Miss Weston's Masquerade (9 page)

The banks seemed to fly past and Nicholas speculated they must be travelling at six miles an hour. The bridges were the most perilous to negotiate and at most of them Nicholas and Cassandra disembarked and walked round to wait for the men to pole the boat between the piers.

‘You are looking rather pale, Cass. Are you feeling sick?’ Nicholas climbed down from the carriage, carefully picking his way to keep his feet dry.

‘Not sick, hungry. It seems ages since we had breakfast.’

‘They will pull into the bank at that village at the next bend.’ Nicholas pointed and Cassandra could see a straggle of houses with one rather more respectable building on the water side with its own jetty into the river.

The crew had a struggle to pull the boat out of the mainstream current into the quieter water that lapped the grassy banks. A man came down from the inn to catch the mooring rope and a scrubby boy was dispatched to warn the
patron
that guests were on their way. Cassandra’s legs felt as wobbly as when she’d crossed the Channel, and the quiet inn with its dabbling ducks at the waterside was very welcome.

The inn was surprisingly clean and the food wholesome, although all that was provided was the simple
ordinaire
of cheese, olives and crusty bread with rough red wine to wash it down.

Cassandra made excuses to avoid re-boarding the boat until Nicholas got quite short with her, pointing out that they would not reach Vienne for their night’s lodgings if she tarried any longer.

‘What
is
the matter with you?’ he demanded, exasperated.

Cassandra shrugged and climbed reluctantly aboard. The fact that one of the men was baling out did nothing to soothe her fears, but they made a safe landfall at Vienne as the sun was setting and the air was cooling.

By the third day, as they re-embarked after a night in Montélimar, Cassandra was beginning to feel quite confident, able to make her way from one end of the boat to the other without mishap, and even exchanging badinage with the crew. Nicholas expressed despair at the development of her vocabulary, but Cassandra pointed out that a few choice curses all helped her masculine disguise.

By mid-morning the weather had changed. The sky turned grey, a cold wind began to cut at their backs and the water, already turbulent, was whipped up into choppy wavelets.

Nicholas spoke to the boatmen, who shrugged their shoulders and muttered about the cruel winds of the Rhône. They were aiming to leave the boat at Arles, but the men seemed doubtful they would reach it that day, especially as the weather would make the difficult bridge at Pont St Esprit even more dangerous to negotiate than usual.

The crew seemed edgy and joked and sang less as they swept downstream. Nicholas showed Cassandra the map, pointing out Pont St Esprit just below the junction of the Rhône with the Ardèche where the smaller river came tumbling down from the mountains, swollen with snow-water.

‘
Messieurs
!’ the chief of the crew hailed them. ‘We will put into the bank soon to let you off. You will have to walk to the other side of the bridge. It is not safe for you to remain on board.’

The boat was already tossing uncomfortably, the murky water sucking at the sides as the men struggled against the vicious current to turn into the bank.

Cassandra could see an inn at the waterside and a group of people on the jetty watching the men’s exertions. She felt nervous, but after almost three days afloat, she had trust in the skills and strength of the crew.

They were within hailing distance of the shore when there was a loud crack as one of the side oars snapped under the strain. With a despairing wail, the crewman toppled into the water. The other men, struggling with their own oars could do nothing to assist him and when Nicholas threw a rope from the stern the man had already disappeared below the choppy water.

In the confusion, and with only three oars, the boat had already spun back into the main current. ‘Hold tight,
messieurs!
’ the steersman shouted. ‘We must all shoot the bridge together!’

The stone arches with their sharp prows slicing the current loomed large ahead of them. As they hurtled towards the piers, the bridge seemed to grow larger and larger, while the gap through which they had to pass appeared to Cassandra’s terrified gaze to narrow.

Nicholas scrambled to her side, crushing her to the side of the coach and holding on for grim life as they sped inexorably towards the smooth slide of water under the central arch.

For a moment it seemed they would slip safely through, then an eddy caught the prow and sent it crashing against the stonework. Cassandra was aware of a great rending of wood, then the world turned upside down as she was wrenched from Nicholas’s arms and thrown into the chilly, dirty water of the Rhône.

There was no light, only a thick green darkness which filled her eyes, ears and nostrils. She was going down and someone seemed to be beating her all over with sticks.

Desperately she kicked off her shoes, and felt a sudden relief as her coat was dragged off by the force of water. Surely any moment she must come up, but a hand seemed to be holding her down, pushing her towards the muddy depths.

Her mind shrieked
Nicholas!
but her mouth was full of water, spilling down her throat. She was going to die. She had time to realise that, to wonder if Nicholas had made it to the shore, to start to say a prayer. Then everything went black.

Nicholas trod water in a patch of stillness clear of the current and scanned the surface feverishly for any sign of Cassie. The water was opaque, too thick to see through. It was pointless to dive blind, he could only pray the undertow would throw her clear.

The onlookers had launched boats and he could see two of the boatmen pulled out safely. If he did not see Cassie soon, he too would have to swim for shore. His legs felt like lead with the weight of the water and the insistent pull of the current and he had almost given up when a sudden flash of white that could have been a fish broke the surface downstream. It was a hand.

Nicholas struck out strongly towards it, promising in his mind anything in the world if it was Cassie, if he could reach her before she sank again. The whiteness was only a glimmer under the surface when he reached it, his fingers clamping around the wrist.

As soon as he touched the narrow bones, he knew it was Cassie. Desperately he pulled her up, encircled her ribcage with his arm and struck out backwards for the shore. There was a warning shout behind him, the back of his head grazed painfully on the wood of a rowing boat and arms dragged them both into the sanctuary of the craft.

Nicholas hung over the side of the boat retching, suddenly too sick to help either of them until his lungs cleared. The next thing he knew, they were on the river bank, the grass feeling wonderful under his grasping fingers.

‘The boy is dead,
monsieur
.’ Someone was touching his shoulder in clumsy consolation. Nicholas shrugged the man off and staggered to where Cassie was lying, her mud-streaked face colourless, her lips pinched and blue.

He lifted her shoulders, but there was no sign of life, no answering flutter of the eyelids as he shouted her name.

‘Cassandra!’ Nicholas couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe she was dead. He lifted her shoulders, but there was no sign of life, as he shook her.

She hadn’t wanted to come on the boat, had been afraid, however well she’d hidden it, and he’d ignored her fears. Because it had suited him, he had treated her like the boy she was not – and now she was lying lifeless in his arms.

‘
Monsieu
r, leave him, you can do nothing. The priest is coming down…’ One of the boatmen was tugging at his shoulder.

‘Damn you, no,’ Nicholas snarled, too angry to respond in French. He would not accept it, not admit she was dead. His rage at himself cleared his mind. He remembered a man being dragged from the village pond when he was a child and the blacksmith turning him over and beating the water out of him until he came back to coughing life again.

Ruthlessly he tipped Cassandra’s limp body over his knee and with his clenched fist struck her hard between her shoulder blades. And again. And again. Under his fingers there was a fluttering pulse, then a sudden cough, a retch and she was violently sick. He had never felt so happy in his life.

Cassandra struggled feebly against the rough hands that were beating her. It was bad enough to be dead without being struck. Perhaps she was already in Hell, which seemed unjust, so she said so.

‘Not fair…’ It was only a croak, but the hands stopped pummelling her and turned her over gently. Someone was cradling her, stroking away whatever was clogging her eyes and nostrils. Something grazed her cheek, her temples, her closed eyes, a soft, cool touch.

The world beyond her eyelids was no longer green and she could feel the sun on her face. Someone was saying repeatedly, ‘Thank God!’ Perhaps it wasn’t Hell, after all, but Heaven. A voice she knew said, ‘Cassandra, Cassie, open your eyes... please, look at me.’ It sounded like Nicholas, but the imploring tone was one she had never heard on his lips before.

Clean, cool water was splashing over her face and she managed to open her eyes. Above her, Nicholas’s face, white and out of focus, came close.

‘I told you I couldn’t swim,’ she managed to croak.

‘And I told you I’d save you, you ungrateful brat,’ he replied, but his voice broke on the last word.

Cassandra’s body convulsed in a violent shudder and her eyes closed despite herself. There were voices on the fringes of her consciousness. ‘A blanket,
monsieu
r… wrap the boy warmly… the
Veuve
Aubrac sends to say there are beds ready. Hurry,
monsieur,
before an ague sets in…’

Strong arms lifted her from the muddy bank and Cassandra knew she was being carried. With an effort of will, she forced her eyes open and saw Nicholas’s face, set with effort, as he picked his way over the rough ground.

‘Lie still, brat, don’t wriggle,’ he ordered, his breath coming short. ‘There's a good inn here and you’ll be safe in bed soon.’

There was a babble of voices with one, a well-modulated woman’s voice, commanding and organising. Cassandra was aware of the change from sunlight to gloom as they entered the inn, of jolting as Nicholas carried her up a short flight of stairs and then there was a wonderfully soft, warm, safe feeling as she was placed on a bed.

Fingers unwrapped the swathing blanket, then there was silence. Nothing happened. After a moment, the woman’s voice said, ‘
Monsieur
?’

Cassandra opened her eyes to find a tall, middle-aged woman looking down at her with raised eyebrows. Painfully, she turned her head and saw the expression on Nicholas’s face as he, too, stared at her. Suddenly she was aware of just how little she was wearing. Her bare feet protruded from the torn remnants of her stockings, her wet breeches were moulded to her hips and with her coat and waistcoat gone, the sodden white linen shirt was as transparent as gauze across her breasts.

Without the constricting upper garments, every curve of her eighteen year old body was revealed. With a gasp, Cassandra grabbed the edges of the blanket round herself as the woman said, ‘A word with you,
monsieur
.’

If she hadn’t felt so ill, and been so embarrassed, she could have found humour in the situation. Nicholas appeared to have been poleaxed, and the obviously highly respectable Widow Aubrac was completely in control of the situation.

Snatches of low-voiced discussion reached Cassandra’s ears from the two who had withdrawn into the window embrasure.

‘You expect me to believe you were unaware…’

‘That she was a girl… not that she was a woman.’

‘You prefer to travel with a
child
in disguise?
Monsieu
r, this is a respectable house!’

‘
Madame
… I assure you…’

He obviously needed rescuing before
Madame
decided he was a total
roué
and threw him out. Painfully Cassandra levered herself up on one elbow and croaked. ‘
Madame
.’

Instantly the woman hurried to her side. ‘Do not worry,
ma petite
. You are safe here. I have heard of these decadent English milords.’ She shot Nicholas a cold look. ‘Under my protection he will not touch you. I will write to your family
and Monsieur le Curé
will give you sanctuary under his roof until they come for you.’

‘But it is not his fault, it is I who have been dishonest,’ Cassandra protested. ‘He is the son of my godmother and I deceived him into thinking I was much younger than I am. Listen, I will tell you everything…’

‘When you are warm, fed and rested,
ma petite.
’ Slightly mollified, the woman turned to Nicholas. ‘
Monsieur
, you and I must talk later, but for now I must ask you to leave.’ There was a knock at the door and servants staggered in with a hip bath and flagons of hot water. ‘Your chamber is at the other end of the landing, you will wish to bathe and rest,
sans doubte
.’

Eventually, clean, warm and dry, Cassandra drifted off to sleep, aware only of the comforting crackle of logs in the grate and subdued noises from the outside world penetrating the closed shutters.

She woke to find the room full of sunlight, the shutters thrown open and the smell of chicken broth in her nostrils.
Madame
was setting down a tray, but when she saw Cassandra was awake, she bustled over to plump up the pillows and help her sit up.

Every muscle in Cassandra's body seemed to protest. Under the starched sheet her legs were stiff and sore, and when she picked up the spoon, her wrists were purpled with bruises.

‘Nicholas?’ she asked anxiously, suddenly fully awake, the memories of yesterday flooding her mind. ‘
Madame
, is he all right?’

Madame
smiled slightly. ‘Stiff and bruised as yourself,
m’selle
, but quite well. Somewhat chastened in spirit, I believe. I have remonstrated with him on his foolishness in indulging in such a charade.’

Looking at the aristocratic face, Cassandra could well believe it. What such a woman was doing running a country inn was a mystery, but in post-Revolutionary France, many people were forced to make shift as best they could.

Madame
continued to talk as she straightened the bedclothes. ‘I will never understand Englishmen. How could he have been so blind? You would not have deceived a Frenchman for one moment.’

‘How long have I been asleep?’ Cassandra swallowed the soup hungrily, it seemed days since she had eaten.

‘You have slept the clock round. Now eat, and sleep again. Tomorrow, perhaps, you may get up.’

‘But I need to talk to Nicholas.’ All Cassandra could think of was the expression on his face as he realised just how she had deceived him. What would he do? Such impropriety would not be countenanced by polite society. Even the reputation of the Earl of Lydford would be damaged by such a scandal and no mother of a marriageable daughter would have him in the house again. Godmama would never forgive her if she prevented Nicholas from making a suitable marriage, as surely he soon must.

‘Not in your room. It would be most improper for the Earl to visit you here. Besides, he, too, is resting. He came close to losing his own life in rescuing you.’

So it
had
been Nicholas who had dragged her from the water, and brought her back from the edge of death. She found she was rubbing her wrist where his strong fingers had marked her. ‘And the others? Our boat-men?’

‘They are all safe, thank God.’ Madame crossed herself. ‘Even the one whose fall caused the accident will live, although he has a broken leg. Now rest again, that is enough talk for now.’

Cassandra was too weak to argue, even if
Madame’s
autocratic manner had permitted it. ‘Yes,
Madame,
’ she said obediently, her eyes closing even as she spoke.

When Nicholas found her the next day, Cassandra was sitting quietly on a settle by the fire in the back parlour. In the high-necked grey gown
Madame
had found for her and with her cropped hair, she looked like a novice nun, he thought. Her face was porcelain-pale except for a livid bruise running from cheekbone to jawline on one side and she was flexing stiff fingers painfully in her lap. Her wrists were encircled with the marks of his fingers.

‘Cassie,’ he said quietly.

Cassandra jumped, then bit her lip with pain at the sudden movement. Nicholas took one step towards her, thinking only to comfort her, then stopped, recalling just who she was. He sat down abruptly in the wing chair on the other side of the fire.

‘We have to talk.’ He looked not at her but down at his clasped hands.

‘I know, Nicholas. I’m sorry. I was headstrong and foolish and I should never have allowed you to go on believing I was so young. But I knew you would not have brought me with you if you knew the truth.’ He looked up and saw her shudder. ‘But the thought Lord Offley… He kissed me, you know. He has wet lips. I couldn’t face it. I would rather have died than remain.’

‘You almost did,’ he said harshly, looking back at his bruised, cut hands.

‘
Madame
told me it was you who saved me.’ Still he could not look at her. ‘Thank you for saving my life, risking your own for me. I am truly sorry.’

‘
You
are sorry?’ The words burst from him, his bitter control snapping. ‘I should never have taken you on that boat. You were frightened and I ignored it.’ The anger burned inside. ‘This has been a sorry escapade.’ He got to his feet and thumped the mantelpiece with his clenched fist. ‘I must have been mad that day in London.’

‘But you weren’t to know my true age,’ Cassandra protested. ‘It was I who let you go on believing I was fifteen.’

‘Just how old are you, Cassandra?’ he demanded and saw her flinch at the harshness of his tone. He was standing over her, too close, and she had to look up to meet his scrutiny.

‘Eighteen,’ she confessed quietly.

‘Oh, Cassie.’ He took her chin between his fingers, turned her face from side to side as he studied it. ‘Of all the stupid things to do.’ There was a heavy silence, then he sighed and released her. ‘What a damn fool I’ve been. I think I must have known all the time, I just didn’t want to see it. For heaven’s sake, I nearly kissed you in Lyons.’