A Desperate Fortune (8 page)

“Yes, of course,” Sir Redmond played along, still with the tinge of admiration in his voice. “Do have a seat here, Mistress Jamieson, and make yourself at home, and I’ll away up to my chamber and compose just such a letter.”

“On your way, my dear,” his wife put in, “perhaps you’ll take a moment to assist me in explaining to the groom what’s to be done about the harness, for he does not seem inclined to take direction from a woman.”

“And you left him standing, did you?”

“For the moment.” As though mention of the groom had then reminded her of something else, Sir Redmond’s wife asked, this time of their guest, “Have you a driver waiting? I will have a warming drink sent out to him, for it is very cold this morning.”

“No,” said Mistress Jamieson, “I do not have a driver. I took lodgings in the town last night and walked from there.”

“My dear! In such a wintry wind?”

“I am accustomed to the cold, for I was raised in it.”

Sir Redmond’s wife said, “Nonetheless, I’ll have the maid brew tea for you, that you may warm yourself while you are waiting.”

“Thank you. That would be most kind.”

Sir Redmond told her, “I’ll not keep you waiting long.” And then both he and Lady Everard went out and closed the door behind them, leaving the young woman standing squarely between Mary and escape from her predicament.

She might have stayed there stuck another hour had Frisque not wriggled free just then and, cheerfully evading all her efforts to recapture him, gone bounding in an energetic path across the drawing room to give a wagging welcome to this new potential playmate.

“Well, hello,” said Mistress Jamieson, in evident surprise. “Where did you spring from?” And when Frisque was not forthcoming with an answer, she went on, “Come here then, you’re quite safe. I’m not about to bite. And you can tell that to your mistress, for she cannot be so comfortable down there upon the floor.”

Mary rested her forehead a moment in shame on the seat cushion of the settee before gathering up what remained of her tattered pride, pushing herself to her feet so her shoulders and head were entirely visible over the back of the scrolled piece of furniture, braced for whatever might come.

My soul brightens in danger… I am of the race of steel; my fathers never feared.

—Macpherson, “Fingal,” Book Three

Chatou

January 23, 1732

The woman she was facing looked to be about her own age, slender and of middle height, with features that could not have been called beautiful and yet held a vivacity that made them pretty—lively eyes lit with a keen intelligence beneath arched eyebrows the same dark brown color as the curling hair that had been swept up from her face and neatly fastened underneath a plain lace pinner.

Mary cleared her throat and said, “I do apologize.”

“That’s quite all right. I used to hide behind chairs often as a child. The trick is keeping back so that your shoes are out of sight.”

“I wasn’t hiding. I was… Frisque had lost his ball, you see, and I was only trying to retrieve it when you… Well,” she finished, knowing how ridiculous it sounded.

“Are you French?” the woman asked, her head tipped slightly to one side as though she were trying to place Mary’s accent. “Or Irish?”

“My father was Scottish, my mother was French.” She remembered her manners and put out her hand as she stepped round the settee and forced herself forward. “I’m Mary Dundas, Mistress Jamieson.” And having properly managed the more formal greeting, she said, “I’ll just…go. I should go.”

“Nonsense. You were here first. You were writing,” observed Mistress Jamieson, looking down now at the journal and pen on the table where Mary had earlier sat.

“It was nothing of importance,” Mary said, aware how foolish any chronicle of her “adventures” would appear to this young woman who, from all the evidence, was living one herself; for if in truth the other woman, Mrs. Farrand, had been taken and arrested as a spy, then stepping in to carry messages across the Channel in her place in such a time of danger called for courage of a kind that Mary could not hope to claim.

She could but marvel at the realization that this young woman, although near to her in age, was so beyond her in experience and confidence. And energy, she added, as she watched while Mistress Jamieson began to move about the room with Frisque an ever-bouncing bundle at the hemline of her gown.

“Indeed,” Mistress Jamieson said as she trailed a hand over the spines of the books on one shelf, “so few women write anything, that when one does it can never be deemed unimportant.”

“Truly, it was nothing more than my own private thoughts.”

“Then pray, don’t let me keep you from them.”

Mary wasn’t sure if that was meant to be an invitation or a firm command, but since the answer either way was to reclaim her chair and carry on where she’d left off within her journal, she decided it was best to do exactly that. It was a great relief, in fact, to bend her head and hide her reddened cheeks as she took up her pen again and dipped it in the ink while she read over what she’d so far written for her first attempt for this new year beneath the simple heading “January”:

Upon the 22nd came my eldest brother Nicolas to my uncle’s home at Chanteloup-les-Vignes, and after dinner we began our journey to his home—and my new one—at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, he having hired a splendid chaise for the occasion with a driver and two bay mares matched in all but that the near one had white forelegs and the other had no white at all upon her. Though the day was cold my heart was made the warmer knowing all my years of praying for such a reunion had at last been heard and answered, and with my brother as companion and so many fine and strange things to be seen within the woods through which we passed, I was well satisfied, the only complication rising from a wagon overturned upon the road that made it necessary for our driver to divert some several leagues around the obstacle, and causing us to break our journey at Chatou, where lives a noble gentleman of Irish birth who knows my brother well. Sir Redmond Everard, for so his name is, seemed not in the least put out to have us thus descend upon him. He and his good lady made us welcome and installed us in fine chambers, and a maid was sent to help me dress for supper, and a better supper I have never had, set out so cleverly and with so little notice, and a wine Sir Redmond told us he’d had sent him from Bordeaux, which we agreed with him was very fine, though privately I would confess I’d hold my uncle’s wine to be superior. Supper being done we then amused ourselves at play upon the cards. There being three of us (for Lady Everard declined to play but chose instead to sit apart and so be entertained) we played the Renegado with Sir Redmond and myself aligned against my brother, though he, with great skill, confounded both of us and left us all in laughter. So to bed, and up the morning of the 23rd at sunrise to attend to Frisque. I thought to walk some little way along the river, but the freezing wind defeated us and drove us back indoors where I—

The narrative broke off there, where she’d risen to help Frisque retrieve his ball. She tried now to retrieve the thread of it, without including the embarrassing details of what had happened in the meantime:

—made the acquaintance of a fellow guest of our good host: a woman by the name of Mistress Jamieson who carried to Sir Redmond correspondence of a secret nature, which she carried hidden on her person. I suspect the name she gave him may be false, she having earlier declined to give a name at all and only acquiescing when his lady entered in the room and wanted introduction, but Sir Redmond, if he does suspect the same, seems yet well satisfied. I do perceive, from having seen him toast King James’s health last night at supper, that Sir Redmond is himself a Jacobite, and so this woman’s errand doubtless serves that same king who has long been favored with the love and loyalty of my own father and my brothers, and in whose lost palace I am soon to take up residence.

“Where did he lose it, then?” asked Mistress Jamieson.

Mary looked up, startled, with her pen still resting on the paper, and for a confusing moment she believed the other woman had divined what she was writing.

“I do beg your pardon, but—”

“The ball. Where did your dog misplace it?”

“Oh.” Relaxing, Mary pointed out the place. “Beneath the settee.”

The other woman found the ball and set it freely rolling. Frisque chased after it, delighted, and retrieved it for the woman who seemed happy to indulge him. Mary could have warned her that the little dog could play this favorite game all day, but there was no need after all because just then the promised tea arrived, delivered by a housemaid who on seeing Mary went and brought a second porcelain cup to set in place upon the little lacquered tea table. To Mary, who had only drunk tea twice before in all her life, her aunt not being fond of it, it was a fascinating thing to watch the housemaid set things out so carefully: the silver pot that rested in its stand above the warming flame, the water jug and sugar dish with gleaming silver tongs, the little cups so delicate in Chinese blue and white and sitting neatly in their saucers with a matching common bowl in which to empty out the dregs.

Too late she realized that her admiration had betrayed her inexperience, for when the housemaid had again departed, Mistress Jamieson asked in a tone that did not condescend but rather held a trace of understanding, “Shall I pour?”

“Yes, please,” said Mary.

Mistress Jamieson was clearly expert at the art of serving tea and Mary watched her carefully and marked the steps in order, so in future she could mimic them.

Her cousin had accused her once of being like an ape. “You always watch,” Colette had said, “and then you copy so completely it’s as if you’ve shed your own self and become another creature altogether, like the fairies in the tales you tell, who change their form according to their fancy.”

To which Mary had replied, “And how else would I hope to learn if not by imitation, since my life conspires to limit my experience?”

The life of Mistress Jamieson, thought Mary, must have done very much the opposite and bathed her in experience, for how else could so young a woman seem so self-assured and in control? Mary observed her closely, noting how she took her seat, arranged her skirts, and squared her shoulders all at once, as graceful as a falcon perched at rest upon her block, fully aware and in command of all around her. Even Frisque obeyed the quiet word she told him and lay down with rare obedience to settle with one paw at rest upon the hemline of her gown.

Mary held the little bowl-like teacup balanced neatly on her fingertips, the way the other woman did, and drank with care, deciding that unlike her aunt she rather liked the taste of sweetened tea. She cleared her throat. “Are you from Scotland, Mistress Jamieson?”

“I am.”

“I’ve never been to Scotland.”

“Have you lived in France your whole life, then?”

“I have.”

The other woman looked at Mary as though trying to imagine what that would be like, to spend one’s whole life in one place.

On the table between them the cards from last evening’s play still lay untidily stacked. Mistress Jamieson set down her cup and gathered all the cards into her two hands, at first seeming only to want to align them, but then as though the feel of them within her fingers altered her intent, she loosely shuffled them and turned the top one over to reveal the knave of hearts. Her mouth curved faintly in a private smile before she turned the card again and slipped it in among the rest. “Have you no wish to travel?” she asked Mary.

“Very much the opposite. I wish it more than anything, but women cannot up and see the world when we so choose. That is,” she stammered as she realized that the other woman had just come some distance on her own, “I mean—”

“No, you are right in that,” said Mistress Jamieson. “And I was told so bluntly as a child—a woman cannot travel with the freedom of a man. The road does rarely welcome us, preferring we should stay at home, but I have found the remedy is simply then to move my home itself to other places, and so gain a different view.”

Mary, feeling happy to have found some bit of common ground to stand upon, remarked, “I am now in the midst of doing so myself.”

“Oh, yes?” The other woman’s eyebrows arched a fraction, as once more she drew the knave of hearts from deep within the pack of cards and put him back again and shuffled all, not seeing Mary’s nod.

“Yes. My brother, whom I have not seen for many years, did come to fetch me home. We only stayed our journey here last night because we were delayed upon the road and it became too dark to travel, and my brother is acquainted with Sir Redmond, who was kind enough to take us in. But later on this day I’ll have a different view, as you do say, from quite a different window.” She was trying to sound confident, but some of her uncertainty must have yet wavered in her tone, or so she guessed from watching Mistress Jamieson look up with eyes that seemed to take her measure.

“Do you travel far this day?” the Scottish woman asked.

“Not far. My brother lives at Saint-Germain-en-Laye.”

The lovely eyebrows arched again. “At Saint-Germain?”

“Yes. Do you know it?”

This time when she drew the knave of hearts she seemed to do so without paying any heed to it, as though her mind were otherwise diverted. Without answering the question, Mistress Jamieson said lightly, “It is not a place for keeping private thoughts.” And then, on noticing that Mary did not seem to understand, she gave a nod towards the journal lying open on the table. “You will have to guard that well, for Saint-Germain is full of prying eyes and those who love exposing secrets.” But she smoothed the warning with the kindness of her tone, and asked, “And will you go no further in your travels?”

Mary gave a tiny shrug. “I am dependent on my brother and must wait for his indulgence, naturally, but someday I should like to go to Paris.” She’d have felt a fool to say aloud the reason why; to lay her childish fantasies and dreams before this woman, so she aimed instead for something like sophistication. “I am told the men there are the handsomest in all of France, and very gallant.”

Mistress Jamieson looked down and traced the corner of the card she held, the knave. “Aye, there are handsome men in Paris.” For a moment it appeared the other woman’s thoughts had drifted far afield, before they were summarily recalled. Laying the knave faceup on the table, she set down the other cards and reached for her forgotten tea. “And men of wit and learning, which are also handsome qualities.”

Mary tried to match the grace with which the Scottish woman held her teacup, as she said, “I fear I have no qualities that would impress a man of wit and learning, so I must make do with one who has a handsome face.” She’d said it brightly, all in jest, but in the pause that followed, Mistress Jamieson appeared to be considering the matter.

Straightening the edges of the stack of cards she turned the top one over to reveal the ace of hearts, and set it on the table with the waiting knave so that the two were touching one another with their edges overlapped. She said to Mary, “Any man deserving of your notice will need nothing to impress him but that you should be yourself, and any man deserving of your love will see you as you truly are, and love you notwithstanding.”

Such advice, thought Mary, must be spoken from experience. The only ring the other woman wore was on her right hand, not her left—a ring of gold wrought in a curious design of two hands clasping a crowned heart, and looking nothing like the wedding ring her own aunt wore, but Mary could not keep herself from asking, “Are you married, Mistress Jamieson?”

Again, as when she’d given Lady Everard her name, there was the faintest pause, too brief to be much noticed but enough time to arrange her thoughts. She raised her cup to drink. “And if I were, I should not own it.”

“Why is that?”

Above the teacup’s rim the level gaze seemed to assess Mary’s intelligence. “Come now. You overheard me speaking to Sir Redmond, and you clearly are no fool, so then you know what I am doing.”

Mary flushed a bit to be reminded of her accidental indiscretion, but she answered just as plainly. “Yes.”

“Well, then. Had I a husband whom I loved, that love alone would lead me to deny him, lest my actions bring him also into danger.”