The Disdainful Marquis (20 page)

Privately, Catherine now appreciated the quiet backwaters of life in Kendal. For she found that despite the fine apparel she wore and the fulsome compliments she always received, and the constant improper hints she had learned to refuse without shock, there really was no adventure or excitement in such a life. It was, she thought, fully as tedious in its own way as the many quiet evenings spent at home.

And while the duchess and her companions disported themselves freely in many homes and private ballrooms, they never received that coveted invitation to appear at court. Just as the dowager had been shunned in the highest circles in her own land, so she was ignored in a similar plane of society in France. The Marquis of Bessacarr might be welcomed to a fete in loftier circles, might even make his bow at the Tuileries, and have the ear of Louis himself. But the only time the duchess and her companions met the cream of Parisian society was when some of them came down to her level to gape at the goings-on of her notoriously wilder set.

Rose and Violet, she noted, were as busy as farmers during the haying season, reaping their crops while the sun still shone. The only thing that shocked Catherine about their activities now was how steadily she grew less shocked by their activities. They were happy, and Catherine reckoned she was lucky to remain and pace out her days and nights unscathed, except in her sensibilities.

But Catherine grew uneasy and counted the days till mid March. And her uneasiness had little to do with Rose and Violet or even her own situation.

For there was a growing undercurrent here, in conversation and gossip, at the gay parties they visited, and even in the city itself, that she could not put a name to.

As it happened, she was not the only one aware of it. One afternoon, as she sat mending one of her frocks and gossiping with Rose and Violet in their rooms, Violet suddenly sat up and began to prowl about restlessly. These afternoons with Rose and Violet were some of Catherine's easiest moments as she counted the days till her release from the duchess's employ. She had grown used to their ways. She barely looked now when they sat about with their wrappers half opened, and barely blushed when they swapped stories about their gentlemen friends. For, Catherine noted with relief, with all Violet's speeches about their not minding their tongues any longer when she was about, they still greatly abbreviated their reminiscences in her presence.

Catherine had grown very fond of Rose, who, when not on her nightly errands, sat and sewed and smiled like the friendly farmer's daughter that she was. Violet was not so easily taken to, Catherine decided, for she had an acid tongue, and was not so scrupulously clean in her habits as Rose. In that, Catherine saw, she was not much different from many of the French ladies of fashion she had seen. For she had seen many a swanlike neck ringed both with diamonds and with grime. Still no one else seemed to mind, as both the gentlemen and the ladies appeared to be bathed in perfume and did not seem to consider water as useful as cosmetics.

Now Violet, pacing the room, cut off Rose's detailed description of a certain Austrian woman's tiara that she'd remarked upon the previous evening by saying sharply, “There's a lot going on here now, and, truth to tell, I wish to heaven we were in Austria too. There's too much afoot here, and too many whispers. I cannot like it.”

“Whatever do you mean, Vi?” Rose asked, stretching luxuriously. “It's ever so gay here now. So many dos, so many lovely people. Why should you want to hurry off now? The pickings are good enough.”

Violet gave her a scornful look.

“You wouldn't know your hat was afire till you smelled the smoke, would you, Rose? It's like the top of a stove here now. I've been keeping company with an Italian, as it happens, and all of a sudden, last night he ups and informs me that he's off for home. And when I ask him why, he says, things are getting too hot in dear Paree.”

“Why, Vi,” Rose said ingenuously, “he must have been too old for sport, is all.”

“Idiot!” Violet spat out. “Don't you see beyond your nose? There's talk Bonaparte is coming back. And where would that leave us?”

“We're English,” Rose countered. “What difference does it make to us?”

“You talk to the fool,” Violet said to Catherine in disgust.

Catherine looked up at Violet's worried face. “Have you told the duchess? Does she know? Perhaps she'll leave now if you tell her.”

“The old cow is in the same case as dear Rose here. She wouldn't know the Little General was back till he was atop her.”

“Not the duchess,” Rose said, aghast. “She don't go in for that sort of thing.”

Violet flounced back to her room in high dudgeon. But Catherine did not answer any of Rose's confused questions. All it needs is this, Catherine thought fearfully, Bonaparte returning. But perhaps, it occurred to her, her face brightening and reassuring Rose, if war broke out again, the duchess would return home. And all my troubles would be at an end. And then she felt guilty and shamed that she would be small spirited enough to actually welcome a war just to suit her own selfish purposes. Rose was quite worn out with trying to read the varying expressions that chased each other across the other girl's face.

“Really,” she said at last, giving up the attempt, “Violet does take on when she's been dropped. Like the world was coming to an end.”

*

“I think,” the marquis said, as Jenkins helped him into his jacket, “that it's at an end. I think we can leave at any moment. Keep our gear in readiness. We have the names or, at least, all that we can humanly be expected to have. Enough of those at the Tuileries who are supposed to be supporting Louis, but who will stab him in the back if they have a chance. And enough of those who plot for Bonaparte's resurgence. We can do no more. If all the whispers have any credence, we shall be lucky to get out with our skins intact.”

“A few of Beaumont's lads have been watching this hotel,” Jenkins said calmly.

“Yes, and a few are at every affair we attend. I should dearly love to know when Beaumont moves, to see what jump he makes. But he's too clever to move until the fat is already in the fire.”

“Aye, there's a lad who keeps his bread buttered on both sides. Last night, he kept the early evening with the younger Cain and lit the midnight oil with the elder. He's keeping all his exits clear.”

“He would not be alive today if he didn't,” the marquis said, giving himself one glance in the glass. “For it's no small feat for him to have held power in both regimes. He bends enough to last out every storm. And as he has no true backbone, it's easy enough for him.”

The marquis strode to the door. “One last party, old friend,” he said, “and then I think we'll be gone whilst we can. Beaumont shouldn't at all mind finding us in his net, if the tide turns his way. I only hope those other poor devils we'll be dining with have as much sense.”

“True,” mused Jenkins, following him. “It's hard to think of the old duchess rotting away in the Bastille.”

For a moment the marquis paused, and Jenkins watched his face carefully to see if his arrow had landed.

Then the marquis smiled a cold hard smile that made Jenkins grimace.

“The old woman is so far gone, I doubt she'd know the difference. As to her camp followers—since that, I think, is what you were referring to—they are the sort that follow a trade that can be plied under any change of government. For men remain the same no matter what uniform they put on, or, as in their case, put off. Stop being a sentimentalist, old dear. I offered the girl a soft berth, and she turned me down. She's after a seat nearer the throne. Any throne. And good luck to her. And good riddance,” he added grimly, motioning Jenkins to follow him.

* * *

Catherine gazed in wonder at the home she entered. She had been to a great many parties, so many that her head whirled thinking of them; they all seemed now to coalesce into one noisily splendid affair with richly gowned and garbed people saying the incessantly same things to her and to one another. But this home was so stately, so lavishly furnished, that she gaped anew. The staircase was decked with flowers; so early in March it was rare to see such perfect blooms. She saw many of the guests pause to stare at the masses of violets entwined everywhere.

Early on in the evening Catherine lost track of the duchess and her two other companions. She made her way to a chair in an unobtrusive corner, ready to plead distress with her ankle again, and was pleased and surprised to find that in the crash of people, her usual admirers seemed to forget about her.

She was sitting and watching the merrymakers when M. Beaumont came up beside her and bowed. Catherine nodded. In all the time that she had seen him, he had never approached or spoken to her. But now he smiled and asked her leave to seat himself. She smiled back and nodded again. She had learned much more composure in the weeks that had passed. Though her days were spent in her room, her nights had been filled with parties such as this one. She had gained so much aplomb that she turned to Monsieur Beaumont and was able to study him with candor before he turned to speak.

He was a neat man, she thought, of no special age. Small, well turned out, and unremarkable in every way.

“Mademoiselle Catherine,” he said, with only a slight accent making “Catherine,” sound droll, as if it were “Cat-arine.” But so many of the French, she had often noticed, had trouble with the “th” in her name. “We so often have seen each other, I think. Yet we have never actually conversed. How delightful it is to find you alone, and on the very night that I wished to have private conversation with you.”

Catherine kept her face impassive. She hoped this quiet little man had nothing improper to offer her, but he seemed to have nothing but calm appraisal in his small dark eyes.

“I see that you have been very circumspect, unlike the dear duchess's other two companions.”

Catherine's eyes widened. She knew that she could not defend Rose and Violet, as it would make her appear a fool. But she did not like to hear them condemned, so she simply kept her face blank.

“No, no,” he said sweetly, raising his hands. “I do not say a thing against them. They are two lovely English flowers, truly. And so many of my acquaintances have found their company so amusing. So I shall say nothing against them. But you, my dear, have been so much less…free with your person, shall we say? It has caused much talk among us. Why should the sweetest of them all withhold herself? they are saying. Why? I myself have wondered.”

Catherine grew anxious—she did not care for the way this conversation was tending. For although she had become adept at countering flattery, and even immodest suggestions, this cool appraisal of her presence with the duchess disconcerted her.

“And then I thought. And then I knew. You are not a fool—no, not at all, Miss Catherine. You have refused my friends, even those of the highest rank. And you have refused even the much-admired nobleman from your own country. Yes, I know. And why?”

Catherine began to speak, but he cut her off with a shrug and a wave of his hand.

“No, no explanations please. The thing is clear to me. The others settle for small rewards, and small adventures. You are much wiser. You seek something more lucrative, more permanent, with more advantages. You see the long view, while your fellow companions see only the end of their delightful noses. We are two of a kind, mademoiselle. I understand you well.”

“Indeed, you do not,” Catherine flared, rising. “You do not understand at all.”

M. Beaumont put his hand upon her arm and forced her to sit again. Catherine stared at him, for whatever insult she had been open to, no one yet had tried to forestall her physically. But this quiet man held her firmly in her seat, and, glancing upward, she saw many faces hastily avert themselves from her obvious distress.

“I am a man of some small influence, Miss Catherine,” he said with a smile. “I would advise you to stay and listen to me. I have connections in many places, Miss Catherine, and if you do not listen to me here, I shall be forced to have you taken to some place where you will listen. I have that power, you see.”

Catherine sat and looked at the small man. She quietened, and he took his hand from her arm.

“Much better,” he smiled. “I do not like to insist upon my way unless I have to. Do not be alarmed, Miss Catherine. I appreciate your beauty—I am a man, after all—but I do not covet it. No, I am happy with my own dear, cher ami. I do not require your presence for myself, no matter how lovely you are. But you see, I do understand, no?

“Now if you go on as you are doing, you will end up with nothing. For you do not know how to go on, that is obvious. The dear duchess, she is quite old, and quite silly. And your two companions, they would advise you to squander yourself, as they do, on any fellow that comes along with a few francs jingling in his pocket. They do not understand grand designs. I do. As you do. But you do not know which way to turn yet, do you? Quite wise,” he said, as she shook her head violently in demurral at his words.

“For my poor country is in such a state right now that even we do not know how to go on. He who rules now may be in the streets tomorrow. Change has only begotten more change. You are so right not to cast in your lot with one who may lose all in a moment. Take my dear friend Pierre Richard. Tonight he will go home and sleep on fine silks in a room next to a king. But tomorrow?” M. Beaumont shrugged. “So who could blame you for casting him down? Or, for that matter, for repulsing his poor brother Hervé? For at the moment Hervé has nothing. Nothing but his charming self.”