A Desperate Fortune (19 page)

I’d been told in no uncertain terms why I couldn’t have lasting relationships, and though the words had been hurtful they had at least kept me from being hurt further by letting me take a more practical view of the way I approached men, and what I expected.

So it was enough that Luc liked me, I reasoned, and that I liked him. And whatever developed between us while I was here working would be a nice memory to take with me when I went home.

Still, I couldn’t help feeling a small pang of wistfulness, as though I’d seen something in a shop window I wanted but couldn’t afford. And for once I was glad that my Asperger’s made my reactions mixed up sometimes, making me laugh in a sad situation—because when I straightened my side of the duvet and looked at Denise, all she saw was my smile.

I love thee not, thou gloomy man. —Hard is thy heart of rock, and dark thy terrible brow.

—Macpherson, “Fingal,” Book One

Fontainebleau

February 15, 1732

She felt, not for the first time, very glad she had developed the ability to hide her inner feelings. When the Scotsman fixed his gaze upon her with that disconcertingly detached expression that might have been carved of stone, she parried with her brightest smile. He did not move a muscle of his face, but briefly dropped his gaze to Frisque, who from a comfortable position curled on Mary’s lap looked back at him as well, ears pricked and waiting.

Had she kept the corner seat she’d started with, she would have been across from Mr. Thomson, who was certainly more amiable to look at and converse with; but Madame Roy had suffered from the movement of the diligence, and when they’d stopped for dinner at midday Mary had changed seats with the older woman, giving her the corner place where she at least could lean her head against the seat back for relief. So Mary, for the hours since, had faced Mr. MacPherson.

They were not the only passengers. A frilly-looking woman and her two grown daughters, nearly Mary’s age, were also going to Lyon. They’d come aboard at Villejuif, and having taken one look at the Scotsman planted squarely at the center of the one seat, the protective mother had assigned her daughters to the other, next to Madame Roy and Mary, and for her own part had sat pressed as much as possible into the farther corner.

Mr. MacPherson, Mary thought, had that effect on people. Even with his leather case and swords stowed safely in the net provided for that purpose, and dressed in clothes that were both well made and respectable, he still looked fierce. It did not help that he was plain of face, his features made more unattractive by the hardness of their angles and the absence of emotion in his eyes. In looking at him for the past few hours she’d come to realize that his gaze seemed more intense because his eyelashes were fair. His hair was fair as well. He wore no wig, and from the hair that was not covered by his hat at sides and back she judged it to be only slightly less fair than her brother’s, gathered firmly in a queue tied with a plain black band at his collar, disregarding fashion for the sake of practicality.

She felt Frisque’s tail begin to thump against her lap and smiled to think the little dog was wagging at the Scotsman, not the slightest bit afraid of him and fully primed for play. Another man, she thought, might have reached out to pet the dog, or smiled at least. Mr. MacPherson only turned his stony gaze towards the window.

There was little there to see. The sun had set and it was nearly fully dark outside. They were arriving, so the driver had announced, at Fontainebleau, where they’d be stopping for the night. Two days ago, Mary would have thrilled at the romance of visiting Fontainebleau—an ancient village set deep in the forest that, just like the forest at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, was home to the French royal hunting grounds; where every autumn the King of France brought his bright court to a palace so beautiful it might have graced any fairy tale Mary could dream of, with gardens and fountains and statues that seemed, it was said, to draw breath. But it wasn’t two days ago. Now, Mary found she could summon no interest in Fontainebleau.

Having only slept fitfully for a few hours last night on a hard sofa while she'd awaited the signal to leave, she was sure any gladness she felt in the prospect of stopping was only because she craved rest, and because it would give some relief to Madame Roy, who’d passed the afternoon in stoic silence, uncomplaining but uncomfortable, her pallor and closed eyes the only evidence she felt unwell. Mary herself would be grateful to stop being jolted around for a while. She’d developed an ache in her neck and her back felt as stiff as her stays and her hair was beginning to fall from its pins so she had to keep raising a hand to repair it.

She was weary as well from the effort of keeping up bright conversation. With Madame Roy feeling poorly and Mr. MacPherson refusing to try to be sociable, it had been left up to Mary and Thomson to talk to the three women sharing the diligence with them. And after dinner, when Thomson had nodded off and stayed that way for an hour or more following, Mary had been left alone to converse as politeness demanded. The mother in particular was much inclined to gossip. Having chattered for some time about her daughters and their various accomplishments, she’d turned to asking questions about Mary and her “brother”—for despite another change of surname forced by the new papers of identity they carried, they’d maintained that false relationship and were now Mademoiselle and Monsieur Robillard. Mary, with all her experience making up stories to entertain, had put that skill to good use by inventing a fictional family with numerous cousins, connections, and lively, amusing adventures by which she diverted the woman’s more personal questions and rendered them harmless.

Asked why they were going to Lyon, she’d answered in vague terms that led into tales of a cousin who’d traveled much farther than that, into Muscovy, and of the wonders he’d seen. And when asked where they’d stayed while in Paris, she’d taken a morsel of fact and embellished it freely. “Our friend, the Chevalier de Vilbray,” she’d said, making use of the dashing young nobleman who had so captured the eye of her cousin Colette this past winter, “has a beautiful home there. Do you by chance know the chevalier?”

The woman had said in reply, much impressed, “I regret I do not.”

“He is handsome,” so Mary had told her, omitting the fact that his breath was unpleasant. “And kind. When he heard we were coming to Paris, and he being yet in the country, he wrote to his servants to place his entire house at our disposal.”

The woman and both of her daughters had thought that was gallant indeed, and the younger of the daughters had asked, “And where is his house, pray?”

The question had not given Mary much pause, for she’d quickly remembered the street in which one of the great literary salons had been held, and she’d named it and added, “It’s quite near the Palais-Royal.” Which had served to impress them still more, and they’d begged for more details about the chevalier.

She’d spun them a few stories, using the princes and heroes that she had created in all the tales she’d told Colette for the framework of her re-imagined Chevalier de Vilbray, so that in the end he’d resembled the true man in nothing but name and the cut of his wig, having gained much in charm and intelligence.

Thomson had stirred in his corner and woken and caught the tail end of one fanciful story. He’d asked, rather sleepily, “Who is this, now?”

“The Chevalier de Vilbray.” She’d hoped that her eyes would be warning enough, for she could not have said any more. “I was saying how grateful we were that he’d loaned us his house for our sojourn in Paris.”

“Ah, yes.” Thomson had rubbed his eyes with one hand, catching on to the game. “He is quite a remarkable man, the chevalier.”

The three women traveling with them had been in agreement, the mother remarking to Mary, “I wonder, my dear, that you aren’t half in love with him.”

Frisque, at that moment, had nuzzled her fingers and Mary had glanced down, a movement that must to the others have looked demure.

Thomson had teased, “I believe you’ve struck close to the mark with that arrow, madam.”

And the others, except for Madame Roy and Mr. MacPherson, had laughed.

Mary found herself wondering now whether Mr. MacPherson had ever laughed, even in childhood. She couldn’t imagine it. Nothing about his hard line of a mouth seemed prepared to allow it, not even the edge that appeared to twist upwards a fraction, because it was balanced by the grimly downward slant of the opposite end. Mary couldn’t imagine him being a boy. Or a baby. It seemed quite impossible.

But in this instance she had to concede that he might not have laughed for the reason he’d missed the remark altogether, because they were speaking in French. It had gradually started to dawn on her that he did not know the language, for since she had been in his company she had not once heard him speak it himself, and when they had been joined by the other three women he’d seemed to withdraw even further from all interaction. Nor was he traveling under a French name. While their new identity papers made Thomson and Mary the Robillards, and Madame Roy was continuing as Madame Roy, it was telling, thought Mary, that Mr. MacPherson was now styled a Spaniard, assuming the name of Montero.

She wasn’t sure “señor Montero” could truly speak Spanish, or anything other than English, but she was increasingly certain he couldn’t speak French.

She was trying to think how to test her suspicion when finally the diligence rolled to a halt, and the driver dismounted and came round to open the door, and from that moment Mary was only concerned with assisting Madame Roy down the step into the yard of the coaching inn, where the fresh air could begin to revive her. The yard was alive with activity, light spilling warmly in slabs from the doorways and unshuttered windows above as the innkeeper and his staff came bustling out to receive them. A handful of boys set to work to unharness the eight weary horses, rewarded by whinnies and snorts and the tossing of reins as the animals, freed from the traces that galled them, were led to the stables. The driver, who must have been nearly as weary from riding postilion the whole way from Paris, was helped by two men as he started unloading the baggage and parcels.

Mr. MacPherson was there as well, taking his swords and the long leather case from the netting up top before anyone offered them, and moving over to take up the two portmanteaus and Thomson’s deal-box. He made them all look rather weak and superfluous, Mary decided, although she
was
being of use to Madame Roy, who leaned on her heavily as they were shown up the stairs to their room.

It relieved her to see they’d been put in a room of their own, for she’d been half afraid they’d be forced to share space with the chattering mother and daughters—or worse yet, with Thomson and Mr. MacPherson—for this was the first time she’d stayed at an inn and she had little notion of what to expect, beyond what she had read in her various stories.

The room they’d been given was comfortably sized, with a bed and a little round table and two rush-backed chairs, and a fireplace that, while not large, sent enough warmth from its little fire into the room to push back the cold evening air seeping in round the tall frames of the frost-speckled windows.

Madame Roy sat gratefully onto the bed. “Thank you, my dear, for your help. I can manage a post chaise, but I fear the motion of anything larger has never agreed with me. No, no, you’ve no need to fuss over me. I’ll be fine again once I’ve had sleep.”

“But you’ll miss supper.”

“I’ve no appetite for supper. If you send a maid up with some broth and bread, that will be more than ample. Leave the dog here, if you like,” she added. “I’ll share my meal with him and we can keep each other company.”

Frisque seemed content with that arrangement, snuggling deep into the blankets of the bed while Mary, with assistance from the looking glass above the mantel, made what small repairs she could to her appearance and went down to sup.

She found the other women there before her, sitting waiting in the little parlor open to the dining room. The fireplace here was decorated finely with a mantel of mahogany and topped with polished candlesticks that, with the others set in sconces round the room, created quite a brightness.

“Mademoiselle,” the elder of the daughters, who was close to Mary’s age, enticed her over to their table, holding up a pack of cards. “Do come and play piquet while we are waiting. Both my sister and my mother have refused me.”

Mary liked to play piquet. It was her favorite game, in fact—fast-paced and often favoring the player who possessed the better memory. But after such a long day’s journey, following so closely on the drama of the day before, and having had but little sleep since they’d been forced to flee their lodgings in the rue du Coeur Volant, she would have much preferred to sit in peace until the landlord called them to their meal. Her hesitation must have shown enough that Mr. Thomson, entering the room behind her, sought to save her by remarking in apologetic tones, “My sister only rarely plays at cards.”

It was not Mr. Thomson, though, who drew her eye. It was the tall man walking in his shadow, and aware of his unwavering regard that seemed dismissive of all cowardice, she strove again to cloak herself in courage that was not her own. She crossed the room as bidden, took her seat, arranged her skirts, and squared her shoulders all at once, in imitation of the graceful Mistress Jamieson.

She said, “I make exceptions in good company.” And showed a most deliberate smile to the young woman opposite, who in delight held out the pack of cards so they could draw to see who would be first to deal.

If not entirely good company, it was at least diverting. Both the daughters and their mother kept a constant conversation going, moving from one topic to another with the flightiness of butterflies, and yet they were too friendly in their speech to be annoying. Thomson settled in an elbow chair beside the fire and set to charm the women by appearing to be interested in anything they told him, while the Scotsman, having neither the ability nor will to charm, apparently preferred to stand. He stayed close to the doorway that stood open to the dining room, his shoulder to the door frame in an attitude of ease. It was, so Mary reasoned, only logical that after being forced to sit so long in close confinement in the diligence, a man so tall should wish to give his limbs relief by standing, but she wished he might have found a place to do it that did not put him directly at her back. She had to fight the fleeting chills that brushed the bent back of her neck when she was looking at her cards.

There was a strategy to piquet that appealed to her and helped her keep her focus. There were cards to be discarded and exchanged, and calculations to be made from what the other player first declared in terms of what they held—how many cards of the same suit, or the same rank—that let her guess at what they had been dealt, and so make choices of her own in play that gave her the best chance to win the tricks.