Midnight Pleasures (38 page)

Definitely, Madame de Meneval was crying, just a trifle, only a single tear. She dropped her cane and stretched her hands out to Madeleine.

“Madeleine, dear Madeleine! I thought you were dead. I have missed your mother so much, and here you are … You are the very image of her. I remember you as a young girl, my dear, when you were only five years old. Your mama brought you all the way to Paris just to see the ballet. Your mother loved the ballet. Oh, how she loved to dance.”

Sophie didn’t say a word. Neither did Madeleine. They both stared at Madame de Meneval as if she had suddenly grown a horn on her forehead. But Madame didn’t notice. She was pulling a handkerchief of the finest lace out of her reticule, and gently patting her eyes.

“Just so your mother used to look when she was outshining every lady of the court. It’s as if I see my dear Hélène before me again. You have her eyes, and her hair … your figure is exactly like hers. Why, I remember dear King Louis ogling Hélène’s bosom, as if it were yesterday. How Marie Antoinette used to bridle at your mother! But there was nothing she could say. Your mother was perfectly behaved, a truly modest lady who never put herself forward. It wasn’t Hélène’s fault that Louis always found her
très désirable
.”

Then Madame suddenly noticed the look of stunned surprise on Madeleine’s face. “Did you not know that you are the image of your mother, my dear?”

“My father always said so, ma’am,” Madeleine said slowly, “but I could hardly believe it.”

Just then Braddon came up behind Madeleine and touched her elbow. “I believe this is my dance,” he said, bowing.

“Braddon!” she cried, ignoring the rule that she address him formally in public. “Madame de Meneval says that I look exactly like my mother!”

Braddon’s mouth fell open and for a moment Sophie tensed. He’s going to say something idiotic, she thought. Her fingers tightened painfully on Patrick’s sleeve.

Patrick glanced down at his wife’s white fingers. He hadn’t the faintest idea why Sophie was so agitated.

Luckily, Madame de Meneval broke in before Braddon could expose Madeleine’s true identity.

“You must be the Earl of Slaslow,” she said, looking over Braddon critically. She didn’t care for the overly English sort herself: all that hearty blond hair and blue eyes. “I have heard that you are to have the honor of marrying the daughter of my dear friend, the Marquise de Flammarion.”

“That’s right,” Braddon said uncertainly. He bowed again.

Madame snorted. Stupid as they come, she thought to herself. Still, at least he’s not as odd as Hélène’s husband was.

“Your father, the marquis, must have survived as well, then,” she said curiously, turning back to Madeleine. The girl was still standing there, white faced, as if she’d been turned to stone.

“My father brought me to England in 1793,” she replied.

“Oh, 1793.” Madame shivered. “That was a dreadful year, a dreadful year. Yes, that was when your dear mother was denounced. In April, it was. A dreadful year.”

If possible, Madeleine turned even paler. “My father always told me that my mother died of a fever,” she said carefully.

“Oh no,” said the Frenchwoman. “She was arrested. Fouquier, that butcher, didn’t need a reason. She rarely came to Paris, you know, since your father was such a recluse. But she was there, perhaps to buy something … new clothing. I am not sure.”

Madeleine knew. In her head resounded her father’s frequent and fierce condemnation of fashion and female love of fashion in particular.

“She was caught,” Madame continued. “I know that your father came to Paris and pleaded for her life before the Tribunal. The only reason he wasn’t imprisoned himself was that he was such an odd sort. Always messing about in the stables, always covered with dirt. There were rumors that he even learned how to shoe horses.”

“Yes, he did,” Madeleine said numbly.

“Well, it saved his life,” Madame replied. “The Tribunal judged him to be better than a useless aristocrat—those canaille! Degenerate pieces of rabble, judging the lives of their betters!” Her eyes glowed fiercely at Madeleine. “You’re better off here, girl. Even married to an Englishman. Even without your father’s estates. Did he manage to bring anything to England?”

“Yes,” Madeleine answered, thinking of the huge sum of money her father had suddenly, and most surprisingly, produced when it was time to buy her clothing and to hire Mrs. Trevelyan. “Yes, he did.”

“Well,” Madame de Meneval said with grudging respect, “I never cared for Vincent Garnier overmuch. He was an odd sort, even as a young man. But Hélène loved him. She was absurdly in love with him. Wouldn’t hear a word against him. And then after she married him, he took her off to his estates in the Limousin, and hardly let her come to court at all. I don’t know how she got permission to come to Paris in ‘93.” She fell silent.

Madeleine turned to Braddon, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He responded promptly. “I am afraid that I must claim my future bride,” he said, bowing deeply in the general direction of Madame de Meneval. “Madame, your servant.”

Madame inclined her chin an inch as if she, rather than Louis XVI, had been king. But her eyes softened as she turned to Madeleine.

“Dear child, I can see that I unwittingly gave you some unpleasant news. You must forgive me.”

“No, no,” Madeleine said softly. “It is lovely to meet someone who knew my mother. I am afraid I have very few memories of her.”

“Perhaps you will come and take tea with me someday. I knew your mother from the day she was born. I would be happy to tell Hélène’s daughter about her. How proud she would have been of you, my dear!”

At that, Madeleine’s tears threatened to overflow. As she made a hasty curtsy, Braddon drew her gently out of the ballroom. Braddon may not have been overbright, but he knew his Maddie. Without a word he pulled her into an adjacent salon, shut the door, and wrapped his arms around her.

“Braddon, Braddon,” Madeleine sobbed. “It is Mama, Hélène is Mama.”

“What?”

“Madame … she was talking about
my
mama!”

“Impossible,” Braddon said kindly. “Your mama married a horse trainer, m’dear. She couldn’t possibly have been friends with a member of the French court.”

“Don’t you see, Braddon?” Madeleine looked up at him, brown eyes shining with tears. “My father is the marquis who was so strange that he learned how to shoe horses. When Papa brought me to England, he opened a horse stable. That’s why he suggested that I pretend to be the daughter of the Marquis de Flammarion. I thought it strange that he agreed to a scheme of this sort so quickly.”

“You mean, you really
are
that woman’s daughter?”

Madeleine looked at her beloved. His blue eyes were still confused. “My papa is the Marquis de Flammarion,” she explained patiently. “When my mother was condemned, he must have taken me and fled to England. When he arrived, he opened a stable.”

Braddon gaped. “You
are
a French aristo!”

Madeleine nodded. Tears were still rolling down her cheeks.

“But my mama, Braddon!”

He rubbed her hair awkwardly. “You knew she was dead, Maddie.”

“Yes, but in such a way, the guillotine …”

“I’ll tell you what, Maddie, that old woman is right. Your mother would be proud of you now. You learned all the things that she would have liked to have taught you, and you’ve turned into the most beautiful, most proper lady I’ve ever seen.”

Madeleine buried her face in Braddon’s shoulder. “Oh, Braddon,” she said, half muffled. “I love you.”

“You do? You do? Do you, Maddie? Really?”

At that Madeleine laughed, a watery little laugh. “I do.”

“Oh, Maddie.”

And, when he raised his head again: “Marry me, Maddie, please.”

“I already said I would,” she whispered, with just a trace of her normal impish humor.

“No, I mean marry me now. Let’s get married tomorrow.”

“Do you mean elope?”

“For you, I will even climb a ladder,” Braddon said seriously.

Maddie’s endearing laugh erupted. “I sleep on the ground floor, Braddon.” Then she grew more serious. “No, I can’t elope. My father wouldn’t like it. But perhaps we could marry quite soon.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow.”

“Day after.”

“No!”

“Next week?”

Braddon’s kisses were so sweet. Maddie’s heart flip-flopped madly in her chest. “Next week,” she conceded.

Chapter 25

T
he following morning Sophie walked into her sitting room with a renewed sense of energy. To this date, Sophie had simply inhabited the room; now she planned to make it her own. True, the room had been wallpapered by its last occupant in a dizzying series of trellises crammed with roses so fat that they looked like pink clouds, but that she didn’t mind. Although she did object to the figurehead of a naked woman that incongruously decorated one wall.

The first thing Sophie did was ring the bell for a footman. Then she began pulling books from the low shelf under the window. The books had spilled out of Patrick’s library downstairs. She pulled them out at random, created spiraling stacks on the polished wood floor. They were an odd mixture. Sophie dumped
The Care and History of Husbandry
on top of
God’s Exhortation Against Witchcraft
, followed by a series of dusty bound pamphlets explicating the miracle of the steam engine.

As the door opened, Sophie said “Good morning,” briskly, but didn’t turn around. “I’d like all these books taken up to the attic, please, as well as that … that woman.” She waved at the figurehead gracing the south wall.

“Sophie! You should be more careful.” Patrick loomed behind her, frowning. “You are not lifting heavy books, are you?”

Sophie dusted her hands on her dress, not even thinking of Simone’s reaction to the brown streaks she left on her lemon-yellow morning gown. She looked up at her husband, trying to keep all traces of sarcasm from her voice. After all, she might have been hoisting boxes of books in the last month, without his knowledge.

Then she pointed at the slim volumes strewn about the floor. “These are not very heavy; in fact, most of them seem to be pamphlets.”

“Why did you want my figurehead in the attic? She’s supposed to be Galatea, the sea nymph.”

“I don’t want a half-naked woman jumping out of the wall of my sitting room.”

“She’s not half naked,” Patrick said, strolling over to look at Galatea more closely. “Look: she has a bit of drapery on her left breast. Quite tasteful, really.”

Sophie dumped two more dusty pamphlets on the stack at her feet without replying.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll have it removed to the attic.” There was a pause. “Alex pointed out that I have been remiss in allowing you to go about without escort,” Patrick said stiffly. “From now on, I would like you to inform me when you wish to use the carriage, and I will accompany you.”

Sophie’s mouth tightened. There was the explanation for her husband’s unexpected appearance: Alex!

“I have decided to begin my confinement,” she replied, “so I doubt I will have to bother you overmuch.” In fact, she decided at that moment never to leave the house again.

Patrick stared down at his wife’s small figure in despair. He couldn’t think of anything to say to her. Talk, Alex had instructed. Talk about what? Sophie had just stiffened up, all over her body, so already he’d said something wrong.

He hesitated, then bowed and turned, pulling open the door just as a footman raised his hand to knock on the panel. Patrick stood aside, then looked back for an instant.

“Sophie, would you like this wallpaper changed?” To him the roses looked like rosy mushrooms.

Sophie looked up, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “No, I rather like it. It’s very cheerful. I do intend to buy some new furniture for this room, however. Unless you have an objection.”

“Shall we go shopping this afternoon?”

“Perhaps later in the week.”

But Patrick wanted to do something for her now. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to take a carriage ride in the park?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

“Would you like me to send a message to Charlotte or your mother and ask them to visit you?”

“No, thank you, Patrick.” She was clearly waiting for him to leave.

So he did. What else could he do? He went downstairs and wondered about what made pregnant women happy. He sent a footman up to remove Galatea to her new home in the attic. Then he sent another footman out to buy three huge bouquets of roses, “the fat, floppy kind.” If roses made her cheerful, why not fill the house with them?

Sophie finally arranged all the bookshelves to her liking. Given the chance, she preferred strict organization. So her Dutch grammar was followed, in alphabetical order, by French, German, Italian, Portuguese, and Welsh books. Between Portuguese and Welsh she left a little space. That’s for Turkish, Sophie promised herself. As soon as I get a chance, I shall buy another Turkish grammar.

At lunch Patrick again asked Sophie if she would like him to accompany her anywhere in the afternoon, and again she refused. She was feeling tired, with a dragging ache in her back.

“I met Monsieur Foucault and his companion, Bayrak Mustafa, when they brought the inkwell to the house,” Sophie said abruptly, breaking the strained silence that ruled over luncheon. “I cannot like him, Patrick.”

Patrick looked up, surprised, from the peach he was delicately peeling. He had been lost in a daydream in which Sophie smiled at him the way she used to do.

“Monsieur Foucault? No, he isn’t a terribly likable sort,” he agreed.

“It isn’t a question of likableness,” Sophie said. She really was tired to death. “I understand some Turkish, and his companion was not speaking properly. Monsieur Foucault spoke Turkish, but twice Mr. Mustafa responded in gibberish.”

“Gibberish?” All the uneasy feelings Patrick had had about Monsieur Foucault on their first meeting returned in force—so much so that he didn’t mark the fact that Sophie’s comment revealed a knowledge of Turkish. “I knew there was something odd about that fellow,” Patrick said. “Damme, but I should have been in touch with Lord Breksby from the start!”

Sophie wasn’t certain what he was referring to, but she was too tired to care. After lunch, she slowly plodded upstairs, not realizing that Patrick was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking after her with a worried expression.

She took a nap, but by dinner she felt even more sluggish. Finally, she decided to have a tray in her room. It was exhausting enough just being out of bed, without facing Patrick as well. Patrick ate alone (pheasant again—he must have a word with Floret), wondering whether Sophie was avoiding him or truly not feeling well.

All evening he fought the impulse to go upstairs and see how she was. When he finally gave in, she was lying in bed fast asleep. Patrick looked at her for a moment. Sophie looked exhausted, her face papery white with dark circles beneath her eyes.

Patrick gently laid a hand on her stomach as it rose into the air. Sophie didn’t stir.

“Hello,” he whispered. Then he snatched his hand away, feeling more embarrassed than he had in years. He left the house, his feet leading him on the now-familiar streets nearby.

The next morning Sophie didn’t feel any better. In fact, the sluggish feeling had spread throughout her body. She managed to get out of bed, but only as far as a chair. Perhaps she would feel like this for the next two months. The very idea gave her a headache.

Slowly, slowly, a niggling worry was growing in her mind. She felt lethargic, hot, and headachy. But why was the baby so listless? Anxiously she clutched her stomach but she couldn’t feel any fluttering movements.

A minute later Sophie snapped out of her hazy languor and yanked on the bell cord. When Simone appeared, she said, “Send a message to Dr. Lambeth, please. I need to see him immediately. The messenger can wait and bring him back in our carriage.”

Simone curtsied. Sophie heard her running down the corridor toward the stairs. Then she sat, hand on her stomach, willing a movement, a ripple, something … There was nothing. Her stomach arched before her, heavy, inert. The baby is sleeping, Sophie told herself. I am becoming ill, and so he feels tired.

When Dr. Lambeth entered her room, half an hour later, she looked up at him with terrified eyes.

“I apologize for insisting that you come immediately, Doctor.”

“Nonsense,” Lambeth snapped, walking over to her chair. He reached down and spread his wide, clean hands on her stomach. After a second he straightened.

“I have to ask you to unbutton your nightdress, Your Grace,” he said gently.

Simone was hovering behind the doctor, and as he discreetly walked to the window and looked out, Simone helped Sophie unbutton her nightdress and pull it forward so that her stomach was free.

Sophie watched the rusty red hair on the doctor’s head as he bent over her body.

As the hands kept moving and pressing, and the doctor said nothing, a heavy truth settled in Sophie’s heart.

“Why don’t you get dressed, Your Grace?” In Lambeth’s experience, people were a good deal calmer when they were fully clothed.

Sophie looked at the doctor mutely, then nodded to Simone. Dr. Lambeth retired and stood in the hallway. He stared at the wall. Remembering the stern face of Foakes’s lawyer as he questioned his medical record, Dr. Lambeth had no doubt but that the husband would make a good deal of fuss about his child’s death. He sighed. Sometimes he wondered why he spent so much time with aristocratic patients. Money, he reminded himself.

Simone opened the door and summoned him back into the master bedroom. Sophie was seated on the chair again. When Dr. Lambeth met his patient’s eyes, he saw no fear. Terror had been replaced by despair.

“I am indeed sorry,” he said gently. “I think it is likely that your babe has not survived, for some reason. All we can say in these cases is that it is the will of God.”

“He’s dead,” she said dully.

“We’ll have to see,” Dr. Lambeth replied. “I dislike making absolute statements but I cannot find any indication of life. Sometimes children do not live through the gestation period … no one can say why. Do you feel any pain here?” He delicately touched Sophie’s stomach.

“No.”

“If the baby has ceased to live, your labor will likely begin today or tomorrow.”

“Labor.”

“The baby will have to be delivered, Your Grace.”

Sophie couldn’t find any words to say.

“Would you like me to inform your husband?”

Sophie just looked at him and shook her head.

Dr. Lambeth persisted. “I’ll ring the bell and see if the duke is in the house, shall I?”

“No!” Sophie’s face was dead white. “I need to think. I …”

“Are you sure that you wouldn’t like me to inform your husband?” Dr. Lambeth started to turn toward Simone.

“No,” Sophie said drearily. “I’ll tell him myself, later. Please, Dr. Lambeth.”

The doctor nodded and turned to Simone, giving her a muttered series of instructions. Then he turned back to Sophie.

“I have told your maid what symptoms to expect,” he said, picking up her wrist and taking her pulse. “Please, send a messenger as soon as there is any sign of labor or birth. I suggest that you retire to bed. I will attend you first thing in the morning.”

Birth seemed an odd word to Sophie. Birth was for babies who were living.

“I can’t do that,” Sophie replied. Go to bed and
wait
? A horrible notion. Innate politeness and her mother’s training got her out of the chair.

“Tomorrow, you said?” she asked, quite as if she were talking about a garden party.

Dr. Lambeth nodded, his eyes shrewdly assessing Sophie’s near-sleepwalking state. In shock, he thought. Well, probably just as well.

“Keep her warm,” he said, turning to Simone.

The maid nodded, her eyes full of tears.

Dr. Lambeth bowed politely. “I shall visit you tomorrow, if I may, Your Grace.”

“I shall walk with you downstairs,” Sophie replied.

Dr. Lambeth said nothing. It certainly wasn’t normal for his aristocratic patients to accompany him to the door. He doubted very much that this patient was thinking clearly.

He tried once more. “Madame, are you quite certain that you don’t wish me to speak to your husband?”

“Quite certain, thank you,” she replied with dull civility.

They walked down the wide steps of the great marble stairs side by side, Dr. Lambeth an odd, dignified figure with his red hair and tired eyes, and Sophie looking blazingly beautiful. Her face was no longer stark white; her cheeks had taken on flaming circles of red that would have given Dr. Lambeth pause, had he registered them.

But his mind was already racing ahead to the rest of his day. He’d better go see the viscountess next—a mother of four whom he rather thought would give birth today. The birth was going to be easy, as she’d had no problems with the last four girls, but if the babe was another female, he was likely to have a hysterical mother on his hands, not to mention the viscount himself. The viscount had not taken the arrival of his fourth daughter well. If there was a fifth …

So Dr. Lambeth nimbly bowed again in the foyer and took his leave, promising again to visit in the morning. He hopped into his carriage and directed his driver to the viscount’s residence, thinking intently of soothing phrases.