Sylvia Andrew (20 page)

Marcus set his jaw. ‘Will you let me know when Lord Beaudon is ready to see people? I might at least be permitted to visit her father. Does Denver come often?’

‘He is very attentive. But Francesca really does not have a great deal of time, you know. She is with her father most of the day, and rarely sees anyone other than myself and Lydia.’

‘Is she getting fresh air?’

‘I do my best to persuade her. She occasionally consents to go for a drive with Lord Denver, but it is not enough.’

Marcus looked at her curiously. She seemed unaware of any official link between Francesca and Denver. And though he had spoken to Denver himself several times, there had been no further mention of a betrothal. Damn it, he thought irritably, what was wrong with the man? He ought to have been here all the time, shouldering Francesca’s burdens, making sure she had enough rest, exercise, fresh air and generally exerting his right to take care of her! What was the man made of?

Or—his heart gave a great leap at the thought—was it possible that he had been mistaken in what he had heard that fateful evening? Was there still a chance of winning Francesca, after all? Somehow or other, he must, he would find out. But to do that, he would have to see her, and at the moment that was apparently impossible. He would wait. She couldn’t refuse forever.

None of these thoughts showed, however, as he said in his usual calm manner, ‘I see. Well, I place my confidence in you, Maria. You have said you will let me know when Lord Beaudon is well enough to see me. Francesca need not be there if she does not wish. Is she…is she well?’

‘She looks pale and tired, I’m afraid. It’s natural—her nights are frequently interrupted. Once or twice I have found
her sitting in her father’s room wide awake, even in the small hours. It isn’t at all necessary for her to do so—he sleeps quite well now, and, in any case, the nurse is always present. I think she herself finds it difficult to sleep.’

Marcus nodded. The sooner he sorted out this business of Francesca’s engagement, the better. It was clear that she was urgently in need of someone to look after her.

The summons to Lord Beaudon’s bedchamber came a few days later. Marcus set off for Mount Street in a frame of mind that was a good deal happier than on his previous visit. He had used the time to good effect. A convivial evening with Denver had established that the engagement was a tenuous one—more an agreement on the lady’s part to consider an offer, rather than a commitment to accept.

Lord Denver was sanguine about the outcome. Francesca had treated him with more kindness than any of her other suitors, and, what was more, she had assured him that no one else, not even Marcus with whom her name had been linked, had a right to greater hope.

Marcus listened, filled up Denver’s glass, and pitied him from the bottom of his heart. If his friend had succeeded in winning from Francesca a firm committment to marry him, then Marcus would have been forced to step aside. But as it was…Denver had no idea of Francesca’s true nature. Her passion, her laughter, even the strength of her character were unknown to him. If he ever did manage to discover them, they might even come as an unwelcome surprise. No, there was no doubt whatsoever—Francesca would be wasted on this kind, conventional…ordinary man.

So Marcus went back to Mount Street, determined to set about persuading Francesca that she was his and his alone. His plans suffered a setback when he was told once again that Francesca would not meet him. Undaunted, he asked to see
Lord Beaudon and was conducted up the stairs to a large bedchamber on the second floor. Francesca was nowhere to be seen, but Lord Beaudon was awake and watching with a fierce eye. Marcus greeted him fearlessly, then sat down and proceeded to give him a clear account of what had happened since the evening at White’s. Lord Beaudon nodded once or twice, but still seemed unhappy.

‘What is it, sir?’

The pale lips mouthed, ‘Madeleine. P-Paris.’

‘I don’t understand. Can you repeat it?’

‘Mad-M-Madeleine. Want you to go.’ He moved restlessly when he saw that Marcus was still looking puzzled. ‘Francesca. Fetch Fran…Francesca.’

Marcus went to the door and told the servant to bring Miss Beaudon. She came a few minutes later. When she saw Marcus, her step faltered, but her eyes went to her father. Marcus was shocked at her appearance. She looked as if she had not slept for a week.

‘He was asking for you,’ Marcus said. ‘I’ll leave you with him.’

There was a grunt from the bed. Francesca hurried over. ‘What is it, Papa?’ she asked urgently. ‘Are you in pain?’

‘Ca…arne. Stay.’

Marcus came back to stand on the other side of the bed. ‘I’m here, sir. What can I do?’

‘Pa…aris.’ Lord Beaudon’s eyes went to Francesca. ‘Mmm-eant to tell.’ He frowned and said suddenly, ‘Madeleine.’

‘That’s what he was saying before,’ Marcus said softly. ‘Do you know what it means?’

‘Madeleine…I don’t—Papa! Do you mean Maddy?’

Lord Beaudon nodded, a smile of relief on his worn face.

‘Do you know where she is?’

‘Paa…ris.’ Exhausted with his efforts to speak, Lord Beaudon closed his eyes.

‘Papa! Papa!’ There was no response. The eyelids did not even flicker.

‘Leave him, Francesca. Let him rest.’

‘But you don’t understand! It’s Maddy! He wants to tell me about Maddy.’

‘He can’t tell you anything more for the moment. Look at him.’

Lord Beaudon was lying perfectly still, eyes shut, his face pale and sunken. He was sound asleep.

‘He’ll tell you more when he wakes up. You’ll have to be patient. Who is Maddy?’

‘My nurse. On St Marthe. She came with me to England, but my aunt sent her away. I have always wondered what became of her.’ A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘He’s known all the time, and never told me.’

‘Come and sit down. Your father won’t wake for a while. He’s exhausted.’ He led her to her chair by the window and sat her down. He looked at her white face, the dark shadows under her eyes, saw that her hands were trembling, and had some difficulty in stopping himself from taking her in his arms to give her comfort. He would almost certainly be rejected. Instead, he called the servant and ordered some wine to be sent up. When it came, he persuaded her to drink some. A little colour came into her cheeks. Then he drew another chair up and set himself to soothe her shattered nerves.

‘Now tell me about Maddy. Her real name is Madeleine? It’s a pretty name. My nurse was called Mrs Rolls. My sister and I called her Roly-Poly. And she was.’

‘Maddy wasn’t fat. She was a beautiful woman.’

‘Tell me about her.’

Francesca seemed to have forgotten their last devastating meeting. She sat passively while he held her hand and encouraged her to talk about her life on St Marthe.

‘Mama was ill after I was born. I don’t know what she had,
but it meant she had to rest a lot. Maddy was engaged to look after me, when I was just a few weeks old.’

‘She took the place of your mother?’

‘Oh, no! I spent a great deal of time with Mama—and Maddy was there, too. Mama had a huge bedroom with a veranda overlooking the sea. It was full of white draperies. I remember thinking how pretty they looked fluttering in the breeze—the Trade Winds, I suppose. No, Maddy and Mama were friends. They laughed a lot.’

‘Who was Maddy? Where had she come from?’

‘I’m not sure. I think she had lost her own family in a hurricane. She was a Creole. They were both so beautiful, Mama and Maddy. Mama was blonde and little, with dark brown eyes, but Maddy was quite tall. She had black hair and a skin that looked like the petals of the magnolias that grew at the side of the house.’

Marcus blinked. Privately he wondered how Lord Beaudon had dealt with the problem of an invalid wife and a raven-haired beauty as his daughter’s nurse. It was as if Francesca could read his mind.

‘I expect you’re wondering about Maddy’s position in our household. She was my nurse, of course. But later, when I got older and used to think about the time on St Marthe, I often wondered how my father viewed her. At the time I had no high opinion of him, so I assumed the worst. But one thing I was always sure of, even as a child. My mother and Maddy loved one another. Whatever happened, they were friends. And Maddy was as unhappy as I was when my mother died.’

‘Whatever the truth of it, your father must have placed your comfort above his own. He sent this Maddy to England with you.’

‘Yes, he did, didn’t he?’ She sat for a moment in thought. ‘I didn’t see a lot of him on St Marthe—or at least, I don’t remember seeing him much. But since he came back, I have
talked to him a great deal. I am quite sure now he was devoted to my mother.’

‘When did your mother die?’

‘When I was five. More than twenty years ago.’

‘And you have never seen or heard of Maddy since she left Shelwood.’

‘Not till today.’

‘Then we must find out where she is. Your father clearly knows.’

‘I think…I think she might have gone back to stay with him. Which would mean that she was in Paris now.’

‘We shall see.’ He took her other hand in his and bent forward. ‘I’ll help you all I can.’

Francesca looked up at him, then seemed suddenly to realise who he was. She snatched her hands away from him and jumped up. ‘Thank you, but I don’t need your help. I can send for Maddy myself as soon as I know for sure where she can be found.’

‘Your father seems to regard me as necessary.’

‘He is sick.’

‘And therefore not to be listened to?’

‘I told you, I don’t need anyone!’

‘What about Denver?’

‘Oh. Oh, yes. He’ll help me. If I need him. I must ask you to go now. My father will soon wake.’

‘In that case I must stay—to take my leave of him.’

Francesca said nothing, but moved away to the side of the bed. Once again Marcus stood on the other side. Their eyes met.

‘Can’t you forgive me?’ he said.

‘I…find it hard. I find it hard to forgive myself.’

‘Don’t say that! You have nothing, nothing at all, to forgive yourself for! Let me start again, Francesca. I’ve been all kinds of a fool, but you must believe me when I say that I’ve come to my senses at last.’

‘I…I owe something to Lord Denver.’

‘George Denver isn’t the issue between us. You know that. Can you compare what you feel for him with your feeling for me? Can you forget what happened the last time we met?’

Francesca shut her eyes. When she opened them again, they were full of pain.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, I can. I will. I won’t let myself remember. I don’t want any part of it. Please go, Marcus!’

‘I know I hurt you in the past, and I cannot say how much I regret it. But can’t you bring yourself to trust me now? Please, Francesca!’

She started to shake her head, then looked at him uncertainly, confusion in her eyes. The sincerity in his voice had had an effect. ‘I…I…I don’t know,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t know. I can’t think at the moment. It’s all been too much. You’ll have to excuse me.’

He saw that she was at the end of her tether and grew angry with himself for pushing her too far, too quickly. ‘It’s all right, my dear,’ he said swiftly. ‘I’ll wait. At least you haven’t refused to think about it. But don’t shut me out completely. I’ll leave you to say my farewells to your father. I’ll come again as soon as he wishes.’

He took his leave of her and went out. Francesca watched him go. Neither of them had noticed that Lord Beaudon’s eyes were wide open, and that he was studying them both, straining to hear what they were saying. By the time Francesca turned back to the bed, his eyes were shut.

M
arcus cancelled most of his engagements and came back at an early hour the next day, without waiting for a summons. Lord Beaudon had made it clear that he was to help Francesca in the business of ‘Maddy’. That ‘Maddy’ was important to both of the Beaudons was reason enough in Marcus’s mind to abandon any obligations to the rest of Society.

When Mrs Canfield saw him arrive, she shook her head and intercepted him before he had set foot on the stairs.

‘May I have a word with you, Marcus?’

He hesitated, then good manners prevailed. They went into the salon.

‘Why are you here?’

‘To see Lord Beaudon.’

‘You are very good, I know that. Who should know better? But do you not think you are being a little…unwise, Marcus?’

‘Unwise?’ he asked with a touch of hauteur.

‘The gossip has been silenced for the moment. But do you not think your frequent visits—your very frequent visits—might provoke more? You know what London is like. I am venturing to speak to you like this, Marcus, because I am very fond of both you and Francesca. She has enough to bear at
the moment without becoming the topic of more speculation.’

‘Lord Beaudon has conveyed that he wants my help in some way, Maria. I am here to see if he can make his wishes clearer. I shall probably not even see Francesca.’

‘Is there no one else who can aid Lord Beaudon?’

‘Apparently not. Not even Denver.’ This was said with a certain degree of satisfaction.

‘You realise that your readiness to help may lead others to read more into your relationship with Lord Beaudon’s daughter than you might wish?’

‘That is not possible.’ Mrs Canfield’s eyes widened. He smiled ruefully and said, ‘I had not intended to say as much to anyone yet. Certainly not to Francesca herself—but I think I may rely on your discretion, Maria. You are the first to know that when all this is over, I intend to ask Francesca to marry me.’

‘Marcus! This is very sudden. I had no idea—’

‘Do you think she will?’

He waited for her answer with more anxiety than he was willing to reveal. Maria Canfield must be more in Francesca’s confidence than most.

‘I…I don’t know,’ she said slowly. He had the impression she was choosing her words carefully. ‘You have a powerful effect on her, of that I am certain. I know you two met in the past, but Francesca has never talked about it to me. I suspect she has painful memories of it.’ He would have spoken, but she went on, ‘That must remain between you. I do know that she has set her mind on marrying someone…less dangerous to her peace of mind than you appear to be.’ She paused, then added, ‘Lord Denver is devoted to her.’

‘He would never make her really happy, of that I am sure.’

‘How can you say so? It is my opinion that Lord Denver is everything a young girl could hope for. Indeed, I could have wished…But no matter.’

‘That’s just the point, Maria! George Denver is the best of fellows—a man couldn’t ask for a better friend. He would make an excellent husband for a young girl—someone like Lydia, for example. But Francesca is not a young girl! She is an intelligent, strong-minded woman. In a very short time they would each be disappointed in the other. Francesca would be stifled, burdened by his concern, his desire to protect and indulge her. She could not maintain the image she presents to Society throughout years of marriage. Not without doing violence to her true character. And, ultimately, Denver would be made unhappy by her desire for independence, her strong views, her appreciation of a good argument—her passion, her impulsive ways…’

‘Francesca? Impulsive?’

‘You see? Even you, who have lived with her all these months, do not know the real woman.’

‘And you do?’

‘I know Francesca as I know myself. She is part of me, as I am sure I am part of her.’

‘These are strong words, Marcus,’ said Mrs Canfield, looking at him as if she had never seen him before. ‘And I think I know you well enough to know that you do not use them lightly. But…have you considered this? Francesca may well not wish to be the real woman you claim to know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘From the time Francesca Beaudon first came to Packards, she has been single-minded in the pursuit of one ambition.’

‘To find the sort of husband she thinks she wants. I know that, Maria.’

‘That is not what I meant. Finding that sort of husband—a man like Denver, for example—is merely a symptom. Her real ambition is to protect herself from the kind of hurt she suffered in her earlier life. Her aunt’s treatment of her was, from all accounts, unbelievably cruel. And, though I cannot imagine
you meant to, I suspect you, too, hurt her—badly. Now she seeks calmer, kinder waters in her relationships. She allows herself affection—look how fond she is of Lydia. And her love for her father has deepened over the months. But strong, passionate feeling? I doubt if she will ever allow it to rule her.’

Marcus frowned and swung away to the window. He was silent for a minute. Then he said harshly, ‘What you say merely makes me more determined. Given time, I know I could make her love me—as she should love someone. Anything else would be a denial of her true nature.’

Mrs Canfield looked at him thoughtfully. Then she smiled and said, ‘In that case, I wish you success. I am quite sure that, if Francesca allowed herself to fall in love with you, she could not be in better hands. Will you take a little advice?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do not press her at the moment. She has enough to cope with. Act as the good friend I know you can be. This business with Lord Beaudon gives you an excellent opportunity.’

‘So you’ve changed your mind—you approve of my visits?’

‘You are always welcome, you know that, and now that I understand your real feelings, I will do all I can to promote your interests—we shall ignore gossip and speculation. And now I think Lord Beaudon has waited long enough.’

Marcus kissed her hand. ‘If you can help me in this matter, Maria, you will have more than repaid any trifling service I may have done you in the past—ten times over!’

‘I have to say that I never thought to see you in this state, Marcus. I had quite given up hope that you would ever marry.’

‘Oh, I shall! And Francesca Beaudon will be my bride. You will see!’

When Marcus entered the bedchamber, Lord Beaudon was once again alert. He was looking at the door, an expression of anxiety on his face. When he saw Marcus he relaxed visibly.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Lord Beaudon inclined his head and lifted his hand—shakily, but a movement all the same. In response to the gesture, Marcus sat down by the bed. He wasted no time on niceties—Lord Beaudon’s strength was limited and must be used on more important matters. ‘You were telling me about someone called Madeleine—Maddy. Is she in Paris?’ Lord Beaudon nodded, looking at him anxiously, and Marcus continued, ‘She was your daughter’s nurse?’ Another nod. ‘You have been…looking after her since she was sent away from Shelwood?’

A slight grin twisted Lord Beaudon’s mouth as he nodded, then the worried look descended again.

‘You wish me to send a message to her. Should she be sent for?’

This time there was a distinct frown.

‘Fetch her myself?’

Another frown. The wrinkled hand on the cover clenched in a gesture of frustration, as Lord Beaudon tried to speak.

‘Easy, sir, easy. It will come. Don’t force it.’

‘Don’t understand. Hu…hurr-rry. Age—’ Marcus was puzzled again, but waited patiently. After a moment, Lord Beaudon tried again. ‘Age…nt!’

‘Your agent? In Paris?’ An impatient shake of the head. ‘In London? You wish me to speak to your agent in London.’ Lord Beaudon sank back with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘I’ll do it at once. Does Francesca know who it is, where he is to be found?’ A tired nod. ‘I shall find her and ask. Ah, here she is.’

Francesca came in with an older man, obviously a doctor. She was very formal as they greeted one another.

‘Your father has requested me to visit his agent, Miss Beaudon. Could you give me his direction?’

Francesca looked at her father, who nodded slowly. ‘Of course. I have it downstairs.’

‘Then I shall wait downstairs. Do you wish your agent to come to see you, sir?’

The doctor intervened. ‘If I may interrupt? I think that would be most unwise. Lord Beaudon should not exert himself as much as he has done already. He should not have any visitors at all.’ His look at Marcus was severe.

Marcus smiled charmingly back. ‘I am a family friend, sir. I venture to suggest that Lord Beaudon will be easier in his mind if someone he trusts is looking after his daughter, and his business affairs.’ Ignoring a small gasp of indignation from Francesca, he turned to the figure in the bed. ‘May I see the agent on your behalf, sir? I will report what he says.’

Lord Beaudon nodded. A close observer would have said that he was smiling.

Marcus returned later that day, but asked to see Miss Beaudon rather than her father. She came into the salon reluctantly.

‘Don’t look like that, Francesca. My reason for wishing to see you is perfectly legitimate. How is your father? I thought he looked brighter this morning.’

‘He fell asleep again after you left. But in general he seems to be improving by the hour. His ability to speak is slowly coming back to him. Why did you wish to see me?’

‘I sent for Loudon, the agent, and your father’s affairs are all in hand. There are a few papers for him to put a mark to when he is ready. But the news I was initially sent for—the news of Maddy—is not very satisfactory.’

Francesca sat down. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Your father rents a house in a fashionable quarter of Paris. Maddy lives with him there.’

‘What is wrong with that? I’m sorry he concealed Maddy’s presence for so long from me, but there’s no reason to condemn—’

‘I have made no such comment. Your father’s affairs are his
own. Don’t jump down my throat, Francesca. I’m trying to help.’

‘Well, what is wrong, then?’ she asked, less than graciously.

‘The house in the rue du Luxembourg has been closed. Maddy has disappeared.’

‘What?’

‘I wasn’t able to make a great deal of sense out of what Loudon said. But it appears that when your father decided to spend the Season here in London, he sent a large sum of money to Maddy, care of his steward in Paris. This was for household expenses, including the rent on the property, which fell due last month. It, apparently, wasn’t used for this purpose. The owners’ agent has been trying to get in touch with your father for the past week.’

‘But what has happened to Maddy?’

‘Loudon doesn’t seem to know.’

‘But this is terrible! She must be found. I couldn’t bear to lose her again after all these years. And my father…what will my father say?’

‘That is precisely why I am consulting you. He must be told, but gently. You must calm yourself, Francesca.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. We must not alarm him. I will be calm.’ She took several breaths, then said, ‘It would be better if I had a plan of action to suggest to him. What can I do?’ She paused again, then said with decision, ‘I shall go to Paris.’

‘You! Don’t be absurd! What could you do in Paris? No, I must be the one to go.’

‘It is you who is being absurd! Maddy doesn’t know you, you have no connection with the Beaudons—what would the world think if Lord Carne were to race off to Paris in search of Miss Beaudon’s former nurse?’

‘It’s better than having them wonder why you were
allowed to go in search of Rake Beaudon’s mistress!’ He looked at her with a flicker of amusement in his eyes, asking her to share the joke. Her lips trembled into a reluctant smile, but she soon grew sober again.

‘I’m serious, Marcus. I must be the one to go. I had already sent for Madame Elisabeth to help us with Papa. She should arrive any minute. I think I could persuade her to come with me, and I shall find a reliable courier to look after us.’

‘You are still talking rubbish, Francesca. If you insist on going, I shall accompany you, of course.’

‘You will not! How could I possibly allow it? What a field day that would make for the gossips!’

For a moment Marcus was tempted to declare himself. As Francesca’s acknowledged fiancé, he could escort her, suitably chaperoned, on her father’s business without arousing too much censure. But a moment’s thought put a stop to the impulse. If Francesca refused him, as she well might, there would be an end to all communication between them. And she needed him at this moment more than ever before. He must find a way round the problem, not meet it head on.

‘Your father will be wondering what has become of you. And of me. Francesca, shall we declare a truce for now? Before we launch into any schemes, it might make sense to find out exactly what your father wants.’

Francesca looked at him as if her mind were only half on what he was saying, and he wondered what she was plotting. But he was pleasantly surprised when she said, ‘I agree. But I think we must tell Papa the truth. Evasion or pretence would only worry him more. His speech may be impaired, but his wits are as sound as ever.’