With her engaging chuckle she handed Juliana a wonderfully frothy pile of gauze and tulle. Juliana accepted it with a smile and a quick stab of pain, remembering Captain Davenport saying, “My sister can lend you what you need for a night—after that it will be my delight to rig you out in the first stare of the mode.” No doubt the sister was all invention. Never, never again will I be so deceived by anybody, she resolved.
Old Berthe arrived with a steaming tisane and the welcome news that little Prue, after eating an enormous meal, had fallen asleep on a makeshift cot in the housemaid’s room and seemed likely to sleep the clock round.
Juliana, having finished the tisane, blew out her candle, fully prepared to follow Madame Reynard’s direction and cry her eyes out. The grave, handsome face of Captain Davenport, as he had been when he first rescued her at the Pantheon Rooms, did dangle tantalizingly before her in the darkness. How perfect he had seemed then. A tear or so trickled down. But either because the perfect image was now overlaid by what had happened today, or for some other reason not understood, her grief seemed to be for something else. She wept, but she did not know why. Her tears did not last very long, though. Very soon she followed little Prue’s example, and drifted off into oblivion.
Ten
When Juliana next awoke, she felt instantly in her bones that it must be very late, and this, consulting her father’s watch, she found to be the case: exhausted by the agitations of the previous day, or lulled by some soporific in Berthe’s tisane, she had slept until almost noon. She started up in bed with an inarticulate exclamation, and then discovered that she must have been roused by a sound from outside the room, for immediately afterward Berthe tapped on the door, and entered, bearing a tray which had on it a cup, a little silver pot of chocolate, and a crescent-shaped roll.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” she said cheerfully. “’S avez bien dormi!”
“Oh, mon dieu!” Juliana exclaimed in horror. “Poor Madame! That terrible child! I should have been up long ago, and occupying myself with her.”
She had fallen naturally into French, since Berthe had spoken it.
“Don’t disquiet yourself, mademoiselle. The little one has been no trouble to anybody. She got up, ate a big breakfast, played with Madame’s monkey, and now Madame has taken her in the carriage to seek for her grandfather’s farm.”
“Good God! And Prue did this without disobedience—without making any complaint?”
Berthe shrugged. “She did not wish to go in the carriage, it is true; she wished to remain and play with the monkey. But when Madame intends a thing to be done—one does it. Madame does not like to waste time.”
Of this, Juliana soon had evidence: when, having drunk her chocolate—which was very good—she wished to get up, Berthe said, “A moment, mademoiselle. I call Rosine.”
Rosine, the housemaid, almost as elderly as Berthe, equally plump and friendly, arrived with a basin, a steaming kettle, and various mysterious little bags of dried roots and petals.
“Madame left instructions that, before coming downstairs, Mademoiselle’s hair was to be recolored, as a precaution,” she explained, tipping the contents of the bag into a jug and pouring hot water on top. “Mademoiselle’s hair is so pretty that it is almost a pity to alter it, but—we shall see—perhaps with chestnut hair she will be even more beautiful, who knows? And the color is not fast—it can be changed back later.”
Rather nervous and reluctant nonetheless, Juliana wrapped herself in a calico peignoir, and submitted to the ordeal of having her hair washed and immersed in Rosine’s mahogany-colored tincture. Apart from a natural anxiety as to the possible results, she also found herself entertaining some alarms about the ménage in which she now found herself—last night, Madame had seemed likable, trustworthy, a real friend in need; but might Juliana have entirely mistaken her nature, as she had that of Captain Davenport? Tales related by Fanny and Kitty and their friends came back to her: tales told with bated breath and round eyes, of innocent young girls stolen away—snatched in the street, abducted from respectable homes, drugged, spirited off into houses of evil fame, hideous bordellos, where, once deflowered, such girls were lost forever to decent society, could not even escape, for their families would not receive them back, they had nowhere to go, and so must resign themselves to a life of shame, almost inevitable disease, and probably early death. Was this to be her own fate? Had she walked into such a place?
However, Petworth seemed an unlikely location for a bordello, and it was difficult to sustain these terrors in the amiable presence of Rosine, who chattered away all the time she was rubbing Juliana’s head, about her home on a farm in Normandy, her father’s cider press and herd of cows, and how Madame intended to return to France for a long visit, as soon as the present war was concluded.
“For, although she loves Milord Egg very well, Pet-worth, as you may figure to yourself, is not too amusing.”
“Who is Milord Egg?” asked Juliana, remembering that this name had come up once or twice on the previous evening.
“Milord Egg? Why, he is Milord Egg. He is the Sieur de Petvurrt!” Rosine seemed astonished that everybody did not know about this personage, who lived in a huge house close by “un château, alors” and indeed owned the whole of Petworth and all the country for miles around. “And he is a Comte—but it is different in England—it is called an Errll.”
Juliana hardly liked to ask what was the relationship between Madame Reynard and Milord Egg; it seemed all too obvious what it must be. Instead she inquired how long Madame had resided in Petworth. Rosine, counting on her fingers, replied, “Oh, it is now a long time. Nearly twenty years.”
“Twenty years?”
“Mais oui. It was in 1774 that Milord first met my mistress in Paris—in those days she was the friend of the Duc de Chartres. But she liked Milord Egg better, so she came to England with him, and they led a very gay life. At that time, Milord was a great Macaroni! He dressed all his postilions in white jackets trimmed with muslin, and he gave Madame so many diamonds that she had necklaces made even for her cats. And Milord was the friend of Monsieur Fox and the Prince of Wales—they spent more time in London then, at Milord Egg’s house in Piccadilly. But now Milord prefers to look after his oxen and plow his park, and gives prizes for work done by widows—the life he leads is altogether bourgeois! Still, he is a kind man, Milord Egg, and a good landlord—he has much bonté.”
“Did they have any children?” Juliana asked, fascinated.
“Mais oui, bien sûr. Two boys. Both are now in the corps diplomatique, in America. Madame did not wish it that they fight in the war, for which side could they be on, English or French? But they write her long letters; they are good boys. Milord, too, misses them very much. But he at least has the other children to console him.”
“Other children?”
“Georges et Henri et la petite Fanny. And Madame is now again enceinte; it will be a charming family.”
Juliana was startled. Since Madame Reynard was plainly not enceinte—having, indeed, long passed the age of child-bearing—she could only assume that some other Madame was in question.
“Milord Egg has a wife?” she inquired cautiously.
“Mais non, jamais! C’est sa belle-amie, Madame Iliffe—” Rosine pronounced this name “Eeleef”—“a lady in the highest degree kind, charming, and agreeable. She and Madame Reynard are the closest possible friends.”
“Then are he and Madame Reynard not friends anymore?” Oh, dear me, Grandfather would not approve of my asking these questions, Juliana thought; in fact, he would be quite horrified to discover the company I have fallen into, and so would Papa!
“But, of course they are friends!” said Rosine, shocked. “Milord comes to visit Madame every afternoon of his life, and she gives him very good advice about his family and his lands, for she is tout à fait pratique—her father was the Duc de Maçon, and she knows all there
is to know about running a big estate… Now, if Mademoiselle would be so kind as to sit up straight, I am going to give her head a great rub.”
Juliana submitted to the great rub, and subsequently to having her hair blown partially dry by the bellows. Then Rosine anointed her dyed locks with a delicious-smelling dark-green lotion which she said was essence of rosemary, and sat her by a sunny window which looked out over an orchard, handing her a large hairbrush. “Alors, if Mademoiselle will give herself the trouble of brushing her hair five hundred times…”
Brushing away dutifully, Juliana presently heard the sound of a carriage, and voices. To her surprise, shortly afterward, she saw little Prue run across the orchard, bowling a hoop under the apple trees. Had Madame Reynard, after all, failed to find the farm of old Mr. Strudwick?
She was rising to go and inquire, and make her apologies for oversleeping, when Rosine reappeared.
“Madame asks you to remain upstairs a little longer. She is closeted with her notary, and thinks it best that he does not see you. Only figure to yourself, mademoiselle, here is a placard up in the square of the town relating to a lost young lady who is sought by her mama, and the town crier was proclaiming it, and a constable was here this morning, inquiring, also!” Rosie chuckled comfortably.
“What was the constable told?” Juliana inquired with some anxiety.
“Eh bien, one informed him that yesterday evening a young lady came inquiring the way to Hoghurst Farm, and that without doubt she had become lost in the forest. Those woods on the other side of the valley extend for many leagues, and it is well known that they are full of ferocious animals, foxes and weasels; most probably the young lady will never be seen again! Now I devise a new coiffure for Mademoiselle.”
Rosine had brought in a large glossy switch of chestnut-colored hair, no doubt made from the combings of Madame Reynard, and, pinning it among Juliana’s own locks, which were now exactly the same color, she constructed an elaborate chignon, after the style of Madame’s own headdress.
“It is entirely elegant,” she said, admiring her own handiwork. “Now Mademoiselle appears altogether a different person.”
Juliana was indeed startled at her own image in the glass Rosine held up to her; she hardly recognized herself. The different color and style of hair had apparently altered the shape of her face. I look so much older; grown up, she thought. She was not sure that she liked the change. But certainly as a disguise it must be considered admirably successful; even Papa would hardly know me now, she decided, rather sadly.
Madame Reynard appeared, walking along the flagged path below the window with a small, round-faced, short-sighted-looking elderly gentleman, and Rosine, touching a finger to her lips, drew Juliana back out of sight. “C’est le notaire—M. Trockmorrton!” she whispered. “In one minute he will be gone—then Mademoiselle may descend.”
Indeed, shortly after, farewells were heard, then Madame’s voice was heard calling, and Juliana ran down, to be greeted with a cordial handshake and a kiss.
“Alors, here is my dear niece!” Madame said, laughing. “Dieu de dieu, what a transformation! Rosine is an artist! Now, the next thing is to find you some clothes. For today I fear you must endure to wear a dress of mine when I was younger—I was thinner then, so it will be not too bad a fit—and, most fortunately, les gentilshommes visited us last night, when there was no moon, so today we have a fine bundle of beautiful Lyons silks to make you a new outfit.”
“The gentlemen, madame? Who are they?”
“Chut!” Madame Reynard held up a warning finger. “Everyone knows about them—even Milord Egg—but no one must speak of them because of course they are breaking the stupid law. They navigate by boat up the Rectory Brook as far as Haslingbourne Mill, and then they come up the valley and leave their goods in my little kiosque, before taking his wine and tea on to Milord Egg by way of the subterranean route.”
“Good God!” said Juliana, greatly startled. “You mean that Milord Egg”—surely that could not be his real name?—“makes use of smuggled goods?”
“But naturally!” said Madame, raising her brows. “Everybody does. How else could Milord afford to build all the hospitals he does, and repair the jail, and construct almshouses, and effect so much good among the poor? Why, remember that tea costs ten shillings a pound, and Georges is so fond of his tea! Do you now know that, out of thirteen million pounds of tea drunk each year in this land, only five million have paid duty?”
Juliana did remember some indignant pronouncement of Lord Lambourn’s upon the subject. But he, of course, had strongly disapproved of smuggling.
“Madame—” she began, thinking it best to change the subject.
“I think you must learn to call me Tante Elise, my dear. And I shall call you—what?”
Juliana, remembering her assumed identity on the journey through France, said that she had sometimes been known as Jeanne.
“Jeanne—très bien! My niece Jeanne Duthé. Duthé was my maiden name.”
“Tante ’Lise, why have you brought back little Prue? Could you not find her grandfather’s farm?”
“I found it, my child, but what a pigsty! One could not condemn a child—even the naughtiest—to live in such a spot! And there was no fermière—she must have died—only the most evil old wretch, who snarled at me that he wished to have nothing to do with his daughter’s infant of shame. So I have brought Prue back again. And if the constable goes inquiring to the farm, I am sure he will get no help at all.”
“But, good heavens, madame—” Juliana had not considered the possibility of such a refusal. “Now Prue is on your hands! What can be done with her?”
“You do not know where to find her mother?”
“All I know of her is that her name is Tillie, and that she is in Southampton with a broken leg, and sent her child away to the grandfather.”
“Oh, well, perhaps Milord Egg will be able to trace her.” Madame appeared to have complete faith in the ability of this nobleman. “In the meantime she may go to live at la grande maison, where she will have plenty of other children to play with.”
“You mean the workhouse?” Juliana said, rather troubled.
“Mais non! Chez Milord Egg!”
At this point little Prue herself appeared, bowling her hoop along the path and demanding to play with the “pussy,” so Juliana felt it would not be proper to ask any more questions just then, though by now she was feeling the liveliest curiosity regarding this mysterious character.
Little Prue, after the manner of children, had completely habituated herself to her new surroundings; two good meals and a night’s sleep had done wonders for her. The swelling on her nose had abated somewhat, helped by a dab of bright-red Pimpernel ointment applied by Berthe. She grabbed Juliana by the hand, crying, “Miss! Miss! Come see the pussy!”
The “pussy” proved to be a small gray pet monkey, a present, it seemed, from Milord Egg. Its name, Madame said, was Mistigris, and it lived in a cage near the Rumford stove in the kitchen. Prue demanded, and was given, permission to take him out into the garden on his leash. The day being Sunday, there were no builders working on the new wing of the house, and, as the garden was completely enclosed, Madame said she saw no reason why Juliana should not take the air in it also. “But do not stray into the street! When the inquiry for the lost young lady has died down and been forgotten, you shall be my dear niece, who escaped across the Channel with the gentlemen; such crossings are not uncommon.”
Accordingly, attired in an old blue muslin robe of her hostess’s, Juliana sat out on a bench, watching Prue scamper up and down the long grass alley between the two little garden pavilions, alternately bowling the hoop and chasing the monkey. The sun shone warmly on the innocent scene, and Juliana looked out over the valley, wondering where her mother was now. Would she still be in the town, searching for her daughter? Or scouring the countryside round about? Wha
t was the relation between her and Captain Davenport? Was I very cowardly, Juliana wondered, not to confront her? But if she had exerted her parental rights, and made me marry him? How strange to think that, even yesterday, that was the thing of all others that I wanted to do!
For the first time Juliana wondered why, if her mother had been party to the scheme, it had been thought needful to go all the way to Scotland. Surely, with parental consent, a marriage would have been possible anywhere? Perhaps it never had been intended to go to Scotland? And this brought her back to the original question, why had the plot been formed in the first place? For whose gain? If Captain Davenport had no money, how could her mother stand to benefit by it? Or how could he?
Baffled by these insoluble problems, Juliana glanced after little Prue, who had disappeared with Mistigris into the left-hand pavilion, a small stone building, with glass doors and windows, built as a continuation of the wall that overhung the valley. Below it the ground dropped sharply away, so that its windows commanded a handsome prospect.
At this moment Prue came dashing out of the open door, screaming agitatedly, “Miss! Miss! Come quick! The pussy’s gone down the ’ole!”
“What is the matter?” Oh, mercy, Juliana thought; if the child has contrived to lose Madame’s pet, we shall hardly be welcome guests.
She entered the little pavilion, which was furnished with a rustic table and chairs, and a cane chaise longue.
“There—see—the pussy went there!” exclaimed little Prue, clutching her by the hand and pointing to the corner. Here, Juliana was disconcerted to discover a square hole in the floor, with a trapdoor standing open, and an iron ladder leading downward into a deep dark cavity, from which a strong smell of wine rose up. An icehouse—no, Madame’s cellar, was her first thought—how singular to have it so far from the house—and then she remembered Madame’s remark, “They leave their goods in my little kiosque.” There must, perhaps, be a second entrance to the underground chamber, leading out into the valley.