by Nita Abrams
She still looked skeptical. “Who is this friend of the family he is supposedly rescuing in the mountains of France?”
“A very suitable prospect,” he assured her. “A cousin of Joshua Hart, well educated, eager to travel, said to resemble her mother, who was a great beauty. Of course, I did not tell him that Miss Hart was an eligible young woman. I believe I gave him the impression that she was a bit of an invalid, taking the waters at Digne-les-Bains for her health.”
“He’ll see right through your little plot the moment he meets her.”
“I think not.” Roth gave a satisfied smile. “This is one of my better schemes. After all, even Nathan is not omniscient.”
“Oh?” said his wife. “Then how is it that between ten last night and seven this morning he has recalled his most trusted servant from Kent, arranged for a post chaise, and scheduled an appointment at Whitehall, where he will no doubt offer to carry confidential messages to France? Or are you going to pretend that he knew nothing of this request of yours until nine hours ago? That Rodrigo’s return and Nathan’s meeting with the colonel are happy coincidences?”
Roth drew himself up magisterially. “I will not deny that Nathan is uncannily observant. Clearly he got wind of this somehow last week, when I first received Hart’s letter. But anticipating a voyage to France on the strength of gossip at our bank is not the same as anticipating what will happen when he gets there.”
“I know what will happen,” she retorted. “He will be his usual courteous, impenetrable self, he will escort Miss Hart back to England as quickly as possible, and then he will stalk in here and raise his eyebrows at you just as he did after your other attempts. If I am lucky, the disappointed bride-to-be will not fall desperately in love with him, as two of the others did, and I will not have to spend months avoiding her and all her relatives.”
“We shall see,” said Roth, turning back to the sideboard. “I am two moves ahead of him this time, my dear. And matchmaking is not a game familiar to Nathan.”
She frowned at him. “You are keeping something from me.”
He did not respond, but picked up the coffee pot.
“Are you afraid I will tell Nathan?”
“No,” he said, pouring her a cup and setting it at her place. “I am afraid you will say ‘I told you so’ if it doesn’t work.”
Not for nothing was Louisa Roth the wife of a financier. “What are the chances of success, in your estimation?”
“Something like one in ten.”
“Well,” she said, settling into her chair, “for an affair involving Nathan and a marriageable female, those are quite respectable odds.”
2
France, February 28
Digne-les-Bains was larger than Meyer had remembered. His previous visit, if one could call it that, had involved skirting the town by night with a terrified royalist partisan as his guide. He had slept in a hollow beneath a large rock and had dined on water and two-day-old bread. He was therefore unacquainted with the town’s inns and dismayed to find there were over two dozen such establishments. His informant, a stout porter at the main post house, told him proudly that several new hostelries had opened recently.
“All very superior, monsieur, and patronized by foreign gentlewomen such as the one you seek. Times are good here now, by the grace of God.”
“Digne did not prosper, then, under Bonaparte?”
“Bonaparte!” The man spat reflexively. “He nearly ruined us. Who comes to take the waters when all of Europe is under siege? But since the tyrant’s abdication, it is a different story. Every room at every inn is taken, even now, in winter. I have made more money in pourboires in six months than in the past three years. This means, of course, that I carry dozens of portmanteaux every day, and as I also direct most of the visitors who arrive on the diligence to their lodgings, I have too many clients to remember one English lady. The town is full of English ladies.” The mention of pourboires suggested to Meyer that the porter’s memory might be assisted by a small coin. The man pocketed it with effusive thanks—but still could not recall an ailing Englishwoman who had arrived three weeks ago with a companion and a servant. “Well,” said Meyer, producing another coin, “where would a wealthy invalid from London be likely to stay? She is taking a treatment at the baths, of course.”
The porter thought for a moment. “Hôtel du Petit Paris, by the cathedral. Or perhaps . . .” He paused, clearly hoping for another coin, but something he saw in Meyer’s face made him resume hastily. “Hôtel d’Angleterre, just inside the Porte des Bains. If she is very wealthy, the Auberge des Cygnes.”
“And what is the attraction at the Auberge des Cygnes?” asked Meyer, finally producing the long-awaited third coin.
“It is very well appointed, monsieur. The emperor’s own sister stayed there several years ago.” The porter seemed to have temporarily forgotten that Napoleon was a villain and a tyrant. “And it is the only inn near the baths, which are a league east of town. I can guide monsieur, or I can procure a gig and driver, or perhaps monsieur would like me to call the ostler back before he stables monsieur’s horse.”
“Thank you, no.” Meyer was already scanning the rooftops of the town, looking for the cathedral. If only Rodrigo were here. Somehow his manservant always knew just which inn to try first. But Rodrigo was many hours behind him, bringing up the carriage he had hired in Barrême. Meyer might not have remembered how big Digne was, but he had certainly remembered the appalling state of the roads, and had concluded that it would be prudent to hire the first vehicle he saw which seemed sturdy enough to have a chance of reaching the coast with all four wheels intact. For a moment he toyed with the idea of sitting down to a long, leisurely meal at the post house. Let Rodrigo canvas twenty inns for news of the woman. But after hours in the saddle, he needed a walk in any case. He gestured towards an elaborate ironwork bell tower some distance away. “Is that the cathedral?”
“Indeed, monsieur. Take the first turning to your right and continue up the hill and you cannot miss it.” Meyer reflexively spun him a fourth coin and set out for the center of the little town.
Naturally, there was no Miss Hart at the Hôtel du Petit Paris. Nor was she nearby at the Angleterre, in spite of its name. They did have a room available, however, and he booked it as a precaution. With a weary sigh, he retrieved his horse from the post house, dispensing yet another coin to the porter, who evidently acted as an intermediary between the inn’s grooms and their customers. At this rate he would dower the porter’s daughter before he found Eli’s damsel in distress.
He could, of course, have tried the other hotels in town first, but something about the description of the Auberge des Cygnes made him think it very probable that Miss Hart would be there. He pictured her, from Eli’s vague description, as one of those perpetually ailing maiden ladies who drift from spa to spa, always certain the cure for their infirmities is just ahead in some yet-untried hot spring or some newly compounded tonic—the more expensive and fashionable, the better. She was probably around thirty; Eli had mentioned an older woman, a companion, and if Miss Hart were herself elderly she would likely have someone younger, to run errands and fetch shawls. She would wear a cap, he thought, and look a bit faded and pinched. To him she would be civil, and speak in a low, fluttering voice, but in private, with her companion, she would be shrewish and demanding.
He had no illusions about Eli’s purpose in sending him here. His brother-in-law was once again attempting to find him a wife. He was not sure who was more embarrassed by these futile episodes—Eli, Louisa, the potential brides, or himself. Luckily the attempts were relatively infrequent. Eli put forward only candidates who met his own demanding requirements as a replacement for his late sister: cultured, well dowered, reasonably attractive women of his own faith. Meyer was not in danger of falling for someone who enjoyed languishing at spas, however, even if she was an heiress. No matter how wealthy she was, he was wealthier. And the more Eli had emphasized Miss Hart’s money, the m
ore he had insisted that she was not really ill, the more certain Nathan had become that Eli must be losing his touch. It was in part, then, out of amused pity for his brother-in-law that he had agreed to go—pity, and, he admitted to himself, curiosity. Why not return to France?—the country he had, in some small way, helped in its battle to expel the usurper. Admittedly, wearing his own clothing and traveling under his own name made him feel exposed and vulnerable, but even that anxiety had its own charm. It was pleasant to feel reckless, after years of caution and secrecy.
His reflections were interrupted by a sudden jolt. His horse had stopped. They had been ambling up a wide thoroughfare along the river valley, and now the road suddenly forked. To the left was a long building tucked underneath the low cliffs that rose behind the river. The domed roof and classical porticoes proclaimed its therapeutic function. He saw an old man in an invalid chair being wheeled along the colonnade by two uniformed attendants, and a matron shepherding her children into the central hall under the dome. The right-hand fork led to a handsome stone inn. The wrought iron gates into the yard were decorated with swan medallions, and the drive swept up to a porch flanked by two statues of swans.
“Auberge des Cygnes,” Meyer told the horse, giving it a nudge. He had hired it in Barrême, but it was either very knowledgeable about the inns of Haute-Provence or it preferred the smell of hay and oats to the smell of mineral-laced steam. It turned right obediently and trotted up to the gates. A very supercilious ostler raised his eyebrows at the sight of the shaggy animal. “Hold him,” said Meyer curtly. “I may only be here a moment.” He swung off the horse and strode into the building, ignoring the boy’s stammering protests.
The interior of the building was even more richly appointed than the exterior. The floors were black-and-white marble, and a massive staircase led up to a gallery beneath a central skylight. To the left was a dining room. Liveried servants were laying the tables for dinner with silver and crystal. To the right was a glassed-in terrace overlooking the river. Elegantly clad guests were sitting at small tables or strolling by the windows. Meyer scanned them idly, wondering if his quarry was there. He saw a number of ladies in bath chairs, most of whom were dozing. They were quite elderly, and their attendants seemed to be younger. There were two women of the right age talking at a table near the entry, but they were speaking Italian. At the far end, closest to the river, were several older couples and a large family. In the center of the room, surprisingly, was a group of lively young people—or rather, a group of six young men, surrounding a petite, fair-haired, young woman who was startlingly pretty, and clearly well aware of that fact. She was flirting with all six admirers simultaneously, her posture and expression so blatantly inviting that for one moment Meyer wondered if she might be a courtesan. No, he decided, she was too tastefully dressed. And she had a chaperon, of sorts: an older woman, some sort of superior servant, sitting stiffly in the corner with her eyes fixed on the coquette in fascinated disapproval.
A cough at his elbow announced the innkeeper. He was even more supercilious than the ostler, and his profound regrets that all of his rooms were spoken for were offered in a very perfunctory manner. His eyes lingered expressively on Meyer’s riding clothes. Clearly the guests of the Auberge des Cygnes were expected to arrive in carriages.
“I am not seeking accommodation,” said Meyer. “Not yet, at any rate.” His tone was perfectly pleasant, but the innkeeper shifted nervously under his stare. “I am seeking a countrywoman, a Miss Hart, who is having a treatment at the baths.”
“Ah—Mademoiselle Hart.” The innkeeper coughed and looked even more nervous.
Good. He would not have to canvas twenty-one more inns. “So she is staying here?”
“Yes, indeed, monsieur.”
“I am expected, I believe.” He handed the innkeeper his card.
“Of course, of course.” The man was steering Meyer back to the central entryway, peering quickly over his shoulder as he did so. “I will send your card up at once, monsieur. If you would care to wait in one of the salons? A room has been reserved for you, near the suite occupied by the ladies, but it is not yet made up.” He beckoned urgently to a servant and sent him running off with the calling card while herding Meyer toward the staircase. “And I wish to assure you that mademoiselle has been attended at all times—at all times, monsieur. You need have no concern. Many English believe that we here in France have no care for the proprieties, but I can promise you that is not so, especially here at the Auberge des Cygnes. This is a place where any young lady may confidently make herself at home, may even—dare I say it?—indulge in some youthful high spirits, secure in the knowledge that her elders are watching over her to check any rash impulse that might be misunderstood.” He gave another anxious glance back at the terrace.
Meyer added two and two without much difficulty. He stopped, shook off the innkeeper’s tug on his sleeve, and turned back to the terrace. “That, I take it, is Miss Hart?” he asked, gesturing towards the blonde Jezebel holding court in the center of the crowd. She was not wearing a cap, and she was most definitely not an invalid. In fact, she looked to be bursting with health. Eli must have thought it a great joke to send him here expecting a sickly spinster.
The innkeeper’s mouth made a little O of surprise. “But—monsieur is not the cousin of the young lady? You are not acquainted?”
“I have never met her, no. I am a family friend. I had business in Nice, and her kinsman asked me to escort her home when she became stranded here with her companion.”
“Stranded?” repeated the innkeeper, bemused. “Companion?”
“I am afraid there has been a misunderstanding,” said a woman’s voice in English behind him.
“Ah, madame,” said the Frenchman with obvious relief. “Here is Monsieur Meyer, who says he is expected.”
Meyer turned, startled, to find a slender, green-eyed woman gazing at him warily and holding his calling card at the end of her fingers as though it might burn her. This woman was, in fact, wearing a cap—a very expensive one, edged with Brussels lace. But judging by the thick, light brown hair under the cap and the color in her cheeks, she was not an invalid either. She took in his windblown hair and riding boots and the slight frown on his face. The red in her cheeks deepened, but she did not lower her eyes.
“I must apologize, Mr. Meyer,” she said. Her tone was not apologetic. It was embarrassed and not a little annoyed. “You have traveled all this way, evidently in some haste, for nothing. My cousin can sometimes . . .” She paused, and began again, more courteously. “I do not know how you came to be so misled. Far from being ‘stranded,’ as you put it, we have been ready to set out for England for over a week. Joshua wrote me that he would be in Grenoble and would like to travel back with us. We have been waiting here for him to join us. Only this morning did I learn that you—a complete stranger—were coming instead.”
He looked over at the laughing group in the terrace room. The girl was reading aloud from a piece of paper—a love letter, perhaps, or a poem. Then she rolled it up and tapped one of her admirers on the cheek in mock reproof.
“You are saying that Miss Hart does not require an escort.” A brigade of duennas, perhaps, but not an escort.
Her eyebrows went up. “She is with me.”
Eli had not mentioned the companion’s name. “Ah. Yes. Mrs. . . .”
“Hart,” she said impatiently. “Abigail Hart, Diana’s mother. And if you think her own mother insufficient protection, perhaps it will ease your mind to learn that we are traveling with two maids, a footman, a coachman, and a courier.”
Meyer shot another glance at the girl, then back at the woman. Her mother. The same fine features, yes, the same smooth forehead and level brows. There was a glint of gold in the light brown hair under the cap. Not as pretty as the daughter; her face was sterner, quieter. The eyes were compelling, though: green edged with black, very clear. At the moment they were also very cold. He was beginning to be annoyed and embarrasse
d on his own account. What could Eli have been thinking? It was not like him to be so careless, sending his victim off to play Sir Lancelot to a maiden who was traveling with her mother, a staff of four, and a professional guide.
“A very reputable gentleman, madame’s courier,” the innkeeper whispered to Meyer. “A former military man, from a good local family.” Evidently the news that Meyer was no relation to Miss Hart had not blunted the innkeeper’s impulse to reassure him about her safety.
Abigail Hart held out the calling card. “We are very grateful for your consideration on our behalf, and I deeply regret this inconvenience.” She paused, and then added stiffly, “We would invite you to dine with us, but we will be busy preparing to leave early tomorrow.”
“Naturally.” Meyer gave a slight bow. “I will be staying at the Angleterre, should you require any assistance getting under way in the morning.” He ignored the card. If she wanted to insult him by returning it, she would have to put it in his pocket herself. After a moment her hand dropped.
“Good-bye, Mr. Meyer.”
“Madam, your most obedient servant.” He did not bow this time.
Diana waited until late in the evening, when Abigail was tired and cross. “That will be all, Lisette,” her daughter said to the maid, holding out her hand for the hairbrush. Abigail’s shoulders, unconsciously braced against the maid’s inexpert tugs, sagged in relief as the girl bobbed her head and withdrew. “We should have brought your maid,” Diana said, lifting her mother’s heavy hair and gently untangling the ends with little swipes of the brush.
Abigail sighed. “Fanny needed Rosie in London. And I thought it would be simpler to hire servants here, people who speak the language and know how to go on.”