Minuet

by Joan Smith

  The same could not be said for Minou. Henri’s groom had kept track of his master’s habiliments, but the young lady’s had been left behind at some undetermined spot, and were not available to her. After her bath, she looked at the canopies and draperies of her chamber, but her mother ordered her into bed and went into the streets herself to try to find in some little hole called Folkestone, with not an elegant shop in the entire town, an outfit to ensnare Lord Degan.

  Minou had her breakfast in bed, and when Lady Harlock went belowstairs to meet the gentlemen, she said the girl was unwell, and not to be disturbed. A glance at Degan told her he had reverted already to propriety, as she had foreseen happening. He looked a very tooth-drawer in his black outfit, but he was not to be allowed to shab off on her daughter for all that.

  With a French flair undiminished by her incarceration at the asylum, she set about buying up the most innocent-looking material she could lay a hand on to belie her daughter’s shame. White—she must be made to wear white to stress her youth and innocence. No low-cut gowns (pity, for she had very nice bosoms), no garish colors or excess of bows and finery. No, she must be presented as a sort of human saint, with a smattering of rice powder to hide the bloom on her cheeks and create an aura of vulnerability. These machinations took considerable time, and with the word that his beloved had fallen ill, Degan had no notion of being away from her for an instant.

  When the mother returned to the inn, she found him in Minou’s room with the door closed, looking as guilty as a fox in the chicken coop with a mouthful of feathers. Certainly he had been sitting on her bed! The depression left by his big body was still to be seen. He was requested in a lofty tone to please await them below, as she saw Minou had recovered somewhat, and could be dressed now.

  She could not be dressed in a gown without several hours’ work by modistes, but she was soon pinned into yards of white peau de soie and sitting demurely in the morning parlor with her mother on one side, Henri on the other.

  A meeting was then called to determine their course. Lady Harlock did not wish to return to her husband without some embellishment to her own person, nor was it wise to keep jostling Édouard about needlessly. She decided to send a groom off to London to inform John of their safe return, and to request him to come after them. He disliked any bother or fuss, but being put a little out of his way after ten years was not considered too great an imposition, particularly as it would save him the greater bother of producing another son and heir.

  She did her husband an injustice to judge him so severely. He had pelted down to Dover days before, after fretting for forty-eight hours over the disappearance of Minou, Henri and Degan, and after a few consultations with Fox. When no trace had been discovered in Dover, he further discommoded himself by a trip in his well-sprung chaise to Margate, twenty miles north, then to Folkestone, ten miles south. He had discovered there that his relatives had left from Folkestone, and he himself was at that moment putting up with a judge with whom he had some connection not five miles away. The man had a marvelous wine cellar. He heard of the arrival of the group, for it was big news in Folkestone and the area, at about the same time Henri’s groom set out for London, and long before dinner he was hastening toward them.

  He had been very worried at first, as word of Robespierre’s arrest and execution came across the Channel, followed by talk of more purges. But on August 1 the guillotine had stopped. No more executions were carried out. True, one hundred heads had rolled in the last three days; they were saying close to three thousand in all, in Paris alone since September of ‘93, but then everything was exaggerated, and the papers indicated this was the end of it. There was talk of prisoners being released from the jails, and if Henri and the others had only been a little patient, none of this awful trip would have been necessary.

  It was his own awful trip to the coast he had in mind. A nice little sail across the Channel for three hardy youngsters would have been enjoyable, and Paris was a lively spot. With the revolution as well as over when they got there, he thought they must have had a pleasant visit.

  He arrived at five o’clock, when the group had just begun to break up. Minou’s gown had begun coming apart and she went abovestairs to repair it. When Degan had taken a step after her, Lady Harlock told Henri he would like to go out for a walk with Lord Degan, and to stop at the chemist’s shop and ask him to step around to see Édouard, or to send a doctor if he knew one. She was about to go up to Édouard herself when John bolted into the inn. He stopped on the threshold of the parlor, from which she was emerging, and stood staring.

  “Well, so you’ve come back,” was his salutation to his wife after ten years absence under the most terrible of circumstances.

  She was furious. He had caught her after hours away from her mirror, without her hair done, her cheeks rouged, or any attempts at a more elegant toilette than she had worn in the asylum.

  “What does it look like?” she asked in a waspish tone.

  He laughed nervously. “It looks like you, and it sounds like you, still with that demmed accent. Glad to see you, Marie.”

  He closed the door behind him and came toward her, hesitantly. “I hope you mean to stay this time?”

  “It is more than a visit,” she replied encouragingly.

  “Ah, Marie, I’ve missed you, lass,” he said penitently, and put his arms around her. Not till that minute did he realize how much he had missed her, but when he had her safe in his arms, he began to feel very sorry for himself and his loss. Ten years! “No jogging off on me this time, hear?” he said sternly.

  “The terms remain the same, John,” she warned him.

  “You speak of your son, I suppose.”

  “Yes, Henri. I cannot be parted from him again. If you do not wish to be parted from our children, you will take him into the bargain.”

  “Oh, as to that, he has as well as lived with me and Minou all the while she was with me. We have patched up all that business,” he said with resignation.

  “Ah, Jean, you are kind,” she said in a tearful voice. She was a very good actress, and as shrewd as can hold together. John was unconscionably selfish, but then so was she, and she had won at last. She could be generous with words.

  “I would have accepted him sooner, but Fox said it would be better if it not be talked up, your connection with the Virais. That would have done you no good in Paris.”

  She placed not a jot of reliance on this story, but did not permit it to shadow the tender scene of reconciliation that was being enacted, and soon reenacted abovestairs where John went, eager to see the son and heir. Edward made up for a multitude of transgressions. Harlock to the tip of his long nose and long jaw. Didn’t even have the same Frenchie accent as Marie and Minou. As thin as a string, but good English mutton and fog would take care of that.

  “We’ll take the lad off to Harlock Hall to fatten him up,” John decided.

  It was early August, with the season a month away. A sojourn at Harlock Hall resting amid gay country parties and shopping trips to London was not unfaceable, and she capitulated without a complaint. Then it was time to settle Minou’s fate.

  “About this Lord Degan who came after us, Jean—”

  “Lud, you could have bowled me over with a feather,” he answered. “Degan, of all people, to go off half-cocked. But he didn’t know Henri was her brother, and was outraged at the impropriety of Sal’s dashing off with him. A very high stickler along those lines.”

  “What concern was it of his?” the mother asked.

  “Well—my cousin, after all. He would not like any scandal to attach to any of the family. We have been close the last years, Rob and myself.”

  “He loves Minou?” she asked.

  “Loves her? He can’t abide the sight or sound of the girl. He is too nice for our Sal. Don’t go getting that idea in your noggin, m’dear. He has done nothing but jaw and nag at her since the night she landed in, swearing and slugging brandy and wearing tatters. He was shocked at her behavior.
Well, sleeping with men in hayricks—”

  “Jean, what do you mean? I heard nothing of this.”

  “Nothing to get in a pelter about, Marie. It was all innocent, but the looks of it is very bad, you must own. Degan felt I ought to get her buckled up fast to someone, and I began to see after she set the town on its ear with her liberty caps and so on that it was a good idea, but as to Degan having her, it is no such thing. Nor he wouldn’t do for her either. He is so strict there’s no comprehending the man.”

  “Why did you permit her to make a scandal of herself in London?” Marie asked, indignant. “As to Degan being a pineapple of perfection, you have a wrong idea of that young man, I tell you. He has not behaved at all comme il faut.”

  “It wasn’t like him to go dashing off half-cocked to Paris,” he admitted foolishly.

  “No, and not like him to be making love to her every time my back was turned either.”

  “You’re wrong,” John answered simply. “Would never occur to him.”

  “Wrong, am I? Henri said he would marry her.”

  “Oh, Henri and Degan never had a common thought in their lives. Hated each other on sight, but I won’t let it stand in the way of accepting Mérigot. Tell the town who he really is, if you like.”

  “I like very much, but Degan—”

  “Lud, quit harping on Degan. He wouldn’t have her if she were a princess, which she ain’t, and he isn’t the man for her, either. We’ll arrange a good match for the girl, never fear. Aunt Dee left her the Dorset place, you know.”

  “Yes, you told me in a letter. How large is it?”

  “Very large. Large enough to get her a good parti.”

  This was welcome news, but still Minou loved the incomprehensible Degan, and he must be made to have her. “You will speak to Degan all the same,” she told him.

  Before he was required to seek out Degan, Degan came to him. After a short talk about the adventure, Degan cleared his throat and said, “I have decided, that is Minou and I have decided, that we ought to get married.”

  “Not in the least necessary,” Harlock informed him in an apologetic way. “Never mind what Marie says. You’ve done more than enough to cover the girl’s shame, but there’s no reason you should be stuck for life with a girl that’s half French, when all’s said and done.”

  “You don’t understand, John. We have been traveling together in France, unaccompanied. There are a few things we thought it best not to tell your wife. For several nights it was necessary, due to conditions you understand, for us to share a room.”

  “Yes, well, there’s no need anyone should know that, and I’m sure you didn’t share a bed.”

  “Not exactly, but I do feel it would be best for Minou to be married as soon as possible. There are bound to be questions in London, and if she were already my wife—”

  “Pooh. Nonsense. You worry too much about what people will say. I mean to announce that Henri is Marie’s son, and it will be known he was with you both. As far as that goes, no one knows either you or Sal was out of town at all. I put out she had a cold, and you was gone to the country.”

  “When your wife and son show up, things are bound to leak out. Best to be prepared.”

  “I appreciate your scruples, Rob, but it ain’t necessary. You two wouldn’t suit in the least. A divorce won’t add much to the family’s respectability, will it?”

  “There will be no divorce. I want to marry her. I love her.”

  “No, you don’t,” Harlock answered conclusively. “You’re infatuated. Give yourself a week. It will pass.”

  “I’ve had more than a week. It does not pass. I’m going to marry her, and I would prefer to do it with your consent.”

  For Degan to take such a high hand, hint even at—what? a runaway match?—was inexplicable. “Marry her if you like, but I warn you, you make a mistake.”

  “Thank you. The mistake was in not marrying her before we left. We wish to do it before returning to London.”

  “Damme, we’re leaving as soon as may be.”

  “Édouard must recuperate a few days.”

  “Édouard ? Did you call my son Édouard?” Harlock bellowed. “Damme, I begin to think you’ve suffered an injury to the brain over there in that foreign place.”

  “You must blame the Butcher of Lozère for it,” Degan replied enigmatically, confirming Harlock in his opinion. He then went off to make his offer to his bride, for the tenth or eleventh time.

  John was convinced the lad had run mad, and shook his own head ruefully. This match would come to no good end.

  Lady Harlock was standing guard over her daughter in the girl’s chamber. “I want to see Minou alone,” Degan said brazenly.

  “I’m afraid it is impossible for you to see a young lady alone in her bedchamber,” she pointed out stiffly.

  “I have seen her alone in several other bedchambers, Lady Harlock. A bit late in the day for this concern. But if you wish to hear my proposal, by all means stay. I wish you to take your hand off my elbow, however.”

  The hand flew from his elbow, only to grab his upper arm. “An offer, you say? You mean to marry her?” she asked eagerly. “It must be done at once.”

  “The sooner the better,” he agreed, and with a delighted gurgle of laughter, Minou bounded forward to throw herself into his arms.

  “Now you are caught, Pierre!” she cautioned him.

  Silly chit, to be revealing her schemes.

  Lord Harlock, determined to save his cousin from the fate he had suffered himself, went after him up the stairs, just as Henri came out of Edward’s room. He too joined the party.

  “Now see here, Marie,” Harlock began, suspecting the hand of his wife in the affair. “I don’t want you pestering Rob to marry Sal. He don’t want to marry her. He only wants to wrap this mess up in clean linen. I daresay Sal ain’t in favor of it either.”

  “Oh, but I am, Papa!” his daughter told him at once.

  “No you ain’t. Heard you call him a dull old stick times out of mind.”

  “I was mistaken,” she said, with a mischievous smile at Degan. “He is not at all dull.”

  “I have been jostled out of all that complacency and dullness,” Degan explained to his cousin.

  “You’ve let the women talk you into it, in other words, but you’ll live to regret it,” John warned him.

  “You are being très stupide, Papa!” Minou shouted angrily, while Marie lowered her brows at him in a minatory fashion.

  “Suit yourself,” the father said, tossing up his hands. “But I take leave to tell you, Degan, you’re making a bad mistake. This hussy will lead you a merry dance.”

  “I mean to take up dancing, John. I have felt the lack of it in France.”

  Mérigot, with his usual savoir-faire, summed up the situation and came to the rescue, piloting his mother and stepfather out the door, suggesting they all go below and order dinner.

  “That’s settled then,” Degan said, sweeping Minou into his arms. “Now may I know when you took upon yourself to castigate me publicly as a dull stick?”

  “When you were one,” she answered saucily. “Before you came to Paris, and also I think before you got your maroon jacket. Then you looked less like a stick.”

  “I have felt very unlike a stick ever since meeting you. Sunshine and rain to my withering limbs. I’ll be bursting into leaf any minute.”

  “Blooms, Pierre. You will blossom into flowers for me.”

  He blossomed into a very young smile instead, and soon into embraces that were not at all dull, or very proper either. “Do you realize this is the first time I’ve kissed you?” he asked between embraces.

  “Pierre! What a shocking memory! You kissed me first at Amiens, then at Beauvais, and Paris and—”

  “No, I kissed Agnès Maillard at some of those places, and a proper forward wench she was too. To my shame, François Blanchard at others, but since your mother came along and got you into that shroud, I haven’t been allowed within t
en yards of you without an audience. Let us make up for lost time, mademoiselle.”

  He kissed her so competently she suspected he had a few other persons than Agnès and Franéois on his list of partners, but he assured her it was a natural aptitude on his part, hitherto undeveloped. He was so bent on improving this new talent that it was necessary for Harlock to send Mérigot upstairs to summon them to dinner.

  A discreet tap on the door separated them, and Henri peeped his head in, smiling broadly. “Welcome to the family, Père Degan,” he said. “You had nearly as much trouble entering it as I had myself. A rum touch, our papa, hein? He asked me to address him as Papa, imaginez! Mama had a hand in that, I think.”

  “I wish you could bring yourself to call me frère rather than père,” Degan suggested, “as we will soon be connected.”

  “Me, I think I shall continue to call you Taureau.” He laughed. “But you must take it easy on my little sister, or I’ll tell the Butcher on you. At the moment, Le Taureau’s presence is requested belowstairs for dinner. You as well, heifer. The meat smells delicious. I hope they haven’t ruined it by trying to make a ragoût.”

  “Oh, and the bread is so good here!” Minou said, her eyes shining. “We can make love anytime, Pierre. Let us go and eat.”

  Pierre was not at all hungry for bread and meat, but as Henri took possessive charge of Minou’s elbow, he hastened after them.

  Copyright © 1980 by Joan Smith

  Originally published by Fawcett Coventry in September, 1980

  Electronically published in 2006 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.