The Disdainful Marquis (25 page)

But Rose hovered in the doorway and watched the lanky coachman and the small, ragged, limping little urchin flapping by his side swagger out into the street together. Clapping his hand around the young innocent's shoulders, the man began to sing a simple French rhyme, and the mismatched pair thus ambled on down the street. M. Beaumont's man only looked up and noted their passing. Then he turned his eyes up to the window where the English miss was, waiting and watching for any movement there. He doubted his employer's warnings that she might try to leave by stealth. Why should she, he mused, as the ragged pair of layabouts passed him, when she was set to go straight into the lap of luxury? Some females, he thought idly, blowing on his chilled hands after his long night's vigil, had all the luck.

Chapter XIII

Even though her feet ached, even though her right foot felt like it trod upon a fiery cobble every time she took a step, Catherine kept pace with James, and even swung her battered carpetbag in rhythm with the little song he chanted. For she felt freer and lighter than she had in days. They had walked blocks from the hotel. And no one seemed to give them a second glance. James marched her through the poorest district in the city, through crowds, yet no one bothered to take note of their passage. In her disguise, in dirty borrowed clothes, she suddenly felt more herself than she had all the nights she had been gotten up in her new finery. For that disguise, she reasoned, had been more alien to her than this one.

At least, she thought, as she gratefully rested on a barrel outside of the stable where Jacques, James's friend, worked, she would have a tale to tell her grandnieces and nephews when she grew old. For even now she was beginning to turn her thoughts homeward. Home, toward Arthur and Jane and the haven she looked forward to enjoying again. She might not, she thought, swinging her feet aimlessly as she waited, ever be able to tell Arthur the entire story. But she would tell Jane. And Jane would understand. Her adventuring days were over. She would be glad to go home and be a good auntie.

But the worm of ambition still gnawed at her. She might, she mused, someday be able to write of her adventure, perhaps under an assumed name, and earn a few guineas so that she would have some money of her own, and not be a burden upon Arthur forever. Then she hastily put her thoughts away. For it was ambition that had landed her in her difficulties, and she vowed to be done with it. Still, a sudden thought made her laugh aloud. And a nearby groom looked at her and shook his head over the way even a stray current of air could amuse a simpleton. For she very much doubted if Arthur would ever believe that his correct sister-in-law could be dressed as a scruffy idiot, chewing a straw and giggling to herself in the heart of the city of Paris. Oh Lord, she thought, drawing in a breath in sad realization, what a desperate pass I have come to.

James came out of the stable looking very pleased with himself.

“Here,” he whispered, bending over her, “Jacques believes you to be the son of a friend of mine. The less said, the safer your head. I decided to name you Henri, in honor of your friend Beaumont.” He laughed. “And I thought ‘Gris' would be a nice short last name for you. Now,” he continued, putting a bit of paper in her pocket, “there is your note. It says, as best as Jacques could pen it: ‘Here is my son Henri. He visits his grandparents, M. and Mme. Gris, in Dieppe. Please see him safely there, he has not much wit.'

“And now,” James said, rising, “here are our horses. They're too good for peasants such as us. But we have to stir stump. I have to be back at work by evening. That's when the old woman stirs. So mount up and we'll be off. You can ride, can't you?” he said suddenly, in her ear.

Catherine eyed the huge black mare she was to ride and swallowed hard.

She nodded. She had ridden back in Kendal, when Mama had been alive. But always sidesaddle. Still, she thought, as James threw her up atop the horse, she would do what she had to.

Seeing her there, clutching the reins with whitened knuckles and struggling to stay right, James nodded.

“You look just as you ought,” he grinned wickedly. And as they rode off, he laughed to himself, watching his companion struggle to stay upright. “Just as one would expect.”

It seemed to Catherine that they rode for hours. But she knew that it was only her body protesting her means of transport. The horses steadily made their way through the crowded city streets, and when the crowds began to thin, she thought she could see James relax. “Now, we must travel,” he called to her, and they picked up their pace.

By the time the sun was high in the bright afternoon sky, Catherine didn't know which part of her anatomy ached more, her feet or her seat. But she was curiously happy, even in all her discomfort. Once they reached open country, she even found herself humming in time with the beat of the horses' hooves. She wanted to whisk off her absurd hat and sing. For she was free. The air was cold and sharp and clean against her face. The decision had been made. And it did not matter what sort of a fool she looked, for no one knew her. And in her anonymity lay her safety and her passport to freedom.

She was almost sorry when James drew the horses in at a farmhouse and signaled her to dismount.

“I will go and make arrangements for the horses to be watered here. Then we'll walk to the inn where the diligence stops. For it never hurt to be extra careful,” James said consideringly. “These nags are too good for the likes of us and you never know who notices such things at an inn. So we'll hoof it there ourselves. I'll collect the horses on the way back.”

While James went to the back door of the farmhouse, Catherine leaned upon a wooden fence. When the farm wife came out to look at the horses and glanced curiously at Catherine, she quickly drew her hat brim down further and gazed at the ground.

James dickered with the woman in his rough French, and then he came back to Catherine and slapped her on the shoulder, almost knocking her from her feet.

“Allez idiot!”
he roared,
“Il est tard. Allez, allez.”

She strode after him and breathlessly kept pace with him till the road turned and they were out of sight of the farmhouse.

“Did you have to be that convincing?” she complained, limping quickly after him.

“It does grow late,” he said worriedly, glancing at the sky, “and she wanted to offer us some cider and a bite to eat. But I couldn't risk it. It wouldn't do for me to be gone when Beaumont comes. He'll twig to me in an instant when he finds you're gone too.”

Catherine felt extremely guilty. For she hadn't realized the penalty that would fall to James if it were discovered that it was he who had helped her. So she merely nodded and tried to keep pace with his long strides. Her feet burned in the tight boots, and her right foot felt as though it were afire with each step she took upon her secret cache of coins. But she knew it would be selfish and dangerous for James if she slowed her pace, so she held her lips together tightly and forced herself to match his steps.

As they walked, James offered advice.

“It might be crowded on the road. And if it is crowded, there are always folk who'll take advantage of a half-wit. So push yourself. Wave your note around if they tell you there's no room in the coach. Someone's bound to take pity on you. You look sad enough. But remember, don't speak. Don't trust anyone. Keep to yourself till you get aboard an English ship. Keep that portmanteau by your side. Sleep on it, if you have to. And don't take off that boot. That's your bank account.”

Catherine puffed along with James, nodding at his every suggestion. The cold afternoon eased her pain. The ground was so cold, and the sole of her boot so thin, that her right foot was numbed and the pain seemed bearable. She would board the diligence and suffer quietly. But, she vowed, the first thing she would do aboard ship, even before she took off her hat, would be to rid herself of her accursed boots.

The inn was a sorry-looking place, Catherine thought, as they came to it. It was weathered, in need of a coat of paint, and grimy. James sniffed disparagingly as they passed the pungent odor of the stables. There seemed to be a great many people, mostly peasants and tradesmen, milling about in front of the place and talking loudly to each other.

“Stay by my side,” James whispered urgently as he mounted the steps to the entrance.

Once inside, James pushed his way through a group of angry-looking farmers and went up to a high desk. A harassed, very fat woman was arguing loudly with a red-faced farmer. James waited until the farmer had finished his argument and stomped off before catching the woman's attention by rapping a coin on the desk. He flipped the coin repeatedly in the air as he held a whispered conversation with her. Catherine could not catch his words, but he, too, seemed to be growing angry. Finally, he sighed and flipped the coin at the woman, who caught it adroitly and then moved on to speak to another patron.

James drew Catherine aside at the entrance to the inn, near a large crowded taproom.

“Ahh, bad luck,” he sighed. “The diligence broke down further down the line. And it won't come till tomorrow. So you'll have to spend the night here. These others, most of them live nearby and will go home and come back tomorrow. But still others are staying overnight. So there's no room for a rat, she says. You can't sleep in the stable neither, for there's a whole crew of rowdies putting up there, or share a room, for they're all parceled out. So I offered her a pourboire and she says a little chap like you can sleep safe enough right there.”

James pointed to the massive fireplace that took up one whole end of the taproom. Catherine looked at him in puzzlement, a little smile on her lips, for surely he was joking.

“No, not in the fire, nit,” he laughed. “But on the fender there—it's wide and brick, and there's room enough to curl up warm there.”

The fireplace, Catherine saw, did have a wide brick lip that ran in a semicircle along its circumference.

“Not the best accommodations,” James shrugged, “but keep your hat on, curl up tight, use your carpetbag as a pillow and you'll be safe enough. This side's for the common lot. There's private rooms on the other side. I gave her a tip so you could stay and she would see you on the diligence tomorrow. So,” he said, looking around him, “this is as far as I take you, sweet. I have to go now. But is there anything else I can do for you before I go?”

Catherine shifted from foot to foot in embarrassment. There was one other problem, but she did not know how to ask him about it. He saw her consternation and after a moment began to laugh. He cuffed her on the shoulder again.

“I'm a looby too,” he grinned. “Come with me.”

Keeping her head down, Catherine followed him out a back door near the steaming kitchen. There was a small vegetable garden and then nothing but a field of weeds. James picked carefully through the garden and led her around to the side of the house. Two ramshackle outbuildings stood there.

“Go into the one on the right,” he whispered. “I'll keep watch.”

When she came out of the little building, the smile disappeared from James's face.

“See you don't go in again unless there's absolutely no one about,” he warned.

“I'd like to wash up,” Catherine whispered.

“Forget that,” James cautioned, leading her back into the inn and the taproom, “for it's dirt that makes the man in this case. Now,” he said quietly, as he sat her down by the fireplace, “there'll be a spot of dinner later. Then curl up and sleep. And then, after breakfast, board the coach and go. I don't care if you have to ride atop it, go.”

“I'd like to pay you,” Catherine said in a very little voice. “You've been so very good to me,”

James grinned hugely, swept her into his arms, and kissed her soundly on both cheeks.

“Payment,” he said. “The French,” he whispered, “kiss all the time. Take care, Catherine, and luck be with you.”

She watched him go and sank down at her seat by the fireplace. Suddenly the light seemed gone from the day, and she almost, imperceptibly, shrank into a smaller shape. She was on her own, at last.

The afternoon passed slowly. True to James's predictions, the crowd of people slowly filtered away, grumbling as they went. Still, the inn remained filled, but few people entered the taproom and those who did, ignored the simpleton sitting and staring at his boots by the fireside. As night came, it grew colder, and soon the landlady huffed into the taproom and brushed at Catherine.

“Allez, allez,”
she roared, as people do at those they think are lacking in wit, as though volume alone will get their meaning through. “
J'ai besoin d'allumer le feu,”
she screamed, indicating the logs stacked in the fireplace.

Catherine stepped back from the bricks and let the landlady, puffing from exertion, bend to touch a match to the tinder. Soon a comfortable fire was roaring, and the landlady grunted in satisfaction. She waved at Catherine again.

“
Asseyez-vous. Asseyez-vous,”
she commanded, and, after what she deemed to be enough of a confused consideration, Catherine sat back down again as requested.

The taproom slowly filled, and a few tired slatternly-looking kitchen maids brought bowls of stew, tankards of beer, and bottles of wine out to the guests. One stopped and placed a bowl of stew and a glass of cider on the bricks at Catherine's side. She smiled at the poor waif, and Catherine ducked her head and began to eat, badly frightened because she had almost said “thank you” without thinking.