‘It is the life I know.’
‘But you must want more. You should have more.’
‘I am going to England,’ Melusine stated flatly, ‘because there is no safety at the convent at Blaye. And for that I am connected with the Valades, after what you have told us has happened to them, the Mother Abbess will not consent that I remain in France. Voilà tout.’
The Mother Abbess—and indeed all the nuns, some of higher birth more fearful than others—were aghast at the horrors that had befallen the family Valade. Gosse had come to Blaye, so he had said, feeling it his duty as the vicomte’s erstwhile secretary to deliver the fateful tidings, bringing with him one of the servant girls, Yolande, who had also escaped the fury of the mob. Her evident terror and distress reinforced the tale he told.
He had drawn a horrid picture of the fate that awaited mademoiselle when once the populace discovered her relationship to the Valade family. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. He had offered to escort the young lady to England where she might seek refuge with her relations there, and proposed that the maid Yolande might serve Miss Charvill.
The Mother Abbess, while thankful, could not be brought to consent to allow the girl out of her charge alone with unknown servants, and Martha was delegated to accompany her erstwhile nurseling to the homeland she had thought never to see again.
‘You do not want to be a nun,’ he said now, and Melusine noted with a prick at her senses the irritation in his tone.
She had not felt comfortable in his presence from the first, and with Leonardo’s precepts in mind, was loath to trust him. She did not therefore reveal to him that he had guaged her with accuracy. She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times.
‘It is what my father intended. I must obey.’
To her astonishment, Gosse’s servile attitude vanished abruptly. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected.
‘You wish a life of obedience? So be it, Mademoiselle Charvill.’
Melusine’s instant annoyance must have shown in her face.
‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped. ‘I may have been only a secretary, but times are changing. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. There is no future for me here. I wish to rise in the world, mademoiselle, and you are going to help me.’
Amazed, Melusine stared at him. Caution forced her to speak calmly.
‘I fear you mistake, Emile. I have said that I am but a nun now.’
‘You need not be a nun,’ he said, leaning towards her. ‘You have the means to take up your rightful place.’
Melusine’s eyes narrowed and she drew back. He could not know about the Remenham connection, could he? No one knew but her father and Martha.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so.’
Melusine frowned, placing her hand on the letter lying on the table. Then she cursed herself for his eyes went to the letter and came back to her face.
‘And so?’ she asked.
‘And so also have I.’ He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and brought out a packet of papers. Out of these he selected a faded parchment and restored the rest to safety. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face. ‘This, as you see, is an identity for your cousin, André Valade. I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish. His heir is dead, yes, and his name and title available to me. But it would be too risky. The vicomte must be well known to those high-born who have gone to England. Besides, I do not want a price on my head.’
Melusine was beginning to fill with dread and a burgeoning of anger as the meaning behind his words began to penetrate. But she veiled her feelings.
‘I do not understand you.’
‘Listen. I can be a gentleman. I have been around them for long enough. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte.’
Melusine remembered a thin man of sour aspect, living—like her father and his wife Suzanne—off the vicomte’s bounty. He must be more or less of an age with this man. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it.
‘You will take the place of André?’
‘Exactly so. And you, Mademoiselle Melusine, will support this claim.’
‘From a convent? Even if I wished to do it, I could not.’
Emile reached out both hands and grasped her shoulders. ‘But you will not be in a convent. You will be with me. You will be—my wife.’
For a moment Melusine stared at him as she took in the full horror of his scheme. Then fury claimed her and she could no longer pretend. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair.
‘Your wife?’
‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. ‘Is it such a terrible prospect? I will take care of you—as long as you obey me. I will make your grandfather extend to you his protection, and his support.’
‘It is money you mean, no?’ Melusine asked with scorn. ‘You are mad, if you think he will give you a sou. You do not know him. And you think I would marry you?’
‘Why not? I am unworthy, eh? Because I am a servant.’
‘Because you are a pig!’ retorted Melusine hotly.
‘Nevertheless, you will marry me,’ he snarled. ‘I have the means to compel you.’
‘Compel me? You do not know me, monsieur.’
‘And you do not know me. Do not underestimate my power. I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember.’
Shock suspended Melusine’s breath and she gasped. ‘You have rifled his papers.’
