Christina Hollis (4 page)

‘There have been serious developments, Mademoiselle Madeleine. I would be grateful if you could join us downstairs in the library as soon as possible.’

That was all. Then he was gone, closing the door with a resonant bump.

Madeleine was astonished. She would have expected more from a gentleman—bursting into a girl’s room unannounced! If this was how the aristos carried on, she was beginning to wonder if her joke had been such a good idea after all.

She went to the wash-stand, pouring night-warmed water from the jug into the basin. She washed quickly, then felt a fool as the English maid arrived with a full ewer of fresh, hot water from the kitchens.

The maid did not seem to pay much attention, but disappeared silently to return with a plain gown of dull brown material.

Madeleine didn’t like the sidelong glances Betsy the maid kept giving her. She was glad to be left alone to her toilette, but then came across another problem.

The shift she had arrived in had been taken away. Madeleine had nothing to put on beneath the dress lent to her by Mistress Constance.

She went all through the blanket box, which surprisingly enough contained only blankets. The chest of drawers was strewn with lavender and lining papers but no other contents, much less any underwear.

There was nothing else for it. Madeleine would have to go without.

The dress slipped on like a coat, but was far too big. Brown ribbons at the front took in some of the slack, but it still slopped about like a sack.

Madeleine had no stockings. She was going to have to torture her feet into the brocade shoes again, too.

Against one wall of the room stood a small plain dressing-table. On this was laid a silver-backed brush and a mirror, together with a richly decorated comb. Madeleine picked up the hairbrush and started to rub it vigorously around the shoes, to try and ease their fit.

Fortunately her industry wasn’t needed. The maid returned with new stockings and a small pair of brown slippers.

Seeing the way Madeleine was dressed, the English maid gave a snort of derision. Before there could be any protest she began to pull at the ribbons securing the dress and tied it properly. Madeleine hadn’t noticed the neat row of embroidered holes the ribbons should have been laced through to pull them tight.

It was a new sensation for Madeleine to be dressed by another. She submitted to the roughly professional manhandling, amazed that nothing seemed too much trouble for the maid. To Madeleine, having her hair brushed three times in two days was luxury indeed.

Then in a crackle of efficiency the maid was gone. Madeleine touched the pins that nailed her new hairstyle to her head and wondered if she was finished at last.

When no one came back to the bedroom for her, Madeleine set off to find the library as instructed.

The smart town house was larger by day than it had seemed by torch and candlelight. Madeleine trailed her fingers over the cool, chalky walls as she went downstairs. Everywhere smelled of fresh air and perfume, not dank cellars and mouldy boards.

At the foot of the stairs Madeleine was dismayed to find that the tips of her fingers were powdered with tinted plaster-dust from the walls. Wiping her hands hurriedly on her skirt, she looked about the hall, guilty already.

There were several doors leading from the hallway, but every one presented a closed and blank face to her. Hearing the clip of outdoor shoes on tiling behind one, Madeleine moved towards it.

Philip Adamson seemed surprised to find her outside when he flung open the door.

‘We were just wondering what might have befallen you, mademoiselle.’

Taken aback by her evident fright, Adamson faltered, but bade her enter the library with a graceful movement of his arm.

Like the hall, the library was large and cool. Every footstep echoed on the tiny black and white tiles of the floor. On the far wall a pair of tall narrow windows flooded the room with summer sunlight. Through their flawed and rippling glass Madeleine could make out a sea of grass beyond, interrupted only by an island bed of colourful flowers.

Then she noticed the books around her. From corner to corner, floor to ceiling the walls were corrugated with the deep mahogany or russet-red spines of books.

Together with the high corniced room and sunlight streaming through the reverent silence, it made Madeleine think of church. She had stood in their porches and wondered at the sumptuous interiors many times, but had got no further. Nuns were always on hand to shoo her sort out into the rain again, but Madeleine had at least seen the beauty within.

Adamson escorted her to a striped sofa standing beside a grand, empty fireplace. He waited for Madeleine to settle herself beside his mother. Mistress Constance took her hand and patted it reassuringly, which made her son at least attempt a smile.

Sombre in dark coat and breeches, he stood silhouetted before the windows. Sunshafts streaked through the darkness of his hair as he inclined his head to speak.

‘I am afraid that matters run on apace, mademoiselle. Sadly it seems Paris is no longer safe for either residents or visitors. The mob even had the bare-faced audacity to break into the monastery of St Lazare last night!’

Mistress Constance tutted at his words and squeezed Madeleine’s hand. Adamson’s eyes were hooded with some deep emotion, and Madeleine did not like it. He cleared his throat and continued.

‘They loaded up over fifty carts full of grain and flour, taking them off into the night.’

‘It had been hoarded to keep prices high.’

Madeleine spoke the words with icy disdain. Regarding her for a moment, Adamson raised his eyebrows before speaking again.

‘Indeed, mademoiselle. And what, if anything, could you know about it?’

Madeleine looked to Mistress Constance and smiled, conscious that red-hot revolution could hardly be thrown into the face of such a considerate hostess.

‘Begging your pardon, Mistress Constance, but I fear I must disagree with your son.’

The older woman smiled. She looked across at the tall, severe form of Adamson, outlined against the brightly lit window. ‘Be my guest, my dear! But be wary—his views are always most inflammatory!’

‘Sir...’ Madeleine began, uncertain now despite her earlier anger. ‘Bread has cost nine sous for as long as anyone can remember. Just lately the poor of this city have seen the price rise to ten—twelve—and now fifteen sous a loaf. Each day the prices are a little higher, so their wages must be stretched a little further. They have had enough. They are finally saying “no more”.’

To her amazement, Mistress Constance was murmuring in agreement. With this moral support, Madeleine continued. ‘Prices are forced up by places such as the monastery St Lazare hoarding grain and flour. They control the supply to suit themselves. They are wicked,’ she finished defiantly.

Adamson folded his arms and looked at her. ‘You seem to know a great deal of this city’s politics, for a newcomer.’

Madeleine was not to be put out. ‘It is common knowledge about the city. Do you think honest citizens would choose to run riot through the streets? When it is that or starvation they have no choice, sir.’

Adamson allowed himself a smile. He was resplendent in expensive clothes, and Madeleine despised him for never having known what a hard day’s work meant.

Even if he saw the poison in her eyes, Adamson replied with nothing less than good manners. ‘Have the people never heard of reason and negotiation, then, mademoiselle?’

‘Large, hungry families do not breed diplomats, sir.’

‘Touché, mademoiselle.’

His smile fading to a wry grimace, Adamson moved to a small side-table set with a decanter and glasses. Pouring out three measures of wine, he handed the ladies a glass each, and took one for himself.

Madeleine drained her glass before realising neither Adamson nor his mother had yet touched theirs. Instead they cradled their drinks reflectively, gazing at the light-play over limpid wine.

‘You seem thirsty, mademoiselle. Would you care for another drink?’

Lapped by expensive lacework, Adamson’s hand was already reaching for the decanter again. Madeleine agreed uncomfortably. The English were well known for their love of correct behaviour, as well as their gullibility. She knew she had overstepped the bounds of good taste this time.

As Adamson filled her glass for a second time Madeleine paused, thanked him, then began studying the strands of air bubbles maypoling about in the glass of her goblet stem.

He smiled again, but now Madeleine saw the humour reach as far as his cold grey eyes. She stared back. To slip up on such a detail so early on in her game had been careless.

I can’t afford mistakes, she thought. I haven’t enjoyed myself nearly enough to risk being caught out yet.

She listened on in silence as Adamson told how the coffee-shop he frequented had been closed by order of the National Assembly. Laths had been nailed across the doors and windows, and a more outspoken message had been left by the ordinary citizens. The homes and workplaces of foreigners in the rougher quarters were already being daubed with slogans.

‘Then you must leave,’ Madeleine said, rolling the thin stem of her glass between her fingers as Mistress Constance did. When her new employer took a sip Madeleine did likewise, watching and learning all the time.

‘On the contrary, mademoiselle, I have no intention of being hounded from Paris by such treatment. My mother will, of course, leave tomorrow. You will accompany her. I shall remain, at least for a while.’

Mistress Constance gasped, and Madeleine looked up at her host sharply. ‘You’re mad, sir! The mob might be good-humoured enough now, but they won’t stand being opposed. If you had any sense—’ she suddenly realised what she was saying, and crumpled, crimson.

‘I should leave immediately, is that what you are saying? How can a gentleman bow before the threats of an ill-organised, ignorant rabble of wasters and scoundrels?’

Madeleine was about to query his bitter tone, but a sharp squeeze on her hand by Mistress Constance silenced her. At once the French girl was made even more curious. Adamson had already turned his attention to his mother, and was patting her kindly.

‘I shall soon follow you home, Mother. Only a few days more. As for you, mademoiselle, your concern for my welfare is touching but quite misplaced. Perhaps I should remind you that as an Englishman, I am well able to look after myself.’

Madeleine looked him up and down. His soft politeness of speech, the neat and fashionable way he dressed...all marked him out as the sort of man the mob detested.

‘To the mob all aristos are the same, sir.’

He laughed, but it was without mirth.

‘I think it is time we dropped the formalities as you are to become my mother’s companion, mademoiselle. My name is Philip. I would be grateful if you would address me as such. If we are all three to attend the sub this evening you can hardly be heard calling me “sir” all the time, can you?’

What on earth was a ‘sub’? Madeleine certainly didn’t know. She could only hope it wouldn’t cost money. She put on her best look of innocence and turned to Mistress Constance.

‘Oh, but madame—I fear that every scrap of my money is gone...left behind in the turmoil!’

‘Money? What on earth would you want money for?’ Adamson snapped.

‘To pay my way tonight, of course, sir—I mean, Master Philip...’ Madeleine let her eyelashes flutter like a lady as she looked away.

‘Good God!’ Adamson finished his last few drops of wine and eyed her suspiciously. ‘What do you think I am?’

‘Don’t shout at the child, Philip!’ Mistress Constance stepped in. ‘Perhaps the French do things differently.’

‘Not so differently that they’d make a woman pay for her own ticket, I hope.’

He scrutinised Madeleine. She noticed that something had sharpened his features. Now he looked older and more harsh than his tone of voice suggested. This was not bred from starvation and hard living like the expressions that stared from Madeleine’s old companions on the streets.

Something was destroying Philip Adamson from within. It was laying waste his soul.

‘Come along, my dear.’ Mistress Constance smiled. ‘Philip is plainly determined not to be good company this morning. We’ll leave him to it, and see about rescuing your poor belongings. Then I must start to pack. I’ll get Higgins to put your things together, too, Philip. Just in case you change your mind, and feel you can come with us.’

Madeleine allowed herself to be led from the room by Mistress Constance. It was obvious Philip Adamson wasn’t in the least interested in his mother’s plans, and only smiled at her to be polite. Without one look at Madeleine, he turned away to study the bookshelves.

Mistress Constance’s manner changed abruptly as the two women rustled out of the room. Closing the library door upon Adamson and his books, she leaned forward to Madeleine.

‘A word to the wise, my dear...’

The tone of friendly conspiracy was not lost on Madeleine, and she leaned forward, too.

‘I don’t know what Philip has told you,’ her hostess continued in a whisper, ‘but we’ve had such a wretched time of it lately, what with one thing and another...please don’t judge him too harshly. Wait until you are—better acquainted...’

Mistress Constance withdrew a lace handkerchief from her bodice. In a flutter of lavender scent, she dabbed it to her temples.

‘Of course, madame.’ Madeleine nodded meekly.

‘It’s over a year since—well, since he was last really happy. It took so long to find enough time and money for this holiday... I felt in my bones it was the wrong thing to do! Now he seems intent on staying—it grieves me to distraction. Ha! And to think, I considered Paris might be a dignified and quiet retreat! What do we find here? The city is dangerous and full of revolutionaries. That wasn’t the idea—no, not at all! And on top of everything else, it seems as though I shall never get him home again now!’

Here, Mistress Constance stopped dabbing herself and smiled suddenly at Madeleine.

‘It would be a great pity if he insists we leave him here in Paris, mademoiselle,’’ she began innocently. ‘There are plenty of hours between now and our departure— perhaps one or both of us might yet appeal to his better nature...?’