The Deception (2 page)

“Tu est fatigue, ma fille?”

“Oui, Papa, un peu.”
And she thought to herself,
yes, she was tired, but she more than just a little tired. All of her was tired, and dispirited.

She turned to her maid.
“Margueritte, c’est assez. Laissez-nous maintenant.”
And again, as she always did when she spoke French, she thought in English. “Leave us now, that’s enough.”

Margueritte’s plump fingers batted a final wrinkle before she gave Monsieur de Beauchamps a lustful look, hummed her good nights, and closed the door after her.

They grinned at each other, listening to Margueritte’s humming as she walked down the narrow corridor to the third floor.

“Ah, Papa,
assieds-toi.”
She eyed him closely as he sat on the other chair in her bedchamber. She took a deep breath and said in English, “You had so many of the ladies after you this evening.”

He sighed, seeming not to notice her shift, and replied in French, “Even if they are with their husbands, they feel compelled to flirt with me. It’s very distressing. I simply don’t understand, Evangeline. I do nothing untoward to bring them to me.”

She laughed, unable not to. “Oh, bother, Papa. I have never seen you distressed in my life. You adore the attention. And you know very well that all you have to do to bring the ladies to your side is to simply look straight ahead with no expression at all on your face. You could probably be drooling, and they would still come to you.

“Now, tell me. Did you speak only about your philosophers when the dozen ladies told you how very handsome you are?”

He said with great severity, “Naturally. I spoke tonight of Rousseau. A dunderhead, but his ideas give one some pause, in a manner of speaking. Not much,
really, but he is French. Thus one must pay him some attention, occasionally.”

She couldn’t stop laughing. Her father merely looked at her, his handsome head slightly tilted to the side, a mannerism they shared. When she finally wiped her eyes, she said, “You are the best papa in the whole world. I love you. Please don’t ever change.”

“Your mother, bless her sweet heart, was the only one who tried to change me.”

Evangeline, still chuckling, said, “My mother simply tried to pry something out of her husband other than ramblings of a metaphysical nature. Now, I am given to understand that it is a wife’s duty to gather her husband’s attention to herself and not let him ramble off too often seeking answers to unanswerable questions.”

“You mock me, my girl, but since you are so very dear to me, I will forgive you.” He sat back in the chair, set his hands on his knees, and continued after a moment. “You did not enjoy yourself this evening,
ma fille.
You were surrounded by all the young people, all the young gentlemen admired you greatly, and you danced every dance. I only managed to snag one with you. And my dear Henri was gratifyingly attentive.”

“There is nothing gratifying about Henri. He is more persistent than a hungry gull, and more stubborn than our goat, Dorcas, in Kent, and his hands are sometimes damp. If he would just realize that there are other things in this vast world besides his horses, trying to feel my bottom, the income from his rents, and the prospect of adding me to his possessions, perhaps I could remain in his company for more than five minutes without wanting to smack him.”

“You said a lot there, Evangeline, but naturally all
I heard is that he is trying to seduce you. Your bottom? Oh, dear, I suppose I will have to speak to the boy.”

“He is no boy. He is twenty-six.”
“Oui,
but that is very young for a man. It has always been evident that boys take longer to ripen than girls. It is unfortunate, but it is evidently God’s plan. Henri is perhaps a bit foolish, but he will mature as he gains years. Henri is high in his family’s favor. He now manages the family estate whilst his uncle spends all his time with King Louis in Paris. This will mature Henri, that is what his uncle told me.

“And, my dear child, you are nearly twenty years old. It’s long past time for you to take a husband. You have been ripe enough for two years now. Yes, a husband is just what you need. I’ve been too selfish.” “No, I’ve been the selfish one. Why would I wish to marry, Papa, when I have you?”

“You have never been in love,” he said, a magnificent frown furrowing his brow and making his beautiful gray eyes glitter with humor. “You would never think to say such a stupid thing if you had.”

She was dead serious now, leaning toward him, her hair falling over her shoulder. “I cannot see that marriage is such a wonderful thing. All the ladies who swoon over you, what of their husbands? What of love with them? It seems to me that marriage is simply a way for a lady to go from her father’s house to her husband’s house; the only difference is that with her husband she’s expected—indeed, it’s demanded of her that she produce children and obey her husband’s every whim. I don’t think so, Papa.”

Monsieur de Beauchamps just shook his head. She was stubborn, his daughter, just like her dear mother, Claudia, who’d dug in her English heels more times than
he could begin to remember. That brought a thought. Could it be that Evangeline was even more stubborn than her lovely mother had been? Could it be that she was as stubborn as her great-aunt Marthe? He must take a firm hand; he didn’t like it, but it was his duty. He had to sound unutterably serious. “My child, you must be set onto the proper road in your thinking. Love isn’t necessary for a successful marriage.”

“You weren’t in love with Mama?”

“Oh, yes, but as I said, it isn’t necessary. A similarity of thought, of values, of philosophies, that is what is necessary. A certain respect for each other. Nothing more.”

“I never heard Mama agree with you on anything, yet I heard the two of you laughing many times when you were alone in your bedchamber. I used to listen with my ear pressed against the door when I was young. Bessie, one of the maids, caught me, and told me never, ever to do that again. And then she blushed fiery red.” Evangeline laughed at her father’s own rise in color. “It’s all right, Papa. As you said, I’m nearly twenty years old, old enough to know a bit about what happens between a husband and wife. But as I said, as far as I know, neither of you ever agreed on anything, even down to what you had for dinner. Mama hated sauces, and you hated to see a piece of meat naked.

“Mutual respect? I don’t want a marriage like that, Papa. Besides, Henri is so very un-Eng—” She stopped cold.

“Ah,” said her father.

She gave him a smile that was on the sheepish side. She fanned her hands in front of her. “The truth is, many times words fail me when I speak of Henri.”

“Perhaps you would wish to say that poor Henri is
so very un-English?” Monsieur de Beauchamps regarded his daughter from beautiful deep gray eyes. He felt a surge of concern. He knew with perfect clarity in that moment that his daughter would never find contentment in his country. But she would try to pretend, for him. No, he was wrong. He was tired. She would come around. Hadn’t he finally given in and assumed contentment for England? He’d spent more years there than she had lived.

“Papa, I’m sorry, truly, but I would rather depart this earth a withered spinster than marry Henri Moreau. Then there are Etienne Dedardes and Andre Lafay—they’re oily, Papa, yes, that’s exactly what they are. Their eyes don’t meet yours when they’re speaking to you. Oh, I don’t know, they’re nice, I suppose, but they’re just not to my liking. And their politics, surely they shouldn’t speak of the king as they do.” Then she gave a sublimely Gallic shrug, most unlike, he thought with a fleeting smile, her English mother.

“There has been so much change, Evangeline. Louis has not behaved as he ought since his return to France. As much as I deplore it, I understand that many Frenchmen feel betrayed by his stupidity, his excesses, his lack of understanding of the situation here.”

“I don’t see that the common folk can lay claim to the high road. They themselves are so cursed petty toward each other. And they have the gall to mock the English, who saved them. I must tell you it makes me quite angry.” She shut her mouth, rubbing her palm over her forehead. “I’m sorry, Papa. I’m tired, that’s it. My tongue doesn’t always obey my brain when I’m tired. I’m a witch. Forgive me.”

Monsieur de Beauchamps rose and walked to his daughter. He lifted her out of her chair. He looked
into her brown eyes, Claudia’s eyes, full and wide and so deep, a philosopher could find the meaning of some truths in them. He patted her shoulder and kissed her lightly, in his ritual manner, on both cheeks.

“You are beautiful, Evangeline. You are more beautiful on the inside than you are on the outside.” “I’m a pea hen and you know it. Compared to you, I’m not even a pea.”

He merely smiled, lightly rubbing his knuckles over her chin. “You are also too used to the stolid English. They are, I suppose, a comforting race, if one doesn’t mind being perpetually fatigued by their heavy meals and boring conversation.”

“So what you love about me is merely my French half? Surely, Mama never bored anyone.”

“No, she never did. I love even your fingernails,
ma fille.
As for your dear mother, I’m convinced that her soul was French. She admired me, you know. Ah, but I digress. Perhaps an old man should accept the fact that you are, despite his wishes, more English than French. Do you wish to return to England, Evangeline? I am not a blind man, you know, and I realize that since your return you have not been happy.”

She hugged him tightly, her cheek against his, for she was very tall for a woman. “Papa, my place is here with you. I’ll grow accustomed. But I won’t marry Henri Moreau.”

Suddenly there was loud banging on the heavy doors downstairs, and the sounds of boots kicking against wood. There was a scream. It was Margueritte. Then there was Joseph’s voice, loud and frightened. Another scream, the sound of someone being struck hard, and a man’s loud voice.

“Don’t move,” Monsieur de Beauchamps said to her. He was at the bedchamber door, flinging it open.
She heard the sound of heavy men’s boots thudding on the wooden floor of the corridor. It sounded like a small army.

He suddenly backed away, and Evangeline rushed forward to stand beside him. Two heavily cloaked men appeared in the doorway. Both of them held guns.

One of them, his face pitted and dark with beard stubble, stepped forward, his eyes on Evangeline. He said nothing, looked at her, not just her face but her breasts, her belly. She felt such fear she thought she’d vomit.

He said to the other man, “Look at her. It is as we were told. Houchard will be very pleased.”

The other man, fat, his face pale and bloated, stared at her. Guillaume de Beauchamps yelled as he managed to wrest away his gun and rammed it into his big belly. “You won’t touch her, you puking little pig.” A gun slammed down on his head. Evangeline rushed to her father, trying to catch him as he fell unconscious to the floor. She ended up half on top of him. The man with the pitted face raised the gun again. She covered her father’s head with her body.

The other man was clutching his fat belly. He gasped with the pain. “No, don’t hit him again. He won’t be any use to us dead.” “The bastard hurt you.” “I’ll live.”

“The old man will pay.” He turned to Evangeline. Houchard had taught him the value of fear and shock, particularly when it was deep in the night. He looked at her breasts, then said, “Take off that nightgown now. Hurry or I’ll do it for you.”

Chesleigh Castle
Near Dover, England

T
he bloody rain had finally stopped. The late afternoon sun was still bright. Seagulls whirled and dived overhead, then wheeled back to the ocean not a hundred yards away. The smell of the sea was strong in the breeze. It had turned out to be a beautiful day.

Richard Chesleigh St. John Clarendon, eighth Duke of Portsmouth, turned his matched bays onto the gravel drive of his ancestral home, Chesleigh Castle, an old pile of gray stone that had held reign over this section of the southern English coast for the past four hundred and twenty-two years. He pulled his horses up in front of the wide stone portico. A gull flew close to the head of his lead horse, Jonah, and he laughed aloud at the look of utter outrage in that magnificent animal’s eyes.

“It’s all right, boy,” he called out, and jumped down from his curricle to the gravel drive. His head stable lad, McComber, was standing there looking at the bays as if they were his own. He rubbed his gnarled hands together, then took the horses’ reins. “Been
good boys, have ye?” he said, stroking first Jonah and then Benjamin, feeding them bits of apple as he told them of their bloodlines, all unspoiled for at least five hundred years. The duke rolled his eyes.

“Rub them down well, McComber. They’ve worked hard today. I wonder why the gulls are so aggressive all of a sudden?”

“I hear tell it be a storm that’s coming,” McComber said.

“We just had a storm. We have a storm every week, sometimes twice a week.”

“Well, it do be winter and England, yer grace. Put the two together, and ye don’t have much reason for perkiness. Aye, I know. Meybe it be some smugglers and the gulls don’t like the smell of ‘em.”

“We haven’t had smugglers in fifty years,” the duke said. “You sound like you’re coming down with something, McComber. Take better care of yourself. I’ll wager you caught it from Juniper, who’d better be tucked snug into his bed as we speak.”

“I’d niver get close enuf to that little bug to catch nuthin’.”

His tiger, Juniper, and McComber hated each other. He’d never discovered why. It was apparently a deep, strong hatred of longstanding, a tenacious hatred and abiding, a hatred one couldn’t help but admire.

“I don’t care if you’re sickening from Cook’s blood pudding, have a care.”

“Aye, yer grace,” McComber said. “But ‘tis true, I’ll niver ketch a whimpering thing from that little bleeder, never ye mind wot ‘e says aboot me mother.” Then he began talking a mile a minute to the bays as he led them to the magnificent stables to the north that the duke’s father had enlarged some thirty years before.