Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas (9 page)

“Miss Gambier!”

There was one among us who did not quail at approaching her. The secretary, Mr. L’Anglois, strode into the library with a sheaf of
music in his hands. His usually sombre looks were smiling; he was transformed from a correct and self-effacing young man to a jaunty and charming companion. But Miss Gambier appeared unmoved. She lifted her head from her letter, and stared at him impassively.

“Mr. L’Anglois?”

“May I entreat you to delight us with a turn at the pianoforte? I had nearly forgot in all the bustle of Christmas—but I have lately received some new music from France. I know that you are a true proficient. If you would wish to peruse the selections—”

She lifted the writing desk from her lap and set it down, folding her letter. “Thank you, no. I must attend to my aunt, Mr. L’Anglois—she is most unwell today.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” he faltered. “Perhaps at another time—”

Miss Gambier ignored him, sweeping out of the room without another word. L’Anglois could not with propriety follow. But there was an interest, there, that Miss Gambier appeared determined to quell.

Eliza, too, had witnessed the secretary’s rebuff. “Miss Jane Austen is a devoted player, I believe, Mr. Langles. Perhaps you might turn the pages for her this evening after dinner. The pianoforte, Jane, is in the Saloon, you know, and tho’ we generally remove to the drawing-room after dinner, we might make a change tonight, if you wished to play.”

Ah, the poor lady left with a house full of guests and a snowstorm out-of-doors! Such stratagems and tricks as she is forced to employ, to banish collective ennui! Mr. L’Anglois should be required to stand this evening, turning pages intended for another, while I dinned the ears of all and sundry with discordant keys. But I smiled at Eliza and submitted. I was charmed by the thought of compelling Mr. L’Anglois to unbend; he had not yet devoted his hours to the amusement of spinsters.

He betrayed his sense of propriety and good manners, however, by approaching me next and offering to show me his selections.

“Here is a new piano sonata in E minor, by Herr Beethoven—but that should require considerable hours to master, I think. I have also six polonaises, by Hummel, and some very pretty pieces by the Irishman, John Field, which he calls nocturnes.”

“I do not know Field,” I admitted. “He is at the Russian court, is he not?”

“A great favorite of the Czar’s, indeed,” L’Anglois replied.

I glanced at the Beethoven, a taxing swarm of black notes, and set it aside in favour of the polonaises. “Miss Gambier may attempt the sonata. I shall content myself with playing tunes you younger folk might wish to dance to.”

The secretary smiled. “I shall hardly discourage you from that. I shall leave the Hummel in your hands, Miss Austen, in the event you wish to practise.”

“Thank you. It has been many months since anything new has come in my way. You are fortunate in your friends, Mr. L’Anglois. I think you said they are presently in France?”

“Paris, to be exact. Have you chanced to visit there?”

“I have not been so fortunate,” I replied regretfully. “I was reared in Hampshire, and am often in London and Kent—I have brothers resident in both places. But I have never crossed the Channel.”

“Now that peace is returned, I hope you may.”

I inclined my head. “Have you been very long acquainted with the Gambiers and the Chutes, sir?”

“Only ten months,” he replied. “Mr. Chute was kind enough to employ me when my previous situation came to an end.”

“You have generally served Members of Parliament, I collect?”

“For many years I was confidential secretary to a member of the
French royal family,” he replied seriously. “That gentleman being recalled to France at the rout of Buonaparte, I had a lamentable amount of time upon my hands. I do not know what I should have done, had Mr. Chute not been kind enough to secure my services.”

“Benedict is joking you, Jane,” William Chute declared as he ambled into the library, Raphael West at his heels. “Never knew a fellow more sought after than Langles, once the Comte d’Artois was done with him! Had to put in my bid for preferment early and often—and I’m still damned if I know why he didn’t accept Dalrymple’s offer over mine.”

“Sir Peter Dalrymple deals almost exclusively with land reform,” L’Anglois riposted, “and I never come within a mile of the farmyard if I may avoid it.”

“Aye, and shouldn’t have much use for your French if you did,” Chute agreed. “Ben is a dashed accomplished fellow, Miss Austen—and he keeps my nose to the grindstone far more than I should like. I had thought to sneak away on horseback this morning, and claim a day of liberty, but you see how Man and Nature conspire against me. I have only just got done with West, and Ben shall be wanting me about my correspondence soon.”

I glanced up at Mr. L’Anglois’s face. A little smile played at the corners of his expressive mouth, and his dark eyes glowed. He was an excessively handsome young man—yes, I could detect with regret that he was a decade younger than myself—and possessed redoubtable skills as well. Any Englishman retained by the Comte d’Artois—who was brother to the new-crowned King of France, Louis XVIII, and an exacting mountebank by every account—must be a man of efficiency, tact, and considerable learning. Easily capable of composing an acid charade on the fly—but any of the minds surrounding me should do equally well.

That Mr. L’Anglois had lost his situation at the Comte’s departure from his Audley Street residence was as nothing; few Englishmen should consent to repair to France, or serve a foreign royal when English alternatives were at hand. That L’Anglois was a prize William Chute valued I could readily believe. I rather wondered at his having won him. William Chute has served the Crown as an MP these two decades at least—but without ascending to any Cabinet, or holding a respectable Portfolio. Compared to the Comte d’Artois, he is a cypher. But perhaps Mr. L’Anglois had tired of fame.

“If Mr. West is finished, sir,” he said to Chute, “I should like your signature on a number of documents.”

“Of course.” Chute turned once more towards his book room. But L’Anglois’s purpose was stayed by the entrance into the library of young James-Edward, who had been absent some hours in the billiard room with Mr. Gambier. He came charging through the door, his breath coming in great gasps.

“Sir!” he cried to William Chute.

My brother snorted and threw down his pen. “A little conduct, if you please. You are no longer among the harum-scarums of Winchester.”

“What is it, lad?” Chute said.

“A messenger, sir—asking for you! He rode up out of the storm. We heard a pounding at the front door—and there being no servants to answer, as it is St. Stephen’s Day—”

“Of course. Most inconvenient. I shall come at once. An Express from London, I suppose?”

James-Edward looked doubtful. “I do not think so. He is in Naval uniform.”

And, indeed, a military figure—booted and spurred and enveloped
in a riding cloak of dark blue—strode impatiently into the library at that moment. He brought a tide of cold air with him.

“Lieutenant Gage at your service,” he said, sweeping off his hat and bowing to Chute. “Late of Ghent. I bring news from Admiral Gambier.”

“The Admiral is well, I trust?” William Chute enquired.

“Perfectly well, sir, I thank you—and bade me offer Lady Gambier and her family his warmest blessings for the season,” Lieutenant Gage replied. “I carry private correspondence for Lady Gambier, as well, that I am instructed to place into her hands. But first—” He glanced round the library, suddenly conscious of an array of silent faces, and coloured slightly—although that may have been merely the return of blood and life to a visage frozen by weather. “I beg your pardon. I incommode your guests.”

“Nonsense,” Chute replied. “Eliza, dear, you must take this gentleman’s things and bring him a hot rum punch. We shall be in my book room. Langles, I shall want you as well.”

The Lieutenant was relieved of his cape and hat; the three men exited in all the relief of those given a job of work in the midst of a tedious winter day; and we whom they abandoned, were left staring at one another.

“Only fancy, Jane,” my mother observed, “that poor young man has been journeying through the storm! Breast-high, they say the
drifts are, on the Basingstoke road—not even the mail coach has got through. It is to be wondered that he did not perish!”

“I suppose the spur was great—and his news urgent.”

“Indeed,” Eliza Chute agreed. Her arms were full of the messenger’s wet things. “I must venture into the kitchens, now, and endeavour to concoct a hot rum punch. Does anyone have an idea of how it is made? Of all occasions to be without one’s cook!”

Martha Lloyd had just such a receipt in her stillroom book; I thought perhaps I might recall it. “Possibly,” I managed. “And if the Lieutenant is frozen enough, he shall not regard the taste.”

“Clever woman. Follow me, Jane.”

I did as she bade, treading briskly from the library to the landing and thence down the great staircase. Eliza laid Lieutenant Gage’s sodden cloak on a bench near the blazing Yule log in the Staircase Hall. The great oak trunk appeared hardly diminished from last evening. I warmed my hands an instant, then followed Eliza’s quick steps along the East Passage to the kitchens. The passage was dimly-lit by guttering wall sconces. In this, too, I saw the absence of servants—the tapers should never have been left so long untended. Daylight was retreating swiftly before the heavy fall of snow, and if we did not take care, we should find The Vyne plunged in darkness before long. I must remind Eliza to secure a supply of candles, and engage the gentlemen in the laying of fires throughout the bedchambers, well before we were forced to retire.

Eliza had barely pushed open the baize-covered door before the sound of laughter and singing greeted our ears.

“Providence, Jane,” Eliza said briskly. “Mrs. Roark has already made rum punch—at my direction—for the enjoyment of the servants on their free day! I had entirely forgot. But they shall not miss a draught, if we beg one for the poor Lieutenant.”

“Surely not,” I agreed, with a spasm of relief. I have never been an apt pupil in the kitchen. “Perhaps we might beg some candles, as well?”

L
ATER, WHEN THE STEAMING
glass had been presented and gratefully received at the door of William Chute’s book room, Eliza fretted a little about her helpless state. “I am persuaded I should ask the Lieutenant to remain here tonight,” she said as she peered out the darkling library window at the unabated snow, “no matter how urgent his dispatches prove. It is unthinkable that anyone should venture again into such weather—and with darkness falling!”

“Surely he may find a bed in the servants’ hall,” Mary sniffed. “Or be sent back to the Angel in Basingstoke. It is not as tho’ you owe him any special consideration, Eliza—he is only a messenger, after all. I wonder that you admitted him to the house! I was reared to leave the Express fellows at the door.”

“He is not an Express,” Eliza said repressively, “but an officer of the Royal Navy. Having several such in your family, Mary, I should have thought—”

“Frank and Charles are Post Captains,” she retorted witheringly. “They are not sailors, whatever you may think.”

“Most assuredly they are,” my mother said tranquilly. “And have been, since the age of fourteen—twelve, in Charles’s case. Do not
make yourself ridiculous, Mary. Our men of the Navy are the most distinguished in England.”

“And we may offer him only a cold supper!” Eliza persisted. “Mrs. Roark will have laid it out in the dining parlour. It hardly seems fair to the poor man—and then there is his bed to be thought of. Fresh linen. With the maids free of work tonight, I shall have to see to changing it myself, if the Lieutenant is to be accommodated.”

“Let him sling his hammock,” Mary said with disdain.

Eliza might have retorted, but a clear, low voice from the library doorway enquired, “What Lieutenant?”

Miss Gambier had returned from tending her aunt.

“We have had a messenger from Ghent,” Eliza said. “Do come in and sit down, Mary—I am on the point of going for Madeira and glasses. Should you like a little? I may be able to discover some macaroons, as well.”

“Ghent?” Miss Gambier looked from Eliza to myself. Her countenance paled. “What of my uncle?”

“He is perfectly well. A matter of business, only, we are assured.”

“The Treaty,” she said faintly. “And the intelligence brought by … a lieutenant, you say. Who is the messenger?”

“A fellow by the name of Gage. My dear girl,” Eliza said sharply as Miss Gambier sank to a chair and placed a hand to her lips, “are you ill?”

“Thank you, no,” she replied breathlessly. “It is just the shock—that news of my uncle should come, through such a storm—”

She turned abruptly as the door to William Chute’s book room swung open; and I thought, at that moment, that all her heart was in her face.

“Miss Gambier,” Lieutenant Gage said, with a gaiety in his voice that had been absent before. He crossed the library and
bowed smartly before her. “I bring letters for both you and her ladyship.”

Did I imagine it—or did Miss Gambier’s lips move in the single word
John
?

“May I wish you,” he said, “a very merry Christmas?”

L
ADY
G
AMBIER
’
S HEALTH WAS
so improved that she appeared in the Saloon before our cold supper, elegantly arrayed in a gown of dark grey with an overlay of black lace. Her composure was absolute, and if she sedulously ignored most of us, her benign smile fell often upon the interesting messenger from Ghent. Lieutenant Gage had pressed the Admiral’s letter into his lady’s hands immediately upon her entrance; but rather than excusing herself to enjoy its communication alone, Lady Gambier merely uttered her favorite phrase—so kind—and tucked the missive into her reticule.