by Ruth Axtell
Well, Valentine would go along, of course, and Jacob, her coachman, with a groom, as well as either Tom or William. One of the chambermaids and one kitchen maid. Mrs. Finlay would stay and look after Agatha and the house.
And her butler? If Mr. Rumford were here, she would give either him or Mrs. Finlay a holiday. There would need to be very little done at the house. If Agatha did stay, she would do no entertaining, so she required very little staff.
But what of Mr. MacKinnon? Should she make him stay on here or take him with her?
She rubbed the quill pen against her cheek, considering. She could keep an eye on him at Hartwell—or leave him behind, and ensure that he couldn’t keep an eye on her.
Even while her reason told her to keep him in London, another part of her wished to have him along.
She told herself he could do little harm at Hartwell. He understood no French, the language spoken almost exclusively there. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to MacKinnon since the ball last evening. She felt guilty about the wild-goose chase he had been sent on, even though she knew it had been a necessary step.
Ignoring the voice in her head, she came to her decision. MacKinnon would go along.
She would tell him to prepare for the trip. He would be in charge of the other servants. That should keep him too busy to observe her every move.
Céline finished her letter and then began a list of preparations before the trip.
Rees was in his butler’s pantry with William, inspecting the silver that had been used at the ball’s supper, when they were both surprised by the appearance of Lady Wexham.
“Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, my lady,” they both answered, standing at attention.
As usual she looked lovely, her peach-colored gown brightening the surroundings immediately.
She turned with a smile to the footman. “Would you excuse us a moment, William?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
When the young man had left, she faced Rees with another smile, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. She wore a matching peach ribbon in her rich chestnut hair, bringing out the warm tints in it.
He had a hard time reconciling the lovely, innocent-looking woman who looked more like a girl than a woman of eight-and-twenty with one who would receive gentlemen callers while still abed.
He cleared his throat, trying to dispel the image that had plagued him all day from his mind. “Yes, my lady?”
“I am going out to Hartwell House.”
“Indeed?” It was a country estate not far outside of London, where Louis XVI’s brother had finally found lodging after years of living in exile across the Continent at the largesse of various heads of state.
She moistened her lips, enhancing their rosy hue. “I usually go out there several times a year to visit my mother. There is a large French community there,” she added in a wry tone.
He remained silent, wondering where she was leading. Was she going to leave instructions for him while she was absent? He curled his fingers into his palms, trying to think how he could get himself included.
“I usually take a small number of servants with me. It is quite a vast estate, and the émigrés there are for the most part impoverished. Thus, any household help is usually a necessity for visitors.”
“Which servants do you intend to take with you, my lady?”
She ticked them off on her slim fingers. “Valentine, Sally, one of the kitchen maids, a scullery maid, Tom—since William accompanied me the last time—and Jacob, and a groom. I shall take my traveling carriage and hire another with postilions for the servants.”
“Yes, my lady.” He asked, trying to conceal any disappointment he felt at being excluded, “And Gaspard?”
She shook her head. “No. The Comte has his own cook, and the two clash terribly whenever I’ve made the mistake of taking Gaspard along. You may tell the servants to begin preparations for the trip. They know what to do. We need to bring linens and provisions. Enough for a fortnight at least.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I wish you to accompany me as well.”
He couldn’t help registering his surprise. “Me?”
“Yes. You can help Tom with any of his duties.” Her eyebrows drew together, her amber eyes holding a question. “Do you ride?”
The question caught him unaware since his thoughts were still adjusting to the news that he was to go to Hartwell. “Yes.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Indeed? That is good. You and Tom may ride alongside the equipage. I wish to take along my mare, of course. Since we are taking such a small staff, you may help Tom with the duties of footman, and give Jacob any assistance with the horses, if you don’t object.”
“No, my lady, why should I?”
Her full lips curved slightly upward. “Because you are the butler, are you not?” Her tone was teasing, the same tone she had used in conversation with the gentlemen in her boudoir.
He didn’t respond to the smile, instead saying stiffly, “I am here to serve you in any capacity you require while my uncle is laid up.”
The humor evaporated from her expression. “I didn’t offend you, did I?”
He blinked at her gentle tone. Except she had no idea why he was offended—nor must she ever. Until he discovered the truth of Lady Wexham’s loyalties, he must act out his role of simple butler. “Of course not. I shall be perfectly happy to assist Tom and Jacob.”
“Good. You may confer with Jacob concerning the travel arrangements. Mrs. Finlay will show you what needs to be packed.”
“Very well, my lady.”
“In recompense for these added duties, you shall find that you have much more free time at Hartwell than you do here. I require very little, so the servants who accompany me find it to be more of a holiday than a hardship.”
“I see.”
“Be sure to pack some suitable attire for the country. There are miles of parkland and we are not far from the market town of Aylesbury. There is also a small village nearby.”
“Very well, my lady. When should we be ready to depart?”
“As soon as possible. Perhaps the day after tomorrow?”
When she had left the small room, Rees found it hard to collect his thoughts. Why was it every time he spoke to her, no matter how brief the exchange, he felt himself once again ensnared by her charm? He needed to keep his focus on his assignment.
Despite this, all he felt was an overwhelming sense of relief. For whatever the reason, Lady Wexham had decided to take him along to Hartwell.
The next day Rees spent crisscrossing London with a list of commissions. Her ladyship needed a special blend of tea from Fortnum and Mason’s, a pair of shoes she had had made at Wood’s, a parasol from Cohen’s, the latest novels from Lackington Allen & Co.
With the house in upheaval, he was doing what he would normally have the footmen do. But they were busy packing up the crates of food and wines under Gaspard’s watchful eye.
Rees exited the Pantheon Bazaar where Lady Wexham had sent him to pick up a pair of lady’s gloves and stepped onto Oxford Street.
“Rees!”
His head snapped up at the feminine voice.
Midway down the next block, his sister hailed him. “Rees!” she repeated, waving her arm. Right behind her stood Jessamine and her mother, Mrs. Barry.
All three stared at him, surprise and disbelief in their eyes.
He’d forgotten his sister’s impending visit. In the same instant he remembered his butler’s garb. He’d been so caught up in carrying out Lady Wexham’s errands that he’d overlooked the fact that he was in the precise neighborhood where his sister and Jessamine were most likely to be.
Panic held him rooted to the pavement.
And Jessamine! What would he say to her?
Without thinking, he swiveled around and pushed past the exiting shoppers and reentered the Pantheon. He could use it as a shortcut to the other side of the block, hi
s only thought that they mustn’t see him.
A few minutes later, he reached Marlboro Street. Then he broke into a run, turning corners until he was almost to Seven Dials, a neighborhood they were sure not to enter.
He halted to catch his breath, keeping a sharp eye for pickpockets.
Had they seen him clearly, or had he been far enough away to pass for someone who only resembled him? How was he to explain when Megan next wrote him? Thank goodness he’d be leaving town the next day for Hartwell. He’d write his sister as soon as he arrived to tell her he’d been sent there by the Foreign Office.
His mother and sister would be pleased, thinking he was receiving a promotion with all this traveling he seemed to be doing. If only they knew the truth. A butler!
His thoughts returned to the encounter. He’d just set his hat on his head, so his features would have been hard to distinguish. But they’d seen his eyes. If Megan wrote him about the encounter, he’d be forced to deny having been in the city. His postmark from Hartwell would prove it. At least he’d already warned her he would be out of town. That should certainly convince her she had been mistaken.
But what if all three of the ladies agreed that it had been he?
How he hated this masquerade!
With a sigh, he turned back toward Mayfair. The sooner he returned to the house, the safer he’d be.
He would have to report this evening to let Bunting know of his departure for Hartwell House.
That should keep the man satisfied for the time being.
10
The trip to Hartwell House did not take more than a few hours even though they had not had an early start, with so many things to be seen to.
The carriages assumed a leisurely pace, stopping at two posting houses on the way, to change horses. By early afternoon, they were passing through Aylesbury, then on through the picturesque countryside beyond it. By midafternoon they turned into the gate to the vast parklands surrounding the French comte’s residence.
Céline pushed aside the curtain of the carriage window, watching the scenery. She had not been out here to see her mother since February when everything had been covered with snow.
With each passing mile, her spirits sank a notch. It was so each time she came. It reminded her too much of the past.
At least now the countryside was green, the leafy forests of beech creating a dappled effect of light and shadow upon the carriage. After miles of parkland, they at last entered the Grand Avenue leading toward the palace.
A mile or so farther, the carriage drew up before the large golden ashlar stone structure. Canted bay windows at either end balanced out the Jacobean and Georgian mansion.
A pity that since its owner had leased the palace to the Comte de Provence, the handsome mansion had fallen into decay. The shrubbery needed trimming, flocks of chickens and small livestock squawked and squealed from the parapet surrounding the lead roof, and the overall appearance looked shabby.
The carriage came to a stop at the main doorway. A footman in faded livery and powdered wig opened her door and let down the step.
Two more footmen stood at attention at the door. The butler, whom she knew well, came to greet her.
“Bonjour, madame.” He bowed. “Welcome back. Your mother informed us of your arrival. We have put you in your usual suite in the east wing, if that is to your liking.”
“Yes, of course, Monsieur Denfort. My servants will see to the bags. Is my mother about?”
“Yes, in her rooms. Tea will be served at five.”
“Is the Comte well?”
“Yes, my lady, I am happy to report. His gout is not troubling him overmuch. I believe he will make an appearance at tea.”
“I shall greet him then. You will see to my servants, will you not?”
“Of course, madame.”
She was led up the wide staircase and down a long passage to her mother’s rooms. Hartwell House had dozens and dozens of rooms.
The footman knocked at her mother’s door and announced her. She must grow accustomed to the formal pace of things here. It was, after all, a royal court—or pretended to be.
When her mother saw her, she smiled and held out her hands. “Ah, Céline, you are here at last.”
The two barely touched cheeks and drew apart. “Hello, Maman. You are well?” She eyed her mother, who was dressed in the older fashion, her brown silk open robe gown displaying a deeper yellow petticoat beneath. She wore a high, frilly lace fichu around her neckline, and her graying brown hair was powdered and covered in a lacy mobcap.
Her mother sighed. “As well as can be expected for one of my years.”
Her mother indicated Céline take the seat beside her on the settee. “How was your journey?”
“Uneventful.” The two exchanged pleasantries after her mother gave instructions for refreshment to be brought up to her.
Céline didn’t worry about her own servants, who knew what to do. Valentine would oversee Sally in the unpacking and making up of beds, the kitchen and scullery maids would make themselves useful in the kitchen. As for MacKinnon, she hoped he would not be at loose ends, especially among so many French people, but doubtless Tom would show him the ropes.
She would go down and check on him—on all her servants—later. But first there was this interview to be gotten over and then tea. She turned to her mother. “Is there anything new?”
“My dear, there is always something new. Our hopes are growing that soon that monster Bonaparte will be defeated. I pray every day that our own Louis will be sitting on the throne that upstart dared to crown himself emperor upon. What conceit!”
Before her mother grew agitated, Céline turned the conversation to more mundane matters. “How is Tante Louise?” she asked, naming the close friend of her mother’s who was not related by blood, but whom Céline had grown accustomed to calling aunt.
“Oh—as always, complaining . . . if it’s not gout, it’s rheumatism.”
They talked some more of the various long-term residents of Hartwell House before Céline brought up a less pleasant subject. “Maman, I received your request for an advance upon your next quarterly allowance.”
Her mother motioned with her fine hands. “And what of it? Why should I not appeal to my only child if I run short? You have been well provided for. Why should you deny your poor mother anything? I who sacrificed everything for you.” She put a hand to her forehead. “All those years after your dear papa was taken and I was alone in the world, friendless with not a penny after those scoundrels took everything from us—”
Céline sat back, resigned to the familiar tirade against the Jacobins who had appropriated their family’s lands and wealth. When her mother paused for breath, she quickly filled in the silence. “I begrudge you nothing, Maman, you know that. What I do object to is having you spend your generous allowance on gambling debts. Why can’t you be content with those pensioners who only play for pennies?”
Her mother waved a hand scornfully. “You wish me to appear like those beggars!” Her voice rose. “Why you begrudge me the few pleasures that are left in my life! I cannot appear a miserly widow at the table when everyone knows my daughter is the wealthiest Frenchwoman in London!”
“I would wish no such thing. I merely ask you to exercise self-restraint and get up from the card table when your luck runs against you.”
The interview ended badly, with her mother in tears, as Céline had known it would. She finally excused herself with “Do not upset yourself, Maman. I shall write you a bank draft.”
After her visit with her mother, Céline was at last free to go to her own suite of rooms, on another floor, removed from those of her mother, who was a permanent resident of the palace.
“There you are at last,” Valentine said as soon as she entered. “You will be late for tea. How was Madame de Beaumont?”
“Fine.” Céline would dearly have loved to sit in an armchair and not do anything for a while, but she knew Valentine would not allow that, so she s
ubmitted meekly to being undressed.
“I have laid out the blue Indian muslin with the cream sash. There is hot water for you to wash, if it hasn’t grown cold by now.”
“Very well.” Céline walked behind the cloth screen to wash the travel dust off herself.
An hour later, washed, trussed, and coiffed, Céline left her chambers to make her way back down the myriad passages and staircases to the main salon, where she knew the old Comte received his visitors in the late afternoon.
When she arrived, there were already several guests and habitués whom she recognized gathered in the marble-floored corridor.
After greetings, they passed into the salon, where they stood or sat about the spacious room with its floor to ceiling bay windows overlooking the parkland while waiting for the Comte to appear.
A quarter of an hour later, he entered, accompanied by his closest retinue of advisors and servants. After he was settled on a velvet settee, Céline approached him. One foot, plagued by gout, rested on an embroidered footstool in front of him. White silk stockings covered thick ankles and calves.
He was almost sixty. His girth filled the settee made for two. Gray powdered curls framed his face. He wore his hair long, in a queue in the back. His face was round with jowls, his nose hooked, his eyes and eyebrows dark, contrasting to his powdered hair.
His eyes lit up in recognition. “Ma chère Céline, my child!” He held out a plump, beringed hand.
Céline took his hand and curtsied deeply. “My lord.”
“Come, tell me the news from town.”
A footman brought a chair and she sat beside him for a while, telling him all the news she knew would amuse him.
“And the Regent is still misbehaving?”
“As usual. He hardly dares show his face in the streets for fear of the mobs. But he spends most of his time in Brighton these days.”
“Ah, the seaside. If I could travel, I am sure it would do me good.” He motioned to his foot. “But you see how I am held captive here.”