Minuet (6 page)

“What exactly is the relationship between those two?” he asked Harlock.

“He is related on her mother’s side. A close relationship— I don’t know exactly. First cousins, I believe.”

This relationship, while close, was not too close to allow of marriage between them, and Degan asked bluntly if this was a probable thing.

“Good God no! They are friends. More like brother and sister than lovers. Henri stayed with Marie and them in Paris for a couple of years. Three years, actually. He came here in ‘84 to visit us at the Hall, and went back to Paris with Marie and the children. His family sent him to England before the Revolution, when they saw it coming.”

“It looks like a match to me,” Degan said. Marriage was the proper course for her, and he wondered that he should have taken such an unaccountable aversion to the first likely suitor who came along.

“No, it is out of the question.”

“Mérigot is penniless, I take it?”

“Next to it. Anything his family had to give him was lost, in the Revolution. He is from a noble family, a younger son. There will be no match there.”

“But the blood is good? Céleste is well dowered,” Degan said, forcing himself to state the obvious, though it went sorely against the grain.

“It is not romance with them,” Harlock said positively, then beckoned her to come closer. Mérigot too arose and went along with her.

“What plans have you to rescue Lady Harlock and Édouard?” Mérigot asked at once, and this was gone into again.

“I would be very happy to join any group that goes to make a rescue,” he said at once. Sally smiled warmly at him in approval.

“I told Papa you would volunteer,” she said.

“Too young,” Harlock said, rather stiffly. “Not familiar with the territory—seven years since you’ve been there, Mérigot.”

“I was there once since I left, sir.”

Degan jerked to attention at this speech, the last little mystery in the romance cleared up neatly.

“Minou says she can tell me exactly how to reach the Maison Belhomme. My knowledge of French would be an asset in the enterprise, and there is no one in England closer to Lady Harlock than myself. Outside of you and Minou, I mean,” he added hastily as this statement met with a kindling glance.

“Lady Harlock is my wife and my responsibility, sir,” Harlock said angrily. “You may depend on me to rescue her.”

“She also means a great deal to me,” Mérigot said, less angrily but equally firmly. That proud face, unafraid, struck Degan suddenly as the face of more than a French fribble of fashion. It was a man, a determined man. Doubtlessly one in love with Minou, who hoped to win her favor by this daring deed.

“I realize that. I shall keep you informed as to what I mean to do. Well, I suppose we shall be seeing a good deal of you now that Sally is here.” There was no joy in the speech, but more resignation than Degan expected.

“Yes, you will see a good deal of me,” Mérigot said with a soft smile at Sally.

Degan stirred restively in his chair and quickly changed the topic. “I expect your cousin has been telling you about her experiences in escaping,” he said.

“All about them, and I disapprove of your joining a gypsy caravan and dancing for pennies, Minou,” he said, wagging a finger playfully at Sally.

This was a new revelation to Degan. He glowered in silent rage for thirty seconds, then could contain his wrath no longer. “The less said about that sort of thing in public, the better,” he said repressively.

“Ah, but we are not in public, monsieur,” Sally reminded him. “I have no secrets from Henri and Papa, and as you appear to be something of a member of our family, I shall have none from you either, I think.”

“What do you think of our girl’s having traveled through England as a boy, milord, and slept the night in a hayrick with two migrant workers?” Mérigot asked Degan, with a sly smile to Sally.

“Extremely unfortunate, and best forgotten,” was his blighting answer.

“I wish I had been there to see it.” Mérigot laughed.

“You want me to do my gypsy dance for you?” she asked, and arose at once to show him, her fingers snapping.

“No!” Degan said angrily.

“I was not speaking to you, Citoyen Degan,” she replied, but as her father too looked displeased, she returned to her seat. There was some smiling comment between Mérigot and herself. For half an hour longer the French guest remained, monopolizing the better part of the lady’s attention, and throwing Degan into deeper and deeper dudgeon. At length, Mérigot arose to take his leave.

“I shall call on you tomorrow morning, Minou,” he promised.

“Good. My
robe,
she will be ready. I do not wish to appear in public in my
pantalon.
You will take me to the shops, yes, Henri? I want to buy many, many things. You have an excellent taste. Do I have some money, Papa? Some money of my own? Mama said Tante Dee gave me some money.”

“Yes, you have money. I shall arrange funds for you,” the father said obligingly. Degan took the idea Mérigot listened closely to this interchange. The Frenchman did not, of course, inquire just how much money Sally had, but he was definitely interested. That smile, accompanied by an appreciative raising of the brows, showed a very enthusiastic interest.

“Très bien. À demain,”
Sally said.

“Words are inadequate to say how much I like having you back,” Mérigot told her, kissing her hand a resounding smack, in a playful way. Then he bowed from the waist, and bobbed his head toward the gentlemen before leaving.

“How handsome Henri has grown!” was her first comment when he had left the room. “He must have many flirts. Has he, Papa?”

“You must know I have not been at all close to Mérigot, Sal,” he said, and again that sheepish look was on his face. Sally pouted and tossed her copper curls.

“I
mean to see a great deal of him,” she said boldly. Her father looked as though he would like to raise an objection, but as he did not do so, Degan spoke up.

“He is not quite top drawer socially.”

“He is the son of a noble family. He is as good as you or me!” she flashed out angrily.

“He is not quite as
rich
as you or me, however. Take care he isn’t looking for an advantageous marriage.”

“How dare you!” she said, turning on him in cold fury. “How dare you accuse Henri? Papa, why do you let this
bourgeois fils d’un—”

“Quiet, Sal!” Harlock said sternly. “Told you it ain’t that, Rob.”

“Whoever marries him is lucky! I wish I could marry him!”

“Yes, and might be glad to get him if he decides to spread the half of the stories you’ve been telling him. Your unfortunate adventures in arriving here are better kept within the family. You will be of quite sufficient curiosity to the vulgar mob without adding those tales to your repertoire,” Degan said.

“You forget Henri
is
family.
My
family! He is a good deal closer to me than
you
are. And doesn’t poker up at nothing either.”

“Someone
had better warn you, Lady Céleste, and as your father is disinclined to do so, I shall undertake to tell you myself that it will give a very poor idea of your morals to hear you have been sleeping in hayricks with men, and dancing with gypsies. No man will be interested in offering marriage to a young lady whose conduct tends to the suspicion that she is unchaste.”

“Nonsense! Sally is chaste. Ain’t you?” her father asked, with a sudden shiver that she was not. Good God! Living with Marie and growing up in heathen France. He sat in apprehension, waiting to hear confirmation that she was pure.

“Chased?” she asked, frowning. “Certainly I am the most chased lady in England. I was chased by the
forgeron
in Paris, the
boucher
in Berck, the baker in Tenterden—”

“Damme, not that chased. Was you
caught,
that’s what we want to know,” Harlock demanded impatiently.

“Ah,
tu parles de chastet
é
! Je suis vierge,
Papa.”

“What does she say?” he asked Degan.

“She says she’s a virgin,” he answered, and blushed to the roots of his hair to be using such language in polite mixed company.

“Thank God for that!” the father said, vastly relieved.

“But you cannot think me so foolish!” Sally objected, offended. “Till I am married I cannot have any lovers. We single girls must be very careful of that. Mama says—”

“Never mind what your mother told you!” Harlock said in a rising voice.

“You mean in England an unmarried girl
may
have lovers?” she asked, with a bright smile.

“No, that is not what he means!” Degan shouted.

“
Quoi donc
?”

“Such matters are not for a young lady to discuss. You shouldn’t know about such things.”

“How should I not know? Mama had dozens of lovers.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have!” Harlock said. “Damme, Degan, I begin to wonder if you ain’t right about Sal needing a husband.”

“I do not want a husband!” she said at once. “When it is time, I shall choose my own husband.”

“Some caper merchant like Mérigot,” Degan was unwise enough to say.

“Bettor a caper merchant than a
coq farci
like you,” she shot back.

“I am not a stuffed rooster!” he shouted, his voice strident.

“Vous avez raison.
You are an empty rooster, nothing but the crowing. I leave now, Papa.
Bon soir,
Citoyen
Coq,” she said saucily, and marched from the room.

“How soon does Miss Fawthrop arrive?” Degan asked.

“Told her to leave immediately. Should be here tomorrow or the day after. Was just thinking, Degan... she won’t be able to handle Sally. You’ll have to lend her a hand.”

“I! It has nothing to do with me.”

“Kin, after all. We don’t want Mérigot monopolizing her time, drawing her into his set.”

“Good God no!”

“You have a good circle of sensible acquaintances. Huntley and Deverel, that sort,” he said, naming two stodgy conservative lords.

With a memory of Sally’s sharp tongue and bold eyes, Degan began to suspect the girl’s father did not understand her, to suggest such stuffed cocks as husbands. Some sudden reversal in their opinions had taken place in the short space of twenty-four hours. Degan did not remain much longer, and when he left, he had begun to think he might have to sacrifice a few days and evenings to Lady Céleste. His heart, somehow, was not as heavy as it should have been at the awful prospect. His mind dwelt rather on a new maroon velvet jacket to spruce him up for the coming season. Didn’t want to look like a dashed parson, after all. Only twenty-nine years old.

Chapter Five

The next morning, Sally again breakfasted with her father and saw him off to the House, with the reminder he was to get Mama’s escape arranged at once. While he was leaving, her modiste arrived with the promised gown, a green sarsenet that set off her flaming crown. With no pelisse yet to warm her shoulders, the green Chinese shawl was again removed from the table in her room to perform this office. When Mérigot arrived, she stepped out the door with him, to be lifted into his high-perch carriage, and a stunning picture they made, sitting behind a pair of gray high-steppers, chatting and laughing.

Mérigot was much admired in a certain section of society, namely that band composed of ladies who were more interested in a flirt than a husband. Known to be virtually penniless, he was kept from a too dangerous propinquity to debutantes, but among the young married women, he was a popular escort.

The first stop was necessarily at the milliner’s, for Sally’s curls were uncovered by even a cap. She tried on various trifles designed for the pompadour style popular at the time, but they ill suited her
victime.
With an innate sense of elegance inherited from her French mother, she scorned them all, and with a curious eye at Mérigot’s
chapeau bras,
she purchased a length of green ribbon and a feather.

Their next stop was at a male hat merchant’s, where she purchased the smallest man’s hat the store contained. This she decorated with her green ribbon and feather, cocked the hat at a saucy angle over her left eye, and went sauntering out the door with this concoction on her curls.

Deeming herself now suitably attired, she took Henri’s arm to stroll along the shopping district, the pair gaining a good deal of attention for themselves. The ladies’ eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in jealousy, and soon settled down to a hard, calculating gaze to see how this mode might be copied.

Georgiana, duchess of Devonshire, though she had never had Mérigot presented to her, knew him by sight, and accosted him to be presented to Lady Céleste. With her drawling accent and capture of Fox, the ardent Whig, as her dear friend, Georgiana was the outstanding leader of the ton, and a stunning beauty.

“My dear Mérigot, you must forgive my brazenness in making myself known to you,” she said with a smile. “I heard from my friend Charles Fox last night that Harlock’s daughter is back from France, and
know
your charming companion is she.”

She then turned to Sally. “I knew your mama well, my dear. What a striking resemblance! I do hope she too managed to escape Robespierre.” Had Charles not told her she had, the question would not have been asked. Her real reason in making the acquaintance was to be the first to secure Lady Céleste’s attendance at a social function. By such little tricks as these did she retain her reputation as the first in society.

The desired introduction was performed, and for full ten minutes the party stood chatting on in the most amiable way. The ladies were mutually entranced with each other. Georgiana’s habit of sprinkling her conversation with many French phrases helped the friendship along, and before they parted an invitation had been extended to attend a small rout party three nights hence. Sally could not like to accept without a proper gown, but when a ball a little further in the future was mentioned, she expressed all eagerness to attend.

“She is the real queen of society,” Mérigot informed his companion.

“She is
très chic,”
Sally allowed. “Almost she makes the ridiculous styles of England appear attractive. Almost.”