Daughters of the Storm (20 page)

‘You did well,' Sophie commented. ‘Acting Madame la Comtesse to the manner born.'

Héloïse shrugged. ‘I am used to it by now,' she said. ‘It's nothing.'

‘Thank you, Marie-Victoire,' Sophie said as the girl finished plaiting her hair and tucked it under a frilled
dormeuse
nightcap. ‘I shall not be needing anything more.'

The door closed behind Marie-Victoire with a click, and silence fell.

Héloïse stirred. ‘I see Monsieur Jones was absent tonight. Have you sent him away?' She was intrigued by the quiet, serious young American whose gaze seemed to miss nothing and who was obviously more than a little interested in her cousin.

‘No,' said Sophie, ‘not exactly.'

‘Tiens,
a “lover's tiff”?'

‘Don't be foolish,' said Sophie with unusual asperity. ‘He is not my lover.'

‘But you like him,
chérie?'

‘Yes, I do,' admitted Sophie with a smile. ‘I forgot to tell you he has asked me to accompany him to a dinner at White's Hotel.'

‘Tiens,'
said Héloïse again. ‘You will be dining with red-hot republicans.'

‘What's wrong with that?' asked Sophie, intending to be provocative.

‘Is it not obvious?' said Héloïse, and it was her turn to sound sharp. She was sometimes worried by Sophie's inquisitive liberal sentiments, and anxious to curb them.

‘Why don't you come too?' asked Sophie.

‘I couldn't,' said Héloïse. She thought for a second or two, then she shrugged. ‘Could I?'

‘Why ever not? You won't turn into a criminal over dinner.'

Héloïse ignored the joke and spoke, a serious expression on her face. ‘Sophie, I beg you to be careful. Listen to me, spies are everywhere. I know. I hear things at the palace.'

‘All right,' said Sophie. ‘I accept that I must be careful – as you must be too. But I hardly think that one dinner will put me in danger.'

‘Oh, Sophie, how...'

‘How what?'

‘How innocent you are,' said Héloïse, between laughter and anger. ‘This is France, not a small village in England.'

She got to her feet and stood looking down at her cousin with a great deal of tenderness and just a hint of patronage in her gaze. Sophie shifted uncomfortably. Héloïse suddenly made her feel rash and a little foolish, but all the same it did not alter her decision to accompany William to White's Hotel.

‘You must know that the authorities are keeping an eye on anyone with revolutionary tendencies,' said Héloïse, ‘with orders to report back to Général Lafayette. Besides,' she continued, ‘Hervé would not approve, and you do live under his roof.'

‘The Comte de Choissy, whatever else he may be, is a man of the world,' remarked Sophie.

Héloïse bit her lip. ‘Yes,' she said, her voice brittle with an emotion that Sophie couldn't quite place. For a moment, she thought it was fear, then it flashed on her that the strange note in Héloïse's voice was hatred. She glanced up at Héloïse. It was as if a door had opened on to a room full of strange and unwelcome secrets instead of a pleasant place that she had expected. She fiddled with a ribbon on her cap.

‘Mignonne,
are you very unhappy?'

In reply, Héloïse paced around the room. Then, she sat down on the bed, crushing her delicate chamber-robe, and hid her face in her hands. ‘Oh, Héloïse...' Sophie joined her on the bed reached out and took Héloïse into her arms. ‘Tell me,' she implored. ‘Tell me.'

Héloïse shuddered. Sophie held her tighter and waited.

‘I hate him.' The words dragged out of Héloïse as if they burnt her mouth. ‘He fills me with such disgust.'

Sophie was silent. She did not feel competent to say anything.

‘He is so vile. So smooth and yet so animal. You can't conceive.'

By now Sophie had a pretty accurate idea as to what Héloïse was referring to.

‘You mean his attentions... The bedroom ...?'

Héloïse buried her face deeper in Sophie's shoulder and tried to blot out the memories of the nights and the torment that came with them. Nothing and no one had prepared her for the humiliation and the pain, the disgust and the fear. The horror of her wedding night would stay with her for ever....

He had come silently into the room where she had lain washed and scented in her bridal night-gown. The guests had come and gone with their offers of advice and spiced wine. The noise of their easy laughter faded, leaving only her mother to indicate the space which she would occupy in the huge bed. Then she, too, had disappeared without a backward glance.

‘I trust you are comfortable,' de Choissy said and Héloïse tensed at the sound of his voice.

Silently, he divested himself of his brocaded chamber-robe, folded it over the stool at the end of the bed, and stood naked in front of her.

Instinctively, Héloïse averted her eyes. De Choissy laughed.

‘Madame Timid,' he said, and in one quick movement stripped back the satin cover from Héloïse's shrinking body.

‘Take it off,' he commanded.

Héloïse removed her night-robe.

De Choissy's eyes travelled up and down her, as calmly as if he was assessing a brood mare for his stock. Then he lay down beside her. The candles guttered and sent flaring shadows up over the walls.

‘Open your legs,' he said. Then, a little later, ‘Don't move. Do just as I tell you.' He thrust at her shrinking flesh. The pain was awful, and she gasped.

‘Don't move,' said de Choissy again. ‘I don't like it.'

His thrusting became more insistent. De Choissy anchored himself more firmly on top of her and caught at her arms, imprisoning them tightly to her sides. Héloïse closed her eyes and clenched her lips together to force back the scream until, shuddering, he collapsed on top of her and buried his face in her shoulder.

After a while, he rolled to one side and got out of bed.

‘Thank you, madame wife,' he said, shrugging on his chamber-robe. ‘I enjoyed that interlude and I look forward to more. I bid you good night.'

Taking a candle, he shone it full into her face. What he saw appeared to please him, for he smiled, the mockery clear on his face. Then he left, closing the door sharply behind him.

She was bruised and aching. Alone in every respect. Totally alone. Tears slid down her cheeks and made damp patches where they splashed onto the linen sheets. Raising herself to a sitting position, she sat for a long while clutching her knees. Later, she struggled to her feet, poured water from the pitcher into a bowl and washed. The water dripped down her face and ran down the valley between her breasts. Then, as silently as she could, she set the bed to rights, smoothing the satin coverlet back into rigid folds and adjusting the lace-trimmed pillows to precise angles. Then she lay down and gazed into the dark for a very long time.

It was the first of many such visitations, each as horrible as the last. Always, she was forbidden to say anything, or to move, and de Choissy took his pleasure in a way calculated to hurt and humiliate her.... But these were things she could never confide to Sophie, or to anyone...

Héloïse got to her feet. ‘It's all right, Sophie,' she said. ‘I was being stupid for no good reason.'

Sophie frowned. I wish you would tell me,' she said. ‘I could try to understand.'

‘It's not that I don't wish to,' said Héloïse, ‘but it's difficult.'

‘Could it be anything to do with Monsieur d'Épinon?'

Héloïse coloured violently.

‘Héloïse, I am not blind.'

Héloïse looked at her hands. ‘No. I suppose that you are not.'

‘What is Monsieur d'Épinon to you?'

Héloïse avoided Sophie's gaze. ‘Someone I could love,' she whispered, with such sadness that Sophie shivered.

‘Héloïse,' she murmured. ‘Oh, Héloïse...'

‘It doesn't matter,' said her cousin. ‘I can take him as a lover if I wish. Perhaps I shall. Who knows?'

Sophie dropped on to the bed. ‘You could, but is it wise?'

Héloïse shrugged in a very French gesture. ‘It is the way,' she replied. She faced Sophie. ‘You mustn't worry about me,' she said. ‘Our marriages are not for love. It has always been so, you know. We are quite used to making our own arrangements.'

The misery in her voice did not make her words sound convincing.

‘I know all about that.' Sophie was a little impatient. ‘We are not so
very
different in England. But I am still worried about you. Intrigue does not suit you.'

‘It will,' said Héloïse. ‘I shall turn into a perfect replica of Adèle de Fleury or that Tallien woman. I shall live a long life filled with lovers and hold the most exciting salon in Paris.' Her voice trailed away.

Sophie recalled her own close-knit family.

‘Héloïse,' she said slowly, recalling de Choissy's strange remark the night she had quarrelled with Ned. ‘Do you not think...?'

‘But this is fancy,' cut in Héloïse. ‘Louis d'Épinon has never sought me out since that time – since that time at Versailles.'

‘Does he have to?' commented Sophie drily. ‘It would seem that both of us require a chaperon.'

*

Sophie dressed with care for dinner at White's Hotel. Nothing too sumptuous, just a simple but exquisitely fashioned muslin dress with a striped silk sash and pearl earrings. Later, at the dinner table, Sophie looked around her and was glad she had been circumspect.

There were a lot of people crushed into the small, rather shabby, dining room, and they had an air of taking themselves seriously. The room had seen better days, but it still bore traces of gold paint on the wainscotting, and the window drapes, which Sophie suspected had once been crimson velvet, still retained their dignity despite a tendency to fray at the edges. The table was laid with a good porcelain service and a roll lay on top of the napkin at each place. The sideboard was laden with food.

Sophie could only partially see Miss Edgeworth, through a huge flower arrangement, but she could hear her conversing in lively, heavily accented French. This was exactly the kind of occasion that suited her governess and Sophie was glad for her. Miss Edgeworth did not live an exciting life and she had been invaluable to Sophie. When, after some hesitation, Sophie had offered an edited version of the reasons for Ned's departure, Miss Edgeworth had actually laughed.

‘Dear me,' she had commented. ‘How very character-building.'

‘What do you mean?' said Sophie, who felt the subject should be taken more seriously.

‘Nursing bruised pride in time-honoured fashion will be very good for Ned. You'll see.'

‘Miss Edgeworth,' said Sophie, between laughter and tears, ‘I knew I could rely on you.'

‘Does something amuse you?' asked William, unfolding the napkin and proffering it with a flourish.

‘No. Nothing,' she replied hastily, fearing to seem rude. She knew that he had gone to some trouble to arrange the outing. It was very pleasant to talk English again and she was particularly pleased to be introduced to the famous Helen Williams. Sophie had been very curious to meet this lady, a well-known writer and literary hostess, and she was hoping that she would learn something from the encounter, for she had not abandoned her own early ambitions.

Plump, berouged and very fond of her own voice, the poetess was not exactly how Sophie had pictured her. Nevertheless, Miss Williams obviously possessed a kind heart and a great deal of inquisitiveness, which she instantly trained on Sophie. Miss Williams had chatted away, issuing invitations to her ‘evening' and promising to send a copy of an interesting pamphlet. She also wanted to know what Sophie thought about the constitution, her opinions of the latest fashions and how she came to be acquainted with Mr Jones. Overwhelmed by this barrage, Sophie was glad to retreat to the table.

‘How is your mission progressing?' she asked William.

‘Not quite as I hoped,' William said carefully. ‘It is difficult selling land that the buyer cannot inspect. However, if I don't do better I may be forced to return home.'

Their eyes locked, and Sophie hastily changed the subject.

‘Do you ever write, Mr Jones?'

William was caught off his guard. There was no reason to suspect her question was not as innocent as it sounded.

‘What sort of things, Miss Luttrell?'

‘Essays, poems, anything,' she replied.

‘Do you?'

‘I would like to write something useful. Perhaps a novel.'

‘Are
novels useful?'

‘In a way, yes.'

‘To put over some moral point?'

‘Exactly.'

William asked for the salt, which he sprinkled over his beef ragout.

‘Can you justify eating this beef while others starve?' he asked seriously, suppressing a smile.

‘Come. I am not so nonsensical as that. But perhaps I could write something that showed a way for everyone to be able to eat beef,' she replied, equally seriously.

William gave a shout of laughter.

‘Miss Luttrell, you are quite enchanting. I have never met another woman like you, and you are, despite everything, very English. You will be a roaring success in your own country with such a work. The roast beef of England!'

‘It would be an honest effort,' she countered indignantly.

‘Ah, yes, very honest,' replied William.

‘As an honest man, you should approve.'

She was puzzled by the shadow that passed over his face. ‘Have I said something to offend you, Mr Jones?'

He turned towards her, and there was something in his expression that was to dog her memory. An uncertainty, an evasiveness that she did not like.

‘Will you marry me?' he asked.

Sophie dropped her fork with a clatter. She picked it up and then laid it down again with a shaking hand.