That Scoundrel Émile Dubois Page 3

  Françoise recoiled. When a man said that to a girl, he wanted to talk about one thing only.

  But Grànd-mere never missed anything; she called through the open door, “Be polite to Monsieur Gilles, girl.” She was in a mood to give Francoise a clip on the ear if she disobeyed. Francoise sat down.

  Gilles went on breaking up the bread with long fingers that must have done awful things today. “You are a Southerner like me, are you not?”

  He didn’t look much like a Southerner, with his fair hair and skin, strange green eyes and the band of freckles across his nose that gave him an incongruously innocent look. Still, his accent was unmistakable.

  Grànd-mère came in. “Yes, and I don’t want you to think my girl is like some of these Parisian sluts. She’s a good steady girl.”

  “I know.” Gilles Long Legs took a sip of the wine and then looked at it with dismay, as though for a moment he had expected something better. He chewed some more bread, musing.

  Grànd-mère pounced. “She’d make anybody a fine wife.”

  “Grànd-mère!” Francoise’s face was red with humiliation.

  Gilles Long Legs smiled, unperturbed. “I am sure Francoise wants a steady young man, not a villain like me.”

  Just then they heard a yell from their neighbour. “Only see what the terrible old woman has done to my washing!” There was a clattering noise and Grànd-mère’s eyes glowed as she rushed out, shouting about cheek. Francoise and Gilles were left looking at each other.

  There was another metallic sound. Gilles looked out of the window and smiled at Francoise. “Madame has kindly given us a ladle. It should be useful.”

  As the angry voices tangled together outside, Francoise forced a smile in return. He looked thoughtful again. He went on with his soup, and then stopped. “From your words at the pump, Francoise, I’m wondering: did you leave a sweetheart back home?”

  She coloured. “It’s no good, there’s no money. We had hoped to take a small farm, but…Perhaps after all this time he has found someone else, though it would not be like him.”

  “Hmm.” He swallowed the rest of the wine. “How much money would need you, Francoise, to do so?”

  “Only the moon and the stars, as far as I am concerned.”

  He removed his knives to dig in one of his pockets and more instruments to dig in others. He assembled a number of bills and handed them to her. “Will that do? Will you go and marry your old sweetheart?”

  “I couldn’t take that!” She stared at the fortune longingly.

  “I don’t want anything in return. Put it away and tell not your

  Grànd-mère of it, eh?” Gilles wandered off as if he had almost lost interest in the matter.

  She asked nervously, “But how can I ever repay you?”

  He smiled reassurance. “You need not.”

  Her jaw dropped. Yet his insane generosity was only an exaggeration of that of some of the other ruffians they knew in Paris, who would do some dreadful violence to make money before giving away half of it to somebody to whom they took a liking.

  She had only just put the money away, beginning to stammer her thanks, when the door crashed open.

  Marcel Sly Boots swaggered in, blades in his boots, roaring a song, pausing to pinch hers cheek. Professor Felix came in soon afterwards. They wanted their bread and soup, so she was kept too busy to think for a while.

  Marcel Sly Boots was full of murmured plans for the next day. “We’ve got a good chance to do it good tomorrow. I’ll tell you why. There’s some Southern Monseigneur, one Dubois and his missus going to meet their maker earlier than was arranged. I heard it from a direct source at the gaol. Everyone’ll be watching so we can do it easy.”

  Gilles Long Legs sat down suddenly. His face was a nasty greenish colour, the freckles across the bridge of his nose standing out. He looked ill. Perhaps he was, for like all the others, he drank shockingly, while – apart from the one time – never allowing himself to become helplessly drunk. He began every day with a good swill of wine before going on to chew a bit of bread for breakfast.

  None of the others took much account of his queer turn. They were sometimes taken that way themselves. Marcel Sly Boots surmounted a ferocious hangover every morning; Professor Felix wasn’t strong anyway; he had a chronic cough and the purple shadows under his eyes never went.

  The others were trying to get him to go away to the country, but he put it off. Preserving their health wasn’t something important to Les Messieurs. None of them expected to reach thirty.

  The others went on talking for a while, shouting each other down.

  Gilles Long Legs suddenly jumped up. “I’m going out.”

  Felix looked at him in surprise. “I wouldn’t, mon ami. You don’t look good to me.”

  “I have to go.” He moved quickly towards the door before they could stop him, and was gone.

  They never saw him again.

  The most likely explanation must be Gilles Long Legs had met with some enemies, who threw his weighted body into the Seine some time later that night. Francoise felt sad: he’d given her the money for her escape, and she’d never even thanked him properly. On the third evening, when it became obvious he wouldn’t come back, she burst into tears. “Poor Gilles! I never –” she broke off, for Grànd-mère was in the room.

  Grànd-mère turned on her, cursing. “Never what, girl? I hope you never considered lying down for that young ruffian without a respectable payment first? I don’t want any to have to keep any bastards!”

  In private, Grànd-mère told Francoise the world was one murderous ruffian the less. She wouldn’t have said so in front of Les Messieurs, who might have taken offence and their rent elsewhere.

  The others mourned for him and it came out, of course, as anger. They went round bristling with threats and got in to several more bloody fights than usual. Still, they couldn’t find out what had happened to him.

  Professor Felix was of the opinion – and this suggestion roused the others to paranoid rage – that the blonde girl he’d so taken to at the party was some sort of spy from a rival group who subsequently lured lanky Gilles Long Legs to his death.

  He had last been seen leaving a café down the road in the company of a scoundrel from that group. Handsome, strongly muscled Southern Georges was an appalling fellow who was said to have seduced half the girls in his area. He had vanished likewise. Perhaps they’d killed each other.

  Francoise confided to the others about the gift. She knew they, being honourable ruffians, wouldn’t steal it. She could tell they thought that Gilles Long Legs must have been her lover, though they didn’t say so. They packed her back off to the South before Grànd-mère could get wind of the money.

  Her old sweetheart was still waiting for her and they took a small farm. Francoise couldn’t tell him the truth about how she came by the money. He wasn’t suspicious, but even he would never believe that a man had given it to her for nothing.

  Every week, she lit a candle to say a prayer for poor Gilles Long Legs to shorten his stay in purgatory. Once, he even came back in a dream to tease her about it.

  Chapter Three

  Famau Mountain

  North Wales

  July 1794

  Lord Ynyr sang as he opened the gate to the lane down through the foothills of the Famau Mountain to nearby Llangynhafal. He led Sophie’s horse, while the groom was leading the Count’s magnificent grey.

  On this summer’s morning of loud birdsong and lambs calling, the icy winds that buffeted the mountainside in winter were unimaginable.

  Sophie hadn’t seen the Count so happy since before the older Dubois’ execution. At Plas Uchaf, all the family were in mourning, though as a distant relative Sophie wasn’t expected to wear full mourning herself.

  She smiled at Lord Ynyr now, knowing how people admired her dimples. She was pleased to see him cheerful because she liked him. Besides, naturally she was working at encouraging his liking for her. You never knew where it might lea
d. She smiled so on all eligible bachelors. She didn’t need John’s recent letter to remind her of self interest.

  ‘…I am rejoiced, my Dear Sister, to hear that you are happy with the Illustrious Benefactors amongst whom Harriet and I, in despite of our Natural Affections, felt it wise to place you. I am sure you now comprehend the wisdom of our decision. I am confident that I do not need to advise my Good Girl to endeavour on all occasions to be agreeable to her Noble Relatives, for with a correct approach to Duty, what might not be achieved?...’

  If Sophie felt ashamed of her mixed motives in the bereaved household, she must take into account her own helplessness. Her situation at the Manor might continue as happy until Lord Ynyr married; then – surely – his new wife must resent a Poor Relative being as indulged as Sophie was, especially if Miss Morwenna happened to be that new Countess of Ruthin.

  It was up to Sophie to find herself a husband before that. This mightn’t be easy, with her one hundred pounds a year.

  She tried to make herself delightful company for the young Count. She encouraged him to talk of his interests. These included experiments with herbal draughts and scientific work in the laboratory built by the late Count. These were largely incomprehensible to her. Of course, she always laughed at his jokes, which by contrast were obvious.

  Naturally, she always made sure she looked as pretty as she could in his presence. She batted her eyelashes at him when his mother wasn’t nearby.

  Throughout, she combined encouragement with maidenly bashfulness. It wasn’t easy to balance the two. At twenty-one, she began to see why most unmarried woman over thirty gave up trying to attract a mate. If Sophie herself was still single then (hateful thought!), she supposed would be worn out with the effort.

  “You are in spirits this morning, Sir.”

  “I am indeed, Miss Sophie.” He smiled on her so guilelessly, she felt ashamed of her artfulness. “I received a letter this morning from Mistress de Courcy – from your side of the family, of course – who has been caring for my poor Cousin Charlotte. It gave both good and sad news. The heavy news was expected. Poor Mademoiselle Charlotte is sinking fast…”

  Sophie bit her lip, thinking of the girl she’d met years before at a family gathering so huge that even the déclassé de Courcy’s were invited.

  Mademoiselle Charlotte had been standing with her older brother Monsieur Émile, who lounged in his finery, coaching their cousin Ynyr in walking on his hands along with their younger brother Monsieur Bernard.

  As Sophie approached, Monsieur Bernard ignored her, but the lanky, fair-haired Monsieur Émile turned on her a lazy smile. She was overcome at this honour from a boy years her senior, thinking he looked wonderful in his crimson velvet and silks. Just then their small sister Mademoiselle Marguerite staggered up to hand Monsieur Émile a flattened, hair-encrusted cake which she must have picked up from the floor.

  “Thank you, ma petite, I will enjoy that.” he smiled. Sophie thought him the kindest of older brothers. John would have sent her on her way with a sharp word. When Marguerite was gone, he gave it a look of incredulous disgust. “Who danced on that?” He opened the window and hurled it out with a whistle to accompany its flight.

  This struck Sophie as uniquely funny, and she giggled until she feared she might wet herself. He honoured her with another smile of acknowledgement, and she changed her mind about people with freckles. From then on she drew the heroes of legends, Theseus, Achilles and Robin Hood, too, with just such a band of freckles across the nose.

  Mademoiselle Charlotte took a different view of the boys’ fun. “This is silly,” she told Sophie as Lord Ynyr came towards them upside down. “Let us do something more interesting.” She took Sophie’s hand, leading her up to a great nursery, where there was a magnificent dappled rocking horse. They took turns riding on it until some more children demanded a turn. Sophie had been overwhelmed at all this casual friendliness from the younger members of the great Dubois family.

  Now, Lord Ynyr went on, “But Émile has turned up safe in England!”

  Forgetting her riding terrors, Sophie clapped her hands, nearly losing her seat. He caught her arm. “Excuse me, Miss Sophie.” He had such perfect manners he made it seem as though he were at fault in saving her.

  “Thank you, Sir. So he is alive, after all!” She beamed on him. He was a delightful aristocrat. Still, everyone, even the nose-picking groom, was delightful in the face of such news. Only the Count’s horse snorted cynically, disappointed about being led rather than ridden.

  “Yes, he has written me from Brighthelmstone, where he stays with Mistress de Courcy who has been taking care of poor Charlotte. Her Ladyship and Miss Morwenna are overjoyed, for Émile has ever been a favourite with them. I could scarce read his handwriting in places, but it is scarcely surprising. What he must have been through!”

  “Yes, indeed, Sir.” Sophie sighed.

  I have written reminding him how he must treat this house as his second home and we hope to see him soon. We must do what we can to ease his mind.”

  “Oh, certainly Sir!” Sophie wondered what she could do. She must do something. She could embroider Monsieur Émile a pair of slippers, but that would hardly be much comfort to a man who would lose his last family member. At least he had seen Mademoiselle Charlotte still alive.

  They left invitations for dinner for Dr Powell and the Reverend Smythe-Jones. This done, Sophie wanted to see a young village wife who’d just had a baby. Lord Ynyr insisted on taking her, though he wouldn’t go in as it would be regarded as improper for him to enter so soon after a birth.

  Sophie was concerned for the baby. She had prayed for him every waking hour since she saw him yesterday, a minute bundle pressed against his mother’s breast. He was weak and not feeding properly.

  The woman who met them at the low cottage door had no teeth and with her strong accent Sophie found it hard to follow what she said. Lord Ynyr understood better. “Dead?!”

  “Yes, Your Lordship. She takes it hard.”

  In her sorrow, Sophie spoke before Lord Ynyr, a shocking breach of precedence for a poor relative, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I am so sorry! Please tell me if there is anything I can do!” She pictured the devastated girl above, who had lost the centre of her world.

  Lord Ynyr said, “Yes, do please, let us know if we can do anything. We will not intrude at such a time.”

  To avoid distressing the bereaved girl further, Sophie had to take back again the things she had brought for this first baby: the shawl she had knitted, the gown the Dowager Countess had added proudly to the basket, the blankets, bonnets and so on, leaving only the nourishing foods for the mother. Lord Ynyr meanwhile stayed outside looking stricken, though for him, of course, proprieties were set aside and he was invited in.

  All the way back to the manor, there was a lump in Sophie’s throat, so she could hardly speak. Lord Ynyr seemed equally cast down. The groom wiped his nose solemnly upon his sleeve.

  Back at the manor, Sophie made her quick thanks and curtsy to Lord Ynyr and hurried to her room. She didn’t even notice his look – more intimate in its concern – than any he had yet given her.

  She fumbled at the handle of her bedroom door, tears blurring her vision. Agnes came out from her sewing room down the corridor. “Why, how now, Miss Sophie!”

  The next moment, the girl took her in her arms. Sophie was startled at how comforting it felt. Still, whose hold was more comforting than her nursemaid’s? “Now then, Miss. You are upset about Sian Jones’ baby, I take it? I heard this morning, and a shame it is. Nain always said that these things happen for a reason we are not allowed to know in this world.” She was patting and stroking Sophie as though she were a baby herself.

  “He was so tiny!” Sophie thought her own hiccoughing voice idiotic.

  “I know, Miss, I know. But it will be all right, she will have another healthy one within the year. My cards do say so. Now you will take me for task for speaking of them. Take my handkerchief. You
rs is soaked, isn’t it?”

  Sophie took the handkerchief. In practice, she had already given up rebuking Agnes for her card reading, teasing the girl about her predictions instead. After all, Agnes was now not only her maid, but her tutor in Welsh. Mopping her eyes and nose, Sophie said, “I think I will not take you to task about them today, Agnes.”

  The girl gave her a familiar squeeze. “Now I will make you a cup of tea. That does make everything seem better.”

  “I don’t know what you will think of me, Agnes.”

  “There, there, I will think what I have always thought, that you have a kind heart beneath those hoighty-toighty ways of yours, Miss Sophie.”

  Sophie accepted that she and Agnes must have an oddly democratic relationship for mistress and maidservant; it would be a relief to give up the unequal struggle.

  Brighton

  Georges took at once to Mistress de Courcy, Émile’s distant relative, who had cared for Mademoiselle Charlotte since she came to England. Since Charlottes’ death her eyes were red and swollen, but she made no fuss.

  When she told him how she wanted him to talk to Monsieur Émile about his losses, George’s response was – for him – gracious. “No, Madame. I have no idea what to say. Women know how to talk to people so and comfort them, not men.”

  “I have attempted to speak to him myself, and he does not respond. Do try, Georges.” Rumour had it that the now respectable Madame de Courcy’s past had been outrageous; it was true she had about her a freedom of manner.

  Since Charlotte’s death three days ago – the funeral was tomorrow –Émile had been going each day to sit in the room with the coffin for hours. Georges thought this morbid. Besides, Émile had given up talking beyond monosyllables, which in one fond of the sound of his own voice was alarming. Georges had been hoping Madame de Courcy might do something about it. The thought of such a discussion with another man – even one to whom he was so close – made him, shudder and groan as he went up to the room where Charlotte’s body was laid out.