Christina Hollis (3 page)

Only a few hours before, Madeleine had been rampaging through the streets with the best of them. Now look at her! All dressed up and smelling like an aristo, just to go to bed.

Madeleine grinned to herself. Oh, she’d make sure she had some fine fun with these English before they grew wise to her tricks.

A soft tapping at the door made her jump. She hadn’t heard anything like the heavy footsteps of the maid returning.

‘Who is it?’

There was a pause, then the sound of Philip Adamson clearing his throat. Oh, no! He must have managed to give his mother the slip! Madeleine thought. This was it. She flew to the door and twisted its great key in the lock. That would hold him off. She braced herself against the door, ready for every assault on her honour.

When none came, she was almost put out.

‘I’ve only brought you something to eat, mademoiselle.’

That was a low blow. Madeleine already fancied that delicious fragrances were working their way around the door, and her defences. The hint of amusement in Adamson’s next words brought her back to earth.

‘I have trained as a doctor, mademoiselle.’

That sounded even worse! Madeleine looked about in terror. Seizing a heavy chair, she tried to drag it towards the door as a further barricade. Unfortunately long years of standing sentinel beside the wash-stand had welded it to the painted floorboards beneath its feet. With a wrenching tear, triangles of paint leapt up as she heaved the chair against the door. Adamson gave a low chuckle.

‘Please, do not alarm yourself, mademoiselle! My mother was concerned at your air of apparent frailty. As you are a guest in our house, she considered it was the least I could do to assure her of your good health.’

Madeleine sat down heavily in her chair, but said nothing.

‘You will at least allow me to deliver this supper tray to you?’ he added as an afterthought.

Madeleine considered for a moment. Outside in the hallway, Adamson was quite silent. She half hoped he would put the tray down and retire, but there was no sound of any movement.

Finally, starvation got the better of her. She pulled the chair aside and unlocked the door.

Adamson entered, placing a supper tray on the blanket-box at the foot of her bed. Without being bidden, he went about the room lighting the candles in their gilt holders.

An unusual reticence hung about the young man. This made Madeleine uncertain of what to do for the best, and she hesitated for long moments. In the end she sidled towards the tray of food, taking care to keep between Adamson and the open door.

There was meat for her—a rare luxury down at the Grève. A plateful of great thick slices stood beside an arrangement of bread and butter with a decanter of wine close by. A dish of raspberries and cream heavily dusted with sugar completed the happy picture. It seemed almost a pity to eat such a beautiful display, but Madeleine was more concerned with her empty stomach than with thoughts of art.

She was about to dig in when Adamson stopped her.

‘If you would not mind humouring me for a moment, mademoiselle...’

He gave a slight bow of painful formality and gestured towards the bed. Madeleine would have made a bolt for safety, but something in his expression stopped her. It was as cold as charity.

The open door was only a few feet away, but Madeleine resisted the temptation to dash out. She was not so much alarmed now as put out by his brisk approach to the matter.

‘What do you think I am?’ she bridled defensively.

A slight frown crossed Adamson’s handsome features. ‘I could fetch Mother,’ he said slowly. ‘I merely thought that, as a lady, you would welcome the privacy...’

His voice died away, but he seemed reluctant to go and fetch Mrs Adamson. Flickering candlelight shed soft shadows over his lean face. He was watching Madeleine with steady grey eyes, but as yet he made no attempt to draw nearer.

She looked at the tray of good food, then at the soft luxuriance of the bed. She tried not to look at Adamson. They said there was good money to be made from wickedness, but to think of such a thing with Adamson...when he was so restrained—so English...

Hesitantly, Madeleine’s hand went to the neck of her borrowed nightgown, but he stopped her hurriedly.

‘That will not be necessary, mademoiselle.’

Then it wasn’t some strange kind of excuse. Madeleine went to sit on the edge of the bed, as directed. Further instructions were not long in coming. Her host stepped forward to stand beside her.

‘Tip your head back towards the light, if you please.’

His hands were cool and moved with professional ease. Inspecting first her eyes, then her ears and finally her mouth, he made interested noises, but no proper conversation.

‘Who is your physician, mademoiselle?’

‘I haven’t got one,’ Madeleine snapped, feeling as though she were being checked over for a horse-sale.

Adamson made a small sound of disbelief, and Madeleine realised that she would need an excuse.

‘I—I came to Paris in search of kind relatives. They have run away from the unrest, and I’ve not had the chance to find friends in the city, sir, let alone a physician.’

As in any other city, people were always coming and going in Paris. Her story seemed to satisfy him.

He took a long time inspecting her mouth, probing about her teeth and gums with one gentle finger.

‘You have a fine set of teeth, mademoiselle. And all your own, too.’

It seemed a funny thing to say, but Madeleine let it pass. Whose teeth should she have?

Adamson moved away from her to the marble wash-stand at the far side of the room. Pouring a little water from the porcelain ewer into its basin, he rinsed his hands and dried them carefully.

Madeleine took this as a sign he had finished his examination. Heaving a sigh of relief, she scrambled towards the supper tray at the end of the bed.

‘One moment more, mademoiselle.’

His formal manner never faltered. The tone of his voice was always detached—distant—and Madeleine was intrigued. The English really were as cold and nerveless as everyone said. Here she was, alone in the company of a handsome gentleman and wearing very little, but he took no advantage.

There was something strange about the whole business. Everything about Adamson seemed the epitome of strength and vigour. From the luxuriance of his dark hair to the trim line of his breeches and gleaming boots, all was the picture of an ideal young man. Madeleine sensed that any strong passions lurking beneath that cool exterior were held very severely in check.

She submitted to his dull questions about her health while he tapped his way over her back and chest. Even then he did not ask Madeleine to remove the all-concealing nightgown, to her great relief.

‘Good.’ He stood up, taking the tray before Madeleine had an opportunity to snatch anything from it. ‘It may be better for your digestion, mademoiselle, to sit in your bed rather than crouch over a meal here.’

Anyone else might have laughed at her, but Madeleine was quickly learning that Philip Adamson was not one for ready amusement.

She settled herself as he suggested, pulling up the coverlet for modesty. That was far too hot. Before he could place the tray on her knees Madeleine threw back the covers once more, leaving only a thin sheet covering her.

He remained unmoved. ‘If there is anything at all that you require, mademoiselle, simply ring for Betsy.’

He indicated a thick tapestry bell-pull, flounced with golden tassels. That minor detail of villa life would have cost Madeleine the wages from several years of laundry work.

She continued to stare at the bell-pull until Adamson said softly, ‘Eat well, mademoiselle. I trust your sleep will not suffer overmuch from the rascals of the slums.’

He bowed once more, and this time Madeleine caught a suspicion of amusement in his attitude.

‘Indeed, mademoiselle, perhaps it would be as well to lock the shutters if you intend to leave your window open. I am surprised you are not more wary of the dangers brought by nocturnal visitors.’

Turning on his heel, he went swiftly out of the door and closed it behind him.

Strange man! Madeleine thought, as she fell on the food with an eagerness unbecoming a lady. He picks up a complete stranger in a rough part of town, then treats me like this and with no strings attached. Not yet, anyway. And he can have no more idea than a cat of who I am, or where I’ve been!

He had nice hands, though.

Madeleine thought a lot about his hands later, as she lay listening to the faint sounds of merriment from outside.

Strong hands, light of touch and delicate without being soft.

Like his kisses would be, Madeleine thought with a giggle.

What a shame Philip Adamson seemed unwilling to put either his lips or hands to the purpose they were so perfectly designed for.

For a split second Madeleine thought she was back in the laundry. It took another thumping, rattling clatter to bring her fully to her senses.
        She hadn’t been dreaming in a fever—all her borrowed finery was still in place, and she really was holding centre stage in a fancy bedroom.

Better even than that, breakfast was arriving for her in fine style. The maid wheeled in a trolley of fragrant food then went to throw back the shutters, wittering away all the while. Madeleine picked out the words ‘Master Philip’ and ‘Mistress Constance’, but the rest was nothing but the chatter of starlings to her.

She wriggled off the bed to study the dainties that had been brought. It would have been a big disappointment if she hadn’t been so hungry. Instead of the enormous breakfast everyone said the English enjoyed, the mahogany trolley was set with ordinary food—if of superior quality.

Warm breakfast rolls—both white and coloured— foam-light brioche, pastry horns and crescents peeped out from the folds of snowy white cloths.

A little silver dish set with glass pots of honey, syrup and preserves stood to one side of her breakfast plate. On the other side was a bowl of butter curls. Madeleine viewed this with suspicion, then dug out a fleck of butter and tasted it.

At once her face crumpled in a grimace. It was true! The English really did eat jam and butter mixed with salt at the same time!

The maid tutted and gasped as Madeleine tasted a fingerful of each conserve on offer. The new Lady Rascal was unconcerned. She was going to act her part to the end. With an imperious wave of her hand she dismissed the maid, then started on breakfast.

It was some time before the maid returned. This time she was in the company of Mistress Constance. The elderly lady was neatly attired in a plain gown of violet silk, her thin grey hair secured by a battery of pins beneath a starched morning cap.

She was in high good humour, her eyes sparkling and small plump hands working with delight. Eager to exercise her creaking French, she practised on Madeleine.

‘My dear—I have had an absolutely splendid idea! My ward Jemima has recently left me to attend a ladies’ academy, and after my recent sad losses—’ there was a little catch in her voice, and Madeleine was alert immediately ‘—well, I do feel the need for a little company at home.’ She smiled kindly at Madeleine.

Although curious at the older woman’s sad hesitancy, Madeleine bided her time.

Mistress Constance dabbed at her nose with a lavender-scented handkerchief, then continued. ‘As Philip tells me you have been left an unfortunate orphan— so sad, dear, dear!—I wondered if...’

Madeleine wasn’t sure if she was supposed to guess what was coming next, or whether Mistress Constance’s French had finally failed her. The French girl waited for developments.

‘I was only thinking, my dear...would you care to become my companion? It would be on a strictly professional basis, of course...’

Mistress Constance left her phrase hanging in mid-air. Madeleine wondered if the thread that dangled had a fish-hook for the unwary on the end. She would have to watch her step if she was going to pull this off.

‘Certainly, madame. It is the least I can do after your kindnesses to me. You will be able to practise your French, and I may even begin to pick up a little English!’

Mistress Constance might be out to snare her, but Madeleine could be crafty, too. She was determined to get as much out of this arrangement as she could. Many times down around the Grève she had heard people talking about girls who had got on in the world.

Once I can boast a bit of English, Madeleine thought, I might even be able to get a job as governess to a smart family.

She looked up at Mistress Constance and dazzled her with a smile. ‘I should like that very much, madame!’

Mistress Constance sounded genuinely delighted. She sat down beside Madeleine and clasped the French girl’s hands.

‘We’ll have so much fun! I’ll lend you a walking-dress and then you can take the carriage to your lodgings and collect all your possessions! Oh, I am pleased...’

Madeleine groaned inwardly as Mistress Constance chattered on. Delight at her little game was now fast slithering towards despair.

She had no possessions.

The only things Madeleine owned were the working-dress, ravelled stockings and the pair of sabots that had been left in the draper’s. And the small cache of food under the floorboards in her bone-bare lodgings.

Nothing that was worth risking a trip through the ‘Ville dressed like a huxter’s dummy.

Mistress Constance must have seen the panic in her eyes, although Madeleine tried to hide it.

‘Don’t worry, dear. A walking-gown respectable enough for an elderly English widow is hardly likely to inflame the Parisian low-life! Besides, you needn’t get out of the carriage at all. Higgins can do all the fetching and carrying for you.’

There was a heavy thump from downstairs and a mutter of conversation. A few quick footsteps on the stairs and Philip Adamson burst into the room. Madeleine immediately grabbed up handfuls of bedclothes for protection, but he paid her little attention.

Taking his mother by the arm, he steered her off to the doorway with a mutter of rapid English. As they left, he flung a few sharp words at Madeleine.