‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’
Her eyes flew open. ‘Gérard!’
‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. ‘Can I not leave you for a day without you getting yourself into trouble?’
‘Imbecile,’ she uttered faintly. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself.’
‘Yes, it’s all my fault,’ he agreed soothingly, ‘and you may rail at me presently as much as you please.’
Melusine began to sag, and felt his strong arms catch her up and lift her bodily into a comforting embrace.
‘But for now, I’m taking you home.’
Melusine’s arm crept up around his neck. ‘Home?’
‘To your family.’
‘Merci,’ she sighed and, surrendering at last to his oft-proffered aid, allowed her head to droop onto his chest. ‘I am done, Gérard. Me, you may have.’
There was a chuckle in his voice. ‘May I, indeed? I’ll take you up on that.’
Chapter Twelve
In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler.
‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion. ‘Not another caller will I receive this day. Deny me, if you please.’
‘Very good, ma’am.’
‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace.
‘Except Captain Roding,’ agreed the old lady, nodding at the butler. ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’
‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. ‘I left a message at home that he should do so as soon as he returned from Kent.’
Saling coughed. ‘Will that be all, ma’am?’
‘Yes, yes. Go away,’ came fretfully from Prudence Sindlesham, and Melusine heaved a sigh as she looked towards the butler, who was making his stately way to the door.
To her consternation, the sound drew her great-aunt’s attention and she threw out a hand. ‘Stay, Saling!’
The butler halted, looking round enquiringly. Melusine glanced towards the elderly dame and found that sharp gaze directed upon her. But her words were not addressed to Melusine.
‘If Major Alderley should happen to call, you may admit him also.’
A hand seemed to grip in Melusine’s chest and she hit out. ‘Pray do not trouble yourself, Saling. The major will not call.’
She turned quickly away that her feelings might not be obvious to Lucy and her great-aunt. She had reason enough to be grateful to Prudence Sindlesham and it was not fair that this horrible feeling of loneliness should be made known to her. Also Lucy, who had been so much her friend. Melusine could not wish either to know how their kindness served only to emphasise the lack in her life ensuing from Gerald’s continued absence.
The events that had initially followed in the wake of her triumph over Emile Gosse had quite confused and dazed her. That day Gerald had brought her to this excessively careful house, where she had felt very much alone and very unlike herself. The arrival of la tante Prudence late next day had changed all this, it is true. For she and this old lady became at once friends. Gerald had himself told her that this Prudence will present her to society as Melusine Charvill. Also he had said—laughing in that way with his eyes which made a flutter in her chest—that Prudence will find an Englishman to marry her.
It would be the culmination of her plan. But why this part of the plan now seemed to her quite unattractive was a question she did not care to examine too closely. She had the dowry she needed for the lawyers were working to give her Remenham House. This was good. She was very satisfied about this. But about the unknown Englishman she was not so satisfied.
She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. The son of Prudence instead was obliged to take her back to the convent on Sunday to see Martha and tell her the good news, and to fetch her meagre belongings. And Gosse had been still there, so Martha said, and not in prison.
To be no longer with Martha was strange. They had cried a little, both. But it was not adieu, so she promised her old nurse. Only au revoir. All her life Martha had been there. Without her, it was lonely. Melusine was loath to admit how much more lonely since Gerald chose not to visit her. He had brought her here to this place—where her freedom was curtailed even more than at the convent so that a cavalier was very much needed—and only on Monday came again. And not on Melusine’s account, but to see Prudence, who had no use for a cavalier.
Although Melusine had taken care to trouble herself about the hand she had cut, and was glad to find it healing very well. But did Gerald trouble himself about her? No. He says only that he must tie up all the loose ends. But days had now passed. How many ends had he?
Well, she must cease to trouble herself for this imbecile, whom it would give her very much pleasure to shoot. And she had not dressed herself in this habit of a blue so much like the sky just for his sake, no matter that Lucy had said how much this colour suited with her eyes. It was a habit she had taken from Remenham House, but could not wear because of the colour which must draw attention. She had thought to wear it now, since she must look more the demoiselle. But of what use to wear it when there was no one of importance to see and admire?
‘For shame, Melusine,’ protested Lucy, as the butler bowed himself out of the room. ‘Poor Gerald has been very busy about your affairs this last week.’
‘This is not a new thing,’ Melusine snapped, goaded. ‘Always he is busy about my affairs. But he does not come to see me since three days, even that these are my affairs and one could think that he would tell it to me if there is news, no?’
‘When he has news to tell he will come, child, trust me,’ the old lady assured her.
Melusine gritted her teeth. ‘It does not matter to me if he comes or no, madame. Soon I shall make my début, that it will be known that I am the real Melusine Charvill, and then I shall not require the services any longer of this imbecile of a Gérard.’
‘It’s already known,’ said Mrs Sindlesham, ‘judging by the number of callers we have had these two days.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Lucilla enthusiastically. ‘The whole town is talking. And I, I am happy to say, am in the delightful position of being in the know. I am sure I never enjoyed so much popularity in my life.’
The dimple that so fascinated Melusine peeped in her great-aunt’s cheek. ‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’
‘I should say so. I have held people spellbound—in confidence, so that we may be sure of its spreading like wildfire—with an account of all Melusine’s activities, and—’
