by Lady Rascal
It was the middle of July, and damp with heat. Adamson did not laugh at her joke, but he did reach out to retrieve the silver cup. Pouring himself a measure of cognac, he sipped it without looking at her.
With a shrug Madeleine sat back, but did not have time to say anything more. The coach had slewed to an unsteady halt. Ripping back the curtains, Adamson took a look outside. With a quiet oath he opened the door and called up to his coachman for information.
When he sat back down again his face was tinged with a faint excitement.
‘The brave citizens of Paris have thrown up a roadblock across their Pont Neuf. There’s nothing for it but to keep over on this side of the river until we reach the Louis bridge—’
‘What about crossing at the Pont Royal?’
‘And cut through the Tuileries? Too dangerous tonight, even for me.’ He smiled at her, but once more it was a half-hearted affair. ‘No, we’ll have to go two sides of a square. Longer, but safer—I hope.’
Faubourg St Germain was relatively quiet. Adamson’s carriage rocked on, accompanied by the chants of distant revellers and the fainter crackling sounds of destruction and riot.
As they clattered across the Place Louis, Madeleine risked a look out of the window on her side of the coach.
The Tuileries were full of shooting stars. Lights streaked away in the direction of the corn market as citizens rallied to cries of ‘Free grain for a free people!’
‘Pure greed should keep them busy for a while,’ Adamson murmured drily as the carriage slowed for a sharp left turn into the Rue du Faubourg-St-Honoré.
‘Starvation has kept them idle long enough.’
The words popped out before Madeleine had a chance to stifle them. Adamson shot her a quick glance, and this time his amusement was more genuine.
‘So, mademoiselle, beneath all this finery of the beau monde beats the heart of a true lover of the people?’
Madeleine did not understand, and it silenced her. Only when the carriage drew to a halt once more did she manage to think of a reply.
‘Lucky people should be grateful that they will never have to suffer hardship and know real desperation.’
Adamson had been about to open the door to let her alight, but now he turned to her with a look she could not begin to fathom.
Suddenly the moment was broken. The light of many lanterns burst over the pavement outside. With much racket the coachman jumped down from his seat and wrenched the carriage door open, so the welcoming party could be seen.
The young Englishman started abruptly. ‘Mother! There was no need—’
‘There was every need, Philip! How could I have retired for the night with you still out among the rabble...? Oh!’
Madeleine blinked like an owl as a flaming torch was held up at the carriage door.
‘Mademoiselle! If my errant son has succeeded in rescuing only one poor, beleaguered woman from the mobs, then he is forgiven everything!’
Philip Adamson said nothing, even as his mother extended a hand to Madeleine. For her part Madeleine was now completely convinced of the dim-wittedness of the English. Madame Adamson might have saved her from a fate worse than death, but to have mistaken her for an aristo...! The old woman could never have seen the genuine article.
An impish gesture made Madeleine wink at Philip Adamson as she rose to leave the carriage. If he was half as silly as his mother, they both deserved to be led a dance.
‘Dear Master Philip arrived just in the nick of time,’ Madeleine stuck her nose in the air and put on what they called a ‘ten-franc’ voice down at the Place de Grève. ‘Fie, but I escaped with little more than a shift to cover my shame!’
Cramped and crippled by her unfamiliar shoes, Madeleine narrowly missed going head over heels down the carriage steps. Only Mrs Adamson’s surprising strength supported her and saved her from falling.
‘Why, thank you, madame.’
Madeleine treated the older woman to the dazzling smile that had been so lost on Adamson.
‘You must be exhausted, my dear. Come inside out of the night air and I shall arrange matters.’
Mrs Adamson spoke a strange, archaic sort of French that Madeleine found highly amusing. Biting her tongue to stop from laughing, she managed to keep up the deception.
Allowing herself to be propelled across a pavement still dusted with the sand of newness, Madeleine was taken up a flight of pale stone steps. At the top, a large front door stood open. It led into a cavernous hallway beyond.
Once more Madeleine’s nerve almost failed her. Her feet certainly did, and she let fly a phrase that Mrs Adamson would never have learnt from any tutor.
‘New shoes,’ the French girl said with an apologetic shrug, hobbling on bravely.
‘How we women must suffer for our fashions!’ Mrs Adamson fluttered, laughing. ‘Oh! But my son is a dindle-head! We have not been introduced. Lady...?’
Madeleine thought on her painful feet and didn’t have time to wonder how good Mrs Adamson’s French was.
‘Madeleine Allobroge.’
Lady Rascal! It was as good a name as any. She had certainly been a rascal all her life.
To Madeleine’s relieved surprise her hostess had not found anything unusual in the name, and they passed into the cool, dark house. Madeleine suddenly remembered she was wearing odd gloves. She pulled the borrowed robe tightly about her shoulders and hid one hand in the folds as Philip Adamson entered the hallway and lit a taper set in the wall for light.
Mrs Adamson dismissed her son down a long passageway with a few words of English. Then she turned to Madeleine.
‘You shall come with me, my dear. No—there’s nothing to be afraid of here! You shall have the prettiest guest room and my maid will attend upon you immediately. I expect you would prefer to take supper in your room tonight?’
Madeleine could only nod mutely. Her feet hurt, while she felt faint and watery at the very thought of food. Worst of all, Adamson was giving her some very old-fashioned looks as he rejoined his mother at the foot of the stairs.
He must be as mad as a rat to think his evening’s entertainment has been ruined, Madeleine thought. While she was secretly relieved at her narrow escape, she did manage a shade of sympathy for him. Poor man— fancy being caught out by his mother, at his age!
Madeleine looked up to give him an apologetic smile, but Adamson seemed to have lost any interest in her that he might have had. He was more concerned with correcting his mother’s scanty French.
Perhaps his reason for picking her up was genuine, and not an excuse to cover his embarrassment at needing a street girl. Perhaps he really didn’t suspect her of being a rascal.
She looked at him carefully in the soft candlelight of the hall. Handsome, neatly dressed and stiff with English reserve, he really was like all the rest. Afraid to say boo to a goose unless their precious principles were at stake.
Madeleine realised that he and his mother might swallow anything she chose to tell them - if she was careful.
Given a choice between starving on the streets with fellow citizens, or the chance of a full stomach and soft bed, Madeleine knew which she preferred.
She was going to act the aristo for all it was worth.
Madeleine’s deception proved a good one, at least to begin with. She was given a room ten times the size of her little garret at home and, even better, a tub of hot water.
To the English maid’s astonishment Madeleine had no hesitation in immediately stripping off and jumping in, wearing only the fine ‘borrowed’ stockings. These had to be soaked away from the mess of blisters on her toes and heels.
As she sank back in the foaming waters, Madeleine considered this little discomfort was worthwhile.
The maid did not speak her language, but offered pots of salve at the appropriate moments. At first Madeleine was at a loss. Then, with much shouting and gesticulating in English, the maid showed her how to use the salve to clean herself, like a better-class version of soap.
&
nbsp; Madeleine would have liked to linger until the water was cold, but the maid pointedly held up a large towel. For once in her life Madeleine did as she was bidden and got out to be rubbed dry.
That was when the enjoyment stopped.
Swathed in the towel, Madeleine was shown to a chair. As soon as she sat down the maid began to wrestle the tousle of her hair into some sort of order.
Despite Madeleine’s forceful curses the maid persevered until every elf-lock, braid and ribbon was removed.
That wasn’t the end of the ordeal. It was back to the tub. Kneeling while the maid poured jug after jug of tepid water over her hair, Madeleine began to wonder if being an aristo was all it was cracked up to be.
The torture continued, the maid scrubbing away at Madeleine’s hair until it squeaked. She was on the point of confessing everything—and more.
Only when the rituals were over did Madeleine begin to appreciate the benefits. She tingled from head to toe— right to the tips of her unruly brown hair. While it might be a nice feeling, Madeleine wasn’t at all sure she could endure it every day.
Mrs Adamson had kindly sent in a nightdress for her. Very virginal in white cotton and lace, it gave Madeleine a feeling of great grandeur as the maid dressed her in it.
Her hair had been combed out in a thick curtain and spread over her shoulders to dry. Although the night was sultry a fire had been built up, and as soon as the maid left Madeleine went to the window and threw back the shutters.
She was looking out over the Rue du Faubourg-St-Honoré. The window was difficult to open but she forced it up. A rush of stale night air carried sounds of squabbling and laughter from the direction of the National Assembly, but the Adamsons’ villa did not give a view far enough east to see the fun and games in the Tuileries.
Only a few hours before, Madeleine had been rampaging through the streets with the best of them. Now look at her! All dressed up and smelling like an aristo, just to go to bed.
Madeleine grinned to herself. Oh, she’d make sure she had some fine fun with these English before they grew wise to her tricks.
A soft tapping at the door made her jump. She hadn’t heard anything like the heavy footsteps of the maid returning.
‘Who is it?’
There was a pause, then the sound of Philip Adamson clearing his throat. Oh, no! He must have managed to give his mother the slip! Madeleine thought. This was it. She flew to the door and twisted its great key in the lock. That would hold him off. She braced herself against the door, ready for every assault on her honour.
When none came, she was almost put out.
‘I’ve only brought you something to eat, mademoiselle.’
That was a low blow. Madeleine already fancied that delicious fragrances were working their way around the door, and her defences. The hint of amusement in Adamson’s next words brought her back to earth.
‘I have trained as a doctor, mademoiselle.’
That sounded even worse! Madeleine looked about in terror. Seizing a heavy chair, she tried to drag it towards the door as a further barricade. Unfortunately long years of standing sentinel beside the wash-stand had welded it to the painted floorboards beneath its feet. With a wrenching tear, triangles of paint leapt up as she heaved the chair against the door. Adamson gave a low chuckle.
‘Please, do not alarm yourself, mademoiselle! My mother was concerned at your air of apparent frailty. As you are a guest in our house, she considered it was the least I could do to assure her of your good health.’
Madeleine sat down heavily in her chair, but said nothing.
‘You will at least allow me to deliver this supper tray to you?’ he added as an afterthought.
Madeleine considered for a moment. Outside in the hallway, Adamson was quite silent. She half hoped he would put the tray down and retire, but there was no sound of any movement.
Finally, starvation got the better of her. She pulled the chair aside and unlocked the door.
Adamson entered, placing a supper tray on the blanket-box at the foot of her bed. Without being bidden, he went about the room lighting the candles in their gilt holders.
An unusual reticence hung about the young man. This made Madeleine uncertain of what to do for the best, and she hesitated for long moments. In the end she sidled towards the tray of food, taking care to keep between Adamson and the open door.
There was meat for her—a rare luxury down at the Grève. A plateful of great thick slices stood beside an arrangement of bread and butter with a decanter of wine close by. A dish of raspberries and cream heavily dusted with sugar completed the happy picture. It seemed almost a pity to eat such a beautiful display, but Madeleine was more concerned with her empty stomach than with thoughts of art.
She was about to dig in when Adamson stopped her.
‘If you would not mind humouring me for a moment, mademoiselle...’
He gave a slight bow of painful formality and gestured towards the bed. Madeleine would have made a bolt for safety, but something in his expression stopped her. It was as cold as charity.
The open door was only a few feet away, but Madeleine resisted the temptation to dash out. She was not so much alarmed now as put out by his brisk approach to the matter.
‘What do you think I am?’ she bridled defensively.
A slight frown crossed Adamson’s handsome features. ‘I could fetch Mother,’ he said slowly. ‘I merely thought that, as a lady, you would welcome the privacy...’
His voice died away, but he seemed reluctant to go and fetch Mrs Adamson. Flickering candlelight shed soft shadows over his lean face. He was watching Madeleine with steady grey eyes, but as yet he made no attempt to draw nearer.
She looked at the tray of good food, then at the soft luxuriance of the bed. She tried not to look at Adamson. They said there was good money to be made from wickedness, but to think of such a thing with Adamson...when he was so restrained—so English...
Hesitantly, Madeleine’s hand went to the neck of her borrowed nightgown, but he stopped her hurriedly.
‘That will not be necessary, mademoiselle.’
Then it wasn’t some strange kind of excuse. Madeleine went to sit on the edge of the bed, as directed. Further instructions were not long in coming. Her host stepped forward to stand beside her.
‘Tip your head back towards the light, if you please.’
His hands were cool and moved with professional ease. Inspecting first her eyes, then her ears and finally her mouth, he made interested noises, but no proper conversation.
‘Who is your physician, mademoiselle?’
‘I haven’t got one,’ Madeleine snapped, feeling as though she were being checked over for a horse-sale.
Adamson made a small sound of disbelief, and Madeleine realised that she would need an excuse.
‘I—I came to Paris in search of kind relatives. They have run away from the unrest, and I’ve not had the chance to find friends in the city, sir, let alone a physician.’
As in any other city, people were always coming and going in Paris. Her story seemed to satisfy him.
He took a long time inspecting her mouth, probing about her teeth and gums with one gentle finger.
‘You have a fine set of teeth, mademoiselle. And all your own, too.’
It seemed a funny thing to say, but Madeleine let it pass. Whose teeth should she have?
Adamson moved away from her to the marble wash-stand at the far side of the room. Pouring a little water from the porcelain ewer into its basin, he rinsed his hands and dried them carefully.
Madeleine took this as a sign he had finished his examination. Heaving a sigh of relief, she scrambled towards the supper tray at the end of the bed.
‘One moment more, mademoiselle.’
His formal manner never faltered. The tone of his voice was always detached—distant—and Madeleine was intrigued. The English really were as cold and nerveless as everyone said. Here she was, alone in the company of a handsome gentleman and wearing very
little, but he took no advantage.
There was something strange about the whole business. Everything about Adamson seemed the epitome of strength and vigour. From the luxuriance of his dark hair to the trim line of his breeches and gleaming boots, all was the picture of an ideal young man. Madeleine sensed that any strong passions lurking beneath that cool exterior were held very severely in check.
She submitted to his dull questions about her health while he tapped his way over her back and chest. Even then he did not ask Madeleine to remove the all-concealing nightgown, to her great relief.
‘Good.’ He stood up, taking the tray before Madeleine had an opportunity to snatch anything from it. ‘It may be better for your digestion, mademoiselle, to sit in your bed rather than crouch over a meal here.’
Anyone else might have laughed at her, but Madeleine was quickly learning that Philip Adamson was not one for ready amusement.
She settled herself as he suggested, pulling up the coverlet for modesty. That was far too hot. Before he could place the tray on her knees Madeleine threw back the covers once more, leaving only a thin sheet covering her.
He remained unmoved. ‘If there is anything at all that you require, mademoiselle, simply ring for Betsy.’
He indicated a thick tapestry bell-pull, flounced with golden tassels. That minor detail of villa life would have cost Madeleine the wages from several years of laundry work.
She continued to stare at the bell-pull until Adamson said softly, ‘Eat well, mademoiselle. I trust your sleep will not suffer overmuch from the rascals of the slums.’
He bowed once more, and this time Madeleine caught a suspicion of amusement in his attitude.
‘Indeed, mademoiselle, perhaps it would be as well to lock the shutters if you intend to leave your window open. I am surprised you are not more wary of the dangers brought by nocturnal visitors.’
Turning on his heel, he went swiftly out of the door and closed it behind him.
Strange man! Madeleine thought, as she fell on the food with an eagerness unbecoming a lady. He picks up a complete stranger in a rough part of town, then treats me like this and with no strings attached. Not yet, anyway. And he can have no more idea than a cat of who I am, or where I’ve been!