself in surveying the unfamiliar scene that unfolded beyond the carriage window.
The houses seemed quaint with their pitched roofs and strings of onions and garlic by the door and villages with cobbled squares and stalls selling peppered meats and huge blue veined cheeses.
A rather grand coach drew level with theirs and a gentleman gazing from the window, opened his eyes wide when he saw Elvira. He raised his hat with a flourish.
“Une femme trés belle!” he called.
Serge opened his eyes with a frown, leaned forward and slammed the window shut. Then he rose and thumped loudly on the roof urging the driver to hurry on.
Elvira was speechless with embarrassment and fury.
Their driver was quite astonished at the frostiness between them when they stopped for refreshment. He shook his head to himself as he watched the
m drink their soup in utter silence.
“Les Anglais! Poof!”
That night passed as every night since Baseheart. Elvira sleeping alone and Serge finding his own rest somewhere else. Her suspicion that her husband’s bed was never as lonely as her own continued to torment Elvira.
She hated him, she did not want him, yet – she wanted him to want her. It was unjust that Delphine should inspire passion in two men while she, Elvira, inspired passion in none.
She was not consoled by the idea that if he played false to her he also played false to Delphine. Aunt Willis had often told her that such was the nature of men that they took their pleasure where they found it. If Serge could not have Delphine, he would have another.
That he did not choose Elvira as that other was a source of humiliation.
At breakfast she scoured the face of her husband when the serving girl entered, trying to detect some evidence of conspiracy between the two. The girl was comely and saucy and Elvira felt sure she was trying to catch Serge’s eye.
To his credit he did not look up once from the news sheet he was reading. Elvira felt triumphant until the serving girl gently lifted his bowl, her eyes meanwhile taunting Elvira over the rim.
Elvira squirmed but held her tongue, not wishing to reveal her displeasure to Serge. He might well mistake it for jealousy.
‘And I am not jealous,’ she told herself. ‘I am only conscious of the proprieties that should be observed between a husband and wife.’
Nevertheless when Serge finally looked up and thanked the serving girl, Elvira wanted to throw the sugar bowl at her head.
She flushed when she realised that Serge was regarding her with a faint smile on his lips.
“Perhaps you would care for more coffee?” he asked. “Shall I call the girl back?”
“I’ve had sufficient, thank you,” replied Elvira haughtily. “Besides, I do not care for her manner.”
“Indeed?”
“She was – too forward.”
“Ah, madam, you are not yet accustomed to the ways of French girls.”
“I should think I am not!” countered Elvira crossly. She was convinced that Serge was secretly mocking her. “What I am becoming accustomed to is my husband preferring their company to mine.”
As soon as these words passed her lips Elvira regretted them. She had not meant to refer to the painful subject of her continuing maidenhood again.
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