Authors: Mary Nichols
`I don't think
I shall.' But she was not referring to her illness.
`Now, don't be
silly, miss. It is nothing but a catch-cold. You are a little feverish to be
sure, but it is not serious. Now drink this, it will make you feel better.'
Anne helped her to sit up and drink the bitter liquid.
She pulled a
face at the taste. 'I do not want to be better if it means I have to start
thinking about my wedding.'
Anne sat down
on the edge of the bed and looked searchingly into Juliette's face. It was
clear that it was not only the cold which had made her eyes red and swollen,
but a paroxysm of weeping. 'Child, whatever is the matter? Surely you want to
marry Mr Martindale?'
'No, I do not.
Oh, Anne, I am so m...miserable.' And she flung herself into the maid's arms
and sobbed.
`Hush, my dear,
hush.' Anne held the girl in her plump arms, stroking her hair and murmuring to
her. When Juliette had become calmer and only the occasional sniff betrayed her
distress, Anne went on. 'Why did you agree to marry him? You could have
refused. Your papa would have understood.'
'Papa would,
but not Mama. She says it is my duty to marry Mr Martindale. He is the heir and
she says Hartlea and its fortune should be kept together. It will mean that
Mama can live with us at Hartlea after...'
If Anne had
been a cursing woman, she would have had some choice words to say about Lady
Martindale, but she remained silent on the subject. It was not for her to
criticise her employer. 'But you would like to be mistress of Hartlea one day,
would you not?'
'Yes, but...
Oh, Anne I do not love him. He... he frightens me a little.'
'Frightens you!
Now you are being fanciful. Why, he is nothing but an overgrown schoolboy. You
will have him eating out of your hand in no time at all, you will see.'
'Do you think
so? Do you really think so?'
'Of course. But
it won't hurt him to wait a little. I shall tell him, and your mama too, that
you are not at all well and it would be much better if you were to return to
Hartlea to recuperate.'
'Can you do
that? Oh, Anne, if only I could go home.' She had brightened a little but then
became sombre again. 'Mama will not be deceived. She will send for a
physician.'
In the event it
was easier than they had expected. The physician, prompted by a private word
from Anne, declared that country air might be more beneficial to the patient,
and before her mother could argue, Lord Martindale announced that he had
business to look after in Peterborough.
`The Season is
all but over,' he said. 'Juliette is betrothed, which was the whole reason for
coming, so we may as well all go home to Hartlea.'
Juliette's happiness
was marred only by the fact that Mr Devonshire had disappeared again and her
mama had invited James to come and stay for a few weeks. He was due to arrive
two weeks after they returned. She began to look on it as her last two weeks of
freedom.
They arrived back in Hartlea to find the harvest in full
swing. Men were out with scythes cutting the corn under a cloudless sky, their
movements fluid and rhythmic. The women were there too, their heads protected
by floppy cotton bonnets, gathering up the golden sheaves, tying them and
standing them upright in stooks. Barefoot children ran around chasing the
rabbits who ran before the glinting blades. Laden carts made their way slowly
along the narrow lanes to the barns where the corn would be threshed during the
winter months, catching their overhanging loads on the hedges as they passed,
so that wisps of the cereal clung to them, like tiny fluttering banners.
Juliette began
to feel better immediately and a week later was pestering her mama to allow her
to go out. She wanted to ride, to clear her lungs with a good gallop.
Permission being given, she put breeches on under her riding skirt and hurried
to the stables. Diablo seemed pleased to see her. He snickered and rubbed his
head against her shoulder while one of the stablelads saddled him. That done,
the boy held out his hand for Juliette's boot-clad foot and threw her up. She
settled herself astride in the saddle and set off across the home park.
As soon as they
reached the open meadow, Juliette put the horse to the gallop and away they
went, thundering over the turf. It was gloriously exhilarating, especially as
her papa did not insist on her being accompanied while she was on home ground;
there was no Thomas plodding behind and she could please herself where she
went.
She rode all
round the estate, stopping now and again to watch the harvest workers and
exchange pleasantries. She had known most of them all her life and they
rewarded her with a cheerful smile and a wave. Later, when all was gathered in,
she would attend the early part of the harvest supper in the barn of the home
farm to celebrate the successful bringing in of the harvest. It was a tradition
in his lordship's family. Viscount Martindale was a good landlord and employer
and popular among his people. Juliette sincerely hoped that James would
continue in the same way when his turn came. She could not bear it if he
spoiled it all.
Thinking of
James made her feel miserable again, but the day was too splendid to allow
thoughts of the wedding to ruin it. And besides, she told herself firmly, being
married to James might not be so bad. Many young ladies had far worse to
contend with. Some were married off by their parents to old men simply for a
title or a fortune, while some found themselves mistresses of crumbling old
mansions with everything threadbare. Others became step-mamas to motherless
children and even more were expected to be nothing more than breeding machines.
If you were a woman, you did as you were told and that was that. If she could stay
at Hartlea, then she could learn to live harmoniously with James. In spite of
his insensitivity and his unbounded conceit, he was not an ogre.
She pulled up
on the far side of the estate where a group of prisoners of war was helping
with the harvest. The number of prisoners had risen since Wellington had
completely routed the French at Vittoria in June, and forced Napoleon's
brother, Joseph, to flee from Spain into France. She watched them, remembering
Pierre. What had happened to him? Surely he had not been punished for painting
that portrait? She had intended to find out why her mother had reacted so
violently to it, but she had been too preoccupied to do anything about it. Now
she was back, perhaps she could. The first thing to do would be to find Lieutenant
Veillard.
She rode
forward, pausing at the edge of the field. One of the prisoners, who had been
gathering up the stooks ready to load onto a cart, looked up when her shadow
fell across him.
`Good day,' she
called.
`Bonjour,
mam'selle.'
She dismounted
and walked her horse forward. 'Do you know Lieutenant Veillard?'
`Pierre
Veillard? Oui, mamselle. 'E 'as been 'elping with the 'arvest at the farm of
Monsieur Golightly.'
She thanked him
and rode on. So Pierre was working on Anne's father's farm on the other side of
the estate. It was too late to go there today, but tomorrow she would set off
in that direction. She could pretend she had come to see Mrs Golightly and then
contrive to waylay the French lieutenant. She turned for home.
The ride had
brought the colour back to her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes and the
prospect of a little adventure, to take her mind off a bridegroom-to-be for
whom she had no affinity, and another man whose handsome features and soft
voice were forever etched on her brain and heart, served to enliven her so that
her mama commented that the country air had indeed effected a cure and she was
pleased to see she had thrown off her Friday face.
`Oh, it is so
good to be home,' Juliette said, to which her mama responded by saying, 'Quite',
a single word that spoke volumes. Juliette understood it to mean her mother was
thankful she did not have to repeat her arguments in favour of James, that she
was glad Juliette had understood at last and she hoped there would be no more
dissension.
Because the ride had so obviously been beneficial, neither
of her parents raised any objection to it being repeated and the next afternoon
found Juliette trotting towards the Golightly farm, her hands not quite steady
on the reins and her heart pounding.
She rode along
the lane that bordered the harvest field, glancing over the hedge as she did
so, pretending not to be searching out a particular figure. There were several
prisoners working alongside the local men; their mutilated uniforms were easy
to pick out from the smocks of the locals and the fact that they, being
soldiers, did not have the same grace of movement when swinging a scythe. She
spotted him as he straightened up to wipe his brow with the back of his
forearm. He saw her and strolled over to speak to her from the other side of
the hedge.
`Mam'selle
Martindale. You are well?'
`Yes, yes, I am
well. How are you?'
`Well enough
for a prisoner, many miles from his 'omeland and made to work like a peasant.'
`I am sorry
about that, indeed, I am.'
`It is not your
fault.' He waited, knowing she had not come simply to pass the time. She
remained silent, unable to frame the words to ask her question. Her horse moved
restlessly and she dismounted and led it towards a gap in the hedge. Pierre
slipped through it into the lane and came towards her. 'Mam'selle, is there
something I can do for you?'
She had almost
forgotten what he looked like. He was young, his features beautiful rather than
handsome, a colt rather than a stallion, a comparison that reminded her
forcefully of Philip Devonshire. Now, there was a stallion; dark, powerful and
independent. She really must try to put him from her mind, but oh, how very
difficult it was!
`I have been
away,' she began.
`I know. It was
because of that portrait, yes? I am sorry it displeased your maman.'
`But why did
you paint me like that? It is so alien to me.'
`Au contraire,
ma chèrie, it is exactly like you. In another life, you must have been une
française.'
She gave an
embarrassed little laugh. 'I am more concerned with this life and why the
portrait upset Mama so much. Do you know why?'
`No, mam'selle,
I do not. Your parents wished to know why I painted you with all the jewels.
They asked where I 'ad seen them before.'
`The jewels?
Not me or my gown?'
`No, ma chèrie,
the jewels. 'Ave you never seen jewels like that, Juliette?' He pronounced her
Christian name in the French way.
`Indeed, no.
Where had you seen them before?'
`I do not know.
They are so unusual that I think I must 'ave seen them and not imagined them,
but where...' He shrugged. 'It must lave been long ago in France.'
`I do not think
Mama has ever been to France,' she said thoughtfully. 'Perhaps Papa has. Oh, I
wish you could remember where you saw them! I do so hate mysteries, especially
ones that make people unhappy. And Mama is very unhappy.'
`I will try to
remember, but I 'ave not the portrait. It is difficile to recall exactement...'
`I believe it
has been put up in the attic. Mama said she never wanted to see it again.'
`Such a waste!
It is the best I 'ave ever done. I was aided by a most beautiful subject.' He
looked earnestly at her. 'If I 'ad it to look at, I could perhaps remember...'
`Then I shall
bring it to you.'
`Do not bring
it 'ere. I will meet you. In the little house in your garden.'
`The
summerhouse where we...' She stopped, blushing at the remembrance of a kiss
that had meant so little. It had not repelled her as James's betrothal kiss had
done, when he had forced his tongue into her mouth and bruised her lips, nor
turned her limbs to a quiver of longing, which was what had happened when
Philip Devonshire had kissed her. Pierre's inexpert embrace had left her
unmoved and yet it had been the beginning of her troubles. He had asked to
paint her. If he had not done that, there would have been no portrait, no
mystery, no journey to London, no betrothal to a man she could not even begin
to like, and no meeting with Philip Devonshire. If she had never met him, she
would not now be longing for him with every fibre of mind and body. `If Papa or
Mama were to see you, there would be a dreadful fuss.'
`Come at night,
when everyone is asleep.'
`Do you not
have to go back to camp at night?'
`Oh, it is easy
to slip out. The guards are not very efficient.'
`When?' Already
the prospect of doing something positive was making her eyes bright. Not for a
moment did she consider she was playing with fire.
`Tomorrow.' He
laughed, holding his cupped hands to help her mount. 'At midnight.'
`Very well.'
She pulled the horse round and rode off down the lane, remembering to call on
Mrs Golightly and enquire about her rheumatics before returning home.
She smiled to herself as she scrambled out of bed a little
after eleven-thirty and dressed by the light of the moon coming through her
window. She would not risk taking another chill and made sure she was warmly
clad. Then, throwing her burnous over her shoulders, she crept along the
corridor to the narrow stairs that led to the attics, found the painting
standing with its face to the wall, picked it up and crept noiselessly down to
the first floor again.