The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl (7 page)

“The one I wasn’t expecting, purely because of their tendency to put things off and keep you in the dark, was from Lord Delacourte himself—the father, not the son—exclaiming at your grace, beauty, and ability to capture his son’s attention, ‘something no other young lady has been able to do, to date.’
HA
! You’ve done it, my girl! The whole country is in love with you!”

“Father, I—”

“I knew you hated your lessons with Madame Pomphart, but I also knew you were quick and would catch on and make good use of them. It was necessary to rein you in a bit from all your wild roaming and childish behaviors—and it worked! Ahh, I could kiss that woman. Where is she?”

Marguerite couldn’t hide the disgust on her face at the thought of Pomphart and her father sharing a kiss. She cut him off before he could call the old beast in and ruin her chance to explain her plan. “Father! She’s probably off readying her bed of nails for my final lessons this week. Please do not call her. I need to speak with you.”

He stopped mid-summons and looked at her with concern. “Whatever could be the matter? You are a raging success, my love.”

“I can’t imagine why. I didn’t feel a thing for any of those buffoons last night. I merely tolerated them pawing and yanking me all over the dance floor. I can’t imagine actually marrying any of them.”

Her father’s face lost all color. “What are you talking about? At least fifty of this country’s finest young men were in our home last night hoping to catch your eye and not
one
of them met your fancies?”

It was obvious she’d said the wrong thing. Marguerite tried to backtrack, but there was no chance of that now.

“Even Delacourte does not meet your standards?
Delacourte
?” Visibly upset, he waved the expensive stationary with the torn golden seal frantically in the air. “His family owns half the land holdings in France. They have had seven generations at court. Hunting at their estate outside of Paris is second to none. You would want for nothing!”

Marguerite sat back in her seat and stared down at the table.

Her resignation obviously tugged at a heartstring; her father took a deep breath before continuing. “Let me tell you something: you will always be my only, beloved, and darling daughter, but you are no longer a
child
.” He emphasized the word by leaning forward and spitting it out along with some of his recent meal. “You will no longer live as a wee girl running wild on my lands. I don’t know if you thought you would just soar through your lessons and this ball, which cost us a pretty penny I’ll add, and then be done with it and go back to your wild ways, but you are wrong.” His voice was filled with patience, but she knew he was serious. “I’ll not have my last speck of family be the laughing stock of the
département
, nay, the country.”

“But Father!” She tried to stop him and explain.

He held up a large hand to silence her. “It’s bad enough that I don’t have a boy to pass my name and legacy to, I’ve been given a pig-headed daughter full of fancy ideas. It’s like rubbing salt in the wounds life dealt me.”

Marguerite felt cut to the core. She’d often wondered if her father would have rather had a son. Who was she kidding? Of course he would have, every father dreamed of having a son to raise up and train to take his place someday, filling his home with grandchildren and new money. Marguerite would never carry on the family name and couldn’t even humble herself long enough to choose a mate to help fill the place with babies for her father to dote on. She was a disappointment in the extreme, and as much as she regretted her words and feelings, she also could not help them.

Her sadness burned into anger and she turned it toward her father. “I’m sorry you didn’t have a son, but I will
not
marry Jean Delacourte to make up for your lack of progeny.” The words were quiet and controlled, but only just.

Her father’s eyes grew wide and smoldered as he met her belligerence head on. “You know good and well that if you do not marry we lose our family home and fortune to strangers. How can you even imagine that? Would you have your mother’s cousins from England traipsing in here with their horrible taste and ridiculous manners? Would you leave the Vadnay name to rot in the dust?”

“No, Father! It doesn’t have to be that way.” She felt like a small child pleading for more playtime before bed. “We don’t have to lose anything; I just don’t want to do it that way.”

“Then we have to find something else for you to do.” His voice was low, dangerously so.

“
POMPHART
!” He roared for her governess and all the servants who’d been eavesdropping jumped a bit before scurrying to find the foul woman.

Marguerite stood to leave, but Lord Vadnay pointed her back to her chair. She had had enough. She was not a child.

“I do not appreciate you behaving like a dictator and I’m not going to spend another second with that harpy of a teacher. Did you know she struck me this morning?” She pointed to her aching cheek, still pink from the slight.

“I probably should have slapped you long ago.” His tone was flat, a defeated man realizing too late the repercussions of a spoiled child. “You will not say another word or move from that spot until I give you permission.”

Marguerite had seen her father angry on several occasions. She knew she tested his patience, but he was her daddy and she was his darling; all was usually forgiven after a few moments of heated exchange. This was entirely different. This man before her looked old and tired and was giving up on her. She’d never been scared of him before. She couldn’t imagine what he was thinking or that he was serious, but by the way he was looking at her and the tone of his voice, she thought she’d better watch her step.

The emotional pressure in her chest was almost too much to bear, first losing Claude and now losing the support of her father; she couldn’t comprehend anything worse happening today. Maybe marrying Delacourte the Dolt wasn’t such a bad idea after all … but the thought made her head buzz. She placed it on her palms, trying to think.

Pomphart arrived quickly in a palpable cloud of triumph. “Yes, sir. What seems to be the problem?”

“Madame Pomphart, my only child seems to think that there was no one suited to her at the ball last evening. She has informed me that she will marry no one, and especially not Jean Delacourte.”

“That’s not what I said.” Marguerite jumped at the inaccuracy. “I said I wouldn't marry Delacourte, I didn’t say I wouldn’t marry anyone.” An idea began to form in her mind.

“Oh, pray tell then, who is there that is so worthy of your consideration yet could not attend our celebration last night? Hmm?” His sarcastic tone bored into her, demanding an answer.

She knew he expected her to say something like, “In time I’ll find someone I love,” or “I’m extremely interested in the Prince of Hungary,” and she could have, just to buy time and end this ridiculous scene, but her passionate heart wouldn't let her. She’d already come this far, already said too much, she might as well take the chance …

“Claude.” She spoke the name like a prayer. “I would marry Claude.”

“
CLAUDE
?” Her father sat back in his chair. It was now his turn to place his face in his hands. “Are you referring to that little smithy who just ran off to join the army in New France?”

“Father! He’s a full-grown man, smart and capable and twice as interesting as any one of the polished puppies on display last night!” This was definitely not going the direction she’d hoped. Her father had always been fond of Claude; he kept him on the estate after his parents died of cholera, spoke kindly of him as he showed talent with robotics and machinery at an early age, even let him sit in their row at the estate chapel on religious holidays so he didn’t have to sit alone as a child. Marguerite had hoped her father would be thrilled with this novel idea of his daughter being taken care of by someone already so familiar with their home and lives, someone who was already practically a member of the family.

Lord Vadnay laughed out loud and Madame Pomphart beamed triumphantly over her hooked nose at the faltering Marguerite. Then he cried out, “You must be joking. I know! This is a joke! One last hurrah to tease the old man before setting off on your new life as the toast of France. Well, you’ve really done an excellent job, both of you! Let’s end it now and get back to our meal.” He looked hopefully from governess to girl.

When neither one responded he gazed out the window and sighed. “You hear stories of parents going through things like this, but you never dream it will be you.”

Marguerite jumped on his resignation. “Claude only just left this morning; he probably isn’t even to Paris yet. You could send for him, bring him back. You don’t really want him to die in New France like the rest of them, do you?” She was desperate now, borderline hysterical, but she sucked in a deep breath and held it, waiting for her father to respond to the sincerity in her request. He was a forward-thinking man, she didn’t care what Claude said. He had loved her mother; he knew what love was and how important it was.

“Madame Pomphart.” Lord Vadnay’s voice was calm and controlled now. “Can you recommend a solution for ladies of Marguerite’s age who are not yet … ready, I suppose, for marriage?” He didn’t even look at his daughter’s beseeching eyes.

“Yes sir, of course, there are several lovely establishments where she could receive further education and training, possibly coming into contact with other girls from good families and better social circles than are afforded to her here. There is one in particular I have in mind, outside Lyon a bit … ”

“
LYON
? You’d send me to Lyon?” Marguerite was in complete shock. “It’s at least a six-hour aership ride away! You can’t be serious!”

“You seem to be serious about your love for a farm boy and refusal of the best hand in France. So yes, I am serious as well.” A dark thought obviously invaded his mind then. “How long has this
relationship
with the smithy been going on? Has he done anything to you?” His veins were starting to bulge and he rose halfway out of his chair. “So help me, if you’ve given yourself to a commoner … ”

“
NO
! Father!” She groaned in disgust. “It’s not like that! It’s Claude, you’ve known him his whole life. You treated him like a son! ”

“You are sure?” He was absolutely begging for the truth now.

“Yes! Just stop, please, don’t talk like that.”

“There are ways to find out, sir.” Madame Pomphart was enjoying the situation far too much.

“No!” father and daughter cried at the same time.

“That won’t be necessary, Madame Pomphart.” Lord Vadnay obviously did not want to linger on these types of details and was happy to take his daughter’s word at face value.

“But, Father, Lyon?” Marguerite focused all her energy into this question as if crying: Please don’t stop spoiling me, please don’t stop loving me, please don’t send me away.

But his mind was made up. “Make the necessary arrangements, Pomphart, and please, see to it that each of these gets answered in a kindly fashion. It is critical that we not burn any possible bridges at this point.” He placed the stack of letters into the bony hands of Madame Pomphart then rose fully from his seat. “I will be spending the day seeing to the northern orchards; please have a meal and my horse made ready for me.” This command was directed at the servants he knew were holding their breaths around the corner, listening to every word. One of them scurried out and replied with a hasty “Yessir!” before racing back to the kitchens like a gossiping rat with a hot morsel dropped from the table.

Marguerite sat in her chair, staring at her father who would not return her gaze. Devastated, she realized that her whole world had changed in one day. She’d lost everything she held dear and more.

“And what am I to do?” She made one last attempt to catch his eye, to make some sort of peace.

Lord Vadnay didn’t even look at her when he said, “My dear, today I do not care.” He wiped at his eye. Could that be a tear? She had never seen him cry. “Ready yourself for your journey, say your goodbyes, and be ready to leave within the week.” With that, he walked out of the dining room, leaving the two women to wallow in polar emotions—triumph and defeat.

Madame Pomphart was the first to speak. “You’ll
love
Lyon, my dear, never you mind about having to leave your home.” Her voice was snide and soaked with sarcasm.

Marguerite knew one thing for certain, if Pomphart liked the place it was probably a prison for wicked rich girls with cold stone walls and three meals a day of stale porridge and mealworm. She stood from her chair remembering her resolve not to let this woman win.

Her father would always be her father, but Madame Pomphart was just a wicked witch who’d conjured her way into their home. She had no power over Marguerite that Marguerite refused to give. She faced her governess head on and declared: “This is not over.” Then turned on her heel and marched out the door, head held high, slippers barely making a sound as she crossed the polished marble floor.