The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (17 page)

‘Ah.
 
And there I was thinking you’d come purely to enquire after my well-being.’

‘That was part of my reason for coming, of course,’ she replied stiffly.
 
‘Naturally, I worry about you.’

Francis’s mouth curled sardonically.

‘Don’t over-do it, Celia.
 
Just tell me what you want.’

‘You might ask me to sit down.’

He sighed. ‘Very well.
 
Pray be seated.
 
The chair by the table is the more reliable of the two.’

She crossed the room in a rustle of taffeta and sat down gracefully but with some caution.
 
Then she said, ‘I’d prefer to speak to you privately.’

‘Oh – for God’s sake!’

‘Well what’s wrong with that?’
 
She smiled coquettishly at Ashley. ‘As I recall, the Colonel said he was going out.’

‘On my account and yours.
 
Not on his own.’

‘Excuse me.’ Ashley held up an urbane but authoritative hand.
 
‘I believe I can speak for myself.
 
And, having managed to get a word in edge-wise, I’d like to announce that I am, indeed, going out.’
 
He reached for his hat and walked past Francis to the door.
 
Then, turning, he added, ‘Try not to kill each other, children – and remember that breakages have to be paid for.’
 
Then he was gone.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Celia, half-affronted and half-entertained. ‘He’s certainly original.
 
But I’m not sure I like being treated like one of his junior officers.
 
Indeed, if he wasn’t so extremely handsome, I’d be offended.
 
As it is, however --’

‘Come to the point, Celia.’
 
Francis perched on the edge of the table, his face and voice imprinted with acute distaste. ‘What do you want?’

She bent to re-arrange the folds of her skirt and took her time about replying.
 
Then, still without meeting his gaze, she said rapidly, ‘I want you to help me get a letter to Eden.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘I … I want a divorce.’

Francis’s eyes narrowed.
 
He said, ‘One presumes you’ve wanted a divorce for eight years.
 
Why ask Eden now?’

This time she looked up, her expression hard with defiant determination.

‘Because Hugo’s wife died a month ago.’

Francis expelled a long, slow breath.
 
Finally, he said, ‘I see.
 
You want to re-marry.’

‘Well of course I do!
 
I’ve always wanted it – we both have.
 
But Hugo couldn’t divorce Lucy, so --’

‘Just a moment.
 
Hugo couldn’t divorce his wife – but you have no qualms about divorcing Eden?’

‘Everything’s different now,’ she shrugged.
 
‘Hugo’s free.
 
And I’d have thought you’d be pleased to see us married.
 
God knows you’ve always despised the fact that we’re not.’

‘Your dubious status is only part of the problem,’ he remarked. ‘I am even less enamoured with the alacrity with which you abandoned your children.
 
But let’s stick to the point. Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that I manage to get a message to Eden and that, after a celebratory jig or two, he agrees to do as you ask.
 
Just what do you expect to happen then?’

‘Well … I don’t exactly know.
 
I suppose he’ll have to make a petition to somebody or other and there’ll be papers to sign and so on.’
 
She spread her hands.
 
‘I don’t know how these things work.
 
How should I?’

‘My dear simpleton, I don’t know how they work either.
 
But one thing I
do
know.
 
Divorce can take years and is singularly unpleasant for all concerned.
 
Remember Lord Essex?
 
By the time he’d got rid of the trollop he married, the whole country was sniggering behind its hand and called him a cuckold.
 
I doubt very much if Eden will want to go down that particular path.
 
And even if he did … with him in England and you here, the pair of you could be in your dotage before it’s all over.’

Celia’s expression remained stubborn.

‘Then the sooner we begin, the better.
 
And we won’t know what Eden thinks unless we ask him, will we?’

‘We?’ asked Francis gently.

‘Yes.
 
You’ll help me, won’t you?
 
You must!’

‘I don’t see that I must … and I’m not sure that I will.
 
I might, however, be persuaded to think about it.’

It took her a moment to catch his meaning.
 
Then she said contemptuously, ‘Oh.
 
You want money, I suppose.
 
I’m not surprised.
 
That coat is a disgrace.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’
 
A faint, disconcerting smile touched his mouth. ‘However.
 
Odd as it may seem to you, I need money in order to eat.
 
Not just today – but also, if possible, tomorrow.
 
And, if we are not to be evicted from this hovel, it would help if we could pay the rent.’

She hesitated, not sure whether to believe him or not.
 
Then, deciding that the only thing which really mattered was getting him to do as she wanted, she stood up, unlaced her purse and tossed five
livres
on the table beside him.

‘That’s all I have.
 
Odd as it may seem to
you
, Hugo and I aren’t exactly well-off either.’

‘No.
 
But you do manage to afford one or two of life’s little luxuries, don’t you?
 
Tickets for the play, for example.’

‘So we occasionally take a box at the Marais,’ she shrugged. ‘What of it?’

‘Simply that there’s another trifling favour you might do me.’
 
Francis’s smile grew but somehow Celia knew it was not for her. ‘I understand that the Marais is reviving
Le Cid.
 
There is also talk of Clermont having left to join the H
ô
tel de Bourgogne and being replaced with a young unknown.
 
More alluring still, one hears of an exquisite young actress.’

‘My word!’ she remarked acidly. ‘You
do
hear a lot, don’t you?
 
But what has all this to do with me?’

‘I’d like you to invite Ashley and me to share your box for the first night of the
Cid
.
 
I’ve a feeling Ashley would enjoy it – and he has so little fun, poor fellow.
 
As for myself … well, I’ve always had a
penchant
for red-heads.’

‘You mean you had a
penchant
for Eden’s shrew of a sister.
 
But you’re welcome to share our box on Thursday – provided you can be civil to Hugo.
 
In fact,’ she concluded with an air of victory, ‘I’ll look forward to receiving your decision about Eden.’

She left soon after that and, when Ashley returned an hour or so later, it was to find Francis gloating over a large loaf of bread, some cheese and three meat patties.

Tossing his hat to one side, Ashley surveyed the feast and said, ‘And what did you have to do to earn that?
 
Or shouldn’t I ask?’

‘Ask away.’
 
With a flourish, Francis produced a bottle of wine. ‘And fear not.
 
We can still eat tomorrow. I’m learning to shop with frugality and will make someone a wonderful wife one day. Where’s Jem?’

‘Downstairs with his arm round the concierge’s daughter.
 
If you don’t want to squander your windfall paying the rent, a little goodwill may come in handy.’
 
Ashley sat down and accepted the cup that Francis handed him but made no move to drink.
 
Instead, he said slowly, ‘Don’t think me ungrateful – or determined to pry.
 
But if this has cost you a price you’d sooner not have paid --’

‘You mean, have I sold my soul?’
 
Francis took the other chair and smiled. ‘No.
 
I don’t think so.’
 
And, without elaboration, he related the gist of his bargain with Celia.
 
‘In fact, as yet, I’ve promised nothing.
 
But in the end, if it enables me to squeeze another few
livres
out of her, I probably will.
 
It can’t hurt to send Eden one letter.
 
He doesn’t have to answer it, does he?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘And the advantages of helping Celia don’t end with food on the table. They also stretch to food for the eye and the soul.’
 
Francis paused.
 
‘I’ve persuaded her to let us to share her box at the Marais for the opening night of
Le Cid
.’

For the first time in several weeks, Ashley dissolved into genuine laughter.

‘Oh God.
 
I might have known.
 
You just want to ogle the little Galzain.’

‘Of course.
 
Don’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t say no.’ And then, returning to his original point, ‘So you’re going to help your sister get her divorce.’

‘I’m going to help her ask for it.
 
If Eden doesn’t want to be dragged through the courts, he’ll say so.
 
On the other hand, for all I know he may want to re-marry himself by now – in which case it may suit him to be rid of Celia.’

Ashley stared down into the ruby brightness of his cup.

‘Did you know him well?’

‘He was my closest friend.’
 
Francis paused and, with a shrug, added, ‘But the last time I saw him, his sword was at my throat.
 
That was at Upton.’

‘Ah.’
 
Ashley paused, registering the change in both face and voice.
 
‘And in between?’

‘In between, he married Celia.
 
He worshipped the ground she walked on and though I suspected it wasn’t completely reciprocated, I still hoped that he might be the making of her.
 
Then the war came.
 
My family chose one path and his, another.
 
Celia felt stranded in the wrong camp and Eden was away a lot.
 
Consequently, when Hugo Verney re-entered her orbit, the inevitable happened.’
 
Francis reached for the bottle and re-filled their cups. ‘On the day Eden rode home with the news that his father had been killed, he found Celia and Hugo in bed together.’

‘Christ.
 
And then?’

‘Oh then Celia galloped off into the sunset with Hugo – blithely abandoning two small children.
 
And that, of course, is the one element in this whole mess which I find totally unforgivable.’

‘Understandable.
 
And what of Eden?’

‘Obviously, I’ve seen little of him in recent years … but on the occasions when we do meet, he always seems to be saving my skin.
 
Upton was the last time.
 
He was livid with temper but he let me go.
 
Before that, it was the aftermath of Colchester.
 
Now, it appears that he’s risen to the rank of Colonel and is riding high in Lambert’s estimation – if not old Noll’s.’
 
With a wry smile, Francis lifted his wine-cup. ‘I can only wish him good fortune.
 
He deserves it.’

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

On the opening night of
Le Cid
Athenais stood like a stone beneath the ministrations of Pauline Fleury and wondered whether she was actually going to
be
sick or if it just felt like it. Of course, everyone suffered from nerves before a performance – particularly on the first night in a new role.
 
It was normal; something you became accustomed to and knew would evaporate as soon as you walked on-stage.
 
But tonight was somehow different.
 
Tonight, panic was lying coiled in the pit of her stomach, numbing her limbs and paralysing her breathing.
 
Tonight, she wasn’t just nervous.
 
She was absolutely petrified.

The reflection in the mirror showed Chim
è
ne, stiffly-robed in gold and green with unbound, jewel-strewn hair and huge, kohl-rimmed eyes.
 
She looked, remarked a discouraging little voice at the back of her mind, like a wax doll.
 
Beautiful but lifeless … and not in the least like the courageous, passionate woman she was supposed to be portraying.

A shudder rippled through her and, between chattering teeth, she stammered, ‘I c-can’t do it.
 
I can’t g-go on.’

Pauline continued putting the finishing touches to the glowing copper hair.

‘Yes, you can.’

‘I can’t.
 
I’ve forgotten all the w-words.’

‘No.
 
They’ll be there when you need them.’

‘They won’t.
 
I’m going to dry.
 
I’m going to trip over my feet and --’ She clamped her hands over her mouth. ‘I’m going to throw up.’

Calmly, Pauline shoved a basin in front of her.

‘Use that – and mind your costume.’

Athenais cast her a glance of impotent fury and vomited neatly into the bowl.
 
When she was done, Pauline took it away, handed her a napkin to wipe her mouth and poured her a small measure of watered wine.

‘And now,’ she said firmly, ‘you will pull yourself together.
 
So it’s a big role; so it’s been performed by great actresses before you; so the play was premiered on our own stage sixteen years ago.
 
So what?
 
Tonight is yours.
 
Show Paris the
role
is now yours
– and, by tomorrow, you’ll be more than just the latest pretty face.’

Still shaking, the girl clutched the cup between her hands and drew a long, unsteady breath.
 
She said, ‘There must be easier ways of making a living.’

‘Yes.
 
You could do it on your back.
 
But I thought you wanted something better than that.’

‘I do.’

‘Then now is your chance to prove it.
 
You might also try remembering that Etienne has the hardest job tonight.
 
He’s got to eclipse Clermont.
 
If he doesn’t, the pit will crucify him.
 
As yet, all they require from you is that you look stunning and get the words right.
 
The fact that you’re also going to wring their hearts out like sponges, is a bonus.’

Although her lungs still weren’t functioning as they should and vipers continued to writhe behind her brocaded bodice, Athenais realised that she was beginning to feel marginally better.
 
Managing a weak smile, she said, ‘What would I do without you?’

‘God knows,’ came the deceptively irritable reply.
 
And then, ‘Go on.
 
It’s time you were back-stage.
 
And mind those sleeves.
 
If they get caught on anything, it’ll cost you a week’s wages.’

In the shadowy light of the wings, most of the cast already stood waiting; Marie d’Amboise as the Infanta, Etienne as Rodrigue and Froissart himself as Don Diegue.
 
Athenais went through the usual back-stage ritual of veiled well-wishing while the noise, heat and odour of the auditorium swirled around all of them like a thick fog.
 
Then the stage candles were lit, an expectant hush settled slowly over the theatre … and, dead on cue, Athenais’s feet carried her out before the many-headed monster that was the audience.

Her first lines came out feebly, spoken from the throat rather than the space behind her rib-cage and she heard Pauline hiss, ‘
Breathe, damn you!
’

Athenais forced her muscles to relax and let the air flow through her … and, when she spoke again, her voice emerged firm, rich and flawless.
 
Suddenly, she was free – warm and at home in the light.
 
She was Chim
è
ne.

*
 
*
 
*

From his place between Celia and Ashley, Francis began by watching every nuance of her performance with a critical eye and then abandoned himself to simple enjoyment.
 
The girl was superb – as was the young man playing Rodrigue; and the tension they created between them was as absorbing as it was remarkable.
 
For once, even the pit was enthralled.

At some point during the second act, Francis glanced at Ashley and glimpsed an expression he could not interpret.
 
This didn’t surprise him.
 
Despite all they’d been through together, he still knew as little about the workings of Ashley’s mind as on the day they’d first met and had started to regard it as an immutable fact of life.

Although he was careful not to show it, Ashley found himself thinking less of the play than about the red-haired girl he’d last seen clambering over debris on the Petit Pont, cursing like a fish-wife. In the dark and with her face shadowed by her hood, he hadn’t got a good enough look at her to discover whether the stunning looks were the result of artifice or nature, so his abiding memory of the encounter was the way she’d brushed him aside and told him she wasn’t a whore.
 
Cynically, Ashley concluded that an actress living amidst the stews of St. Severin was unlikely to be a flower of virtue either.
 
Then, not for the first time, he asked himself why he was bothering to consider the matter.

During the second interval, he withdrew to the back of the box while Celia demanded to know whether Francis was going to help her.
 
Sir Hugo Verney looked rather strained and had been oddly silent all evening.
 
Ashley wondered if Francis had noticed it.

Francis had.
 
His expression as smooth as butter, he ignored Celia’s question and said, ‘One feels one should say something about the death of your wife, Hugo.
 
The difficulty is in knowing quite
what
.’

Sir Hugo’s face tightened a shade more.

‘You may say you’re sorry Lucy’s dead – and believe that I am, too.’

‘Of course.’ Francis inclined his head slightly. ‘She can’t have been more than … what?
 
Thirty?
 
A young woman, still.
 
Was it very sudden?’

‘A chill which went to her lungs.’

‘Ah.
 
Your son must miss her.’

A pulse started to beat at the side of Hugo’s jaw.
 
Guarding his tone as best he could, he said, ‘My son is none of your business, Francis.’

‘True.
 
Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of Celia.
 
And I’m wondering whether you really wish to remain in France now – or if you’d prefer to go back to England and your son and try picking up the pieces.’

Hugo looked rather sick and, when he spoke, his voice was muffled.

‘I can’t go back.
 
Lucy compounded for the estate on the understanding I wouldn’t.
 
If I return, John loses his inheritance.’

‘I see,’ drawled Francis.
 
‘You can’t go home … so you might as well marry Celia.’

‘How dare you?’
 
Celia erupted from her seat. ‘It’s not like that!
 
Hugo – tell him!’

Francis smiled and, silencing Sir Hugo with a small languid gesture, said, ‘Don’t trouble yourself.
 
I doubt if you care what I think – or Celia either, provided I do as she wants.
 
Which, of course, I will.’

As if by magic, the wrath on Celia’s face was replaced by an ecstatic smile.
 
Hugo, by contrast, merely looked monumentally weary.

She said eagerly, ‘You’ll do it?
 
You promise?’

‘Yes – but in my own way,’ replied Francis.
 
‘I’ll write to Eden myself.
 
I fancy he’ll respond better – and dislike it less – than receiving an egotistical, impassioned epistle from you.
 
If and when he replies, I’ll let you know.
 
If he says yes, you may bring on the drums and trumpets.
 
If he doesn’t, you’ll accept it and let the matter drop.
 
Well?’

Celia hesitated and then shrugged her acceptance, realising it would be a mistake to argue.

‘Excellent,’ said Francis sardonically. ‘And now, perhaps we can enjoy the rest of the play in peace.’

Silently, Ashley resumed his seat.
 
He felt a little sorry for Sir Hugo and wondered if Francis couldn’t have made his point without being quite such a bastard.

On-stage, although adamant that Rodrigue be punished for slaying her father, Chim
è
ne confessed her love for him with such poignant anguish that half the audience either reached for its handkerchief or sniffed into its sleeve.
 
Deliberately refusing to be spellbound, Ashley folded his arms and told himself that Mademoiselle de Galzain was altogether too perfect and that it would be interesting to see her off-stage, with her face streaked with grease-paint and sweat.
 
And as for whether or not she was as virtuous as she made out … it really didn’t matter to him one way or another.

He waited until the fourth act was over before casually suggesting to Francis that they round off the evening with a visit to the Green Room.

Francis subjected him to a long, knowing stare and said, ‘Well, of course.
 
Isn’t that why we came?’

The play drew to a close and a great sigh seemed to emanate from the audience, followed by a moment of involuntary silence.
 
Then the entire auditorium exploded into wild enthusiasm and the players took bow after bow while their public stamped and cheered and whistled.
 
It was an ovation such as the Marais had not seen in years.
 
And when Athenais de Galzain and Etienne Lepreux stepped forward to receive their personal acclaim, the result was little short of tumultuous.

It was some time before the audience could be persuaded to let them go. But when the din finally started to subside, Francis and Ashley thanked Celia and Hugo for their hospitality.
 
Celia exhorted her brother to write to Eden immediately and Sir Hugo looked as though he hoped he never saw Major Langley again.
 
Then they went their separate ways; Celia and her lover to take supper … and Francis and his friend to pay their respects to an actress.

The passage-way behind the stage was crammed with fellows, all hell-bent on the same purpose.

‘This is a mad-house,’ said Ashley, squashing himself into a corner to escape the worst of the jostling. ‘Let’s go.’

‘In a moment,’ returned Francis calmly. ‘For now, let’s just wait and see what happens.’

A few feet away, Etienne Lepreux fought his way against the tide with a good deal of back-slapping but little attempt at detainment.
 
The advancing hordes were intent only on swarming through the Green Room to the ladies tiring-room.
 
Someone, however, seemed to be blocking their path.

‘Will you be quiet?’ demanded an irritable but well-pitched female voice. ‘And you can stop pushing. It won’t get you anywhere.’

The din died down a little and someone shouted, ‘Let us in, Madame.
 
We want
la petite Galzain!
’

‘Want away, then,’ retorted the voice, with some satisfaction. ‘She’s gone.’

The effect was that of a douche of cold water.
 
There was a rumble of uncertainty.
 
Then, with an attempt at defiance, someone shouted, ‘Don’t believe you!’

‘Suit yourself.
 
You can wait here all night, for all I care.
 
But she’s gone.
 
She was tired so she slipped out the back way.’

New heart flowed through the crowd.
 
The streets outside would be blocked with the carriages and chairs of the departing audience.
 
It might be possible to get a glimpse of their darling yet.
 
To a man, the admirers surged back in a concerted dash for the stage exit … briefly jamming the doorway before spewing into the street beyond.
 
As soon as the last of them had gone, the hitherto unseen female marched down to the door, slammed it shut and rammed the bolts home, muttering, ‘Good riddance, too!’
 
Then she stalked back to the Green Room and disappeared inside.