Priceless (2 page)

From inside in the shadows, the call echoed, and three women, none more than twenty-five, surrounded the coach.

“Take care,” Olivia ordered in a rare display of authority. “She’s in pain.”

The women looked startled, and Olivia gently shouldered them aside. “Are you ready, Henriette?”

A mumbled affirmative, and Olivia and Bronwyn supported her up the stairs. The woman’s strength had disappeared; they carried her into the entry.

“She must lie down,” Bronwyn said. “Where can we put her?”

“On the sofa in the drawing room,” came an order from the foot of the stairs.

Intent on maintaining her balance, Bronwyn barely glanced at the owner of the authoritative French voice. Henriette’s head flopped back as they laid her down, and she whispered, “Rachelle.”

A spare, older woman with a widow’s cap knelt beside the sofa and pushed Henriette’s veil aside. The young women gasped when they saw Henriette’s condition, and Bronwyn felt sickened, exposed once more to such brutality.

Rachelle’s gaze never left Henriette. “Can you help, Daphne?”

One young woman stepped forward, performed a quick, deft examination, then touched Rachelle’s rigid figure. “I would do anything for you, Rachelle, you know that. But there’s nothing I can do here.” Fingering the fringed shawl that rested on her shoulders, she muttered, “If you wish to have another observe her, I will not be offended.”

“No.” Rachelle pressed her hand on the pulse at Henriette’s neck. “She is dying.”

Olivia slipped her hand in Bronwyn’s; they clung to each other. Only Rachelle didn’t flinch. “Who did this to you,
ma mignonne?
”

Henriette’s lips moved, but no words escaped. Bronwyn poured sherry from a carafe and offered it to Rachelle. Without looking up, Rachelle placed it at Henriette’s lips, but Henriette couldn’t drink. Dipping her finger into the liquid, Rachelle ran it over Henriette’s lips. “I thought you had run away with your young lord. You did not?”

Henriette shook her head.

“So he said. Does he know about this?”

Another negative, and Henriette’s consciousness slipped away.

Standing, Rachelle swung on the sisters. “How did you find her?”

Bronwyn wet her lips. “She was imprisoned in the room next to ours. We broke in and—”

Rachelle surged forward, and Bronwyn found herself pressed against a bony chest. “Of course. I should have recognized your courage at once.” She drew Olivia into the embrace. “And your courage was the greater, for you were petrified. Go with my friends. They will offer refreshments.”

Following the gestures of the young women, Bronwyn and Olivia left the room. Bronwyn glanced back to see a ravaged Rachelle cradling Henriette in her arms. The portrait of Rachelle’s grief burned into her brain.

Clasping hands with Bronwyn and Olivia, Rachelle drew them to the drawing room. “I care for all my charges, but Henriette was my daughter. Rebellious, headstrong, but my child nevertheless. And at sixteen, who is not determined to get into trouble? I barely held her in my arms, and she was gone.” The narrow, veined hands tightened on theirs in a convulsive grasp. Her head dropped as if it were heavy, and Bronwyn’s heart ached.

Bronwyn stammered, “I’m sorry. I wish we could have helped.”

“But you did help. You brought her home to me.”

“Madame Rachelle,” Olivia said, “I must tell you I promised Henriette I would pray for her. This is a sacred trust. Do you know the placement of the nearest Catholic church?”

“Your prayers will be answered as well if you pray in an Anglican church,” Bronwyn suggested.

Olivia turned her reproachful gaze on her sister. “I promised her I would light candles for her soul, and I will do it in the proper circumstances.”

Bronwyn recognized her sister’s—for her—rare determination. “Of course. We’ll stop on the way back to the inn. If Madame Rachelle would direct us?”

Rachelle considered Olivia thoughtfully. “You are a dear child. In England, it is not easy to find a place to worship in my faith, so I have a chapel in my home.” She lifted a silver bell and rang it. One of the women answered the summons and led Olivia away.

Rachelle pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her
skirt but did no more than dab her reddened nose. “You think I am heartless, do you not?”

“No,” Bronwyn stammered. “No, I—”

“Would your mother take the death of you or your sister as calmly as I am?” Her accent was stronger than Henriette’s; her character was forged in fire.

“No…No, she would be devastated. Loudly devastated.”

“I fled France to avoid just the same sort of nightmare that has now taken my daughter from me. It seems I have lived with this kind of pain every day, and pain has calloused me.” Rachelle pressed her flattened palms together and leaned over them, as if she fought a spasm. “Yet sometimes this anguish stabs me. I will have my revenge. I will find this brute who murdered her.”

“If I think of anything else Henriette said, any other clue, I will contact you,” Bronwyn vowed.

“I know you will.” Madame straightened and studied Bronwyn. Gesturing at her wig, Madame asked, “May I?” Before Bronwyn could reply, she whipped Bronwyn’s elaborate hairpiece away.

Clutching her head, Bronwyn protested, “Madame Rachelle—”

“Rachelle.” The lady lifted an admonishing finger. “I am Rachelle to my friends.”

Bronwyn stood silent as the bands holding her hair slipped. She couldn’t call this contemporary of her mother’s by her Christian name. That would indicate disrespect.

As if anxious to escape their confines, her curls leaped from between her fingers. “My hair is unmanageable without my wig. I would cut it, but my father—”

“Cut this?” Rachelle pushed Bronwyn’s hands away, pulled off the bands, took one lock in her fingers. “Cut this? It is so fair it is almost silver. It is
clair de lune
—moonlight.”

“No, I can’t cut it. My father won’t hear of it.”

“I would not allow Henriette to cut hers, either, and I spent hours combing it….” Two tears, like twin jewels, brimmed in Rachelle’s large eyes and ran down her faded cheeks. She put her hand over her mouth to contain her sobs. Her bones poked at her flesh and made her appear fragile in her sorrow, and when she spoke again her voice quavered. “Do I know your father?”

“He’s Lord Rafferty Edana, earl of Gaynor.”

“No, I do not believe he has ever joined our evenings.” Rachelle used her lacy handkerchief to catch the last tear. “Gaynor? Where is that?”

“On the wild north coast of Ireland, where the seals play and the seagulls call.”

“You were raised there,” Rachelle observed. “I hear a faint brogue in your voice.”

“My father insisted we be brought up on his ancestral estate. We all stayed there until the age of ten. Then we were brought to England.” Bronwyn sighed. “My mother insisted we all be educated on
her
ancestral estate.”

“All?”

“There are eight of us sisters. Linnet, Holly, Lucille, Edith, Duessa, Wallis, Olivia, and me.”

“Wait. Wait.” Rachelle lifted a finger. “Do you mean you are one of the so-called Sirens of Ireland? Your sister is Linnet, countess of Brookbridge?”

Bronwyn nodded.

“Your sister is Holly, viscountess of Sidkirk? Lucille, marchioness of Cumrith?”

Bronwyn nodded and nodded.

“Edith, marchioness of Kenilcester? Duessa, duchess of Innsford?”

“The Duchess Duessa.” Bronwyn grinned. “She’s the first one to capture a duke. Wallis captured only a baron, but his fortune makes up for his lack of consequence. I am next in the matrimonial line, then Olivia.”

“When will you be wed, then?”

“My father refused to consider any of my previous offers. Either their titles or their fortunes proved lacking.”

“But now?”

“I’m betrothed to the Viscount Rawson.”

Rachelle tossed aside the hated wig. “Adam Keane?”

Bronwyn asked, “You know him? Is he good-humored? Obliging?”

“Good-humored? Obliging?
Non!
Good-humored is not the word I would put to Adam Keane. He is
sombre
and…brooding, and too intelligent for his own good. No, definately not…” Rachelle’s words trailed off, and her eyes sharpened. “You have never met him?”

The intricate pattern of the sofa’s upholstery attracted Bronwyn’s consideration. With a careful finger, she traced each stem and flower. “He took me sight unseen. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Adam Keane is never sweet,” Rachelle said flatly. “He is a man with a chip on his shoulder. Is he expecting you to look like one of your sisters?”

“I suspect.”

“What will you do when he sees you?”

With a flash of humor Bronwyn said, “My parents will be there. He can’t kill me.”

Rachelle remained serious. “No, but his sarcasm can be withering.”

“My father says I’m pleasant enough to look upon,” Bronwyn said defensively.

Standing, Rachelle fluffed Bronwyn’s hair until the long tresses stood in wild array about her shoulders. “My dear, you are
magnifique
—”

Bronwyn snorted.

“—but in the typical English way, your looks have been ruined.”

“Maman does the best she can.”

“Your mother looks like your sisters, I suppose?”

“My sisters can’t hold a candle to her.” Bronwyn’s affec
tion and pride shone through her embarrassment. “Tall, elegant, cool, with long black hair like Olivia’s, but hers has a white streak at the temple. Her skin is pale and pure. For her, for my sisters, the family resemblance is strong.”

“You, my dear, are a changeling, but nevertheless
frap-pant
. Striking.”

“My father calls me ‘Pixie’ because I’m so short and I’m always going out in the sun and turning brown. See?” Bronwyn pointed to her nose.

“A charming contrast with your wild curls and your startling eyes.” Rachelle turned Bronwyn’s head. “What color are they?”

“Brown, for lack of a better word. Da says they’re pretty.”

“I think I like your father.”

The flowers in the upholstery design attracted Bronwyn’s attention again. “Most women do. He’s an Irish charmer.”

“Perhaps I shall invite your parents to join one of our gatherings some evening. It would be fascinating to speak to the mother and father of such pillars of society.”

“My mother? You want my mother to come?”

“Would she not?”

“I don’t know. I never thought—” Bronwyn gulped. “Madame Rachelle—”

“Just Rachelle,
s’il vous plait
.”

“I have wondered…what kind of place is this? I’ve heard that sometimes…” Bronwyn plucked at her skirt, creating little pyramids. “Well, not that anyone tells me about anything, but there are rumors of places where only men…”

Rescuing her, Rachelle patted her hand. “Too many Englishmen think as you do. This is a salon. My friends, the girls who live with me, are
jeune filles de bonne famille
.”

“Gentlewomen?”

“
Oui
, gentlewomen who have met with hard times. One
of them studies the skies, seeking the answers of life in the movement of the stars. One sings with a pure and beautiful voice. Daphne—you saw her—studies the human body, wishing all the time she could become a
docteur
.”

“You…do this for friendship’s sake?”

“So suspicious,” Rachelle chided. “I have money. Who else would help these girls? In France,
salonières
assist the worthy with pensions. In France, salons are an institution, a place where men and women of the intellectual, social, and artistic elites can converse freely.”

Dazed with relief, Bronwyn sighed. “Then the Edana reputation is still unblotted.”

“Perhaps not. I am a widow of a French nobleman, a chaste woman. Yet there are always
les saintes nitouche
who assume any platonic relationship between a man and woman is destined to fail. There could be talk if it is discovered you were here.” Rachelle laughed with a catch in her voice as Bronwyn’s face fell. “I will send you back to the inn in a covered carriage.”

Recalled to her duty, Bronwyn stood. “I’m afraid we should be returning. My parents don’t know where we are.”

“I do not mean to criticize them, but they should not have left their most precious treasures alone in such a place.” Remembering her own treasure, so recently stolen, tears brimmed in the corners of Rachelle’s brown eyes.

“My parents are a law unto themselves,” Bronwyn assured her, “but none of my sisters have ever been the object of violence.”

Rachelle took her arm and led her into the hall. “Perhaps your sisters have not your kind and impetuous nature.”

“If you mean they aren’t given to mad impulses, I’m afraid that’s true.” They turned into a tiny chapel at the back of the house, rich with the scent of flowers and candles. The women of Rachelle’s household knelt there with Olivia in their midst.

As accustomed to her sister’s beauty as Bronwyn was, she started at the sight of that pure profile. Olivia’s serenity seemed sublime, her devotion frightening. Bronwyn hurried forward and touched Olivia’s arm. “Come,” she whispered. “It’s time.”

“Of course,” Olivia said. “But first, won’t you light a candle for Henriette?”

The memory of Bronwyn’s days in Ireland remained. There she had learned the rudiments of the Catholic religion. Her mother, her feet firmly rooted in English tradition, would have been horrified, but some childish wisdom had kept her daughters from telling her of it. Now Bronwyn lifted the scarf from around her shoulders and covered her head. Under her sister’s approving gaze, she said a prayer for Henriette’s soul. Standing, she ordered, “Come, Olivia.”

With one last, lingering glance at the altar, Olivia obeyed.

“I called a carriage for you,” Rachelle said as they hurried to the door.

Olivia pointed to her own head, then to Bronwyn’s. Bronwyn’s hand flew to her hair. “My wig! I forgot it.” Changing direction, she returned to the salon and rescued the hairpiece from its place beside the fireplace.

“Will you put it on?” Rachelle asked.

Frowning at the brown wig draped across her hand, Bronwyn said, “No, I’ll go like this.”