by Sandra Heath
This unease was with her on the day of the banquet, when everything was in readiness and she was dressing in her apartment. Outside the lanterns had been lighted and the courtyard was bathed with lights of different colors. It was a fine, clear evening, without any wind and of just the right amount of coolness. Lowering the curtain into place once more, she turned to look at her reflection in the cheval glass.
Her gown was made of delicate white muslin, sprigged with a delicate design of tiny golden stitches. Its waistline was very high beneath her breasts and was drawn in by a golden string. The neckline was low but not immodest, and the sleeves were very full and diaphanous, gathered in tightly at her wrists. She wore no jewelry, for she had none, and the only adornment was in her hair, where she had pinned a few red roses, stolen from the flowers ordered for the banquet. She surveyed herself in the mirror for a little longer and then picked up the shawl. She just had time to visit the kitchens and see that all was well before the guests were due to arrive.
She crossed the vestibule with its walls of standards and union jacks, the scent of the foliage of the orange trees filling the air, and made her way toward the kitchens, where the bustle was immense as final garnishes were placed upon the cold dishes and where the ingredients were being prepared for the hot dishes that had to be cooked at the very last moment. The smell of cooking was quite delicious as Caroline approached along a passage lined with narrow tables upon which stood domed silver dishes waiting to be borne into the banquet.
In the kitchens everyone went efficiently about their allotted tasks, and Gaspard, looking pale and tense, gave brief orders which were instantly and unquestioningly carried out. Boisville, as the entremettier, was overseeing the assistants who were preparing the soups, and he hardly glanced up as Caroline entered. She had barely stepped into the room, however, when there was a knocking at the garden door, and Mrs. Hollingsworth hurried to see who it was. Caroline could see her at the door, although she could not see who was there, and noticing the housekeeper’s puzzled expression and shaking head, she went to discover what was going on.
“What is it, Mrs. Hollingsworth?”
“This fellow is from Covent Garden market; he says he’s delivering our last-minute order.”
“But there is no last-minute order,” said Caroline, looking curiously at the redheaded young man who stood there, a covered basket at his feet, his cap twisting nervously in his hands. “What order is it supposed to be?”
“Violets, ma’am, twenty-five posies.” He removed the cloth from the basket and she saw the neat little bunches of purple flowers.
“We did not order them; there has been some mistake.”
“No mistake, ma’am, the man said we was to deliver twenty-five posies of violets to the Lexham Hotel before the banquet tonight. This is the Lexham Hotel, ain’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then I’ve done what I was sent to do. Here you are.” He picked up the basket and thrust it into Caroline’s hands, then before she could say anything more, he turned on his heel and hurried away across the kitchen garden, through the wicket gate, and on toward the mews lane, soon vanishing from sight among the shadows between the lanterns in the trees.
“Well!” declared Mrs. Hollingsworth crossly. “Did you ever see the like of it? We did not place this order and we certainly will not be paying for it; I’ll see to that!”
“We’d better take the basket inside,” said Caroline, turning back into the busy kitchen, where she placed it upon the floor in a relatively quiet corner. She saw Boisville turn, his glance going swiftly to the contents of the basket and then immediately toward Gaspard. The chef had paused in the middle of chopping some herbs. His face had drained of what little color it had and he was staring at the innocuous violets as if they were venomous snakes.
“Gaspard?” asked Mrs. Hollingsworth quickly, hurrying toward him. “Whatever is the matter? You look quite dreadful.”
The chef did not reply. His eyes were haunted as he dragged them away from the basket at last and looked straight at Boisville. His hand trembled as he put the herb chopper slowly down.
The kitchens had become very quiet suddenly as everyone looked at the chef. The only sound was the bubbling of the pans upon the ranges and the sizzling of the various joints upon the slowly turning spits.
Mrs. Hollingsworth became alarmed. “Gaspard? Are you unwell?’’
Still the chef did not say anything, but he seemed filled with dread. Boisville stepped forward then. “I fear, madam, that Monsieur Duvall is—how do you say?—superstitious?”
“Superstitious?” asked Caroline. “About what?”
“Violets, mademoiselle.”
“But that is nonsense,” she replied firmly.
“Nevertheless, mademoiselle, to him they are an omen of great ill.”
“They are only flowers,” she said, turning to Gaspard. “Monsieur?”
At last he spoke. “F-forgive me, mademoiselle, but I cannot help ...” Again his hollow eyes moved toward Boisville’s cold, unsmiling face.
“I will have the violets removed,” she said then, her tone brisk, but as she turned to do just that, Gaspard shook his head.
“They have come into the house, mademoiselle, their task is done.”
“Task? What task? What are you talking about?”
He made a great effort to recover, picking up the herb chopper again and managing a small smile. “It is of no matter.” But his tone lacked all conviction and both Caroline and Mrs. Hollingsworth knew that it mattered very much indeed. Caroline looked swiftly at Boisville, who silently returned to his own duties, and as Gaspard brought the chopper down upon the herbs, the whole kitchen began to go about its tasks once more.
Caroline and Mrs. Hollingsworth exchanged glances, and Caroline knew that the housekeeper was wondering exactly the same as she was: who had ordered the violets, and why had they done so? For a moment she considered the possibility that this was the work of one of her enemies—perhaps a final effort from Marcia, or maybe it could be Dominic—-but somehow she knew that it had nothing to do with them. Whoever had sent the violets had done so for an entirely different motive. But what?
She had no time to think more on the problem, for a footman came looking for her at that moment to tell her that the guests were beginning to arrive. Swiftly she told Mrs. Hollingsworth to remove the basket of violets from Gaspard’s sight, and with a final despairing glance at his ashen, agitated face, she left the kitchens to take up her position in the vestibule. The great banquet was about to begin.
Chapter 31
The distinguished guests had all taken their places and awaited the arrival of the duke. The light of hundreds of tall wax tapers glittered on military orders, glowed on the scarlet uniforms of generals and the dark blue of admirals, shone upon the somber garb of bishops; and showed up to perfection the elegant clothes of earls, lords, and dukes. The orchestra played softly in the background and the dining room hummed with the low sound of male conversation.
Quivering with apprehension and toying nervously with her reticule, Caroline waited in the outer vestibule, her heart beating more swiftly as she distinctly heard the sound of distant cheering from the darkness outside. Nodding her head at the porter, she watched as the doors were opened, revealing the brightly lit courtyard and the smoking flambeaux of the servants lining the path the duke’s carriage and escort would take.
At last she heard the clatter of hooves and the splendidly uniformed light dragoons rode beneath the pedimented gateway, followed by the landau drawn by four black horses, and behind this poured the excited crowd, shouting and cheering their hero. With only Hal at his side, the duke glanced neither to the right nor the left as the carriage rolled across the courtyard toward the flower-strewn steps of the hotel.
Caroline turned once, sensing Mrs. Hollingsworth’s presence. Her eyes met the housekeeper’s a little questioningly, but Mrs. Hollingsworth shook her head, thus conveying to Caroline the unwelcome news
that all was not well in the kitchens. Caroline’s pulse quickened and she took a deep breath to steady herself, forcing a smile to her lips as the carriage came to a halt and she stepped forward to greet the duke, as he had asked.
From the balcony above, the young girls showered the duke and Hal with rose petals, and the pressing, excited crowd cheered again. As before, the duke looked taller than he was, and tonight he also looked very dignified in navy-blue velvet, with a sapphire-blue sash across his breast and a magnificent silver star pinned over his heart. Beside him, Hal wore discreet black, the diamond pin in his lace-edged cravat not in any way vying with the duke’s decoration.
The two men mounted the flowery steps and Caroline sank into a deep curtsy, one which she had been practicing time after time in the cheval glass in her apartment. She avoided looking at Hal.
“Welcome to the Lexham Hotel, Your Grace.”
Smiling, the duke bent to raise her, drawing her hand to his lips. “By Gad, Miss Lexham, you look dazzling. What say you, Seymour, eh?”
“Quite dazzling,” was the cool response.
Momentarily her eyes met his, and then she looked deliberately away again, not revealing by so much as a flicker the easy hurt he inflicted with that bland indifference.
The duke drew her hand through his arm, glancing with approval at the embellishments of the vestibule. “You’ve done me proud, m’dear, I thank ‘e.”
Her whole body quivered invisibly as she proceeded between the avenue of orange trees on the duke’s arm, the strains of “Rule Britannia” echoing all around.
They went slowly up the grand staircase and out onto the balcony, where an immediate delighted roar went up from the huge throng pressed into the courtyard. Hats were thrown into the air, arms waved and coats were shaken aloft, and the duke stood impassively accepting the adulation. He smiled just a little, inclining his head several times, and he certainly did not strain himself greatly to win their rapturous applause, but for all that there was something singularly dramatic and inspiring about him. He commanded them all simply by being there, just as he had done on many a field of battle. He won confidence, loyalty, and reverence, and he did so just by being himself.
Caroline stood nervously behind him, thinking how very vulnerable he was and how he might have done better to have taken Hal’s advice and forgone this public appearance where he was so easy a target from anywhere in the milling crowd. Glancing at Hal, she saw how alert he was, how his glance moved constantly over the sea of faces below, watchful for anything which might offer that final danger to the duke. She sensed his relief as the duke withdrew at last into the greater safety of the hotel.
“Damn me,” remarked the duke lightly. “I thought this banquet was to be private.”
Hal smiled. “You are not permitted to be private, Your Grace.”
“Not yet,” was the dry reply. “But there will be a time soon enough when the shine wears off me reputation. Everyone loves a soldier when there’s war, but they’ll kick him in the pants when peace returns.”
He glanced out through the closed windows once again. “By Gad,” he murmured, “I felt decidedly exposed out there, Seymour, and I began to feel your warnings should have been heeded. Still, it went off handsomely, eh?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“You’ll have heard, of course, that that rascal Cantillon refuses to say a word.”
“Yes, but then he wouldn’t if he had accomplices still free, would he?”
The duke nodded sagely. “That’s only too correct, but in spite of that I believe he will soon go free.”
Caroline was unable to smother her gasp of astonishment. “Go free?” she asked in amazement. “But how could that possibly be?”
“Because, m’dear, to convict him we need evidence, and although everyone knows he’s as guilty as hell itself, no one will come forward. In these virtuous days, the greatest crime a man can commit in France is to denounce another, even though the crime should be a plot to assassinate a third person. Cantillon will go free.”
He gave one of his unexpected whoops of laughter. “Why, it wouldn’t surprise me if Bonaparte remembered the scoundrel in his will!” Still chuckling, he offered her his arm once more. “Shall we go down to the bean feast, m’dear?”
Her gold-spangled muslin skirts dragging softly behind her, she descended the staircase at the duke’s side, parting from him at the entrance of the crowded banqueting room. Chairs scraped as the gathering rose as one to respectfully applaud as the duke made his way to the place of honor beneath the canopy. His progress to the dais was accompanied by the strains of a triumphant march.
Caroline stood at the doorway for a moment, and then slipped unnoticed to stand beneath the Ionic colonnade, close to the entrance to the butler’s pantry. The moment the banquet began, she would go to the kitchens and see how Gaspard was.
The assembly sat down once more and there was a great deal of shuffling and clearing of throats, and in that moment she became aware that someone in the midst of the gathering was looking at her. It was not a pleasant sensation, and with a slight shiver she searched the room. At last she met those staring eyes, so gray, like her own.
Dominic’s handsome face was as chill and full of loathing as it had been when first they had met. He made no pretense now of liking her; his gaze was steady and did not waver at all; it was Caroline who looked away first. To her relief, the line of waiters carrying the first courses made their entrance, and as the last one passed into the room, a silver dish borne expertly aloft on his left hand, she gathered her skirts and hurried along the passageway toward the kitchens.
The atmosphere was strained and it soon became apparent to her that Gaspard was so upset still that he was, unbelievably, close to collapse. Mrs. Hollingsworth was anxiously fussing around him as he sat in a chair by the fireplace, his face hidden in his hands and his shoulders bowed. There was an air of wretchedness about him that affected Caroline greatly as she crouched beside him and put a gentle hand upon his jaunty-checkered sleeve.
“Monsieur?”
Slowly he raised his head. “It is no use, mademoiselle,” he whispered, his voice almost lost in the bustle of the kitchens as the efficient brigade continued without supervision.
“What is wrong?” she asked anxiously. “Surely it isn’t the violets.”
“But yes,” he replied brokenly. “It is the violets.” He looked away, his eyes filled with that hollowness she had seen earlier. “Never before have I so hated one of God’s creations. A little flower ...”
Perplexed, Caroline straightened, looking helplessly into the housekeeper’s distraught eyes. “Perhaps he would be better lying down, for to be sure it does him no good to sit here like this.”
“I will take him to my rooms, they are closer than his own, and I will be able to go and see how he is more easily.”
“Very well, do that. Can everything go on without him?” Caroline glanced around the busy kitchen.
“Yes, that Boisville fellow has taken over.”
Caroline said nothing more as Mrs. Hollingsworth coaxed Gaspard to his feet, gently persuading him to accompany her to her rooms. Before he left, he turned once more to Caroline. “Forgive me, mademoiselle, please forgive me.”
“Of course I forgive you,” she replied, seeing how his haunted eyes flew toward Boisville, who had watched and listened all the while, and whose presence was quite obviously lending an extra edge to Gaspard’s fear, for fear it was that had brought the chef to this piteous state.
With a heavy heart, Caroline walked back along the passage, taking up an advantageous position in a shadowy corner of the butler’s pantry. From here, by looking in a mirror on a nearby wall, she could see all that was happening in the dining room, which for this one night had become a grand banqueting hall. She could watch the proceedings in complete safety, for no one at the magnificent tables could see her.
For a while she almost forgot Gaspard as she watched the banquet. The many tapers flickered
in the rising heat and she could clearly see the flash of the silver star on the duke’s breast as he turned to speak to Hal, seated some distance away at the end of the dais.
She gazed at Hal, able to do so only because she knew he could not see her. How very handsome he was, and how easily that lazy, almost cynical smile of his twisted in her heart like a knife. Why had everything to be the way it was? Why couldn’t fate have decreed that he should look at her with that same love now reflecting so plainly in her own eyes? Suddenly the remoteness and tranquility of Selford seemed a blessed haven, and it was the first time she had felt like that since leaving all those weeks ago.
Weeks? Sometimes it seemed that she had dreamed of Dartmoor, that London was the only life she had ever known—and that Hal Seymour was the only thing ever to have been of deep and lasting consequence to her. Gazing at him now, the utter futility and hopelessness of her love washed painfully over her, and she forced herself to look away.
The waiters filed past her once more, bearing aloft another impressive array of dishes. Course followed course as she stood there, and all the while the orchestra played discreetly in the background, the soft notes almost drowned by the deep drone of male conversation. In spite of the upset with Gaspard, the banquet was going very well indeed, thanks to the efficiency and skill of his wonderful brigade de cuisine.
The cheese course was served and she realized with some surprise that the evening had been in progress for nearly two and a half hours now. All that remained to be served were the entremets, consisting of the magnificent array of hot and cold desserts over which Boisville had been in charge, and the appearance of poor Gaspard’s prized pièce montée. Sadly she reflected that in his present state, the chef would not be able personally to light the candles on the gâteau, and would therefore forfeit the moment of glory he so richly deserved for all the work he had put into the banquet.