by Sheila Walsh
The Duchess beckoned her forward eagerly and Madalena bent to kiss the now painfully thin cheek. ‘Come, ma chère ‒ I have something for you!’ She indicated a package beside her on the bed.
Madalena looked from mother to son and back again before tearing away the wrappings. She stood very still, staring down at what lay revealed.
‘Is it as it should be, child?’
Madalena touched the little alabaster figure of the kneeling Madonna with tentative fingers, quite unable to speak.
‘I described it to Devereux as you described to me,’ continued the Duchess. ‘I think he has been most clever to discover one so soon.’
Madalena’s eyes were blurred. She swallowed on the enormous lump in her throat. ‘It is incroyable!’ she whispered, sinking into the chair and lifting the little statue with reverence on to her knee.
Devereux watched the totally absorbed expression on her face with a sense of satisfaction. He leaned towards his mother and their eyes met in a look of complete understanding. He dropped a light kiss on her forehead.
‘À bientôt, chérie. I must go.’
Madalena looked up then, frowning. ‘Oh, but you do not leave your mama again ‒ so soon?’
His satanic brows twitched. ‘I fear I must ‒ but for a few days only, so pray remove that look of disapproval.’
She turned her attention back to the little figure, marvelling at its exact resemblance to her own. Absently her thumb strayed in an old familiar gesture, smoothing, sliding along the narrow plinth and underneath … her thumb stopped and moved slowly back. Her heart began to thump as she turned the statue over. And then she was standing it carefully on the table and running to the door, leaving behind a very bewildered Duchess.
The Duke had already reached the bottom of the staircase as she sped after him in a flurry of muslin skirts. She called ‒ and he turned. Two steps above him she stopped, breathless, her whole body tense.
‘Dev? Oh, please ‒ I must speak with you!’
He eyed her for a moment in silence and then put out a hand to draw her down the remaining stairs and into the library.
Almost before the door was shut, Madalena blurted out, ‘The little statue ‒ how did you come by it?’
He considered her quietly. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because it is mine.’ She thought he would deny it and rushed on without pause, her voice shaking very slightly, ‘There is no mistake, I promise you! My initials are on the base, where I carved them many years ago.’
Devereux wore his stranger’s face ‒ severe ‒ withdrawn. It frightened her. And then the hard, brilliant eyes softened into self-mockery. ‘I never thought of that!’ he murmured.
‘You knew that it was mine?’ Madalena stared ‒ a whole flood of possibilities suddenly unleashed themselves. But through her confusion one thought superseded all others. ‘But then …’ it was an awed whisper, ‘… but then … you must have been in France … at Plassy! You must have seen Papa!’
For answer he walked to a Buhl desk on the far wall beside the fireplace. From his pocket he extracted a small gilt key with which he unlocked one of the drawers. He turned with a letter in his hand.
‘You were to have received this anonymously, but there now seems little point.’
She sat curled up in an armchair near the window and Devereux watched the animation in her face as she avidly digested every word, tears rolling silently down her cheeks to be impatiently brushed aside.
He turned abruptly to the window in the grip of, what was for him, a new emotion ‒ jealousy! A wild, irrational jealousy that any man, albeit her father, could arouse in her such depths of feeling!
She came at last to just touch his arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply, and then half-hesitating, ‘He is well ‒ Papa?’
‘Yes.’
‘And … he is being careful?’
Devereux looked down at her, knowing he could not fob her off with platitudes. ‘You know your father,’ he said gravely.
‘Oh yes!’ Madalena heaved a great sigh. ‘Complete integrity can be a very tiresome virtue ‒ but one would not wish him different.’ She glanced again at the letter. ‘It is addressed to both of us. You do not think Armand will mind that I have opened it?’
‘I doubt it will worry Armand.’
‘No ‒ and besides, he is away somewhere with Daniel Merchent ‒ he would never expect me to await his return.’
‘Young Armand is spending a lot of time with Dan Merchent.’
She shrugged. ‘Ah well, life is a little dull for him here.’ She grinned impishly. ‘Kit is so often in Town and to be in a house full of women is tiresome.’
‘I would rather Armand knew nothing of this,’ Devereux said abruptly.
‘You mean I should not let him see the letter?’
‘No ‒ that is not what I mean. I should simply prefer him to know nothing of my part in its delivery.’
Madalena’s eyes were troubled and there was a queer, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘Dev!’ she whispered. ‘What is it that you do?’
‘No questions, Madalena,’ he said curtly. ‘Will you just do as I ask?’
‘But of course,’ she said, simply, while the fear crawled insidiously up her spine. ‘If that is what you wish. I will leave the little statue here also, so that there will be no danger of Armand seeing it.’
‘Thank you, little one.’ He took possession of her hands and studied them before carrying first one and then the other to his lips. ‘I must go. When I return, perhaps we can ride together.’
‘Oh!’ Madalena’s voice felt very strange, for her heart was beating right up in her throat. ‘I am to go away myself in two days’ time with Tante Vernon and Phoebe ‒ to the home of Phoebe’s affianced husband.’ And I very much wish that I were not, she almost added, but since Dev did not appear to feel any great degree of disappointment she kept silent, and for the remainder of her visit the Duchess found her strangely subdued.
The day for their journey into Wiltshire dawned hot and sultry so that, before they had covered half the distance, Mrs Vernon was wilting. She complained bitterly and at great length about everything from the weather to the post boys ‒ and the frustrations of travelling without the support of a man, for it was obvious for all to see that they had been fobbed off with a shockingly winded team at the last change.
The Brownlows’ house lay just beyond the little market town of Craigford, which necessitated their travelling the length of the main thoroughfare. Mrs Vernon wakened from an uneasy doze to behold Madalena leaning suicidally from the window and, in a state of great agitation, imploring the driver to halt the chaise! Toute de suite!
Already nervous of foreigners, and persuaded that it must be a matter of life or death, the post boy complied with a suddenness which all but catapulted the three ladies to the floor.
Deaf to querulous demands that she should explain her extraordinary behaviour at once, Madalena continued to hang from the window of the chaise in a manner which caused her aunt to turn pale ‒ and almost brought on one of her spasms.
‘Child!’ she entreated faintly. ‘I implore you! Only consider what people must think! Consider Phoebe’s reputation if you have no regard for your own!’
But Madalena only presented a shining face to her aunt. ‘It is Paul Renault! We grew up together at Plassy. I do not at all understand how he is here, but …’ In the midst of these confused explanations she turned back and waved frantically. ‘Paul … Oh, Paul, mon cher ami … viens ici! À moi!’
The young man so addressed stopped dead in the act of crossing the street. He was a slight, fair young man in a blue uniform coat with red facings. He turned in amazed disbelief on hearing his name so familiarly called.
‘Little Maddie!’ He gripped his friend’s arm convulsively. ‘Gaston, my friend ‒ do you see? In the chaise ‒ it is Madalena de Brussec! Oh, I do not believe it!’
In a few strides he was at the door of the chaise, reaching up hands in affec
tionate greeting to the dear playmate of his childhood.
As they laughed and exclaimed over one another, Mrs Vernon lay back, inert, convinced that the whole town must by now be witness to the whole deplorable spectacle; her poor Phoebe would never in the future be able to hold up her head amongst them.
Phoebe herself, whilst sensible of her mother’s feelings, was nonetheless infected by some of Madalena’s excitement. She leaned forward eagerly to find herself looking straight down into a pair of cynically appraising grey eyes. She caught her breath on a startled gasp and withdrew at once in rosy confusion.
Captain Gaston Marceau wondered fleetingly who was the little mouse in the chaise. He shrugged ‒ and returned his attention once more to the animated couple at his side.
‘But how is it that you are here?’ Madalena was demanding. ‘I do not understand …’
‘Little goose! This is a parole town. Did you not know? And how are you here, might I ask?’
They exchanged news; Madalena was able to give Paul an account of his family and regretted volubly that Armand was not with her ‒ and Paul recounted his adventures leading up to his capture. He would say little of his early imprisonment in the hulks, merely remarking that they were now very tolerably comfortable. There were some two hundred men, he told her, most of them in a converted barracks on the outskirts of the town. A few of the more fortunate officers, including Gaston and himself however, had given their parole and were lodging in the town itself.
Madalena at last recollected herself and hasty introductions were performed. Mrs Vernon roused a little on learning that the two men were frequent visitors at the Brownlows, and indeed were promised there on the following evening for dinner prior to attending a ball in the local Assembly Rooms, a piece of information which caused Phoebe’s heart to give a treacherous flutter.
Indeed, when the two girls were dressing on the following evening, and Phoebe turned the conversation yet again to the subject of the two Frenchmen, Madalena began to be a little dismayed.
‘Phoebe, chérie ‒ I beg of you ‒ do not let Captain Marceau lead you to be indiscreet!’
Phoebe bridled and flounced across to sit at the dressing mirror. The new blue lutestring dress was one of several made especially for this visit ‒ surely it made her eyes seem twice as bright? ‘I am sure I don’t know what you mean,’ she countered evasively.
‘Yes you do,’ said Madalena flatly. ‘He will make you very unhappy if you allow him to do so.’
‘I don’t know how you can say such a thing! You don’t even know him.’
‘I do not need to know him. I know his kind. He is of a hardness, that one. He would amuse himself with you for as long as it pleased him to do so ‒ and then he would walk away without a qualm and leave your heart in little pieces.’
Phoebe rounded on her in anger. ‘Well, I must say that’s rich, coming from you! And you still hankering after Lytten in spite of his abominable behaviour!’
Raw anguish flared in Madalena’s eyes; her face grew as white as her dress, but Phoebe was too incensed to notice. ‘For me it is different,’ she said a little unsteadily, ‘but you have your nice John to consider.’
‘Oh ‒ he is so dull and unromantic.’
‘You have never thought so until now.’ Madalena came and wound her arms round the other girl’s unyielding shoulders. ‘He is right for you, my Phoebe. He is good and kind and so … very British!’ In the mirror, her riot of red-gold curls contrasted startlingly with Phoebe’s delicate fairness ‒ and her eyes, deeply amber, were urgent in their appeal. ‘Please believe me. I am right, I promise you.’
Phoebe shrugged off her cousin’s embrace and sprang up, smoothing the blue dress with impatient fingers. ‘Goodness! I’m sure I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I dare swear Captain Marceau will scarcely notice me.’
But later in the evening, as Madalena danced a cotillion with John Brownlow, she was only too aware of Phoebe being partnered by the Captain and being treated to that irresistible blend of careless charm and arrogant self-mockery ‒ and responding with eyes that shone like jewels. It was impossible that John Brownlow should not also be aware of his fiancée’s complete absorption.
When the Captain led Phoebe back to her chair and leaned forward, all attention, Madalena seized John by the hand and propelled him towards the engrossed couple.
The next few minutes were charged with unspoken emotion as general politenesses were exchanged. John was grim and monosyllabic, Phoebe truculent, and the bold Captain faintly amused. Only Madalena kept up a non-stop flow of pleasantries until the music began again, when she gently propelled the reluctant lovers towards the dance floor.
Gaston Marceau leaned a slim shoulder against the wall and folded his arms, watching the proceedings with amused indifference.
‘Playing propriety, mademoiselle? Strange ‒ I should not have thought you the type.’
‘Captain Marceau,’ Madalena rebuked him severely. ‘My little cousin is betrothed to Mr Brownlow, as I think you well know. I will not have her future put in jeopardy and her whole life made miserable by such a one as you!’
‘Eh bien? And what of my misery, mademoiselle ‒ do you not consider that?’
Madalena’s eyes twinkled suddenly. ‘Not one whit, monsieur, for I do not believe you are in the least miserable. You are simply consumed with ennui!’
The cynicism was back, etched deep in the lines of his face. ‘Being a prisoner of war is a boring business!’
She nodded. ‘Yes, this I can understand. But it does not excuse your behaviour. Phoebe is not fair game for you, mon Capitaine.’ She gave him a frank, thoughtful look. ‘Surely, even here in Craigford, there are those who would be only too willing to … comfort you?’
To her astonishment, Gaston Marceau put back his head and laughed ‒ and at once he appeared years younger. ‘Mademoiselle Madalena ‒ I thank you, for reminding me how straight-forward and practical is the mind of the Frenchwoman!’
He held out his hands to her. ‘And now, before young Paul claims you for yet more of his enervating childhood reminiscences, perhaps you will dance with me?’
‘But of course, Captain Marceau. And you will please to flirt no more with Phoebe.’ Madalena dashed him a wide grin. ‘You may flirt just a little with me instead!’
Chapter Eight
Armand de Brussec leaned an arm along the back of the settle and stared moodily out at the grey sea. A sudden squall of rain splattered the window, beneath which an ancient inn sign squeaked monotonously back and forth in a stiff breeze.
From the room behind him came the spasmodic murmur of voices interspersed with much high-pitched giggling ‒ a sure sign that Sir Vyvian Courtney was enjoying himself.
Smuggling had offered excitement and romance to the soul of the young Frenchman bored with life in a strange country; waiting with Daniel for Captain Wilkins’ schooner to anchor off the Kent coast, avoiding the Revenue men ‒ and once, even a squadron of Dragoons ‒ in order to get the contraband ashore ‒ all this greatly appealed to a young man until recently considered too delicate to attempt the least exertion.
And when Daniel had suggested actually crossing to France with Captain Wilkins, the possibility had filled him with a sudden homesickness that had made him say yes at once; without considering the dangers. Madalena would be away with Tante Vernon ‒ she need never know!
But in his imagination he had not equated a visit to his homeland with being incarcerated in this squalid, uncomfortable inn, whilst Daniel concluded what he termed the boring details of their transactions.
Re-examining the small, busy wharf, Armand estimated that there must be upwards of a dozen vessels, everything from trim little ketches and luggers to Captain Wilkins’s swift, two masted schooner, and all, without a doubt, plying the same illicit trade.
The more he thought, the more it seemed inconceivable that such a harbour could exist without someone in authority knowing of it ‒ and thereby sanctioning it! Mon Dieu!
The thought raised a whole new flood of possibilities!
For example ‒ the man who was now deep in conversation with Daniel ‒ a tall man, stern of countenance and of a military bearing ‒ of a surety he was no ordinary smuggler. Even as Armand watched, the man gestured towards a pile of crates lying on the wharf, and after further brief discussion, a package changed hands.
Here, Armand’s thoughts were interrupted. A pair of soft, white arms wound themselves seductively round his neck.
‘The young monsieur is looking pensive. Babette, will remove that frown, heh?’
He stiffened with embarrassment and endeavoured to draw away from the full-blown blonde. Her cheap perfume nauseated him and made him stumble hoarsely over his words. ‘No thank you, mademoiselle.’
His politeness enchanted her ‒ sending her at once into peals of laughter; it shook her fast-developing double chins and creased the young face already raddled by paint.
‘Did you hear, Jeannette? What a little gentleman! Like I was his sister, if you please!’
The unfortunate comparison with Madalena only aroused further disgust in Armand, but the doxy, undeterred, was already undoing the buttons of his shirt and waistcoat. She slid her hand provocatively inside, where it lay warm against his skin.
‘You don’t have to be so formal with Babette, chéri. Come ‒ I will show you!’
Her breath was offensive so close to his face. Armand clambered to his feet in a panic, almost overturning the settle and sending the girl staggering.
Enraged, she planted herself before him, hands spread aggressively on ample hips, her breasts, already inadequately confined, threatening to burst free at any moment.
‘Sacré Nom! But you insult me, monsieur!’ she spat at him.