These Old Shades by Georgette Heyer
Her lessons were soon put to the test. On one occasion he said suddenly:
‘We will suppose, Léonie, that I am the Duchess of Queensberry, and that you have just been presented to me. Show me how you would curtsy.’
‘But you cannot be a duchess, Monseigneur,’ she objected. ‘That is ridiculous. You don’t look like a duchess! Let us pretend you are the Duke of Queensberry.’
‘The Duchess. Show me the curtsy.’
Léonie sank down and down.
‘Like this: low, but not so low as to the Queen. This is a very good curtsy I am doing, n’est-ce pas?’
‘It is to be hoped you would not talk all the time,’ said his Grace. ‘Spread out your skirts, and do not hold your fan like that. Show me again.’
Léonie obeyed meekly.
‘It is very difficult to remember everything,’ she complained. ‘Now let us play at piquet, Monseigneur.’
‘Presently. Curtsy now to – Mr Davenant.’
She swept her skirts right regally, and with head held high extended one small hand. Avon smiled.
‘Hugh is like to be amazed,’ he remarked. ‘It’s very well, ma fille. Curtsy now to me.’
At that she sank down with bent head, and raised his hand to her lips.
‘No, my child.’
She rose.
‘That is the way I do it, Monseigneur. I like it.’
‘It is incorrect. Again, and the proper depth. You curtsied then as to the King. I am but an ordinary mortal, remember.’
Léonie searched in her mind for a fitting retort.
‘Lawks!’ she said vaguely.
His Grace stiffened, but his lips twitched.
‘I – beg – your – pardon?’
‘I said “lawks”,’ said Léonie demurely.
‘I heard you.’ His Grace’s voice was cold.
‘Rachel said it,’ Léonie ventured, peeping up at him. ‘She is Lady Fanny’s maid, you know. You do not like it?’
‘I do not. I should be glad if you would refrain from modelling your conversation on that of Lady Fanny’s maid.’
‘Yes, Monseigneur. Please, what does it mean?’
‘I have not the slightest idea. It is a vulgarity. There are many sins, ma belle, but only one that is unforgivable. That is vulgarity.’
‘I won’t say it again,’ promised Léonie. ‘I will say instead – tiens, what is it? – Tare an’ ouns!’
‘I beg you will do no such thing, ma fille. If you must indulge in forceful expressions confine them to ’pon rep, or merely Lud!’
‘Lud? Yes, that is a pretty one. I like it. I like Lawks best, though. Monseigneur is not angry?’
‘I am never angry,’ said Avon.
At other times he fenced with her, and this she enjoyed most of all. She donned shirt and breeches for the pastime, and displayed no little aptitude for the game. She had a quick eye and a supple waist, and she very soon mastered the rudiments of this manly art. The Duke was one of the first swordsmen of the day, but this in no wise discomposed Léonie. He taught her to fence in the Italian manner, and showed her many subtle passes which he had learned abroad. She experimented with one of them, and since his Grace’s guard, at that moment, was lax, broke through. The button of her foil came to rest below his left shoulder.
‘Touché,’ said Avon. ‘That was rather better, infant.’
Léonie danced in her excitement.
‘Monseigneur, I have killed you! You are dead! You are dead!’
‘You display an unseemly joy,’ he remarked. ‘I had no notion you were so bloodthirsty.’
‘But it was so clever of me!’ she cried. ‘Was it not, Monseigneur?’
‘Not at all,’ he said crushingly. ‘My guard was weak.’
Her mouth dropped.
‘Oh, you let me do it!’
His Grace relented.
‘No, you broke through, ma fille.’
Sometimes he talked to her of personalities of the day, explaining who this was, and who that, and how they were related.
‘There is March,’ he said, ‘who will be Duke of Queensberry. You have heard me speak of him. There is Hamilton, who is famous for his wife. She was one of the Miss Gunnings – beauties, my dear, who set London by the ears not so many years ago. Maria Gunning married Coventry. If you want wit, there is Mr Selwyn, who has quite an inimitable way with him: he would hate to be forgotten. He lives in Arlington Street, child, and wherever you go you may be sure of meeting him. In Bath I believe Nash still reigns. A parvenu, infant, but a man of some genius. Bath is his kingdom. One day I will take you there. Then we have the Cavendish – Devonshire, my dear; and the Seymours, and my Lord Chesterfield, whom you will know by his wit and his dark eyebrows. Whom else? There is my Lord of Bath, and the Bentincks, and his Grace of Newcastle, of some fame. If you want the Arts you have the tedious Johnson: a large man, with a larger head. He is not worth your consideration. He lacks polish. There is Colley Cibber, one of our poets, Mr Sheridan, who writes plays for us, and Mr Garrick, who acts them; and a score of others. In painting we have Sir Joshua Reynolds, who shall paint you, perhaps, and a great many others whose names elude me.’
Léonie nodded.
‘Monseigneur, you must write their names down for me. Then I shall remember.’
‘Bien. We come now to your own country. Of the Blood Royal we have the Prince de Condé, who is now, as I reckon, twenty years of age – à peu près. There is the Comte d’Eu, son of the Duc de Maine, one of the bastards, and the Duc de Penthièvre, son of yet another bastard. Let me see. Of the nobility there is M. de Richelieu, the model of true courtesy, and the Duc de Noailles, famed for the battle of Dettingen, which he lost. Then we have the brothers Lorraine-Brionne, and the Prince d’Armagnac. My memory fails me. Ah yes, there is M. de Belle-Isle, who is the grandson of the great Fouquet. He is an old man now. Tiens, almost I had forgot the estimable Chavignard – Comte de Chavigny, child – a friend of mine. I might go on for ever, but I will not.’
‘And there is Madame de Pompadour, is there not, Monseigneur?’
‘I spoke of the nobility, ma fille,’ said his Grace gently. ‘We do not count the cocotte amongst them. La Pompadour is a beauty of no birth, and wit – a little. My ward will not trouble her head with any such.’
‘No, Monseigneur,’ said Léonie, abashed. ‘Please tell me some more.’
‘You are insatiable. Well, let us essay. D’Anvau you have seen. A little man, with a love of scandal. De Salmy you have also seen. He is tall and indolent, and hath somewhat of a reputation for sword-play. Lavoulère comes of old stock, and doubtless has his virtues even though they have escaped my notice. Machérand has a wife who squints. I need say no more. Château-Mornay will amuse you for half an hour, no longer. Madame de Marguéry’s salons are world-famous. Florimond de Chantourelle is like some insect. Possibly a wasp, since he is always clad in bright colours, and always plagues one.’
‘And M. de Saint-Vire?’
‘My very dear friend Saint-Vire. Of course. One day, infant, I will tell you all about the so dear Comte. But not to-day. I say only this, my child – you will beware of Saint-Vire. It is understood?’
‘Yes, Monseigneur, but why?’
‘That also I will tell you one day,’ said his Grace calmly.
Fourteen
The Appearance on the Scene of Lord Rupert Alastair
When Avon left the country Léonie was at first disconsolate. Madam Field was not an exhilarating companion, as her mind ran on illness and death, and the forward ways of the younger generation. Fortunately the weather became warmer, and Léonie was able to escape from the lady into the park, well-knowing that Madam was not fond of any form of exercise.
When she rode out Léonie was supposed to have a groom in attendance, but she very often dispensed with this formality, and explored the countryside alone, revelling in her freedom.
Some seven miles from Avon Court lay Merivale Place, the estate of my Lord Merivale and his beautifu
It was not many weeks before Léonie rode out in the direction of the Place. The woods that lay about the old white house lured her, and she rode into them, looking round with great interest.
The trees were sprouting new leaves, and here and there early spring flowers peeped up between the blades of grass. Léonie picked her way through the undergrowth, delighting in the wood’s beauty, until she came to where a stream bubbled and sang over the rounded stones on its bed. Beside this stream, on a fallen tree-trunk, a dark lady was seated, with a baby playing on the rug at her feet. A small boy, in a very muddied coat, was fishing hopefully in the stream.
Léonie reined in short, guiltily aware of trespass. The youthful fisherman saw her first, and called to the lady on the tree-trunk.
‘Look, mamma!’
The lady looked in the direction of his pointing finger, and raised her brows in quick surprise.
‘I am very sorry,’ Léonie stammered. ‘The wood was so pretty – I will go.’
The lady rose, and went forward across the strip of grass that separated them.
‘It’s very well, madam. Why should you go?’ Then she saw that the little face beneath the hat’s big brim was that of a child, and she smiled. ‘Will you not dismount, my dear, and bear me company a while?’
The wistful, uncertain look went out of Léonie’s eyes. She dimpled, nodding.
‘S’il vous plaît, madame.’
‘You’re French? Are you staying here?’ inquired the lady.
Léonie kicked her foot free of the stirrup, and slid to the ground.
‘But yes, I am staying at Avon. I am the – bah, I have forgotten the word! – the – the ward of Monseigneur le Duc.’
A shadow crossed the lady’s face. She made a movement as though to stand between Léonie and the children. Léonie’s chin went up.
‘I am not anything else, madame, je vous assure. I am in the charge of Madame Field, the cousin of Monseigneur. It is better that I go, yes?’
‘I crave your pardon, my dear. I beg that you will stay. I am Lady Merivale.’
‘I thought you were,’ confided Léonie. ‘Lady Fanny told me of you.’
‘Fanny?’ Jennifer’s brow cleared. ‘You know her?’
‘I have been with her two weeks, when I came from Paris. Monseigneur thought it would not be convenable for me to be with him until he had found a lady suitable to be my gouvernante, you see.’
Jennifer, in the past, had had experience of his Grace’s ideas of propriety, and thus she did not see at all, but she was too polite to say so. She and Léonie sat down on the tree-trunk while the small boy stared round-eyed.
‘No one likes Monseigneur, I find,’ Léonie remarked. ‘Just a few, perhaps. Lady Fanny, and M. Davenant, and me, of course.’
‘Oh, you like him, then?’ Jennifer looked at her wonderingly.
‘He is so good to me, you understand,’ explained Léonie. ‘That is your little son?’
‘Yes, that is John. Come and make your bow, John.’
John obeyed, and ventured a remark:
‘Your hair is quite short, madam.’
Léonie pulled off her hat.
‘But how pretty!’ exclaimed Jennifer. ‘Why did you cut it?’
Léonie hesitated.
‘Madame, please will you not ask me? I am not allowed to tell people. Lady Fanny said I must not.’
‘I hope ’twas not an illness?’ said Jennifer, with an anxious eye to her children.
‘Oh no!’ Léonie assured her. Again she hesitated. ‘Monseigneur did not say I was not to tell. It was only Lady Fanny, and she is not always very wise, do you think? And I do not suppose that she would want me not to tell you, for you were at the convent with her, n’est-ce pas ? I have only just begun to be a girl, you see, madame.’
Jennifer was startled.
‘I beg your pardon, my dear?’
‘Since I was twelve I have always been a boy. Then Monseigneur found me, and I was his page. And – and then he discovered that I was not a boy at all, and he made me his daughter. I did not like it at first, and these petticoats still bother me, but in some ways it is very pleasant. I have so many things all my own, and I am a lady now.’
Jennifer’s eyes grew soft. She patted Léonie’s hand.
‘You quaint child! For how long do you think to stay at Avon?’
‘I do not quite know, madame. It is as Monseigneur wills. And I have to learn so many things. Lady Fanny is to present me, I think. It is nice of her, is it not?’
‘Prodigious amiable,’ Jennifer agreed. ‘Tell me your name, my dear.’
‘I am Léonie de Bonnard, madame.’
‘And your parents made the – the Duke your guardian?’
‘N-no. They have been dead for many years, you see. Monseigneur did it all himself.’ Léonie glanced down at the babe. ‘Is this also your son, madame?’
‘Yes, child, this is Geoffrey Molyneux Merivale. Is he not beautiful?’
‘Very,’ said Léonie politely. ‘I do not know babies very well.’ She rose, and picked up her plumed hat. ‘I must go back, madame. Madame Field will have become agitated.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘She is very like a hen, you know.’
Jennifer laughed.
‘But you’ll come again? Come to the house one day, and I will present my husband.’
‘Yes, if you please, madame. I should like to come. Au revoir, Jean; au revoir, bébé! ’
The baby gurgled, and waved an aimless hand. Léonie hoisted herself into the saddle.
‘One does not know what to say to a baby,’ she remarked. ‘He is very nice, of course,’ she added. She bowed, hat in hand, and turning, made her way back along the path down which she had come, to the road.
Jennifer picked up the baby, and calling to John to follow, went through the wood and across the gardens to the house. She relinquished the children to their nurse, and went in search of her husband.
She found him in the library, turning over his accounts, a big, loose-limbed man, with humorous grey eyes, and a firm-lipped mouth. He held out his hand.
‘Faith, Jenny, you grow more lovely each time I look upon you,’ he said.
She laughed, and went to sit on the arm of his chair.
‘Fanny thinks us unfashionable, Anthony.’
‘Oh, Fanny – ! She’s fond enough of Marling at heart.’
‘Very fond of him, Anthony, but she is modish withal, and likes other men to whisper pretty things in her ear. I fear that I shall never have the taste for town ways.’
‘My love, if I find “other men” whispering in your ear –’
‘My lord!’
‘My lady?’
‘You are monstrous ungallant, sir! As if they – as if I would!’
His hold about her tightened.
‘You might be the rage of town, Jenny, an you would.’
‘Oh, is that your will, my lord?’ she teased. ‘Now I know that you are disappointed in your wife. I thank you, sir!’ She slipped from him, and swept a mock curtsy.
My lord jumped up and caught her.
‘Rogue, I am the happiest man on earth.’
‘My felicitations, sir. Anthony, you have had no word from Edward, have you?’
‘From Edward? Nay, why should I?’
‘I met a girl to-day in the woods who has stayed with the Marlings. I wondered whether he had written to tell you.’
‘A girl? Here? Who was she?’
‘You’ll be surprised, my lord. She is a very babe, and – and she says she is the Duke’s ward.’
‘Alastair?’ Merivale’s brow wrinkled. ‘What new
‘I could not ask, of course. But is it not strange that – that man – should adopt her?’
‘Perchance he is a reformed character, my love.’
She shivered.
‘He could never be that. I feel so sorry for this child – in his power. I asked her to come and see me one day. Was it right of me?’
He frowned.
‘I’ll have no dealings with Alastair, Jenny. I am not like to forget that his Grace saw fit to abduct my wife.’
‘I wasn’t your wife then,’ she protested. ‘And – and this child – this Léonie – is not like that at all. I should be so pleased if you would let her come.’
He made her a magnificent leg.
‘My lady, you are mistress in your own house,’ he said.
So it was that when next Léonie rode over to Merivale she was received gladly both by Jennifer and her lord. She was rather shy at first, but her nervousness fled before Merivale’s smile. Over a dish of Bohea she made gay conversation, and presently turned to her host.
‘I wanted to meet you, milor’,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I have heard much – oh, much – about you!’
Merivale sat bolt upright.
‘Who in the world – ?’ he began uneasily.
‘Lady Fanny, and Monseigneur, a little. Tell me, m’sieur, did you really stop Lord Harding’s coach – ?’
‘For a wager, child, for a wager!’
She laughed.
‘Aha, I knew! And he was very angry, was he not? And it had to be kept secret, because in – in dip-lo-mat-ic circles it –’
‘For heaven’s sake, child!’
‘And now you are called The Highwayman!’
‘No, no, only to my intimates!’