Surrender to a Stranger (21 page)

“Unfortunately, Mademoiselle, the extent of my time away makes it urgent that I return to my home,” he told her. “I am sure you understand.”

“Of course,” she replied stiffly. His job was done, and even though he had been traveling for days at an exhausting pace and it was now the middle of the night, he was obviously anxious to return home, undoubtedly to the welcoming arms of a woman named Angélique. Her mind shot back to the tiny handkerchief carefully hidden in the bottom of the chest in his cabin. The silvery initials stitched into it were
ASJ.
Reluctantly her mind accepted the obvious. The initials stood for Angélique St. James. How utterly stupid of her not to realize it before. He was married.

“Pray, do not let me keep you from those who must anxiously await your return,” she said coolly. “I thank you for your services, even though they were not in keeping with my wishes, and bid you a safe journey.” Having dismissed him, she tightened her hold on Suzanne and lowered her gaze back to Séraphine, who had not taken her eyes off her.

He could not imagine what had provoked the sudden chill in her manner and tone, but he told himself it did not matter. He was finished here.

He bade the Harringtons good night, and even took a moment to say good-bye to Suzanne and Séraphine. Suzanne thanked him earnestly for bringing her sister to her, and Séraphine did not back away when he bent low and whispered a few words in her ear that Jacqueline could not hear.

And then he was gone.

She told herself she did not care, that she was glad to finally be released from his control and his constant company. She fixed her gaze on Séraphine, who remained standing in the doorway staring at her. She could not imagine what was going on in the little girl’s mind to make her want to keep her distance. Patience, she thought. I must go slowly and not force her to accept me.

“Well now, I think it’s time we all went to bed,” suggested Lady Harrington.

Ignoring the suggestion, Suzanne loosened her arms around Jacqueline’s neck and looked at her. “But where is Antoine?” she demanded with concern in French.

Surprised by the question, Jacqueline hesitated. She had not known that the girls were unaware of his death, and she was not sure this was the best moment to tell them. Since the death of their father had such a devastating effect on Séraphine, she did not think she should burden her sisters with even more grief at this time.

“Antoine was arrested and he remains in prison,” Jacqueline lied.

Suzanne looked at her in confusion. “But why didn’t someone rescue him so Monsieur St. James could bring him here with you?”

“Well, it is not so easy to rescue someone from prison,” explained Jacqueline. “But I received a letter from him before I left, and he is perfectly well, in good spirits, and he sends you both his love,” she continued seriously, hoping she was convincing.

“I think she is telling them that their brother is dead,” said Laura to her parents, who could not understand the conversation.

“Well, I am not sure this was the time,” fretted Lady Harrington, shaking her head. “But then, she is their sister, and if she decided this is the moment then she must know best.”

Suzanne stared in shock at Lady Harrington, who was looking down at her sympathetically. Her blue eyes filled with a mixture of horror and tears.

“Liar!” she cried out accusingly at Jacqueline. “You lie!” Tears began to rush down her grief-stricken face, and without giving Jacqueline a chance to reply, she turned and fled the room, her cries echoing in the enormous hallway.

Uncertain what to do, Jacqueline turned her attention to Séraphine, to see if she had understood whatever Laura and Lady Harrington had said. Séraphine stared back at her, her gray eyes no longer vacant, but hard and cold and far, far too worldly for a mere child of six. Then she, too, turned and left the room, the chilling sound of her silence far more disturbing than the anguished cries of her sister.

The next few weeks were miserable for Jacqueline.

Although she was grateful to be alive and reunited with her sisters, she knew her stay in England was only temporary, and therefore she had no desire to try to adapt to her new life. However, Sir Edward and Lady Harrington were anxious for her to put her past behind her and consider herself a member of their household, and that meant they wanted her to learn English as quickly as possible. Every morning she was privately tutored for three hours, but her lack of motivation made these sessions excruciatingly slow for both her and her teacher.

She spent her afternoons with Suzanne and Séraphine. Although Suzanne seemed to have come to terms with the news of Antoine’s death, and had forgiven Jacqueline for not telling her the truth, Séraphine’s feelings were a mystery, for the little girl remained distant and silent. Jacqueline decided it was best not to draw attention to Séraphine’s silence, and so she ignored it. She passed the afternoons reading and talking to both girls in French, receiving responses only from Suzanne, but making sure to divide her attention equally between the two of them. She was amazed at how caring and patient Suzanne was with her younger sister. She was always talking to her and asking her what she wanted, as if the expression in Séraphine’s eyes were answer enough. The separation from their home and the deaths they had endured had obviously bonded the two children, with Suzanne adopting the role of protective mother and Séraphine silently clinging to her wherever they went.

Lady Harrington and Laura had seen to it that Jacqueline was outfitted with a lavish new wardrobe. Jacqueline protested that the money she had sent with her sisters was not sufficient enough to be wasted on frivolous clothes, but Lady Harrington insisted on paying for the new wardrobe herself. She and Laura seemed to have a marvelous time with their project, cooing and smiling at Jacqueline’s fittings as if they were dressing a new doll. They ignored Jacqueline’s protests over all the evening gowns they ordered, even though Jacqueline tried to explain in her broken English that as she would not be attending any balls, she would have absolutely no use for the costly garments. They also largely ignored her preference for the color black, which Jacqueline wanted to wear to reflect her mood and her state of mourning. In the end Lady Harrington relented and allowed her to select two outfits in the somber color, a day dress and an evening dress, but only after insisting that the stomacher and hem of the evening gown be heavily encrusted with shimmering jet stones.

Lady Harrington was also thoughtful enough to engage a French maid for Jacqueline, a pretty girl named Charlotte. Charlotte had left France in the early stages of the revolution with a wealthy family who had decided to go to England until the situation in France calmed down. The family returned when the republican government began to threaten to confiscate the property and assets of émigrés, but Charlotte had been afraid of the turmoil raging in her birthplace and decided to remain in England.

On seeing Jacqueline’s hair, Charlotte immediately fetched a pair of scissors and gave her a good trim, so all the ragged ends were gone. She then began experimenting with the wavy length that remained, and eventually came up with an easy, loose twist that softly framed Jacqueline’s face, but did not require an hour to create or a massive quantity of pins and pomade to hold in place. Jacqueline found she was utterly uninterested in the matter of her appearance, and was quite happy to let Charlotte decide which outfit she would wear each day and how her hair would be arranged. Fortunately Charlotte took her work extremely seriously and had excellent taste, the result being that, despite Jacqueline’s utter indifference on the matter, she always looked absolutely lovely.

Within a few days of her arrival at the Harrington home, invitations to various social events began to arrive for Jacqueline. It seemed everyone was most curious to meet the young French aristocrat who had come so close to death before her miraculous escape. From lavish balls to intimate teas, Jacqueline declined every invitation extended to her. Although she explained to Lady Harrington that it was too soon for her to go out after Antoine’s death, and that she did not feel her English was proficient enough for her to enjoy herself, the real reason was simply that she did not want to go. She had no interest in enjoying herself or making friends in this strange country. All she wanted was to spend time with her sisters before she returned to France. The knowledge that others like her were still being murdered every day on the guillotine, and the thought of Nicolas still alive, undoubtedly enjoying the rewards of having denounced her father and brother, tore deeply into her every day.

She forced herself to think about him. She would imagine him seated at the dining-room table of the Château de Lambert as her father’s welcome guest. Nicolas had played the role of eager bourgeois idealist well in front of her father, denouncing the power of the monarchy, expounding on the rights of man, and offering the duc advice on how to diversify his investments to increase his wealth. From the beginning her father was totally duped by his charm, his intelligence, and his idealistic enthusiasm for the new order. But something about Nicolas had always disturbed Jacqueline. It was nothing that appeared on the surface, for he was handsome and charming, well-read and perfectly mannered. But sometimes, when her father wasn’t aware, she would look up from her plate and see Nicolas staring at her from across the table, his dark eyes burning into her with an intensity that was frightening.

When her father rejected his bold offer for Jacqueline’s hand in marriage, much to Jacqueline’s relief, and then almost immediately announced her betrothal to the Marquis de Biret, Jacqueline noticed a subtle change come over Nicolas. Although on the outside he still appeared friendly and charming, and assured her father that he understood his decision, there was a cold fury in his eye when he looked at her, a disturbing, brooding harshness that seemed to say he had not given up, that somehow she would be his, regardless of what her father thought. And he had very nearly succeeded. She constantly forced herself to remember every humiliating, degrading moment of his attempted rape that night in her cell, recalling how cruel he was, and how triumphant. She promised herself that when she finally killed him, she would be sure to make it as slow and painful as possible.

“Mother, do you think I should wear the peach silk or my dusty mauve satin to the Fleetwoods’ ball tonight?” Laura’s expression was grave, as if the entire future of England rested on this monumental decision.

Lady Harrington looked up from her embroidery. “I should think neither. It is, after all, a Christmas ball, and you should wear one of the deeper jewel tones of the season. One of your emerald or ruby velvets would be far more appropriate, and you will look lovely on the dance floor amongst all the red and green and gold Christmas decorations.”

“But everyone will be wearing jewel tones,” protested Laura. “And besides, the paler shades are ever so much more flattering against my skin tone.” She turned and looked at Jacqueline. “What do you think Jacklyn?” she asked in English. “The peach silk gown is absolutely covered with an arbor of fluffy little silk flowers,” she said enthusiastically, motioning with her hands as she envisioned it. “It is perfectly lovely and I have never even worn it. And the mauve gown has yards and yards of gathered lace at the wrists and the hem and in layers all over the bodice—why, it is absolutely delicious to look at. Which do you think I should wear?”

Pulled from her thoughts, Jacqueline closed the English grammar book she had been pretending to read and focused hard on the English words. Despite her relative lack of effort, over the weeks she had started to grasp enough of the language to comprehend some conversation, if it was spoken slowly, and make herself understood in return. She realized this apparently serious conversation had to do with the Christmas ball they were all invited to, and what Laura would wear. Jacqueline had already informed the Harringtons she would not be attending. Although at first they tried to convince her she would enjoy herself, in the end Lady Harrington had no choice but to accept her decision. Jacqueline studied Laura’s face as the girl waited expectantly for her advice, and found she could not help but feel irritated. Was she ever as silly and frivolous and vain as this girl? she wondered. Did the question of which gown one wore really need to occupy so much of one’s thoughts? How could they even think of going to a ball when England was at war and France was at this very moment slaughtering her own innocent subjects?

“I think…you must wear de peach gown,” suggested Jacqueline haltingly in English. “You will be”—she hesitated a moment—
“comme une fleur du printemps—
a spring flower—at Christmas.”

“Oh, what a perfectly lovely thought!” cooed Laura happily. “And doesn’t it sound even lovelier the way Jacklyn says it with that darling accent?”

“Jacklyn, my dear, your English is coming along very well,” commented Lady Harrington with approval. “I really think you ought to reconsider and come with us to the ball this evening. You need to get out and meet some people. Why, I am sure once you are there and dancing, you will find the evening will lift your spirits immensely.”

“You are kind, Lady Harrington, but I stay in this night,” replied Jacqueline slowly. “My sisters and I are having a small supper, and go to bed.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound like much fun at all,” declared Laura. “Honestly, Jacklyn, you cannot stay shut up in this house forever, you have to start going out and having some fun.”

“Laura is right, my dear,” agreed Lady Harrington. “I really think it is time for you to be introduced to society here. I realize you have suffered in ways that we can only imagine, but after all, life does have a way of going on, now doesn’t it?”

Cranfield appeared at the drawing-room doors. “Excuse me, Lady Harrington, there is a messenger at the door bearing a letter for Lady Jacklyn.”

“You see!” cried Laura triumphantly. “Another invitation! Why, people are just dying to meet you, Jacklyn. You really must say you will come out with us tonight just to appease their curiosities.”

“Thank you, Cranfield, bring the letter here,” instructed Lady Harrington.

Cranfield shook his head. “The gentleman says he has been instructed to deliver the envelope into Mademoiselle de Lambert’s hands only,” he explained stiffly, obviously insulted at not being trusted to deliver it himself.

They were speaking too quickly, and Jacqueline was only catching a few words here and there, but she understood that someone was there with something specifically for her, and since the only person she knew in England other than the Harringtons was Armand, her heart began to flutter with excitement.

She had not seen or heard from him since the night he delivered her here, and although she told herself she did not care, she often found herself wondering why he did not take the time at least to write a brief note and ask how she was. She had quickly learned he was not married, because after every party the Harringtons attended Laura would come in thoroughly disappointed that Armand had not been present. It was clear Laura had set her heart on him, and Jacqueline wondered if she knew about the mysterious Angélique, who she had decided was probably his mistress. The taking of a mistress was undoubtedly as common in England as it was in France, for one could not expect a man to control his desires and remain celibate before marriage. She thought back to the moment in the woods when Armand had tried to kiss her, and her cheeks began to burn. She was not sorry she had struck him with her fist, but sometimes as she lay in bed she found herself wondering what it would have been like had she allowed him to continue.

“Very well, Cranfield, send the gentleman in,” instructed Lady Harrington.

A moment later a young man heavily dressed against the cold stepped into the drawing room, holding a snow-covered hat in his hand.

“I am Mademoiselle de Lambert,” said Jacqueline, rising up from her chair. “You have something for me?”

The messenger reached into the layers of his woolen coat and produced a cream-colored envelope with a red seal. “I was hired in Dover to take this letter and see that it was delivered into your hands and no one else’s,” he explained seriously as he held it out to her. “The fellow who gave it to me was French, and he told me that a man’s very life was at stake,” he continued, obviously much impressed with the importance of his mission.

Jacqueline took the letter with a trembling hand, wondering who knew where to find her. Her name was penned in elegant script on the front. She turned the envelope over and examined the seal. She recognized it immediately. It was the seal of the Marquis de Biret. The letter was from François-Louis.

“Cranfield, please escort this young man to the kitchen where he can rest, and see that he is given something hot to eat,” directed Lady Harrington.

Jacqueline broke the seal and tore the envelope open, her mind racing with the possibilities of its contents. Perhaps François-Louis had escaped and was writing to tell her he was safe and working for the counterrevolution. Or perhaps he had news of her brother, who had not really died after all. Frantically her eyes scanned the page.