The Chevalier

  “Then you’re about to discover something interesting.” She kisses me before I can prevent her.

  I am unable to reply. My powers are ebbing in the face of this new danger.

  “Very beautiful and most interesting.”

  She lets her hands roam down my neck, across my breast; she encourages her fingers to play further down my body. I feel that I am numb, that I am helpless in a trance. Suddenly her fingers cease their movement.

  “You were saying?” I find my voice at last.

  “Either you’re very gifted…”

  “Or?”

  “It’s a miracle.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Warsaw

  After a moment of open-mouthed wonder, Rosa laughs for the very joy of it. She is awash with delight at her discovery, and I lie rigid with fright, powerless to prevent her hands easing my shift upwards in order to toy with me, should she desire. However, my good fortune holds, for her professed inclinations inhibit her from taking advantage of my dependent state. Quickly, I explain a little of my mission.

  She frowns. “Imagine, I thought I had alighted upon a soulmate.”

  “But Rosa, I am in your debt. We shall be friends forever, I trust.”

  “Oh, don’t be so sure of that, my little thing. You are, in some small measure, I find, a man. For what I’ve suffered at the hands of those heedless creatures, I believe you owe me recompense.” Her eyes widen as she leans over me, curls of hair tickling my cheek.

  “Please take pity, Rosa. I understand what your sex goes through.”

  “Maybe you do a little. You were the fortress under siege, after all.”

  “Precisely so; till your relieving force marched into view.”

  “Indeed, I am the conqueror.” She smiles and kneels back on her haunches on the bed. “But does not the victor deserve some reward?”

  I rise and move away. “Nothing could please me more. Let me give you a kiss, but respect my wishes and humour me. I am sworn to remain chaste.”

  She bites her lip as she considers this. At last she nods. “Agreed.” We kiss.

  “Thank you, Rosa, for your protection – and compassion.”

  “You deserve no less, I suppose. And is there one other thing?”

  “What might that be?”

  “Preserve the mystery of your sex.”

  “In such a case I should be doubly indebted.”

  “You have my word. Climb back into the bed and hold me.”

  Her fingers tease my hair in a lazy fashion for some time, but I am able to sleep as the sun comes up – with my chastity intact.

  * * *

  We rise next morning rather later than I wish. Breakfast is a taciturn affair, with my Lord casting baleful glances at Johann, Rosa and myself, in no especial order. A rank, sour scent hangs over us, as though a candle were guttering in a chamber pot. There is no mention of the nocturnal disturbances, though I notice that Monin is biting his tongue, so ravenous is he for details of our presumed dalliance. My Lord buys silence over his own folly with some extra payment, grudgingly distributed.

  Our carriage clatters across the Neckar Bridge soon after ten, the full heat of the day already beating down upon us. Soon I am engaged in humouring Lord Douglas with weary tolerance, while he seeks to explain his strange behaviour of the previous night.

  “You can’t trust those Germans. I knew that innkeeper was up to something. Whoever would have thought he could handle a musket?”

  I do not point out that it was not Johann’s gun that was smoking. “Thank you again for saving my life.” I have no doubt he misses my sarcasm.

  “I did the same for Prince Charles Edward Stuart, you know.”

  “What, set yourself on fire?”

  “No – I preserved his life. Before he went over the sea to Skye, and took part in all that business when he was dressed as a maid. Disgusting behaviour… Stop here now, man,” he shouts up to Monin in the driver’s seat.

  My senses are at once alert. “I thought the Prince came back again?”

  “Ay, he did that, of course.” My Lord opens the door of the carriage.

  “So, how, exactly?” I fear he may want to finish what he started last night.

  He helps me down onto a path beside the riverbank. “Well, you know he reached London?”

  “I thought the invasion force turned back after Derby?” Perhaps a governess should not know so much about the Jacobite Rebellion. I resolve to be less informed.

  “True,” he says, not seeing anything amiss, “but only after Prince Charles and I had made a scouting party to the edge of the capital.”

  “Couldn’t you have taken it?” This may be where he tries his luck. I prepare to defend myself.

  “He thought we might – I told him no.” His hand attempts to propel my body forward by manipulation of my elbow, but I shrug him off in the act of opening my parasol to shade myself from the sun. He does not react: I feel danger receding. Hard though it is to understand, I think the reason for our halt is that he wants to demonstrate his assumed character.

  “You have sound military as well as mining credentials?”

  “Very much so. I could see instantly it was a lost cause.”

  I am quite unconvinced by such protestations of sage advice, but there is still a long way to travel together. “So what did he do?”

  “Marched himself back north to his heartland – and disaster.”

  I turn to face him. “It’s good that he profited from your knowledge.”

  His eyes do not appear bent on harm, although he bristles at my gentle mockery. “That came a little later.”

  “Before the battle?”

  “During it.”

  Noticing a species of bright yellow flower growing beside the reeds, I motion him to pick one for me. “You must tell me all about it.” Our only sparring now is verbal, an arena where I feel quite safe.

  “I think it’s a marsh-marigold.” He presents it to me, its stalk slightly wet from its proximity to the sedge. I am amazed: he returns tit-for-tat.

  “Thank you, but I’m referring to the battle.”

  “Oh. You wouldn’t want to know.”

  “My Lord Douglas, I am all ears.”

  He coughs with an affectation of modesty. “You won’t say a word to anyone about this, will you?” I shake my head. He leans a little closer in case spies are lurking in the rushes. “It was at the pitch of the affair. The Atholls, Camerons, Stewarts, Appins and Frasers, our foremost clans, had charged on our right flank; the Chattan clan was advancing full-pelt in our centre, a stirring sight, a fearsome one that had always carried the redcoats before it in every engagement. But this time their cursed line held. Our waves of tartan broke upon their bright red shore. Sensing how crucial my counsel might be at this juncture, I removed myself from the fray, and headed for our post of high command, a shepherd’s bothy by some crumbling walls.” His eyes dart in the direction of some coots splashing downriver.

  “I found our temporary headquarters in utter disarray. The Prince wanted to throw his lot in with the MacDonalds on our left, but they were sulking because they’d not been given precedence, so they were still a long way from joining with the enemy. Meanwhile, our right and centre were now caught in enfilade and were being picked off like grouse on an open moor, before being rolled up when the redcoats advanced. Our man thought he could inspire the MacDonalds to save the day but it was already too late. There was nothing he could do. I had to spirit him away. It was the Devil’s own work, I can tell you.” Even though I do not believe a word, I admire his thorough playing of his role and his conjuring of the chaos of a battle. I can almost smell the sweat, gunsmoke and peat in my nostrils.

  “You did well to escape.” I cannot resist another turn of the knife. “We heard one of your own clan was hung as a deserter.”

  This does not throw him in the slightest. “Did you so? My brother Alexander, that would be. Damned fool.”

  “We must all give thanks that you are ma
de of finer mettle.”

  “Ah, yes.” He scratches his head, musing on his simulated valour.

  “What about your work as an engineer?” Now I am striking home – he studies the fleeting clouds with rapt attention before he ventures a reply.

  “I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

  “Bore, very good.” I smile politely at his jeu d’esprit.

  But he is oblivious, the witticism being quite unintended. “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Tell me the gist of your duties.”

  “Well, I build bridges, er, lay roads, supervise mining… you know the sort of thing,” he flounders, swinging on his heel to head for the safety of the coach.

  “No wonder the Bohemians want you. Wherever will you start?”

  “I’m not yet sure, to tell you the truth. Obviously I’ll make a reconnaissance as we pass through, and come to my conclusions. Fundamentally, however, I am at their disposal. I’ll do whatever they ask.”

  “No doubt they’ll benefit from your advice as much as Charles Stuart.”

  My companion still isn’t quite sure whether he’s being teased, and I have no desire to make it more obvious. He helps me climb aboard, places a muslin handkerchief upon his face and falls into a noontide slumber.

  * * *

  Monin is plotting our route well. We clatter through Regensburg, and idle away some time in Prague, staying there two nights in a tavern near the stone bridge. I am most careful to lock my door. The second evening, my Lord Douglas takes me for a walk around the narrow streets leading to the town hall. Establishing his engineering credentials, he pronounces a favourable verdict upon the remarkable astronomical clock that fronts the building. As he does so, a crowd of locals gathers about us and listens with growing excitement to his words of praise. The notables of the city, gratified, invite us on a tour. After accepting, we find to our distress that they have planned a thorough trip.

  I watch from the background as we visit castles, bridges, public buildings, turnpikes and my Lord does his best to look knowledgeable; on quitting Bohemia, he also makes some pretence at examining the mines in Freiberg. Without much delay, we turn north towards the twin objects of my mission, Poland and Russia, passing with one brief stop through Dresden, anxious to avoid unnecessary questioning within Saxony. This is unfortunate – I have heard much of the beauty of the city and wish to see the porcelain works of Meissen, but the sanctity of our quest must take precedence.

  The road from Dresden to Warsaw is hard and long, taking us first into the cool of the hills and rocky places of Silesia. I am put in mind of a description of Switzerland given to me when I was a young boy, a contemplation that in turn makes me yearn for the gentler hills and valleys that encompassed my childhood. We detour through Wieliczka, where in order to maintain my protector’s elaborate façade we must view the labyrinthine salt mines. God alone knows how he would fare if my pleasing shape and features did not distract our hosts from asking too many awkward questions. I fear we will soon be exposed to some ridicule on his account.

  Next, we veer northwards to the city of Breslau. Here we attend a mass at the Church of St Elizabeth, both I and, without question, my Lord, asking forgiveness for our immortal souls for the deceptions being carried on. Afterwards, I tremble at the sight of the whipping post in the nearby square, imagining the scourging that would befall me were the truth to be uncovered. I sink into a fretful sleep as we leave town.

  * * *

  A priest used to minister to my education in Tonnerre when my years were tender. The Abbé Marceny was curé of St Pierre, rigorous in learning, strict in his methods. One late summer day, just before my twelfth birthday, I escaped after dinner from the governance of our housekeeper, the widow Benoist, and took myself to my sister’s room. She had been summoned to visit my parents in Paris – to my delight, she had left some of her prettiest dresses in her chamber. I stole in there and put on a smock of bright gold she had recently outgrown.

  It was one that I had long dreamed of wearing. I was enjoying the bliss of examining myself in the glass when the click of the door made me spin around.

  “You are late for your lessons, Charles.” The Abbé was holding a thin stick in his hand.

  “My apologies, sir. I was not aware of the time.”

  “Do you think your sister would allow such liberties? Or that your dearest mother would approve?”

  “Oh, I should think so. She always used to clothe me in my sister’s wardrobe. She used to say I made a pretty picture.”

  “As well she might, with your long blond hair and your fair complexion. But it won’t do. It won’t do at all. You must be punished for your tardiness and for your trespassing.”

  “Please, sir, I meant no harm.”

  “No more. Remove the dress at once.”

  I remember that I looked at him in supplication.

  * * *

  Now his face begins to alter. The picture swirls and grows hazy. When at last I can focus, I am confounded – the priest has the face of Lord Douglas. I return to the present moment, perspiring heavily. This bears the potential for disaster. What if he were to discover me? He could make his examination any time I fall asleep in the coach. Such a lapse must not happen again.

  As I come awake, the endless middle-European plains are rolling past outside the window. Loosely bound hay bales litter the fields on either side of our route as we trundle towards the Polish capital. Meanwhile, the heat is mounting.

  We reach Warsaw in the middle of a blistering afternoon. Its fine aspect surprises me. Our coach makes its way through a succession of grand streets, past gardens which remind me of the great stretches of Versailles and a grey, high-towered castle (which does not) until we alight outside a mansion in a bustling, well-appointed street.

  “Where are we?” I enquire of my protector. He demands the same thing of Monin, who has been chattering with all sorts of local folk since we entered the city.

  “It’s the home of Count Stanislaus Poniatowski, I gather.”

  “Who on earth is he?”

  “I suspect we’re about to find out,” says my Lord as the solid doors swing open. I cannot but admire the way he so often states the obvious.

  An exceptionally stout footman ushers us into the presence of a young man of about my height, with a prominent nose and piercing stare. Nevertheless, despite these minor drawbacks, he has a pleasing face which rapidly grows on me, assisted, doubtless, by his hospitality. This allows me to disregard the rank aroma of overcooked vegetables emanating from the kitchens.

  We introduce ourselves and within half an hour, our stocky and well-educated Polish host has managed to lodge us and is conversing with me in cordial fashion. He also exchanges occasional words, struggling to conceal his antagonism, with my escort.

  “It is fortunate you find me at home. I am just returned briefly from St Petersburg, where I’m engaged in work on behalf of the English Ambassador.”

  I incline my head. “To what do we owe the honour of this happy coincidence?”

  “King Augustus wishes to speak with me about future employment.”

  “In which, of course, we wish you well.”

  His smile is all aristocratic grace. “And the reason for your trip?”

  I hesitate and am preparing to spin a tale, but I’m forestalled.

  “We’re on our way to Russia.” My unthinking Lord sees fit to enlighten him.

  Stanislaus greets this elucidation with a momentary nod. His eyes are fixed nearly constantly on me. The motive for his good humour and rapt attention is becoming clear. I can almost trace the waves of sentiment flowing from him.

  “Whatever will you do there?”

  There is no point in my dissembling now. “I have letters of introduction to the Court.” Once more I feel the heat begin to rise upon my cheeks.

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Count Mikhail Woronzov.”

  Lord Douglas is spluttering and chuntering in the background, his nonchalance d
isturbed by the pointed snub. “Yes. I’m escorting her to him before going on to Prague. My engineering talents…”

  Stanislaus does not even bother pretending to listen. “What do you want from Woronzov?” He has not taken his eyes from my face.

  “To meet the Empress.”

  “He knows her well, yes.”

  I do my best to ignore the salacious tone. “She’s keen on political thought, we have been told.”

  “Quite so.” His pupils flicker, but he decides against an extension of his drollery.

  “I’d show her some recent publications by our best writers and thinkers.”

  “Why, what have you brought?”

  “Several tracts and some major works: Montesquieu’s Spirit Of The Laws, Diderot’s Encyclopedia and Voltaire’s Age of Louis XIV.”

  This litany is still anathema to my protector. “Totally unsuitable for women.”

  Stanislaus flashes him a disapproving glare, assuming to himself the mantle of champion of my adopted sex. “She’ll thank you for it. Anything else?”

  “I very much wish to help her improve her French.”

  “No doubt you and your books will do that for her. Let me offer you some advice.”

  “Please.”

  “Elizabeth loves beauty. You’ll do well, as long as you realise the Court is a dangerous place.” Meanwhile my Lord is shaking his head fast from side to side, as though he wants to speak, but has no opportunity. Stanislaus drops his voice while his eyes continue to gaze on me: “You must assure me you will take great care.”

  “Whom should I watch out for?”

  “It’s a complicated story. You will give me great pleasure if you’ll dine with me tonight.” He bows with a romantic flourish.

  “I should be grateful.”

  My Lord Douglas at last intrudes. “We’ll see you at seven.” He beckons to me and turns upon his heel.

  Stanislaus glowers at his back – I can only sigh for the troubles that I know are soon to come.

  * * *