Jack Chiltern's Wife (1999) (7 page)

‘Without your dinner? Are you not hungry?’

‘Not so hungry that I will stay and allow you to take liberties.’

He laughed. ‘Do you have the least idea what that means?’

‘I know I should dislike it intensely.’

‘You would not, I guarantee it.’ He did not know why he was taunting her so. Was he testing her, seeing how far he could go before she was reduced to tears? He hated seeing a woman in tears; it always made him angry. He could deal with her better if he was angry. Anger was better than compassion. Compassion made you weak. Surprisingly she did not falter, neither did she attempt to leave the room.

‘You are insufferably arrogant and conceited,’ she said.

‘Audacious, arrogant, conceited,’ he said softly, changing his tactics. ‘Can you find no merit in me at all?’

Unable to lie, she said nothing; she would not let him turn the tables on her and put her in the wrong. She looked from him to the door, and from the door to the table and its steaming tureen. She was very hungry.

‘So be it,’ he said, cheerfully abandoning his teasing. ‘Let us call a truce. It will not serve for us to be forever at odds, we still have some way to go. Now, sit down and eat, it might be the last nourishing meal you have for some time.’

Reluctantly Kitty sat down, knowing she could not fight him physically. Her only recourse was to appeal to his sense of chivalry. He must surely have one, or he would not have brought them thus far without harming them, or allowing them to be harmed by others. But he made a very strange knight.

‘Now,’ he said, filling a plate from the tureen and putting it in front of her, ‘we will stop this cat-and-mouse game and talk sensibly.’

She began picking at her food, but hunger overcame good manners and she tucked into the delicious food with every appearance of enjoyment. But she was still wary. And curious.

‘Who is she?’ she asked, realising he was not eating himself but was watching her with a delighted smile on his face and eyes twinkling.

‘Who?’

‘Lucie. I thought at first she might be your wife, but then I thought no, because she would not leave us to dine alone. A servant, perhaps. Are you allowed servants in France these days? Your friend, Pierre, did not seem to think so. Perhaps she is a relative …’ She prattled on, not giving him time to answer. ‘She is very pretty.’

Not nearly as beautiful as you, my dear, he thought, watching the animated face of his guest and wishing there was some way he could stop time, freeze it so that she need never change, but stay always bright and cheerful, never to know cold and hunger and brutality. ‘Yes, Lucie is pretty. And good, which is more important.’

‘She is your lover, then?’

He laughed and poured wine in her glass. ‘She was what English people might call a serf in the old days, tied to her
seigneur
, but since the Revolution she is free to work for whom she likes, which is good in theory but does not always work in practice.’

‘Are you her
seigneur
?’

‘No. She chooses to work for me. I pay her wages to keep this house clean and cook for me when I am here. Does that satisfy you?’

‘She doesn’t wear that hateful red cap.’

‘If she went into Paris, she would. As you must.’

‘Do you have a wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’ She digested this piece of information and wondered what difference it made. None, she told herself sternly, none at all. He was going to take her into Paris and reunite her with James and then she need see him no more. She gave him a brittle smile. ‘Where is she? In England?’

Her face was so expressive, the violet eyes seemed to mirror her soul and he understood her thoughts almost as if she had spoken them aloud. It gave him a
frisson
of pleasure which vanished when he thought of Gabrielle, leaving him bitter and morose. ‘She is in France.’

‘In Paris?’

He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘I have been very selfish, haven’t I, burdening you with my troubles and accusing you, when all you must be thinking of is going to your wife? I have delayed you and crossed you at every turn, it is no wonder you are so down in spirits.’

‘I am not down in spirits, far from it,’ he said, deciding not to correct her misconception. He had never found it easy to talk of Gabrielle and the last thing he wanted was Kitty’s sympathy. ‘I have no reason to believe she is not safe.’ He raised his glass to her. ‘We will talk of other things.’

‘Very well. This food is delicious, which just goes to show that France is not in such bad straits as you would have us believe.’

‘It does nothing of the sort, it shows only that money can still buy a few luxuries if you know where to find them.’

‘How much money?’ she asked, thinking of her dwindling resources.

‘A great deal, I am afraid.’

‘Oh. Then how does James go on?’

‘He earns his bread and wine, just as we all do.’

‘You, too?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘Better you do not ask.’

‘Could I?’

‘Could you what?’

‘Earn my bread and wine. Edward gave me as much as he could, but it will not last very long with the prices so high here. I must find a way of earning my keep.’

‘What can you do?’

‘I could teach English. Or sew.’

‘Hardly skills in great demand in France at the moment,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Have you ever done any play-acting?’

‘Of course not. Uncle William would never have allowed it.’

‘Not even charades?’

‘We did sometimes play charades at Christmas when Mama and Papa were alive. My stepmama does not care for the pastime. Why do you ask?’

‘Because, tomorrow, I want you to act my wife for all you are worth.

‘Your wife! But how can I? You are already married.’

‘Jack Chiltern is married, I give you. But I am not Jack Chiltern, I am Jacques Faucon and my papers state that I am married.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said slowly. ‘But surely, when you are stopped, you could simply say you had left your wife at home.’

‘I could, but how would that help you, my dear? You want to get into Paris, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course, but to be your wife …’

‘In name only, of course. The last thing I want is an emotional entanglement, I promise you.’

‘No more do I,’ she retorted. ‘Neither do I wish to become embroiled in anything illegal or disreputable. I know nothing
about you. Who are you? What are you doing in France? Are you French? You certainly speak it very fluently.’

He smiled. ‘You should have asked those questions long ago, before we ever left Calais. It is too late now, don’t you think?’

‘I thought I could trust you.’

‘Trust is a two-way thing, my dear. It must work both ways or it does not work at all. So, think carefully. Do you still trust me?’

She looked at him with her head on one side and considered the question. He
had
been arrogant and conceited, he
had
taken advantage of her naivety to kiss her, he
had
taunted her,
had
been tyrannical and would no doubt be so again but, in spite of all that, she was grateful for his help. Without it, they would never have left Calais. ‘I suppose I must.’

He laughed. ‘Hardly wholehearted assurance, but no matter. We go on together, eh,
ma petite
?’

‘I do not seem to have much choice.’

‘Then listen carefully to what I tell you.’

She put her knife and fork down and listened as he outlined his plan, a plan which filled her with trepidation but also gave her a surge of excitement, as if new doors were being opened to her, doors to new experiences, new delights, perhaps new horrors, and it was up to her which she opened.

He emphasised that he would be on hand to support and protect her, but she must follow his lead and do exactly as he said. ‘There must be no faltering,’ he said. ‘Nor must you behave haughtily, however provoked. You must remember you are not of genteel birth— nothing will inflame the Guard more than an aristo pretending to be a peasant. And Judith is your mother, not your servant, is that clear?’

‘Yes, yes, but my French is not very good.’

‘That could be a problem … we shall have to admit you are English. I married you on a visit to England several years ago.
You never think of it now, but cleave to France and the new administration.’

‘Do you? Cleave to the new regime, I mean.’

‘Jacques Faucon certainly does. He is fanatical about it.’

‘But Jack Chiltern?’

‘Jack Chiltern does not exist. From now on, we will never mention that name.’ He stood up and held his hand out to her. ‘I suggest you retire for the night. We have to be away from here by first light. I am afraid you will have to leave your baggage behind, Lucie will take care of it for you until we all come back here, God willing.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘Goodnight and
au revoir
, Miss Harston. Tomorrow I shall greet citoyenne Faucon,
n’est-ce pas
?’

Kitty went up to her room in a daze, the feel of his lips still tingling on the back of her hand, his soft voice saying goodnight still echoing in her ears. How could he do this to her, make her feel as though she were melting away? She did not want to sleep, she wanted to savour it. But warmth, good food and wine, and the fatigue induced by five days of uncomfortable travelling overcame her and she slept soundly.

‘What I want to know is what have we got ourselves into?’ Judith demanded, the following morning. ‘I never thought I should have to dress in rags and pretend to be your mother while you passed yourself off as that … that charlatan’s wife. How could you agree? How could you think I would agree?’

‘If you don’t want to come, you could stay here with Lucie …’

‘No, I could not!’ Judith rounded on her. ‘If you think I would be so unmindful of my duty, you are mistaken. I came on this jaunt to look after you, and look after you I will.’

She had been dressing in her ragged costume while she spoke, but she was doing it slowly, lacking enthusiasm for the adventure, unlike Kitty. She set the red cap on her grey curls and, looking in the mirror over Kitty’s shoulder, grimaced with distaste.
‘We know nothing of him. We have no idea what manner of man he is …’

Kitty looked up and faced the worried reflection in the glass. ‘Then how do you know he is a charlatan?’

‘He dined with you alone. If Lucie had not insisted you were perfectly safe and looked as though she might hit me over the head with a skillet if I insisted, I should have burst in to rescue you. I wish I had now. Your good reputation will be in shreds.’

Kitty laughed. ‘Oh, Judith, I no longer have a good reputation, surely you must know that?’

‘But to act his wife? What will you do when …’ she gulped ‘… when the time comes to retire? You cannot possibly share a room with him.’

‘Long before then we shall be with James. He will take care of us. It is only so that we may pass safely through the barriers.’

Kitty, who had finished dressing, was surveying the results in the mirror. It was not realistic enough. She lacked the haggard look of most of the women she had come across; her eyes were still bright with untroubled youth, and her hair shone with Judith’s brushing. She picked up a pair of scissors from the dressing table and hacked at her long tresses.

Judith was horrified. ‘Kitty! What are you doing?’

‘Cutting my hair. Have you not noticed that nearly all the women here have short hair? I suppose it is easier to keep free from vermin.’

‘Ugh! But I suppose you are right. Here, give me the scissors.’

Kitty handed them over and sat patiently while her long hair was cut short and watched in surprise as it sprang into tight little curls. ‘Why, I do believe I like it,’ she said, setting the red cap on top. ‘Now for the eyes.’

A finger run along the chimney produced enough blacking to smudge her eyes with fatigue, and with the addition of a line or two across her brow, served to make her look older and more
careworn. She stood up and slouched slowly across the room, her shoulders drooping. ‘How’s that?’

‘It will serve, though I cannot say I approve.’

‘You must do the same.’

Judith was too plump to look haggard, so Kitty contented herself with pulling her hair out of its neat coil and making it stand out round the cap, then blacking one or two of her teeth, which produced loud protests from her maid. ‘You are making me look an old hag.’

‘Exactly. We cannot afford pride, Judith, which is why I agreed to Mr Chil—’ She stopped and corrected herself. ‘Jacques’ plan. Come on, he will be waiting.’

Outside the front door, they found the old horse harnessed to a farmcart loaded with cabbages, most of which were rotten and gave off a very unpleasant smell. Jacques, once more in ragged trousers and a well-worn greatcoat, thick with grease, was busy burrowing in the produce, hiding his leather bag.

When it was done, he stood and looked at them, surveying them from head to toe, then laughed. ‘Very good, my dears, though I fancy you are too well shod. But no matter, a farmer can buy his wife a new pair of boots now and again. Rub them in the mud to make them look more worn and get on the seat. The sun will be up soon and we must join the line at the barrier.’

Lucie came from the house, carrying two small blankets which she handed to Judith. ‘To keep out the cold,’ she said.
‘Au revoir, madame, ma’amselle.’
She turned to Jack.
‘Bon chance, monsieur.’
Her grey eyes spoke more than her words; there was in them a look of unalloyed adoration.

He pulled her to him and kissed her on each cheek. ‘Go home to your
maman
until I send you word I need you,
ma chérie
.’

He jumped up beside Kitty and the cart rumbled off along the lane they had traversed the night before. Rain mixed with sleet whipped against their faces and, in spite of Lucie’s blankets and the fact that both wore two or three petticoats beneath their rags,
their fingers and toes were soon frozen, but they knew it would be useless to protest, nothing could be done about it.

Jack himself seemed impervious to the weather; he was becoming more and more morose, hunching his chin into his coat collar. He appeared to shrink, to grow older and craggier before their eyes, until he hardly seemed the same upright, muscular man who had brought them from Calais. He did not speak. His ungloved hands, raw with cold, maintained their steady grip on the reins as the old horse plodded on with its burden.