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    Minuet
    Minuet
    Minuet
    Ebook313 pages5 hours

    Minuet

    By Joan Smith

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    About this ebook

    Minou (christened Lady Céleste by her British father) escaped the Terror in France to reach safety and send assistance for her mother and brother, who were in danger of facing the guillotine. Frustrated by the lack of progress, she determined to return to France with her cousin Henri--but they are followed by the upright Lord Degan, who quickly learned he possessed none of their panache. Georgian Romance by Joan Smith, writing as Jennie Gallant; originally published by Fawcett Coventry
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBelgrave House
    Release dateSep 1, 1980
    ISBN9781610842853
    Minuet
    Author

    Joan Smith

    Joan Alison Smith (born 27 August 1953, London) is an English novelist, journalist and human rights activist, who is a former chair of the Writers in Prison committee in the English section of International PEN. Smith was educated at a state school before reading Latin at the University of Reading in the early 1970s. After a spell as a journalist in local radio in Manchester, she joined the staff of the Sunday Times in 1979 and stayed at the newspaper until 1984. She has had a regular column in the Guardian Weekend supplement, also freelancing for the newspaper and in recent years has contributed to The Independent, the Independent on Sunday, and the New Statesman. In her non-fiction Smith displays a commitment to atheism, feminism and republicanism; she has travelled extensively and this is reflected in her articles. In 2003 she was offered the MBE for her services to PEN, but refused the award. She is a supporter of the political organisation, Republic and an Honorary Associate of the National Secular Society. In November 2011 she gave evidence to the Leveson Inquiry into press and media standards following the telephone hacking practiced by the News of the World. She testified that she considered celebrities thought they could control press content if they put themselves into the public domain when, in reality the opposite was more likely. She repeated a claim that she has persistently adhered to in her writings that the press is misogynistic.

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      Book preview

      Minuet - Joan Smith

      Smith

      Chapter One

      It was summer, but the rain pelting against the windows of the mansion in Berkeley Square was cold enough to remind the inhabitants how far north of the equator the island lay. The blazing fire in the grate was welcome, as was the brandy that sat on the sofa table, its crystal decanter taking on a rosy hue from the fire, while the potent liquid reached an agreeable temperature.

      Lord Harlock was particular about his brandy. I think you’ll find this a good brew, Degan, he said, handing a glass to his cousin.

      Degan regarded the glass suspiciously, certain he would find nothing of the sort. Why must Frenchmen go ruining good grapes by turning them into this paint remover?

      At least it ain’t bleached, Harlock went on, sipping judiciously, and smiling in satisfaction. The last batch I got had been sunk to escape the revenuemen. Must have been underwater two weeks, and was bleached. Ah, that takes the edge off the chill, he said, putting his glass on the table, where Degan’s had already found its way, untasted.

      But I didn’t ask you here to discuss brandy, Harlock said, his countenance assuming a businesslike cast.

      I am curious to hear why you did ask me, John, the younger gentleman replied. He was in his thirtieth year, but gave the air of being older. The serious expression on his face might have accounted for it, or the jacket of a sober hue. His dark hair, simply styled, and his outfit, devoid of any ostentatious ornament—all bespoke a man of moderation.

      About time we discussed the inevitable, what? Harlock replied, not happily, but as one who is resigned to accept an unpleasant task, provided a glass of brandy was at his elbow.

      You refer to your family, I take it—your immediate family?

      Aye, Marie and the children. I think we must acknowledge they are lost—dead—and see to arranging the estate.

      Have you had word from France? Degan asked with quickening interest.

      No. No word from them now in nearly five years. Since the beginning of the Revolution I have heard nothing. He took another sip of his drink, and though it calmed him, it did not bring cheer to the dismal discussion.

      I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, John, the younger man said. Your wife was not a French noblewoman. No reason to assume she has been executed.

      Harlock winced at the picture this conjured up—his lovely Marie, with her lovely white neck stretched on the guillotine—but Degan was not a gentleman of great sensitivity. He said what he thought in the plainest words.

      Pitt tells me the Terror intensifies in Paris, Harlock went on. That damned Robespierre has it all his own way. Has managed to defeat the Cordeliers now, the last remnant of hope for any moderate policy. There are thirty or more carted off to the guillotine every day. He got rid of the Girondists last October. Marie’s father would have gone with that lot. A ringleader of the Gironde, old Armand Augé. The Tribunal is thorough—Marie would not have long escaped. She had no wits, he confessed sadly.

      A woman and a couple of children—the Tribunal would not have bothered its head with them. They are half English as well, Degan pacified him.

      They do not spare women and children in Paris, Harlock said resignedly. Animals! A race that would decapitate their king and queen would stop at nothing.

      You forget we did the same to Charles I, Degan reminded him.

      It has gone beyond sense there. The Tribunal prepares accusations in advance with a blank left for the suspect’s name to expedite executions. Five years and never a word. They are dead, he said in a hollow voice, and had recourse again to the brandy glass. He was only forty-eight, but looked sixty. His hair was gray, his cheeks pouched and his eyes dull. The brandy of course had something to do with it, but the losing of his family under such harrowing and long-drawn-out circumstances had more.

      If that is the case, then you must remarry and start a new family, Degan said with a certain air of heartiness. "You are not yet fifty, John. It is nonsense to behave as though you were an old man. Marry a wife young enough to give you another son and heir, and for God’s sake make it an Englishwoman this time."

      Can’t be done till I receive positive word Marie is dead, Harlock pointed out. Thus far, it is all conjecture. Even if Marie is gone, the children might have survived. If Edward lives, then there is no need for me to remarry. Well, there is no need in any case. You, though you are only a cousin, will inherit the title. What’ll that make you, eh?

      An earl. Somewhat redundant, as I already am one. Never mind that. What does Pitt suggest with regard to getting any positive information out of France? Is there no way of getting ahold of their records, of finding out whether Edward survived?

      Our countries are at war. There is no official communication. Best not to call attention to them in any way, he says. They might have found a quiet corner somewhere to hide. Not that Marie would have had the sense to do it. It would be the bright lights for her, ninnyhammer, but old Armand was as crafty as may be, her father. You can’t imagine what that devil was up to. He may have arranged something. He saw what was coming and urged her to come back to England two years before the Revolution. He always looked out for his children, but she would have none of it. We never did patch it up between us, you know.

      Degan stirred uncomfortably in his chair, fearing he was about to hear what he had no desire to hear—why his cousin and his wife had parted ten years previously. Unlike the general run of mankind, he was truly disinterested in the sordid details of others’ lives. The marriage of Lord Harlock and Mademoiselle Augé had been considered a scandal by the entire family, most of all Degan himself. It was the result of a brief diplomatic career in France. The marriage had worked out as disastrously as everyone had prophesied it would, but it had taken longer to do it. For ten years they had continued under the same roof, producing first a daughter, Céleste, then a son, Edward, along with a constant barrage of marital battles, and finally the long-awaited scandal—separation.

      Degan himself had been only nineteen at the time, and neither close to his cousin nor particularly interested in his problems. He knew some French relations and friends of Marie’s had come to visit the Harlocks, and assumed she had been smitten with a passion for one of them. What could one expect of a Frenchie? In any case, she had either left John or been thrown out. Had it been the latter, he would have given his absolute approval. He shared the view, not uncommon in England, that the only good things to come out of France were wine and courtesans. He would personally no more have proposed marriage to one than the other. France and French things were for entertainment, not for the serious business of fostering the advancement of one’s family.

      Marie had returned to France, taking the children with her for a visit, and had got caught up in the Revolution. Daughter of a Girondist, a politician of moderate views, she had been hostess for her father till affairs got out of hand. Her husband had repeatedly urged her to send the children home, but with a blithe disregard for his wishes and their safety, she had only rarely answered his letters, and never done as he asked. The result was that for five years nothing had been heard of any of them. Plenty was heard of France, however, and what was going on there. The storming of the Bastille, the execution of the monarchs, the Reign of Terror with Robespierre chopping off the heads of the aristocracy and confiscating their estates.

      What do you plan to do, then? Why have you asked me here tonight? Degan inquired, to divert his cousin from more intimate matters.

      I want to discuss with you the arrangement of my business affairs. If you inherit, Harlock Hall will go to you, but I have other unentailed assets, and want to find out what you think I should do with them. There is my nephew, Paul’s boy, who will come into next to nothing, and he is a bright, good lad. I thought the Dorset place would give him a little something to fall back on. And then there is Aunt Deirdre’s estate. It was left to my daughter, Sal. The Harlock man and wife agreed on nothing, not even the names of their children. Céleste was invariably anglicized to Sal by the father, and Edward was frenchified to Édouard by the mother. If Sal is gone, then it must be taken into consideration as well.

      Nonsense leaving such a large estate to a woman in the first place, Degan said brusquely, visions of the fine old home, also in Dorset, rising in his mind. What is it worth by now? In his own family it was the custom to give them a small allowance till marriage, at which time their portion was turned over to the husband, carefully scrutinized by the father.

      With the income racking up for eight years since Deirdre’s death, something in the neighborhood of forty thousand in cash, plus the place itself. Fifty thousand easily, Harlock told him, frowning, and showing no pleasure at the accumulation of so much wealth.

      Hang on to it and do as I tell you. You’re only forty-eight and—

      And feel eighty, Harlock said, tipping up the glass and draining it. What do I want with a young wife and a nursery of babies at my age?

      "It’s what comes of marrying a French woman, Degan said in a condemning way. I’ll tell you who is hanging out for a husband, and she is not young precisely, but still in her childbearing years, is Lady Sylvia Rothely."

      Lady Sylvia was mentally held up for comparison with Lady Harlock. The image caused Harlock to shake his head sadly. Nothing can be done at present, he said, to delay the doing of anything, ever. One wife was enough. His adventures in the marriage arena left him with no desire for an encore, certainly not with a thin, dull Lady Sylvia Rothely.

      In the event that they’ve all perished, I’ll be saddled with Harlock Hall then, Degan said fatalistically. I hope I have a large family of sons.

      Hope you get yourself buckled first, Harlock said mischievously, and received a blighting stare. Degan did not find lasciviousness a matter for levity. How old are you, Degan? he asked to smooth over the implied rebuke.

      Twenty-nine.

      Is that all? Harlock asked, with a little rueful shake of his head. Solidity and seriousness were all well and good in an old crock like himself, but why Degan should set up as a citadel of propriety at such an age was beyond him. You’re the one ought to be getting married. What happened between you and that Oldfield girl you were seeing?

      I stopped seeing her.

      Why?

      A personal reason.

      Well, but what was it?

      She was a little fast in some of her ideas, Degan said, stiffly uncomfortable.

      "Oldfield’s daughter fast? You’re mad. She’s the slowest woman in London. Would have been a perfect match for you."

      It was Degan’s turn to stare. What did she do, eh? Harlock pressed on, with a waggish smile.

      Nothing serious. I don’t mean to carry tales.

      "Must have done something."

      If you must know—and it is not to go beyond these four walls, John—she gambled. Also borrowed some money and didn’t return it.

      How much?

      "A half crown. It is not the sum, but the principle of the thing. It augurs an unsteady character, and the neglect of repaying—"

      The speech was interrupted by a pèremptory banging of the front-door knocker. That’ll be a courier from the office, Harlock said wearily. An active member of the House of Lords, he was accustomed to having his every social activity interrupted by the pressures of state business.

      Nom d’un nom, quelle grande maison! a high young voice trumpeted from the precincts of the front hallway. The gentlemen exchanged a look of astonishment to hear French being spoken, and by a child, in this august household. They sat listening as the butler queried the young person as to his reason for being at the door—front door at that—of Lord Harlock’s establishment, which was more likely to welcome a minister or an archbishop. The entire exchange was not clear to either, and the French half of it entirely incomprehensible to Harlock, who rather prided himself on his uni-lingualism. Degan was slightly conversant with the foreign tongue, by no means fluent.

      He wants to see you, Harlock was told by his cousin.

      Now what the devil... the old lord said, arising with some reluctance from his comfortable, warm chair by the fire.

      Degan too arose and walked to the doorway of the saloon. He was nearly knocked over by a fast-moving ball of gray rags that appeared to be inhabited by some form of human life. It catapulted against his legs, pursued by the outraged butler. Mon Dieu, ça n’est pas possible! the ball exclaimed, regarding Degan steadfastly from a crouching position at his feet.

      Staring at it in consternation, Degan perceived that beneath the tatters and filth a pair of bright topaz eyes stared at him. They were markedly slanted, like a cat’s eyes, and bore the luster of youth.

      What is impossible? he asked, fascinated.

      Que tu es mon père, the urchin replied, rising to a point below Degan’s chin and straining the neck up.

      I certainly am not! Degan shouted, on his high ropes. What is the meaning of this? Do you speak English?

      Mais oui, the urchin said, making no move to do so.

      Harlock meanwhile was staring at the apparition with an interested, questioning face. If you speak English, suppose you tell us your story, my young fellow, he suggested.

      "Je veux... I want to see my father," the child stated, with an accent not so very pronounced.

      You’d better tell us his name then, lad, and I assure you I am not he, Degan said haughtily, still stinging under the impertinence of the former suggestion that he was.

      "Il s’appelle Lord Harlock," the rags said, looking from one to the other saucily, a question in the eyes.

      "Good God! It’s never Edward!" Harlock shouted.

      "Non, Papa! It is I, Minou." The intruder laughed, and instantly hurled itself into the amazed father’s arms.

      Degan stood back, frowning in disbelief and disapproval. Call the Bow Street Runners, he said, suspecting chicanery, and looking sharply to the youngster’s fingers for a weapon. He had never seen such filthy fingers. They held no gun or knife, however.

      Harlock disengaged himself and stood back, examining the newcomer with a careful scrutiny. She looked back, unblinking, the big topaz eyes wide with excitement. Bless my soul, I believe it is, he said.

      Meenoo? Surely the child’s name was Sally, Degan pointed out.

      Yes, yes, but Marie called her Meenoo for a pet name. A kitten I believe it means in Bongjaw. Is it you, Sal?

      You don’t know me too neither, Papa! She laughed. "We are much changed, non? I thought this one was you, she told him, with a jerk of her head toward Degan. Allow me to present Mademoiselle Céleste Imogene Marie Augé Fawthrop," she went on, dropping a dainty curtsy, the graceful movement rendered ludicrous by her tattered ensemble.

      Regarding the awful outfit more closely, Degan said, He’s wearing trousers. This is not your daughter, John. Do as I say and send for the Runners. There is some trick afoot here.

      Qui est-il? Minou demanded of her father in a saucy tone, with another jerk of her head toward Lord Degan.

      Eh, what’s that you’re saying?

      "She—he—it asks who I am," Degan told him.

      Ah, just so. I wish you will speak English, Sal. This is your cousin, Lord Degan.

      On ne doit pas... She stopped and took a deep breath, preparatory to expressing herself in English. "Better to call him Citoyen Degan, hein?" she asked with a wise and cautious light in her eyes.

      Better not if you know what’s good for you, her father replied with a laugh. You ain’t in France now, gel. We still hang onto our handles, and our heads.

      If you have any words to address to me, you will pray call me Lord Degan, Degan said with a toplofty examination of the creature.

      C’est à vous, she replied with a thoroughly Gallic shrug of her disheveled shoulders.

      Speak English if you can, he added, thoroughly angered at such impertinence. Even if this walking rag bag turned out to be Lady Céleste, which he doubted very much, she was but a child, and ought to be taught to address her elders with respect.

      A loud sneeze shattered the air. Degan was quite sure he saw some flying insect leave the area of the person’s head, and took a step backward. Unconcerned, the child pulled an extremely long and extraordinarily dirty piece of material from around her neck. It had once been red, but was now a spotted sooty shade of uncertain hue. She applied it to her nose, then tossed it to the floor. Mon bonnet rouge, she explained, giving it a kick with a foot shod in crumbling black leather.

      What does she say? Harlock asked Degan.

      Her red bonnet, I believe, he answered, regarding the piece of dirty material for traces of its being either red or a bonnet.

      "Mais oui. What we call in France a liberty cap. Depuis..." She frowned with the nuisance of translating her every thought, but braced her shoulders for the task. Since the Revolution, you know, one must wear the red liberty cap, or risk being taken for an enemy of the Republic.

      You never had that filthy rag on your hair! her father demanded, though as his eyes flew to her head, he saw it was not likely to suffer from the cap. The hair was probably the worst part of the child. It was gray with dust, which had become congealed to a darker mat of tangles on top by the falling rain. It also bore the traces of excessively poor barbering, sticking out in points all over her head.

      No, I required it for a scarf. The neck, he was very cold, she replied calmly. "May I eat, Papa? I am very hungry."

      Send her to the kitchen. I’ll call the Runners, Degan suggested.

      Harlock took one last, long lingering look at the child. The eyes did the trick. Marie had such eyes as that. Cat eyes. He beckoned to the goggling butler and asked him to see Lady Sally to a chamber, to bring her hot water, a maid, and clean clothing.

      "But what of food? J’ai la grande faim," she protested vociferously.

      You’ll want to scrub up first, Harlock pointed out. He began scratching at his neck as he spoke. Degan looked at him in alarm, and stepped farther back.

      "Mais non! First I want to eat! I die of hunger! Vraiment."

      You can’t eat in that condition. You’ll catch hydrophobia, Degan said sternly.

      "Ah, mon Dieu," the child said weakly, and sank carefully to the floor in a dead faint. Or a good imitation of one. As the butler darted forward, one large yellow eye opened a fraction to observe him.

      There was an excited shouting for wine, brandy, water, feathers to be burned and a vinaigrette, which last two items were not to be found in a gentleman’s establishment. The bundle of rags was lifted to the sofa, a glass of brandy was held to the lips, and she gulped greedily, without even the customary fit of coughing expected from a female.

      "C’est une bonne eau-de-vie, ça, she complimented Lord Harlock as she drained the glass, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Then she sat up straight. Now I have the bath, while you command food, yes?"

      Certainly, my dear, the stunned lord agreed.

      The slight frame, draped in hanging shreds of gray, arose and walked jauntily out the door. Hein, citoyen, she called to the butler. Where is my room?

      She was gone, and Degan and Harlock exchanged incredulous glances, tinged almost with fright.

      What do you make of that? Degan asked, the first to recover speech.

      Harlock sat silent a moment, then put back his head and laughed. What do I make of it, sir? I’ll tell you what I make of it. I make it I am no longer a childless father. Funny there’s no word for it. A fatherless child is an orphan but a childless father is nothing.

      You can’t accept that fellow’s word—

      The eyes have it. Marie’s eyes, down to the long lashes and feline slant. My little Sal had just such an eye. She is my daughter.

      "I don’t believe it was even a female. He wore trousers."

      "Damme, Rob, if you wore a skirt it wouldn’t make you a woman! We’ll have to take her word for it, won’t we? Unless you want to check it out for yourself."

      Degan scowled in disapproval of such a statement. To imply that a skirt hid something different from a pair of trousers was already more ribaldry than he liked. "She must be examined by a doctor for contagious diseases, certainly. And another thing, John—this might very well be some trick to get money out of you. Some damned Frenchie who has got ashore with a half-baked story of being able to free Marie for a price—a high price, you may be sure."

      No, sir, those are the eyes of an Augé. If she ain’t Sal, she’s a double. I’ll hear what she has to say.

      He soon heard milady’s first command. An upstairs maid came with a curtsy to inquire what Lady Céleste was to wear, as she had brought no gowns with her. She says she’d like to wear one of her mother’s gowns, sir, the maid suggested uncertainly.

      Impossible. They’re all put away in camphor. Lend her a servant’s dress for the present. It will do well enough.

      The maid bobbed and left, to return not three minutes later with the word that Lady Céleste would prefer not to wear a servant’s dress, if it pleased his lordship.

      Damme, it don’t please me! he shouted. Get her into a dress and send her down here at once. I want to talk to her.

      The harried servant remounted the grand staircase once more, to have a bar of soap hurled at her head, though in truth Minou missed her target on purpose, and did it only to show that she meant to be taken seriously. Long enough I have worn rags! she said imperiously. "Get me one of my mama’s gowns, tout de suite." Though she sat to her shoulders in water and had her hair covered in suds, she emanated an air of authority.

      The servant said apologetically, "They’ll smell, milady. And be all wrinkled as well."

      Press it, and bring me perfume.

      "There’s no perfume in the house, milady, and the attics are all dark, with bats."

      "Qu’est-ce que c’est que bats?" she demanded.

      The servant flapped her arms, saying, Black bird, bad.

      "Ah, chauue-souris," Minou said with a shudder. She then looked all around the room, at the brocade hangings of the canopied bed, the gold satin window draperies, a rather pretty Chinese scarf with a flowered pattern and a long fringe that decorated a mahogany bureau in the corner. "Très bien. Some pins, a needle and filet."

      Feelay, mum?

      "Thread, vaurienne."

      The requested items were brought while her hair was rinsed, her body scrubbed, her nails nearly rubbed from her fingers in an effort to remove the grime, till at last she emerged from the tub with a large towel encasing her from head to ankles. It was necessary to sink to servants’ undergarments, but it was soon clear to the astonished group of servants attending Lady Céleste that these ignominious cotton undergarments were to be the only decent stitch on her body.

      They were commanded to yank the draperies from the windows and the Chinese shawl from the table, and insert pins and filets where milady directed. Considering that three orders came from belowstairs to hurry it up, milady took her time about the proceedings, standing in front of a mirror, turning over a piece of material to make a tuck here, a pleat there, as though she had all the time in the world.

      While still half draped, she ordered food, insisting she could not wait a moment longer. With a wing of chicken held between her fingers, she continued her toilette. At length she stood before them swathed in gold satin draperies that began well below her shoulders, and finished three feet behind her in a train. With all this finery, no shoes could be found to fit her, and she went in the housekeeper’s best Sunday silk hose, without shoes. Her hair had been toweled dry to be brushed into a tousle of curls the shade of burnished copper. It sat in a wreath of glistening ringlets like a cap on her head.

      My, don’t you look pretty, mum, the upstairs maid said, smiling in pleasure.

      Pas trop mal, Minou decided,

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