The Disdainful Marquis (33 page)

She was the only prisoner, and her jailer, a close-mouthed dirty old fellow, spoke no English and seemed to be more interested in catching up on his sleep than in observing her. But M. Beaumont had been set upon proving his power to her. She shivered in the musty chill of the cell. He had succeeded. She had spent the last hours feverishly rationalizing her situation, and knew that she had her emotions under only the most gossamer-thin control. The only way she could stay rational was to tell herself over and over that at least Sinjun was free, and that perhaps he would find a way out of this for her.

Now she felt even that meager lifeline of hope slipping away. For now that she had sat here and night was upon her, a new cold voice rang in her head. Why should he risk all to save her? And even if he did, how could he possibly win her freedom? M. Beaumont had very carefully told her how impossible any escape efforts would be. They were in France; she was in a French jail.

The knowledge that she was being used as bait to trap Sinjun into overstaying warred with her frantic desire to escape the fate M. Beaumont had outlined to her. When she had insisted that she would never be Hervé Richard's mistress, he had only shrugged. It was true, he said, that Hervé would keep no mistress who wailed and wept and tried to escape at every moment. For he was not a brute. But if she did not agree to go pleasantly to Hervé and behave as a woman of her sort should, there were other places he could take her for profit. Places, he had said calmly, where she would be expected to accommodate twenty men an evening rather than one poor devoted Hervé. Places where her weeping and shouting would only be considered piquant by the patrons. And while every instinct she possessed cried for escape, still she knew she would rather suffer her fate ten times over than cost Sinjun his life.

She sat and gazed up at the little square of black, at last admitting it was a full night sky. The tide must have gone out; she thought, and Sinjun and Jenkins must be safely away. She wondered how long they would remember her after they were safe in England again. At last her control snapped and the tears began to flow. He might have at least stopped for a moment on his way to freedom to bid her good-bye.

There could have been nothing, she knew as she sobbed, between a lord of the realm and a foolish girl who had gotten herself in a tangle through her own willfulness. And she had known all the while that she would part from him forever when they reached home. But she had felt that the memory of him would sustain her through all the long years while she stayed and watched her sister's family grow. And now, almost wildly, she regretted her reactions of the night before. For if she had let him make love to her, it might have been a thing that could sustain her in the strange new life that lay ahead of her. She would live and she would go on to things that were now unimaginable, for she was by nature a survivor. But how? She almost cried aloud.

So it was that when her jailer rose and slowly climbed the stairs to a summons she had not heard, she scarcely cared who it was that he admitted.

And when Sinjun saw her, crumpled in a corner and weeping soundlessly, he caught his breath and tightened his knuckles till they were white on the bars of her cell.

“Catherine,” he called to her, when he had his voice back in control, “Catherine, come here.”

She turned and, seeing him, rose and came running to the bars.

“Oh no, Sinjun, you must not stay here,” she cried out wildly, “for that is M. Beaumont's plan, to delay you till it is too late. You must go,” she said frantically, her tearstained face striking him to the heart.

He grasped her hand through the bars and tried to think of a way to calm her, for time was short.

“Hush, Catherine,” he said sternly. “Quiet. I must speak and you must listen. Listen carefully. Calm yourself, for, as you say, I do not have much time and you must pay attention.”

She fell silent at the cold imperativeness of his voice and listened, her eyes wide and unblinking.

Sinjun ran a hand through his hair and thought rapidly. He saw that her spirit was held only by his voice and that fear and shock had driven all else from her mind. So he spoke rapidly, forcefully, and clearly, knowing that her jailer could not understand the language.

“I have been very busy, Catherine. I have not forgotten you.

“Indeed, no one has forgotten you. Rose could not speak in your defense, for if she had, Beaumont would have accused her of theft as well. She and James wanted to stay to help you, but I persuaded them they could do no more. They had already made sure that the duchess signed nothing, so that nothing she said would be held against you by anyone but Beaumont. The duchess bore you no ill will, Catherine; she was only a frightened old woman. They sailed on the late tide. Violet elected to stay on in Paris with a gentleman of her choice. But none of them deliberately wished to harm you.”

When he saw tears start at his words, he quickly went on, knowing now that he could not speak of emotions, or recall emotions to her mind, or she would crumble.

“But there is a way to get you safe from here. There is a way to take you with us. But you must agree and agree at once.”

She nodded, clutching his hand tightly.

“You must marry me,” he said.

He saw her disbelief and lowered his voice and said firmly, “Beaumont cannot keep you here if you are a peeress of the realm. He cannot keep you if you are a marchioness and we are not at war. Marry me, Catherine, and we can leave at first light and go home, home to England again.”

Her eyes searched his face, and he kept his countenance impassive with difficulty as he looked back at her. Now, here in this filthy jail, was no place for him to spout on about love, desire, and future happiness. He doubted that she would believe him, and feared that, even if she did, she would refuse him. For as she did not love him, her sense of what was honorable might override her instinct for preservation. So he said nothing of love and continued, “I have Jenkins here. And a minister. Yes, an accredited representative of the Church of England, trying to make his way back home with his charges. He was traveling with schoolboys when the news of Napoleon's return came to his ears.”

The jailer looked up at the one word he recognized and shifted uneasily. M. Beaumont had said the woman might have visitors and converse with them, but had warned of terrible repercussions if any escape attempt was made. Although the sound of his onetime hero's name had jolted him, he soon relaxed, remembering how many soldiers were above stairs.

“An attaché from the consulate in Paris is here as well, Catherine, though not with me, for his face is recognized by Beaumont's men. He has gotten me the special papers. We can be wed here and now. And then you will be allowed to go free. Say yes, Catherine, for your own sake.”

But she only stood dazedly staring at him.

Sinjun wondered now if any of his words had reached her, so he went ahead in a low despairing voice, “Catherine, you cannot stay. And I cannot live with myself if I let you stay. So say yes. If you marry me it will be for the best, and,” he said suddenly, trying a new tack to bring some sort of comprehension to her eyes, “if it does not suit you to be my wife, we can procure a divorce when we are back home. I promise you that. I will not keep you tied to me forever if you do not wish it. But for now, you have only to sign a paper and repeat some words and you are free.”

At last he saw some new emotion coming into her white face and he pressed on, “For me, Catherine. So that all my work will not be in vain. For I promise you if you do not agree, I will stay here until I hit upon a plan. But by then it might be too late for both of us. I cannot live with myself as a man if I abandon you here.”

He had to strain to hear her whispered reply:

“Yes, Sinjun.” Then: “I will if you wish it.”

Dizzy with relief, he motioned to the men behind him.

“Here, Jenkins, you just stand so that you can hear Mr. Whittaker. And Mr. Whittaker, you cannot take out your little book; you must recite by heart. Can you do that? For though the jailer looks like a fool, the book will alert him to something to be suspicious of.”

The tall, thin, balding man smiled and said briefly, “If I cannot recite it by heart after twenty-five years in the Church, Your Lordship, I am more of a fool than the jailer.”

“And,” Sinjun said clearly, taking Catherine's two hands in his tightly, “you must alter the pattern of words. For the cadence of the ceremony might strike a note in our watchdog's mind.”

“Let us see,” the minister mused. “How about this, then?” And, clearing his throat, he looked at Catherine and said in a friendly conversational tone, “Dearly beloved we. Are gathered. Together here in the sight…
”

Catherine gripped Sinjun's hand and thought only that she must do this so that he would not be caught. Tears gathered in her eyes when she thought of the sacrifice he was making. What if she were the sort of female to hold him to the marriage once they returned, making him regret his act of gallantry for the rest of his life, tied to a woman he did not want?

Sinjun carefully listened to the weird rhythm of the words so that he would know when to reply, and kept smiling and nodding as if Mr. Whittaker were only chatting and trying to reassure Catherine.

“Live?” asked Mr. Whittaker pleasantly.

Sinjun increased the pressure on Catherine's hands and looked toward the minister.

After a confused moment she said, in a thin voice, “Yes, I will.”

Sinjun closed his eyes in relief and hoped only that she would never regret this moment. For although he had forced her to marry him, he vowed he would do all in his power to make her content with her state, to persuade her to one day accept him as husband, even if she could not love him.

And so in a basement in Le Havre, St. John Basil St. Charles, Marquis of Bessacarr, was wed to Catherine Emily Robins in a ceremony signally blessed with complete misunderstanding on the part of the bride, the groom, and the witnesses. As Sinjun guided her hand to sign the paper Mr. Whittaker handed her, and Jenkins assured the guard that it was just for the transfer of some of her property now that she was remaining in France, the ceremony was completed.

Jenkins and Mr. Whittaker left to congratulate each other royally at a tavern near the docks before continuing on the marquis' errands. The groom stayed the night on a bench outside the cell as he told the guard he could not bring himself to leave his
chere amie.
The guard was content—his master had told him it would suit him well if the English gentleman did not leave his prisoner. And the bride sat and watched the sleeping face of her new husband through the night.

M. Beaumont's face was wreathed in smiles when he descended the steps to Catherine's cell in the morning. So it was true, then: The marquis had stayed the night and missed one voyage out to be with the girl. With luck, he thought, he could be maneuvered into staying another. And another, it if was necessary, till the news he waited for came through.

“Good morning,” he said happily, eyeing the weary girl as the marquis rose from his seat.

“Good morning,” the marquis said briskly. “It lacks half past the hour of ten, Beaumont. You must have slept soundly. And now, if you please, release your prisoner.”

M. Beaumont laughed.

“Ah, if it were only that easy to forget crime,” he sighed happily.

“I'm afraid it must be,” Sinjun smiled, “for you have no authority to arrest my wife, the Marchioness of Bessacarr. If you have any doubts upon that head, I beg you to look at these papers. There are our marriage lines. And there is a very official note from our ambassador requesting that you immediately release my wife from your custody. And the mayor of this city, as you can see from this other document, requests you comply. You would not want to disrupt amicable Anglo-French relations, would you, Beaumont?”

*

Sinjun smiled as he lay back against the tarpaulin upon the deck of the fishing vessel. He smiled just remembering the look upon Beaumont's face as he took the papers from his hands and read them.

Jenkins looked over from the rail where he had been watching the coastline of France begin to recede in the morning mists.

“Recalling past triumphs, lad?” he asked.

“And present ones,” Sinjun agreed, looking down at Catherine as she slept, her head against his shoulder.

“There might be rough seas ahead,” Jenkins mused.

“At least we are at last asail,” Sinjun replied.

The ship glided smoothly home, and the two men did not break their contented, separate silence till they heard the far-off sound of cannon fire and the distant, almost toylike sound of the tumultuous ringing of many church bells coming from the direction they had so recently left.

“You left it close, lad,” Jenkins whistled. “At least, you can never forget your wedding day. It was the day the news of the emperor's return finally reached Le Havre.”

“I shall never forget my wedding day,” Sinjun agreed, gathering his sleeping bride closer.

Chapter XVII

Catherine trailed aimlessly through the fragrant garden. The spring sun shone so warmly upon her shoulders that she had taken off her hat and held it by its strings as she wandered. She paused by the ornamental pond and watched the small golden fish glint in the sun-drenched water. There was no doubt that Fairleigh was a lovely place. It was well appointed and very commodious. It had delightful gardens filled with unexpected pleasures at every turn. Any path could take one to a statue or a waterfall or a bench overlooking a delightful view such as this one. Fairleigh also had a well-run genial staff of servants and comfortable well-furnished rooms. In fact, it had everything one could wish for in a home, Catherine sighed, except a heart. For its master was away. And Catherine did not know if he would ever return.