Authors: Christine Trent
“Oh,
oui,
monsieur, we tremble like
petites filles
tied to their mothers’ apron strings over your—what is it, five?—great cannon. I shall wake my commander instantly to let him know that the entire British navy has arrived to secure its prize.”
The soldier turned casually on his heel back to his commander’s quarters.
The insolence, the utter cheek, Nathaniel thought angrily.
He heard some of the crew on deck begin to mumble uncertainly about their mission. He curtly told them to keep their silence until he had negotiated the garrison’s surrender.
He didn’t have to wait long for the soldier to return. He did so along with his commanding officer and ten other soldiers armed with carbine rifles.
The commanding officer was even more haughty than his subordinate.
“Mon
capitaine,
I am
le commandant
here. My lieutenant says you’ve arrived to capture our humble little camp. Is this really true?”
The men with him sniggered.
Nathaniel raised himself up to full importance.
“It is indeed true. And you would do well to watch your impertinent tone before a representative of the British navy.”
The garrison commander rubbed his chin as though considering Nathaniel’s words.
“I see, I see. Tell me,
mon capitaine,
does the British navy give its ships such fierce and battle-worthy names as
Wax Maiden?
For we French do have a way with soft and supple ladies. Are you sure you’re not carrying a shipment of—what do you English say—
doxies,
to visit us?”
The men behind the commander now burst fully into laughter. This was not going according to plan. Not at all.
“I’ve no time for your brilliant Gallic wit, sir. Do you plan to surrender peacefully, or should we take you by force?”
“By force, monsieur? And how do you and your dainty ship and your equally effeminate crew propose to do this?”
“Are you perchance blind? Do you not see my ready cannon waiting to fire upon your garrison?”
The French commander slowly turned to look at his quarters, then turned back just as leisurely toward Nathaniel’s ship.
“Perchance it is not me who is blind. What do you have there, measly little six pounders? You could hardly hit us standing here, much less reach all the way to the buildings. However,
mon capitaine
“—the commander gave a signal to the men around him—”these soldiers are highly skilled sharpshooters, and at my command they will each pick one man off your deck. I suggest that you run along home now, and leave fighting to real military men.”
The commander’s soldiers raised their guns in unison, rested them on their shoulders, and peered down the length of the barrels.
Without waiting for Nathaniel’s orders, Mr. Watson instructed the men to turn the ship around and flee.
No, this had not gone according to plan at all.
Marguerite’s filthy clothing from
Victory
was ceremoniously burned on Hevington’s front lawn, and now her room at Hevington was filled with new dresses, hats, gloves, and shoes. Claudette had insisted on providing her niece with a yet another whole new wardrobe, rather than asking Marie Tussaud to ship her things to Kent.
“Besides,” Claudette told her, “you deserve a reward for what you’ve done and what you’ve been through.”
After hours spent with dressmakers, who plied her with bolts of exotic fabrics, making her nostalgic for her dollmaking days, she and Claudette decided upon designs for several day dresses, a negligee, and two fancy dress gowns, as well as an assortment of hair ribbons, hats, and chemises. Claudette was insistent on the ball gowns, certain that Marguerite would be much in demand in London when she returned.
For Marie Tussaud had approved her plan to start a new exhibit there, sending her letter after letter of instructions on what to do in setting up a new location. Marguerite shook her head bemusedly, for hadn’t she helped Marie with the setup of Dublin? Nevertheless, it was Marie’s property, and she followed her mentor’s directions exactly.
Marguerite sat at the chinoiserie desk in her room, which was stacked with piles of papers and plans regarding the new exhibit.
The desk’s messiness complemented the heaps of clothing bursting forth from trunks and her armoire and hanging from every available hook in the room. A multitude of apparel bags and boxes, some filled and some empty of their garments, were scattered across the floor.
Claudette’s personal maid, Jolie, tapped on the door and entered, her disapproval of Marguerite’s disheveled quarters plain on her face. “Mistress Marguerite, Lady Greycliffe sent me to find you. She’s in the parlor, entertaining a visitor she wants you to meet.”
“Thank you, Jolie.”
Jolie lingered at the door, fidgeting. “Mistress, may I help you?”
“Help me? I’m not sure what you mean.” Marguerite knew exactly what she meant. Jolie was meticulous in maintaining Claudette’s wardrobe, one of the primary reasons Claudette had hired the maid away from her previous position at a hotel in the city of Versailles prior to the Revolution.
The condition of my room must be making her deranged.
“Your room, madame, is very … ah … is in some disarray. Your lovely gowns should be wrapped in tissue. Perhaps I can tidy up for you.”
“Is it that bad? I hadn’t noticed, Jolie. But I suppose if it really bothers you, I could really use the help.” She winked at the maid. “Besides, I’ll be leaving for London soon so I suppose I need to put an eye toward packing.”
Marguerite left her room in Jolie’s competent hands to organize while she hurried to the ground floor to find Claudette. As she entered the parlor, she saw Claudette talking to a man in a uniform. A dark blue and white uniform. The sight of the uniform with its gleaming brass buttons momentarily blinded her, and sent her stomach fluttering.
Darden?
she thought tremulously.
“Mrs. Ashby, how delightful to see you again,” said a warm, familiar voice.
Not Darden’s.
It was Brax Selwyn bending over her hand.
“You seem disappointed to see me. I hope that’s not true.” Brax
was at his charming best. “I should have to jump into the River Medway if I thought the sight of me caused you distress.”
Marguerite mentally quelled her jellied innards and produced a weak smile. “No, of course not, Lieutenant. How lovely of you to visit. I suppose you and Aunt Claudette have gotten reacquainted?”
Claudette’s face was pensive, as though she were trying to figure out the state of things without revealing her own confusion.
“Yes, Lieutenant Selwyn was just telling me about Lord Nelson’s funeral, which he attended. I suppose he’ll want to tell you about it himself. Edward! Darling, no! Not in the house.”
Her son came scampering into the room, a trail of mud tracks behind him and one of the family’s bullmastiffs at his heels.
“But, Mama, look what Cicero found!” The boy pointed at the dog’s jaws, which held a wildly frightened squirrel in them. The dog sat down and thumped his tail, pleased to present his gift.
“We don’t allow wild animals in the house. You know that. Take Cicero outside.”
At that moment Little Bitty entered to see what all the commotion was about. At the sight of Cicero’s trophy, she emitted a screech at a volume with which only little girls are gifted.
“Mama! That’s my pet squirrel, Baby! He’s hurting him!” The girl burst into loud, noisy tears. Edward tried to deny it over her sobs. Cicero looked confused.
Claudette had gone from elegant lady of the house to harried governess in mere seconds. With a quick apology to Marguerite and their guest, she hastened out of the room with children and dog to resolve the crisis outdoors.
With the door closed, Marguerite was alone in utter silence with Brax. Even the floor clock’s subdued ticking seemed clamorous in the stillness between them.
Brax cleared his throat. “Lovely children. How many do the Greycliffes have?”
“Three. It’s not always like this. Wait, what am I saying? It
is
actually always like this. Hevington is a home of great joy and … enthusiasm.”
Brax laughed. “So I see. You must take pleasure in living here.”
Marguerite sat down, inviting Brax to sit in a nearby chair.
“I’ve always thought of Hevington as a retreat. A place to clear my mind during the more tumultuous periods of my life.”
“And is this one of those times? Even with Trafalgar behind you?”
“It was, but soon I’ll be heading for London.”
“London? Not Dublin?”
“No, Madame Tussaud and I have agreed to establish a second waxworks, which I will operate in London.”
A smile slowly spread across Brax’s face. “Well, that is just splendid, indeed. How fortuitous for me that I will be posted at the Admiralty while waiting for my promo—while waiting for my next posting. My heart can barely contain itself to know that you will be nearby. Already it’s as if I’m floating on air.”
Marguerite permitted a small smile in return. “Brax the Lighthearted, I suppose?”
“From your lips, any name sounds sweeter than the mellowest of wines, madam.”
She shook her head and changed the subject. “What brings you to Kent, sir? Have you Royal Navy business here? On your way to Dover, perhaps?”
“Alas, no, I am a free man on leave at the moment. I went to my parents’ estate near Chichester since I haven’t seen them in some months, and remembered you mentioning your own family’s estate. Since we spent so much companionable time together on
Pickle,
I didn’t think you’d mind a visit.”
“Of course I don’t.”
“But more importantly, I was rather hoping you might be happy to see me.”
“And I am, Lieutenant.”
“Brax, please.”
“And I am happy to see you, Brax.”
He pursed his lips. “Your eyes said something else entirely when you first saw me.”
“Don’t be silly. I was merely surprised to find you at Hevington.”
“All right, I accept your explanation, mostly because I want desperately to believe you are enraptured by my arrival, and not because
I’m actually convinced by your explanation. No no”—he held up his hands against her protest—”please, no more clarification necessary. We’ve far more important matters to discuss.”
“Such as?”
“Such as when do you plan to depart for London, and have you yet secured an escort for your trip? Someone who understands and appreciates your fine artistry? Who would personally run through any greedy highwaymen?”
“Well, I hadn’t realized I needed an escort, since I was planning to go by public coach if Uncle William did not have time to take me. But you’re perhaps suggesting that I need a personal bodyguard who appreciates my person as well as my safety. Would you happen to know where I can find such a man?”
Brax stood and placed his right hand over his heart. “Madam, I am your most devoted servant. Never will you find a man more willing to lay down his life to protect your exquisite and charming perfection.” He made a bow with his hand still over his heart, adding a flourish with his left hand.
“Nor, Sir Brax the Lighthearted, will I find one more passionately absurd.”
He looked up from the bowed position he still held. “It is your presence that makes me so.”
How difficult it was not to like this man! Full of mirth and not a care in the world. And his attentions were obviously exaggerated and thereby not intimidating. Unlike Paul de Philipsthal’s professions of love. She shuddered inwardly.
Of Darden she refused to think.
“Sir Brax, I accept your offer. However, I don’t plan on departing for London for another week. Will you still be available for service then?”
Brax stood up. “My dearest Mrs. Ashby—may I call you Marguerite now that we are to travel together once more?—at your command I will ask the Royal Navy to cease all its maritime maneuvers against Bonaparte, until all assistance can be rendered for your own personal mission.”
“How highly the first lord of the Admiralty must think of me.”
“Yes, of course he does. You must hold this in the strictest confidence,
but I’ve been told that he thinks more of you than he does his own mother.”
“Well, that makes me highly regarded indeed. Tell me, Sir Brax, since you plan to serve as my personal knight, have you found any lodgings in town?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure there’s an inn nearby, run by a lonely widow who will have pity upon a poor officer of the Royal Navy. Especially one who has seen such recent action with Lord Nelson.”
“She won’t be able to resist your considerable charms, I’m sure.”
“Alas, it is only the dear person before me now who seems immune to my earnest supplications.”
Before Marguerite could respond, the door to the parlor banged open again. Claudette entered, mud spattered on the front of her dress and tendrils of hair falling from her coif. “Edward, I told you I wouldn’t—oh! Lieutenant, I didn’t realize you were still here. My apologies.” Claudette attempted to prod some of her unruly curls back under her hair ribbon. “It does seem to be getting on in the afternoon, doesn’t it? Lieutenant, won’t you stay for supper? I’m sure my niece would be pleased with your company, if she hasn’t asked you to dine with us already?” Claudette looked at Marguerite expectantly.
Marguerite bent her head and bit her lip, trying not to laugh at her aunt’s obvious attempt to discern what her relationship was with Brax.
“No, Aunt Claudette, I’d not gotten around to it yet.”
Brax piped up brightly, “I’ve no doubt that was where our conversation was turning next, Lady Greycliffe, and I accept your kind offer with great happiness.”
And so Brax supped with the Greycliffes that night, and every night until Marguerite was ready for departure. Brax’s utterly charming nature even won over William, and each night the two men would leave the women after dining, to retreat to his study for brandy and to discuss Napoleon’s troop movements against Russia and Austria, which had culminated in his recent decisive battle victories against both countries at Austerlitz. Great Britain was part
of an alliance involving these two nations and Sweden, and the defeat meant the collapse of their coalition.