Miranda Jarrett - The Adventurous Bride

“Lady Mary, here!” The shopkeeper Dumont was standing in the shadow of an alley beside the inn, half-hidden by a pyramid of stacked barrels. He wore an old slouch hat pulled low over his face, a grimy scarf wrapped many times around his throat, and the same leather apron she remembered from his shop. Agitated, he looked from side to side to make certain he’d not been noticed, then beckoned to her.

“If you please, my lady, if you please!” he called in a anxious quaver. “I must speak to you at once!”

“On what subject, monsieur?” She hesitated, unwilling to be drawn so far from the bustle of the inn’s front door, even on this sunny day. “Why do you wish to speak to me?”

“The picture, my lady!” His claw of a hand beckoned again. “The angel! Do you have it still?”

She took one reluctant step closer, and no more. She glanced swiftly over her shoulder, wishing now that Lord John had returned. “Of course I’ve kept the picture. I only bought it from you yesterday.”

“Has anyone asked you for it, my lady?” he asked urgently. “Does anyone know it’s in your possession?”

“Only those in my traveling party,” she said, her heart racing with fear of what she didn’t understand. “Monsieur, I do not believe that any of this is your—”

“You must tell no one, my lady,” Dumont interrupted, his voice shaking with emotion. “Tell no one that the picture is your property now, or that you bought it from me, or even that you have seen it!”

“You can’t threaten me like that!” she exclaimed, trying to be brave. “I paid you dearly for that painting, and if it’s your game to try to intimidate me into selling it back to you, why, I’ve no intention of doing so!”

The old man shook his head. “I would not take it back, my lady,” he said vehemently. “It is yours now, and the peril with it, and I—”

“Lady Mary!”

That voice Mary recognized at once.

“Miss Wood!” Quickly she turned to her governess, glad for an excuse to leave Dumont and his unsettling questions. “Oh, Miss Wood, how glad I am to see you feeling better!”

“What I am feeling, my lady, is inestimable relief at finding you unharmed.” She bustled forward and took Mary firmly by the upper arm. “But look at you, my lady! Out in the street by yourself, without a hat or parasol or gloves to keep you safe from the sun! Now come inside and gather yourself, my lady, so that we can go.”

“Go?” Mary asked, confused. Her governess was dressed not for walking, but for traveling, in her quilted skirt and jacket. “Where are we going, Miss Wood? Do you wish to visit the Calais gate?”

“We’re leaving Calais directly, my lady,” Miss Wood said. “I have had enough of this wretched inn and the insufferable people that own it. I’m told our coach is ready, and now that we don’t have to wait for Monsieur Leclair to join us, we’ll depart as soon as you are dressed properly. Hurry now, please, we need to make as much progress as we can before dark.”

“Now?” Mary said faintly, looking past Miss Wood to scan the street for Lord John. The diligence was empty, with only a few people still gathered around it. But where was the farmer’s wife with the basket of strawberries, and where was Lord John?

“What is it, Lady Mary?” asked the governess, concern in her voice. “Are you unwell? You look as if you’ve taken too much of the sun, out here without your hat. Your cheeks are pink.”

“I was expecting a—a friend, Miss Wood,” she said. Perhaps he’d had to follow the woman for the strawberries. Perhaps she wouldn’t sell them to him at all, and he’d gone elsewhere. He wouldn’t abandon her the first time she turned away, not after offering to take her clear to Paris. “A friend.”

“A friend, my lady?” Miss Wood frowned. “Forgive me, my lady, but what friend could you possibly have here in Calais?”

What friend, indeed? Mary shook her head, unwilling to believe the empty proof of her own eyes. Perhaps it was for the best that Lord John had disappeared like this. She could hardly have introduced him to Miss Wood, or worse, to her sister. This way she’d still had an adventure, only just a smaller one than he’d proposed. She would dutifully leave Calais now with the rest of her party, and disappear, and treat him the same as he’d treated her. Her reputation was spared a journey with him in a crowded diligence. There’d be no farewell, no regrets for what had never happened. Only the slight sting of disappointment, and she already knew how to cope with that.

Her smile was wistful, her feelings bittersweet. No more laughter, and no promised strawberries, sweet and juicy on the tongue. No more adventures today.

She glanced back to the end of the wall, where Monsieur Dumont had warned her about her painting. Now he, too, had vanished. She couldn’t have imagined all of it, could she?

“Come, Lady Mary,” said Miss Wood, leading her back into the inn. “Deborah will have your trunk packed by now, and Lady Diana should be ready, too.”

But as she began up the stairs with Miss Wood, Madame Gris hurried toward her, the beautiful ruffled bouquet of roses and pinks in her arms.

“My lady, a moment, please!” she called. “You forgot these in the parlor, my lady. The flowers the gentleman brought for you, my lady, and such pretty ones they are, too.”

Miss Wood looked sharply at Mary, her expression full of silent questions.

“I am sorry, Madame,” Mary said slowly, “but I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Those flowers weren’t for me.”

Madame Gris’s brows rose with surprise. “But my lady, I am sure that—”

“No, Madame,” Mary said. “The bouquet was not meant for me, and neither was the gentleman.”

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.