Minuet (8 page)

“She is gone out to a little do with Mérigot.”

“Some French party, I suppose?” Degan asked, uneasy.

“No, just an ordinary party.”

“The Casselmans’ rout?” Degan asked unconcernedly, thinking he would have to waste time going home for his own invitation.

“No, the Pantheon,” Harlock answered.

“The Pantheon!” Degan howled, on his feet. “You’ve never allowed Sally to go off to that brothel!”

“Pooh! Nothing of the sort. Everyone goes. Marie used to like it herself.” Marie also used to be forced to avoid the place, but a new set of rules was being devised to ingratiate the venturesome daughter. He had been too strict. There was just the trouble.

“Who is with her?” Degan asked.

“Just Mérigot.”

“You place too much faith in that scoundrel. He is only after her money.”

“I have told you he is not a suitor.”

“You’d better tell
him.
He acts mighty like one.”

“It is only the French way. There is nothing of that sort between them. I am her father. I know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t know what
they’re
doing. You’re being a good deal too lax with the girl. I’m going after them. What is she wearing?”

“A sheet. She hadn’t a domino, and had the servants running around to fix up a sheet for her to wear.”

“Good God, from curtains to sheets. She’ll be taking to the streets in a tea towel next thing we hear.”

“She wore one for a hood,” Harlock told him, laughing.

Degan was beyond speech. He dashed back the two blocks to his own home, to send servants scouring the house for a domino worn six years previously to a private masquerade party. It took them an age. He had half a mind to rip a canopy off a bed himself, but before he was put to such shifts, the domino, smelling of camphor and creased in wrinkles, was handed to him. He threw it on over his evening clothes, took up the half mask, and was off in his waiting carriage, without realizing he wore an anticipatory smile, which broadened into a grin of satisfaction as he envisioned Sally caught in some dreadful situation, where his sword was required to extricate her.

A white sheet and a tea towel were not so very hard to pick out at a masquerade where stylish silk and satin dominoes in a variety of bright colors were the more usual costume. She was in no worse strait than standing up with a rather awkward dancer, and if the tall, elegant black domino standing with his arms crossed watching her was not Mérigot, Degan would have been much surprised.

He stood observing the scene for several minutes, noticing her dainty steps, her slipping tea towel that gave a peek at her curls, which gleamed like polished copper under the hanging chandeliers, and confirmed beyond a doubt that the ghostlike costume concealed Mademoiselle Sally. Even in a sheet she managed an air of elegance. It was her haughty way of carrying herself so erect with her shoulders back that did it, he thought. She walked almost like a little soldier, except for that telltale swaying of the hips that was not at all military, nor very English either. Why was it the English girls all loped, like horses?

Degan waited impatiently for the dance to be over that he might stand up with her. Seeing the gentleman who partnered her, he realized he would do himself no credit with his rusty maneuvers. This would be the first time he had danced in months. He couldn’t think how he had come to fall out of the habit of dancing. He used to like it when he was younger. He decided to have a practice session with some other woman first, and was accepted by the first domino he asked. No introduction—nothing!

It was a reprehensibly low spot for Mérigot to have brought the girl. That his own partner turned out to be Lady Mary Stuyvesan was no consolation either. It only proved the whole body of society had become inexplicably lax in the rearing of its daughters. He lost sight of Sally during the demands of the dance, and wasted several minutes peering around the hall for the white domino after it was over. Then he saw her at a table, with Mérigot he thought. As he was about to approach them, they arose to have a turn about the room. When they both disappeared into a private parlor, he was off in hot pursuit.

Sally was enjoying her evening immensely. Henri was an exquisite dancer, and the music and gay crowds took her back to the revels held at Grandpère’s home before the troubles began. Her partners, approved by Henri, were all French, so that she could speak her preferred tongue, heightening the similarity to home. If only Mama and Édouard could be here, it would be perfect. But they would be safe soon. Papa was taking care of it.

It was Henri’s habit to come to her at the end of each dance to present her to her next partner. A short while ago, however, he had put the comte de Rasselin in charge of her, for he had to speak to some man on urgent business. When a stranger asked for permission to dance with her, she thought very little of it. The man was an execrable dancer, but he was polite and sober, even if he was not French, and seemed well behaved. Not all the men present were quite sober, she had observed. The gentleman amused her with some bantering flirtation, at which she was particularly adept, and at the dance’s end offered to escort her to her table. Henri was not there when she arrived, which bothered her a little, but it was their table. Henri’s gloves were there, and her own fan.

The stranger, seeing her deserted, took the notion she was no lady, and began to alter his plans accordingly. “Would you like to go out for some air?” he first suggested.

No, no, she would wait for her friend. But still, when the music began, her friend did not return, and the man became more pressing. He waited with her while she sipped her wine and searched the room with her eyes, till finally she accepted his offer to walk around the room’s edge to allow a better view of the dancers.

As they passed a private parlor where the door stood open, he suddenly pulled her inside and began embracing her. She was a good deal surprised, but more annoyed than frightened. She pushed him off expertly, and made to walk past him, but his hand went out for the door handle, and his other grabbed her wrist.

“Not so fast, my little strumpet,” he said, joking and in a good mood.

“Strumpet?
Qu’est-ce que c’est que
strumpet?” she demanded.

“Odd you don’t know the word, as you are one yourself, or I miss my bet. But as I see you prefer French, I believe the word is—” He stopped in midspeech as there was a sound at the door. It was thrown open, and Degan stepped in in his wrinkled domino, drawing his sword.

“This time you have gone too far, Mérigot!” he said in a hot voice.

“Ah,
citoyen,
it is you!” Sally said, not at all pleased to see him.
“Mais vous vous trompez.
This is not Henri.”

“Mérigot? Good God, you’re not Harlock’s daughter!” the stranger exclaimed in fearful accents, for the tale of Lady Céleste’s arrival and shopping trip had already begun to make the rounds.

“Allan! Surely it’s not
you!”
Degan shouted, and reaching out he pulled the half mask from the stranger’s face.

The stranger at this moment recognized the intruder as well, and shouted, “Good lord, what the deuce are
you
doing here, Degan?”

“Qui est-il?”
Sally asked Degan.

“It’s Lord Ashmore,” Degan said, astonished to the marrow of his bones to find a friend whom he had always believed to be a sober and responsible gentleman involved in such a contretemps.

“
Monsieur, je suis enchantée de faire votre connaissance
,” Sally said with a polite curtsy.

“How do you do, ma’am?” Ashmore replied, coloring up, and trying to redeem some shred of respectability in the young lady’s eyes. “I had no idea who you were.”

“Yes? May I know who it was you meant to treat so rudely?” she asked him.

“I didn’t know you were a
lady.
I thought you were... Degan, how do you let your cousin come to a place like this, and abandon her so shamefully?” Ashmore demanded, turning on poor Lord Degan.

“He thought I was a strumpet,” she explained to Degan, while Ashmore grimaced at her. “What is it, a strumpet? Is it what one takes with tea?”

Degan turned to Lord Ashmore, hastily considering whether to hit him or demand the more formal satisfaction of a duel. “I had no idea who she was!” Ashmore rushed in, in a tone of abject apology. “In a place like this, you know...” Then he turned to Sally, still babbling, “I am truly sorry, ma’am. Pray forgive my rudeness.”

“Very well, but you mustn’t call me names again, and when I wish to leave a room, I do not expect a gentleman to bar the door, but open it.
Comprise?”
she asked in a coquettish way.

“Yes, certainly,” he said, leaping to the door to hold it wide. Degan, envisioning the scandal of a duel in the lady’s honor, jerked his head toward the door in a dismissing gesture. Ashmore was not tardy in escaping.

“I hope you’re satisfied!” he said, turning to Sally in a fine rage. His heroics were all reduced to farce, and the lady not grateful but laughing.

“No, monsieur, I am not at all satisfied to find Englishmen such
poltrons.
If you were French, you would have demanded satisfaction in a duel. I think I am insulted, to be called a strumpet. What is it, the strumpet?”

“I think you know very well what it is, and it is what you will be taken for if you carry on in this loose way.”

“No, but I
don’t
know, Degan. Is it the
prostituée?
Is that what that
vaurien
called me? And you let him walk out the door with his head still on his shoulders.
Morbleu,
I must tell Henri. He will protect my name.”

Things were going from bad to worse. “No! Don’t tell him! If he’d been with you as he should have, this wouldn’t have happened. No one but riff-raff comes to a place like this. The women are all lightskirts, and the men here to pick them up.”

She stared at him with fascination.
“Mon Dieu,
you amaze me! I would not have expected to find Citoyen Degan at such a place, but saying his prayers in church. Which lightskirt is it you mean to take home,
citoyen?”

“You.”

“Ah, you forget!
I
must not be caught till I am safely married. I am not a lightskirt, but have my pockets weighed down with Aunt Dee’s gold.
Cela change tout, n’est-ce pas?”

“I didn’t mean that!” he said through clenched teeth.

“I do not appeal to you? Your friend Lord Ashmore has better taste.”

“That is a matter of opinion. I came here to take you home to your father. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Well, I think I have,” she said consideringly, while she ran her eyes over his getup. “This Pantheon is not at all
comme il faut.
When a gentleman is allowed to enter an assembly wearing an unpressed domino that reeks of camphor, it is not the thing. But first I must find Henri.”

“To hell with Henry.”

“Oh, I like those words. To hell with Henry! How angry they sound. But still he must fight the duel. Otherwise I am disgraced.”

“You will be in disgrace if he does. It is best to keep this unsavory affair quiet, and trust Ashmore will have the good sense to do the same.”

“Ah
oui,
he is the
poltron,
that one. Picking on an unprotected woman. He is a good friend of yours?”

“No, he is not.”

“No? Then there is no excuse for you not to fight! I thought he was your friend. Nothing else could excuse your lack of protecting my name.”

“He
was
a friend before tonight. And I don’t by any means consider him fully to blame either. What was anyone to think, finding you alone at a do like this?”

“He was to think me a strumpet.
Je comprends.
I should not have come. Let us go. I shall let Henri worry. It will serve him well for bringing me here. But
citoyen,
you must not tell Papa. He will only worry unduly.”

“He will worry;
not
unduly.”

“You must not tell him, please.”

“He ought to be told how Henry behaves when he takes you out.”

“Oh, Henri behaves well enough. It is only that he told me to stay with de Rasselin, but he is a terrible dancer, that one. How he
lacère
the toes. Henri had word of a smuggling ship going to France, and wished to confirm the details. There—there is Henri now,” she said, looking out the door. Before Degan could get a hand on her, she had darted out. By the time Degan reached them, Mérigot was making his bows, and thanking Degan for taking her home. Degan had a great deal to get off his chest, but when Sally turned to him with a smile and put her hand on his arm, he felt his ill humor fall away as if by magic.

“We must look
très d
é
class
é
s, toi et moi,”
she said with a merry smile. “I in my sheet, and you in that horrid
thing.
Why did you not have your domino pressed, Degan?”

The
toi et moi
had an intimate sound to it that pleased him. She usually used the more formal
vous.
Her former crimes began to seem quite trivial. She was half forgiven before the door of the carriage was closed, and when she offered no objection to his sharing her banquette, but moved over to make room for him even before he had chosen a seat, he began to see she had been put upon badly by Mérigot.

He was surprised, pleasantly so, when she then reached out and took his arm in the darkness. This was a style never before come across with the dull ladies who were his occasional partners. French manners, he assumed, and said nothing. He felt an urge to reach out and pat those fingers that did more than just lie there. They were holding his arm with a noticeable pressure.

Her conversation was not in keeping with any mood of intimacy, however. “Henri has got positive word on a lugger that will take a band to France if Fox’s plan falls through,” she told him. “It is a Monsieur Fargé from Folkestone. One of the émigrés is in on the deal. Le baron de Persigny. You recall the man with the arm missing? It is how he meets expenses till he reclaims his estates. He will land them at Cap Gris. Do you think I should ask Papa to hire him, Degan?”