Джорджетт Хейер - Devil’s Cub

The Marquis cast them a cursory glance, and picked up his whip and greatcoat. Juliana said radiantly: “It was all a mistake, Vidal! We do love each other, and we have been monstrous unhappy, both of us, but we shall never, never quarrel again.”

“You affect me deeply,” said Vidal. He nodded to Comyn, and there was a glint of humour in his eyes. “Do you expect me to felicitate you? My God, I had her on my hands for three days. I should beat her if I were you.”

He turned to go out again, but the way was blocked by his uncle, who came in with a dusty bottle in one hand, and a glass in the other.

“Is that you, Vidal?” he said jovially. “’Pon my soul, I’m devilish glad we came to this place, though I’ll admit I was against it. That fat rogue there has six dozen bottles of this in his cellar. I’ve bought the lot, and as good a port as ever I tasted, too. Here, wait till you roll this round your tongue, my boy.” He poured out a glass of the burgundy, and gave it to his nephew.

The Marquis tossed it off, and set down the glass. “Quite tolerable,” he said.

“God bless the boy, that’s no way to treat a wine like this!” said Rupert, shocked. “We’ll broach the port after dinner, and if you throw that down your throat as though it was nothing in particular, I’ll wash my hands of you, and so I warn you.”

“I’m not dining,” the Marquis replied. “Out of the way, Rupert, I’m in a hurry.”

“Not dining?” echoed his lordship. “But Vidal, there’s a capon and a trifle of veal, and as sweet a game-pie in the oven as you could wish for.” His nephew put him firmly aside, and strode out, leaving him to shake his head in great disapproval. “Mad!” he said. “Stark staring crazy!”

“It is you who are mad,” said Léonie with conviction. “You have bought all those bottles of wine, which is a great madness, for how in the world can you take them to England? I will not sit in a chaise with six dozen bottles of burgundy. It is not at all comme il faut .”

“I can hire a coach for ’em, can’t I?” retorted Rupert. “Now don’t start arguing, Léonie: I’ve been dragged all over France on as silly an errand as ever I heard of, and never a word of complaint out of me. I’ll admit you were in the right about Dijon. If you hadn’t insisted on coming here I’d not have found this burgundy. And now I’ve found it, damme, I’m going to carry it back to London with me!”

“But Rupert, it is not so important — ”

“It’s a deal more important than Vidal’s silly affairs,” said his lordship severely. “There’s some sense in coming to Dijon to pick up wine like this.”

Mr. Comyn, who had been gazing at him in wonderment, ventured to say: “Hire a coach to carry wine?”

“Why not?” said his lordship.

“But — ” Mr. Comyn could not go on.

“ Eh bien , if you hire a coach for it I do not mind at all,” Léonie said, satisfied. “It seems to me a very good notion.”

Mr. Comyn suddenly bowed his head in his hands and gave way to mirth.

Miss Challoner had much time for reflection during the stage-coach’s slow progress to Pont-de-Moine, and not many miles had been covered when, her first impetuous impulse to fly having abated, she became extremely fearful of the consequences of her action. Her purse was now woefully slim, and she supposed that the cost of a night’s lodging would make an end of the few remaining coins lent her by Miss Marling.

She did not know what to do, a state of affairs repugnant to one of her orderly habit of mind. To be stranded in the middle of a strange country seemed to her the worst fate that could befall any young female, and no amount of sensible argument could convince her that it was no worse than to be stranded, penniless, in England.

She first bent her mind to the problem of reaching Paris, but after some consideration she decided that her determination to return there was without reason. Having no acquaintance in Paris, and no intention of claiming assistance from the English Embassy, there could be little point in striving to get to the capital. It might even be better for her to seek employment in some smaller town. She reflected that if my Lord Vidal still sought her he would suppose Paris to be her objective, in which case anywhere in the world would be preferable to her.

The Duchess of Avon’s words continued to ring in her ears. Well, the Duchess need not suppose that Miss Mary Challoner was going to thrust herself into the noble family of Alastair. She would rather die — no, that was absurd. She did not wish to die in the least. Lord, she was becoming like Juliana, and falling into a habit of foolish exaggeration! She gave herself an inward shake. Her situation, though disagreeable, was not desperate. Though it seemed unlikely that she could obtain genteel employment without proper credentials, there must be some work to be found, and to be sure she had no right to be over-nice after the adventures she had passed through. The realization of her sudden and undeserved loss of character provoked a dismal frame of mind which was hard to shake off. She began to consider the several occupations open to her, and by the time she had run through such depressing trades as milliner, seamstress, serving-maid, and washerwoman, she was feeling very doleful indeed. On the whole, the life of a serving-maid seemed to be the most agreeable of those debased professions. She thought that she would endeavour to find a suitable post, and as soon as she had saved enough money to pay for the journey she would go back to England, where more congenial employment might, with a little ingenuity, be found. Even if she had the means at her disposal she would not return to England yet, for no doubt the packet would be watched for some time to come, if not by the Marquis, certainly by her own family. Later, when all hue and cry had died down, and she was in a fair way to being forgotten, it would be safe to venture back, though never, she determined, to within reach of her own people.

Having made up her mind to become a serving-maid, she found herself without anything much to think of except the events of the past few days, and she was soon confronted by a fresh alarm: that the Marquis, upon discovering her flight, would pursue her immediately. She at once perceived that to board the Paris stage had been an act of supreme folly, for my lord would naturally suppose her to be escaping to Paris, and would have not the slightest difficulty in catching up with the slow-moving coach. At the same time, no one had actually seen her set forth, although one abigail must have a very good notion whither she had gone. It was possible that his lordship might first scour Dijon and the surrounding countryside, which would give her time to hide herself. There was also the Duchess to be reckoned with, and Miss Challoner, during the days of her journey in his lordship’s company, had been led to believe that her wishes were very nearly paramount with him. From what she had said upon seeing him, it seemed certain that she would exert all her influence to induce him to abandon his unfortunate liaison . There was the tall man, too, who, Miss Challoner guessed, was probably his lordship’s uncle. Between them they should be able to hold the Marquis in check.

Her hand crept up surreptitiously under her cloak to feel the wound on her shoulder. The Marquis’s fine handkerchief was still knotted round it. She thought she would keep that handkerchief always, in memory of one brief moment when she had been sure that he loved her.

Tears stung her eyelids; she forced them back, casting a timid look round the coach to see whether anyone was looking at her. The stout woman was asleep, with her jaw sagging; two farmers were earnestly conversing opposite to her, and judging from his stertorous breathing she thought the man on her left was also asleep.