‘Entertained, he says!’
‘Intrigued, then,’ amended Gerald equably, although truth to tell he was enjoying the mystery enormously. He grasped Lucilla’s elbow. ‘What you can do, Lucy, rather than make enquiries, is introduce me to this comte and comtesse.’
‘By all means,’ agreed Lucy at once, and ignoring the automatic protest that issued from Roding’s lips, she threw a command over her shoulder as she turned to go. ‘Come on, Hilary. You don’t want to miss the sport.’
‘Sport!’ grumbled her betrothed, but he accompanied them across the ballroom all the same.
***
Madame la Comtesse de St Erme regarded the English major with a lacklustre eye, Gerald thought. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. Gerald doubted there would be many eager suitors, even assuming the comtesse was keen to marry off her daughter to a foreign protestant.
According to Lucilla, this comtesse had constituted herself something of a social leader in the rapidly growing assemblage of refugees, and would undoubtedly be ready to introduce an eligible bachelor appropriately.
Mesdames Thierry and Poussaint appeared delighted to meet Gerald, and he was obliged to do the pretty to their daughters too. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. Silken open robes over full tiffany petticoats in a contrasting colour were, Lucy assured him, of the very latest Parisian design, cut by the finest French tailors.
Gerald, whose French was adequate from his military service abroad, was able to respond suitably to such remarks as the ladies addressed to him, but was less exercised by their fashionable dress than their decidedly careworn appearance. Both girls looked pale and listless. There was little fighting spirit here. He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol.
There was a third lady among the younger set. A buxom piece, who looked, Gerald decided, as if she would be more at home in an amorous engagement in a hayloft than sitting demurely in a ballroom. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease.
Briefly, with a careless wave towards the couple, the comtesse presented them as Monsieur and Madame Valade.
‘Who have lately joined us,’ she said, adding sotto voce, ‘A very great tragedy. The entire family massacred. Wiped out, but for these. A lucky escape.’
‘Lucky indeed,’ answered Gerald, glancing at the pair again.
Such stories were increasingly heard in English society. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. The gulf between rich and poor was perhaps greater in France, but by all accounts it was not the canaille who were responsible for the present turmoil. It was the incendiary intellectuals of the bourgeoisie, with their militant ideas of revolution, who had raised the populace to a pitch of violence resulting in cases of wholesale slaughter—such as had overtaken the Valades. Families had seen their lands seized, their chateaux ransacked or burned, and those unlucky enough to have failed to anticipate disaster, had been murdered or dragged away to gaol. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. Also from the capital came news of grave fears for the safety of the royal family, who had moved there from Versailles.
These things were common knowledge among the bon ton, who were generously welcoming these unfortunate escapees. They had not so far been of much personal interest to Gerald, but tonight was different.
He eyed the young couple with the tragic history behind them, and could only suppose that familiarity had dulled their senses. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar. It was a look that accorded very well with the hayloft setting that had come to mind.
Now, however, as Gerald watched them, their heads were together and they were murmuring in French. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him.
‘I was not born to this. I am not comfortable,’ complained Madame Valade.
‘Courage,’ urged her spouse.
‘It is not easy.’
‘It will be worth the pain, you will see. Hist!’ he added, as he turned his head and noticed Alderley’s glance.
Gerald smiled and excused himself with the Poussaint girl, whose mouth pinched together as she threw a dagger glance at the voluptuous Madame Valade. Gerald, intent on his trail, ignored it.
‘I understand you have not been in England very long,’ he said in English, noting that Madame raised her fan and lowered her gaze demurely.
‘But a week and some days,’ answered Valade.
‘It must seem strange to you at first.’
‘Oui, mais—safe. It is safe.’
‘I imagine it must be a relief to you, after so lucky an escape.’ Gerald infused sympathy into his voice, and deliberately addressed himself to Madame. ‘I am sorry to hear of your misfortunes.’
Madame ventured a glance up at his face, and fluttered her lashes. Her English was halting. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. The rest...’ She shrugged fatalistically.
Monsieur Valade heaved a gusty sigh, and Gerald, with heavy diplomacy and a forced heartiness of manner, turned the subject. ‘How do you like England?’
‘People have been very kind,’ Valade said, answering for them both.
‘More, I think,’ put in Madame, soulfully regarding the major, ‘because I have English, a little.’
‘You speak it very well,’ Gerald said encouragingly.
‘Ah, non,’ exclaimed the husband. ‘My wife would say she is English a little.’
‘Oh, she is English?’ repeated Alderley, interest perking up. He was aware of Hilary, in company with Lucilla and the comtesse’s daughter some few yards away, listening in suddenly. ‘How fascinating. Were you born here, madame?’
‘Mais non.’ The lady shook her head, contriving at the same moment to utter a breathy little laugh. ‘C’est à dire, I would say from my father only comes the English.’
‘Oh,’ Gerald uttered, disappointed. ‘Not entirely English then.’
He heard Roding snort, and suppressed a grin as he bowed, taking the trouble to salute Madame’s hand and cast her a provocative look as he did so. He would pursue that little pastime on some other occasion. It might prove rewarding. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments.
In a moment, Roding and Lucilla joined him.
‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey.
‘Well, nothing,’ uttered her betrothed crossly, before Gerald could answer. ‘Playing games to tease me, that’s all he can think of doing.’
