The Disdainful Marquis (11 page)

Rose shook her head in distress at herself. She was beautiful, Catherine thought, in a very different manner from Violet. She was fair and blonde, with a full figure and a warm, comfortable manner. She had fine large brown eyes and a high bosom and a head of flaxen hair, and was fully as red of lips and dark of lashes as Violet. But she was not so elegantly stylish as Violet. Rather, she was comfortable and plushy looking, and as she prattled on in her soft voice, it was impossible not to warm to her.

“So I borrowed here and I borrowed there,” she said, ignoring a trill of laughter from Violet, “and I hied myself to the docks just in time to catch Her Grace. And still, I don't think I turned the trick till I said to her, I said that everyone would be positively agog when they saw her with the three of us in tow. A redhead and a blonde and a brunette. I said, what could be more smashing? More eye-catching? More distinguished? And then I saw her thinking and I went on that she'd be the success of the Continent—her name would be on everyone's lips, I said. And she upped and said, ‘Yes, I think you're right.' And so here's old Rose. Coming along to Paris with you. And you needn't worry, for I won't step on your toes at all. Vi here can tell you I'm very amiable, and I'll never stand in your light. I know I'm not terribly bright, like Vi here,” she said, looking imploringly at Catherine, as though Catherine's opinion meant the entire world to her, “and neither am I so elegant as you. You look a treat, just like a young lady should. So I won't take the shine out of you. But I needed this job, truly I did, so say you'll be friends and we'll have a jolly time. For if I've gotten your nose out of joint, it will be rotten for us all, and I'll feel badly for having upset everyone.”

“No,” said Catherine, “I don't mind. Why should I? If that is what Her Grace wishes, why should I cavil? But I truly don't understand,” Catherine said sadly, shaking her head and sitting down in one of the gilt chairs in the cabin, “why someone would need two companions, let alone three. Especially when she doesn't seem to even require one, what with her personal maid seeming to do all the work for her.”

“You see?” Violet said in disgusted tones, lying back on the bed again, “it never stops, not even when we're alone together.”

“I think that's horrid of you,” Rose said indignantly to Violet. “Live and let live, I say. She don't mean no harm by it. She's probably born to better things, like Henrietta was, back in Tunbridge Wells. Never you mind, Catherine,” Rose said pleasantly. “You go on just as you want to. I just wanted to make sure you knew that I mean no harm. And that there's plenty to go round for all three of us, seeing as how the duchess means to hit all the high spots.”

Catherine looked at Rose and felt a distinct frisson of unease starting somewhere in the region of her stomach that had nothing to do with the motion of the ship.

“Enough of what to go round?” she asked slowly.

“Oh, Lord,” Violet groaned, and most inelegantly flopped over on her stomach and held a pillow over her head.

“Enough gentlemen, of course, dear,” Rose said, with puzzlement. “Enough gentlemen for us all to go around. There's plenty of fish in this sea. And even though there'll be three of us, we're all so different, there'll be money enough for all of us to make. I'll never cut into your takings, dear,” she said, eyeing Catherine's pale face with distress. “Never fear, we'll get on beautifully, like three sisters.”

Chapter VI

Not many people were above deck now. The sky was lowering and the motion of the boat had already sorted out the good sailors from the bad, sending the latter below to suffer in privacy. And even those who did not mind the rolling sea, did not care to brave the chill winds and stayed below as well. Catherine had discovered that she was a good sailor, or perhaps it was just that she was so distressed that it would not matter to her if she were in the center of a tidal wave. Her own thoughts were in such turmoil that the motion of the ship could not match them for turbulence.

She stood at the deck and gripped the rail tightly with her mittened fingers. A great many things made sense to her now—from the duchess's servants' attitudes to the attitude of Madame Bertrand, to even the marquis' mocking comments. Her face flamed when she thought of him and what she now knew he had meant every time he spoke to her. But she was not a stupid girl, and the fact that she had seen nothing in her situation that was not glaringly out of line distressed her almost as much as the opinions of the marquis and everyone she had met in the duchess's service.

For there was no doubt in her mind now. The artless Rose had prattled on and on till she had erased all doubts. She had been hired on only because Rose and Violet were not available, and Rose and Violet had been beautiful women, and young, at least far younger than the general run of ladies' companions in the marketplace. But there was no doubt, as incredible as it seemed, Rose and Violet were women of low repute. Catherine thought of all the euphemisms she had ever heard. They were demireps, they were fancy pieces. Oh, Lord, she thought, have an end to it, they were women who catered to the darker needs of strange gentlemen, whatever you called them.

And here she was, Catherine Robins, unmarried daughter of a younger son related to the great house of the Earl of Dorset, brought up as properly and as poorly as a churchmouse, traveling companion to a duchess and two highly paid cyprians. And presently almost penniless and precisely in the midst of the English Channel. I truly am “at sea,” Catherine grieved.

She tried to marshal her thoughts. For she had to decide on some plan of action immediately. Every moment brought her closer to France. The worst, she thought sadly, was done. She had hired on—she had been introduced into the household of the Duchess of Crewe. And all those that had seen or met her most probably thought her on a par with Rose and Violet. What is done is irremediable, she thought vehemently, in an effort to think clearly, pushing aside intrusive thoughts of the disdainful marquis. It was the future she had to think on.

Her first impulse was to cut and run. She felt sullied by her new knowledge and sick at heart at her new understanding of Rose and Violet. The best thing would be to turn and go at once. But then she did some sums rapidly in her head. She had spent a great deal of her money on those foolish lace and brocades she had bought to embellish and repair her gowns. And most of the remainder of her income had gone for Jane and Arthur's presents and gratuities to the servants in the duchess's London house when she had left. If she should decide to turn right back and go home on a return ship when they landed at Dieppe, she would have barely enough to reach her home shores. Then there would be the problem of how to obtain enough funds to pay the many stage fares to see her home to the north country.

How could she even think of borrowing from either Rose or Violet? She could not approach them and say, “I cannot travel with two females as low as you are. My sensibilities are wounded to be even considered in the same light as you. So please lend me enough money to go home.” And if she shuddered to think of how respectable people thought of her, she now also had a few guilty feelings about Rose and Violet's opinions of her. For no sooner had Rose done with her long and artless talk than Catherine had stared at her and blurted, “I did not know! I had no idea,” and had rushed, shocked and shamed, from the cabin.

That, she thought, furious with herself, had been unnecessary and cruel.

The major problem, she tried to think dispassionately, was the duchess. For she did not know her well enough to know what her true opinion of her companions was. The dowager was such a dignified, socially secure woman that Catherine found it hard to believe she knew the truth about her companions. She had always spoken of Rose and Violet's doings in terms of their “high jinks” and “larks” and “nonsense.” It was, Catherine thought desperately, entirely possible that the old woman was naive enough to think they were just innocent romps. Or equally possible that the duchess's mind was turned with age, and that she truly did not notice such goings-on.

The duchess had made it clear that she would hold her wages till the trip was done, or pay quarterly, and, in truth, since paying a sum of money a few weeks past, she owed not a cent to Catherine. All of her wages were yet to be earned. Why should the dowager just hand over monies to a companion who quit her employ the moment they had begun their journey?

And, Catherine thought with a start, if the duchess's companions had such a reputation, how could Catherine ever find decent employment in London again? For the duchess would never write a reference if she quit so precipitously. But more, even if she did, such a reference would not be worth the paper it was written on.

After a half hour in the biting wind on the rolling deck, only two things were abundantly clear to Catherine. One was that she did not have enough resources to get safely home by herself. And two was that she did not have the resources to go safely on with the duchess. Yet every moment the ship bore her onward.

She bent with her head cradled in her arms, by the rail of the ship, cold within and without, until a light touch on her arm recalled her to herself.

“Why, Miss Robins, are you ill?” Jenkins' voice asked softly.

She looked up to see his concerned face close to hers. His was a lined and weathered visage. His hazel eyes looked as though they had squinted against many suns, and his short-cropped brown hair and neatness of person made him seem a comforting figure. He was old enough to be her father, and looked as though he might consider himself as such. She was tempted to blurt out her whole wretched story to him, stranger though he was. But then another familiar voice said, “The sea is not always kind to newcomers. Our little country mouse has strayed too far from her farmhouse.”

Catherine's head shot up and she looked with a mixture of embarrassment and defiance at the marquis. “I am not ill,” she said. “I was only thinking about things. And I lost track of the hours.”

She wondered suddenly if she could confide in him. He, alone of all the people on the ship was a familiar face. He would certainly have the resources not to miss advancing the small amount of money to see her safely home. If only she could strike the right conciliatory note, perhaps he could even give her some advice, for he was a worldly man. She hoped that he would unbend for a moment to give her the chance to speak freely. Jenkins, she saw, was watching her with a kind, concerned expression. She kept her gaze on the marquis as he stood and looked down at her with eyes as fathomless as the slate-gray sea they were crossing and she began to pluck up her courage.

Before she could speak again, he smiled, not at all kindly, and said in an explanatory fashion to Jenkins, “No, she's not a bit afflicted with mal de mer. So put away your vinaigrette, Jenkins. Rather, I think, Miss Robins is afflicted with a surfeit of companionship. Her cabin is literally bulging at the seams. The fair Rose has joined Violet, and now the duchess has a veritable bower of pretty flowers in her employ. Rose, Violet, and Catherine. That does not have the right ring to it. You ought to change your name, little one, to Forget-me-not, to ensure your standing with the duchess. And the gentlemen. Miss Robins is here, I think, Jenkins, because it is difficult for a little young country flower to keep her head high in the presence of two such spectacular blooms as Rose and Violet. But never fear,” he said, laying one gray-gloved hand across her cheek to tuck back in an errant wind-whipped curl. “There are many gentlemen aboard who are weary of hothouse blossoms and who will welcome a fresh young English nosegay such as yourself.”

All of Catherine's fears and shame coalesced into one direct and burning emotion of hatred toward the marquis. He stood there smiling, he who had been her one possible lifeline, and dashed all her nebulous hopes of escape to bits with his words. She had thought to confide in him, but before she had been able to breathe one word, he had begun a frontal attack upon her. She dashed his hand away and looked at him with brimming eyes.

“I find your humor ill bred,” she said. “And your inferences impertinent. Good day.” And she turned on her heel and walked off. After one moment's silence, she heard a laughing “Bravo!” called in the distance behind her.

“Didn't she carry that off well?” the marquis laughed. “Like the dowager herself. She is a quick study, I'll be bound.”

“I think you're being a bit hard on her, lad,” Jenkins said reproachfully.

The marquis' face hardened and he turned to look out to sea. “She's only a little artificial flower, after all, Jenkins. Don't tell me you're touched and believe her role as ingenue?”

“As to that,” Jenkins said, turning to face the sea as well, to get a last glimpse of home, “I couldn't say. But no matter what she is, she's only a girl. It's not like you to get so spiteful, especially toward a woman. I saw you chatting up Violet as nice as can be. And she's a right old tart.”

“But she's an honest old tart,” the marquis answered slowly, “with no dissembling. Our Miss Robins aspires to play the grand lady; it's that, I think, that tickles me.”

“Don't seem to tickle you. Seems to gall you,” Jenkins said.

“Perhaps. Perhaps it is just that I value honesty. And I might like her very well if she would drop that facade of purity.”

“Well,” said Jenkins at length, “facade's what it's all about, isn't it? With all of them? Pretending to be attracted and then pleasured, with a fellow pretending he don't notice the pretense. That's all part of the trade.”