A Desperate Fortune Page 8

  This went on for some time, and Mary had managed to put down her summary of what had happened the previous day, from the time she had set out with Nicolas right through their evening with Sir Redmond Everard, and she was just starting into the details of what she’d done so far today when she felt Frisque return, so she aimed a kick at where the ball should have been and discovered it wasn’t. Instead she connected with softness and fur and was met with a swift bark of protest.

  She left off her writing midword to bend down and apologize, petting Frisque to comfort him. “Where is it, then?” she asked the dog. “What have you done with it?”

  Frisque cocked his head in a quizzical way.

  Mary told him, “The ball. Where’s the ball?”

  It was one of the three words, together with outside and food that could spur the small dog to immediate action. That he expected her to follow him was evident from how he trotted off a few steps, wheeled and bounced and wheeled again, and with a sigh she stood and went where he was leading her, across the room to where a high-backed settee faced the fireplace. The settee was broad and deep, richly upholstered with silken embroidery over the wool of the cushions and arms and the tall curving back, trimmed with braid and a dainty bell fringe that brushed over Frisque’s ears as the little dog pushed underneath, scrabbling with his small paws in an effort to reach the ball wedged underneath the low rail that connected the settee’s carved legs.

  “Idiot,” she told him with affection, “you won’t get it out like that, it’s too far back.” She knelt and nudged him to the side with one hand while she reached beneath the settee with the other, feeling for the ball. Out in the entry hall the bell beside the front door rang and Frisque gave the low rumbling woof he used when threats felt close at hand, his louder barking always kept reserved for challenging those things that were too far away to answer him. She stroked his head and shushed him, warning him to silence, for she did not wish to be a nuisance to their host and hostess. Frisque gave one more grumble but obeyed, and when the door into the drawing room was opened he made no sound, though his ears twitched forward.

  “…comfortable in here,” Sir Redmond Everard was saying as he showed an unseen guest into the room. A woman, from the rustle of her gown and petticoat; the click of smaller heels across the floor.

  Mary, feeling anything but comfortable, debated what to do. They had not seen her crouched behind the tall settee, and as embarrassing as her position was she knew she should stand and announce her presence before they began to—

  “There,” Sir Redmond said, “now we have privacy.”

  Behind the shelter of the settee Mary sank back on her heels and felt her cheeks flame as she tried hard not to think of why a married man might wish to be in private with a woman not his wife. If she had felt uncomfortable before, it had been nothing to the level of discomfort she felt now, and she could see no easy end to it that let her keep her dignity, although her mind was whirring in its search for one.

  Sir Redmond told the woman, “I’d expected Mrs. Farrand.”

  “Mrs. Farrand has been taken, sir.” The woman spoke in English with a pleasant lilt. Her voice was clear and confident, and sounded young. “When last she crossed to Dover she was met there by a Messenger who had been sent to stop her and arrest her as a spy, and she’s been taken now to London to await examination.”

  “She’s in prison?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “That is most unfortunate.”

  The woman’s voice acquired what Mary took to be the slightest edge. “You underestimate her, sir, if you imagine Mrs. Farrand will tell anything of value to the government, however ill they treat her.”

  “Then you know her?”

  “Aye, I do, sir.”

  “And have you brought any proof of this?”

  “I have. My introductions, which were given me when I passed through Boulogne.”

  There was a pause, and the faint crinkle of a paper being smoothed along its folds. Sir Redmond commented, “From Father Graeme and from General Gordon. These are both good men. How do you come to know them, Mistress—?”

  Clearly he was waiting for her name, but she did not supply it. Her reply was simply, “You’ll forgive me, but as Mrs. Farrand was herself so recently betrayed, I would prefer to keep my own connections private. They are good men, as you say. And I do know them, as their letters prove.”

  “Well then, that must suffice.” Sir Redmond’s voice held admiration and amusement. “Come then, give me what you’ve carried all this way. Unless you’ve got them in your stays, as Mrs. Farrand always carried them? Should I turn round?”

  “They are not in my stays, and I can do the turning round, if you will give me but a moment.” She had evidently sewn whatever they were both referring to within the lining of her gown or petticoat, for Mary heard the rustling of the fabric as the woman turned, and then the tearing of a seam, and the crinkle of paper again.

  Frisque, growing bored, reached with his paw again beneath the settee’s legs in an attempt to gain his ball, and Mary pressed more firmly on his head to quiet him and hold him to his silence while she closed her eyes and sent a wish to any fairy godmother who might be like to listen that Sir Redmond and his guest would soon conclude their business—or that a convenient hole might open in the floor beneath herself and Frisque, and so end her embarrassment.

  The woman said, “There are five letters, and the latest cipher, for the one that Mrs. Farrand carried with her is no longer safe to use.”

  “Of course. I’ll—”

  What he was about to say was interrupted by a fall of footsteps in the corridor, and then the door swung open and Sir Redmond’s wife exclaimed, “Oh, do excuse me, dear, I did not know we had a guest.”

  “My wife,” Sir Redmond made the introductions, “this is Mistress—”

  “Jamieson,” the woman now replied, in friendly tones, after what Mary thought had been the faintest pause. “It is an honor, Lady Everard.”

  The knight said, “Mistress Jamieson is a great friend of Mrs. Farrand.”

  “Ah, dear Mrs. Farrand,” said his wife. “I have not seen her for some weeks. Does she not travel with you?”

  “She is indisposed, just at the moment,” was the younger woman’s answer, and Sir Redmond’s wife made sounds of sympathy that made it plain she was not privy to her husband’s business and was unaware that Mrs. Farrand—and indeed the woman she was being introduced to—were in fact clandestine couriers.

  The younger woman carried on, “But knowing I would be in this vicinity, she asked me if I’d stop and ask your husband for a letter that attests to the good character of her son Thomas, who does seek to marry a young lady at Calais whose father yet requires convincing.”

  “Yes, of course. For Mrs. Farrand, anything. You’ll do that for her, won’t you, darling?”

  “Yes, of course,” Sir Redmond played along, still with the tinge of admiration in his voice. “Do have a seat here, Mistress Jamieson, and make yourself at home, and I’ll away up to my chamber and compose just such a letter.”

  “On your way, my dear,” his wife put in, “perhaps you’ll take a moment to assist me in explaining to the groom what’s to be done about the harness, for he does not seem inclined to take direction from a woman.”

  “And you left him standing, did you?”

  “For the moment.” As though mention of the groom had then reminded her of something else, Sir Redmond’s wife asked, this time of their guest, “Have you a driver waiting? I will have a warming drink sent out to him, for it is very cold this morning.”

  “No,” said Mistress Jamieson, “I do not have a driver. I took lodgings in the town last night and walked from there.”

  “My dear! In such a wintry wind?”

  “I am accustomed to the cold, for I was raised in it.”

  Sir Redmond’s wife said,
“Nonetheless, I’ll have the maid brew tea for you, that you may warm yourself while you are waiting.”

  “Thank you. That would be most kind.”

  Sir Redmond told her, “I’ll not keep you waiting long.” And then both he and Lady Everard went out and closed the door behind them, leaving the young woman standing squarely between Mary and escape from her predicament.

  She might have stayed there stuck another hour had Frisque not wriggled free just then and, cheerfully evading all her efforts to recapture him, gone bounding in an energetic path across the drawing room to give a wagging welcome to this new potential playmate.

  “Well, hello,” said Mistress Jamieson, in evident surprise. “Where did you spring from?” And when Frisque was not forthcoming with an answer, she went on, “Come here then, you’re quite safe. I’m not about to bite. And you can tell that to your mistress, for she cannot be so comfortable down there upon the floor.”

  Mary rested her forehead a moment in shame on the seat cushion of the settee before gathering up what remained of her tattered pride, pushing herself to her feet so her shoulders and head were entirely visible over the back of the scrolled piece of furniture, braced for whatever might come.

  Chapter 8

  My soul brightens in danger… I am of the race of steel; my fathers never feared.

  —Macpherson, “Fingal,” Book Three

  Chatou

  January 23, 1732

  The woman she was facing looked to be about her own age, slender and of middle height, with features that could not have been called beautiful and yet held a vivacity that made them pretty—lively eyes lit with a keen intelligence beneath arched eyebrows the same dark brown color as the curling hair that had been swept up from her face and neatly fastened underneath a plain lace pinner.

  Mary cleared her throat and said, “I do apologize.”

  “That’s quite all right. I used to hide behind chairs often as a child. The trick is keeping back so that your shoes are out of sight.”

  “I wasn’t hiding. I was… Frisque had lost his ball, you see, and I was only trying to retrieve it when you… Well,” she finished, knowing how ridiculous it sounded.

  “Are you French?” the woman asked, her head tipped slightly to one side as though she were trying to place Mary’s accent. “Or Irish?”

  “My father was Scottish, my mother was French.” She remembered her manners and put out her hand as she stepped round the settee and forced herself forward. “I’m Mary Dundas, Mistress Jamieson.” And having properly managed the more formal greeting, she said, “I’ll just…go. I should go.”

  “Nonsense. You were here first. You were writing,” observed Mistress Jamieson, looking down now at the journal and pen on the table where Mary had earlier sat.

  “It was nothing of importance,” Mary said, aware how foolish any chronicle of her “adventures” would appear to this young woman who, from all the evidence, was living one herself; for if in truth the other woman, Mrs. Farrand, had been taken and arrested as a spy, then stepping in to carry messages across the Channel in her place in such a time of danger called for courage of a kind that Mary could not hope to claim.

  She could but marvel at the realization that this young woman, although near to her in age, was so beyond her in experience and confidence. And energy, she added, as she watched while Mistress Jamieson began to move about the room with Frisque an ever-bouncing bundle at the hemline of her gown.

  “Indeed,” Mistress Jamieson said as she trailed a hand over the spines of the books on one shelf, “so few women write anything, that when one does it can never be deemed unimportant.”

  “Truly, it was nothing more than my own private thoughts.”

  “Then pray, don’t let me keep you from them.”

  Mary wasn’t sure if that was meant to be an invitation or a firm command, but since the answer either way was to reclaim her chair and carry on where she’d left off within her journal, she decided it was best to do exactly that. It was a great relief, in fact, to bend her head and hide her reddened cheeks as she took up her pen again and dipped it in the ink while she read over what she’d so far written for her first attempt for this new year beneath the simple heading “January”:

  Upon the 22nd came my eldest brother Nicolas to my uncle’s home at Chanteloup-les-Vignes, and after dinner we began our journey to his home—and my new one—at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, he having hired a splendid chaise for the occasion with a driver and two bay mares matched in all but that the near one had white forelegs and the other had no white at all upon her. Though the day was cold my heart was made the warmer knowing all my years of praying for such a reunion had at last been heard and answered, and with my brother as companion and so many fine and strange things to be seen within the woods through which we passed, I was well satisfied, the only complication rising from a wagon overturned upon the road that made it necessary for our driver to divert some several leagues around the obstacle, and causing us to break our journey at Chatou, where lives a noble gentleman of Irish birth who knows my brother well. Sir Redmond Everard, for so his name is, seemed not in the least put out to have us thus descend upon him. He and his good lady made us welcome and installed us in fine chambers, and a maid was sent to help me dress for supper, and a better supper I have never had, set out so cleverly and with so little notice, and a wine Sir Redmond told us he’d had sent him from Bordeaux, which we agreed with him was very fine, though privately I would confess I’d hold my uncle’s wine to be superior. Supper being done we then amused ourselves at play upon the cards. There being three of us (for Lady Everard declined to play but chose instead to sit apart and so be entertained) we played the Renegado with Sir Redmond and myself aligned against my brother, though he, with great skill, confounded both of us and left us all in laughter. So to bed, and up the morning of the 23rd at sunrise to attend to Frisque. I thought to walk some little way along the river, but the freezing wind defeated us and drove us back indoors where I—

  The narrative broke off there, where she’d risen to help Frisque retrieve his ball. She tried now to retrieve the thread of it, without including the embarrassing details of what had happened in the meantime:

  —made the acquaintance of a fellow guest of our good host: a woman by the name of Mistress Jamieson who carried to Sir Redmond correspondence of a secret nature, which she carried hidden on her person. I suspect the name she gave him may be false, she having earlier declined to give a name at all and only acquiescing when his lady entered in the room and wanted introduction, but Sir Redmond, if he does suspect the same, seems yet well satisfied. I do perceive, from having seen him toast King James’s health last night at supper, that Sir Redmond is himself a Jacobite, and so this woman’s errand doubtless serves that same king who has long been favored with the love and loyalty of my own father and my brothers, and in whose lost palace I am soon to take up residence.

  “Where did he lose it, then?” asked Mistress Jamieson.

  Mary looked up, startled, with her pen still resting on the paper, and for a confusing moment she believed the other woman had divined what she was writing.

  “I do beg your pardon, but—”

  “The ball. Where did your dog misplace it?”

  “Oh.” Relaxing, Mary pointed out the place. “Beneath the settee.”

  The other woman found the ball and set it freely rolling. Frisque chased after it, delighted, and retrieved it for the woman who seemed happy to indulge him. Mary could have warned her that the little dog could play this favorite game all day, but there was no need after all because just then the promised tea arrived, delivered by a housemaid who on seeing Mary went and brought a second porcelain cup to set in place upon the little lacquered tea table. To Mary, who had only drunk tea twice before in all her life, her aunt not being fond of it, it was a fascinating thing to watch the housemaid set things out so carefully: the silver pot that
rested in its stand above the warming flame, the water jug and sugar dish with gleaming silver tongs, the little cups so delicate in Chinese blue and white and sitting neatly in their saucers with a matching common bowl in which to empty out the dregs.

  Too late she realized that her admiration had betrayed her inexperience, for when the housemaid had again departed, Mistress Jamieson asked in a tone that did not condescend but rather held a trace of understanding, “Shall I pour?”

  “Yes, please,” said Mary.

  Mistress Jamieson was clearly expert at the art of serving tea and Mary watched her carefully and marked the steps in order, so in future she could mimic them.

  Her cousin had accused her once of being like an ape. “You always watch,” Colette had said, “and then you copy so completely it’s as if you’ve shed your own self and become another creature altogether, like the fairies in the tales you tell, who change their form according to their fancy.”

  To which Mary had replied, “And how else would I hope to learn if not by imitation, since my life conspires to limit my experience?”

  The life of Mistress Jamieson, thought Mary, must have done very much the opposite and bathed her in experience, for how else could so young a woman seem so self-assured and in control? Mary observed her closely, noting how she took her seat, arranged her skirts, and squared her shoulders all at once, as graceful as a falcon perched at rest upon her block, fully aware and in command of all around her. Even Frisque obeyed the quiet word she told him and lay down with rare obedience to settle with one paw at rest upon the hemline of her gown.

  Mary held the little bowl-like teacup balanced neatly on her fingertips, the way the other woman did, and drank with care, deciding that unlike her aunt she rather liked the taste of sweetened tea. She cleared her throat. “Are you from Scotland, Mistress Jamieson?”

  “I am.”

  “I’ve never been to Scotland.”

  “Have you lived in France your whole life, then?”