Christina Hollis (8 page)

‘Things are happening in the city. I really think you should accompany your mother back to England, Master Philip. As soon as possible. Paris is no longer a place for gentle folk, be they French or foreign—or refugees.’

Adamson groaned, rolled over on to his stomach and put both hands to his throbbing head.

‘What time is it?’

‘I’ve just told you—well past eight. Drink this.’ She put the cup down on his bedside table.

‘I am so thirsty...’

‘You’ll need to be.’ Madeleine pushed the cup out of his reach so that he would have to sit up. ‘It’s disgusting stuff, but guaranteed to get you on your feet in no time.’

She took his final mutter as being an acceptance and left him alone with his misery.

Mistress Constance was on the landing outside, wringing her hands.

‘How is he?’

‘Surviving, although I doubt it feels much like that to him!’

‘Oh, my! This is all that talk of going home! Setting him thinking again...’

‘Then we must give him something else to think about, madame. I’ve already arranged a few things in that direction! Now—your man Higgins will have to hurry if Master Philip is not to miss his breakfast.’

‘I thought perhaps Philip could have a tray in his room...always supposing that he feels strong enough to take anything...’Mistress Constance began faintly.

Madeleine decided that it was time for some plain speaking.

‘Madame, I’ve seen artists go into a decline and fade away, but never an Englishman. Make him buck his ideas up, and attend breakfast with you.’

Mistress Constance fluttered and flustered. Master Philip had to be treated carefully—his work on the farm was invaluable and she couldn’t afford to lose another son. Philip was far, far too sensitive to put up with any rough treatment...

Madeleine thought of the night before and smiled to herself. She made sympathetic noises but led her employer firmly back to her own room.

Then she went to find Higgins.

At two minutes to nine, Philip Adamson joined his mother and Madeleine in the oak-panelled morning-room.

Dressed in a cream and brown suit, he was as immaculately turned out as ever. Despite the reassuring shade of crimson he turned when first seeing Madeleine, his face that morning was grey as paper.

Madeleine didn’t think he could possibly get any paler, but she was to be proved wrong. Precisely on the stroke of nine he went quite white. Delicious breakfast fragrances were wafting in with the rattling trolleys.

A bowl of chilled fruit salad and a cup of hot honey and lemon were placed before Adamson without comment. Madeleine and Mistress Constance studiously ignored him as they chose their food and chattered about the weather.

Evil mischief made Madeleine accept kidneys, eggs, bacon, sausages, morels and fried potato along with tea and toast. Despite her cruelty the chink of cutlery from Adamson’s end of the table soon announced that he was managing to force something down, at least.

Madeleine winked at Mistress Constance. As she had predicted, he would survive.

‘That was an excellent concert last night, Master Philip. Such a shame that you missed the best bits.’

Adamson stirred uncomfortably. When Madeleine glanced up he was looking at his mother.

‘I am well acquainted with the music already, mademoiselle. I assure you that version was no great loss.’

‘Oh, but the food was delicious! You should have stayed for that!’

‘Indeed,’ Mistress Constance said nervously. ‘I’ve noticed how much you enjoy your food, Madeleine.’

Madeleine looked down at her plate. She had munched her way through an enormous heap of breakfast and was on her fourth dainty little cup of tea while her employer was merely pecking at her own meal.

‘It is a wonder that you remain so reed-slender, my dear.’

‘Nerves—that’s what it is, madame. I’m run ragged with nerves and worry!’

Philip Adamson’s usual wintry expression had thawed a little, but he was quick to change the subject.

‘Despite the work of the new militia, I believe that there has been more trouble in the city overnight, ladies.’

‘They say that men are being sent out from the Bastille at night to slaughter innocent citizens. The city is full of it. Guns have been raided from Les Invalides, and now the citizens are on their way to stock up on the Bastille’s ammunition so they will be ready,’ Madeleine said hotly, all shame over her hearty appetite forgotten.

‘In which case I was right to insist that you two ladies leave as soon as possible. Circumstances may yet dictate that I join you. I will go out this morning to discover the truth behind all the rumours. Higgins will see to arrangements here while you both say your goodbyes around the city. But have a care.’ Here Adamson risked a quick glance at Madeleine. ‘Do not go alone, do not cross the river, keep well away from the National Assembly, and go no further east than Pont-Neuf.’

That put all of Madeleine’s old stamping-grounds out of bounds. It was a shame, but for once she was glad to have few friends trustworthy enough to miss.

Mistress Constance soon left to start arranging things and getting in the way of her staff. Madeleine dawdled over the remains of her last cup of tea. This was a chance to observe Adamson slyly. She was convinced he had been idling over his breakfast to try and get her alone again.

A tiny grain of curiosity had been germinating within Madeleine since the events of the previous evening. From beneath lowered lashes she watched Adamson reach for the teapot, pour himself a second cup of tea, add the necessary sugar and stir it with his silver teaspoon. Such strong, purposeful hands. Madeleine remembered exactly how purposeful they could be, and shivered.

‘What can I say, mademoiselle?’ he burst out suddenly. ‘Any apology for my shameful display last evening would hardly be sufficient—’

‘You can’t take all the blame, sir. I was unwise.’ Although I’m still wondering what it might have been like, Madeleine thought shamefully.

‘If you could possibly see your way clear to keeping the regrettable matter between ourselves, mademoiselle...’ He looked uncertain, and took Madeleine’s silence for scorn. ‘It’s not that I care what shame I bring upon myself, you understand. It’s just that the things I said last night—about hating home—and the...matter of funding...Mother doesn’t know. To think that I could have been such a fool! Drinking, and—’

‘I’ve seen worse,’ Madeleine said truthfully. ‘Although I think your mother guesses more than you know, Master Philip. She’ll understand you far better than you suspect. I shouldn’t think you could hide much from her.’

There seemed nothing else to say. Madeleine poured the last few trickles from the teapot into her cup and took her time in adding the sugar.

‘Will you miss Paris, Mademoiselle Madeleine?’

Adamson said at last, clearly unnerved by her continued silence.

Madeleine had to think back quickly to her story. ‘I have not really been here long enough to tell, Master Philip.’

‘I could take word to your lodgings—inform them of our good character and intentions. Perhaps...you might even wish to accompany me? You would be quite safe, mademoiselle,’’ he added quickly.

‘No, sir. That’s all sorted out. I’ve long since sent them a message,’ Madeleine fibbed. ‘If we could devote all our time and energy to getting clear of the city I would feel a lot happier.’

Finishing his last piece of fruit, Adamson dabbed a napkin against his lips. Madeleine had to admire his composure. The city was crumbling into riot around them, his personal life was in ruins and a total stranger now shared his guilty secret, but still his public manners and bearing were impeccable.

He felt her looking at him and turned. The grey eyes had no brittle lights in them this morning. They were only sad and searching.

‘Thank you for coming to my aid last night, mademoiselle. It was more than I deserved, and to treat you so shamefully—’

‘I’m surprised you remember anything about it!’ Madeleine laughed.

‘Yes—but perhaps I remember too much.’ He cleared his throat, and Madeleine realised that Philip Adamson would never be joked out of depression. A more subtle approach would be needed.

His enigmatic expression made Madeleine look away. She picked up her teacup once more and tried to concentrate on curling her little finger as Mistress Constance did.

In only a short time away from the streets she had lost the art of easy conversation. Madeleine wondered if the mannered coyness of the English was catching. In desperation to find a cure she said the first thing that popped into her head.

‘I was sorry that your mother did not like you meeting with Miss Kitty—’

She stopped. Suddenly his manner had changed, agitation replacing interest, his features tightening.

‘Yes—well. That could not be helped.’ He rose, throwing his crumpled napkin on to the table.

Striding quickly out of the room, he left Madeleine with her embarrassment. As she watched the slowly expanding folds of his discarded napkin Madeleine wondered how she could manage to free the man trapped within the manners.

Madeleine had not realised how quick and easy packing could be, as long as you had staff to do it for you. When she returned to her room after breakfast only a few items were still left out. Brush, comb and cosmetics were set out on the dressing-table while a small bonnet and discreet cloak lay on the bed.

The weather was so close and stuffy that Madeleine said she would go without the cloak and bonnet. Mistress Constance was scandalised, and Madeleine quickly changed her mind.

As the maid went to supervise the loading of the trunks Mistress Constance drew Madeleine aside.

‘My dear...’ she began in an undertone, looking about as though spies might be hiding in the wainscot ‘...it will take us at least ten days to get home. That means, of course, ten days spent on the road...’

She faltered, and Madeleine waited for a lecture on discreet behaviour in strange bedrooms. In reality it was much more embarrassing than that.

‘Look, dear—you work for me now. You eat and drink with us as an equal...regular meals, each and every day. What we have, we share. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?’

Madeleine had no idea. Mistress Constance dabbed her round pink cheeks with her handkerchief and whispered even more confidentially, ‘You have obviously suffered since losing your parents, Madeleine, and I’m not totally unfeeling towards your position.’ Her small black eyes flickered nervously. ‘And...well, in the case that contains your nightwear—I’ve taken the liberty of putting in a few extra things...’

The words trailed away and she looked at Madeleine warily to see if offence had been taken. The totally blank look on Madeleine’s face told her that more plain speaking was required. She drew herself up to her full height and flushed deeply.

‘If you must hide food, dear, make sure it’s well wrapped up in future!’

Sweeping out of the room in a flurry of embarrassment, Mistress Constance left Madeleine alone with her shame. Why was it so wrong? Everyone she knew had a little put by against hard times. It was everybody for themselves on the streets when it came to food.

Madeleine wondered what would happen if the Adamsons ever got short of food. Would she really be able to trust them when things got tight?

At one o’clock the Adamsons’ two coaches were drawn up outside the villa. Madeleine was amazed to learn that the place had only been rented, as her own humble lodging had been.

When the landlord arrived to check things and collect the keys, there was a surprise nice enough to bring a smile to Adamson’s face.

‘Only a few francs deducted for damages. You can have your deposit back virtually in full, Mother. And I have the benefit of most of a week’s rent refunded, in which case dinner this evening will be my treat.’

‘That isn’t the only way in which you can repay me, Philip. How about helping me with Madeleine’s English lessons? That would be of more immediate use!’

They all laughed together. Philip Adamson seemed to have forgotten the ill-tempered shame he had shown over breakfast and was happy to oblige.

He proved an excellent teacher. Patient with Madeleine’s mistakes, he almost managed a flicker of pleasure at her quick progress.

They had only been travelling for a short time when their carriage was brought to a standstill. At once both Madeleine and Adamson looked out of their respective windows. What they saw filled Madeleine with dread.

The city wall of Paris was pocked with Customs posts at every exit, and they had been stopped. A moon-faced Parisian was barring the way, waving a gun with one hand and a slab of bread and dripping in the other.

Nervous as a kitten, Madeleine clutched at Mistress Constance, fearing what, she didn’t know.

Two more men appeared from the nearest Customs post. With mounting horror Madeleine recognised one as a regular in the bars of the Rue Mouffetard. He was sure to give her little game away.

In desperation Madeleine put a hand to her brow as she had seen delicate young ladies do at the subscription concert.

‘Oh...but it’s so hot... I should have kept a fan with me...’

‘Borrow mine.’ Mistress Constance unlooped velvet ribbons from her wrist and handed Madeleine a pierced ivory fan.

Spreading it wide open, Madeleine shrank back into the corner and tried to hide behind its fluttering disguise. The Customs men might be satisfied with a search of the baggage only, and not the passengers. She could but hope.

The first Parisian stood on the wheel-rim of their carriage and hung on to the door for support. He made short work of the bread and yellow dripping while watching the others about their searches. After licking his fingers and smacking his lips, the Customs man wiped one sleeve across his mouth before speaking.

‘Right. Papers, citizens!’

He swung open the carriage door and clambered in.

Madeleine realised she was lost. She might as well go quietly.

She found she could not move. Fear had robbed her of both speech and movement. All she could do was cringe in the corner while Adamson and his mother produced their travel documents.