French Passion (33 page)

Chapter Fourteen

I stepped back, holding up my paintbrush, squinting along it at the large, somewhat bulky yet handsome man with florid cheeks and boyishly clear Saxon blue eyes.

He was Sir Robert Gill, one of the five hundred and forty baronets in England allowed to add
Sir
to his first name and to transmit his title to his children—should he marry and father them. He was a bachelor. I was painting his portrait.

July, 1792. In September it would be two years since I'd taken any of the Comte's money, and I earned my living doing full canvas portraits and watercolor sketches of the lesser nobility.

“Well?” Sir Robert asked. “What's your answer? Say you'll come down to Foxwarren, Mademoiselle d'Epinay.”

I used my maiden name. It seemed easier for a number of reasons. Jean-Pierre, who lived with me, and I shared the name: I didn't have to explain why I had emigrated to England without my husband; most important, it somehow made the past with its tragedies less real to me.

“You know I can't accept that kind of invitation.”

The hearty red-cheeked face sagged in disappointment. “A weekend party? And, by God, a decent one? My mother makes her home at Foxwarren, and she never sleeps, she's a drum major by night, patrolling the corridors.”

I laughed.

“Mademoiselle d'Epinay, you have the most delightful laughter in the world.”

“Even if it signifies no?”

Again he looked disappointed. His broad shoulders slumped.

“Sir Robert,” I said in a gentle voice, “please get back in your pose. Otherwise I'll never finish this portrait.”

“Dash it all, I don't want you to finish.”

“I need to earn my living. I know that's
déclassé
, but—”

“
Déclassé
doesn't apply to
émigrés
, especially lovely ones like you.”

And with this he lifted his large, round chin, gazing over my right shoulder. His pose.

My easel and Sir Robert's chair stood in the bay window. Behind me were the narrow doors leading to two tiny bed chambers, mine and Jean-Pierre's. The living room-studio was shabbily furnished with oak chairs squatting on either side of the scarred dropleaf table, a lumbering Welsh dresser, and a heavy settle. I'd managed to brighten this drabness with great bowls of late daffodils and blue irises, as well as my bright watercolors of St. James's Park—from this open window I could see the park's spreading summer greenery.

I daubed red paint onto Sir Robert's portrait. It was Monsieur Sancerre who had started me on this career. The couturier, following his customers into exile, had immediately drawn a large clientele from the English gentry. Realizing I would need money, I'd asked him to let me again do his design sketches.
I must earn my keep
, I'd explained,
but I have to watch my brother, he's bedridden at the moment
. Monsieur Sancerre had pointed out I could far more profitably do portraits in my lodgings. And then—good, kindly soul that he was—he had proceeded to advertise me to his new clients as a well-known painter to the French Court. Since my portraits endowed the thick-ankled, dowdy English ladies with the grace and charm of Frenchwomen, I rapidly became quite popular. I painted the ladies alone, I painted them with their sisters and mothers, with their children. None brought a husband.
You're far too pretty
, one had told me quite frankly.

Sir Robert had been referred to me through his sister, a stout, jolly young widow.

I earned a reasonable living. Jean-Pierre had attempted three times to tutor, but each time in less than a week at the job he had relapsed into coughing spells, and I, fearing consumption, had pleaded with him to recuperate longer.
Later you'll earn for both of us
, I'd said. So he'd fallen into the habit of haunting the cafés patronized by his friends, the émigrés.

Personally I avoided our aristocratic countrymen. Despite their misfortunes, they retained their supercilious pride. I had insisted Jean-Pierre keep my marriage a secret—how could I shame a man like the Comte by letting his old friends know his wife worked? My reputation as a faithless courtesan had preceded me. The few times my brother coaxed me to meet his friends, the ladies whispered audibly about me, and the men made lewd advances.

Yet I couldn't hate the émigrés. News from home was getting worse, and daily they heard of relatives and friends being thrown into prison. Their money had been confiscated. They had to scrounge a living from the English, whom they privately scorned as barbarians.

Despite my circumscribed life, though, I was happy. I had my brother. And, unfeminine as this may sound, I took much satisfaction in earning my own keep. The plain, solid English gentlewomen who sat for me were friendly, and their pink-cheeked offspring delightful. Evenings, Jean-Pierre and I would play dominoes or sing duets. If he went to gatherings of émigrés, I wrote letters to the Comte, who never replied, to Goujon, who answered spasmodically, and to Izette. Last December a miracle had happened. Izette had answered me herself. She had joined one of those new clubs, where women met like men, and another of the members had taught her her letters. From Goujon and Izette as well as poring through
The Chronicle of London
and
The Courier
, I gleaned French news. The King had signed the Constitution. André had become yet more important in the Assembly, where he was called The Incorruptible. This brought me great if sad pleasure.

The front door closed. I stopped painting, hoping as the steps moved upstairs that they belonged to my brother. But the sound continued upward. It was another lodger.

Sir Robert was looking inquiringly at me.

“I'm expecting Captain d'Epinay,” I explained. “That wasn't he.”

“If your brother would join you in Foxwarren, would you come down?”

I bit my lip, hesitating. A weekend out of sooty London would do Jean-Pierre a world of good. And, to be absolutely frank, I'd been so long without a party that the idea was very attractive. So why didn't I assent? The answer was simple. I'd remained faithful to the Comte. And Sir Robert obviously had designs on me. Naturally it never occurred to me that this bluff, hearty English gentleman wanted more than a casual liaison. How could a baronet align himself with a penniless French girl
déclassé
enough to earn her own living in a manner that more befitted the male sex?

“This weekend's fairly important to me,” Sir Robert said with elaborate casualness. “I want you to see Foxwarren.”

Stretching his arms over his head, he came behind me to examine his likeness. I was very conscious of the warmth of his large body. A voice inside me whispered: Why don't you go on this weekend party, let this large full-blooded Englishman make love to you? I knew the answer to this question, too. One word. Honor. My body's needs and aches were no reason to betray honor.

“So that's how you see me,” Sir Robert said. “Red-cheeked and jolly.”

“It's how the world sees you,” I replied, moving a bit away to wash my brushes in a cup of flax oil. My hands weren't quite steady.

He said, “On my way out last time I met Captain d'Epinay. We had a brandy. He mentioned you were orphaned early, and your guardian was a Comte de Créqui, King Louis'”—he said
Lewis
, as the English do—“most trusted adviser. The name rang a little bell in my mind. I spoke to Mother. She remembered Father talking about a General de Créqui who'd fought in the Seven Years' War. Very brave, this de Créqui, she said. Never surrendered. Never retreated. Your guardian?”

I nodded, blushing, furious at Jean-Pierre for mentioning the Comte.

“Bad form, prying. You French have such delicate manners. De Créqui, Mother recalled, came from one of the great French families.”

I said nothing.

“His funds must have been confiscated, then? Otherwise he surely would help you?”

“As you said, Sir Robert, we French have delicate manners, and when a question is impolite, we remain silent.” I softened my curtness with a smile.

Again the front door opened, and this time Jean-Pierre's step came to our door, which I flung open. My brother had gained a little weight, yet he was still dangerously delicate. His cheeks no longer had those hectic circles. I worried a lot about him.

After the bows and greetings, I cried, “Jean-Pierre, you should have worn your heavier suit.”

“In July?” my brother replied.

He and Sir Robert exchanged smiles so masculinely lofty that I had to smile, too.

“Well, Sir Robert, has my pretty little sister finished you?”

“Utterly and completely,” Sir Robert replied. “Not my portrait, understand. Captain d'Epinay, will you accept my invitation, you and Mademoiselle d'Epinay, to spend this weekend next at Foxwarren? My place in Sussex. Mother and I are having guests.”

Jean-Pierre turned to me, his fine features aglow with eagerness. He'd always enjoyed gaiety, excitement, and since he'd left Versailles, his life had been threadbare dull. I moved my shoulders in a tiny shrug. If you wish, the gesture said.

“We'll be happy to come to Foxwarren,” Jean-Pierre said. “Does the public diligence pass near?”

Sir Robert replied, “Of course I meant for you to go down with me, in my carriage. Friday at one?”

Jean-Pierre glanced at me, and I glanced at my large appointment sheet. There were no sittings for Friday.

“One is perfect,” I said, my voice bubbling. All at once I was excited. Jean-Pierre and I shared the d'Epinay pleasure-loving streak. How long had it been since I was at a real party? Years. Not since my salon. In my excitement and hapipness I thought: I just won't let myself be alone with Sir Robert, that's all.

Chapter Fifteen

The gateman took off his cap to Sir Robert as we passed the thatched gatehouse, and then we were winding up a green avenue of full-leafed birches. The rolling movement of the well-sprung carriage had lulled me. As we reached the crest, though, I sat up, gasping in delight.

Below us, in a smooth dell, Foxwarren stretched its ivy-covered wings toward a circle of huge ancient oaks. Sun glinted off mullioned windowpanes. A flight of starlings burst from the shingled roof. White sheep cropped emerald green lawns, and beyond a walled rose garden was a Tudor country garden ablaze with sunflowers and hollyhocks.

Jean-Pierre and I turned to each other.

“It's so like home,” he said.

“Except home was far smaller,” I replied. Then turned to Sir Robert. “Pardon us for speaking in French. But your Foxwarren's delightful. A tremendous version of our own old home.”

“Good,” boomed Sir Robert. “I was afraid you'd find it small after Créqui's estates and Paris mansion.”

“We grew up in a tiny village,” I said.

“The d'Epinays owned all the land—” Jean-Pierre started.

“Once,” I interrupted, firmly squelching my brother's tendency to romanticize. “Alas, by the time we came along, the family were church mice. You mustn't confuse us with the grand émigrés.”

“Speaking of that”—Sir Robert's red face beamed—“I've invited some other French people.”

My happiness evaporated. Sir Robert's remark, meant to please, produced in me far more than the normal anxiety about a social contretemps. I sat back in leather cushions fighting a foreboding of disaster.

One couple had arrived before us. Before they spoke, I knew they were the French people. English ladies are broader of foot and hand, their clothing is sturdier. English gentlemen bow with less grace.

The French couple were middle-aged, she with pinched, haughty nostrils, his face lined with elegant world-weariness. He raised his lorgnon to me. He was vaguely familiar. Had he once brought a mistress to my salon? Sir Robert introduced them as Baron and Baronne de Mably, and Mably was a name I'd never heard before. I've seen him, I thought, but where?

“Mademoiselle d'Epinay,” said Baron de Mably, kissing my hand.

“Baron de Mably,” I murmured.

And then a tall, stout lady was bustling out of a passageway. A half-grown spaniel circled her and with a friendly foot she pushed away the pup. He returned. Immediately I could see this lady was related to Sir Robert, for she had his hearty good looks, blue eyes, and booming laughter. And, indeed, Sir Robert was presenting Jean-Pierre and me to his mother, Lady Ann Elizabeth Gill. What a great, wonderful dumpling of a woman she was, in her black taffeta with unfashionably wide skirts, her blazing diamond brooch affixed at precisely the wrong angle, her blue eyes young and snapping with life.

“So you're the famed Mademoiselle d'Epinay my son does nothing but natter about,” she said.

“Come, come, Mother.” Sir Robert shuffled his boots, suddenly looking very much the boy. “You'll terrify Mademoiselle d'Epinay.”

“Nonsense, Bob. She may be delicate in looks, but any woman who has the brains to earn her living at man's work isn't going to be terrified by an old hen, are you, child?”

“It would take a far tougher bird, Lady Gill.”

The huge taffeta-covered bosom jiggled with laughter. “Bob, for once you're right,” she said, still chuckling. “She's most likable. Come, child, I'll show you to your rooms meself.” And she linked her arm through mine.

The spaniel pup trailing after us, we ascended the dark oak staircase. Banisters supported rods with faded tatters of flags from long-forgotten battles. Nothing in this warm house was new. Everything had the look of being used by large and happy families.

“You have the nicest son—and daughter, too—Lady Gill.”

“Don't I?” she agreed comfortably. “Comes from breeding them in the country. When I was a gel, I told my father, the Duke of Westchester, that I refused to breed in London. ‘I don't want spindle-thighed Londoners coming from my loins,' I told him. And he let me marry good plain Sir Tom Gill, though he was only a baronet. Bob's father. Ah, we had good days together, Sir Tom and me, and I don't regret a one of them.”