Authors: Jeanne Savery
“But they are—”
“They may, with luck, trick the comte into running quite the wrong direction once he arrives on English soil,” said Harriet, still lightly scolding.
Françoise pulled her robe more tightly around her and shivered. “I believed he would not follow us here,” she said in a small voice.
“The men believe he will.”
“Why will he not give it up? He makes my flesh crawl. I will
not
marry him. I will
not
!”
“No, of course you won’t. No one wishes you to do so. Especially your grandmother. Would she have put herself to such exertion, such strain, if she didn’t care what happened to you? Remember, she hasn’t given in, although she nearly lost her life to the comte’s wickedness.”
Françoise had the grace to look embarrassed. “I am sorry, Harriet.
Mon Dieu!
I am a terrible hoyden and thoughtless as well, am I not?”
“Yes you are,” agreed Harriet in a reasonable tone.
Françoise giggled and threw her arms around Harriet. “I do love you. You keep me sensible.”
“You
are
reasonably sensible, but you are very young.” Harriet watched the girl, thought she knew what Françoise plotted. Her voice was sharper than she intended when she warned, “You will not meet the troupe, you know. It is impossible.”
Frani’s eyes widened, her face suddenly blank of all expression. Harriet eyed her doubtfully. Immediately a suspect innocence filled her charge’s features, worrying Harriet excessively. Harriet bit her lip. It would be improper for Françoise to converse with actresses. Very improper, but knowing Françoise as she did...
“They are to come here tonight, are they not?” Frani played with her hair. “The actresses? So that they may set off tomorrow as if they were us?”
Harriet nodded, eyeing Frani closely. “After the performance, they come here dressed as if they had been patrons of the play. It should answer, I believe.”
“And they’ll be booked into a room here?” persisted Frani.
“Yes,” Harriet again eyed her charge. Françoise smiled, a smug smile which disappeared when she noted Harriet watching her reflection. “Frani, what are you planning?” “Me? Nothing. What would I plan?”
The girl searched her mind for a change of subject, asked a question about styles and what was proper for a young woman entering the social whirl in London. Harriet answered as best she could though she did not feel she was qualified to deal with the subject. After
a while
, Harriet believed she’d been wrong to suspect Françoise’s intentions. It seemed the girl had felt only a moment’s temptation to meet the actresses but then had perceived how wrong it was and relinquished the notion.
The day, passing slowly, was spent almost entirely in their rooms. The rooms were nice enough in their way, but Françoise grew more and more bored. Harriet, watching Madame carefully, felt the day’s rest had done much for the brave invalid. If nothing set her back, they could leave the next morning, early, for London. It was, Harriet remembered, a six to eight hour journey for heavily loaded coaches. If Madame had the strength for the hours of travel, then, once in London, she would have time to recoup and, hopefully, regain the good health she’d lost in the process of saving her granddaughter from a horrid future.
Dinner was a quiet meal. Françoise demanded and got a description of the theatrical company. Yves described the house in which the actors had been found, the badly ventilated parlor and the poor furnishings. Frani was shocked.
“What is the matter, child,” asked Frederick, noting her expression.
“They are so very poor, then? Me, I have always envied actresses. All the excitement and the crowds and—” She made an expressive movement with her hands. “—and everything.”
“A very few thespians make their fortunes,” explained Lord Halford. “The very best are occasionally adopted as pets of society. But the majority? They are, indeed, poor.”
Poverty was not something with which Françoise had experience. Horrified, she secretly decided to add another dress to the portmanteau for the girl who would pretend to be herself. That and the gift of jewelry which she was determined to make the women for their part in her rescue, would, she hoped, express her grateful feelings to them. Frani knew the men had arranged payment, so thanking them personally was the only excuse for meeting the women she’d conjured up. Harriet might think it improper for her to introduce herself to the actresses, but where was the adventure in that? None. She’d take the jewelry along herself and thank the women for what they did for her.
Madame la Comtesse was consulted and announced herself quite ready to proceed to London. It was decided they would leave in the morning. The party, except for Madame, had adjourned to the parlor for dinner. The meal ended when a waiter came to clear away the broken meats and put a decanter of good brandy on the table. Harriet drew a reluctant Françoise away. Encouraged by the men to have an early night, they went to their rooms.
“Frani,” coaxed Harriet, once they’d reached their own room, “you aren’t thinking of those women, are you?” She’d become suspicious again when she’d overheard her charge asking Monsieur de Bartigues questions concerning the troupe.
“Who?” asked Françoise, pretending innocence. “Oh. The actresses. It is very sad, is it not?”
Harriet knew her charge Well. She realized she’d been taken for a flat—as the saying went. “You, my dear, are a basket-scrambler,” she said. Françoise had not heard the term and, after warning her it was not a phrase to be added to a young lady’s vocabulary, Harriet, glad of the chance to distract Françoise, explained. “It refers to someone who is always on the scramble to make ends meet, having to plot and improvise. It comes from being so poor that, when they travel, they must scramble for a place in the ‘basket’ at the rear of a stagecoach, exceedingly uncomfortable accommodations, I understand. So perhaps,” mused Harriet mischievously, “the term does not apply to you. More likely you are a here-n-therian—literally someone with no settled place of residence, but, by extension, a person of no consistency. One never knows what they will be up to next,” she added at Françoise’s questioning look.
They laughed and proceeded to while away the time with Harriet distracting Frani with some of the cant she’d learned over the years—the portion which would entertain but not suborn her charge, that is. The candles burned low and, twice, they added coals to the fire.
Harriet suggested they might go to bed but Françoise dawdled, one ear cocked to the comings and goings in the hall and, when, after a long period of silence, a new party arrived, their voices low but penetrating, she knew the time had come. The hall fell silent.
“I will meet them, you know,” said Françoise.
“Who?” Harriet responded, her tone sharp. “The actresses? It is not proper.”
“Who is to know? Will you come?”
Harriet sighed; she knew that stubborn look and that once it appeared there was nothing she could do—nothing short of chains and a convenient dungeon! “You are determined?” she asked, just to make certain.
“
Oui
.”
There was no compromise in Frani’s tone. The single word said more than a paragraph.
Aware she should not, Harriet gave in. Françoise
would
go, and it was far better she not go alone—and if they
were
to go, then better to go at once; Harriet wanted to reach the women before they retired. If they were found in dishabille it would be bad enough, but to find the women visiting rooms in which they had no business, would be beyond anything—far worse than merely improper: Knowledge of the arrangements amongst the cast as to who slept in whose bed would be detrimental to the young girl in her charge. Besides, and it was the clinching argument, Harriet had something of a curiosity about the women herself! “Let us go, then.”
They were too late, in part. Gowns, ruffled and bowed and rather cheap-looking, decorated the bedpost, the open door to the armoire, and the back of a chair. The three actresses—dressed in diaphanous wraps that brought a flush to Harriet’s cheeks and had Françoise goggling—were, respectively, draped across the bed, standing near the mantel, backlit by the fire and, the eldest of the trio, leaning back against the door, the handle of which she still held, having just closed it.
Françoise recovered first. “I came to thank you for what you do for me,” she said prettily.
“Well, miss, now we see you, we can understand why your menfolk are a worryin’,” said the ethereal blond on the bed.
“What a Juliet she’d make,” said the dark-haired girl by the fire, sighing dramatically.
“A far better one than
you
,” retorted the blond who turned sideways and rested her gilt-haired head on one hand. “She, one can see, is properly innocent for the role.”
“Hold your tongues,” said the middle-aged woman at the door. “It is not proper for you to be here, Miss,” she scolded Françoise.
“So Miss Cole has told me, but I could not let you go without thanking you myself. Do be careful. The comte is a wicked man. He will be angry to be tricked so.”
The women laughed, knowing eyes meeting knowing eyes as they absorbed the girl’s warning. “He isn’t the first wicked man we’ve met, dearie,” soothed the eldest. “You needn’t worry your head about his particular sort of wickedness.”
“But this one is truly evil.”
“When and if he catches up with us, it will be the fault of the man who follows us, nothing to do with us. We’ll know nothing about it, will we? And don’t you worry none, dearie. The agent was pointed out to Henry who will keep a good eye out that the man not get too close too soon. We may be nothing more than a third-rate acting company, but we’re honest folk, child, and will do the work for which we are paid. We’ll give the man a good chase.”
“Which will give us time. We do need time. Please, take these as my personal thank you.” Françoise unscrewed the earrings she’d put on that evening. “And this,” she said and added the fine chain hanging around her neck with its amethyst pendant.
That was two pieces of jewelry, but there were three women. Françoise had, thought Harriet, not planned well. Reluctantly, Harriet stripped off a bracelet, one of the few pieces she’d inherited from her mother. She handed it toward the last of the actresses, but Françoise stopped her.
“No, Harri. Me, I am prepared.” Frani reached inside her skirt to the pocket hidden in her petticoat and pulled out another trinket, this time a pearl and diamond chip pendant shaped like a bird.
For a moment there was complete silence in the room. Then the youngest, who was silhouetted by the fire, spoke. “You’re a real lady, you are. We don’t meet many, but we know one when we do. Believe me, we’ll do our best to trick your wicked comte, my lady.”
“We ain’t actresses for nothin’,” said the older woman gruffly, holding up the amethyst.
The third, studying the earrings closely, smiled. “Aye, we’ll do our poor best. And good luck to you too, my lady.”
Harriet thought it best they disappear at this point, but Françoise asked a question about the lives the women led, then another. Soon the five were settled near the fire on chairs and a collection of stools, and Françoise was receiving an education few well-born young girls were allowed. If Harriet had been able to come up with a polite means of extracting her from the scene, she would have done so. As it was, she soon realized the actresses were trying hard to edit from their speech anything of too shocking a nature and her eyes met those of the eldest, speaking her thanks silently. She got a merry grin in return.
That woman it was who finally rose to her feet. “Well, dearie, you’ve had a fine adventure this evening, but we all have a long day ahead of us. I think we’d better part company and get ourselves to bed. I’ll just check the hall for you.”
The hall was not empty. Sir Frederick, a scowl on his face and his arms crossed over his chest, leaned against the wall opposite the door. His eyes, resting on Harriet, held condemnation. His gaze moved to Françoise, his look softening slightly. “Well minx?” he said. “Are you satisfied?”
“It’s been a very interesting evening, Sir Frederick.”
Harriet noticed the two younger actresses had changed in an unsubtle manner. Each posed in such a way as to catch the eye of the man in the hall. He ignored them. “I will escort you back to your rooms, where, little cat, you will
stay
.”
“I will?” Françoise’s dimples peeped, and Sir Frederick closed his eyes briefly.
“You will,” he said with a rather overly done sternness, “if you do not wish to be tipped up and spanked.”
Françoise pouted prettily, flirting up at him. “Surely you do not threaten me so.”
“Ah! But
I
will not do the spanking.” Frederick went on with pretended gravity, “Your new great-uncle will oblige you.”
Harriet suppressed the jealousy she felt at this whispered byplay. As she’d believed, Sir Frederick
was
interested in her charge. She sighed. “It is late, Françoise. Let us return to our room.”
From behind the partly open door there were whispered invitations of a sort Harriet hoped Françoise would not understand. Again Sir Frederick ignored the actresses. He led Frani and Harriet down the hall, opened the door to their room, and looked in, checking for intruders. When Frani entered, he caught Harriet’s arm. “That was not wise, Miss Cole,” he said.