Amanda Scott (11 page)

Meriel looked at Gladys, her eyes twinkling. “Gracious me, what a good thing we needn’t wear panniers anymore. I daresay even one petticoat would impede progress through this room.”

“Indeed, my lady, but everything is as neat as wax.”

The cordial, when it was presented, had a fruity flavor, and Meriel liked it very much, but she suspected that it might be heady stuff and sipped cautiously. She was glad, when her host appeared, to get it upon the table and leave it there.

The priest proved to be an elderly gentleman with a neat white fringe encircling his otherwise bald and shining pate. His cassock draped gently over his round stomach, and he carried his hands folded at his waist, which was girded with a long rope sash of twisted gray cording. His smile was gentle, and his voice when he greeted her was low-pitched and melodious.

“Good evening,
mademoiselle
. I trust Fernand has seen to your wishes.” His English was precise, overlaid with a delightful Gallic accent.

Meriel rose gracefully to her feet and curtsied. “Good evening, sir. I have brought a letter from your friend Mr. Murray, who thought you would be able to help me.” She extracted the letter carefully from her leather reticule and handed it to him.

“
Merci, mademoiselle
. Be seated, please.” He waved her back to her chair, nodded at Gladys Peat, then took his seat upon a straight-backed chair that looked as though it had served the inhabitants of the cottage since the days of Julius Caesar. “You permit?” He gestured toward the letter, and she nodded, watching in fascination as he removed the seal with great care and unfolded Mr. Murray’s letter. Despite these careful movements, however, he scanned the missive rapidly, and when he had finished, he looked up with a smile. “It will be my pleasure to assist you,
mademoiselle
. I know the … how you say?” He tapped his head, frowning briefly before his brow cleared and he went on, “Ah, yes, I know the headmistress, Mademoiselle Lecolier, well and can recommend l’Ecole de Bonté without reservation. What do you wish to know precisely?”

She explained, asked a number of questions, and received reassuring responses. In less than twenty minutes she rose to her feet, held out her hand, and said, “I thank you most sincerely, sir. Just knowing that you think so highly of Mademoiselle Lecolier and her staff will make my visit to the school tomorrow a pleasant one. I have not been quite easy in my mind, you see, about allowing Gwenyth to attend a school so far from home. She knows no one here, although our sister, the Comtesse de Prévenu, is no farther away than Paris.”

“Ah,
la comtesse de joyeuse
, the merry countess, she is your sister,
mademoiselle
?”

Meriel smiled. “Is that how she is called here? It is a most appropriate name for her, I think. Yes, indeed, she was the Lady Nest Traherne before her marriage to the
comte
. You know her?”

“Not to say ‘know,’
mademoiselle
, but I hear delightful tales of her. She is well-loved in Paris, you know. It is a great pity that the
comte
has offended, but
la comtesse
, she sees the bright side of everything. She goes her merry way, they say.”

“So I am told,” Meriel said dryly. “She writes that all is well despite her husband’s imprisonment, but I must see for myself if that is the truth of the matter.”

“You go to Paris,
mademoiselle
?”

“Indeed, sir, as soon as my business here is done.” She extended her hand. “Thank you again for your kindness.”

He nodded, smiling but abstracted, no doubt having dismissed her already and returned his thoughts to his religious duties. Within moments Meriel and Gladys Peat were back in the hired carriage, and less than a quarter-hour later they were set down once again at the Sabot d’Or. Inside, as they moved toward the stairway, the fat innkeeper stepped forward to meet them, much, Meriel thought, as though he had been awaiting their return.

“
S’il vous plaît, madame
,” he said, bowing so low his dark curls threatened to sweep the floor, “
je vous en pris
.”

“What is it?” Meriel asked.

“What ails the man, m’lady?” Gladys demanded at the same time. “He looks fit to bust himself.”

The innkeeper straightened, then bobbed again before saying obsequiously in careful English, “I regret,
madame
, that you were put into the wrong chamber. Had we but known that you travel with the English milord, such an error would never have been permitted.”

M
ERIEL STARED AT THE
fat little innkeeper. “We have been moved to another bedchamber?” When he nodded fervently, she said, “But you insisted that there were no others.”

“A mistake,
madame
.” He wrung his hands. “My wife, it was my wife who made the error. Please,
madame
, you will not be dismayed. I insist—”

“Good afternoon, Lady Meriel.”

The greeting came from the top of the narrow stairway, and Meriel looked up to discover Sir Antony Davies on the point of descending. He was dressed exquisitely in cream-colored breeches, top boots, a perfectly cut coat of chestnut superfine, and a somewhat startling green brocade waistcoat embroidered all over with bright yellow flowers. He had hesitated on the second step from the top, his quizzing glass poised before his right eye, and he peered down at them now as though they were interesting but foreign specimens. She could not say she was surprised to see him. No other English milord would be likely to have claimed acquaintance with them.

“Good afternoon, Sir Antony,” she said wryly. “You told this man we were traveling with you?”

He shrugged. “He may have received such an impression. Are you vexed with me, ma’am?”

“Not if you have acquired a better chamber for us than the one we had,” she said, keeping her tone light with an effort. She was vexed but she would not show her feelings before the landlord. She turned to him now. “Where is the new room, if you please?”

“I show you,
madame
. At once,
madame
.”

“One moment,” Sir Antony said gently, descending the stairs with his usual languid air. “Have you been to visit the headmistress at l’École de Bonté already, my lady?”

“No, sir, we merely called upon one Père Leclerc, a priest who is acquainted with Mr. George Murray. You will recall, sir, that Mr. Murray kindly offered to provide me with an introduction to him, saying that he would have information about the school.”

“And was Leclerc helpful?”

“Indeed, sir, he assured me that the school is an excellent one, and I quite look forward to making the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Lecolier.” She glanced at the innkeeper, who was looking from one to the other of them with a puzzled frown as though he were attempting to keep up with the conversation.

Sir Antony had reached the ground floor by this time and stood quite close to her, looking down with a twinkle lurking deep in his hazel eyes. “You know, ma’am, I believe my sister would truly benefit from a French education. Perhaps you will not object if I accompany you to the school tomorrow.”

She gazed at him steadily. “I have no objection to your company, sir, though you must forgive me if I take leave to doubt you mean to send your sister here to continue her studies.”

“Must I?” he inquired blandly. “Ah, but here is the good Santerre awaiting your pleasure. Oh, and I have taken the liberty,” he added in that same bland tone, “of ordering supper in the private parlor later. I do hope you and Mrs. Peat will join me.”

Meriel was suddenly aware of a leaping mixture of emotions in her breast. Annoyance vied with pleasure, and there was a sense of pressure as well. Her first inclination was to snub him, but as she stared into those innocent eyes, she could not bring herself to believe that Sir Antony really meant to manipulate her actions. He was merely being kind. One could not snub such a man. Consequently she smiled and nodded.

“You are most considerate, sir.”

“Oh, no,” he replied. “I merely dislike dining alone.”

She chuckled and made ready to follow the landlord. Halfway up the stairs, she looked back over her shoulder, expecting to discover Sir Antony still standing at the foot of the stairway watching them. To her disappointment, he had already disappeared into the taproom.

The new bedchamber, located at the rear of the inn, away from the noise and bustle of the street, was far more pleasant than their former quarters. Even Gladys Peat exclaimed her pleasure. Meriel smiled at her enthusiasm, but when the older lady pointed out that despite the many faults undeniably possessed by all gentlemen, a lady generally did better to have one arranging things for her when traveling in Foreign Parts, she took instant exception.

“Had I realized there were other rooms available, that foolish innkeeper would never have fobbed us off with the one he gave us,” she declared stoutly.

“Perhaps, m’lady, but the fact is that he took advantage of your good nature, and ’twas Sir Antony who mended the matter in a trice.” She sniffed. “He took a great deal upon himself that he ought not to have taken, of course. But that be always the way with them, which only goes to show.”

What it went to show, Meriel had no desire to know, so she turned her attention to preparing herself for supper, which proved to be an entirely pleasant meal. There was nothing in Sir Antony’s behavior to unsettle her. Although he seemed more alert than usual, as though he were watching her carefully, perhaps even as though he feared he might have vexed her despite her assurances to the contrary, his conversation was as benign as ever.

If she was disappointed not to observe the look of tenderness she had seen the night before, she told herself it was just as well. She had her family duties to occupy her mind and could not be thinking of other, more fanciful matters. Firmly directing her thoughts to such questions as she might wish to ask Mademoiselle Lecolier upon the morrow, she ruthlessly abandoned Sir Antony to exchanging commonplaces with Gladys Peat.

The following day, when Meriel was ready to depart for the school, she discovered that Sir Antony had been awaiting her pleasure for some time in the coffee room. Smiling, she informed him that she would be ready in a trice, just as soon as she sent round for the gig she had hired the previous day.

“There is a carriage awaiting us at the door, ma’am,” he said gently.

“Really, sir, you take too much upon yourself.”

“Not at all,” he returned smoothly. “I had thought it decided between us that we would go along to the school together, so I arranged for a carriage comfortable enough to carry three. That gig you hired has room for only two.”

There was nothing to say to that, so she gathered her dignity without a further word, ignoring a grimace from Gladys Peat that as much as told her that that lady had known precisely how it would be, and stepped outside and into the carriage.

It was a far cleaner and more comfortable vehicle than the one that had carried them to Père Leclerc’s cottage the previous day, and without a thought she closed her eyes and leaned back against silken squabs with a sigh of pleasure. Then, when the coach body shifted to accommodate Sir Antony’s weight as he moved onto the seat facing hers, she opened her eyes and straightened self-consciously, finding it difficult to meet his twinkling gaze.

Gladys sat stiffly beside her, saying not a word, but the journey was a swift one, for the school was located a mere two streets from the inn. Soon they found themselves in a refreshingly neat office facing a lady of some sixty years, whose elegant dress and perfect posture impressed Meriel the minute the woman stepped forward to introduce herself.

“I wrote to you,
mademoiselle
, to tell you I was considering placing my youngest sister, Gwenyth, in your school.”

“Indeed, my lady,” said the headmistress in nearly unaccented English, “I remember well. You wish now to see the school, yes?”

“Yes, thank you, and to make certain inquiries. This gentleman is Sir Antony Davies, who is interested in your school on behalf of his younger sister.”

The headmistress nodded, indicated that they should take their seats, then spread her hands as though to say she welcomed whatever questions they might have. For the next half-hour Meriel was regaled with the virtues and merits of l’École de Bonté, and the tour that followed showed her a well-managed boarding school so efficiently run that she could only be impressed. The extra fees, although they proved to be as numerous as Sir Antony had foretold they would be, were still reasonable and well within the limits she had set for herself. Thus, it was with surprise that she heard herself saying, once they had returned to Mademoiselle’s office, that she would give the matter her full consideration and let Mademoiselle know as soon as she had come to a decision. Had she been asked why she was equivocating, she would have been hard pressed to give a sensible answer. She knew only that when she opened her mouth to say that Gwenyth would be delighted with the school, those were not the words that issued forth. Fortunately, no one questioned her. Back in the hired carriage, both Sir Antony and Gladys Peat were silent on the subject.

The next morning when she descended the stairs to find that the post chaise she had hired to carry her to Paris was standing ready in the innyard, she was scarcely surprised to discover Sir Antony standing near it, booted and spurred, wearing buckskin breeches and a dark coat. He had formed the intention, he told her casually, of traveling on that day.

She had taken his measure by now. “To Paris, sir?” she inquired, raising an eyebrow in gentle mockery.

“Why, yes, ma’am.” Taking the reins from the groom who led a large bay gelding into the yard, he handed the boy a douceur before turning back to Meriel with a tiny smile upon his lips. “Surely I mentioned earlier that such was my intention.”

She chuckled. “No more, sir, than you informed me that you meant to take up residence in whatever inn we chose for ourselves in Rouen, but I ought to have realized that you would do so. Do you have no faith in my ability to look after myself?”

If she had thought to startle him into admitting a wish to look after her, she had missed her mark. He did indeed look faintly shocked by her candor, but that was the extent of it. “Nonsense, my lady. I should never dream of setting myself in judgment over your activities. ’Tis merely that our ways seem to converge, and I prefer company to the lack of it.”