The Bachelor's Bargain

by Catherine Palmer

  “With you, Prudence.”

  “It hardly matters now, Anne. After that encounter, Walker was distressed. He went downstairs to Lord Black-thorne’s bedroom. The marquess, too, was distraught. Lord Blackthorne told Walker he was ready to abandon all his dreams for the future if only he could make you truly his wife. Yet he was convinced you loathed him. He believed he could never win you over.”

  “He said I loathed him? But I did not. I struggled to control my affection for him.”

  “Walker said he believed the marquess began to love you at that moment in the garden. Already Lord Blackthorne was an altered man, you see. Altered by his acquaintance with you. But not until the garden did he truly love you. From that time onward, though the marquess would not allow himself to acknowledge it, his heart belonged to you and you alone.”

  Anne shook her head as the marketplace bustled around her. “Oh, Prudence, I never had faith in Ruel’s constancy.

  I believed he toyed with me for his personal gain.”

  “You were wrong, Anne. Walker knew Lord Blackthorne better than anyone did. He had loved the marquess himself since Blackthorne was but a small, lonely boy loitering outside the blacksmith forge in Tiverton.”

  “Madame? Bonjour.”

  At the heavily accented voice, Anne looked down from the cart to discover a short, wiry man smiling up at her. With a pair of gleaming spectacles perched on his large, hooked nose, he looked to Anne like one of the fairy-tale shoemaker’s elves.

  “I am sorry,” she said, “I cannot speak French.”

  “No, no. I have a little English. I see the . . . how you say? . . . the boxes here in your cart. The name is Cutts, and I am waiting for you many days. Hezekiah Cutts? He is with you?”

  “No, he is . . . he was . . .” She gestured down the road. “We were separated at Waterloo.”

  “Waterloo?” The man frowned. “He is killed?”

  Anne bit her lower lip. “I fear it may be so.”

  The man lowered his head and slowly removed his beret. “C’est la guerre. Very sad news. Very sad. His brother will grieve.”

  “Is his brother here?”

  “In Paris. He waits for Monsieur Cutts there.”

  “He waits in vain.” Anne studied the little man for a moment. “May I ask your name, sir?”

  “I am Monsieur Pierre Robidoux. And you?”

  “I am Lady . . . Mrs. Cutts. Anne.”

  “Your lovely compagnon de voyage?”

  “I am Miss Prudence Watson.” The slender young woman held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Robidoux. Can you tell us, sir, how you know of Mr. Cutts? Were you his friend?”

  “Oui. His friend and business acquaintance. Perhaps you come to my house? We talk? Eat?”

  Anne glanced at Prudence. Clearly charmed by the Frenchman, Prudence would have leapt at the chance for a glass of fresh water and a loaf of fresh bread. Anne had no such confi- dence in him. All she could think of were the trunks in the back of the cart and the danger they represented.

  “Thank you, but we must find lodging in Valenciennes,” she replied before Prudence could protest. “We shall wait here for a few days in the hope that my husband may arrive.”

  The man nodded slowly; then he spoke in a low voice. “Douai is a better place to wait, Madame Cutts. Your husband sent a letter instructing me to prepare a small house and also a place for your . . . for the boxes in the cart.” He regarded her for a moment. “It was his plan.”

  “How shall I trust your words are true, Monsieur Robidoux? We have only just met.”

  “Monsieur Cutts told me you were la belle dame d’esprit. The beautiful lady of wit.” Robidoux favored her with another warm smile. “I tell you this. The name of your new house is the Black Thorn. Oui?”

  She shrugged. “A good name.”

  “You are not convinced. Then I tell you this of which I know. I am the finest weaver of stockings in the whole of Nord-Pas-de-Calais. My looms are in the town of Douai near Valenciennes. Mr. Walker, I believe, is the finest blacksmith in all of southern England. And you, madame, I am told are the finest lacemaker in all of Nottingham.”

  Anne clapped her hand over his to stop him from saying more. “Enough. Take us to Douai.”

  “I shall drive the cart,” Robidoux announced as he climbed onto the seat beside the women. “You must think what your husband would wish to happen to his plans now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The cart turned into a narrow alley. “I mean this, Lady Blackthorne,” Robidoux whispered. “Napoleon was defeated by Wellington at Waterloo. The general was expected to arrive in Paris this morning. There will be an uproar in that city.”

  “Civil war?”

  “But Sir Alexander is there!” Prudence exclaimed.

  “Not war.” Robidoux shook a finger. “The Chamber will argue about what to do, and perhaps Napoleon will abdicate to his son, Napoleon II. But Fouché, who was Napoleon’s servant, also wishes to seize power. Of course, England and her allies wish to put King Louis XVIII onto the throne of France. The struggle for power will be fierce, but it cannot last for many days. A week or two at the most.”

  “What does this have to do with us?”

  “We have only a short time to make our decisions and act on our plans. I believe King Louis will be returned to France by the English within a month or two. By that time our machine must be assembled and prepared to operate. We must be the first to weave lace with the new English machine. We must obtain French patents for the loom. Everything must be done in order, or others will take our place at the front of this new industry.”

  “But how can we do all that ourselves? Lord Blackthorne is . . . I think he must be dead.”

  “Even so, you are his wife. Sir Alexander supports us, and he will inherit the duchy in England. Things do not change so greatly, do they?”

  “Everything is changed! I have no husband. I have nothing.”

  “You have all you need, madame. You have the name, the title, the inheritance, and most important, the skill. If you are able to design patterns as beautiful as Blackthorne promised, you and I can develop the most important lace center in all of France here in the region of Calais. We may rival Nottingham itself one day. We have the machines. We have the buildings. We even have the funds your husband established here to begin the work.”

  “But we do not have him. Lord Blackthorne’s vision was behind this plan. It was his dream, not mine.”

  “Then do this for him. Make his dream come true.” He looked into her eyes and gave a solemn nod. “Do this for the man you love.”

  For a long time Anne rode without speaking. Fear urged her to leave the cursed machine with the little Frenchman and hurry back to England and her mother’s arms. If nothing else, she could take another position as a housemaid or a kitchen-maid.

  She had not been brought up to smuggle contraband or apply for a patent or manage a business or establish a lace industry. She had no desire to rival Nottingham’s lace dynasty, and she could not imagine living in a country that teetered on the brink of revolution. She certainly had not been raised to promote the very machines her father was imprisoned for destroying. Reason told her to leave. Common sense insisted that she abandon the machine and return to safety.

  But her heart . . .

  She shut her eyes and allowed the jostling cart to rock her body with its rhythm. In her mind’s eye she pictured him then. Ruel. His gray eyes beckoned her. The curls of his black hair seemed nearly within reach. She could almost see that familiar grin on his face, one corner of his mouth turned up and his lips twitching with suppressed laughter.

  Was he truly dead? The thought of him lying on that grisly battlefield was too much. If he had died, he had lost his life trying to save hers. If that was not a sign of love, what was?

  Perhaps . . . perhaps in spite of everything she had said to him and everything lowborn she had brought to their marriage . . . perhaps Prudence had spoken the truth. Perhaps in hi
s own way Ruel had loved her.

  If so, what right had she to abandon his dream? Monsieur Robidoux was right. Ruel had given her his name, his titles, his wealth. He had trusted her to be his partner. And he had given his life for her.

  Until now, Anne had chosen to act on impulse. She had created the lace with the Chouteau medallion, wed a man she hardly knew, and allowed that man to claim her heart. All without consulting God or seeking His will. She had told Ruel that she believed the Lord could make all things work together for the good of those who love Him. Was this the good that God had brought her to do? To prosper and refill the coffers of the Chouteau family while seeing to her own father’s safety? How could she think otherwise?

  “I shall stay,” she said softly. “Until my husband’s goals are achieved and my father is freed from prison, I shall stay in France and help you.”

  Prudence took Anne’s hand. “I mean to stay with you. I have neither the funds nor the courage to get back to England on my own. I am your friend, Anne, and I cannot leave you.”

  “Very well then,” Anne said. “We shall build a lace machine, and in the name of his son, we shall do our best to restore the fortunes of the Duke of Marston.”

  Monsieur Robidoux patted her arm. “La belle dame d’esprit. Your husband knew you well.”

  Ruel leaned over the ship’s rail and looked down into the gray-green water swirling below. Beside him, Walker reclined with his back against the rail, his eyes searching the vivid blue sky.

  “My life runs in a circle, like the flight of those weary seagulls who follow our ship,” the Indian said. “My existence is one of endless repetition. Everything I have loved has been taken from me. My family. My home. The woman.”

  “I did not know you cared so much for Miss Watson,” Ruel said.

  “I speak of days long ago.”

  “You were once in love?”

  “More than once. I lost everything then. Now I have lost my world again. When Miss Watson entered my life, I began to believe something good might come to me after all. The woman had such faith in the Creator.”

  “As did my Anne.”

  Walker nodded. “Prudence was young and full of hope. So pale and beautiful. You know, she did not care about the color of my skin. She told me I was handsome.”

  Ruel glanced at his friend. A wry smile was written on the older man’s face. Ruel smiled in return.

  “You are handsome, Walker. You are tall and strong. I suppose in a way you are rather striking.”

  “I have the face of a buzzard.” He gave a rueful laugh and then let out a shuddering sigh. “I loved her, Ruel. Even though I knew she was too young, that her heart would change, that we could never marry . . . I loved her deeply.”

  “I had no idea your feelings were so strong. I am sorry.” Ruel shut his eyes against the recurring image of the two women sprawled on the wagon bench. “At least Prudence knew of your love for her. I never told Anne. Unable to admit it to myself, let alone say the words to her. I had no idea I was even capable of such emotion. I imagined love was a pastime for dandies and women. Romantic nonsense, I always maintained. To me, marriage was an arrangement for social benefit and the procreation of children. Secret liaisons took care of the rest. That was it. All I thought life had to offer. Love? I never believed I had it in me.”

  “The day you came to see me at the smithy in Tiverton I knew you loved that woman. The look in your eyes was one of terror. She might die, you said. ‘You have to save her, Walker.’ So I did.”

  “A lot of good it did her. I led Anne from one catastrophe to the next. Shot through the leg. Tricked into transporting contraband across land and sea. Forced to carry contemptible lace machine parts in her baggage. Obliged to drive a cart through a bloody battlefield. She spent her days as my wife either fending off barbs from those in my Society or ducking lead balls being fired by someone trying to assassinate me. Oh, I did well as a husband, Walker. Very well indeed.”

  The Indian rested silently against the rail for a long time. His eyes combed the clouds as though he might read answers in them. “All the same,” he said finally, “you cannot flee from your responsibility.”

  “I should let Alex have the duchy of Marston and all that goes with it. He is more comfortable in that world than I have ever been.”

  “You know Sir Alexander would squander his position. The family wealth will run through his fingers as flour through a sieve.”

  Ruel studied the waves slapping against the side of the ship. Overhead the masts creaked and the sails snapped. The scent of saltwater stung his nostrils, easing in his chest the agony that had weighed on him like a millstone.

  “I shall never relinquish my title,” he said in a low voice. “I have lost the lace machine, but I must manage our properties. Believe me, my brother’s hands will not hold the purse strings. When I am back in England, I shall again see to my responsibilities there.”

  “You are wise.”

  “I am a fool. I had everything, and I could not see it. Now I have nothing. Nothing.”

  “You are young. Intelligent. Not without means. You have enough.”

  Ruel slammed his palm on the rail and turned away. Striding down the deck toward the ship’s stern, he fought the black mist of hopelessness. What good was youth if he had no one with whom to enjoy the long years to come? What use was intelligence if there was no one to match wits with? Of what benefit was wealth in an empty bed in the middle of a cold night?

  Yes, he would go back to England and continue to try to save the duchy from financial ruin. He came to a standstill on the slick wooden planks and lifted his head to the billowing white sails. But what good was it? What good was anything without her?

  Seventeen

  Anne and Prudence moved into a small house in the town of Douai on the border of France. Like many other homes in the region of Calais, this one had been built of stone, its walls plastered white and its steep roof heavily thatched. The two women slept upstairs in a bedroom with a view of the River Somme. Anne wrote a letter to the Duke of Marston and Prudence wrote to her sisters, but with France in a state of chaos, they could not be sure whether their messages would reach London.

  Using funds previously deposited by the Marquess of Blackthorne and managed by Monsieur Robidoux, Anne purchased pots and pans for the cozy kitchen. She furnished the small living area and bought a table and four chairs for the dining room. She hired a cook, planted a vegetable garden, and employed a tutor to teach her and Prudence to speak French.

  As the days passed, Anne again learned that though some might have called her husband a wastrel, he had not earned that label. Ruel had been no fool. His plan to enrich the duchy of Marston had been a good one, and his trust in Monsieur Robidoux was well founded. The Frenchman was a master stockinger with a profitable weaving business, and a leader in the town. He told Anne he had met Ruel many years before, but their partnership in the lace business had been undertaken solely through letters. Anne felt certain that had he lived, Ruel would have made his enterprise successful.

  After settling the women into their house, Monsieur Robidoux had driven the cart into one of his large warehouses on the outskirts of town, opened the trunks, and removed the machinery. He and his employees labored day and night to assemble the equipment. Though the English-made machine had been adapted from a common stocking loom, Robidoux was challenged to figure out its workings and its quirks, learn how to thread it, and, finally, begin to operate it. When the first inch of lace net rolled off the loom, even Anne felt a measure of satisfaction.

  While struggling with grief and the very effort of survival in a foreign land, Anne and Prudence eagerly waited for each tidbit of information Monsieur Robidoux brought them from the outside world. Shortly after Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo, their host told them, the emperor abdicated in favor of his son, Napoleon II. But the Chambers denied the young man recognition. As Wellington and Blücher advanced, Napoleon fled the country by sea on July 8, the same day the English
escorted King Louis XVIII into Paris.

  Though Wellington wanted Napoleon handed over to the King of France, the man managed to board the ship Bellerophon and sail for England, where he hoped to solicit mercy from the regent. On July 20, buckling to allied pressure, eight hundred French generals and senior officers surrendered in Paris. Everyone from Napoleon’s former regime—his son, brothers, members of the Chambers, and even his foe, Fouché—was expelled from the country. Napoleon’s defeat was complete. Four days later, the Bellerophon arrived in England near Torbay.

  To the surprise and delight of Anne and Prudence, Monsieur Robidoux pointed out to them one day that Miss Pickworth’s column of rumor and advice from The Tattler was translated each week into French and placed prominently in the local newspaper. Miss Pickworth’s reports about Napoleon’s lifestyle in English territory appalled Anne. Rather than living in shame, he was treated by London Society as the celebrated emperor he once had been.

  “Sightseers in boats surround the Bellerophon,” Miss Pickworth wrote. “Napoleon’s avid admirers call to the elegantly exiled emperor every time he parades on deck. In recent days, he has been moved to Plymouth, where nearly ten thousand gawkers gather around his ship to gaze at him and exclaim on his fine features and magnificent manners. Indeed, Napoleon has charmed everyone in England and is beloved beyond belief.”

  Magnificent manners, Anne fumed. Murderer would be a better description of the despicable man. If not for the French people’s fawning admiration of English citizens, she and Prudence would have been mortified to let their nationality be known. Everywhere in France, Napoleon was vilified, while Parisians cheered as British troops marched in parade down the Champs-Elysées.

  With the monarchy restored, Hezekiah Cutts’s smuggled machine went to work. The sudden voracious demand for lace by everyone from the wealthy aristocracy to the humblest peasants took even Monsieur Robidoux by surprise.

  “Lace,” Miss Pickworth reported one day, “has enthralled everyone across the Continent.”