The Grand Tour, Page 2

  I thought entirely of Thomas, and it was all far more wonderful than even Lady Sylvia had led me to expect. Lest Uncle Arthur ever set eyes on these pages, I will reserve the details. After all, if I live to be one hundred, I will never forget that night.

  The waves seem to be increasing in violence. My spirits are unimpaired, though poor Cecy is sadly ill, yet the motion of the ship is making it difficult to write. I will stop now, lest I blot the page or spill the ink.

  Calais

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  10 August 1817

  Calais

  At Dessein’s Hotel

  After dinner

  N.B. Two francs to small boy at quay for catching my bonnet when the wind sailed it along the pier and nearly into the water. He called me “Madame” when he thanked me. I almost looked behind me to see whom he was addressing.

  N.B. What is stain on pink dress? Ask Lady S. what was in that seasickness potion. Any hope of removal?

  THIS AFTERNOON WE REACHED Calais. I have quite dried out now. Thomas has sent a card around to Mr. Brummell inviting him to join us all for dinner here at Dessein’s tomorrow evening. Such dinners are part of a practice called Calais blackmail. It is the custom for all English travelers who arrive here en route to Paris (or anywhere else in France). It allows them to sustain any acquaintances they meet in reduced circumstances here—and there are a great many English exiles leaving on means of the slenderest—by tipping them or entertaining them to a square meal.

  It is Lady Sylvia’s invariable habit to dine with her old friend at every opportunity. As loyalty is one of Thomas’s lovable traits, he keeps this custom eagerly. I was grateful that he sent Piers to arrange the bill of fare with the chef. I have ordered meals at home on occasion, but this sort of thing is quite beyond me.

  N.B. Dinner with Beau Brummell tomorrow!!! What to wear??? Ask Lady S.

  At dinner tonight, James told Cecy, “Thomas thinks we would do better to rest a few days before we set off.”

  That remark gave Thomas the expression he has when he is savoring something. “I like that. As though my reasons have anything to do with it. In the first place, James won’t let us go on because he wants you to have time to recover from your, er, indisposition.”

  “It’s fairly common among journeyman sorcerers,” put in Lady Sylvia. “There seems to be something deeply disturbing to a magician’s system in crossing water. If you work on your orisons and invocations while you are traveling, you should be far enough along that you won’t experience it on the return voyage. You needn’t fear a relapse.”

  “And in the second place,” Thomas continued, “we always have dinner with the Beau when we are in Calais. And in the third place,” Thomas added, with a glance at me, “we have no particular need for haste.”

  I couldn’t help it. I blushed like a cooked lobster all over again.

  From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.

  The day following our arrival in Calais was quite busy. Busy for everyone but me, that is. Although I felt perfectly well now that we were on dry land, James insisted that I spend the morning resting in our rooms. He was in nearly as much of a fuss as Aunt Elizabeth at her worst, but his fussing did not bother me nearly so much as hers has always done. I was so surprised to realize this that I inadvertently agreed to do as he suggested, and so I was left behind.

  Lady Sylvia and James went off to confirm the arrangements for the coaches and horses that were to take us to Paris, for although Lady Sylvia had sent detailed instructions from London, she wished to change a few things relating to the servants and baggage, which were following us. James accompanied her because he places no dependence on the French getting anything right. Thomas had been struck with the notion of showing Kate the scene of some exploit of his involving a French staff officer on leave and a great many chickens. I spent the morning in bed.

  I had intended to spend my time with the book of orisons and invocations to which Lady Sylvia had directed me, for I was determined that our return journey across the Channel would be a more comfortable experience for me than our recent crossing. Still, even though I felt quite well, I had missed considerable sleep, and I decided it would do no harm to take a brief nap before settling down with the book.

  I was more tired than I had thought. Nearly two hours later, I was awakened by a discreet tap at the door. When I opened it, the concierge was standing in the hall outside.

  “I am desolated to disturb you, Madame,” he said. “But there is a lady below who requires most urgently to speak with la Marquise de Schofield.”

  “She has gone out,” I said.

  The concierge nodded. “Oui, Madame. I have told her. But Madame is of a temperament very stubborn, and says that if la Marquise has gone out, she will follow her, or wait here until she returns.”

  “I will speak to her myself,” I said. Kate has no more acquaintance in France than I. The only females I could imagine applying to her here would be those who knew Thomas. And after hearing a few of James’s stories about Thomas’s exploits … well, I wanted some idea who this person was before promising to relay any messages.

  The concierge ushered me downstairs, to the private room where the lady was waiting. Somewhat to my surprise, she was a lady, about fifty, in a prodigiously elegant China blue morning dress. She was pacing up and down in the most agitated manner, and did not notice me at once, but turned with a start at the sound of the door closing behind me.

  “You are not Milady Schofield,” she said in English with only a slight trace of accent.

  “She has gone out, Madame,” I said. “But I will be happy to tell her your name and direction when she returns.”

  “Mademoiselle, I do not—”

  “Madame,” I corrected her. “Madame Tarleton. My husband and I are traveling with the Schofields.”

  “Tarleton?” the woman said. “Ah, yes. That would be Ernest Tarleton?”

  “My husband’s given name is James,” I said stiffly. “I am not aware that he has any relations named Ernest. Perhaps you are thinking of someone else.”

  “No,” the woman said with a brilliant smile. “Forgive me, but I had to be certain. But the wife of Monsieur Tarleton is without doubt to be relied upon.” She pulled a small packet from her reticule and handed it to me. “I cannot stay longer. Pray give this to the Marchioness as soon as she returns, and convey my respect and congratulations to your husband.”

  “And whose are those, Madame?”

  She smiled again. “Tell him, the Lady in Blue. He will remember, I think. Good wishes to you, Madame.” And before I could say anything more, she whisked out the door and was gone. I collected myself and followed, barely in time to see her climb into a hired coach that had been waiting outside the inn’s door. The coach pulled away immediately, and I withdrew to my rooms before I could attract notice.

  My first action, when I was private once more, was to examine the packet. It was about the size of my fist, wrapped in brown paper tied with a thin silver ribbon, and every flap and join of ribbon was sealed with drips of red wax. Through the paper, I could feel hard corners, like those of a box. On top was written, in a shaky, spidery hand, “Mme. S. Schofield.”

  I blinked, and then realized what had happened. Obviously, the news of Thomas’s marriage had not yet reached the Continent, and so the mysterious woman had asked the concierge for “the Marchioness of Schofield,” meaning Lady Sylvia, when she ought to have asked for the Dowager Marchioness.

  Her references to James, however, still puzzled me, and I resolved to ask him about them when he and Lady Sylvia returned. Not that I had much hope of an explanation. It is a curious thing, but James does not like any discussion of his activities during the French wars, and, indeed, avoids it at every turn. Thomas, on the other hand, downplays his exploits (which, to hear James tell it, were positively hair-raising) by speaking of them in his most elliptical and offhand manner. They are a most provoking pair.

  F
rom the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  11 August 1817

  Calais

  At Dessein’s Hotel

  I AM ABSOLUTELY NOT to go downstairs before the clock strikes the hour. It would be rude to do so, as it would imply that Piers and the staff are not perfectly capable of running such a simple thing as a dinner. I will stay right here and write in my commonplace book until it is time to go downstairs. If I am very careful, I won’t get ink on myself, either.

  Remember to mention tactfully to Cecy that Thomas was talking about moules, not poules, and that he entertained that French staff officer with a great many mussels, not a great many chickens.

  N.B. Where is best petticoat? Didn’t leave at the Black Swan because I noticed mud on hem when aboard the ship.

  N.B. Item on Uncle’s list: Amiens—manor house garden ruins, probable remains of Roman temple to Minerva Anthrax. Ask C. to check Uncle’s handwriting before I write home with description. He would be upset if I got name wrong and Minerva Anthrax seems most unlikely.

  N.B. Is not the word poule sometimes used as a synonym for an improper young woman? Remember just to ask T. tactfully if this is so and if I might possibly have confused things, my ear for accent being what it is. If T. changes subject, ask James same.

  Thomas and I returned from our walk along the shore rather later, and rather wetter, than we had intended. Lady Sylvia and James arrived back just as we did, and there was much confusion of muddy boots and damp pelisses before we were all comfortably disposed in a private parlor. I don’t know if James detected Cecy’s agitation sooner than I did, but I know he remarked upon it before I could.

  James asked, “Cecy, do you wish to speak to me privately?” Eyes wide, Cecy shook her head. The signs of her excitement were not easy to identify, but to anyone who knew her well they were unmistakable. The thought that James knew her so thoroughly cost me a tiny pang, half joy at her good fortune in a husband, half regret at his sharing my knowledge of her. “No, it’s something we must all discuss.”

  Lady Sylvia looked distinctly intrigued. “My dear, has something happened while we were out?”

  “Yes. You had a caller. Only there was a small muddle …” Cecy told us the story of the woman in blue and the mysterious parcel she’d left for Lady Sylvia. When she brought it forth, we leaned close to watch as Lady Sylvia undid the wrapper with painstaking care.

  It was not, as I had supposed from the parcel’s shape, a box of any kind. Freed of its wrappings, it was a squarish little flask of a curious glassy substance, translucent white with streaks of brown shot through it. The flat stopper was made of gold. With great caution, Lady Sylvia opened the flask. It held perhaps an ounce of a clear, oily substance. She rubbed a drop between thumb and forefinger and a pleasantly flowery aroma filled the small salon.

  Thomas looked pained. “Scent? Someone went to the trouble to be so mysterious about a bottle of scent? It’s not unpleasant, I grant you. But it seems a bit—”

  “The stopper is made of gold and ivory,” said James. “The flask is alabaster. Very old work, that. Whatever the scent is, it must be something quite out of the ordinary.”

  “It isn’t scent,” said Lady Sylvia. “Too oily. Yet it isn’t a heavy oil. By no means. And it is nearly empty.” She stoppered the flask and wrapped it loosely in the brown paper again, then placed it in her reticule. “I think we should keep this news among ourselves until we learn a little more. Now, Cecy, tell me again precisely what her parting words were.”

  “‘Pray give this to the Marchioness as soon as she returns, and convey my respect and congratulations to your husband.’ Then I asked her who she was, and she said she was the Lady in Blue. She said she thought James would remember.” Cecy turned to her husband, all confidence. “James?”

  But James was staring at the salon door, where Piers stood in unobtrusive silence. “How long have you been standing there? Well, man?”

  Piers’s astonishment was plain. “A moment only, Sir. The door was open. The cook wishes to know if the ragout of lamb is to be served as a remove.”

  “You deal with him, Thomas,” said Lady Sylvia. “After all, you found him. Kate, Cecy, I think it is long past time we set about making our own preparations. Will you accompany me?” Though she phrased it as a question, it was plain even to me that she meant it as an order, so Cecy and I came upstairs with her to change for dinner. And here, for these last interminable minutes until the hour strikes, we remain.

  From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.

  I confess that when I went up to dress for dinner, I felt just a little annoyed with Lady Sylvia. It was, after all, owing to her advice that Kate and I had come away from London without taking time to arrange for proper wardrobes or maids, and now, on only our second evening in France, before we had had any time to remedy the situation, she expected us to dine with Beau Brummell! And while it is quite true that Mr. Brummell was no longer an intimate of the Prince of Wales, nor the unquestioned arbiter of fashion in London, it had been only a year since he was all these things and more. It was a good thing I had been so well occupied for much of the afternoon, or I might have fretted enough to get into what Mrs. Everslee at home refers to as “A State.”

  Lady Sylvia did, however, make some helpful suggestions as to which of the gowns in our rather limited wardrobes would be suitable. On her advice, I chose a green silk with a single flounce, quite simple, with Mama’s little gold locket for jewelry She chose a deep rose taffeta for Kate, which set off her figure to perfection—I think it must have been one of the gowns that the two of them bought just before I came up to London, for it was certainly nothing that my Aunt Charlotte would have picked for Kate. One of Kate’s trunks appeared to have gone missing during the voyage, so Lady Sylvia loaned her a petticoat, and I, a clean pair of gloves. (I would have been perfectly happy to have provided the petticoat as well, but it would not have done; I am too tall.)

  Kate finished dressing first, and sat writing in the little book Papa gave her until Lady Sylvia and I were ready and it was time to go down. Lady Sylvia wore black, as is her custom—Kate told me once that she never put off mourning after her husband and eldest son died years ago.

  James and Thomas were waiting in the private parlor, and Mr. Brummell was announced practically on our heels. At first glance, he did not appear particularly formidable. He was a man of medium height and middle years, with wide, intelligent gray eyes. He neither looked nor acted like a gentleman in the grip of pecuniary difficulties; his dark coat was exquisitely cut, and he bowed over Lady Sylvia’s hand with a considerable air. “It is remarkably pleasant to see you again, Lady Sylvia.”

  “I might say the same to you,” Lady Sylvia replied. “And how is your gout?”

  Brummell’s lips quirked. “Oh, I should not mind so much, but it is in my favorite leg.”

  Lady Sylvia laughed and turned to us. “I believe you have not yet made the acquaintance of my daughter-at-law, Lady Schofield, and her dear friend and cousin, Mrs. Tarleton. You are already acquainted with my son and Mr. Tarleton.”

  “I am,” Mr. Brummell said, bowing to everyone. “And it is an honor to meet two such brave and clever ladies, for clever you must certainly be to have persuaded my friends here to matrimony, and as for brave”—he shrugged—“one has only to look at the pair of them to recognize your courage in taking them on.”

  I could feel Kate’s anxiety yield to annoyance, and I was not sure whether to be angry or amused myself. Fortunately, James laughed. “You have not changed a hair, Beau,” he said. “But though I quarrel with your reasoning, your conclusions are more accurate than you think.”

  “Far more accurate,” Thomas said, taking Kate’s arm.

  The Beau raised his eyebrows expressively and looked from James to Thomas and back. “Indeed? How fortunate; you may tell me the tale over dinner, and the discussion will be both interesting and unexceptionable—a combination that seems beyond the ability of far too many people in th
ese unfortunate times.”

  “After dinner,” Lady Sylvia said firmly, with a brief but meaningful glance at the French servants who were setting out the dinner.

  Mr. Brummell’s smile had a peculiar edge to it. “Oh, you need not be concerned about them. I stayed at this hotel when I… first arrived in France, and though I gave my instructions with great care in the French language, they were always misconstruing me. If they could not understand their own tongue, I hardly think they will manage better with English.”

  “Which is, no doubt, why you have chosen to rent rooms from Monsieur Quillac instead of remaining here,” Lady Sylvia said in a dry tone. A quick look passed between her and Mr. Brummell, and then she went on, “We shall entertain you with London gossip, instead. Had you heard that Prinny speaks of leaving off his stays?”

  “It would be a singularly foolish thing for him to do,” Mr. Brummell replied, taking her arm to lead her to the table. “I therefore confidently predict that he will have done so by the beginning of next Season.”

  We sat down to dinner and talked in an amiable and frivolous fashion throughout the first course. The soup was excellent, and I resolved to engage a French cook as soon as we returned home, though I was sure Aunt Charlotte would claim it extravagant.

  French cuisine may be excellent, but French domestic architecture sometimes leaves much to be desired. Just as the fish course was served, a large chunk of plaster parted company with the rest of the ceiling and landed in our dinner.

  “Damme!” said Mr. Brummell.

  Kate looked as if she wished the earth would swallow her. James’s amusement seemed about to break loose, and I gave him a glance of warning. Thomas gave Kate a little nod of encouragement and she squared her shoulders. I recognized the expression on her face, and found myself hoping fervently that she was not about to tell one of her outrageous tales to Mr. Brummell. I was not at all sure I could answer for my own reaction should she do so, and I was quite certain that James would burst out laughing.