Satyr’s Son: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Family Saga Book 5)

by Brant, Lucinda

  “And I do not think you, Miss Crisp, have anything to concern yourself about your French language skills. With practice I could have you speaking like a native, so that not even my mother would guess you were from this side of the Channel, and not that.”

  “Oh? I don’t? Could you? Is your mother French?” she asked in a rush, shy at his praise and because mention of his mother made their conversation that much more personal. And not least, because she had asked three successive questions. But she saw the absurd in her response and laughed behind her hand, confessing, “You may find me a poor pupil, sir, because I would prefer to listen to you.”

  “But … Surely the poor pupil is the one who does not listen at all…?”

  When he continued to frown in thought, she blushed and said in a small voice before looking down at her hands, “Very true. I meant something else entirely…”

  There followed such a long silence between them that she forced her gaze up to his face, and saw that he was looking at her intently, and she knew he understood the real meaning behind her confession. He smiled thinly, and something sparked in his dark eyes.

  “Perhaps we should start an admiration society for French speakers—for two?”

  She returned his smile, and said cheekily, “I will join. On condition you do all the talking.”

  He laughed and instantly put a fist to his mouth to stop himself.

  “Will you tell me how you became interested in the Fournier Foundation?” she asked quietly, gaze following his hand up to his mouth and noticing for the first time that he had removed his gloves. His fingers were long and tapered, the nails manicured, and he wore a heavy gold signet ring on his pinky, which was set with a carnelian intaglio engraved with a coat of arms.

  “At the risk of boring you—”

  “I beg your pardon, but you cannot bore me,” she interrupted without realizing it, attention still focused on his signet ring and the significance of that coat of arms. And when he moved his hand and let his arm lie across the length of the back of the sofa towards her, she rallied, saying seriously, which was at odds with the light in her eyes, “As we are now members of this newly-formed French speaking society, and I have joined on condition and expectation that you do all the talking, I must listen to whatever you say. So you see, I won’t be bored. Besides,” she continued, knowing she was prattling but unable to stop herself because he was looking at her in an odd sort of way that made her happy and nervous at one and the same time, “you have such a lovely voice, you could talk on any subject and I would listen, and in whatever language you cared to address me in. Though I am sure that is nothing new to you, to be complimented. And although I have only heard you speak in English and French, I am confident you must speak other tongues, too. You are too well spoken to have limited yourself to two. At Blacklands I also learned to read, write, and speak in Dante’s language. But since coming to live with the Warners I have had even less practice speaking that language than I have French. But you—I could listen to you speak in French all day…”

  Again the silence stretched, but this time she could not bring herself to look up to to see his reaction, such was her embarrassment at allowing herself to blather. Yet it was easy to blather in French, to him. She doubted she would have been quite so effusive or as candid in English. She kept her gaze to the embroidered front of his linen waistcoat, with its sprays of lily of the valley and matching covered buttons, and waited for him to speak. After all, she had given him permission to talk without needing any contribution from her.

  He took her up on her offer.

  “I do not recall a time when I was not interested in medical science,” he reflected. “Perhaps, initially, my interest was piqued because of my affliction, and being constantly surrounded by physicians, almost from birth. The closet off my bedchamber was a veritable pharmacopeia. I had a resident physician until my teens, and I have never gone anywhere or done anything without my shadows. I have three. The one that belongs to me, and the two belonging to the lads, a far more convivial name for the minders who follow me everywhere. And just like my shadow, I have learned to accept them as a matter of course. Their presence gives me a certain peculiarity amongst Society. Such a self-absorbed existence is as liberating as it is limiting.

  “I am fortunate enough to have the means to be indulgent. Others—most others—will never have such freedom. But how the poor, debilitated by the falling sickness, and who must carry its stigma for life, are able to function in our society with any sense of dignity, I cannot imagine… But the foundation’s raison d’être is to fund the advancement of medical science. It is a charitable trust for physicians, apothecaries, surgeons, and researchers, and their apprentices. I believe—the trustees believe—that the advancement of knowledge in the medical sciences is the only way forward to alleviating suffering, not only for the poor, but all mankind.

  “But I fully appreciate my duties as a trustee are but a thimbleful’s worth of effort when compared to those who dedicate their lives to treating the sick, and who spend their days toiling in the most barbaric of conditions, elbow-deep in human remains, all to improve our understanding. Nor can my efforts measure up against the comfort and reassurance you provide those wretches who visit the dispensary seeking relief, if not a cure, for their ills. One smile and a kind word must surely alleviate their pain, if only for that brief moment in time. And for many, that is more than enough to sustain them, to know they are thought of, and their ills believed, even if they are so self-absorbed, as indeed I was as a child, to take your smile and your kind word as a grand presumption.”

  “Sir, you are too kind—”

  “I am never too kind, Miss Crisp. Nor should you be self-effacing. I give credit where it is due—well, I am much better at doing so nowadays… Now that I am no longer a petulant boy, spoiled beyond permission.”

  “Petulant? Never! Spoiled? Yes,” she agreed, head cocked and smiling into his eyes. “I can well believe that even as a boy you had a distinct advantage over your fellows, which meant not only did your parents and your siblings spoil you, I am very sure all those with whom you came in contact were only too willing to jump to do your bidding. Why, I would wager even your physician, your nurses, and your shadows were compliant to your boyish demands.”

  Henri-Antoine pulled a face, but he was not annoyed, despite the complaint in his tone. “Distinct advantage? Boyish demands? Dear me, Miss Crisp, whatever can you mean?”

  “Oh, pray, sir! Surely you are funning with me. I have told you so already.”

  “I have not the slightest notion to what you are inferring,” he said with a shrug, features schooled in what he hoped was an expression of neutrality. “And this despite being the proud owner of three full-length looking glasses, and five or more dressing mirrors.” When Lisa giggled behind her hand, he added softly, leaning into her, “I demand that you give me a clearer explanation of your meaning.”

  His tone was playful but there was an intensity in his gaze that made her suddenly wary, and she shivered, swallowed and looked away.

  “Please—please do not make me,” she replied and in English.

  That broke the spell.

  He realized at once that their verbal sparring had gone too far for her; that she was, after all, quite young and innocent for all her worldly façade and maturity in dealing with the dispensary patients, and with him while in the throes of a seizure. For the second time in as many weeks he had lost his footing and overstepped the mark, which was unforgiveable; she with the power to unsettle him. He remembered that they were alone, and he a guest in her guardian’s house. Had she been a young unmarried female of his own class, she would never have been left alone with him under any circumstances, and rightly so.

  He sat back and let his arm drop to his knee, and remembered the package. But it did not seem appropriate to give it to her at that moment because she might misconstrue his intent. Thus he went to great pains to make conversation which he hoped would put her at her ease so she
would be comfortable with him again. Following her lead, he reverted to English.

  “My grandfather, my mother’s father, was a physician, and a Parisian. Perhaps that is where I inherited my interest in medical science… It must be in the blood?” he mused, gaze on the diamond-studded top of his walking stick. “My grandfather the Chevalier was a gifted healer, and much to the horror of his noble parents he chose to study medicine, and not the law. Worse. Once he had graduated, he did not go into private practice to treat those of his own class, but used his healing gifts to help the poorest of the poor wretches in the hospital known as La Salpêtrière, where females of lowest repute, the insane, and those suffering from the falling sickness are incarcerated. Which is not surprising, given epileptics are thought by many to be one step away from madness—”

  “That is unsupported prejudice. Dr. Warner will tell you so.”

  “Then he is one of our more enlightened medical men.”

  “He is, sir. But forgive me. I interrupted you telling me about your grandfather…”

  “I will not tire you with the particulars of his medical career, as much as I know you would be fascinated by such detail. My grandfather came to the attention of the French Court, and was appointed personal physician to Philippe the Second, Duc d’Orléans, le Régent of France during Louis the Fifteenth’s minority. My great-grandparents lived long enough to see that day, but thankfully not long enough to witness their son’s downfall, and so they died happy… Again, let me skip forward to an incident… A lady at court, a German princess married to a French noble, went into early labor. My grandfather attended on her but alas the infant, a boy, died. That death ruined my grandfather’s career. He was forced to leave France. He retired to the Italian states where he continued to practice medicine and to raise my mother on his own until his death at fifty-nine. My mother believes—thinking back on her childhood and on particular episodes where her father would shut himself away—that he was hiding his affliction—”

  Lisa drew in a small breath and her blue eyes widened. “Your grandfather also suffered with the falling sickness?”

  “That is my mother’s postulation. Coincidentally, I bear one of his names… My parents could not have foreseen at my birth that I, too, would be a sufferer…” Henri-Antoine was pensive, then said with a note of wonder, taking his gaze from his walking stick to meet Lisa’s, “I have not spoken about my grandfather in many years—with anyone… Nor have I behaved as a gentleman ought when I took my leave of you,” he continued smoothly, seeing she was again comfortable in his company. “I ask that you accept this small token as my apology for my uncustomary discourtesy, and as a thank you for coming to my assistance at Lord Westby’s townhouse.”

  He took the package from the low table and placed it between them on the sofa cushion.

  “For-for me?”

  “For you.”

  Lisa frowned at the package tied up with black ribbon.

  “Please keep your frown for after you have opened it, if it is not to your liking.”

  Lisa’s frown disappeared and she smiled into his eyes. “I am very sure I will like it because it is from you. May I unwrap it?”

  Henri-Antoine waved a languid hand and sighed, though he was secretly pleased with her undisguised delight, and uncharacteristically apprehensive as to her reaction to his gift.

  “Please do. It cannot unwrap itself.”

  “Very well then,” she said, giving the bow a tug. “But I must warn you I am unused to receiving gifts—”

  “It is a mere token.”

  “—of any kind. So I may shed a tear or two.”

  “Thank you for the warning. I will ready my handkerchief.”

  Lisa chuckled then gave her full attention to the package as the ribbon unraveled and the cloth fell open to reveal a rectangular wooden box. But it was so far from the ordinary as to be extraordinary. So much so that Lisa froze, speechless.

  ELEVEN

  WHEN LISA DID not move or say a word, Henri-Antoine leaned forward, frowning.

  “It is not to your taste, Miss Crisp…?”

  Lisa shook her head and swallowed. She had never before seen such a beautiful object, and this one a writing box. This was her presumption given the diagonal cut to the lid and the drop handles at either end, though she had yet to be told or instructed on its function. She had seen a few finely-crafted boxes while at Blacklands, and envied those girls who were fortunate enough to own them. Her writing box had been made for her by one of the school’s carpenters in payment for giving his son lessons in reading and writing. She still used it. A simple wooden box constructed from off-cuts, the writing slope covered with a piece of repurposed leather, and the hinges of a nondescript metal. She had been grateful to the carpenter for making it, for she would not have had the coin to purchase one herself.

  But this writing box on her cousin’s sofa… It was a thing of beauty. As beautiful an object as it was functional. A work of art, carefully crafted to be seen as well as used. It belonged in a great lady’s boudoir, and to be taken by her when she went traveling in her splendid carriage-and-four, perhaps with a livered footman employed for the precise purpose of carrying and caring for such a treasure.

  Such was Lisa’s reverence that she hesitantly and then gently caressed the lid, fingertips trailing over the gleaming red richness of the rosewood and the border of mother-of-pearl inlay, the fretting expertly cut and polished to represent foliage. The front face was similarly inlaid and here also was a polished brass lock. She wondered as to the whereabouts of the key because she itched to open it to see if it was as magnificent on the inside.

  As if sensing Henri-Antoine held the key, she looked up through a mist of tears. He did indeed have it, but he put it aside to dig in a frock coat pocket for his handkerchief. This he held out to her.

  “Th-Thank y-you,” she muttered, swallowing hard. She patted her eyes and cheeks dry. “I-I am sorry. It-it is very beautiful, and cost you dearly, so I am a little overcome by it, and you, for gifting it to me. I never expected payment of any kind for assisting you in your distress—”

  “And I would not insult you with payment, Miss Crisp. As to the cost, that is of little consequence to a man of my vulgar wealth. And this writing box was not the most expensive on offer, but it was the most tasteful. I hope you will pardon the presumption, I thought it perfect for you. But that is the least of my concerns. What does concern me is the rehabilitation of my reputation, which is beyond price,” he drawled in a most superior manner. “Thus I must insist you accept this token so that I may feel better about myself.”

  His facial tick gave him away, and Lisa smiled and shook her head, not at all fooled by his haughtiness. She realized he was doing his best to make her feel at ease.

  “Very well, sir. I should not like to be the cause of any further unease on your part. So I will accept your gift—pardon me, your token—with gratitude. Though I am mystified as to how you knew I am a keen letter writer. Or perhaps while you were investigating Dr. Warner’s dispensary for the foundation you discovered I am an amanuensis for the poor?”

  “An amanuensis for the poor…? Indeed! You never cease to surprise me, Miss Crisp. No. I did not know. And why do the poor require your services as a scribe?”

  She told him, and she wasn’t sure what surprised him more: That she provided such a service, or that while most of the persons who came through the dispensary doors could read, they could not write. He was such a willing ear, that she then went on to tell him about sitting in her corner with her writing box, and the poor lining up to take advantage of her services in dictating to her letters they could not write themselves.

  “So you see, this beautiful writing box will be put to good use, and be cared for very well indeed,” she told him happily, allowing her fingertips to again caress the box, as if needing the tangible to make certain it was there, and hers.

  He could see his gift had made her very happy, and that filled him with a sense of contentment, th
e unwanted apprehension he had been experiencing wondering if the box would please her vanishing as his gaze followed her fingers across the polished rosewood and mother-of-pearl inlay

  “It was your fingers,” he confessed softly. “The ink stains—The ink stains to your fingers told me about your letter writing—No! You must not hide them away,” he said more harshly than he intended when she snatched her hand away and made fists in her lap. “You should never be ashamed of the tell-tale signs caused by honest work. They are a badge of honor, are they not? And now that you have told me about your services as an amanuensis for the poor, I am more than ever delighted with myself at the appropriateness of my gift—pardon me, my token.”

  “Delighted with myself?” she repeated with a gasp, and then giggled at the absurdity of his pronouncement. She asked sweetly, “How is it, sir, that you know just what to say to put me at my ease?”

  Henri-Antoine shrugged, as if he had no idea. But his attempt at nonchalance failed because he could not stop himself from smiling at her undisguised happiness.

  “Ah. This is when I should tell you I’ve spent years cultivating social insouciance. But I know that would not impress you—”

  “You are right. It does not.”

  “—so I must confess I do not have an answer where you are concerned.”

  “You do not?”

  Lisa pouted, unable to hide her disappointment, and again Henri-Antoine found himself grinning. Only this time he forgot to mentally castigate himself for his lax behavior, asking her in a light tone,

  “Would you like me to show you the mechanics of your writing box, or do you wish to discover for yourself what—”

  “Oh yes! Yes! Please show me—everything,” she interrupted excitedly.

  She hopped off the sofa, slipped off her mules so she could better sit on her haunches, and careful not to crush the skirts of her gown she sat on the carpet in front of him. Before he had time to even put aside his walking stick, she was settled, back straight, hands in her lap, with chin up and eyes bright awaiting his instruction.